by Tim Ayliffe
He slipped open the chamber of his revolver, offering a toothless smile.
The chamber of the gun was empty.
‘What do you want?’
A pointless question but Bailey had to say something, if only to hear himself speak. Remind himself that he was still alive.
The man smiled again, picking a bullet from his pocket, dropping it into one of the six empty holes in the chamber.
‘You play game?’
One bullet. A one in six chance of surviving.
‘You sick fuck.’
The guy laughed again, holding the pistol to Bailey’s temple, spinning the chamber. The loud clinks of metal vibrating through Bailey’s skull.
He was breathing in short bursts, heart racing, wondering whether this was it. Whether they’d had enough of him. Whether this game had an ending.
Russian Roulette.
The squeaking tension on the trigger. The cool gun barrel against Bailey’s skin.
Clink!
The man erupted into laughter. Bailey could hear someone behind him laughing too.
‘Just fun. Just fun.’
The guy with the bad teeth was standing in front of him again, hands in the air.
‘Fucking animal.’
The guy didn’t seem bothered by Bailey’s insults.
‘We have another game for you.’
Bailey could hear water sloshing in a bucket behind him. A rag being wrung out.
‘No, no more,’ Bailey said. ‘No more!’
Pleading with these guys was useless.
Bailey knew what was coming.
He started bouncing up and down on his chair. Angry outbursts were his only empowerment. Something to remind himself that he was a person. That he had things worth living for. Miranda. His little girl. Hang on, Bailey. Hang on.
Bailey’s chair was yanked backwards. Eyes on the cobwebbed ceiling, a wet cloth shoved onto his face, blocking out the light.
He tried to shake the cloth free. His head swinging from side to side.
A fist pounded his cheekbone, stunning him. He knew what was coming next.
He held his breath as the water splashed onto his face, preventing that first rush of liquid from running through his nostrils and down the back of his throat.
Waterboarding.
The other sick game they played.
The second rush of water went in all the places they wanted it to. The muscles in his throat gagged. A useless reflex with water also streaming through his nose.
And the water kept coming.
Chest burning. Head and muscles aching. The panic of drowning consuming him. The shame of wondering whether he was better off dead.
Another rush. Burning pain. Bailey was dizzy, wondering if this was it.
Then she was there. Right on time. That little voice inside his head. His little girl. Miranda. The kid he’d left to come to this wretched place. The one he owed so much. Telling him that she loved him. Telling him to hang on.
Hang on.
CHAPTER 17
There wasn’t much room on the footpath along Oxford Street. The bus stops had queues and so did the cafés serving takeaway coffees. It was 7 am and the street was already bustling.
Bailey’s catch-up sleep after London hadn’t gone according to plan. The nightmares were back. He’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, afraid to close his eyes. Thinking about the bottle. Something to help him forget.
Despite the lack of sleep, Bailey was buoyed by the sunrise. He had an important breakfast engagement. His weekly catch-up with Miranda. He never missed it.
Excited by the prospect of seeing her, Bailey was side-stepping people on the footpath like a rugby player looking for space.
The café where they’d arranged to meet was only a ten-minute walk from his house, giving Bailey ten more minutes to think about whether or not he still had a job. The prospect terrified him.
Telling other people’s stories was all that he knew. It gave him meaning, a cause, a reason to get out of bed each day. It wasn’t like he didn’t have anything else; he had Miranda and Dexter. But they had important jobs, busy lives. After all his brushes with death over the years – and there had been many – he knew that the greatest threat to his mortality was actually himself. The job gave him a routine, kept him going.
If Gerald was right, Bailey could be cleaning out his desk at The Journal within days. This private equity mob didn’t mess around. When they made a decision, people got marched.
People in boardrooms used to be there to support reporters like Bailey. Now they were just counting clicks, desperate for dollar signs.
Bailey knew he was a technological luddite, but he also knew what made good journalism. And it wasn’t the kid cutting clever videos, or the tech entrepreneur making money by stealing articles so that the public could get their stories on their phones for free. No. Journalism cost money. Took time. If only there were more people fighting for it.
Bailey made it to the café and spotted Miranda tapping away on her laptop at the table by the window. The corporate lawyer, always working.
Distracted by the sight of his daughter, Bailey missed the girl walking towards him, thumbing away on her phone, communicating with her virtual friends.
She walked straight into him.
‘Shit, mate! Bloody hell!’
Bailey wasn’t that tall but, pound for pound, he was much bigger than she was, which meant the coffee she was carrying ended up down her front and on her jeans.
‘Watch where you’re going, would you!’ she said. ‘You just spilt coffee all over me. Fuck!’
‘Maybe you should watch where you’re going?’
‘Whatever, old man.’
‘There’s a whole world out there outside that phone, you know,’ Bailey said.
‘You’re a dickhead.’
‘I’m not the one wearing the latte.’
‘Yeah?’ She pointed at Bailey’s stomach. ‘Take a look at your shirt.’
He looked down at the brown stain expanding towards his waistline.
‘Oh, well.’ Bailey gave her a condescending smile. ‘One of us worries about how they look, and it isn’t me.’
‘Dad!’ Miranda was standing in the doorway, waving him inside. ‘Forget about it. Let’s eat.’
Bailey ignored the girl, who was now insisting that he give her some cash for dry cleaning, and joined Miranda inside. Before he even could sit down, his daughter was dabbing at the stain on his shirt with a wet napkin.
‘Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.’ The coffee wasn’t the only mark on his shirt. The cuffs were fraying and the collar was a different colour than the rest. ‘This one’s already on the way out.’
‘Shame. It’s such a lovely shirt.’
‘Now, now.’ He waved a finger. ‘No need to insult your old man. You know how deeply I care about fashion.’
They ate breakfast talking about the interesting things they’d read, and Miranda updated her father about her mother’s travels with Ian the banker. Bailey was always interested. He still had a soft spot for Anthea. They were friends. Or, at least his ex-wife answered his calls.
‘Dad?’ Miranda’s face turned serious. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Bailey put down his fork even though he’d just speared a strip of bacon. There was something about the tone in her voice that worried him.
‘Shoot.’
‘It’s about me and Peter.’
Doctor Peter Andrews. The live-in boyfriend. The guy who had treated Bailey in hospital after he had been bashed by a sadistic Chinese spy. That felt like a long time ago now. Somehow Doctor Andrews had managed to fix Bailey and hit on his daughter at the same time. Miranda had assured him that she’d been the one who’d made the first move. Not that her admission had made it any better for Bailey.
‘Are you guys okay?’ Bailey had no idea where this was going.
‘Yes. Yes, we’re more than . . . okay.’ She was sounding nervous, tr
ipping on her words, which was unlike Miranda. ‘We’re thinking about, you know . . . getting hitched.’
‘Hitched?’ Bailey frowned. ‘That’s, that’s great, sweetheart.’
‘Yeah? You don’t look so happy. He’s a good guy, Dad.’
Good guy or not, Bailey was feeling like someone had just driven up the back of his car. A moment of shock. These past few years, he’d grown closer to his daughter. He’d won back her trust, no longer the absent father. He didn’t want that to change.
‘Dad?’
‘It’s great news, really.’ Bailey reached across the table, cupping her hands in his. ‘I know the doc’s a good guy. I’m happy for you, really. I’m just your dad, that’s all. You’ll always be my little girl.’
‘That won’t change.’
She squeezed his hands, looking down at them, touching the fingers where his nails used to be. He’d told her why they weren’t there anymore. He’d never meant to, but she had drawn it out of him. Telling his daughter that he’d been kidnapped and tortured was the toughest conversation of his life.
‘I don’t know why I’m sounding funny about this, Miranda.’ Bailey sat back, shaking his head. ‘I like the doc. I know he’ll look after you. And your mum and I will help you out with the wedding.’
‘Thanks, Dad. That means a lot.’
‘So, is this official then?’
Miranda looked sheepish. ‘Not quite. Peter’s going to call you. He wants to do it the right way. Traditional. He wants to ask for your blessing.’
Bailey remembered how he’d done the same with Anthea’s father all those years ago. Fathers respected that, however old-fashioned it seemed. He would too.
‘I’d take him out for a beer but, you know.’
‘Try tea. He’s a little nervous, though. So be nice to him.’
‘I’m always nice.’
‘Dad, don’t get me wrong here, but you can be a little grumpy at times.’
‘When the doc calls, I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.’
Bailey raised his hand to let the waiter know they were up for another round of coffees.
‘How’s Sharon?’ Miranda changed the subject. ‘Ever considered tying the knot again?’
‘Been there, done that. But we’re good.’ Bailey knocked the table with his knuckles. ‘Solid as a rock.’ At least, some of the time. He wasn’t going there with his daughter.
Miranda had made a big effort with Dexter. They’d first met each other when Sharon and Bailey had gotten together in the late nineties, before he’d walked out on her to cover George W. Bush’s wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Miranda was a kid back then, but she was an adult now. The two women genuinely liked each other and they spoke regularly. Too regularly.
‘Can I give you some advice, Dad?’
‘No.’ Bailey knew what was coming. ‘But I think you’re about to do it anyway.’
‘If you’re flying overseas for work, it’s a good idea to loop-in the missus,’ Miranda said, mimicking his voice with a cheeky smile on her face.
‘Noted.’
‘How was London, by the way?’
The change of subject left Bailey with another question that he didn’t want to ponder.
‘Nothing too exciting. Speech went okay. Gerald was his usual boring self.’
Miranda understood the underlying affection in her father’s insults. What she didn’t understand was why he was playing down the murder in St James’s Square.
‘Dad, you know I read your articles. I’ve even got a little app that alerts me every time you write something.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ A bloke arrived with the coffees. Bailey waited for him to leave before finishing his thought. ‘I don’t like giving the crazies the satisfaction of being talked about. It’s what they want.’
‘Another terrorist attack in London. How many in the last twelve months? Three? Four? It must be terrible to be –’
‘Miranda, as I said, these nutters want to be talked about.’
He took another sip from his cup, rubbing his eyes. ‘You want to know something? The truth is, the world’s never been safer.’
‘Then why do I feel so afraid?’
Bailey didn’t know how to answer that and he was relieved when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Dexter.
‘Bailey.’ Her voice had a sharp edge to it. ‘There’s a raid about to go down in Roselands. We think Tariq might be there. You should get here.’
‘Got an address?’ He was on his feet, phone at his ear, rummaging through his pocket for some cash.
‘Just head west and I’ll tell you when I can. Raid hasn’t happened yet. You’ll get a location when we’re done.’
Still, it was a hell of a tip-off. Especially given that it was coming from the cop who had given him an earful the night before. Dexter could be a cunning operator. She’d never played him before, but something didn’t feel right.
‘Appreciate the tip-off, Sharon. What’s in it for you?’
Dexter went quiet on the other end of the phone. ‘Don’t be so cynical. There are areas where we can work together on this.’
This was about the phone call from Mustafa al-Baghdadi. He knew it. Suddenly, Bailey was useful. He didn’t like it.
‘And Bailey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘No reporting on this. And don’t tell the Haneefs until I give you the word, okay?’
‘Got it.’
Bailey hung up and put some money on the table to cover his and Miranda’s breakfasts. ‘Got to run, sweetheart.’
CHAPTER 18
The benefit of driving west at nine o’clock in the morning was that most of the traffic was heading in the opposite direction towards the city.
Bailey was making good time. Within fifteen minutes, he was driving past the bridal shops, tattooists, massage parlours, tax accountants and charcoal chicken shops lining Parramatta Road. The closer he got to the turn-off at Old Canterbury Road, the grottier the shopfronts. Flaking paint, graffiti-splashed windows. The failing businesses on one of the busiest corridors in Sydney. Another big tick for the politicians who were good at building roads and not much else.
He turned onto Old Canterbury Road and, within five minutes, there was yet more evidence of a generation of political classes who’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Half-built apartment buildings with shopfronts on the ground floor that would probably never be occupied.
The morons running Sydney believed in two things – laying bitumen and letting property developers do whatever the hell they wanted. In this part of the city, new apartment buildings were sprouting out of the ground like weeds. Buildings were approved by council at one height and then, as if by magic, doubled in size. A few extra floors signed off at long lunches where dessert came with a bag of cash. It was happening everywhere and no one was going to jail.
Closing in on Roselands, Bailey still hadn’t had any updates from Dexter. He’d been a reporter long enough to know that the police wouldn’t hit the house until they knew all that they needed to know about the threat inside. That meant possibly hours of waiting.
He pulled into a service station and picked up a newspaper, a bottle of water and an egg and lettuce sandwich so he that he had something other than the radio in his car to pass the time.
The Police Tactical Operations Unit would already be at a holding area nearby. These were the guys who would conduct the raid. Highly trained tough guys who wore heavy gear, carried heavy weapons, and knew how to clear a house of dangerous criminals within seconds. They would have raced to Roselands minutes after the call went out. The hurry-up and wait.
Bailey turned into a random street off Old Canterbury Road and drove to a spot that the map on his phone told him was the geographical centre of Roselands. It was a small suburb. The house couldn’t be more than a few minutes’ drive from where he parked his car behind an old box trailer under the shade of a tree.
He looked at his watch. 9.33 am. The waiting game begins.
&nb
sp; Bailey switched on the radio, wondering what Keith Roberts was talking about today.
‘Okay, my dear listeners, I’m going to tell a few home truths.’
Here we go, thought Bailey. He was just in time for one of Keith Roberts’s sermons.
‘We’ve all heard and seen those ghastly pictures from St James’s Square in London by now. Another Muslim terrorist who doesn’t like our way of life. But you know what he did like, dear listeners? He liked to use the NHS. He liked his publicly funded school. And he also liked the council house that the British Government gave him and his mother to live in.’
Roberts paused to take a breath and shift gears. Bailey knew exactly where he was headed.
‘People like that young man with the knife are here too, you know. These jihadis. Living amongst us. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Living off the public tit in some way or form. Collecting cheques while judging our western ways. Apparently, we’re the evil ones!
‘Now of course, dear listeners, I don’t think that all Muslims are bad people. Of course, they’re not. But the reality is that the Islamic community isn’t doing their bit to help the police to weed out these bad eggs. The people who hate us. Hate our way of life. We’ve seen it before. Martin Place. Parramatta. Bourke Street in Melbourne. Extremists who reckon that their God – what do they call him? Allah – wants them to kill people like us because of the movies we watch and the fact that we might like a cold beer at the end of the day.’
Roberts was in full flight now and Bailey’s hand was hovering in front of the dial, wanting to turn him off. But he kept listening. If only to hear how quickly fear could morph into bigotry.
‘The attacks will go on. More people will die. In our cities and our suburbs. This Islamic Nation outfit is like a cancer spreading through our society. And, quite frankly, my dear listeners, Muslims need to do something about it. Where are the clerics standing up and denouncing what happened in London? Where’s the leadership? The police need help here and Australia’s Muslim community isn’t playing ball – they’d rather protect a terrorist than have him face justice.’
Bailey was getting angry now. The way people like Roberts simplified the problem – making it ‘us versus them’ – only made it worse, adding to people’s fears. Should a Catholic bishop apologise for a fundamentalist Christian cult? Or the violent actions of white supremacists who liked to quote the Bible? No. Yet, somehow, all Muslims were responsible for Islamic terrorism.