Shit. Phil’s behaviour was starting to make sense.
‘So what do you do for him?’
‘Bits and pieces — help make sure his medical stuff’s okay. He comes to our day centre a bit. He’s a pretty smart guy, could’ve made something of himself. I think he was a star chess player when he was younger, you know — played in the big tournaments, or whatever it is they have.’
‘I worked in a bar with him for a bit years ago.’
‘What was he like then?’
‘Just another bloke. Didn’t really get to know him. He’s got this mad idea I owe him a hundred bucks, and keeps hassling me. I’ve just given him a twenty. I’m almost as broke as he is.’
‘That’s great. It’d be fantastic if you could give him a bit of help. He doesn’t take much notice of me — he’s pretty angry about women, all that stuff. Might listen to you, though, an older bloke who’s held it all together. You might even save his life.’
‘Struggling to keep my own together.’
‘Keep it in mind. I’m Pauline, by the way.’
As she got out of the cab, she turned back and repeated her plea: ‘Thanks for helping Phil. Even little things can make a big difference. Anything you can do …’
Jack chewed over this message as he made his way towards Reservoir. Helping Phil out didn’t seem like a great idea. But the suspicion that he had once borrowed money from him kept creeping into Jack’s mind. Maybe he did owe him …
Life was unfair, for sure, but was Jack really that hard done by? He’d managed to keep things together, just, in spite of everything. Poor, pathetic Phil was a brutal reminder of how things could turn out when life goes against you.
Better do something for the poor bastard, I suppose. Maybe it was just because it was making him feel a little less depressed about his own wretched existence, but for some strange reason Jack felt unable to say no. Somehow he would have to find more money to give to Phil.
He made it to Ajit’s place only about thirty minutes later than he’d promised.
‘Hi, mate. Keep an eye out if anything sounds off, will you? I whacked a sign down in Carlton this arvo … Stupid learner-driver … Wheel alignment’s buggered, I think. Steering wheel shakes a bit.’
‘Any damage?’
‘Don’t think so. But you know what cars are like — give them a whack, something goes out, costs you a packet …’
‘I will be careful.’
‘Good stuff. Got to look after these old Falcons, you know. Not exactly Rolls-Royces.’
‘That is true. The new car I am going to be driving is a big Chrysler … a wonderful machine.’
‘Yeah, sounds great.’ Jack struggled to keep the resentment out of his voice. No need to rub it in.
‘I spoke to the manager. They are still needing new drivers, Jack. Perhaps I can ask them also to get you to drive for them …’
Jack snorted. ‘Can’t see it, mate. You really reckon I could wear one of them funny hats and a tie, and all that?’
‘Driving a taxi is hard. With the limousine, you only have nice people as passengers — businessmen, celebrities. No hooligans, no teenagers … The manager, he is Punjabi, not very far from where I come from.’
Aha, thought Jack. I knew there’d be an ethnic angle in there somewhere.
‘Okay, Ajit, I’ll keep it in mind, but I reckon the red carpet’s more your go …’
‘Good, I will check with you again in a few days.’
‘Thanks, see you tomorrow, mate.’
Jack lumbered off in search of a tram, now feeling his aches and bruises more than ever. The weather had turned colder, which probably explained it. Even the distracting thought of driving limos in fancy dress couldn’t mask the pain.
He tossed around a few ideas for the evening, but nothing much came up. Billy the Hippy was going to have to do. Jack surveyed the handful of passengers on his tram as he thought about his threadbare social life. Staying away from the Dan after his earlier tangles with drug-dealers and stand-over men left a big hole that made his lack of genuine friends painfully obvious. Occasional drinking mates were hardly real friends if the only place you could find them was at the Dan.
As always, Billy was in fine form.
‘World’s going to the dogs, mate. Alcohol’s the only solution.’ He cracked a crooked-toothed grin as Jack edged his way through the weird array of stuff in Billy’s lounge room, six-pack in hand.
‘Hey, mate, start her up and whack the rest in the fridge’, Billy said. ‘You like schnapps? Krauts drink it. Good stuff. Not as harsh on the throat as whiskey …’
‘Never tried it.’
‘Kidding me! Where have you been? Peak of German technology … good thing about the Germans, you know, make the best of everything. Nothing left to chance.’
‘Few beers first, though. Then it won’t matter what it tastes like.’
Jack looked around at the shambles Billy lived in. Psychedelic lampshades cast multi-coloured patterns on the dirty walls. A large purple replica of the Venus de Milo dominated one corner of the room. The opposite corner was disappearing under a growing pile of books, newspapers, and magazines. Every wall was covered with posters, most of them yellowing and curling at the edges. The picture was accentuated by a musty odour of decay.
The coffee table contained an assortment of strange things, including a small football, a cordless electric drill, a gherkin jar with drooping flowers in it, and a scattered pile of tarot cards. Jack wondered what it would all look like after a few glasses of schnapps.
Billy returned from the fridge, cracked open his can, and threw himself onto the couch opposite Jack.
‘Alan Parsons Project, mate. Heard of them?’
‘No, don’t think so.’
‘Good stuff, do your head in. This guy, Alan Parsons, produced Pink Floyd for a while, then went out on his own. I’ll whack it on.’
They spent the next fifteen minutes listening to the first side of I Robot. It was all a bit too weird for Jack’s liking, but he didn’t mind.
‘Been up to much, mate?’ Billy asked, as ‘I Wouldn’t Want to Be Like You’ faded to finish.
‘No, not much. Got beaten up at a demo the other day. Still feel like a truck hit me.’
‘A demo? Shit, mate, what’s up? There’s hope for you yet!’ Billy had often chided Jack about his indifference to major social and political issues.
‘Caught up in this shit at the Carlton flats. You know, the stuff next door, the bloke who got killed? Turns out the mob doing the Carlton development are connected somehow. And I’m stuck being a witness. They don’t seem to be happy about it.’
‘So who thumped you?’
‘Some shitheads who must be hooked up with the developers. There’s this guy at the flats called Dempsey, has it in for me … Says in the paper the Mafia’s involved.’
Billy raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d be lying low if I were you, mate.’
‘Can’t. Shit next door has me in the middle of it, whether I like it or not. And there’s this guy I know in the CFMEU, putting the weights on me to hang in there, because they’re fighting the company about safety stuff.’
‘So why’d they thump you?’
‘Can’t work it out. Something’s rotten somewhere. I found this article from fifteen years ago. The bloke who owns the developers had a different company then, and a kid got killed on his building site, and another bloke got hurt pretty badly. It went to court, by the look of it. Negligence and all that stuff.’
‘Found anything else?’
‘Nope. Maybe I should try and do a company search, or something like that — find out some more.’
‘Not much point. I know how those bastards work. It’d just be $2 companies that own other $2 companies. A hall of mirrors — waste of time.’
‘And money, too, probably.’<
br />
‘You know, you could chase up the court-case stuff.’
‘Yeah? How?’
‘If they’ve been sued, there’ll be a court record and stuff like affidavits. Who knows what you might find?’
‘Nice idea, mate, but how would I get hold of them? Don’t reckon they put them up on the internet.’
‘Aha. I can probably help there. Old mate of mine works at the Supreme Court. He’s not a lawyer, or anything, but he’s got something to do with the archives. If anyone can find it, he can.’
‘Is it legal to nick stuff from the Supreme Court?’
‘Probably not, but who needs to nick it? You can just have a look — maybe he can give you a copy.’
Jack was sitting forward now, the initial effects of the beer receding. He pulled out the business card from his pocket and handed it to Billy.
‘Here’s the names, mate. Azzopardi, van der Graaf, and the company’s called BuildFast. Happened in May 1994.’
‘I’ll give Terry a bell in the morning.’
‘Thanks — let me know if he comes good.’
‘Time to try some schnapps …’
‘Still trying to figure out how to get rid of the fucking ants, too.’
‘Yeah, better get used to it. Bloke next door’s got some, too. Probably all the way through the place.’
‘Annual inspection’s coming up soon. Reckon they’d chuck me out because of an ant plague?’
‘Who knows, man? Don’t seem to care much, from what I can see. Never complained about my stuff.’
Jack slipped further back into his armchair and tried to put ants and Auspart out of his mind. After a couple of glasses of Billy’s schnapps, he didn’t have to try that hard.
14.
Jack didn’t have a hangover the following day. Maybe schnapps didn’t cause hangovers. He’d drunk half-a-dozen cans of beer, and who knew how many glasses of schnapps. And he had a vague recollection of drinking some rancid cheap Muscat late in the evening as well. Miraculously, though, his head wasn’t throbbing. Even the pain from his injuries was receding. Yet his paranoia was rising: he may have scraped through some ugly encounters, but a little voice inside his head kept whispering that his luck was about to run out.
He still had some unfinished business to attend to, though: Phil, Emily …
He tossed up whether to take Phil somewhere for a drink, then ruled that idea out as impractical. There weren’t many pubs around that would tolerate someone as smelly and noisy as Phil.
He couldn’t remember what Phil preferred to drink, but he suspected the answer was just about anything. So he bought half-a-dozen cans and went in search of him, telling himself that a few beers wouldn’t make much difference to Phil’s alcohol problem. At least it was something relatively harmless, not like whiskey or anything stronger.
Maybe it was the wrong time of day, but there didn’t seem to be any homeless people lurking in the lanes behind Lygon Street. There was plenty of rubbish, Jack noted, but none of it appeared human.
Jack was thinking about giving up the search as he turned into University Street, a tiny alley that didn’t deserve the label. Just as he was on the verge of returning to the cab, he spotted a lumpy bundle lying in a small alcove.
Got to be him, he concluded. As he approached, the bundle moved. A head emerged from beneath a grey overcoat. It had the same bleary eyes, blotched face, and straggly hair, but it wasn’t Phil.
‘Er, sorry, mate, looking for Phil. Know him?’
‘Nah. Got a smoke?’
Jack groped around in his pocket for his Peter Jacksons.
‘Told me he hangs out here a bit. Tallish, old greeny-brown coat …’
‘Don’t know him. Maybe he’s Mick’s mate, here sometimes. Probably over at the town hall … something going on over there …’
‘Town hall?’
‘You know, Moor Street. There’s a park …’
Jack doubted he would learn any more, so he set off for Fitzroy Town Hall, a grand nineteenth-century building that had long since ceased to house the local council.
As he walked around the front of the cab, he noticed two men in the park waving their arms and yelling. They looked like teenagers. Beneath them, lying almost prone on a park bench, his arms held up in a defensive position, was a crumpled figure. It was Phil.
There was a sudden flicker of colours as Phil seemed to burst into flames. His hair was on fire.
Jack stood in the middle of the road, staring in horror as the two teenagers ran off. For a second or two, he watched Phil writhing in agony as flames crackled around his face. He rolled off the bench, his arms thrashing wildly. His tormentors were now grappling with a figure in a dark uniform who had appeared out of nowhere.
A surge of adrenalin snapped Jack out of his frozen state. He ran over, hauled off his jumper, and used it to smother the flames. It only took a few seconds, but it felt like hours.
His heart beating furiously, he stood back and stared at the charred face below him. Phil’s head shifted slightly, and Jack noticed his eyes moving.
‘Jack’, he croaked, ‘help me …’
Jack stared back at Phil, the horror reflected in his face. Phil’s eyes closed — was he dying?
Then Jack heard a piercing scream from beside him.
‘Ah, Jesus! You bastard …’ The person in uniform — who appeared to be a middle-aged woman — crumpled to the ground, clutching her stomach, still screaming. The two teenagers ran off.
Jack didn’t know what to do. He stepped across to where she was lying, writhing in pain.
‘He stabbed me!’
Jack stared down at her midriff, and saw a dark stain emerging on the lower part of her shirt. He looked at her face again, and a glimmer of recognition hit him.
Oh no! It couldn’t be!
He couldn’t be absolutely certain, but he was pretty sure the woman lying in front of him was the same parking cop who’d issued him the outrageous fine.
He looked back at Phil, and then stared at the parking cop again. He felt paralysed. What should he do? Phil had to be the main game. Someone else could look after the parking cop, surely? Serves her right anyway …
She looked back up at him, eyes pleading. ‘Get an ambulance or something, mate. I’m going to bleed to death here. Or get me to St V’s …’
Shit. Can I take both of them? Jack wrestled with his conscience for a few moments, and then gave up. He didn’t have much choice. There was no way around it, whichever way he looked at it. The stupid Nazi didn’t deserve his help, but he was stuck with no other options.
He ran back across the road, leaped into the Falcon, and screeched over the gutter into the park.
‘Here, let’s get you up’, he said to the woman, and helped her stagger over to the cab and collapse into the front seat. He ran back to Phil, and half-carried, half-dragged him across to the cab. It wasn’t gentle, but he reckoned Phil was too far gone to care.
Jack hurtled around the corner into Brunswick Street, and ran a red light at Gertrude Street. A few minutes later, he was helping a morose-looking nurse bundle Phil onto a trolley while another nurse took charge of the still-bleeding stab victim.
A third nurse touched his arm.
‘You admitting him? Family member?’
‘Barely know him — just there when it happened. He’s homeless. Kids threw stuff on him, set him on fire …’
‘You know any family members?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Um, there’s this Anglicare woman, helps him a bit …’
‘Okay. Can you please let her know what’s happened, that he’s in here … Might be able to contact someone …’
Jack nodded. ‘Don’t think he’s seen his family for years, though.’ He glanced around the Emergency Department foyer, searching for inspiration. Nothing emerged from the bedr
aggled pot-plants, paintings of long-forgotten bewhiskered benefactors, and health-warning posters. Somehow Phil had become his responsibility. Jesus.
He did have a fall-back option, though. Anglicare would be the right outfit to take charge of the situation. He couldn’t really do anything more, that was for sure.
A few minutes later, he was burbling out a garbled story to a young, clean-cut man at reception in the Anglicare office. After one or two misunderstandings, he managed to get his message across.
‘Sorry, Pauline’s not around. I can try her mobile if you like.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, it’s gone to voicemail. Want to leave a message?’
Jack took the phone and spelt out the awful details, asking Pauline to give him a call. The call came as he was driving away from the Anglicare office.
‘Do you know how he is now?’
‘Sorry, no idea. They’re trying to find family or something.’
‘Doesn’t sound good. I’ll go to the hospital and see what I can find out. Poor Phil, this sort of thing’s been happening a bit recently. Fighting over drugs, money? Who knows? Sometimes they pick on these poor guys for a laugh. Can’t fight back …’
Jack swallowed hard and even felt his eyes misting over a little. What kind of world was he living in? Phil was a nightmare, but he seemed to have some pretty good reasons for being crazy. Who’d set such a harmless wreck of a man on fire? And for fun? And then stab a parking cop into the bargain?
He shivered, and tried to focus on the road in front of him. However tough and battle-hardened he might be, this was something else.
As the afternoon dragged on while he sat on the rank at the top end of Russell Street, his phone rang. It was Emily.
‘Hi, Jack. How’re things?’ She sounded lively.
‘Good, except I’ve just taken stupid Phil to St V’s. Some kids set his hair on fire.’
‘Oh, Jack! That’s horrible! Is he okay?’
‘Don’t know. He’s still alive. Any more dramas with Dempsey and co?’
‘No, but we’re going to try and sort out all that stuff the day after tomorrow. Want to come over?’
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