Fossey followed Layla into the lounge.
On the TV, the immigration minister was speaking on a podium. Suddenly Fossey’s mind stopped.
The minister was talking about a virus. About indicators and cases. He was saying that no further detainees would be released until the medical emergency was under control. There was footage of a flustered prime minister coming down the steps of the jet that had returned him from an interrupted trip to New Zealand.
It seemed the PM was making straight for his limousine — but then he paused and approached the media pack. He had only just been briefed, he told them. He sent the nation’s prayers and thoughts to the families of those involved; he paid special tribute to the work of the ambulance and hospital staff, who would play a vital role in the days ahead. The prime minister regretted, he said, that due to the nature of the illness he would be unable to visit Robert Green, who was fighting for his life in hospital. But every Australian was with ‘Bob’ in spirit, he reassured. ‘Finally, may I say to my fellow Australians: remain calm.’
In the desert the stars were burning like beacons. Chloë had taken her mattress out of the back of the truck and spread it on the ground. She rolled herself a small joint and smoked it slowly, enjoying the gradually cooling evening. Long after the others had gone to sleep she lay awake, staring up into the night, dissolving her mind into the chaos of stars. She longed, suddenly, for music; for a sound that would tell her others were watching what she was watching. She yearned for a drum with which to punctuate the stillness and send a message out into the dark. But then she realised that it wasn’t silent at all. For the first hour there had been the metallic ticking noises as the hot metal in the bus and truck cooled and contracted. Occasionally she heard a truck or car speeding along the highway, but as the night drew on they became less and less frequent. Then, in the quiet moments, just as her eyes had adjusted to the dark, her ears too began to hear the little sounds, the whisperings and murmurings of the grasses and night creatures.
Then she began to hear a soft thumping sound, to the east. Quietly Chloë got to her feet and looked around. Nothing. Well, that was hardly surprising. They were over a hundred kilometres past Wilcannia and almost five hundred metres off the main highway. She slipped into her sandals and walked quietly back along the dirt track towards the highway. There was little traffic and yet still the sound persisted, the beat regular but strangely muffled.
Pausing before the intersection with the highway, she turned left and took a path through the scrub towards the source of the sound. A familiar smell drifted towards her and she stopped. About fifty metres away was the ASIO car that had been following them so doggedly since Brisbane. Chloë ducked beneath a small wiry shrub and watched. The car had pulled some ten metres or so off the road and the occupants had set up a small camp. It appeared they were having a good time. There was a slight shift in the breeze and the sound she had heard came towards her, wrapped in the smell of dope. Then she saw the men, leaning on the rear of the car, smoking and listening to the music coming from inside the vehicle. The driver’s side door was open and the unmistakable sound of Sash’s ‘Adelante’ was thumping out into the desert night. Chloë knew the Trilenium album well and the incongruity of hearing it here amused her.
She retraced her tracks and, strangely happy that the ‘mangoes’ from ASIO were not having too tough a time, curled up under the stars and slept.
Fossey watched ‘The 7.30 Report’ with increasing dismay. The virus had now jumped in alarming numbers from the young Afghan men to the general population. Across the country there had already been notification of a dozen or more secondary infections in hospital staff. A senior infection control officer saw little reason for optimism — though the prime minister had praised his government’s response.
The story then switched to Minister Philson’s decision to halt the release of further detainees. This, all the commentators agreed, was sensible in the circumstances.
Fossey shuddered at the political capital that the minister now had at his disposal. He turned to Layla. ‘A virus. God, can it get any worse?’
Her face was drawn, taut with worry. ‘This is in the nature of the men in command of your country. They seem unable to grasp the need for a balance.’ Layla took his hand. ‘I am so glad you aren’t working for them any more.’
Your country. So now she no longer thought of Australia as hers.
‘They’re not bad, not evil …’ Fossey began, but stopped as Layla released his hand.
‘They may not be bad, Fossey, but they are very stupid. If they had run the off-shore program properly the men wouldn’t be coming in boats. If they allowed the TPVs to bring their wives and children they wouldn’t be at risk in boats.’
Fossey looked at her and knew that things were going to get worse. It was imperative that he get a message to Rabia. If the detainees were carrying the virus, then the idea that she might succeed in releasing a number of prisoners was a nightmare. Rabia had to be stopped. Ray would know how to contact her.
‘I have to go out,’ he said, expecting that Layla would protest or at least question him, but she was already on her feet heading for her study. ‘Are you okay with me going out?’ he called after her.
‘Fine. I have work to do.’
But there was something in her tone that alarmed him. Fossey followed her down the hall and found her sitting in her chair, her fingers touching the rug that had been with her longer than he had known her.
Fossey kissed her gently. ‘Sorry. That stuff upsets me.’
‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘Now go! I really do have to get some work done.’
Layla listened to the car backing out the drive, then picked up the phone and dialled. It was a risk to security, but if people dead from a communicable disease wasn’t an emergency, then what was? There was silence and then a voice informed her that the mobile she was calling was either switched off or out of range. Layla had half expected it. The decision had been to use the phones only when needed and to leave them off at other times. She replaced the receiver.
Holding the small carpet under her desk lamp she examined it, running her hand over its worn surface and marvelling at how it had retained its deep claret colour through all the years. Somewhere, a long time ago, a pair of hands had worked at its creation. The madder-root dye had lasted all these years, though its creator had been dead long before the rug had come into her family. It had been Layla’s childhood rug, her salachak. It was hard now to remember much more. Then another image came to her. Her mother, lifting her off her knee and placing her down on her rug. She tried so hard to visualise her mother’s face, but it was no longer there. Still, she had the rug. In their rush to leave Kabul she had grabbed it, holding it against herself on the long journey out of Afghanistan. Now, continents and years away, her fingers lingered over the faint angular markings on its corners, the last traces of the guls that told of a tribal heritage. Like me, she thought, faded, the roots and history forgotten. And out there — she turned towards the window — out there, in Australia, young men from her tribe were dying.
It had clouded over and by the time he had driven half a kilometre the flecks on the windscreen had turned to fat drops of rain. Normally Fossey would have welcomed the change in the weather, even if it provided only a few hours’ respite before the muggy conditions returned. Now, however, it was a bloody nuisance. He meandered through backstreets long enough to reassure himself that nobody was on his tail and then pulled into a shopping centre, parked, went to the public phone on the street and dialled Ray Gilbert’s number. There was no answer and no answering machine cut in.
Fossey stood in the shelter of the phone box, watching the rain and wondering what to do. It worried him that the call had gone unanswered. Even if Ray was out, surely his mother was home. He remembered Ray telling him that Betty was now too frail to take the dog for a walk. Reluctantly he decided that he should call around, and if Ray was still out he could maybe get an idea of where to f
ind him.
The sky was lit by a flash of lightning and the rain came down harder than ever. Fossey glanced across at the shopping centre but it was almost deserted. The only sign of life was at the video store, where a young woman was standing in the doorway talking to a boy with a skateboard. Not even ASIO recruited them that young. He dashed for his car.
By the time Fossey turned into Ray’s street the rain was sheeting down. He did a slow cruise down the road, then, having seen nothing, turned around and parked opposite the house. Peering through water he could see that behind the security grille and flyscreen, the front door was open and the lights were on. ‘Where there’s light there’s hope,’ he mumbled stupidly to himself, and plunged into the rain.
On the porch he searched for a doorbell, found none, and knocked. The aged Walter padded to the door and looked dolefully up at him through an unkempt fringe. Then an elderly woman, moving with the help of a walking frame, shuffled into view.
If age had curtailed her mobility, it had done nothing to blunt her tongue. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want it,’ she snapped.
‘I was after Ray, Mrs Gilbert.’
She came right up to the metal grille and examined him. ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you people. And I don’t blame him, after what you did to him.’
Fossey was taken aback by this and by the way her eyes pierced him. Then he realised she thought he was an ASIO man. He smiled.
‘I’m not with the government, Mrs Gilbert, I’m a friend of Ray’s. I just need to talk to him for a moment.’
‘Do you think I believe anything the government says?’ Again those eyes held his.
‘I’m sure you don’t. And neither do I.’
She took a step back, dragging the frame with her, and looked Fossey up and down.
‘Walter remembers me,’ Fossey said. Maybe it was true. The dog’s tail was moving backwards and forwards in a languid wag and its eyes were certainly regarding him with more warmth than its owner’s. Betty Gilbert’s gaze didn’t waver for a second.
‘You’re soaking wet.’ There was no sympathy in her voice.
‘It’s raining,’ Fossey said limply.
‘I’m old but I’m not senile, young man. I know it is raining. I am merely observing that you have been stupid enough to be standing in it. You had better come in.’ She removed a chain from the security screen and unlocked it. ‘Lock it after you,’ she ordered and shuffled off down the hall.
Walter snuffled at Fossey’s feet for a second and then, perhaps fearful that he might be taken out for a walk, padded off after his mistress.
Fossey locked the grille, fastened the chain and made his way down the hall to a small lounge and kitchenette. This was clearly Betty Gilbert’s house, and Fossey found it hard to imagine Ray feeling comfortable here. It had been a long time since Fossey had seen brown flock wallpaper. A red velvet couch and chair were draped with yellowing antimacassars and, in the corner, a china cabinet contained what looked like a mix of Lladro figurines and Venetian glass. The Wunderlich pressed-metal ceiling was verdant with vines and leaves. A long time ago someone had painted it pale green, but now the peeling paint looked like dead foliage about to fall.
Fossey sat carefully on the couch. Above them, in the centre of the peculiarly autumnal ceiling, a wooden fan creaked in slow rotations. Fossey could feel no air movement at all.
‘Tea, Mr …?’
‘Fossey —’
‘White or black?’ she snapped.
They seemed to have skipped the bit where he got to say yes or no. ‘White if you don’t mind.’
‘If I minded, Mr Fossey, I would not have offered you the choice,’ she admonished. Walter had settled down across his right foot and immediately gone to sleep. ‘Forgive my abruptness. Life is too short to waste on fools. You’re not a fool I hope, Mr Fossey?’
‘I … I —’
‘No, I don’t suppose you are. Ray is. Spends his life trying to be nice to everyone and ends up pleasing nobody. Such a stickler for the rules that he never gets anything done. I told him a long time ago that forgiveness was easier to get than permission. But he keeps bleating about how there are rules and that they are to be followed. I take it you know where that attitude got him?’
Fossey nodded. ‘I think he’s changed a bit lately.’
‘Oh, do you?’
There was no trace of a sneer and, for the first time, Fossey felt her soften.
‘I think he’s been breaking a few rules.’
‘I hope so.’ Betty Gilbert lowered herself into the armchair and pulled the frame to one side. ‘Would you mind making the tea?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Everything’s on the bench. Milk in the fridge.’
Fossey gently withdrew his foot from under Walter. ‘Your dog’s a real character.’
‘Pah! Is that what Ray said? Did he say it was my dog?’
‘I got that impression …’
‘Tell me, Mr Fossey, do I look like a dog person?’
‘The truth is, Mrs Gilbert, I don’t think I know what a dog person looks like.’
‘Not like me, I can tell you.’ She pursed her lips in distaste. ‘I have looked after that mobile home for fleas since Ray took the job in Canberra and then Woomera.’
Fossey glanced over at the china cabinet. There was an entire shelf of Lladro dogs.
Betty Gilbert followed his gaze. ‘Frightful, aren’t they?’
Fossey looked back at her to see if she was serious. ‘You mean that those aren’t yours either?’
She chuckled dryly. ‘No, Mr Fossey. If I could afford to collect anything it would be something by René Lalique not the Lladro brothers.’
Fossey grinned at the thought of Ray collecting porcelain figurines.
The wrinkled face broke into a smile. ‘I think we had better have that tea. Did I mention Ray is in Adelaide?’
By the time Fossey left, the rain had stopped and the roadway was steaming; waves of mist curling off the warm bitumen into the night air which was once again turning thick and sticky. He drove slowly home, vacillating between his enjoyment at meeting the old woman and his annoyance with Ray for being out of contact.
Brian Fleischer was about to hand over to the night duty officer and make his way into Woomera. For once the centre was quiet. The last of the hunger strikers were recovering in hospital and there hadn’t been a protest or self-harming in over four days. With the virus scare, he had acted quickly. He’d pulled in more medical support, which had revealed not a single symptom in any of his charges.
‘Believe me, we’d know about it if there was,’ the doctor had said. ‘From what I’ve read this thing is nasty.’
Now it flitted through Fleischer’s mind that maybe things were too quiet … but he dismissed the thought. His instincts had always protected him well and right now all his instincts were drawing him into town and dinner with Margaret Ramsay.
She had rung to say she would be coming in from her property on Friday afternoon to do some shopping and wouldn’t mind taking up his offer of a meal. That was fine by him. He’d thought of suggesting that he might cook something at his place, but that was rushing it.
He was just shutting his briefcase when the phone rang. Not the usual phone but the security one.
‘Fleischer …’
‘Glad I caught you, Fleischer.’
It wasn’t a voice he recognised. ‘Yes …?’
‘Reg Harding, Federal Police.’
‘Yes, Mr Harding?’ Fleischer glanced up at the clock on the wall. He was already in danger of running late.
‘It’s Commander, actually. Anyway, sorry about the short notice, but you are aware of the security warnings about a break-out?’
‘Yes … Commander.’
‘Orders have been given to move fifty-one of the trouble-makers out of the centre, and I’m in charge of providing security for their transportation.’
‘Great! I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been saying it should happen.�
��
‘From intelligence gathered, it appears an attempt will be made to break out prisoners on Sunday night. So as a precaution we will be moving the detainee ringleaders this evening.’
‘This evening?’ Fleischer was astounded. ‘That’s hardly enough —’
‘I know it’s short notice, Fleischer, but for security reasons we couldn’t give you more lead time. And I suggest you don’t mention this to anyone without an absolute need-to-know.’
There goes the weekend, Fleischer thought bitterly, and any time he might have had with Margaret. ‘Commander, I am sure you have your reasons. But you put me in a very difficult position.’
‘Understood. Exactly what I said to the ASIO boys, and we received the same response from the people at Plym.’
‘They’re going to the Plym Detention Centre?’
Reg Harding chuckled. ‘Yes, Fleischer, these characters won’t be causing you any more problems. Short stop at Plym and then out of the country. And there’s some good news for you …’
‘Yes.’
‘One of the men we’re removing is the suspected contact for the people attempting to orchestrate this coming Sunday’s little circus: Karim Mazari.’
Yes, Fleischer thought, that was good news. The last thing he needed was Ahmed Mazari’s son in a position to make trouble over his father’s death. ‘Glad to hear it. Now, what do you need from me?’
‘Just the name of the duty officer. I assume you’re about to take off for the weekend?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘You should stick to your plans. Any sudden deviation could alert these people that we’re on to them.’
‘If you’re sure …’
‘Positive. Can you put your 21C on the blower? I’ll give him the list of names and organise the details. We aren’t going to make the move until 11 pm. Oh, and so as not to arouse too much concern, we’ll be sending a civilian coach and non-uniformed personnel.’
The Haha Man Page 24