The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this.’

  ‘But you will.’

  There was silence. Then Wepner spoke quietly.

  ‘Sunday, February the tenth.’

  Dengler sat and mulled over the information. Nigel Rootham came in to tell him that the truck and bus were on the move again and there was now no doubt that they were heading towards Adelaide. The vehicles had followed the Oxley Highway to Nyngan and onto the Barrier Highway towards Cobar, Wilcannia and Broken Hill.

  ‘Damn!’ Dengler swore to himself. It had all seemed fanciful, yet … He looked at the calendar and realised there was no other way to make sense of things. For a moment he considered having them pulled off the road and arrested. On what charges? All they’d need to do was deny it and it would be laughed out of court. But catching them in the act — that would certainly do his career no harm. He picked up the phone.

  ‘Fleischer, it’s Dengler. Listen, I think I was a little hasty in dismissing your concerns. I have some new information that would suggest there may be an attempt to breach the perimeter of Woomera on Sunday. I want you to increase your security between now and then. I’ll have my people get in touch with you about the details.’

  Amir was concerned. He had knocked on the door several times and received no reply. He considered giving up and going back home to Dulwich Hill, but having made the train trip out to Wiley Park and having been soaked in the walk from the station, he decided to persevere. Usually on a Sunday he, his Iraqi mates and the Hazara boys would have been heading to Centennial Park for their game of soccer, but the weather had done an about turn. Just a few days earlier the city had been suffering from dry hot conditions and some of the worst bush fires on record, and yet now they were being drenched by torrential rain. Amir had long ago given up attempting to understand the Australian climate.

  The flat that Sayyid and Ali shared was pretty dilapidated. Somewhere back in the 1970s it had been some proud young couple’s new home. But in the intervening years its story had echoed that of its original owners and now it was a house divided. In one half lived the Hazara boys; a Lebanese man in the other.

  Amir rapped on the door again and huddled on the porch to wait. He and Sayyid had agreed that if the weather was bad the three of them would go to the movies.

  He ducked through the rain to the front door of the Lebanese man’s flat, but although he knocked several times there was no reply. He swore softly then, checking that nobody was watching, tried the gate at the side of the house. It was unlatched and he let himself through, sticking to the side wall for shelter from the driving rain. Around the back of the house he was more exposed and his light jacket clung wetly to his back.

  He pushed between some hydrangea bushes. If his memory was right, this should be Sayyid’s bedroom. The light was on and the thought flitted through his mind that the noise of the rain storm or Sayyid’s radio might have masked the sound of his knocking. He wiped his hand across the window to clear the rain and pressed his face up to the glass. Sayyid was lying in bed.

  ‘Sayyid …’ Amir called as he tapped on the window. To his surprise there was no response. He brushed water from his eyes and squinted into the room. Something was definitely not right. It looked as though there was blood on Sayyid’s face.

  Panicked, Amir ran down the side of the house, back onto the street. He had to find a phone. He stood in the middle of the road looking up and down. Then he noticed a man watching him from the front room of the house across the road. He sprinted over and arrived at the door as the man opened it just wide enough to see out. It was still secured by a chain.

  ‘Please, could you phone an ambulance?’

  ‘What?’ The man looked confused.

  ‘My friend over the road is very sick,’ Amir gasped.

  ‘I thought you were breaking in … ‘ the man began. Then, seeing the look on Amir’s face, he unlatched the chain and held the door wide. ‘Come in out of the wet.’

  ‘An ambulance …’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it right away.’

  Bob Green had been an ambo for fifteen years, his partner Sean Murphy for twelve, but up until the last few months they had never crewed together. They appeared to be a strange match: Bob, with cropped hair and neat beard, was built like a rugby union front row forward; Sean was tall, thin as a whip, but fluid as though he had been poured into his body and was still in the process of settling. An outside observer could well have imagined some animosity between them had resulted in a frosty silence. They would have been wrong. The silence was the quiet of a well-oiled machine. Sean didn’t like to talk much and Bob hated to listen.

  Sean took one look at the frantically signalling man standing outside the house. ‘I’ll deal with him,’ he said and, pulling his parka hood up, stepped out into the rain.

  Bob tried the front door, then went around the side of the house for a quick recce. The view through the bedroom window was all he needed.

  ‘We’re going in,’ Bob said when he returned to the porch where the other two men were sheltering. He addressed Amir. ‘If you wouldn’t mind just stepping back and staying outside while we investigate.’

  He moved to the door and, in a gentle and graceful movement, ran his fingers up and down the frame. Then he stepped back and threw all his weight into a shoulder charge. The wood around the lock splintered and the door swung inward, still on its hinges.

  Bob led the way and gestured for his partner to check the rest of the house. It always paid to know just what drugs were lying around. He stepped through into the bedroom and stopped. The man on the bed was dead. There was no doubt. Nobody bled that much and lived. The lower half of the limbs sprawled across the bed were darker in colour, showing where the blood had pooled. It was not pretty. Bob looked around the room for some sign that might explain what he was looking at. But there was nothing. He moved towards the bed and was about to lean over to have a closer look, when he heard Sean Murphy cough behind him.

  Bob turned. ‘He’s totally frogged,’ he quipped.

  Usually Sean would have completed the joke and said ‘croaked’. Instead, he had his hand over his mouth and was looking worried.

  ‘There’s another one. Dead, too.’

  ‘Shit,’ Bob whispered. ‘Fucking shit …’

  ‘I think —’ Sean began, but Bob was already backing away.

  They moved quickly out of the house and pulled the door as closed as the broken lock would allow. Bob headed straight to the ambulance, while Sean spoke softly to Amir.

  ‘We have a situation,’ Bob reported over the radio. ‘Could be infectious. We need the fire boys here pronto, and the police.’

  The fire brigade was equipped for containment, and whatever was in there sure as hell looked like it needed containing. He stopped and mentally re-ran the trip through the house. Had he touched anything? No.

  ‘I hope to Christ it wasn’t airborne,’ Sean said, slinging himself up into the seat and shutting the door against the rain.

  ‘Evil little bastard, whatever it was.’

  They sat in silence, listening to the rain beating down on the outside of the vehicle. Sean took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  ‘You know what that poor fucker said?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘They were going to the movies.’ Bob looked past Sean to where Amir was sitting on the step of the porch. He looked pathetic. ‘Poor bastard.’

  In Canberra, it was Angela Tackberry who took the call from the Health Department. She listened carefully and made notes. She also jotted down the time of the call. There had been too many stuff-ups lately, and when heads had to roll it was usually the public servants who copped it. Check and double-check, she cautioned herself.

  Within an hour she had all the available information; though not conclusive, it was certainly enough to go on. Angela considered ringing the minister, but decided to run it past his press secretary first — in her own office and with a staffer on hand to take notes.

&
nbsp; ‘So? What have you got for me?’ Jerry’s tone was brusque. He ignored the chair and remained standing, his body language giving off clear signals that this had better be good because he was important and in a hurry.

  Angela nodded to her staffer in the corner to start recording proceedings. Jerry raised a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘Two dead bodies, Jerry.’

  The press secretary remained impassive, so she continued. ‘More specifically, two dead Afghans.’ That did it.

  ‘Christ! Where? Woomera?’ It seemed the logical answer, given the ongoing disturbances — just a matter of time before one of the stupid bastards did something silly.

  ‘Sydney. TPVs.’

  For a second Jerry looked relieved, then realised that he wouldn’t have been called if it was something as simple as an accident. ‘What is it? Suicide? Shit, that’s all we need.’

  Angela shook her head slowly and indicated the chair. This time Jerry sat.

  ‘Some sort of haemorrhagic fever. Nobody is sure yet, and from what I can get out of the Health people, it could take a while to identify. But the initial reports suggest that it is unlikely to be highly infectious.’

  Jerry thought for a moment, his mind racing through all the possible implications of what he had heard. It seemed like a gift from the gods. Philson had been taking a beating from the loony left over the refugees for months now, and though he still had the mass of the public onside, one thing Jerry had learned a long time ago was that you couldn’t trust the public. They were fickle and could turn on you when least expected. But this was a gimme.

  ‘This needs to be off the record, Angela.’ He cast a pointed look at the staffer in the corner.

  Angela paused, then indicated with her hand that the staffer should leave. ‘I just want to make it clear that this meeting took place.’

  ‘It took place,’ Jerry said flatly and waited until the staffer had left the room and closed the door.

  ‘How strong are the indications that this is not infectious?’

  ‘“Balance of probability” was the expression used.’

  ‘But it is an exotic disease?’

  Angela nodded, realising where Jerry’s line of reasoning was taking him. Many times the minister had stressed to the public that mandatory detention was necessary because of the health risks.

  ‘So it was something that came in with them,’ Jerry said, thinking out loud.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Angela interjected. ‘The individuals had been in the country for almost eighteen months.’

  ‘Too long for an incubation period?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘But they could well have had contact with more recent arrivals.’

  Angela glanced down at her notes. ‘That is pure supposition.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Angela, stop being so paranoid. This is a perfect story. Sure, it would have been better if it was infectious, but hell — think of the ammunition this gives Philson.’

  Angela looked at him coldly. ‘Jerry, I’m not being paranoid, just careful. I don’t want to be chucked overboard because I didn’t check the facts.’

  ‘Sorry. Mouth getting ahead of brain.’ Jerry grinned. ‘Okay?’

  ‘It’s your arse on the line too …’

  ‘I can handle it. Now, details. When did this happen and what background have we got on the dead guys?’

  ‘I’ve got a team doing the digging and I’ll get them to pass everything through me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The deaths occurred last Saturday.’

  ‘Six days … Any media?’

  ‘Not a peep so far. The hospital contacted Health and someone was bright enough to realise that we should be alerted.’

  Jerry looked at his watch. ‘I want something for the evening bulletins. Do-able?’

  ‘In general terms? Yes, I think so.’

  Jerry grinned broadly and got to his feet. ‘What do I owe you? Scotch or champagne?’

  ‘Single malt.’ Angela laughed.

  It was three in the afternoon when she got the next call. Angela listened carefully, getting the caller to repeat the information. Then she rang Jerry.

  ‘I have an update.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  Angela hesitated, searching for the right words, the right tone. But in the end there was nothing to do but tell him the facts.

  ‘I had one of my staffers do a check on the known TPVs in Sydney …’

  ‘Yes, and?’ Jerry sounded impatient.

  ‘There are six more deaths.’

  There was a low whistle at the other end of the phone. ‘Shit. All Afghans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Same disease?’

  ‘It would appear so. And Jerry …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is an ambulance officer with what the hospital thinks are all the symptoms …’

  ‘So it is infectious?’ Jerry did nothing to hide the excitement in his voice. ‘He’s Australian?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Anglo?’

  Angela looked at her notes. ‘Yes. Robert Green … and he’s not expected to survive.’

  When Mary Hawkes at the Sydney Morning Herald received a call from Concord Hospital about rumours of an unusual disease, she couldn’t see the story being worth the effort. So a couple of people were dead and there was a problem identifying the cause. So what? But when she received a similar call the following day from St Vincents, the alarm bells started to ring.

  Her informant claimed to be a doctor and declined to give his name.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Mary asked.

  ‘No CBR readiness. No PPE. Nothing. Nobody has a plan for something like this.’

  ‘Hang on, CBR? PPE?’

  ‘Sorry. PPE is personal protective equipment and CBR stands for chemical, biological and radiological. We’ve got a classic CBR incident and had to close Emergency.’

  ‘Close Emergency? Like, shut it down and stop taking patients?’ But the man was in full flight.

  ‘Everyone knows the theory about proper response but we just aren’t equipped to handle something of this nature. For the last two years I’ve been warning them a CBR incident was only a matter of time. Nobody took the slightest bit of notice. Now we have a very real risk of secondary infections and the entire hospital is at risk.’

  ‘Biological? Radiological? Slow down! What are you talking about?’

  There was a pause and Mary heard the man on the other end of the line take a deep breath. Then he began to explain, slowly and clearly.

  Rabia Balkhi appeared to have vanished off the radar. Twice he had emailed her with the suggestion that she think again about her planned action. But he had received no reply. If Ray’s information was correct, then it was only a couple of days before the women intended to go through the wire. That was the expression Ray had used and it struck Fossey as being remarkably like ‘going over the top’. Over the top was nearer the mark, but not in the sense of trench warfare.

  He still failed to see how they thought it was possible. The notion of a truck crashing through the security fence … Fossey tried to picture the scene: the water cannon and tear gas. No, he told himself, it was madness plain and simple. And if the polls were to be believed, the average Australian didn’t care. Or worse, had swallowed the government rhetoric and actively supported the detention policy for fear of being swamped by aliens. It was a geography problem too. Woomera was just too far away for ordinary Australians to be confronted by it. Locating the facility in the desert had been a masterstroke.

  He shut his eyes and pictured wave after wave of people descending on the camp, encircling it and cutting the wire, dismantling the gates and barricades and …

  No, not in the real world. Australians were not given to mass action; rallies here numbered in the thousands rather than the hundreds of thousands. The Vietnam moratoriums were a thing of history now and the March for Reconciliation had failed to galvanise the community f
or more than a single day.

  By midday Mary Hawkes knew she had a great story. She had discovered eight deaths and several suspected secondary infections before the hospitals stopped returning her calls. Her research into CBR incidents quickly confirmed that her informant had been correct: nobody was prepared. Finally she rang the Australasian College of Emergency Medicine and discovered that they didn’t have guidelines for CBR or decontamination.

  Mary took what she had uncovered straight to the chief of staff. But just as she started to explain, he turned in his chair and pointed at the TV monitors. So much for her scoop; every channel was running it.

  ‘It just broke,’ he said, gesturing to her to take a seat and watch.

  The health minister, obviously shaken, explained that he was declaring a national emergency, but calm was required from all Australians. ‘A full medical response to the crisis has now been activated. Of course I acknowledge that this is a very serious outbreak, but contingency plans for such events have long been in place …’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Mary said softly.

  ‘The best scientific minds in the country are working tirelessly on the problem and earlier today I contacted the Centre for Disease Control in Atlanta, who, I am pleased to say, have promised every assistance in identifying the virus involved. Naturally the government will be keeping the public informed as to the measures we will be putting in place over the next few days in order to limit the spread of the disease. You will appreciate that I now have a great deal to attend to and so I hope you will understand that I shan’t be taking questions.’

  ‘I still have a story,’ Mary said.

  The chief of staff nodded.

  ‘You might like to see this.’

  Layla’s voice pulled Fossey back from the strange places his mind had been wandering. He swivelled his chair towards the door. ‘What?’

  ‘Philson’s on the TV.’

  ‘More demonising?’ There had been a lot of that in recent days. The minister obviously had a new spin doctor and the heat had been turned up on the detainees, with claims that they were endangering the lives of Australians. He had launched a diatribe about the way that boat-people needing rescue were putting the navy ‘in harm’s way’. And had listed the cases where detention centre guards had been injured during disturbances.