The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  There was a beat, a pause as another glance shot between them before they moved towards the hall.

  As he shut the screen door behind them, Shorty turned.

  ‘You know, you really should have told the department your wife’s an Afghan.’

  ‘She’s Australian,’ Fossey snapped.

  ‘Oh, no … we checked. She’s an Afghan. Really, you should have told someone.’

  It was at that point that Fossey slammed the door. He also turned off the outside light. It was only a small drop down the steps to the driveway, but you could always get lucky.

  Ray Gilbert arrived first, wending his way up the valley on the Mt Nebo Road. Taking his time, checking out the views. Even though it was midweek there was a fair amount of traffic; tourists and a few bikers trying out their machines on the twists and turns. Satisfied there was nobody behind him, he turned in to Jollys Lookout, parked, took a book from the car and sat himself at one of the picnic tables. A young couple with a baby in a stroller wandered along the path.

  Half an hour later Fossey drove in. He had taken a longer route through the Samford Valley and up over Mt Glorious and Mt Nebo. He pulled up at the opposite end of the car park and sat watching as the young couple strapped their child into a rear seat. It was a perfect day. He grabbed his camera, locked the car and set off up the path to the shelter at the top of the lookout.

  Down in the city it had been sweltering but here, with the effects of altitude and the light breeze moving the trees, it was cooler. Below him, in the car park, the couple departed. Fossey took the lens cap off the camera and focused on the city in the distance.

  Ray waited a couple of minutes then made his way up to the shelter. For a while they stood apart, gazing out over the Samford Valley. A heat haze, blue-tinted from a fire somewhere up near the Glasshouse Mountains, ghosted the city. A glint of light flashed from a window as a plane dog-legged in preparation for landing at Brisbane airport.

  ‘So you had a visit?’ Ray asked quietly, moving closer to examine the plaques detailing the view.

  ‘Smith and Smith.’ Fossey turned with his camera and concentrated on a pale-headed rosella in the gum tree above him.

  ‘Jones and Brown,’ Ray snorted.

  ‘Tall and short.’ Fossey steadied his hand and took a picture of the rosella. As though it objected, the bird dived into an undulating flight, calling out for reimbursement … fee … fee … fee. Pretty things, much more subtle than the rainbow lorikeets screeching away in a neighbouring tree.

  ‘That would be them.’ Ray moved to the next plaque. ‘I was flattered they could afford to put two blokes on the case. Surprised they bothered. Then again, the bastards don’t seem to have any real work to do. You’d have thought that since September 11 they would have been flat out rounding up the staff in every falafel bar from Bondi to Bourke Town. Bunch of galahs —’

  He stopped mid-sentence as two cars pulled into the car park: a BMW and a white Commodore. Instinctively they moved apart. To their relief it appeared to be a false alarm. They watched as a man got out of the BMW and went straight over to help a woman out of the Commodore. As she shut the door, the woman leaned back against the car and pulled the man to her, wrapping her arms around him. The man kissed her but appeared uncomfortable, glanced around and awkwardly pulled himself free. He took the woman by the hand and led her up the path behind the shelter.

  ‘You think?’ Fossey murmured. The couple had found a table at the far end of the lookout and this time the man was not resisting.

  ‘No. If they’re role-playing for the sake of maintaining cover, they’re pretty bloody dedicated.’

  True. Fossey doubted that anything other than holding hands and kissing was suggested in the training manuals. Turning the woman face down over the edge of a picnic table with her skirt around her waist seemed beyond the call of duty. He turned his attention back to the view out to the coast.

  ‘Brown and Jones …’

  ‘Smith and Smith?’

  ‘Whatever. Stupid galahs turned up at my mother’s place to repair her phone.’

  ‘There was something wrong with it?’

  Ray gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Not before their visit. I wouldn’t use it to order a pizza now.’

  ‘They asked about Plym.’ Fossey glanced back over his shoulder. The couple were working up a nice head of steam. Not a good look though, he thought, the trousers around the ankles.

  ‘I thought they might. Very touchy about Plym. Bloody place isn’t supposed to be on the radar at all, you know. Doesn’t exist. Usual claptrap.’ There was more than a touch of anger in Ray’s tone. ‘You want to know about Plym? I can tell you heaps.’

  Fossey put the cap back on his camera. ‘Executive summary?’

  ‘The short version?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Ray looked slightly miffed but continued. ‘It’s the detention centre from hell. Forget Woomera and Curtin, Port Hedland, even the wasteland camp on Nauru … this place would make Eichmann jealous.’

  ‘That good, huh?’

  ‘I tell you, Fossey. There’s a sadistic streak in some of the bastards that think these things up.’ He shrugged and moved to yet another plaque. ‘At first Plym was where they sent the people who were to be deported. Nice and quiet, tucked out of the way.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Trimouille Island.’ Ray looked at Fossey expectantly, as though the name was supposed to mean something.

  Fossey shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s in the Monte Bello group off the West Australian coast …’

  ‘Sorry. Geography was never my strong point.’

  ‘Anyway, the thing is that they also started sending people there who were causing problems in the system.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Well, anyone who knew how the system worked and was coaching other refugees on their rights. Political agitators. Activists …’

  ‘And what was to stop them agitating in the Plym camp?’

  Ray looked at Fossey as though he was playing dumb. ‘In Plym? Well, what would be the point? Nobody cares. There are only two ways out of Plym. One is deportation, the other is in a box. The guards there are the same. Tough, I mean. They’re the pick of the crop from around the country — hard men who don’t have any qualms about busting heads.’

  ‘Sounds nasty.’ Fossey grimaced. ‘So you tried to blow the whistle?’

  ‘Yeah … came a real cropper. They have the place wrapped up in so much secrecy because of its past history. No need to even bring in new regulations. They were already there on the books, ready and waiting. Bastards!’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The Plym Detention Camp is named after HMS Plym.’ He looked at Fossey without expectation of even a glimmer of understanding. ‘Early in June 1952 a war surplus frigate by the name of HMS Plym was loaded with a special device at Sheerness dockyard in the UK, then sailed to join the command vessel HMS Campania for the ten-thousand-mile voyage to the bay off Trimouille Island. In mid-September a fissile core was transported to the ship by air —’

  ‘What did you say?’ Fossey had been distracted by the cries coming from the table behind the shelter. The couple had apparently forgotten that they were not alone in the park and were giving voice to their pleasure. A quick glance had Fossey hoping that splinters from the tabletop were not going to be a problem.

  ‘The core was transported from Britain by air —’

  ‘Did you say fissile?’

  Again Ray gave him a ‘don’t you know anything look’.

  ‘As in nuclear material, fissile?’

  Ray gave up all pretence of examining the view, the plaques, the birds. He turned to Fossey, his eyes wide with long-held anger. ‘On the morning of 3 October 1952, at six seconds before 9.30 am local time, a twenty-five-kiloton nuclear explosion was detonated inside the hull of HMS Plym. The ship was vaporised and Britain became a nuclear power.’

  Fossey was stunned. ‘I though
t Maralinga was where —’

  Ray shook his head. ‘Maralinga wasn’t until ‘57, and only seven of the twenty-one tests were held there. The others were at Monte Bello, Christmas Island, Emu Fields or Malden Island.’

  ‘I never realised …’

  ‘I’d better make tracks.’ Ray handed him the book he had carried from the car. ‘Happy reading.’

  For a few minutes Fossey stood not looking at the view, trying to imagine a frigate vaporising. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.

  From behind the shelter came a cry that sounded remarkably like an echo.

  A small butcher bird landed on the railing, cocked its head and eyed him quizzically.

  ‘I’m on the side of the good guys,’ Fossey said to it, hoping it was true. The bird flew off.

  You can plan only so much, Fossey told himself. After that … what?

  ‘Illegals, Fossey. The minister likes to have the language clear.’

  ‘Right. Illegals it is,’ he had said with as much conviction as he could. Was that his first betrayal, or had it been in going to Canberra in the first place?

  Soon after he had arrived in Philson’s office, Angela Tackberry had briefed him on the various sections and who were the best people to approach if he needed information. He had no doubt that her attitude towards him was partly due to the minister’s patronage, but she was friendly, professional and inclusive. Whenever he felt himself being blocked, Fossey knew he could rely on Angela, as Philson’s chief of staff, to guide him through the office politics.

  ‘The minister is very pleased,’ she’d said, after a fractional pause.

  ‘Pleased? I haven’t done anything yet.’

  She leaned against the doorframe of his office. ‘But he is confident you will.’

  Fossey had glanced up at her, wondering if this was some sort of test. ‘I’m not really sure what it is he expects,’ he began. ‘I mean, he doesn’t spell out what he wants. I was hired simply as an advisor.’

  ‘All the more freedom to be creative.’ Angela moved into the room, lowering her voice. ‘I think the minister would rather appreciate it if you could do something on the detention centres.’

  ‘I know he’s been copping a fair bit of flack in the media, but I understood the public was pretty much on side.’

  ‘The polling has been consistent on that up until the last few months. Now it’s starting to turn a bit soft. Pictures of children behind razor wire are never a good look, and they tend to stick in the minds of the voters more readily than the less emotional and reasoned discussion of the problems of dealing with illegal migrants.’

  Looking at her he had the idea. Something in the dossier of reports from Curtin Detention Centre.

  ‘Does everything have to be cleared through the minister?’

  ‘Through me. I’ll make sure he sights it if necessary. I might bring his press secretary, Jerry Tooth, into the loop if need be.’

  Fossey smiled. ‘Well,’ he said between thoughts, ‘I know just where to start.’

  The moment he’d opened the folder he had known he was on track. The private company that ran the detention centres for the government was having problems in the Curtin Detention Centre. A hunger strike a month previously had been followed by several violent disturbances and the destruction of federal government property. Fossey read the reports carefully and began jotting notes on the things that required following up. Then he thumbed through the available photographs and realised he had a story.

  For a few minutes he had pondered the ethics of what he was contemplating, and decided that what he had in front of him was as clear and graphic as the pictures. Some things were just plain wrong.

  The next time she came in Angela nodded in the direction of his computer. ‘Making progress?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. You want to have a look?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He passed her a document from the printer beside his desk. ‘Just a rough draft, but you’ll get the general idea.’

  Fossey watched as Angela’s eyes squinted in concentration. Just as he was wondering if he had miscalculated, he saw her relax.

  ‘You think you can get this to run?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought I might leak it.’

  ‘As a draft report so that it’s deniable by the minister.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You have pictures?’

  Fossey handed her a manila folder.

  Angela thumbed through them and grimaced. ‘Pretty graphic stuff.’

  ‘If you were a sub-editor, would you run that one?’ He pointed to a 10 x 4 close-up of a man’s face.

  ‘With this report? Like a shot.’ Angela placed the photos back in the folder. ‘I think the minister will be more than happy.’

  ‘Should he see it first?’

  Angela didn’t hesitate. ‘No. A leak is a leak. Just make sure they are going to run the photographs.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Fossey grinned.

  And it wasn’t.

  The weekend editions of the major papers had all given it a run. Much to Fossey’s satisfaction the stories concentrated on the unacceptable and un-Australian behaviour being exhibited by people who had come to the country illegally. The articles also picked up on the language that Fossey had laced throughout the ‘draft report’ — queue jumpers, floods of illegal migrants and the scourge of people smugglers. Armed Fanatics! screamed one headline above a picture of the weapons found in a search of the Curtin Detention Centre.

  An enterprising reporter had followed up by interviewing the wife of a guard who feared for her husband’s safety and was living in terror of what these animals might do next. But pride of place in every story was the photograph of the unnamed man. In the context of the stories it left people in no doubt as to the bizarre lengths these people would go to in order to avoid deportation. Nobody who saw the photograph would ever forget it. The man had sewn his lips together.

  ‘Why do you think they had knives?’

  The voice had been so soft in the Canberra night that for a minute Fossey thought he was imagining it. He had turned from his computer to see Layla silhouetted in the doorway. His mind had been miles away, working on a breakdown of the nationalities of the latest batch of illegals picked up on Ashmore reef. It was Saturday evening and somehow the day had vanished before he’d had time to do all the things he’d wanted to. Well, tomorrow …

  ‘God knows. Maybe they felt they needed to defend themselves.’

  Layla thought about that for a moment.

  ‘Against whom?’

  Fossey had picked up his drink and swung his chair round to face her. She didn’t come into his study very often. Not that he didn’t welcome her; rather, she sensed he needed it to be his space in the same way she needed hers. He had chosen the house in Manuka without Layla’s help but knowing the two studies would meet her approval. He had been right.

  ‘Against whom?’ he echoed. ‘Each other? I don’t know. From what I understand there are pretty severe tensions between different ethnic groups in the centres. I suppose that it’s natural for tempers to flare from time to time.’

  There was another pause, then she spoke again. Her voice still quiet, seemingly devoid of emotional engagement in the subject. ‘The man. The one with his lips sewn together …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Again a silence as she processed her thoughts into words.

  ‘What do you think he is saying?’

  This time the silence was his. He hadn’t told her that he was the source of the stories in the news. Each evening when he returned home she would ask him how his day had been and, not wanting to dwell on it, he would tell her things were fine. A couple of times he had mentioned that he was looking into conditions in the centres, but she never pushed for details. He sensed her suspicion, and wondered if she still believed he could change anything. Probably not. The problems were complex and, he admitted, disturbing. The flow of illegals was increasing and the facilities in the centres were clo
se to breaking point. Somehow the tide had to be turned … The man who had sewn his lips together? What indeed was he saying?

  ‘Nothing.’ He laughed dryly. ‘Bloody stupid way to advance his case.’

  He could feel her eyes on him, but against the light from the hallway he couldn’t make out the expression on her face.

  ‘I’d better go and catch the late news and see how our beloved minister is handling things.’

  To his delight, as he got up she took his arm.

  ‘I’ll watch your minister with you.’

  Robin Philson had been in his element. He let the journalist ask his questions and each time reverted to his set piece. He calmly explained the costs to the taxpayers of housing the illegals and how much he regretted the fact that Australia’s orderly and generous immigration policy was being disrupted by those who paid people smugglers to assist them in jumping the queue.

  ‘Every time one of these people enters illegally and is successful in their asylum claim, a family who has done the right thing and procured a visa is displaced.’

  Was he concerned that the detainees were arming themselves?

  He underplayed the point skilfully. ‘In and of themselves these are crude homemade knifes and batons, but I can say to those whose duty it is to protect the illegal migrants that I will do everything in my power to protect them from people who fail to understand that this is not the way we conduct ourselves in this country.’

  And what did he have to say to those who mutilated themselves in protest at their detention?

  The vision had switched to a full-screen shot of the now famous photograph. A slow zoom bringing the man’s lips painfully close.

  ‘The government will not be blackmailed by such bizarre acts, which are, I should explain, totally abhorrent to all Australians. This is not part of our culture.’

  Finally, would the minister be looking into the source of the leaked document?

  ‘Emphatically yes. It was, as I understand it, only a draft report but I find it disturbing that some individual has set out to inflame an already tense situation by acting in this way. Let us be clear about this. These detainees have networks outside the detention centres and news soon spreads. In no way do I want a message to go to their supporters that arming themselves or committing acts of self-mutilation will assist their cause. It is quite the reverse. I am positive that a vast majority of Australians abhor these tactics.’