The minister was relaxed and confident, with good cause. He had stuck to the same line all week and, early on, the media had obligingly tested his assertions in opinion polls and reported back to their readers and viewers that Australians did indeed agree with the minister’s stance.
‘I don’t like him,’ Layla said as Fossey turned the television off. ‘He has dead-fish eyes.’
‘Overwork,’ Fossey said. ‘Immigration is a portfolio from hell at the moment. I wouldn’t have his job for quids.’
‘Then he should have a rest.’
‘So should we.’ Fossey held out his hand to help her from the settee. ‘I’ll tidy up the kitchen and come to bed.’
‘Bring me some water?’
‘Sure.’
He watched her walk from the room. He loved the way she moved, gliding … no, almost floating across the floor, her back straight, a waterfall of black hair over her shoulder. There was something about her that tugged at him, demanded he be close to her. Often at work he would reach for the phone and go to ring her just to hear her voice. He stopped himself, of course, embarrassed by the schoolboy nature of his feelings.
He placed the water beside the bed. As he had expected, she had fallen asleep while he stacked the dishwasher and wiped the benches. He thought of reading, but changed his mind. He stood for a moment watching her. Her head on the pillow, her skin glowing amber in the soft bedside light. He switched it off and slid in beside her.
Her hand moved to him, acquainting itself with his skin. The long fingers, trembling lightly against him. ‘I have been lonely,’ she whispered. ‘Hold me.’
The following day the minister’s press secretary had greeted Fossey in the canteen and clapped him on the back.
‘Great job, Fossey. Tell you what, though, that bloke with the sewed lips — he was a real catch. If he ever gets out you should buy him a beer.’
Fossey grinned, then shook his head. ‘No, Jerry, the bugger wouldn’t want one. He’s a Moslem, remember.’
Fossey shuddered at the memory. In front of him a slight haze had tinted the Samford Valley blue. What had happened to the man with sewn lips?
He slipped his camera into its cover and headed down to his car, but the image stayed with him. Looking back, he found it hard to pinpoint when the unravelling began. It was a collection of moments, each seemingly inconsequential, conspiring to bring him undone. Moments of unease. Slowly the lush hills and valleys he had been traversing all his life had become barren and rocky.
Worst had been the moments when Layla said nothing. The conversation would turn to his work and, more and more often, a look of disdain would come over her face and she would withdraw. For all their mutually professed love of silence, these were silences that hurt him deeply. At such times he would be the one to leave the room. Closing the study door behind him and opening the bottle. Thrashing around in his mind the arguments that he could have made, should have made, and yet he realised he didn’t always fully believe. It was as though he had immersed himself in a culture at work that had inculcated itself to the point where he was mouthing the very slogans and catch phrases he had helped craft.
And Layla too was on shifting ground. Distracted and moody, her poetry translations appeared to have relinquished centre stage, replaced by a growing obsession with her former homeland. Fossey, though harbouring some disquiet about her new focus, had convinced himself that it was natural given the constant references to Afghans in the news. Her bursts of energy were preferable — anything was — to the self-absorbed silences. There were moments when he caught glimpses of the woman he had first met. Long dark hair flowing over her shoulders, eyes sharpened by a dangerous sparkle. Her intensity fascinating as a brush fire.
‘I hate my father.’
Saturday. A rare morning when he was home all weekend and no sign of a crisis in the department. The minister overseas on a fact-finding tour of Sweden. Alone at home with the weekend stretching out in front of him as lazy as a two-day cricket match. Bliss. The newspapers, unread, still quarantined in their plastic wraps on the lawn that needed mowing and wouldn’t be. Not if he had his way. He had made breakfast late and done what he liked to think was his speciality with eggs. ‘Coddled,’ he had announced proudly as he fluffed the pillows up behind her. ‘You and the egg.’
‘I hate my father,’ Layla had repeated, the coldness in her voice enough to set the alarm bells going. Any emotion her words might have carried was lost, rasped away by pain and emerging flat and lifeless. Fossey had no response. He had given the pillow an extra plumping and settled it behind her. Often he had felt the void open up in just this way — a gulf developing between them — and the more he struggled to reach her, the more the banks on which they stood crumbled and gave way. He straightened up with a premonition that the weekend was destined to be too long.
‘I’ll get your cup of tea.’
But instead of unleashing some torrent, Layla had just looked at him. ‘You don’t understand.’ She reached out and took his wrist. ‘None of this is aimed at you. It’s …’ She faltered and then taking a gasp of air, laughed dryly. ‘I am half.’
He waited. But there was no more.
‘Half what?’
‘Half here. When my father fled Afghanistan he was saving himself, not me. I have pretended all my life that I fit in here …’
‘You do. Of course you do,’ Fossey said gently, acutely aware of how tightly she was gripping his wrist.
‘No, Fossey. I have been fitted out with clothes and an education to make me blend in, but I have paid a price for that. The other half of me has been lost.’
‘So …’ Fossey knew he was floundering. Aware how many times he had said the wrong thing, he paused.
‘So what is it you need to do?’
That was stupid. What if she said she needed to go to Afghanistan? What if she … He had no idea what she needed, he thought guiltily. Was that admission a cardinal sin in marriage? Could he be expected to know?
‘I need to get them out of your horrible camps.’
Oh Christ! Now they were his camps.
‘Layla, listen. For a start, I didn’t put them there. Those people broke the law and by doing so put themselves there. And anyway, most of them aren’t refugees from Afghanistan. They are bloody Pakis, Iraqis, Iranians, Sri Lankans and Chinese. We haven’t a clue who most of them are and until their stories are verified or otherwise they have to stay locked up. It’s not as if they’re in prison —’
Shut up, he told himself — too late. His wrist was released and for a moment he saw the fire in her eyes. Not the old fire, that glinted and sparkled, but a welling fire, angry. And suddenly the passion was back in her voice, but brittle and dangerous.
‘Those people are my people. I am one of them. I want you to stop it, Fossey. Don’t you see what is happening? I am becoming a refugee.’
It was a battle he couldn’t win. Don’t even speak, he cautioned himself. Get the tea. Take your time. Batten down the hatches. Let the storm blow over. He pottered around in the kitchen, warmed the cups, warmed the pot and let the tea brew. Then, hoping that enough time had elapsed, took a deep breath and returned to the bedroom.
Layla was sitting up in bed. The toast was gone and she was picking half-heartedly at her coddled egg.
‘Don’t you like it?’ Fossey asked.
‘I don’t eat bacon, stupid.’ The line was delivered with a smile.
‘Since when?’
‘Since I became a fully fledged Moslem again.’
‘And when was that exactly?’
‘About the same time I discovered the bacon.’
She’s joking, he told himself. The sun is coming out again, the buds are opening. Don’t blow it.
Yet it was a truce rather than peace and one that had been purchased at a cost. As though an unspoken agreement had been reached, for the first time in their marriage there were subjects they would avoid. At some time in the future, when circumstances had changed, perhaps
they would talk of these things, but now they were best left alone. A no-go area, Fossey thought, or a minefield.
Then there’d been that chance meeting after a ministerial press briefing. So different from the rendezvous he’d just had with Ray. It seemed so long ago now, that moment after he had tidied up his notes and was about to slip out through a rear door — when he felt a hand on his arm.
‘Can you spare a moment?’
Fossey turned and looked at the man. After a while you got to know the regulars in the media scrum, but this man was an outsider. Fossey had noticed him. Balding, silver moustache and a highset but furrowed brow, he had been sitting at one side of the conference room, not taking notes and with no tape recorder or mini-disk in sight. His eyes, sunken and ringed, had not strayed from the minister for the duration of the briefing.
Fossey glanced at his watch. ‘I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t bother you.’
There was something pathetic about the man’s tone, as though he expected rejection.
‘What did you want?’
The man’s face went blank as though the question encompassed an impossible choice.
‘I want you to look up my file.’
The request was whispered, not in a conspiratorial way, but as though the man had been forced to summon up every available reserve of energy in order to force the words out. The thought flashed through Fossey’s head that he was unwell.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think you have the right person …’
‘You are Mr Dutetre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then look at my file. The name is Gilbert. Ray Gilbert.’
But in the following days, after the minister’s return from Sweden, Fossey had been kept busy crafting a report and press articles about the trip. The intention was to make comparisons between Australia’s detention centre regime and the Swedish model fatuous and inappropriate. It worked a treat and in the following week the minister was encouraged to see that his message, and even some of his more potent phrases, had been picked up and recycled by the media.
‘Australia one, Sweden nil.’ The grin on Angela’s face spread from ear to ear. ‘Well done!’
‘Congratulate the minister, Angela. All I did was whip his notes into shape and do a spit and polish on the language.’ It was true. He’d worked from translations of the Swedish opposition party’s press releases. It had taken time but not a lot of creativity.
‘Trust me, the minister is more than happy.’
Fossey shrugged. ‘I live to serve.’
He was about to return to his own office when Angela called him back and handed him a briefing box. ‘This came over from the Benjamin offices for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Apparently you requested it. Michael Walters sent me a note to say that whatever the file is it’s supposed to be meo — Ministerial Eyes Only.’
‘Oh, the Gilbert file. Look, if it’s a security issue, I don’t really need to see it. I was just making sure we didn’t have an emerging problem.’
‘Ray Gilbert?’ Angela screwed up her face in distaste.
‘Yep. He approached me after a briefing and wanted to gripe about something. I thought I should check him out in case I had to cover the minister’s back.’
‘The man’s a loser. Sad, really.’ She paused, considering the MEO marking on the box, then shrugged. ‘Look, take it but just make sure you don’t let it out of your sight, and get it back to me after lunch.’
‘Shouldn’t we just check with the minister?’
Angela frowned and shook her head. ‘Believe me, the last thing the minister needs is to be reminded of Ray Gilbert.’
After a couple of hours in his office, Fossey began to get a feel for the chronology. Raymond Douglas Gilbert had been a rising star within the department and in 1991 had been lifted from his position in New South Wales and sent as a departmental officer to Port Hedland, the first of the remote detention centres. From there things seemed to have gone downhill. According to an attached memorandum, Gilbert had complained constantly about the conditions in the centre and the length of time many refugees were forced to wait before having their cases determined. According to a confidential report he had become too close to many of the inmates and tends to humanise them. Eventually it was recommended Gilbert be reassigned to the recently opened Woomera Detention Centre. The move was a disaster. Again his letters to the minister were peppered with examples of how the department was failing to provide adequate conditions. Carping. I would have given the bastard the flick, Fossey mused. And then the idiot wondered why he was being passed over for promotion. The notations on his file said it all. Not a team player. Soft on illegals. For some reason, instead of simply being given his marching orders Ray Gilbert had then been shuffled sideways — to the Plym Detention Centre.
Fossey had never heard of the facility. He read on and discovered that Gilbert had lasted a mere two weeks there and then been forced to take leave. That was when the shit really hit the fan. Instead of being allowed back to work he had been ordered to take sick leave. On each of the letters following, the minister’s own broad scrawl repeated the same advice: No action. Recommend continued stress leave and further psychological assessments in six months. But even after going to live with his elderly mother in Brisbane, Gilbert had not given up the fight to be reinstated. He had written a letter of complaint at least once a week since being kicked out eight months previously. A final note in the file stated that under no conditions was Raymond Douglas Gilbert to be given any further access to departmental offices. End of story. End of Ray Gilbert.
Fossey placed the material back in the briefing box and snapped it shut. Angela had been right. The man was a loser.
But two weeks later Fossey had answered his phone to find himself speaking to Ray Gilbert.
‘So, Mr Dutetre, did you read my file?’ The man’s voice was thin and nervous.
‘I did, Mr Gilbert.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m afraid I don’t understand what you want me to do. It’s my understanding that you are on stress leave.’
‘I’m not stressed, Mr Dutetre. I am being punished.’
‘Punished for what?’ Fossey adopted a sympathetic tone while forcing himself not to simply hang up on the man.
‘For telling the truth. For blowing the whistle on that lot.’
‘I understand that you no longer see eye to eye with the department, Mr Gilbert, but I am not in a position to assist you —’
‘I used to read your columns. I thought you would see what was happening. It’s not just me who thinks we’re doing the wrong thing. If people knew what goes on in those camps there would be an outcry. People would be enraged —’
It was like a dam wall breaking. The words had come tumbling out, faster and faster. Statistics, international conventions, treaties … on and on. Angela Tackberry appeared at the door, about to enter, but stopped when she saw Fossey was on the phone. He held the phone away from his ear and mouthed the words ‘Ray Gilbert’ at her. She shook her head sadly but then crossed over to the small television set in the corner and turned it on, indicating that he should watch.
‘Mr Gilbert, I’m afraid something has come up, I have to go.’
‘I have to tell you about Plym —’
‘I have to go,’ Fossey had insisted.
‘You disgust me, Dutetre.’ The man sounded close to crying. ‘You’ve become one of them. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.’
But Fossey was no longer listening. All his attention was on the television. He replaced the receiver and leaned forward.
‘Is that for real?’
‘Uh huh. Video was flown in from a navy chopper and relayed from Darwin.’ Her gleaming eyes hadn’t left the set.
‘Jesus …’
‘Exactly! He’s bloody well done it.’
‘And in time for the evening news.’
The scene couldn’t hav
e been directed better. The frigate, Australian flag flying proudly, rolling slowly in the swell while the overcrowded fishing boat did a slow 180-degree turn. Operation Straight Bat was up and running.
Overwhelmingly, the media had been positive.
A new era in border security, trumpeted the tabloids the following morning.
‘We are sending a signal to the world,’ the minister said in every radio and television interview, ‘that Australia will no longer be an easy target for illegals.’
It was, the minister conceded over afternoon drinks with the staff, a real move forward. This was a view Fossey agreed with one hundred per cent. Until he got home.
‘Have you heard the news?’
‘Sure,’ Fossey laughed, ‘and it’s all good!’
‘The boat …’ Layla’s voice was a whisper.
‘Yep …’ But he faltered. There was an edge to her voice that he recognised. For an instant he thought it was because he had been drinking. He and Philson had finished off the bottle of Laphroaig and the peaty tang was flowing through his veins, giving him a comforting inner glow. Now, suddenly, he felt it dissipate.
‘The boat …’ Layla began again. ‘It sank.’
Sometime in the middle of the night the phone rang.
He hadn’t been asleep. Layla had left him alone in the kitchen, propping himself up with a bottle of scotch. Just one more drink, he told himself, and then try and get some rest. But his mind wouldn’t slow down or let go of the image of the small Indonesian fishing boat turning in the face of the Australian navy frigate. For a while he had listened to Radio Australia’s news coverage of the sinking and then switched off the radio and refilled his glass. According to the news the boat, the Sura Star, had headed back across the Java Sea, run into a storm and capsized. There were no survivors.
The Haha Man Page 12