by Tim Ayliffe
‘It’s been said.’
Benny pulled Bailey even closer so that their heads touched, momentarily, before letting him go. ‘I’m an avid reader, Mr Bailey. I look forward to your article.’
Unnerved by the fact that the leader of the Freedom Front knew his name, Bailey took a step back. ‘Glad to hear it.’ But he was determined not to be intimidated, despite the posse of skinheads gathered around him. ‘You have a good night, gents.’
Bailey started walking towards the exit, adrenalin pumping, bracing for Benny, or one of the other men, to stop him. To finish their conversation with fists.
He made it outside without incident and when he reached the top of the stairs he stopped, turning briefly to check that he wasn’t being followed. He was met by a push in the back that sent him tumbling down the half-dozen or so steps to the street. He landed hard on the concrete. Right shoulder aching. Ears ringing. An all too familiar taste of blood in his mouth, reminding him of darker times when he’d been made to understand the meaning of violence.
‘Next time watch your manners.’ Bailey looked up to see Benny Hunter leaning over him, patting his cheek. ‘You never know what might happen.’
‘Everything all right there?’
A policeman called out from his position in a cordon that was separating Augustus Strong’s supporters from the protesters across the street.
‘Poor bloke slipped on the steps.’ Benny waved at the cop, pointing at Bailey. ‘You’re okay, aren’t you, buddy?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.’ Bailey reached into his jacket for his phone, turning the camera towards Benny, who was already walking away. ‘Hey, Benny!’
Benny turned around.
‘Smile!’
Bailey snapped a picture.
‘That’s a beauty,’ he said, holding up the screen.
Benny took a few steps back towards Bailey, fists clenched, before changing his mind when he noticed the police officer still watching him.
‘Cunt!’
He opted to give Bailey the finger instead, before walking in the opposite direction with his gaggle of disciples.
‘You all right, mate?’ the policeman called out.
‘Yeah.’
The policeman turned away to yell at a lone protester who had broken away from the picket line and was trying to cross the road.
‘Stop! Stay where you are!’
Bailey couldn’t see the protester because the policeman was in the way. But he could hear his voice.
‘I know him. That guy on the ground. John Bailey. I know him,’ he shouted.
The mention of Bailey’s name seemed to be enough for the policeman, who stepped out of the way to let the guy cross over.
‘I see you’ve been making friends.’
The man dangled a bottle of water in front of Bailey.
‘Here. Take this.’
‘Jonny?’
Jonny Abdo. The former refugee from South Sudan, now a lawyer. It had been so many years since Bailey had seen him that he almost didn’t recognise him. A boy back then. A man now.
‘Are you okay, Bailey?’
Bailey stood up, rotating his shoulder, a sharp pain pinching his neck.
‘I think so.’
‘You’re lucky that policeman was there. Benny Hunter’s a violent man.’
‘So I gather.’ Bailey accepted the water, shaking Abdo’s hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Jonny.’
‘You too.’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I came with my students. I’m leading a demonstration against Augustus Strong. He should never have been allowed in the country,’ Abdo said, watching Bailey roll his shoulder. ‘Sure you’re okay?’
Bailey took a mouthful of water, rinsing the blood from the cut on his lip. ‘Yeah, thanks. Few bruises. I’ll live.’
‘Plenty of witnesses if you want to press charges?’
‘All good, mate. Good fodder for the article I’m writing.’
Abdo laughed. ‘It’s always about the story with you, Bailey.’
‘It’ll get more traction than some drawn out assault case that probably won’t go anywhere.’
‘I was joking,’ Abdo said, frowning.
Bailey realised how defensive he’d just sounded. Standing alongside Abdo took him back to the first time they’d met. A refugee camp in Egypt. Little Jonny Abdo clinging to his mother’s legs while Bailey interviewed her about the civil war that had claimed the lives of her husband and three other sons. Getting her reaction to the news that she and Jonny had been granted asylum in Australia. The Abdos had a powerful story to tell. Bailey had written it. But he didn’t like the insinuation that newspaper headlines were all that he cared about.
‘All good.’
‘I’d better get back over there.’ Abdo pointed at the people holding placards across the street. ‘Make sure this doesn’t get out of hand.’
‘Hey, Jonny?’ Bailey stopped the younger man as he made to walk away. ‘You doing okay? How’s your mum?’
‘Good. We’re both good. Mum’s retired now, she’s…’ Abdo stopped speaking, distracted by the sound of a glass bottle smashing on the road. ‘This country has been good to us. I don’t want people like Strong messing that up. I’ve got to go.’
‘You got a card, Jonny? We should catch up.’
Abdo dug his hand inside the pocket of his jeans, handing Bailey his business card.
‘I’d like that.’
CHAPTER 2
WEDNESDAY
Bailey liked to start his day with a walk. A lap of Centennial Park and a takeaway coffee on the way home. It always cleared his head after a restless night dreaming about his former life as a war correspondent. The faces of the dead.
This summer Bailey had another reason to walk. The dog.
‘She’ll be good for you. Keep you company,’ his daughter, Miranda, had said on the day she dropped her off. ‘And look at her, isn’t she beautiful?’
Bailey had watched in horror as Miranda ruffled the ears of possibly the ugliest dog he had ever seen. A greyhound. Skin and bones. Narrow head. White fur not thick enough to hide its pink, spotted skin. Beady eyes staring at him like he was the one who needed help.
‘Are you serious?’
Still plagued by guilt from all the years of Miranda’s childhood he’d missed, Bailey could never say no to his daughter. Like it or not, he knew the dog was staying.
‘What do I call her?’
‘Dixie Chick,’ Miranda had said, not bothering to hide her smile. ‘She’s a rescue. Retired race dog. They named her in the shelter.’
‘I’m not calling her that.’
‘Dad, it’s her name.’
‘I’m going to call her Campo. Keep it simple.’
‘You can’t name your dog after a rugby player!’
‘Not just any rugby player, sweetheart. That’s David Campese you’re talking about. Greyhounds are fast. Campo was fast. Makes sense to me.’
‘Campo’s a man.’
‘He was graceful on the field.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
Miranda knew her father too well to argue the point. Rugby was Bailey’s game and not only did he think that Campese was the greatest winger to ever play, he was also part of the Wallabies’ golden era that Bailey would talk about with anyone who’d listen. The name was perfect.
It was still eerily dark when Bailey finished his lap of Centennial Park. The blood red bushfire sun that had been haunting Sydney all summer was nowhere to be seen, hidden by a toxic smoke haze that was irritating Bailey’s nostrils and stinging his eyes. The air so thick he could taste it. Or maybe it was the tiny specks of ash blowing in from the fire grounds circling the city.
‘Come on, Campo.’
Itching for a coffee, Bailey yanked on the leash when Campo stopped to do one last sniff inspection of the tufts of grass at the Paddington Gates. For an animal that used to race at the track, Campo wasn’t much into exercise but if sniffing wa
s a sport, no other dog would have come close.
‘Let’s go. Come on.’
Although he might struggle to admit it, Bailey had grown fond of Campo. She may have been stubborn but she was otherwise easy. She slept on the end of his bed, never went to the toilet inside and hardly ever barked. Now that he thought about it, Campo spent most of her days curled up in a ball close to him. His four-legged mate. Miranda had been right. It was good not to be alone.
Crossing over to the eastern side of Oxford Street, Bailey stopped when he noticed a man hosing the footpath outside the White Lion Hotel. One of Bailey’s old watering holes, when that was his thing.
‘What happened here?’
Bailey pointed at the crack in the window and the glass door that had been temporarily repaired with a large square of plywood.
The guy killed the hose, plucking his earbuds out. ‘What’s that?’
‘I was just asking what happened?’
Bailey could see the mess on the footpath now. A dried puddle of black, purple and red. Blood.
‘Fight, apparently. Bloke ended up in hospital.’ The man knelt down, giving Campo a pat on the head. ‘Was she a racer?’
‘Yeah,’ Bailey said. ‘Wasn’t any good, apparently. Not surprising. She’s as lazy as hell.’
The guy laughed, getting back to his feet. ‘Heard that about greyhounds.’ He pointed at the dried blood that was clinging, stubbornly, to the concrete. ‘I’d better get back to this. They want it done before the foot traffic starts.’
‘No worries.’
Bailey grabbed his black coffee from the café on the corner of his street, copping a frown from the waitress with the dreadlocks for not bringing a reusable cup.
‘Next time,’ he said with a wink. ‘Promise.’
‘You better. Or I’ll make you buy one.’
She had only been working there for a couple of weeks but she wasn’t afraid of laying on the guilt.
‘That any better for the environment?’
‘It will be if you bring it back each time.’
Everybody seemed to have their own personal crusade these days. But she had a point.
The houses in Bailey’s street all looked almost identical. Rows of Victorian terraces, each with steel fences, groomed hedges and garages out back too small for the expensive four-wheel drives parked, bumper to bumper, by the kerb. The huge dust storm that had barrelled through Sydney the week before had left a coat of scum on almost every vehicle in the street. It was probably the closest thing these four-wheel drives had come to an off-road experience.
Bailey’s townhouse was the black sheep in the street. Overgrown hedge. Rusty gate. Dead fern frowning at the footpath by the front door. The house could have done with a lick of paint too, not that he cared. And the greyhound? Campo was the icing on the cake. Utterly out of whack in an area more prone to the yapping sounds of French bulldogs, cavoodles and pugs.
Bailey dropped a cup of dog biscuits into Campo’s bowl in the kitchen and then flipped the lid on his laptop computer, eager to find out more about what had happened at the White Lion the night before. If the victim had been unconscious when he was taken to hospital, he figured there must be a story online. A few clicks of the mouse and he found it.
MAN IN COMA AFTER VIOLENT PUB ASSAULT
A 19-year-old Sudanese man is fighting for his life at St Vincent’s Hospital after a brawl at a popular Sydney nightspot.
The Bankstown man was out drinking with friends at the White Lion Hotel on Oxford Street when they were allegedly set upon by a group of men.
The victim suffered serious head injuries and has been placed in an induced coma.
A source close to the police has confirmed that a racially motivated attack was one line of enquiry.
The incident happened at around 11 pm and police are appealing for any witnesses to come forward.
There wasn’t much more to the story other than the fact that the victim’s identity had not yet been released.
Bailey wanted to know more.
A man of Sudanese background attacked not far from the warehouse where Augustus Strong had been revving up a crowd of far right nationalists. It seemed like too much of a coincidence.
He grabbed his wallet off the bench, sifting through the pile of cards and receipts, eventually finding what he was after. Jonny Abdo’s business card. Bailey knew that the Sudanese community was tight in Sydney and Abdo had set up his own law firm specialising in immigration. There was a chance that he would know the victim, or at least know something about him.
Abdo answered after three rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Jonny, it’s John Bailey.’
‘Bailey, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How’s the shoulder?’
Bailey instinctively touched it, wincing at the bruising.
‘A tad tender.’ There was no point lying, even though he’d been ignoring the pain all morning. But he didn’t want to get into it. ‘A nineteen-year-old Sudanese kid was bashed up on Oxford Street last night, wondering if you know anything about it?’
‘What?’ Abdo’s voice sharpened. He didn’t know.
‘Can’t tell you more than what I’ve read online. Kid’s in bad shape, apparently. Induced coma. Police are investigating a possible hate crime.’
‘Got a name?’
‘Not yet. Where’d you and your group go after the protest last night?’
Abdo went quiet on the other end of the phone. He had muzzled the receiver with his hand and Bailey could hear him talking to someone, although he couldn’t make out the words.
‘Jonny?’
‘Sorry, Bailey. I hadn’t heard. Let me make some calls. I’ll call you later.’
Click.
Before Bailey had a chance to respond, Jonny Abdo was gone.
CHAPTER 3
Benny Hunter was a turd of a man.
Bailey had arrived at that conclusion the night before and he was even more certain of it now, having spent the last hour perched on a stool at his kitchen bench digging around on the internet for any stories he could find about Hunter and the Freedom Front.
They were not hard to find. And none of them were good.
The self-styled far right nationalist had first garnered attention from the media about five years ago for his heavy-handed approach to his job as a union organiser in the construction industry. The first reference to the Freedom Front that Bailey could find dated back to a demonstration against the Australian Government’s offshore immigration detention centres at Sydney’s Town Hall in 2016. Hunter and his supporters had turned up to disrupt the protest. Punches were thrown, batons swung. Hunter and his crew were taken away in police vans and the media coverage about the protest turned into a series of articles about the newly formed Freedom Front, a hard line nationalist group that espoused the view that ‘Australia must rid itself of foreign elements that undermine it from within’. A message that was plastered across its Facebook page.
Crashing other people’s demonstrations and intimidating protesters was a tactic that Hunter would deploy again. And again. And again. Protests about climate change, public sector wages, Indigenous recognition – it didn’t matter. They were all fair game for Benny Hunter because all he was looking for was a camera to broadcast his racist, Islamophobic, homophobic views.
I’m an avid reader, Mr Bailey. I look forward to your article.
Bailey should have been researching Augustus Strong, but Hunter’s sinister comment at the warehouse in Surry Hills had been preying on his mind. It was true that Bailey was a well-known journalist, but he wasn’t exactly a household name. He’d always shunned offers to be an ‘expert’ on television. He wasn’t the type of person who got stopped in the street. He was an old-school print man with a name that rang bells but a face that barely anyone knew. For chrissake, the girl at his local café only knew him as the guy who didn’t own a keep cup!
Deciding that he had discovered all that he was going to through a search engine, Bailey picked
up his phone, looking for a contact he hadn’t spoken to in years. Someone who, he hoped, would take his call. He knew she was back working for the Australian Federal Police in Sydney. Only problem was that the last number he had for her was from Kabul. He took a punt and called the AFP switchboard number he found online.
‘I’m trying to get in contact with Commander Harriet Walker,’ he said to the woman who answered the call.
‘The reason for the call, sir?’
‘I have some information for her. Information for an investigation she’s working on.’
Bailey had mastered the art of bullshitting very early in his career.
‘And what is your name, sir?’
‘Kenny Baker.’
The woman went quiet on the other end of the line.
‘Trust me. She’ll know who I am.’
Quiet again.
‘Hold the line.’
The call was eventually transferred and Bailey could hear a muffled conversation in the background.
‘There’s a guy on the phone who says his name’s Kenny Baker.’
Laughter.
‘You know who it is, then?’
‘Yeah. I do.’
‘Well. Well. Well.’
Walker was on the phone now.
‘I’m guessing that this is a cranky bastard that I used to know, but you’re going to need to confirm that it’s really you.’
Commander Harriet Walker. Special investigator with the Australian Federal Police.
‘The one and only,’ Bailey said, suppressing a laugh.
‘How the hell are you?’
‘I’m good, Hat. Really good.’
Bailey regretted the double emphasis and he could almost hear Harriet thinking on the other end of the phone. Wondering whether or not to go there. In her job with the AFP, she would have known more than most about what had happened in London and Bailey’s role in disrupting a terrorist attack and the murder of the woman he loved.
‘Glad to hear that, Bailey,’ she said. ‘Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Harriet was a class act. If she was ever going to rake over the past with Bailey, she’d do it when they were sitting opposite each other. Face to face. Like old friends.