State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

  Bailey inspected the phone. Cracked screen, scratches all over. It lit up when he touched it, still working. ‘Thanks.’

  He called Dexter.

  ‘Sharon.’ Bailey coughed into the phone. ‘Sorry, where are you?’

  ‘Bankstown. Are they sirens in the background?’ Her voice changed. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Redfern. Long story – aarrgh! Careful!’

  Bailey was talking to the paramedic examining his burn.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Dexter said.

  ‘I’m fine but the Corolla’s no longer with us.’

  ‘That car explosion? That was you?’

  News travelled fast in the force.

  ‘I think we found one of your pressure cookers.’

  Dexter was quiet on the other end of the phone and Bailey could almost hear her mind ticking over, processing what Bailey had just told her.

  ‘Are you sure it was a bomb?’

  ‘Look, the Corolla may have missed a few scheduled services over the years, but I’ve seen enough car bombs to know what it looks like when one goes off.’

  The paramedic stepped in front of Bailey with an incredulous look on his face.

  ‘I’m talking to a cop.’ Bailey pointed to his back, encouraging him to keep working.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Dexter said.

  ‘I’ve got a little burn on my back, just getting it looked at.’

  ‘Jesus, Bailey,’ she said.

  Bailey was distracted by what was happening on the road in front of him. A fireman was having another go with his hose at the front of the Corolla. That car may have been a pile of junk, but it had sentimental value for Bailey. What a way to go.

  ‘Bailey, are you still there?’

  His ears were still ringing from the blast and he was struggling to concentrate.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Seriously, are you okay?’ It wasn’t the policewoman talking. ‘You don’t sound okay.’

  ‘I’m good. Fine.’

  He was lying. He was still struggling to remember. It had happened to him once before after a head-knock on the rugby field. A mild concussion, they’d told him. It had taken him hours to remember the game. Eventually, it all came back. Every detail. Including the try that he’d scored under the sticks after he caught a beautiful flick-pass from his brother that sent him through a gap the size of a road train. Mike had been a great rugby player. A great bloke. Bailey was banking on his memory returning. If only his brother could do the same.

  ‘Once you’re done there, I think you should go home.’ Dexter was still talking. ‘Actually, go to Gerald’s. I’ve still got a police car stationed out front.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bailey said, acknowledging the suggestion while not knowing quite what he’d do.

  ‘The cops are going to need a statement from you at the scene.’ Dexter was sounding like a detective again. ‘Don’t be a prat about it, just give it to them. We can follow up later.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m uncooperative?’

  ‘You’re a special man, John Bailey. That’s all.’

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  ‘When they ask questions, I’ll answer them.’

  Bailey hung up.

  The paramedic had cleaned Bailey’s burn and wrapped it with plastic bandages, fastening them with tape across his stomach that was so tight that he felt like he was wearing a girdle. Bloody uncomfortable. Every movement hurt.

  There wasn’t much left of his flannelette shirt but he did up the buttons anyway. There was a charity shop up near Joe’s gym. He’d call in there as soon as he was done with the cops and find himself something to wear.

  ‘I’m going to need to ask you some questions.’

  Bailey recognised the policemen from earlier that morning. It was the older guy, unhealthy-looking.

  ‘Sure.’

  The guy had food stuck in his moustache, which Bailey hoped was the remnants of a doughnut. What a cliché. He decided not to tell him.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s start by confirming that you’re the owner of what’s left of that car over there,’ the policeman said, pointing at the wreckage.

  ‘Yeah, she’s mine.’ Bailey managed a smirk. ‘Another classic gone to the gods.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Jake. The boxer.

  He was the reason that Bailey had come back to Redfern. He was able to at least tell the cops that much. Fearing a forced admission to hospital, Bailey had just made up the rest.

  When he arrived at the gym the place was locked up and the kid was gone, Bailey had told the cops. And that was about the extent of his statement.

  ‘You going to be okay to get home?’

  At least the policeman had shown some kind of duty of care.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Going to take a little walk and then grab a taxi.’

  The cop may have been satisfied, but Bailey wasn’t.

  Walking up the street, he was thinking so hard that his head was hurting. Or maybe that was the concussion. He was getting angry about the black hole in his memory.

  He remembered visiting Joe at hospital. Next thing he knew he was lying on the footpath, ten metres from his burning car.

  He went back further.

  The early phone call from Joe. The race to get to Redfern. Being told that Tariq had been grabbed and thrown into a white van by a couple of Middle Eastern looking guys. Joe getting beaten up for trying to stop them.

  Bailey had been minutes away from disrupting whatever plot Mustafa was directing from wherever the hell he was hiding. Now Tariq was missing again and Bailey was no closer to finding out why. The only thing he knew for certain was that someone had put a bomb inside his car. Someone had tried to kill him. Bailey could only guess that whoever did it was working for the leader of Islamic Nation.

  He called Ronnie. After two rings, he answered.

  ‘Bubba.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Not far.’ Never a straight answer. ‘Why?’

  ‘Hear about that car bomb in Redfern?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, there was a car bomb in Redfern. Target was me.’

  ‘Any dead?’

  Ronnie had spent enough time in the Middle East to know that when a car bomb went off, people usually died.

  ‘No. And I’m fine. Just a sore head, thanks for asking.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be on the other end of the phone if you weren’t.’

  Ronnie had a point and neither of them was the sentimental type.

  ‘What have you got, bubba?’

  ‘Missed Tariq by only minutes here this morning. He was picked up by some guys in a van. Sharon’s chasing the plate, says it’s only a matter of time. The rest I’m sure you read about in the paper.’

  Bailey knew that Ronnie would have seen the photographs and names printed in Bailey’s exclusive story for The Journal.

  ‘You did well there, bubba. Must have a good source in the police.’

  Bailey ignored the swipe. ‘What’ve you got for me?’

  ‘Nothing yet. We’re still working on your phone call with Mustafa.’

  A sudden pain shot through Bailey’s head from one ear to the other.

  ‘Bubba, you still there?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry.’ He was struggling to focus his eyes. ‘Sounds like it’s a waiting game all round then. I’m going to the paper. Let me know if anything turns up on that recording with Mustafa.’

  ‘Don’t go far, bubba,’ Ronnie said. ‘For some reason, all roads are leading back to you.’

  ‘Like I need reminding.’

  Bailey had a good reason to trust Ronnie this time around. This wasn’t the Middle East, when Ronnie would feed Bailey misinformation to protect American interests. This time they had a common enemy and Bailey was a key source of information. Thanks to Mustafa al-Baghdadi, Bailey had become a central player in the global fight against terrorism. He didn’t like it
.

  A woman in a blue sleeping bag was half-blocking the entrance to the charity shop. She was out cold, sleeping on sheets of cardboard with a Blue Heeler curled up, loyally, beside her. Bailey slipped five bucks into her cup, stepping over her legs, and walked inside.

  The shop’s second-hand clothes rack was stacked with so many flannelette shirts that Bailey was spoilt for choice. Had he still owned a car he would have bought the lot and shoved them in the boot. The shirts stank of dust but at three dollars apiece, they were a steal.

  The guy behind the counter didn’t bat an eyelid when he saw Bailey’s bruised face and the holes in his shirt. He probably thought he was just another homeless person browsing on the downtrodden high street. Like the woman sleeping on the pile of cardboard.

  Not much shocked people anymore. Things that used to be confronting had become the norm. People had stopped asking questions. Stopped caring. It’s what happens when people on decent wages can’t afford to buy houses, or pay energy bills, anymore.

  ‘If you get any blood on anything, you buy it.’

  Bailey was at a loss to explain the number of miserable people who worked in the charity game. Angry at the world. At everyone.

  ‘I’m not going to try these on, mate.’

  He handed the guy behind the counter fifteen dollars and took his five shirts out the door. Minutes later he was changing into a red and black chequered number in the back seat of a taxi, headed for The Journal.

  The sharp pain from his burn was throbbing and every movement, every touch, made it worse. He was leaning forward so that his back wouldn’t touch the seat.

  His phone started vibrating. He could just make out Gerald’s name through the cracked screen.

  ‘Morning, mate.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the way to Sussex Street, in a taxi. The Corolla’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Someone put a bomb in it.’

  Gerald laughed down the end of the phone. ‘C’mon Bailey, we’ve got enough going on here without you pissing around.’

  ‘I’m serious. That car explosion in Redfern –’

  ‘That was you?’ Gerald suddenly sounded concerned. Rachel Symonds would have heard about the explosion on the police scanners and told the boss. Cars don’t blow up in Sydney all that often. It was a story.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Are you injured?’

  ‘Apart from a headache and a steaming crater in my back, I’m fine.’

  ‘Should you be at hospital?’

  ‘Treated at the scene, mate. I’m all good.’

  ‘Will you write about it?’

  That was a difficult question for Bailey to answer. It was going to be hard to write about something that he couldn’t remember.

  ‘Don’t think I can. If I was the target, I’m knee-deep in this. The only time I want to see my name in a newspaper is a byline at the top of a yarn.’

  ‘Fair enough, mate. Rachel will sort it out. Tell her what you can. She’ll write the copy.’

  ‘I’ll get some notes together.’

  ‘How long before you get here?’

  ‘Ten minutes, give or take.’

  ‘I’ll meet you downstairs. Apparently, Omar’s turned up for another chat about Tariq. Maybe he knows something. I’m on my way down to see him,’ Gerald said. ‘And Bailey?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The redundancies are happening. The numbers are big, for you and for me. I’m taking it, you should too. We can talk about it when you get here.’

  Bailey ended the call without responding.

  He was too young to put his feet up and contemplate the past. The last person that John Bailey wanted to spend more time alone with was himself. He’d done that before and it had ended with him suffering a mental breakdown, waking up in a pool of his own vomit with enough alcohol in his system to stock the bar at Flemington on Cup Day.

  With Gerald’s help, Bailey had made it back to the top of his game. Or as close as the modern media would let him. He wasn’t done with being a reporter. No lawyer was going to turf him out the window, golden parachute or not.

  They were five blocks from The Journal when the traffic ground to a halt. The taxi driver was muttering Hindi swearwords under his breath and remonstrating with a guy in a ute who was trying to cut across the lanes in front of them.

  ‘We’re at a standstill and this idiot thinks he knows a better way.’

  The driver was shaking his head.

  ‘Mind if I get out here?’ Bailey said. ‘I can walk the last bit.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He clearly didn’t like it. ‘I’ll just sit here, in the gridlock on the street you brought me down, shall I?’

  He had a point. The meter was reading just over twenty dollars so Bailey handed him thirty. ‘Sorry, mate, someone’s waiting for me. Keep the change.’

  Bailey got out of the taxi – the extra cash assuaging his guilt – and headed north up Sussex Street. There was nothing on the road coming south and the traffic pointing north wasn’t moving at all. There must have been an accident up ahead.

  A block away from The Journal, he caught sight of the flashing lights of a police vehicle. He looked up at the buildings around him. The police car was stopped out the front of the paper.

  Bailey was still on edge after the car bomb and the flashing lights were making him nervous.

  He kept walking. His legs moving faster with each step.

  His phone was vibrating in his pocket. Dexter. He’d call her back.

  He crossed the street, weaving his way around the stationary cars, trying to find out what was going on.

  It was probably just a broken-down vehicle.

  A breakdown in one of the centre lanes would make it difficult for the traffic to keep moving and even harder for a tow truck to get to where it was needed.

  Bailey made it onto the pavement. He could see a crowd of people up ahead. He recognised some of the faces from the paper.

  His phone was vibrating again. Dexter. Again. Now wasn’t the time.

  A lone policeman was standing in the traffic, blocking cars from going anywhere. ‘You’re just going to have to wait!’ He was yelling at an impatient truck driver who was gesturing with his arm out the window.

  Bailey was close to the paper now, pushing past some of the gawkers.

  He spotted Penelope. Her head in her hands, being comforted by someone from the office that Bailey didn’t know.

  ‘Pen! Pen!’ Bailey called out to her. ‘What’s going on?’

  The second Penelope saw Bailey she burst into tears.

  ‘Can somebody tell me what’s going on?’ Bailey asked the bloke from accounts.

  ‘It’s bad, mate. I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know what?’ Bailey said. ‘What’s happened? Will someone fucking tell me what’s going on?’

  Bailey gave up trying to get answers from the others and kept pushing through the bodies blocking his path. When he got to the front he was stopped by a line of blue and white police tape put there to seal off the scene. He counted a half-dozen officers in uniforms. Two ambulances were parked on the kerb – a paramedic inside one of them, treating a female police officer with a cut on her shoulder.

  The police were standing in a cordon, blocking the rest of the view. Bailey ducked down, peering around their bodies, through their legs. All he could see was a brown leather shoe dangling over the side of a stretcher that was being wheeled towards the ambulances. He knew that shoe. Italian leather. Expensive. Worn by someone who enjoyed the finer things in life, but never boasted about them.

  Gerald.

  Bailey busted through the tape, sidestepping the police, running so fast they missed the sound of his boots slapping the pavement. He made it to the stretcher that was carrying the body of his friend.

  ‘What’s happened? Gerald? Gerald?’ He was looking for a response. ‘Is he alive?’

  One of the cops tried to grab Bailey under his arm. H
e shrugged him off.

  ‘Gerald!’

  ‘Get this guy out of here!’ The paramedic pulling the stretcher beckoned to the police officer who had his hand on Bailey’s shoulder, trying to drag him away.

  ‘Somebody tell me what’s going on!’

  Blood-soaked bandages were wrapped around Gerald’s neck and one of the paramedics was holding them tightly, keeping the pressure.

  ‘Sir, you need to come with me.’

  Bailey shrugged off the policeman’s hand again.

  ‘Gerald!’ Bailey was gently tapping his leg. ‘Mate, are you okay?’

  No response. Gerald’s face was expressionless and grey.

  ‘Sir!’ The policeman had two hands on Bailey’s arms now. ‘You really need to step back.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Bailey stopped resisting, moving out of the way so that the paramedics could do their job. ‘Can someone please tell me? Is he dead?’

  They were at the back of the ambulance. The woman holding Gerald’s neck climbed in first, guiding the front of the stretcher, tilting it upwards, giving Bailey a bird’s-eye view of his mate. Gerald’s bloody chest, rising and falling, ever so slightly. A sign of life. His mouth wide open, eyes closed, like little shields protecting him from death’s door.

  ‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ she called back. ‘We need to get him to hospital.’

  The two other paramedics climbed into the back of the van.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ Bailey asked.

  ‘North Shore!’ the woman’s voice called back just as the doors slammed shut.

  The siren blared to life and the ambulance negotiated its way off the footpath and sped off towards the bridge. Royal North Shore Hospital was just over the other side of the harbour. The doctors would have him within ten minutes.

  Bailey felt the policeman’s grip loosen on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, mate. Presume that guy’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘Gerald Summers.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘His name. The guy in the ambulance is the editor of that newspaper up there.’ Bailey was pointing at The Journal’s signage on the edge of the building. ‘Gerald Summers.’