Charles Staunton - 23 July

When Charlies good hes great. But when hes bad hes better! John Ibrahim, best-selling author of Last King of the Cross

Charles Staunton was a good cop. Until he got sacked from the police force and sent to jail for refusing to inform on his mates. On both sides of the law that loyalty makes Charlie a good bloke. And in a world of shadows, where trust is the highest currency, a good bloke is worth his weight in gold.

Charlie becomes a private detective and Mr Fix-it in Sydneys underworld. His associates are colourful, their adventures hair-raising. The good times roll the good bloke around the world, into fancy hotels and fast-lane living... then smack-bang into the Pacific Mariner Cartel.

Cool under pressure and handy in a gunfight, Charlie becomes The Prince a master of disguise and mythic smuggler of millions to all corners of the earth. Until the DEA kicks down the door and arrests him in one of the biggest drug busts in history.

Busted but unbroken, Charlies troubles are only just beginning. Stuck in Canadas toughest prison, between two fiercely warring bikie gangs, Charlie must use all his street smarts to stay alive. After all, theres a double-date with Madonna and a beer with The Godfather to get to...

Id like to dedicate this book to the wonderful women who have been part of my life and whose love and support have made me the man I am.

Montreal, Canada
23 January 1997

The sun was setting over a city camouflaged in a mantle of snow. I was staying in a discreet hotel in the very funky St Denis district. The room was nothing fancy. It had a good shower and a comfortable king-size bed. In my hands I held $10,000, just a tiny fraction of the millions I had collected, counted and couriered around the globe in my time working for the Pacific Mariners Cartel.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. It was an all-too-familiar loud knock.

Police! Open up!

Shit!

I was on the second floor and the windows didnt open wide enough to jump out. There was no escape. I had seconds to react before they forced their entry. I snapped into action.

I hid the $10,000, which consisted of only 10 notes, and an old-fashioned electric organiser with all my coded numbers under the mattress inside the nurses fold at the end of the bed.

I approached the door with trepidation. As I turned the knob, they stormed in like the front row of a rugby team, pistols at the ready.

They knocked me to the ground. Amid shouts and scuffling, there were knees in my back, and I was handcuffed, real tight.

A man stood in front of me with a gun pointed at my chest. His pin-prick brown eyes pierced me like a knife through butter. Peering at his face, I realised I knew him. Or at least I thought I had. A traitor right under my nose. I was filled with rage.

You lying piece of shit! Why?

Charles Staunton, you are under arrest for the importation of 25 tonne of hashish.

I took a deep breath. Id been in this situation before and had always been able to talk my way out of it. Stay calm, Charlie. Watch for mistakes. All police make them and these guys will too.

I glanced around and recognised members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), but looking closer I noticed that some of the men were wearing Department of Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) vests. A realisation dawned on me. These men are American.

Before Id joined the Pacific Mariners Cartel, Id done my homework. I knew the penalties for being involved in importing hash around the world. Short of the death penalty in South East Asia, Americas sentences were among the worst. A cold curl of dread spread in my chest but I pushed it down, determined to stay cool.

A young officer in front of me trembled as he shoved a Glock in my face.

Relax, young fellow, just relax. Im not going anywhere, I drawled.

A senior officer glared down at me. Oh yes, you are, Charlie, he sneered. And its going to be for a very long time.

They hauled me to my feet and marched me outside to a waiting van. I took my last breath of freedom. A blast of sharp, cold air shocked my lungs.

As they slammed the door in my face, my sons faces flashed through my mind.

I had a sinking feeling it was going to be a long time before I saw them again.

In the back of the police van, handcuffs digging into my wrists, a single thought bulleted through my brain: How the fuck have I ended up here?

My name is Charlie Staunton. Im a bloke.

For those of you people in the world who do not yet know what a bloke is, it is a kind of slang term for a man. In Australia, a bloke is the masculine archetype, associated with the countrys national identity.

The Aussie bloke. Take that a step further and you have what was once commonplace, but is now an endangered species... A good bloke.

Heres how I see things.

I do not have a thousand morals. The Ten Commandments are a reference point, and thus my life is not complicated, no matter how hard I have tried to make it so. But the morals that I have, I will not sell or give up on.

I am a practising atheist, and I intend on living my hundred years enjoying my century, while not interfering with yours. If you need a hand, and you are a mate of mine, Ill be there for you. If you fuck with me, we are done. Theres no need to bullshit me. Im open to the truth, which I understand is subjective. But dont bullshit me. Lifes too short.

I am not racist, sexist or homophobic. I am anti-violence. Having said that, I am not averse to stepping outside to settle our differences Marquis of Queensberry-style.

And if youre a good bloke, youll understand what sportsmanship, and life, should be about. A sense of fair play. For me, its not a prerequisite to be a law-abiding citizen to be a good bloke. Its about social qualities. Its about being reliable, trustworthy, loyal and true to your beliefs. Its about doing the right thing by others rather than bending the system to line your own pockets. Its about lending a hand when a mate is in trouble and, most importantly, its about never, ever turning someone in. Even for your own benefit.

There are a lot of do-gooders ruining this world. They impose their high moral values without truly understanding the real-life impact of their actions. Its all very well to ban something, but until youve seen what affect that has on the street, youre only making things worse.

Money has never mattered to me. Ive had plenty and Ive had none. I am just as happy sitting in the back garden with a bottle of beer and a few mates as I am sitting at the Four Seasons with a supermodel. Every time Ive made a quid Ive given it away. You cant take it with you.

What I care about, what we all should care about, are my friends, my family and doing the right thing, be that legal or illegal. Ive met many a lawman I wouldnt call a good bloke and many of the best men Ive ever met, society had consigned to the scrapheap. Youve got to live by your code, your guts and your heart. Thats what makes you a good bloke in my book.

*

My beginnings were ordinary. I was born in a taxi on the Fulham Palace Road in London, England, on 16 September 1958, to William and Winifred Staunton. My father was a bus driver on the London buses and Mum was the clippie (ticket puncher). They had each moved to London separately; Mum from Donegal and Dad from Wicklow. Just a pair of Irish Catholics who met on the buses.