Content note: This article discusses homophobia and sexual assault of minors.

April 1969

I know I was at the police station for around five hours.

The plain-clothed policeman had turned up at our house while my sister and I were doing the dinner dishes, and when he had eventually returned me back home, the street lights were all out.

In the 1960s, Adelaide was a city populated by decent folk who were all neatly tucked up in bed by the time their black and white TVs switched to the test pattern. For this reason, it made good sense to turn all the street lights in the suburbs off at around midnight.

Image by mrdoomits

The room at the police station had off-white, bare walls and stark lighting with no windows. It stank of stale cigarette smoke. I sat down at a large oblong table, and my driver sat next to me.

Two detectives in ill-fitting suits sat directly opposite. One, older and obviously the boss, had a manilla folder with a wad of loose paperwork in it.

Unlike my favourite cop shows, there was no tape machine waiting to be turned on. Instead, a policeman sat at the end of the table with a pile of blank paper and an old Remington typewriter in front of him.

I guessed I was busted for the sex stuff, and I knew I was in very deep shit. All I could think of was my Dad’s oft-given Dublin-Irish advice: “Always be polite and cooperative when dealing with the police. That way, you’re less likely to get bashed.”

The typist asked for my name, address, and date of birth, then began loudly clacking away. The senior detective glanced through his paperwork, then shut the folder and started to ask me questions. Did I know Dave Gunner*, a scout master?

“Yes, Sir.”

I’d known him since I was nine or ten.

Did I know that sex between males was totally illegal in South Australia?

“Yes, Sir.”

His job, he said, was finding and stopping bad men like Gunner who regularly did this sort of disgusting thing. They were less interested in kids like me.

Senior and the other detective wanted to know exactly when, where, and what sexual activity had gone on, as well as the names of all the others involved. We’d get along just fine if I was as honest and accurate as possible, he said. And, in the long run, I’d be much better off if they could record that I’d been very cooperative.

His offer was clear. In every Australian state, all male homosexual acts, regardless of age, were illegal. There was no such thing as homosexual consent, let alone being under-age.

Legally, Dave and I had both broken the same law. But, being young and “cooperative” (or “snitching”, as I saw it) might score me less serious consequences.

He knew about Dave and I.

Exactly what evidence was in the folder on the table? I didn’t know, but I knew I couldn’t lie my way out of this. I had no choice but to comply. It was terrifying.

Senior had said he was only after guys who regularly mucked about with each other. He’d said he wasn’t interested in kids, implying I might be OK. But I worried that once he knew my history, he’d realise I was no bright-eyed, hairless beginner.

I was an increasingly hairy 14-year-old, and I’d been secretly doing sex stuff for years.

It dawned on me that perhaps I was in this dire situation because several weeks earlier I had, for the first time ever, talked to someone. An adult, Ian, who I’d thought I could trust.

I’d mentioned Dave, his mates, and several things that had happened which included sex. Thankfully I hadn’t given Ian a detailed history.

It now seemed highly likely that he had headed straight down to the cop shop and dobbed us all in.

I was as angry at myself as I was at Ian. I should have known better.

For obvious reasons, my sex adventures with Dave and his mates had always been secret. If I’d thought it through beforehand, I’d have realised Ian wouldn’t approve of the sex, and might then do whatever he thought was in everyone’s best interests.

My big mouth and Ian’s righteous intentions had landed me here.

Senior began with easy questions about Dave, but soon things moved on to sex. This included the earliest of the events I’d told Ian about.

The typist kept clacking away, every now and then interrupting to ask, “So you are saying…?” before paraphrasing my answer into clunky, sterile police-English. He put the detailed sexual choreography into its correct running order, all worded in the first person.

It was acutely embarrassing. It was raw, and it was humiliating. I would confirm or correct these cold facts, and then the interrogation would recommence.

Senior was relentless. No matter how intimate the question, or my response, he kept going. He rarely showed any personal reaction. His offsider, who came and went during the proceedings, was easier to read; he clearly hated “poofters”, and “poofter” sex of any kind. Although he said nothing, he couldn’t hide his disgust.

He scared me more than Senior did.

A major issue was consent.

Initially the line of questioning was, “Did he force you to do this?” but then it became a version of “Did you go along with this?” or, “Did you know this would happen if you went away with them for the weekend?”

I knew that I had to say “Yes.” If I said “No,” I’d need to make up a story about what kind of force, bribe, or persuasion had been used, and I knew I wasn’t that good a liar.

As the interview went on, I realised that what they now knew was still more than enough to disprove any image of me as some innocent little kid. For one thing, I kept saying “Yes.”

In 2019, when I read my freshly FOI’d statement for the first time since its creation decades earlier, I was proud to have confirmed my “inability” to recall the name of the other youngster who’d been part of our small group on a rabbiting weekend. I had been determined not to dob him in.

On the first night of that trip, after what had happened, he’d asked if I was OK. I told him that it still hurt a lot, and that there was blood. He gently explained that I shouldn’t worry. That this happened sometimes with a first fuck; both females and males sometimes had a bit of pain and blood. I’d be OK by tomorrow. And, once I learned to relax properly, I’d be fine. I might even get to like it.

His words had made sense to me, and I’d felt a whole lot better. Snitching was no way to repay a mate.

I don’t have clear memories of exactly what was said over the following hours, but I do remember – and my statement confirms – that I also revealed nothing about my other experiences with Dave, or any of his mates. Nor did I disclose any of my more recent non-scouting-related sex adventures.

It was only the few really bad experiences with Dave that I’d told Ian about.

The atmosphere at the police station grew more intense, more hostile, as we talked about a much later, larger, weekend camp. Senior knew I was withholding details, and he was determined to get as much information as possible.

Rather than accusing me of lying, he’d quietly say, “OK, then.” He’d look slightly disappointed, and move straight on to another question. Then he’d come back to the point later, from another angle.

Although I can still picture the offsider staring right through me, I have no accurate recollection of talking about the aggressive rape in Dave’s lounge room.

I do know for certain that the questioning about it was relentless. I know that there was shouting, and that at times I was in tears. I was terrified, but the typist’s version of my lengthy statement contains minimal hints of my increasing distress as the hours passed.

Over the decades since, I’ve had recurring nightmares. Some are set in Dave’s very ordinary house. Others are set in the off-white police interview room.

Any original memory of the last hour or so of interrogation about the rape is now written over by these much later hauntings.

Eventually, the offsider was sent out to get us all some tea and biscuits.

I’d hoped this was a sign that we’d reached full-time rather than half-time with the questions, but then a big photo album, like a wedding souvenir, was placed on the table. Senior smiled, then asked me to carefully go through the book with the driver.

“Take your time, son. See if you recognise anyone you’ve been with.”

I relaxed. They had nothing more. The worst was over.

The thick album was filled with pictures of solitary men, each identified only by a code number. Some were classic police mug shots. Most were totally ordinary pictures of blokes of all ages.

It was as if they’d gone down random streets, into random houses, removing a snapshot or two from each photo album they’d found. Except they’d taken only those showing, or cropped to show, a male on his own.

The images included guys who were suited, and others in swim-wear at the beach. Guys in overalls, in jeans, and in shorts. Some looked like dirty old men. Some were clean-cut and respectable.

There were bikies, rockers, and mods. There were a reasonable number in drag and makeup. And there were many my Dad would have called “filthy poofters”; those in skin-tight jeans and body-hugging tops, with styled hair and attitude.

Some looked too ancient to be into sex. A few were not much older than me. More than one or two, I remember thinking, were quite good looking.

I was amazed that this inner-city suburb had such a large, diverse collection of perverts living in its posh streets. And that – as best I could recall – I hadn’t had sex with a single one of them.

Even if I had, of course, I wouldn’t have said anything. It was a fishing exercise, designed to keep me busy while pages of editing and retyping happened. We drank milky tea while we waited, and everyone but me smoked.

I couldn’t stop myself wondering what I’d do if I ever ran into one of the good-looking younger guys. At least I’d know for sure he’d be up for it.

When the typist finished his retypes, Senior glanced through them before handing the final document over to me.

I quickly scanned the pages, seeing only sex stuff, as I made sure they hadn’t added any made-up stolen cars, vandalism, or shoplifting. It was the best I could do; I wasn’t brave enough to take the time to read it properly. I think I signed something.

Then Senior did a wrap-up, which I remember well. It went something like, “That’s it for now. It’s late. You need to head home to bed. We’ll follow up on the information you’ve given us. We may need to chat again if we have further questions. What happens next is that people may be charged, so it’s very important you don’t talk to anyone at all about this. OK, Gary?”

I nodded. I must have still looked shit-scared, because he added, “You’ve been mostly co-operative. You should have nothing to worry about. Someone will be in touch with your mother if we want to talk to you again, or if you’re needed to give evidence.”

He walked us through the station to the front door and chatted to the driver for a while. They eventually shook hands, and I tentatively stuck out my hand to do the same.

Either he didn’t see it, or he ignored it.

The trip home was surreal. I’d rarely been out after midnight. As we glided in silence along well-lit, almost empty main roads, the side-streets on either side quickly disappeared into total gloom.

My pulse was racing. I tried my emergency survival routine. I needed to take a deep breath and focus. And stop panicking.

The offsider hadn’t taken me downstairs for a bashing in some dank, concrete cell. I wasn’t on my way to an isolated, Dickensian boys’ reformatory. I’d watched too many horror movies and cop shows.

I tried to focus on the here and now. I was wrung out, but I was OK. It seemed unlikely I’d be charged. I knew I still might have to face it all again, but much worse, as their witness in front of a packed court. I took another deep breath.

For now, at least, I was OK. I was going home.

Gary Dunne is a Sydney-based journalist and editor whose work has appeared in various lgbtqi+ newspapers, magazines and websites for over four decades. His fiction has also been published in a variety of books and anthologies over those years. His most recent release is The Darlinghurst Boys, an omnibus edition made up of his three novellas from the 80s and 90s which tell an insider’s history of our unique communities, and the Australian response to HIV/AIDS.

* Name changed to protect his surviving children’s identities.