The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  From that pub in Mildura, the drive to Sydney was the nearest thing to pleasure that Karim had experienced in a long time. For the first couple of hours they drove in silence, Ray content to concentrate on the road and Karim observing the towns they drove through. They were unlike any he had seen before.

  ‘Saturday night,’ was Ray’s only comment as they cruised through a small town, its outskirts deserted, the centre alive with people spilling out from the wide verandah of its pub.

  To Karim, the distances seemed immense under the cloudless star-strewn sky, and the towns they drove through, illuminated in sodium orange or fluorescent white, appeared alien, as though they had descended from the heavens and found themselves abandoned in the landscape.

  Ray leaned forward and switched the radio on. ‘There hasn’t been a good-news story all year,’ he said bleakly.

  There was a couple of seconds’ silence and then music that Karim recognised: the ABC radio news theme.

  ‘Heading the news this evening, the disease at the centre of the nation’s biggest health crisis on record has finally been named, along with new measures to combat the virus that has taken one hundred and seventy-two lives and caused the closures of seventeen hospitals across the country. Good evening, I’m Peter Adams …’

  ‘Shit,’ Ray whispered and turned up the volume.

  ‘In the latest moves against the epidemic, twenty temporary isolation facilities have been opened in Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide and Perth. Further facilities are due to be opened in regional areas to be announced tomorrow.

  ‘With the death toll now at one hundred and seventy-two and with possibly hundreds of secondary infections, the government moved today to quell rising panic. In a carefully worded statement issued by the prime minister, it was revealed that emergency personnel will be given new powers to guard public health facilities. Sections of the armed forces will also be drafted into service to protect national infrastructure. The prime minister’s statement was careful to stress that these were sensible precautionary moves and not in response to any perceived threat’.

  ‘And in what medical experts are describing as a significant breakthrough, the virus has finally been identified. Here’s how the news was conveyed half an hour ago by the acting head of the Infection Control Task Force, Robin Philson.’

  ‘I have just been on the phone to the health minister, who, as you will be aware, is in Atlanta at the Centre for Disease Control. I can now confirm that the disease has been identified as a particularly virulent form of Congo haemorrhagic fever, known as Hazara virus. The Hazara virus is believed to originate in Afghanistan and Pakistan.’ Philson paused. ‘In consultation with the prime minister, the health minister and the task force, it has been decided that all Hazara refugees in the community on temporary protection visas will be readmitted to detention facilities as a protective measure. I stress that point. We are doing this in the interests of public health. I’ll release a more detailed statement in the morning.’

  The rest of the national news followed. The economy was beginning to register the first impact of the crisis, with tourist numbers halved by cancellations, and, in what was described as a worrying development, New Zealand had cancelled landing rights for all passenger aircraft originating from Australia. In Afghanistan the Americans were still searching for Osama bin Laden. There was no mention of the break-out from Woomera.

  Ray turned the radio off. Hands gripping the wheel tightly, he stared at the road ahead. Karim felt numb.

  ‘The bastards,’ Ray said quietly. ‘Those absolute bastards.’

  Karim was confused. The notion of taking those who had been released and placing them back in those … those prison camps was cruel beyond belief. But the health issue he didn’t understand. ‘This Hazara virus. What is he talking about?’

  Ray told what little he knew about the disease. He described the hysteria that had followed the initial press reports and how the virus was said to have come into the country with the Afghan refugees.

  ‘But that’s …’ — Karim could hardly contain himself — ‘it’s impossible — it can’t just arrive like that. It would have struck in the detention camps first.’

  ‘Or it would have to have been dormant in the community for years.’

  ‘Exactly. And I have never heard of this at home.’

  ‘Not by another name?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Not that I know of.’ He thought about Ray’s description of the disease; it sounded like something from a horror movie. ‘I would remember something like that.’

  ‘The other strange thing about it is that although the first ones to die were Hazara boys on TPVs, others who died seem to have had no contact with refugees at all.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Ray tried to recall the cases he had read about. ‘Well, the most publicised case has been that of the education minister, Bernie Beckles. He died during the parliamentary break and, last I heard, both his wife and children were very ill. Then there was a truck driver doing a regular run between Brisbane and Armidale. The only case so far in Western Australia was a young woman who had visited her boyfriend for a weekend in Melbourne a couple of weeks earlier. But apparently he showed no sign of the illness at all. I think there was a middle-aged couple from out near Moree somewhere.’ He slowed down as they came up behind some traffic. ‘Oh, and there was the ambulance chappie who found the first victims. But he’s been hanging on and they say he’ll probably recover. Since then it’s just exploded with new cases every day.’

  It’s horrible being labelled with the name of a disease, Karim thought. Hazara virus.

  They passed the slower cars and drove the next few kilometres in silence. Then Karim asked the question that had been bothering him since the moment he felt well enough to think about what had taken place at Woomera. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You, the bus people, those women driving the other cars, the man at the pub, why are you helping us?’

  Ray thought about it for a moment. ‘Do you know that expression about all evil needs in order to prosper is for good men to keep silent?’

  Karim shook his head.

  ‘Well, I have a very good idea of what goes on in the camps. I used to work there. And in this country we have been silent so long that just speaking out is not going to do anything. Those people, they’ve decided that to break a law that is inhumane is justifiable, and they will do whatever it takes to look after the refugees. Someone coined the phrase the sanctuary list, and we adopted it. Those women all put their names down, offering to provide sanctuary to refugees who needed it.’

  ‘But the police?’ Karim asked. ‘They will be looking for us.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do you think it wasn’t on the news?’

  ‘Politics. Plain and simple. The government is in enough trouble at the moment. You think they want to admit that they let fifty refugees escape?’

  ‘Fifty?’ Karim was astonished. ‘I didn’t realise it was that many.’

  ‘It was fifty-one actually. We planned on fifty and then we heard about you marching up to the gate and demanding entry, and added you to the list. That’s why I came along at the last minute. We needed another car.’

  After a stop to eat at Gillenbah they drove on, and though Karim managed to stay awake as far as Wagga Wagga, he fell asleep shortly afterwards and slept for several hours.

  ‘Where are we?’ Karim stifled a yawn. His mind was in a fog, his muscles cramped and sore, and his face felt crumpled from sleeping against his hand on the window. ‘Sorry, I should have stayed awake and talked to you.’ He looked around. Dawn was breaking cold and colourless. It took only a quick glance at Ray to see that he had done enough driving to last him a while. He looked haggard.

  ‘Not a problem. We’re on the South Western Freeway. If we get a good run through the city, I should have you home in around forty minutes.’

  It took a second or two for Karim to regist
er what Ray had said. ‘You know where I live?’

  ‘I said you have friends, didn’t I?’ Despite his tiredness there was a grin on Ray’s face.

  ‘But I don’t. The truth is, I know hardly anyone in Australia.’

  ‘Well, you know the Haha Man.’

  Karim was suddenly wide awake. ‘You? You are the Haha Man?’

  Ray gave a short laugh. ‘No. I’m not. But I know him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I want to know about him. He was a great help to me.’

  Ray shook his head. ‘Against the rules, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell him you appreciated his work. Now, tell me something. What are you going to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Karim.’

  Karim fell silent, watched the sky lighten and the colour infuse the landscape. Sydney was coming to life. He saw the early-morning commuters heading off into lives that had never known terror, or hunger or war. There were women walking the streets confidently, without the veil. What was he going to do? He had always known the answer. ‘I am going to avenge my father’s death.’

  Ray said nothing for the rest of the journey.

  When they got to Karim’s house, Ray walked to the door with him. ‘Listen, Karim, I know you want to avenge your father and I have a fair idea of who you’re going to target.’

  Karim looked at him impassively. ‘It is my business, Ray. It is personal.’

  ‘I understand, but that is not the Australian way.’

  ‘Don’t you remember,’ Karim said, not bothering to hide the bitterness, ‘I’m an un-Australian, like your friend at the pub in Mildura.’

  But Ray stood his ground. ‘Then listen to me. I can never understand how you feel, but I know people who can help you turn your revenge into something that will help far more people than just your father’s memory.’

  Karim looked at him suspiciously. ‘What people?’

  ‘The Haha Man … and others. Just promise me you won’t do anything until you hear from us. And if something changes, then you get in touch with me.’ He took a pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on a piece of paper. ‘Please. We all want to stop the brutality that’s going on, but there are smarter ways than killing.’

  Karim ignored him and poked around at the edge of the garden, searching for something. He stood up wearily, the house key in his hand, and came back to where Ray was standing. He took the telephone number.

  ‘I owe it to myself and to my father, Ray. And in our tradition we do not punish the servants of the man who wrongs us, but the man himself. I will kill this Philson. You can be certain of that.’ Then his face softened slightly and he added, ‘I’m also in debt to you. I owe you a great deal, Ray. So, I will make my plans, but I will wait until I hear from you before I act. But don’t let it be long. This thing burns in me like a fire, Ray, and I’m not sure how long I can keep it under control.

  ‘It’s like a black box,’ Layla said.

  Fossey looked at the television. It was a black box. ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said, it’s like a black box.’ She handed him the remote.

  ‘I heard what you said. I just didn’t understand.’ He switched the set on and plonked himself down on the couch.

  ‘You know, like in an aircraft.’

  ‘Oh, that kind of black box.’ He nodded sagely, still wondering what the hell she was on about.

  ‘It’s where we come to find out what happened after the crash.’ Layla looked at him for signs of comprehension. The blank stare wasn’t encouraging. ‘The trouble is, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Sorry. Lost me.’ Fossey glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost news time.

  Layla took a deep breath and began again. ‘The world is a mess, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And nobody really understands what’s going on, right?’

  Fossey nodded.

  ‘Yet each night we examine the black box as though it is going to reveal the answers.’

  Fossey nodded.

  ‘But it doesn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You infuriate me sometimes.’ She retrieved the remote and increased the volume.

  The news, when it came, was tacked on at the end of the bulletin. After the weather. No interview, no actuality.

  ‘And finally, in news just to hand … A spokesperson for the immigration minister says that a number of detainees have absconded from the Woomera Detention Centre. Due to the health crisis, people are advised to avoid contact with them and report any information about them to the police.’

  Neither of them commented. They watched ‘The 7.30 Report’ in silence but no further mention was made of the escape.

  ‘Well, that was one bit of good news.’ Layla turned the volume down.

  ‘What was?’ Fossey asked, going into the kitchen to open a bottle of wine.

  Layla switched off the television and followed him. ‘The refugees.’

  ‘You think so? I would have thought that the last thing we want is more people dying —’

  ‘Dying? What on earth has dying got to do with it?’

  The tone was cold steel, but Fossey blundered on. ‘Shit, Layla, you know I feel sorry for them. I just think that now is not the right time. You know, with the virus and everything.’

  He stopped, aware of the silence behind him. A loud silence. Filled with the noise of ice forming. Fossey turned, but Layla had already gone back to the lounge. Somehow, though, not having her in front of him made it easier to say things and he knew there were things that needed to be said.

  He took a bottle of 1997 Gnangara Shiraz from the cupboard and rifled through the odds-and-sods drawer looking for the capsule cutter. ‘And I think it’s time you stopped making digs at me about it,’ he called. ‘I know you avoid saying it, but I’m not stupid. You never really forgave me for working with Philson, did you? I just think it’s time we got over it. Okay, I was wrong, but …’

  He gave up looking for the cutter and took out a knife instead. He pushed the drawer closed a little too forcefully and winced at the noise. ‘Anyway, I stopped working for him when I realised how much it was pissing you off.’

  He cut the top off the cap and looked around for the corkscrew. Maybe he should tell her about the things he had been doing with Ray. It would be fair enough for her to be angry with him if he’d never done anything, but he had. Not earth-shattering things, but things nevertheless.

  He opened the drawer again and located the corkscrew. What was it about corkscrews that they always migrated to the very back of the drawer and burrowed under the salad servers that were never used?

  ‘I’ve actually been doing stuff.’ Fossey pulled the cork and took two glasses straight from the dishwasher. ‘I know it won’t sound like much to you, but it’s not as if I’ve been sitting on my backside doing nothing.’ He poured the wine and took a sip. It was delicious. ‘Anyway …’

  Layla wasn’t in the lounge or her study. And Fossey realised that the reason he hadn’t heard her slam the front door was that she had left it open.

  Amir Al-Rahman stepped back as Karim opened the door. ‘You haven’t got the disease?’

  ‘No. I am well. Now come in.’

  ‘It is just that …’

  ‘I know. There have been so many deaths. But I don’t intend to be one of them.’

  ‘I have been very frightened, having been so close to those who died.’

  Amir still didn’t move forward so Karim went to him and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘If we go around living in fear, then whoever has done this has won. Now come inside and have tea with me.’

  ‘Whoever has done this?’ Amir echoed. He kicked his sandals off and followed Karim inside. ‘You think this disease was introduced deliberately?’

  ‘You have been following the news. A variant strain, that’s what the scientists are saying
, not a natural mutation but an engineered variant. Someone has made this Hazara virus so that it will kill more efficiently than the tick disease.’

  ‘I was there when they found … Like I said on the phone.’ Amir padded down the hall after Karim and followed him into the kitchen. ‘I have been scared ever since, thinking I was going to get sick.’

  ‘But you didn’t go inside the house.’

  ‘I talked with the ambulance officer …’

  ‘The one who caught the virus?’

  ‘Yes. You can imagine how I felt.’

  Karim nodded in sympathy but knew he wasn’t able to imagine what it must be like, wondering if your own death has already taken root inside you and is slowly, silently spreading. He had been back in Sydney for just over a week and each night the news told of more deaths. Though the health officials were attempting to stem public panic, nobody was fooled. The latest deaths were all described as secondary infections and yet each day more and more primary cases were being diagnosed. There was talk, too, of using antibodies from the ambulance officer who was, against the odds, well on the way to a full recovery. An official spokesperson warned against raising expectations. Karim had listened intently to a health expert flown in from America describing the beneficial administration of something called Ribavirin, but by the time he got to talking of ‘the need for convalescent plasma with high neutralising antibody titre’, Karim had tuned out.

  ‘Each time I cough … When I look in the mirror …’

  ‘You look fine.’ Karim’s face softened. ‘But I think the worry might kill you.’

  Amir hesitated and then let his face relax into a smile. ‘There is another worry I have.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your name, brother. I think I am right that you are no longer called Rashid Khan?’

  ‘It depends who asks. If immigration asks, then I am Rashid. But among friends …’ — he clasped Amir’s hands between his — ‘I am Karim Mazari.’

  While they sat drinking tea, Karim described his journey in search of his father. Amir, listened, open-mouthed, all thought of disease temporarily eclipsed. The only time he interjected was at the mention of the guards.