Comfort Zone

by Lindsay Tanner

  He glanced across to his annoying passenger, and wondered if he was looking at himself in a different body. Listening to this agitated bore gave him an uneasy feeling. Were they both members of the same unloved species?

  Farhia was doing funny things to Jack. He was questioning himself — about himself. For the first time in many years, he was peeking out of his crusty shell and catching a glimpse of who he really was. And even though he fought back with excuses and rationalisations, he didn’t much like what he was seeing.

  After finally getting rid of his unpleasant passenger, who was still telling him about internet sites he should visit as he was getting out of the cab, Jack sat quietly at a rank in William Street for twenty minutes. He tried to shut Matt out of his mind and concentrate on Farhia. It didn’t work — the two streams of thought kept getting jumbled in ever more absurd patterns.

  He had to come clean about the ASIO stuff. That would make him a kind of double agent. Maybe he could do a trade with ASIO, dob in Matt and his dealer mates in return for them laying off Farhia. But he didn’t think ASIO were interested in drugs. And what if there really was terrorist stuff happening? They bugged people’s phones. He might end up in serious trouble if he wasn’t careful.

  Jack checked his phone for messages, and another troubling thought hit him. How long before they worked out that he had found his mobile? What if they already knew?

  He thought about deleting the photos, but remembered something he’d seen on TV about there always being a deep record of everything on a computer that you couldn’t delete. So maybe it wouldn’t work, and would just look suspicious. Anyway, he was still curious about what was written in the book’s pages.

  He could feel stress rising inside him as these thoughts tumbled around in his head like clothes in a dryer.

  His romantic euphoria was still there, but it now had a nasty edge to it.

  He was glancing nervously at people he’d never met, turning the radio on and off, and occasionally gripping the steering wheel tightly for no reason. Every now and then, a tiny flutter appeared in his left eyelid.

  There was still no sign of another fare. Jack shifted awkwardly in his seat. Ford Falcon seats weren’t renowned for comfort, but they were good enough for his usual needs. He didn’t go in for the enhancements favoured by some drivers, like sheepskin covers and wooden beads, and he always set the seat in the same position. Ajit moved it around a bit, which annoyed him because he then had to fiddle around with the base position and the back angle to get it right. He checked the settings just in case they were wrong, but everything was in order.

  Eventually, a passenger materialised, so he spent the next twenty minutes making small talk about the weather and pushing Farhia from his mind. It succeeded up to a point: by the time he’d dropped his passenger off, he was more relaxed.

  Harbouring thoughts of inevitable disaster, Jack entered Farhia’s number in his phone as he stopped outside the Elgin Street flats. After four rings, he concluded that she wasn’t home. Either she had forgotten, or she was avoiding him. By the sixth ring, he was about to abandon the call, when finally someone picked up the phone.

  An unfamiliar male voice growled aggressively in a foreign language.

  ‘Hello, sorry, I was wanting to speak to Farhia.’ There was a tremor in Jack’s voice. How could he go weak at the knees so easily?

  Silence ensued for a moment, and then he heard Farhia talking in Somali to the unknown man. Her voice also contained a tremor — one that suggested fear rather than just nervousness.

  ‘Hello, is that Jack? I am sorry, I cannot see you now. Perhaps you will try tomorrow.’

  Jack heard her mutter something in Somali away from the handset. He sensed that it wasn’t a good time for small talk.

  ‘Same time?’

  ‘Perhaps. I am sorry, I have to go.’ The line went dead.

  Jack sat stock-still in the cab, completely nonplussed. What was going on? Who was the guy in Farhia’s flat — the one who’d attacked him? How come he answered the phone when she was right there? Was he a jealous boyfriend? A terrorist?

  He still had some time up his sleeve before he was due to hand the cab over to Ajit — he had negotiated a later time so that he could see Farhia — so a late-afternoon drink was in order. He crossed Nicholson Street to the opposite corner and entered the Tankerville Arms, a resilient local establishment that marked the boundary between Carlton and Fitzroy

  It was almost deserted, but he didn’t drink at the Tank that often, so there was little chance of bumping into anyone he knew anyway. Jack slumped onto a stool in the public bar, ordered a pot, and leant on the bar, deep in thought. His little romantic adventure was getting complicated.

  6

  Dilemmas

  To keep his mind on something other than Farhia, Jack resolved to make a serious attempt at fixing Matt’s problem. This could only be explained by one thing: he wasn’t thinking straight. Casually inserting himself into an argument with nasty drug dealers on behalf of someone he barely knew wasn’t Jack’s usual form.

  He found Rowan at the Dan, in the lounge bar holding court with a couple of shop-worn ladies who were dressed young, but given away by unmistakable wrinkles, roots, and fashion choices. Rowan was often accompanied by people who looked shady and flyblown. If it wasn’t the leotard and cheap-perfume brigade, it was decaying alcoholic lecturers or sleazy establishment hangers-on. He was a part of a distinctive sub-culture, a world of chancers and desperadoes who lived on their wits and were never quite what they seemed. Jack wasn’t sure whether he was part of the sub-culture himself, but he suspected he was too normal to qualify.

  Rowan’s friends were always hard to pin down. You could never work out what they did for a living or where they lived. They used titles like freelance journalist, property developer, actor, and financial advisor, but they rarely displayed any evidence of engaging in the activity for which they were supposedly qualified.

  Rowan was busy gossiping about a prominent theatre identity whose wife had left him. ‘Caught him in bed with a thirteen-year-old! And she was black! Poor darling.’

  It wasn’t clear who was the poor darling in this story — the betrayed wife, the cheating husband, or the abused child. Jack wasn’t that disturbed, though: he knew from experience that there was every chance the story was simply made up.

  ‘Bet he loved it!’ one of the women cried.

  ‘They mature early these days,’ said the other, as if this excused a middle-aged man having sex with a thirteen-year-old.

  ‘Cops involved?’ Jack asked, not wanting to be left out of the conversation.

  ‘Looking the other way, my friend,’ Rowan replied. ‘His uncle runs the Premier’s Department. Mustn’t have a scandal, must we?’ Rowan leered at him and continued. ‘The wife’s causing havoc. Turning up at things, abusing him, that sort of stuff.’

  Horror of horrors, Jack thought, people choking on their canapés, spilling wine on their cravats, and all that sort of thing.

  ‘How are we anyway, my son?’ Rowan continued. ‘Are the fine citizens of our fair city treating our cab drivers with the respect they deserve?’

  Their companions tittered.

  ‘Can’t complain,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Oh, this is Laura and Vanessa, by the way.’ Rowan waved his left arm dismissively in their direction, not even bothering to inform Jack which was which.

  ‘Hi, girls,’ Jack said without enthusiasm.

  ‘Great to meet you, Jack,’ they chorused almost in unison. An old-fashioned word popped into Jack’s mind as he tried to sum up Rowan’s friends — strumpets. They were the type of women his mother used to warn his sister about.

  Laura and Vanessa excused themselves and tottered off on impractical heels in search of the ladies’. Sensing a brief window of opportunity, Jack got down to business as soon as they were out of earshot.
Scratching the side of his head and grimacing with concentration, he opened up.

  ‘Mate, got a problem. New regular’s in strife with a dealer, owes him ten grand. Got dudded by a mate he was staking. Needs some time, but it’s getting nasty. You know how these pricks work. Any ideas?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Rowan allowed a pregnant pause for effect. ‘I do have occasional contact with some rather unsavoury types. Strictly professional, of course. Hard to avoid in my line of work. Lot of actors get tied up with it all, and someone has to sort out the mess.’

  ‘Maybe we can warn this guy off — slow him down or whatever?’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘No. Lives in Doncaster.’ Like residing in a different solar system. ‘Big house, high fence, security cameras, all that shit.’

  Rowan looked thoughtful. ‘Doesn’t sound like the people I know. Allow me to do some research. You be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  At this point, Laura and Vanessa reappeared, and Jack changed the subject. Within moments, Rowan was amusing them with details of the latest exploits of his friend Sebastian, who’d made a career of masquerading as a member of the Melbourne establishment. Sebastian’s real name was Giancarlo, and he’d only managed to get to fifth form at Coburg High School, but with the aid of an Old Grammarians tie, a plausible accent, and an unparalleled talent for name-dropping, he had wormed his way into Melbourne’s aristocratic circles and managed to eke out a living as a kind of professional hanger-on. He wasn’t quite a gigolo, but his ability to charm bored middle-aged women with lots of money was a rare and valuable talent.

  Eventually, Jack tired of this discussion: it was time to head for home. He drained the remains of his third beer with a flourish, scraped his chair back on the rough timber floorboards, and bade them farewell.

  ‘Have to go — stuff to do,’ he explained.

  ‘As always, a pleasure, my friend. I look forward to conspiring together.’ Rowan shot Jack a knowing smile. Laura and Vanessa giggled. Jack strolled towards the door opening onto Canning Street, speculating about threesomes and bondage. Who knew what these theatre types got up to?

  A blustery, biting wind ruffled his unkempt hair as he trudged along Princes Street. There was something funny about Carlton, Jack concluded. No matter which direction you were walking, it was always into the wind.

  He was content to return to the flat and wind down slowly. It had been an eventful day. The mystery of Doncaster, and the sinister man in Farhia’s flat, weighed heavily on his mind as he settled down in front of an episode of Law and Order. He wasn’t sure how to proceed, as he doubted Rowan would be much help, and Farhia’s tone suggested that further contact might be unwelcome. He could feel his romantic fantasy fading. The shock of hearing an unfriendly male voice when he rang Farhia had reminded him that he knew almost nothing about her. For all he knew, the guy might be a live-in lover she was hiding in order to cheat Centrelink.

  When he rose early the next morning, he was still struggling to make sense of it all. In darker moments, he wondered if he had managed to simultaneously hook up with a drug dealer and a terrorist. Some quinella, he thought.

  Luckily, it was Tuesday, so things weren’t too bad on the streets. The pre-weekend madness that often made Thursdays and Fridays troublesome was still days away. Apart from a loud passenger who insisted on explaining his theory that all football umpires were Collingwood supporters, the paying customers weren’t too bad. A couple of airport runs, two nice little old ladies, a morose young man visiting a dying friend at St Vincent’s Hospital, and a couple who said nothing for the entire journey were the best of the day’s fares. How driving should be, he reflected after dropping his last passenger at Southern Cross Station.

  Jack couldn’t wait until four o’clock to ring Farhia. He was too much on edge. He held out until ten to four, and then decided that was close enough. Tingling with apprehension, he pressed the numbers on his phone and waited. Much to his surprise, Farhia answered. She was more relaxed this time.

  ‘Hello, Jack. I am very sorry, things are confused. I have to go to the welfare centre. Perhaps I may see you there?’

  Suppressing his disappointment that their encounter wouldn’t be private, he asked for directions. He assumed it would be nearby, as he knew she didn’t drive.

  ‘It is at the bottom of the Lygon Street flats, in building number 510. The door is on this side of the building.’

  ‘Okay, no worries. I’ve just pulled up at Elgin Street. Can I walk over with you?’

  ‘I will be coming down in a few minutes.’ He interpreted this response as agreement.

  Farhia’s tower block was in the south-eastern corner of a large slab of Carlton that was dominated by public-housing estates. Built in the wake of a 1960s slum-clearance program, these estates occupied most of the land bounded by Lygon, Princes, Nicholson, and Elgin Streets. There were some houses and shops scattered in between, but the high-rise towers and dilapidated four-story walk-up blocks dominated the northern part of Carlton.

  In the western corner of this zone were the three largest tower blocks, much larger than Farhia’s, well over twenty storeys high. The largest of the blocks, which contained the welfare centre, had three wings connected together at a central point. Next to these grim towers were a small primary school, an old church, and a swathe of uninviting open space where dust and mud battled endlessly with the sparse grass cover.

  It wasn’t all one estate, but it might as well have been. Elgin Street was like a demilitarised zone between flat-land and the world of upper-middle-class professionals and cool bohemians to the south. In days gone by, the lower parts of Carlton had housed down-at-heel students, career criminals, deadbeats, ageing southern European migrants, and ‘local identities’. Some of the ageing Greeks and Italians were still there, but old Carlton was being swamped by high-income couples who craved homes close to the city, and spent large sums on creative renovations designed to make small houses seem larger. The old world of Carlton desperadoes — who had some things in common with the inhabitants of the flats — was disappearing. New Carlton was almost as stratified as Manhattan. The privileged professionals, who’d long since taken over North Carlton, the area to the north of Princes Street, had almost nothing in common with people like Farhia. In spite of living next door to them, they had virtually no contact.

  For Jack, this process meant that his friends were being squeezed out by his passengers. He didn’t think much about it, but he did sometimes lament the passing of the old-Carlton scene. The colourful characters were fading into history. The place was now awash with identikit smart young professionals who voted Green, made donations to Oxfam, and took little interest in the plight of the genuinely poor people living right next to them. Their obsession with house prices was never far below the surface of their supposedly idealistic environmental and social beliefs.

  ‘You sure you don’t want to drive there?’ Jack asked Farhia, this time resplendent in dark-crimson robes. ‘No charge,’ he added with a smile. Yusuf and Omar huddled around their mother like meerkats, moving constantly without actually doing anything.

  ‘No, it is better to walk.’ Farhia’s serious demeanour only added to her attractiveness. Her calm dignity and firm resolve gave her physical beauty an added aura, reminding Jack of the Mona Lisa. He couldn’t help comparing her with Laura and Vanessa, who seemed so shallow and frivolous. How could someone from a group of people he was used to looking down on be so breathtaking?

  They didn’t talk much as they walked up Elgin Street, labouring in the face of a crisp south-westerly carrying a hint of impending rain. Once they crossed Rathdowne Street, Jack decided to make a move. He didn’t have much time.

  ‘I’ve been visited by ASIO. They reckon you’re involved with Muslim terrorists, or something.’

  Farhia stopped walking, and looked down at Yusuf and Omar. They were preoccupie
d with the kind of routine squabbling that all small boys indulge in. They hadn’t noticed Jack’s reference to terrorists. Farhia looked back up at Jack with a quizzical expression on her face. He was filled with trepidation. He half-expected her to tell him to go away.

  ‘That is very strange. Why do they think this?’

  ‘Dunno. You know what it’s like — nine-eleven, Osama, all that stuff. They see terrorists everywhere. Budget’s been tripled, so they’ve got to do something, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’

  ‘Course not. They’re really interested in that little book of yours.’

  Farhia stiffened. Jack felt he’d offended her, but he couldn’t understand why a small book with a few pages of Somali writing was so important. Her tone became harsher, more formal.

  ‘How do they know about the book?’

  ‘Cops must have told them.’

  ‘It is not their business.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What is in the book.’

  ‘Told them they were barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘I am sorry …?’ Farhia’s English was good, but obviously her English classes hadn’t got around to teaching peculiar sayings like this one.

  ‘I told them you had nothing to do with terrorists, that they were wasting their time.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They started walking again, Jack on Farhia’s left, the two boys trailing behind her. He didn’t let on that he’d taken photos of the book’s contents — and that ASIO knew this — as he felt like he was already on dangerous ground. As the enormous Lygon Street tower blocks loomed on the horizon, blotting out the watery shafts of late-afternoon sunlight peeking through the rainclouds, he decided to ask Farhia about the unpleasant man who’d answered her phone the day before.