by Tim Ayliffe
‘Right. Sorry, that was a little harsh.’
‘We’ve known each other a long time, Hat. It’s all good. I know what you meant. I’d be interested in anything you can get me on Strong too.’
‘I can do that.’
‘And there’s this.’ Bailey unlocked his mobile phone, clicking play on the vision he’d secretly taken of the crowd at Strong’s talk. ‘I only got a couple of minutes. It’s not award-winning cinematography, either. But there was a whole room full of far right nationalists at Strong’s event last night. Footage is yours, if you want it. Only deal is that you share anything interesting.’
Walker slid her phone across the table. ‘AirDrop it to me. No promises, but I’ll take a look.’
‘Thanks.’
They both placed their phones on the table, sipping on their coffees in silence.
‘Bailey?’ Walker said, eventually.
‘Yeah.’
‘Are we even going to talk about her?’
Sharon Dexter.
Bailey knew this was coming. It was probably one of the reasons why Walker had agreed to meet him so quickly. Walker and Dexter had been tight. Good friends. They’d started out in the New South Wales Police together before Walker made the switch to the feds.
‘What’s the point?’ Bailey said, instantly regretting his bluntness.
Walker sighed. ‘C’mon, Bailey. I’m not asking you to talk about what happened in London. She was my friend too. And we’re friends, aren’t we? So I’m asking as a friend, are you okay?’
Bailey could feel that lump in his throat whenever he thought too deeply about Dexter. The one person who had loved him for the complicated, flawed idiot that he was. Gone.
‘As good as can be, Hat.’
At least he was being honest.
‘Are you talking to someone?’
‘Did all that. Moving on now.’
Bailey had hated all those sessions with psychologists. Doctor Jane. Doctor Bob. Doctor fucking prescribe you anything. He had resisted taking any medication but, admittedly, talking about what had happened had helped him to deal with it. Move on.
‘How about you, Hat?’ Bailey knew that Walker would have been hurting too. She’d lost a close friend. Bailey felt like a selfish prick for only thinking about himself. ‘You okay?’
‘I think about her all the time, to be honest.’ Walker smiled, solemnly. ‘She was tough, a good friend to me. Bloody gorgeous too.’
‘Yeah, she was.’
Walker leaned down and started rummaging around in her handbag. She placed a set of keys on the table.
‘These are yours. Sharon had my spares, I had hers.’
Bailey stared at the keys without saying a word. Dexter had been an only child, her parents long dead. She had left everything to him. He still hadn’t gone back to her house in Leichhardt. Not ready for final goodbyes.
‘I’ve dropped in a few times, checking in on the place. Emptied out the fridge. All the perishables. I’ve been paying the power bill to keep the sensor light working out front. For security.’
‘I’ll fix you up for that, Hat.’
‘I don’t care about the money, Bailey. But there’s a lot of your things at the house too. Flanos hanging in the wardrobe. Jeans. Blundstone boots.’ She laughed. ‘You’ve been wearing the same shit ever since I’ve known you.’
Bailey forced a laugh. ‘Not much into fashion. If the boot fits, right?’
Walker reached across the table, squeezing his hand. ‘I’ll go with you, if you don’t want to go alone.’
He cleared his throat, slipping his hand away and grabbing his cup, draining what was left. ‘Keep the keys, Hat. I’ve got a set. Always good to have spares somewhere different.’
Walker picked up the keys, smiling, staring at them like they were something more, before shoving them back in her bag. ‘Sure.’
‘When do you think you might get back to me about the video?’
‘Give me a day, or two. You on Signal?’
Signal was an encrypted messaging service used by anyone with a secret. Drug dealers. Journalists. Intelligence officers. They all used it. Secure. Untraceable.
‘Yep.’
‘That’s what we’ll use.’ She handed Bailey her business card, pushing the plate of chocolates towards him. ‘One left. Go on.’
‘All yours, Hat.’
Bailey’s phone started to vibrate, rattling his empty coffee cup on the saucer.
‘Answer it.’ Walker picked the last chocolate off the plate. ‘I’ll come back to you soon.’
‘Thanks. You go, I’ll get this.’ Bailey was pointing at the empty plate and cups on the table as he held his phone to his ear. ‘John Bailey.’
‘Bailey, it’s Jonny Abdo. I’ve spoken to the family of that man assaulted on Oxford Street last night.’
Bailey watched Walker disappear out the door. ‘How is he?’
‘Not great. Swelling on the brain, busted cheekbone,’ Abdo said. ‘They’re keeping him in an induced coma for at least another day or so, hoping that the swelling will go down.’
‘Sorry to hear that, mate.’
‘There’s more. He was with me earlier in the night. Part of our demonstration against Augustus Strong.’
‘Got a name?’
‘Can we meet?’
‘Yeah. Where?’
‘Summer Hill. There’s a café called Goblin near the station, can’t miss it. One hour?’
‘Done.’
CHAPTER 5
It was just after two o’clock and the peak-hour traffic was already building. Heavier than usual for this time of year. The bushfires ravaging coastal towns had forced people to abandon their January holiday plans and the city was heaving. Cars lined up bumper to bumper. Exhausts puffing more crap into the air. The voice on the radio telling Bailey the air quality index was worse than Beijing and that breathing today would be like smoking an entire packet of cigarettes.
He fiddled with the air conditioning settings, wondering whether recycled air or the breeze from outside would be better for his lungs. He had no idea. As a recovering alcoholic, Bailey had pumped a lot more poison through his body than cigarettes. He settled for outside air and gave up worrying about it.
Beep! Beep!
Bailey looked up just as the traffic light turned from orange to red. While he’d been pondering the air, a large gap had formed between his old wagon and the car in front, which was now edging further away along the edge of Hyde Park by the cathedral.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The guy in the car behind was bashing his steering wheel, waving his arms and mouthing all kinds of profanities at Bailey for missing the light.
‘Settle down, idiot.’ Bailey was speaking into his rear-view mirror. ‘It’s not going to kill you.’
People in Sydney were angry at the best of times but the tension in the smoke-choked city had turned some drivers into raging bulls. There were bigger things to worry about in life than shaving a few seconds off a car trip, like watching your house go up in flames or losing someone you loved. Much bigger things.
Bailey turned up the radio, ignoring the guy behind, who was still shaking his head.
‘Hello, dear listeners. You’re listening to a special extended edition of the program today as we seek to bring you the latest information about these terrible bushfires. The worst in living memory. What’s causing them.’
Here we go, thought Bailey. Keith Roberts – the king of Sydney’s airwaves – was about to inject his wisdom into the firefighting debate.
‘I know there are those of you out there who think that it’s all about climate change, that if we didn’t have our coal-fired power stations doing their bit to deliver cheap power bills to struggling families, then there’d be no fires. But it’s simply not true, dear listeners. I know there are people out there running their own agendas. Playing the politics. But I’ll say it again. It’s simply not true.’
Bailey made himself listen to Roberts from time t
o time because, as a journalist, he tried to consume a bit of everything. The left, the right, and even the unhinged. More often than not, Keith Roberts fitted into the latter category but somehow he had the top rating talk radio show in the country. Like him or not, he had a loyal army of followers, which made him powerful.
‘Let’s bring in our next guest, shadow environment minister, Laura Fleming. Hello to you, Laura.’
‘Hi, Keith, how are –’
‘Now, I want to get straight to the point with you here, Laura. How on earth can you live with yourself by putting these lies out there about climate change? Aren’t people suffering enough? We’ve got brave firefighters, most of them volunteers, out there holding hoses to flames. People losing their homes. Loved ones too. And you’re trying to score political points. Tell me, Laura. Tell me. How do you sleep at night?’
Sometimes guests were merely props on Roberts’ show and Bailey knew that Laura Fleming hadn’t been invited on to have a meaningful debate about how to deal with the impacts of climate change. She’d been invited on his show to play the punching bag for Roberts’ bullying invective. But she couldn’t decline the invitation. Politicians didn’t dare say no to Keith Roberts.
‘You know that’s not what I’m saying, Keith,’ Laura calmly responded. ‘And I don’t think you’re being entirely truthful with your listeners. There are many reasons why these bushfires are so bad this year. The drought, for starters, and the incredibly dry fuel loads –’
‘Exactly. Exactly. Fuel loads. That’s exactly right, Laura.’ Roberts was sounding smug, interrupting her only to demonstrate that he was in control of the interview. Not her. ‘Then why are you going on about all that climate claptrap rubbish?’
‘If you’d let me finish my point, Keith. What I –’
‘I’ll let you tell the truth, Laura. That’s what I’ll do.’
‘Okay, Keith. But what I was going to say was that twenty of the world’s hottest years ever recorded have been in the last twenty-two years. Global temperatures are already one degree hotter than they were a hundred years ago. Carbon emissions are still rising and we know that fossil fuels are the biggest driver of the changing climate. We know that because scientists tell us so. All of them. So, what we’ve been saying is that we’ll see more extreme weather events like we’re seeing now if we don’t do something to –’
‘No. No. I’m sorry, Laura, I’m going to cut you off there. If you and the Greens had allowed the states to conduct hazard reduction burns like firefighters had wanted during those winter months then these fires wouldn’t be nearly as bad as they are.’ Roberts was starting to speak more quickly, a hint of aggression in his voice. Disdain. ‘And don’t you lecture us about climate change. Scientists this and scientists that. Global warming has always happened. It’s the way of the world. Why don’t we get to your real agenda here. The plan that you’ve been secretly hatching with the Greens.’
‘What are you talking about, Keith? We don’t have any deal with –’
‘No. No. You’ve had your say, Laura Fleming. We’ve heard your bit. Now it’s my turn. It’s my show, after all,’ Roberts said. ‘Australians don’t like liars. They don’t like secret agendas, or tricky politicians. So just tell the truth, Laura. Admit that you’ve done a special deal with the Greens to hatch a coup against this government at the next election.’
Bailey’s hand was touching the dial, ready to cleanse his ears of the nonsense that was bouncing off the windows in his car.
‘I’m talking about your deal to shut down every coal-fired power station in this country. Force businesses into renewables when there’s no need. Admit it. We all know that climate change is just some left-wing socialist conspiracy to redistribute wealth and –’
Click.
That was enough for Bailey. He almost felt like he needed another shower, or at least something to wash out his ears. If Keith Roberts really was the voice of the street then the street had problems. The country had problems. Big ones.
Beep!
The light was green and the guy behind Bailey was bashing his steering wheel again.
Time to get moving.
Bailey cut through Surry Hills and hooked past Central, narrowly avoiding being hit by a merging bus at Railway Square, heading west on Broadway. He stopped at a traffic light outside One Central Park just long enough to admire the building’s famous heliostat flickering above in the afternoon light, his windscreen catching a spray of mist from the watering system that fed the thirty-five thousand plants that gave the building its big green coat. Sydney could thank a Parisian dreamer for this rare jewel in the city’s concrete crown. Most of the other developers let loose during the construction boom would struggle to compete in a Lego competition at a childcare centre.
The traffic was moving slowly and Bailey found himself interrogating the western flank of the city like it was the first time he’d seen it. Sydney University’s gothic buildings glowering at the brothels and massage parlours across the road. The pubs and cafés with student meal deals plastered on windows. Billboards hovering in the sky advertising some new streaming service or another superhero character that Bailey had never heard of before.
A few kilometres further along Parramatta Road and the footpath ran dead. It was like developers in Sydney’s inner west had downed tools at suburbs like Petersham and Leichhardt. Decaying shopfronts in death throes, if they weren’t already six feet under. Windows covered with sheets of old newspapers sandwiched in between shops offering second-hand furniture, musical instruments, wedding dresses and bicycles.
If Australia’s economy was flying like politicians had been boasting, who was raking in all the cash? It certainly wasn’t the small businesses around here.
Despite the traffic, Bailey made it to Summer Hill with a few minutes to spare. The suburb had an odd mix of federation mansions and slabs of medium density apartment blocks that had been deposited along the rail line. Summer Hill was also popular for having a quaint shopping village and its very own methadone clinic.
Bailey found a car spot out front of the café where he was meeting Jonny Abdo and sat down at an empty table on the footpath. His attention was instantly drawn to a message carved into the concrete telling a former prime minister to do something rather obscene to himself. That was the other thing about most of the people in the inner west. They hated the conservative side of politics, voting Labor, or Greens.
‘What can I get you, friend?’
It was Bailey’s experience that people who worked in cafés and restaurants in Sydney grew more polite the further west he travelled from the city.
‘Coffee, thanks. Black.’
His fourth for the day, not that he was counting. Bailey could drink coffee like water.
‘And might as well leave the menu.’ Bailey was pointing at the clipboard on the table. ‘I’m expecting someone and I reckon that at least I’ll eat.’
‘Done.’
Bailey had been perusing the menu and he missed Jonny Abdo sitting down.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit late.’
‘Jonny.’ Bailey extended his hand across the table, almost knocking over the bottle of water that had also escaped his attention. ‘I just ordered a coffee. Want one? And I’m going to get myself this all-day breakfast they’ve got here.’ He pointed to his choice on the menu as he handed the wooden clipboard to Abdo.
‘Breakfast?’
‘The stomach wants what the stomach wants,’ Bailey said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I forgot about lunch and only had a banana when I got up.’
‘Fair enough.’ Abdo put the menu on the table without showing much interest. ‘I don’t have long. I have a meeting around the corner at three.’
‘No worries.’ Bailey flipped open his notebook. ‘What’d you find out?’
Abdo looked nervously at the pen in Bailey’s hand. ‘The family doesn’t want his name in the media. Not yet, anyway.’
‘That’s okay, mate. This can all be background. I’m not w
riting for The Journal any more. I’m working on a longer investigative piece about far right nationalism. It’s why I was at Strong’s talk.’
‘Okay.’
‘I remember you saying that some of the people at last night’s demonstration were your students,’ Bailey said. ‘Are you teaching too?’
‘I teach a class at the University of Western Sydney. A couple of lectures each semester.’
‘Right. Right.’ Bailey was nodding his head, already thinking about his next question, hoping that Abdo wouldn’t get defensive. ‘Who organised the demonstration, by the way? Was that you?’
Abdo sat back, folding his arms. ‘Are you asking me as a journalist?’
‘A journalist and a friend.’
Abdo rolled his shoulders backwards, looking up at the sky.
‘Does it matter?’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Jonny. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. I’m just after the truth. If I’m going to write about Strong, that also means writing about the people who love and hate him. I write what I see. What I know. So yeah, people holding placards labelling him a racist are part of it. Has to be.’ Bailey paused, holding Abdo’s stare. ‘You’re a smart guy, Jonny. You know how this goes. You just need to decide whether or not you trust me.’
They both got distracted by the screeching tyres of a van on the road beside them. The driver waving his arm out the window, screaming at a cyclist. ‘Get off the road, you fucking lycra poofter!’
The cyclist gave the driver the finger, pedalling off in the opposite direction.
‘People are so angry,’ Abdo said, shaking his head, pointing at the van as it sped away.
‘Jonny?’ Bailey knew they didn’t have long and he wanted to get back to their conversation. ‘Are we good?’
‘I get it.’ Abdo relaxed, nodding. ‘I was one of the organisers of last night’s protest… yes. It’s not something I do very often. Many of my students had voiced concerns with me about the home affairs minister’s intervention in granting Strong a visa. For the government to support a man like this, saying it’s just about free speech, misses the point. Strong was caught on camera giving the Nazi salute in America, for god’s sake. He knows what he’s doing. So we thought it was important to have a presence outside so that events like this don’t go unnoticed. That the people who go along can’t hide in the shadows.’