‘Yeah. Heard of it?’ But Smith didn’t wait for a reply. He shoved Ted back into his office. ‘Now, we want a little chat with you.’
‘About?’ Ted was suddenly feeling sick in the stomach.
‘Do the names, Bryson, Waxman, Colbert and de Villiers mean anything to you?’
Ted looked at the man, struggling to keep his panic under control. ‘Huh?’ He glanced at the other man for clarification. But Brown was busy jotting something in a notebook.
‘The names are written on the blackboard behind you.’
Ted turned and stared at the job board as though the names were written in double-Dutch. Jesus, he thought, the tip. Christ, now I’m in the poo.
A ribbon of shimmering heat in the middle of nowhere. To the left and right of the road the scrub and red dirt was baking in the morning sun, and any living thing with sense was sheltering. Karim imagined there must be life somewhere. A snake perhaps, coiled in the dust or burrowed under the rocks. Lizards skittering across the surface of the desert. He shielded his eyes and looked up, but the skies, bleached pale blue and thin, held no clouds, no promise of shade or rain. No birds flew overhead. Several times he passed the decomposing corpses of big kangaroos, dried like leather, their remains mummified, the bones bleached chalk white. Road-kill. The reminders of death were depressing. Yet there was movement. Way ahead, the mirages sparkled and tantalised above the burning strip, lying to him with shifting liquid promises.
Karim trudged on, eyes down, walking on his own meagre shadow. In many places on the surface of the road were skid marks — elongated parallel ‘S’ marks or half arcs where vehicles had succeeded in doing handbrake turns — the rubber signatures of boredom. In places where the driver’s skill had failed, the road coruscated with the fragments of shattered windscreens — small false diamonds in the dust.
Just as he was certain that he had taken the wrong road, Karim saw buildings emerging from the heat haze. A Shell service station. He walked on until he came to the gate. Here there was a stop sign: Prohibited area. This was the Woomera Detention Centre.
Beyond the gate and guardhouse — the razor wire. Spirals of silver, bronzed by the sun, glinted atop a high wire fence. Karim looked away for a moment, repressing his anger. What he had come to do he must do calmly and not in fury. To the side of the road was a building contractor’s yard. Behind its fence a man gave him a friendly wave. A uniformed officer stepped out of the guardhouse and lit a cigarette.
Now, Karim told himself. Now is the moment.
He had arrived in Woomera the night before, travelling the long road from Adelaide in an almost empty Greyhound bus. Karim had been relieved to have a seat to himself. But, though he was feeling drained and exhausted, he remained awake for the entire six hours, huddled into himself, nervous and morose.
In Sydney he had organised for the automatic payment of the rent and bills, then packed away every trace of Rashid Khan. Should the need arise he could pick up life as Rashid, but in the meantime he allowed himself the luxury of regrowing his beard.
It had been after midnight when the bus approached Woomera — the inky blackness of the desert night suddenly pierced by the fierce brightness of the detention centre lights. Karim peered out the bus window. There, in the midst of that ring of sharp light, was his father. Then the bus turned right and drove slowly into the neat deserted streets of the town.
Karim followed the coach driver’s instructions and walked the short distance to the Eldo Hotel, where a disgruntled night manager showed him to his room. It was sparse but comfortable and, much to his surprise, Karim had a good night’s sleep.
He awoke later than he had intended. He ate breakfast alone and quickly, impatient to be on his way. On the dining room wall was a large quilt, on which the local school children had depicted scenes of Woomera’s history. There was, Karim had noticed, no reference to the detention centre.
‘You can’t go any further, mate.’ The guard flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt and turned to go back inside his hut. But this figure standing out there in the sun disturbed him and he hesitated, waiting for Karim to walk off. He had watched him approach, rising out of the mirage — a disembodied shadow that slowly took form — and now all he wanted was for him to go away.
‘No,’ Karim said.
‘Don’t you understand English?’ The guard could pick a bloody Arab a mile off. ‘Government property. Okay? No entry. Trespassers prosecuted.’
‘No.’ Karim stepped right up to the gate. ‘Please. I am a refugee and require asylum.’
The guard looked at him as though he were mad.
‘Every bloody illegal on the inside is screaming to get out and you want to come in?’ The man shook his head. ‘Give me a fucking break. Now piss off before I call security.’ The mention of security was usually enough to get the tourists and journos on their way. But this man wasn’t moving. There was something in his demeanour that unnerved the guard. He took the two-way radio from his belt.
‘You don’t understand. My name is Karim Mazari. I am from Afghanistan and I have come to claim refugee status.’
They had been out all afternoon, traipsing around to different phone boxes and calling the women on the list. Three calls were all they allowed themselves from each box before they moved on. It seemed paranoid, Rabia admitted to herself, and it probably was. However, this late in the day, she didn’t want to jeopardise the people involved in any way.
They took turns making the calls, each essentially the same except for the name they used.
‘Hello, this is Vanessa calling about the sanctuary list. Are you still committed to taking part? Good. Then jot down the date and time I give you …’
In the end they had phoned fifty-four women. Three of the original fifty hadn’t answered, and another one had a dose of cold feet but wished them luck.
Rabia was loath to see Chloë leave. For days they had been absorbed in making the final preparations and Chloë had been her constant companion. She had been invaluable, checking and double-checking that everything was done. It was just as well, because it was only in the last few days that the scope of what they were attempting had really sunk in.
One morning, having been on the go since daybreak, they had dropped back to the flat Kate Colbert had organised for the Melbourne and Sydney women to stay in. After making a cup of tea, they sat in the coolness of the air-conditioned lounge and for the first time Rabia voiced her one real concern.
‘What happens if one of the women is caught?’
Chloë looked at her.
‘It would be a shame, but no real damage. None of the women on the sanctuary list know who else is involved —’
‘No. That’s not what I mean.’ Rabia frowned. ‘I mean, what will happen to them?’
‘They would probably be prosecuted. But it would be bloody embarrassing for the government with some of the names on the list. Imagine if one of those women ended up in court. It’s almost worth …’ But she stopped herself. ‘No. I shouldn’t think like that.’
Rabia’s frown slowly evaporated, but the niggling feeling refused to go away entirely. Much earlier she had joked about the political problems for the government if such high-profile women were arrested, but it was no longer a joking matter. ‘It’s just that I hate the feeling of putting them at risk.’
‘Oh, come on, Rabia! They chose to do this, just as much as we did.’
‘Do you think so? Didn’t I persuade them … talk them into it?’
Chloë shook her head, her eyes flashing. ‘Of course not! Bloody hell! You did them a huge favour. Every one of the women on the sanctuary list has been seething about the refugee issue for a long time. You gave them a way of doing something positive.’
‘You think?’ Rabia said, her uncertainty doing battle with her need to be convinced.
‘Don’t you remember what it was like when we all felt we were the only ones upset by what was going on? It felt like shit. Then along comes the lady in the burqa and hand
s us a gift. A way of taking a stand. That’s really important.’
There was such vehemence in the young woman’s voice that Rabia was taken aback. She was about to say something, but Chloë wasn’t done.
‘It made me sick at myself, you know. I would go to all the rallies and carry placards saying “Free the Refugees” — but each night I knew I could go back to my flat and there was food in the fridge and I could decide what I was going to eat. If I was bored I could go down and get a video or go to the movies. And all the time I didn’t move outside my own comfort zone. Great fucking social activists. You know what we were doing?’ She stabbed the air with her finger. ‘Wanking! Bloody up ourselves. Salving our consciences. Attending a rally like going to bloody confession. But not once did we think what it must be like to be locked up month after month. Concrete floors. Dust, heat … and a thousand other poor bastards stuck in there with us with absolutely no idea why the hell they’re there. And those poor sods that get out on TPVs — living in legal limbo land. Not able to bring their families to join them. Well, let me tell you, Rabia, that’s what you made me think about. And it made me feel fucking uncomfortable.’
She wiped furiously at her eyes, then reached out and took Rabia’s hand. ‘Every one of those women on the sanctuary list would thank you. Win or lose. At the end of the day, every one of them will be able to go to bed and know that they did something. Actually did something.’ Chloë sniffed back the tears and then giggled. ‘You know what Wilna told me?’
Rabia, not trusting herself to speak, held firmly onto Chloe’s hand.
‘I asked her what the hell someone with all her money and social position and so on was doing being involved in our mad schemes. You know what she said? She laughed and said, “Life is too short to stuff mushrooms.”’
The next morning, convinced that everything was in place, Rabia farewelled the others. The truck had had its final modifications the previous day. A bull bar had been fitted and the sleeping quarters — a modified and insulated container — had been locked on the tray of the truck. For the first time it looked like it was set for the road. After loading their sleeping gear and supplies in the container the women were ready to depart, Mandy and Andrea in the truck, Kate and Wilna in the bus with Chloë as navigator.
‘No picking up hitchhikers,’ Rabia cautioned.
‘Only good-looking ones,’ Chloë called from inside.
Rabia watched the vehicles go and then stood for a long time staring at the road. They would need at least three days for the trip and had decided to take it in easy stages, rotating the driving. For the first leg they were heading over Cunningham’s Gap and down the New England Highway past Armidale to Tamworth. From there it was out to Broken Hill, and then the long run down to Adelaide. There had been much discussion about the route to take, but Chloë had suggested they avoid the more obvious route down the Newell Highway.
‘There’s too much heavy-vehicle traffic and camera-monitoring of trucks,’ she had insisted. ‘And anyway, if we go via Tamworth it could look as if we’re going to Sydney. Then we can cut across to Gunnedah and the Oxley Highway.’
After Adelaide? Well, from that point on it was pretty much in the hands of … Rabia was about to say Allah, but stopped herself and smiled. No, it was in the hands of Aunty Pearl. And according to Chloë, she was a woman who had never stuffed a mushroom in her life.
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 23 Jan 2002 15:10:31 +0800
From: “Zulfi” *[email protected]* [add to address book] [add to spam block list]
Subject: Email security
To: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Please note new email address. We had a suspicious break-in and I am unsure of security status of my pak.org address. I have deleted all mail, replies and trash.
Take care.
Zulfi
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 24 Jan 2002 20:22:26 — 0700 (PDT)
From: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Subject: Re: Email security
To: “Zulfi” *[email protected]*
Noted. Things heating up this end as well. Keep your head down.
The Haha Man
He awoke to the smell of toast and coffee. For a long time Fossey had drifted backwards and forwards over the threshold between asleep and awake. His dreams had been ludicrous, he knew, but he couldn’t remember the details. It seemed a pity, because part of his waking brain had made a note to tell Layla about them.
He listened for the sounds of Layla moving around the house, but heard nothing except the crows in the trees and a distant hum of traffic on the main road, and closer a lawnmower was buzzing insistently. He remembered that it was the weekend. Eventually he gave up on the idea that she was going to appear at the bedroom door with a breakfast tray, swung his feet to the floor and shuffled to the window. It was broad daylight and, by the position of the shadow, it had been for a fair while. Damn, he swore quietly. He’d intended to get up early and be the one to make breakfast. He listened again, but all he heard from inside the house was silence.
Fossey pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and made his way through to the kitchen. It was empty. So was her study.
‘Layla?’
Back in the kitchen he found the note propped up against the toaster.
Didn’t wake you because you were snoring away happily. I’m out with the girls again. Back around 6ish. Can you do a shop for the week? We are out of washing powder.
Love, L xx
Only the night before they had discussed how busy they had both been and come to an understanding that they needed to make more time for each other. It hadn’t been one of those easy conversations, but what saved it from tipping over into an argument was that they were both at fault — or so they told each other. It seemed to work. What was annoying Fossey now was that he had quarantined the day in order to spend it with Layla. Mind you, he castigated himself, he hadn’t bothered to check with her.
Well, better make the most of it. For the first time in a long while he had a day that stretched out in front of him like a blank canvas. Lately he had begun to receive the nod again from editors he had worked with in the past. Nothing big. No opinion pieces and certainly no offer of a regular column. Not yet. But the possibility was there. He had done more stories for the Sydney Morning Herald and a longer feature for the Bulletin. Now there was nothing due for another two weeks.
His mind drifted back to Layla. The relationship was different now. On one level they were close, and yet … He had trouble putting his finger on it — or didn’t want to. Deep down he knew that he had closed part of his life off from her and wasn’t ready to open it up again. If anything could redeem him for his time in the department, it was his work with Ray. But it was a sensible precaution not to tell her. Ray, of course, had strictly forbidden him to involve her in their affairs — for her own good, as he put it.
Fossey made himself some breakfast and was just cleaning up when the phone rang. He was caught off guard by the muffled voice. ‘It’s Walter …’
He couldn’t think of anyone by that name who would be ringing him at home on the weekend.
‘I would love to have a chat to you sometime.’
Fossey’s brain clicked into gear. Ray Gilbert. Walter was the name of his mother’s dog.
‘Sure, Walter. When would suit you?’
‘I’m free tomorrow. How about we meet at the Electric Gallery?’
‘No worries. What time?’
‘Same as usual, huh?’
Fossey hung up and stood in the kitchen staring out the window. He went over the conversation in his head, making certain he hadn’t missed anything. The Electric Gallery was at the Powerhouse Museum. Tomorrow meant today, and the usual time meant as soon as you can get there. Fossey shivered.
Suddenly his blank canvas had a large rent in it.
Fossey was some time getting to the Powerhouse, but not because of traffic snarls
. He took great care to make certain he wasn’t being followed. First he wandered down to the street with the hose, where he spent a few minutes watering the palms and ferns at the front of the property. It had rained the night before, though not as much as he had hoped. So far the summer had been unusually dry, but for some reason the garden was doing fine. He gave the grass on the verge a bit of water. Not a lot, just long enough to see that there were no unusual cars parked in the street. He rolled up the hose, got in his car and backed out of the drive. It was still clear. He took a roundabout route via Lutwyche Road and then back along Gregory Terrace. By the time he parked and walked around to the café, it was an hour since the phone call.
There was no sign of Ray inside and Fossey was about to sit and order a coffee when he saw a figure strolling along the river path towards New Farm Park. On the end of a leash behind him was Walter. Fossey had a quick look at the menu then followed. Just inside the park he caught up with Ray and the dog and together they took a walk around the rose gardens. Or rather they walked; Walter, it appeared, preferred to be dragged — a moving shagpile carpet.
‘Karim’s gone.’
Fossey stopped and examined a large white bloom. ‘Gone? How gone?’
‘One of the TPV people I’m in touch with has been ringing him for days and not getting an answer.’
The outer petals looked bruised or burnt; damaged by the sun.
‘Maybe he’s just gone for a look at the country.’
‘No.’ Ray kicked at a leaf on the ground. Walter was sniffing suspiciously at Fossey’s feet.
The weather had been so hot recently. It was no wonder the roses were suffering. Or maybe it was aphids. Fossey moved on to a bed of deep mauve-coloured roses. They too looked as though they had been distressed.
‘Then what?’
‘I’m concerned he may have been picked up,’ Ray said. ‘There was that trouble in Pakistan for Zulfi —’
‘I thought we decided that was nothing to worry about.’
‘Fossey, I’m worrying about it now.’
The Haha Man Page 20