by Tim Ayliffe
Bailey decided to shift gears, knowing that he could follow up about the protest later. ‘Let’s talk about what happened at the White Lion. What can you tell me?’
‘Some of the students said they were going out for drinks afterwards,’ Abdo said. ‘There must have been about five or six of them.’
‘And they ended up at the White Lion on Oxford Street?’
‘It seems so, yes.’
The waiter arrived on the pavement beside them. ‘You guys ready to order?’
‘I’ll get the all-day breakfast. Eggs fried.’ Bailey turned to Jonny. ‘Are you sure you don’t want something?’
Abdo looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go in ten.’
‘All good. All good.’ The waiter picked up the clipboard menu from the table. ‘Just the all-day brekky, then.’
Bailey waited for him to leave before resuming his questions. ‘What can you tell me about the man who was attacked?’
‘Nineteen years old. Matthew Lam… Matt. He’s in my class. I helped his parents with their residency applications some years ago. I know the family well.’
‘On the phone you told me that he was in an induced coma. What are the doctors saying?’
Abdo pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser, using it to mop the beads of sweat on his brow.
‘Are you okay, Jonny?’
‘I parked up the road. The heat I don’t mind but the humidity kills me.’ He finished patting his head, stuffing the napkin in his pocket. ‘The doctors say it’s too early to know whether there has been any lasting damage to Matt’s brain. But they’re hopeful.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Abdo rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. ‘When you look at me, what do you see?’
‘What?’ The question caught Bailey off guard. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what I said.’ There was anger in his voice. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’
Bailey felt like he had a spotlight pointed at his head. Nowhere to go. No right answer. ‘I see the kid I met in Egypt all those years ago. Only he’s grown up. No longer afraid. A lawyer. A leader. Against the odds.’
Abdo shook his head, rubbing his eyes.
‘What are you doing, mate?’ Bailey said, calmly. Gently. ‘What do you want me to see?’
‘You know.’ Abdo pointed his index finger at Bailey, pressing it on the table. ‘You know this country isn’t the easygoing place that it likes to portray to the world. Any person with skin like mine has a story to tell about being racially abused. Treated differently. In schools. On public transport. Job interviews. Casual racism, they call it. As if there’s a bloody difference. But that’s not what happened last night at that bar. This was violent. Calculated.’
Bailey was relieved that they were back talking about the night before. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘A group of men wearing masks rushed into the bar and went straight for Matt and the others. They knew they were in there. Maybe they followed them after the demonstration? I don’t know.’ Abdo was speaking faster. Angry. ‘Matt’s a big man, he must have tried to defend the others. Take them on. They dragged him outside, beating him. Apparently, he fell. Hitting his head on the gutter.’
This was more detail than Bailey was expecting and he was wondering why the police hadn’t mentioned any of these details in the media release they’d put out that morning.
‘What about the attackers, Jonny? Did anyone at the bar recognise the people who attacked Matt?’
‘As I said, they were wearing masks. But from what I’ve been told, they resembled some of the men we saw coming out of Strong’s talk. Their clothes. Builds. But with their faces covered, there’s no way of knowing.’
Abdo took a break, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him.
‘What do you want me to do with this information, Jonny?’
‘Get it in the media, I don’t know,’ Jonny said, throwing his hands up. ‘It should be out there. I don’t understand why the police are holding back information.’
The police would have their reasons. They were probably already talking to witnesses, scouring through security camera footage from both inside the pub and the streets around Woollahra and Paddington. Releasing too much information in the early stages of an investigation could often be counterproductive, stopping people from coming forward. But if this was a racist attack then the public should know. Men in masks bashing people because of the colour of their skin. This wasn’t the country that Bailey knew. Sunlight was always the best medicine, any journalist would tell you that. The public needed to know.
‘I’ll make some enquiries, Jonny. Talk to some people.’
And by ‘people’ Bailey meant his old colleagues at The Journal. Someone working in daily news.
‘Just not Matt’s name. Please keep his name out of it, for now.’ Abdo stood up, checking his phone. ‘I need to get to that meeting. I’ll call you if I find out anything more.’
Bailey stood up. ‘One more thing, mate.’
‘Yes?’
‘The people who were with Matt at the White Lion. Do you think they might talk to me?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. They’re scared, Bailey. Word is getting around about what happened. Families are scared.’
‘I get that. But as you said yourself, people need to know.’
‘I’ll come back to you.’
Abdo nodded his head and left.
‘Here you go, buddy.’
The waiter placed a plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms in front of Bailey. It smelled good, reminding him how hungry he was.
‘Thanks.’
He needed to eat quickly. The evening shift would be arriving at the White Lion soon. Witnesses to a crime.
Bailey had just one more stop to make first.
CHAPTER 6
It was strange being back here. The place where Bailey had cut his teeth as a cub reporter back in the 1980s: The Journal’s headquarters on Sussex Street. Where someone had always picked up the phone, whatever time of day or night. A reassuring voice to calm Bailey’s nerves when he’d called from whatever shithole he’d landed in to report on the Middle East’s forever wars. For almost two decades the voice on the end of the line at The Journal usually belonged to the paper’s chief of staff, Rachel Symonds.
‘Just hit the buzzer at the ramp and security will let you in,’ Symonds had told Bailey when he’d called to let her know he was dropping by. ‘Booked you a carpark downstairs.’
Idling in the traffic, Bailey had plenty of time to think about the past. The watering holes where he went drinking with his colleagues and the hacks from the wire service and radio station whose headquarters were also nearby. The Star. The Covent Garden. The Criterion. That old bar with the name he could never remember, where Labor politicians would get full of booze and drop stories to reporters hungry for a scoop.
The Criterion had been Bailey’s favourite boozer. It had character. Walls stained with cigarette smoke. Carpet soaked with so much beer that it was like walking on a velcro blanket. On some Friday nights at the end of a busy news week it was like every journalist in the city drank there, the lack of air conditioning turning the place into a human hot box. Bailey remembered one night in there when it was so hot that the termites couldn’t even take it any more, chewing their way through the wood panelling and swarming the bar. None of the journalists bothered complaining to management because the beer taps were still working.
The last time Bailey had found himself on Sussex Street wasn’t to visit a pub. A few months back he dropped by merely to collect a cardboard box filled with unopened mail, old notebooks and the picture of his daughter that sat beside the computer on his desk. The day he went to collect his things. The day his redundancy became real.
‘John Bailey to see Rachel Symonds,’ Bailey said into the intercom at the top of The Journal’s driveway. ‘She booked me a spot –’
‘Mr Bailey! How the hell are you?’
> Mick.
Bailey knew that voice. The guy on the front desk who never stopped talking about his kids.
‘G’day, Mick. Good to hear your voice. How’s the family?’
‘Everyone’s good. Although my boys are running around the house tackling furniture at the moment. Bring on the footy season, I say.’
Bailey laughed. ‘You still coaching?’
‘I’ll be saddling up again for sure, Mr Bailey. Love it,’ Mick said. ‘Reserved you a spot on level four. Car spot forty-nine.’
‘Thanks.’
Bailey waited for the electric gate to open before easing his wagon down the ramp. The Journal shared the building with a big law firm and the parking lot was more like a European car show, with fancy job titles dangling like street signs to deter peasants like Bailey.
Arriving on level four, he paused at the carpark reserved for the editor of The Journal. A spot that had once been reserved for his best friend, Gerald Summers. Gerald had been one of the best editors the paper had ever had. The guy who’d transitioned The Journal into the digital age, while safeguarding the editorial standards that had made it so great. But like Bailey, Gerald had been let go by the private equity mob that had ripped through the place, firing as many highly paid, and competent, reporters as they could find in their bid to maximise profits and chase clicks and shares. The bean counters had found a willing patsy to saddle up as editor for the next wave of the digital revolution. Adrian Greenberg. The ambitious national affairs editor with a reputation for being a letch with women and for never shouting a round at the bar. The guy would have dobbed in his own mother for a promotion. And Bailey had told him as much on the last day he was there.
‘Hey, Adrian?’ Bailey had poked his head into the editor’s office, where Greenberg was deep in conversation with a young reporter that Bailey had never met. ‘Congratulations. For someone who has never had much luck with the ladies, somehow you managed to fuck us all.’
‘You’re a self-righteous arsehole, Bailey. You know that?’
‘Yes, Adrian. I do.’
Bailey smiled to himself, remembering the encounter and the angry look on Greenberg’s face, as he settled his wagon into the editor’s car spot. One more fuck you for the establishment.
* * *
‘Over here, Bailey.’
Symonds was bobbing tea bags in the kitchen near the elevators when Bailey arrived on the fourteenth floor.
‘Fixing us a cuppa.’
Her smile carried an unmistakable hint of regret.
‘Rach.’
Balancing two steaming mugs in her hand, she gave him a one-armed hug and steered them into the boardroom, away from reporters bashing away at keyboards and talking into phones. Bailey caught the eyes of a couple of people he didn’t recognise, nodding his chin at the few that he did. There were a lot of empty desks, including the one he’d once occupied.
‘Have a seat.’ Symonds pointed at one of the leather chairs facing the window. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Straight to the point. Another reason why Bailey liked her.
‘I know you’re busy, Rach, so I won’t stay long.’ Bailey took a sip of his tea, placing the mug on the table. ‘I’m working on a story about far right nationalism and Augustus Strong.’
‘A story? Who’re you writing for?’
Bailey told her about the new job at Enquirer Magazine, Jock Donaldson and the team of reporters that Neena Singh had been assembling.
‘That’s great, Bailey. Glad you landed on your feet.’
He decided to get straight to it. He knew how busy Symonds was and he’d already noticed her checking her watch.
‘I’ve got some information about that Sudanese kid who got bashed up on Oxford Street last night.’
‘Possible hate crime, police are telling us. No one will go on the record. What d’you know?’
‘Consider it confirmed. Blokes wearing masks burst in there, singling out the guy because of the colour of his skin. Victim’s a nineteen-year-old law student.’
Symonds sat forward, elbows leaning on the desk. ‘Go on.’
‘His university lecturer’s an old friend of mine. Known him since he was a kid. He was with a bunch of students staging a protest outside Augustus Strong’s event last night. I’m working on a theory that the guys who bashed him were also at Strong’s talk. The kids went up to the White Lion for drinks afterwards. They may have been followed. It’s a relatively short walk from Surry Hills.’
‘So why are you telling me all this?’
‘I’m working on a broader investigative piece. First edition of Enquirer Magazine’s still more than a month away. I knew you’d have someone on the story. This information needs to be out there now.’
Symonds’ lips pursed. Thinking. ‘Got a name for the victim?’
‘Family doesn’t want his name in the media. Not while he’s banged up in hospital.’
Bailey knew that Symonds trusted him, but she couldn’t get one of her reporters to write up what he’d told her without confirming a few details first. Journalism 101.
‘Will your guy speak to us?’
‘Can you give me a minute?’
‘Sure. I’ll go check on what else we’ve got.’ Symonds pushed her chair back and headed for the door. ‘I don’t think it’s much. I’ve had someone chasing it all day.’
Bailey waited for the door to close before making the call. Jonny Abdo answered straight away and, surprisingly, it didn’t take long for Bailey to convince him to agree to talk on the record. By the time Symonds had returned, Bailey had Abdo on speakerphone repeating everything he’d said back in Summer Hill that afternoon. The only thing that was off limits was naming Matthew Lam as the victim. The family still wasn’t ready. But the fact that Abdo had agreed to go on the record meant that The Journal had a strong story. A community lawyer calling out a hate crime, wanting the police to do more.
‘Might get a front page splash with this one,’ Symonds said after Bailey had ended the call. ‘Give everyone a break from these nightmare bushfires. I reckon the public’s getting…’ Symonds was distracted by someone yelling obscenities in the newsroom on the other side of the door. ‘I’d better check on that.’
Bailey followed her through the door as another door slammed down the corridor.
‘What was all that about?’ Symonds asked a woman working at the computer closest to where they were standing.
‘Apparently someone parked in Greenberg’s car spot again. Second time it’s happened this week. He’s not happy.’
Symonds looked at Bailey, the corner of her lip creeping towards a smile. ‘You didn’t.’
Bailey shrugged. ‘It’s confusing down there.’
‘You’d better get out of here, Bailey.’ Symonds was laughing now. ‘And thanks for the tip.’
CHAPTER 7
Bailey could hear Campo sniffing and whimpering inside the house before he’d even made it onto his front porch. The dog had almost supernatural senses, smelling his approach from half a block away.
‘All right, Campo. Calm down.’
The dog was all over him the second he opened the door, sniffing his knees to see where he’d been, wagging her tail in anticipation of a walk, some dinner, or just someone for her big beady eyes to stare at for the rest of the night. Campo did not like being alone.
With the temperature in the high thirties today, Bailey had left her inside the house. The courtyard out back would have been like a hotbox.
‘Come on. We’re going for a wander.’
Bailey grabbed Campo’s leash, clipping it to her collar, the wagging of her tail gathering speed like a helicopter readying for take-off.
The jacaranda trees lining Bailey’s street had already lost their purple bells but their fat trunks were still worthy of a sniff from Campo, who was meandering along the path, tree to tree, depositing small puddles of piss to mark her territory.
‘Afternoon, Bryce.’ Bailey had only made it halfway up the stre
et when he noticed his neighbour strapping surfboards to the roof of his Range Rover. ‘Heading off for a late surf?’
‘Hi, Bailey.’ Bryce stopped what he was doing, climbing down off the running board so the two men could shake hands. ‘Heading up to the house at Blueys for a few days. Need to escape this bloody smoke, it’s sending us all mad.’
‘Relentless. Hope none of your family or friends have lost anything in these fires.’
‘No. We’re okay, thanks. Although I heard a few families at the school lost their holiday homes a bit further north from ours. Up near Port Macquarie. Taree.’
‘Hello, Bailey.’ Jenny Ratcliffe had walked through the gate, her son and daughter in tow, holding out a bag with wine and chips for her husband. ‘Thanks, darling.’
‘How are you, Jenny?’
Jenny looked stressed, her face flushed and sweaty. ‘Fine. Fine. Just struggling with this awful summer like everyone else.’
Bailey could never remember the names of the Ratcliffe children, so he offered them a collective wave. ‘How are you, guys?’
‘Good thanks, Mr Bailey. You well?’
The Ratcliffes’ son answered for the both of them because their daughter couldn’t have been less interested in chatting with their neighbour.
‘Good thanks…’
‘Russell.’
Bailey smiled, awkwardly. ‘That’s right. Russell.’
‘Who’s this?’ Russell said, dropping to one knee, patting Campo on the head, seemingly unperturbed by Bailey’s forgetfulness. ‘I didn’t know you had a dog.’
‘That’s Campo. Haven’t had her long.’
‘Campo?’ Bryce raised an eyebrow, smirking. ‘After the –’
‘Yep. She’s got a good step on her too.’
‘Melissa, are you going to say hello?’ Jenny Ratcliffe was giving death stares to her daughter who had a pair of headphones wrapped around her neck and a scowl on her face.