No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  That’s when it strikes me that there’s something odd about this section. It looks impressive, but it doesn’t quite make sense. If anything, it reminds me of the essays that the less conscientious members of my profession ghost-write for students who are looking for good results. It’s almost as though the writer has gathered a bunch of documents from an Internet search and pulled out a sentence from this and a sentence from that. In fact, here’s a whole paragraph that I could swear I’ve seen before in some of my other work. It’s got a convoluted structure, but the grammar is correct. I have a conviction it’s something I untangled myself, and not so long ago.

  I look back through what I’ve done already. No, there’s nothing like this in the earlier sections. There’s something strange going on here.

  Strictly against the rules, I slip Steve’s memory stick out of my bag and plug it into a spare USB port on the computer. I save the file onto it, then reach down to pull it out again.

  “Everything all right?”

  I jump. Brett is at my elbow. Did he notice?

  “Yes! Fine, fine.”

  “Sorry about Helena.” I’d forgotten about his promise. “She’ll definitely be in tomorrow. There’s a board meeting in the afternoon.”

  “Oh! She might be a bit busy, then?” I say hopefully.

  “Yes, but she and I are going to be taking you to lunch. There’s a divine sushi train in the old GPO building. You’ll love it.”

  My heart sinks.

  “How’s the document going?” he asks. “Getting through it?”

  “Yeah, I’m right on track,” I say. If there is something odd, I’m going to keep it to myself until I’ve had a chance to find out what it is.

  At the end of the day I’m eager to get home, so I decide to spare Steve the long walk and try the bus, which turns out to be maddeningly slow. I don’t know if he’s on a bus behind me or what, and we haven’t worked out a protocol, but as we crawl past the university I send him a text:

  Can’t stand this. Getting out and walking.

  I jump off the bus and stride down King Street, not looking behind. He’d just better be able to keep up.

  At the flat, I copy the file from the USB to my computer and start searching through my stored files for a comparison, starting with Water Resources. I can’t find an exact match, but there’s still something familiar about some of the syntax, something I should be able to remember.

  I log into our work server and trawl through the archives there, broadening my search. I’ve worked on other environmental studies, and we usually keep a backup of the result. But I can’t find anything. Frustrated, I grab my coat and go out in search of the Thai takeaway with the ridiculous name that I noticed on my first day.

  Finishing off an indifferent Pad Thai with not enough chilli, I fire off an email to Scott:

  Please search for EIS documents at Water Resources in the last 3 years with any one of the following strings . . . Send me anything you find.

  I add a couple of phrases copied from the suspect paragraph. I hope he knows how to do a proper search, but he’s so prickly I don’t want to get his back up by explaining what to do.

  On the way back from the Thai takeaway I notice a music and video store that is selling DVDs at throwaway prices, so I buy six for twenty dollars. Back at the apartment, I quickly wash my few dishes and get into bed with Aliens, one of my guilty pleasures; but I’m asleep long before my favourite scenes come up.

  28

  In the morning, there’s an email from Ravi saying: No spike from Talbot’s phone. How do you figure that?

  I reply: Keep your friend on standby. I’m hoping to get another number for him to check.

  I resist the temptation to call Scott and apply pressure, because I’m pretty sure it won’t work. If I hassle him too much he’ll get into a huff and quit altogether, leaving me back at the Department of Water Resources, among my other woes.

  At work, I plough on through the document, but not without looking up the author of the study that’s got me wondering. It’s a Professor Bartholomew from one of the engineering departments at Newcastle University. He seems to be the author of a lot of obscure academic studies, the sort of things you’d expect from a professor. I have a quick look through a couple of PDFs. Of course they’re on subjects that are incomprehensible to me, but English is English. Most of the professor’s work – to borrow from George

  Orwell’s review of Finnegan’s Wake – is in a language other than English. It doesn’t increase my respect for him. However difficult the subject, it’s still possible to write about it in a manner that’s lucid and readable. Look at Stephen Hawking.

  I skim through the fishy bit of my document again. Definitely English. And definitely signed off by the good professor.

  There’s a flurry of movement in the corridor that goes past my office to the boardroom, which is on the corner commanding the best view. A silvery little laugh. I move my chair to where I can catch a glimpse. Three or four Asian men in suits move past, accompanied by a slim young woman with a great mane of tawny hair. She’s wearing an expensive suit showing off her bony knees, and killer heels. This has to be Helena. Trailing along in the rear is Brett. They pass out of view, then I hear the boardroom door closing. A moment later Brett reappears and starts heading back slowly, alone. I quickly turn my head back to the screen.

  Brett passes my office without looking in. I quickly check my work email. Yes! there’s something from Scott.

  Okay, here’s the number for that O’Dwyer guy.

  Your friend Donnelly likes to talk, doesn’t he?

  No joy on those documents yet. Trust me, I’m looking.

  Are you going to answer my questions?

  Stung, I compose an apologetic email with answers to all his technical questions, which had completely slipped my mind. I send O’Dwyer’s number to Ravi, then I sit looking at my email display, transfixed. The magic number winks and blinks at me. If I dial it, then somewhere in Sydney, maybe not far from here, a phone will ring and a hand will reach out.

  Trembling, I turn my own phone to Private, tap in the number and wait to hear Brian O’Dwyer’s voice. To my disappointment, all I get is the “This mobile phone is switched off” message.

  I’m hard at work again when Brett taps at my door.

  “Helena’s tied up with the Chinese,” he says apologetically. “They’re nutting out a few issues before the board meeting.”

  “Oh?”

  “So she suggested that I take you to lunch. She’s really sorry she can’t make it . . .”

  “Oh, well, really . . .” I’m searching for an excuse.

  “It’s on her. She’s got this great expense account.”

  I can see he’s quite keen, so I think what the hell. It’s only 12.15 though and Steve might worry, so I say:

  “Okay, meet you by the lift in two minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  I send an SMS to Steve: Going to lunch now with colleague at old GPO Martin Place I think.

  Brett and I emerge into sunshine. It’s been raining and the pavement is slick, reflecting the blue sky and the silhouettes of hurrying city workers. Bunches of lunchtime runners pop out of buildings like little puffs of smoke and float up towards Hyde Park. Brett fusses with the fastenings of a smart belted raincoat as we walk.

  “I hope it’s not too early for you?” he says. “The place gets pretty crowded by one.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I’m enjoying being out in the freshly-washed air.

  “Anyway,” he goes on, “the board meeting starts at two sharp, and I have to be back. Helena might need me.”

  “Those Chinese guys aren’t anything to do with the Board, are they?” I ask.

  “No, no. They’re from Green Dragon Resources, part of the consortium. Helena’s working closely with all the parties in this, like I said, making sure everything’s done properly. If people on the Board have concerns she makes sure she’s across that in advance, and she gets input from Gre
en Dragon.”

  It all sounds innocuous, but this so-called independent commission is working pretty hard to make sure the application goes through. I wonder what motivates Helena. Maybe it’s all wonderful and she’s out to save the planet.

  We go down some stairs in the beautiful old GPO building and find spots at a long sushi bar. I let Brett make the selections, insisting that I like everything. He grabs plates without pausing to look at their price codes and we tuck into some very expensive sushi.

  “Will you be at the board meeting?” I ask.

  “Not in the meeting as such,” he concedes. “But I’ll be on call. I’ve prepared all the papers, and I have to be around in case there’s anything else Helena needs. We’ve got a little signal that we use, if she needs me. She dials my number, then hangs up straight away. It’s very discreet.” He smiles, thinking about it.

  “So you said you’ve been seconded to the Commission for this project? What’s going to happen when it’s over?”

  “Not sure yet. Nothing’s set in stone. One thing’s certain, though. I’m not going to Parramatta!” he says and gives an exaggerated shudder.

  “I suppose you’d like to keep working with Helena?”

  “Oh yes, that would be fabulous. We’re planning to have a little talk about that when she’s got time.” I don’t fancy his chances there.

  “So you’re not a western suburbs boy, Brett?”

  “No way. I’m buying a nice little studio apartment at Potts Point. I got in just before the first home-owners’ grant cut out, lovely little Art Deco place, and I’m going to renovate as soon as I’ve got a bit of equity.”

  Now we’re on comfortable ground. In Melbourne you can talk to anyone about the footy; in Sydney it’s real estate. We exchange views for a while on good areas to invest in, though I find my knowledge of Sydney is woefully out of date. I hadn’t realised Redfern, St Peters and Zetland are now desirable areas; and I discover that those little apartments clinging to the cliffs at Bondi are completely out of the question, no matter how small and old they might be.

  He, in turn, asks me some personal questions, to which I give inventive answers. Jane Elliott has a similar background to my own, but I can’t give her any credentials that are too easy to check up on, so she’s worked for a number of companies that have gone out of business as well as spending several years in London and Singapore. Singapore is a bit daring, as I’ve only spent three days there in my whole life, but luckily he doesn’t show much interest.

  It’s funny how one lie leads inexorably to another, and I do feel a bit guilty about deceiving poor mild-mannered Brett. In addition, I’m probably breaking some fairly serious laws by doing this job under a false identity. But on the whole, morally, I’m taking the utilitarian view that I’m not doing anyone any harm, and my intention is to keep myself alive; so I’m not going to admonish myself, and I might as well play the game as well as I can and enjoy it.

  After Brett pays the hefty bill we stroll through Martin Place.

  “So what did you study, Brett?” I ask politely. “Communications, something like that?”

  “Well, I started off doing engineering,” he confesses. “I wasn’t much good at it . . .”

  He launches into a long and complicated story about failing subjects and dropping subjects and changing courses, but I’m not really listening because my mind has gone off at a tangent. The mention of engineering has made me remember why Brett makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. It’s because he reminds me of my first serious boyfriend, someone I met in London just after I’d left home. Laurence had that same pale face and longish, floppy hair. He came from one of those ancient aristocratic families, where you suspect the blood has thinned over the generations. I really didn’t want to be reminded of him.

  Brett rambles on, using his hands to emphasise the point as we walk up King Street. Laurence was an engineer, just graduated from Oxford, of course. His family had a girl in mind for him, someone whose family was listed in Debrett’s. He took me home for a weekend once, some horrible pile in Bedfordshire, and they froze me out. The good school I’d gone to in Melbourne was suddenly of no consequence.

  When I fled from that relationship and met Max I thought I was getting back to reality, but by then I didn’t know what reality was.

  Why does engineering resonate in my brain? There’s something I’ve been trying to remember since last night. It’s one discipline I haven’t had much to do with – except that one time . . .

  As soon as we arrive back at the office Brett practically sprints off down the corridor in search of Helena.

  I can’t wait until tonight to contact work, and I can’t log into our office computer from here because of their firewall. I fire off an email to Ravi, much like the one I sent Scott, but this time I ask him if he can have a look at a feasibility study for an engineering company I worked on a couple of years ago. Not about water, or coal, or the environment. It was all about heat exchangers. I had to practically write the wretched thing myself, once they’d explained to me what heat exchangers were.

  Then it’s a matter of waiting, checking my email every few minutes, trying to work. There’s coming and going in the corridor: older men in suits, a couple of matronly women. A trolley comes past with afternoon tea. There’s orange juice, pastries, fruit, chocolate biscuits. Later I see it waiting by the lift to be picked up, the food only half eaten. The other occupants of the floor make little forays, scurrying out to make lightning raids on the windfall. I’m a bit tempted myself – sushi’s not that filling – but by the time I make my mind up there’s nothing left.

  The board meeting is over and Brett has disappeared, along with Helena and all the board members. They’ve probably gone for drinks, or something, and he’s managed to tag along. I pack up and leave the office, opting for the long walk again.

  29

  Halfway home I get a call from Ravi.

  “That number checks out, Elly. Big data spike for the day in question.”

  “Yes!”

  “Also, I’ve found your document. I’ve emailed it to you.”

  “That’s great, Ravi. Thanks.”

  “Elly, I think it’s time you told the rest of us what you’re up to. I don’t even know whose number that was.” He sounds hurt.

  “Yeah, of course. I just didn’t want to waste people’s time if it was nothing. What’s the best way of doing this?” I ask.

  “Skype hook-up. Where are you now?”

  “On my way home. Give me an hour.”

  “Okay. Just be by your computer and I’ll give you a call.”

  I’m not sure what to do about Steve, but I suppose they’ll work it out. Ten minutes later I get a text from him: i’ll bring food

  Good. I let myself into the flat and open up Ravi’s email. The engineering document is the right one, just as I remember it. I line it up next to the professor’s document. Yes. There’s a paragraph in each where almost all the text matches, word for word. It’s one of those chunks of business writing that don’t actually say anything. It might sound learned, but it’s waffle. So why is it here?

  Possibility one: the professor did this. Couldn’t be bothered writing up his results properly? Thought that nobody would read it anyway?

  Possibility two: the professor did write a conclusion, but someone has deleted it and substituted this rubbish.

  The only reason they’d do that would be because they didn’t like what he wrote.

  There’s an unfamiliar buzzing noise. It’s the first time I’ve had a visitor, and I fumble to let him in.

  “Who’s watching your back?” I ask, joking.

  “My girlfriend,” Steve says seriously. “We’re going to see a movie after this.”

  “Oh! I didn’t realise she was up here with you. What does she do?”

  “Engineering at La Trobe. Semester break,” he says, setting out Thai food he’s bought from a place I haven’t heard of while I go backwards and forwards getting bowls and implement
s from the kitchen.

  “Right! What year?”

  He gives me a funny look. Of course I know Steve is older than he appears, but he looks so young it’s hard to keep it in mind.

  “She’s on the faculty.”

  We start eating the food, which is fiery, just the way I like it.

  “This is great!” I say. “How do you find the good places so fast?”

  He shrugs. “Connections.”

  “Where are you staying, anyway?” I ask.

  “Not far away.”

  He’s not the greatest communicator, Steve.

  “Nick’s trying to get hold of you,” he says, suddenly remembering.

  “Nick! What for?” I ask, surprised.

  “Dunno. But Derek won’t give your new number to anyone.”

  “People at work can have it. Send him a text.”

  Ravi calls me on Skype, and we’re away. Ravi and Luke are lounging in the meeting room at the office, using the wide-angle camera that’s set up there, while Steve and I crowd together in front of my screen so we can have a face-to-face meeting.

  “I’ve got a rough agenda in mind,” I say. “There are two separate items, and I want to get the newer one out of the way first. Okay?”

  “Okay.” They look understandably mystified.

  “I don’t know what to make of this. I’m working on an application to construct a coal mine up here, a big new project, and I came upon a section of it – a pretty important section – that I thought was a bit dodgy.”

  They start to look uncomfortable. Of course Elly, notorious greenie, would be suspicious of a coal mine.

  “I got a strong feeling it was cobbled together from other bits and pieces. It even had a bit that I thought I’d seen before in one of my projects. So I’ve been trying to find that document for the last couple of days . . .”

  They’re mystified.

  “. . . and today Ravi found it for me. I’m not exaggerating this. It’s the same text, word for word.”