‘Hey, sorry to be nosey, but who was that guy who answered your phone yesterday? Was he the one who came after me? Didn’t sound very happy I was calling. I know it’s none of my business, but I’m worried. You’ve got young thugs bashing your kids, ASIO spying on you, and a nasty bloke … Not good.’
‘It is nice for you to be concerned. He is a kind of cousin, that is all. In our culture, men control everything. They tell everyone what to do, and think women are the same as children. He was upset about family things in Somalia, that is all. There is no problem.’ She didn’t respond to the question about his involvement in the playground scuffle.
As they approached one of the tower blocks, she waved her arm towards the middle of the wing they were facing, and Jack followed her towards a small door at ground level. He was chewing over her last statement, which suggested that there was a problem but it was none of his business.
Farhia grabbed the handle of a battered security door, which let out a couple of discordant creaks as she pulled it open. She ushered Jack through the doorway under a sign that read ‘Somali Welfare Centre’ in dark-green letters, with what was presumably a Somali version beneath it.
Jack struggled to absorb all the sights and sounds that hit him once he was inside. The centre was just a small room, no more than six metres by four, but it was full of people. In, around, and even underneath a motley collection of furniture there seemed to be dozens of people. There were two desks, both piled high with papers, coffee cups, and other bits and pieces, an old wooden filing cabinet with two of its handles hanging precariously on single screws, a computer and printer sitting on a small trolley, and a scattering of plastic chairs and crumbling office chairs.
The office chairs had seen better days: bare metal peeked out from under torn padding on the arm rests, and their backs were bent back at an angle of around forty-five degrees. The only window in the centre was so dirty that it was impossible to tell whether it was frosted or clear. The off-white walls were decorated with a few forlorn posters that had little apparent connection with the purpose of the centre, like one advertising Housing Week of two years before, and another displaying a Melbourne Victory star.
Jack’s eyes took a while to adjust to the mixture of gloom and movement. He now realised there were several people there: about eight or nine Somali women in the centre, all dressed in colourful, flowing garments and headdresses; a tall, skinny man in a taxi uniform; and an uncertain number of small children. The tall man was explaining something to three of the women, who kept interrupting him. The others were chatting or fiddling with things, or telling off naughty children. No one was quiet, and no one was still. They all seemed to be a good deal more excitable than Farhia.
She glanced at Jack, and noticed his startled expression. ‘You will get used to it. We are noisy.’ She smiled sweetly.
Jack liked the implication that he’d be spending more time among the Somali community, but he wasn’t sure it was intentional. Farhia greeted the other women cheerily in Somali, evidently indicating to them that Jack was a friend.
The tall taxidriver noticed the new arrivals as they drifted through the throng. His gaze settled on Jack’s face, and a hint of recognition lit up his eyes.
‘It is Jack! Jack from Brunswick!’
‘Yeah, er … hi, Mohammed.’ Jack had recognised his fellow driver, but he wasn’t sure of his name. As it happened, he’d got it right, helped by the fact that most Somali men seemed to have ‘Mohammed’ in their names somewhere.
He scoured his memory for more details. Had he had a nasty argument with Mohammed? Fought with him about queue-jumping? Abused him for swooping on a street pick-up he was about to take?
Disputes with Somali drivers were an occupational hazard, as far as Jack was concerned. He regarded them as aggressive and abusive, and found it hard to cope with the fact that many of them were highly educated.
Jack was on his guard. He was conscious of the fact that he was on Mohammed’s home turf, and that he was with Farhia. It didn’t help that Mohammed was even taller than he was, and a good deal leaner. Jack sucked in his stomach as much as he could, lifted his inadequate shoulders almost to ear level, and stuck out his chin. Mohammed could also be romantic competition.
‘Er … how’s driving, mate?’
‘Driving it is good. But not forever. I will go back to university, I think. I am engineer.’
‘Great. Good idea to …’
Farhia tugged lightly on Jack’s sleeve.
‘Mohammed is my uncle’s cousin. We are from the same clan.’
‘What’s a clan? Like a tribe?’
‘A clan is like a big family. Many clans make up a tribe. The war in Somalia is clans fighting each other. But we are from Puntland, where the people are smarter.’
She smiled artfully as she said this. Quick as a flash, one of the women with Mohammed retorted: ‘That is what everyone from Puntland thinks!’
Jack’s face froze. It seemed he was about to get caught in the middle of some kind of tribal dispute.
Both women started laughing. Mohammed smiled benignly at him.
‘Do not worry, Jack. Our fighting, it is back in Somalia. They are making fun of you. I think it is hang shit maybe.’
Jack’s shoulders relaxed, and his face melted into a wry, embarrassed grin. Maybe they should tell that bloke with the knife, he thought.
‘Has Farhia brought you here to help us?’
‘Suppose so. I helped when her kids got attacked. Always happy to lend a hand …’ Jack kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and taking his hands in and out of his pockets. He felt exposed and vulnerable.
‘As you see, more men are needed. Somali women run everything, and men just think they are in charge. Most of them lie around chewing qat.’ There was real vehemence in Farhia’s voice.
‘What’s cart?’ Jack asked. Visions of men chewing small wooden toys flashed through his mind.
‘It is a leaf, a drug. We chew it like you drink alcohol. It is nicer. Alcohol makes you fight, do stupid things. Qat makes you sleepy, feeling good.’ Mohammed sounded like a devotee.
‘Sounds good. Maybe I should give it a try.’
‘You chew qat and help out here, you will be a white Somali!’ Mohammed laughed at his own joke, and the women smiled politely. They were less enthusiastic about qat than Mohammed, by the look of it.
‘I do not like qat,’ Farhia said. ‘Men are lazy already. My husband, he lived for qat. I do not want Omar and Yusuf to use qat.’
Omar and Yusuf were chasing each other under a desk, unaware of this discussion of their future.
‘So what needs doing round here?’ Jack asked, changing the subject.
‘We help each other with small things, families, their problems,’ Farhia explained. ‘Fix things, move things, maybe even with a taxi. Life is hard for Somalis, so we stick together.’
‘Surely they don’t want a white guy, though?’
‘If your heart is good, the skin does not matter.’
Jack felt ashamed as he recalled his disdain for Somalis. They probably had lots of good reasons for disliking people like him.
‘Okay, count me in. Happy to help.’ Anything to stay in Farhia’s world.
The discussion drifted into a taxi gossip session between Jack and Mohammed, as Farhia and the other women chatted in Somali. Jack soon ran out of things to talk about, so he stood watching as the women talked. He was absorbed by the picture right in front of him: the voluminous dresses; flamboyant headdresses; light blues, yellows, and crimsons; smooth, sepia skin; and large, dark eyes. His fascination with Farhia meant that he was seeing these women as people for the first time — unusually interesting people. Instead of weird foreigners with strange customs, he now saw strong, determined, attractive women. Odd thoughts flashed though his mind: What’s happening to me? Why am I feeling like
this? Where’s crusty old Jack gone?
There was a lull in the conversation, and Farhia signalled that it was time to leave.
‘I am organising everything for the children. We all must help each other. It is good to do it here. We all are coming here.’
Jack looked around for Yusuf and Omar, but couldn’t see them. Then they materialised out of nowhere, as if responding to a telepathic signal from their mother. Yusuf appeared to have overcome his unhappiness with his broken arm. Both boys were giggling and pinching each other.
‘What about childcare?’
‘We do not have money for fees. Childcare is for women with much money. Somali women work at childcare, not put their children there. We would want our children with Somali women, to keep our culture.’
Jack nodded. It was trickier being Somali in Australia than he had thought. Next time he was about to curse Somalis, he might think twice about it.
After he’d said goodbye to Farhia, he took stock of the situation. She remained very elusive, but he felt he was making progress in tiny steps. Every time he was with her, he learned a bit more about her life. He accepted her denial of links to terrorism without a second thought — the whole idea was obviously ridiculous. Yet she was definitely holding back on something. And why was she getting him involved helping out at the welfare centre? None of it made much sense.
He couldn’t work out how to proceed from here. He had to get rid of ASIO somehow, preferably without upsetting Farhia. He still had Matt’s problem to deal with, too. He was unable to explain how he had ended up in such a convoluted situation. He couldn’t remember making conscious decisions, but somehow he had gone from helping to protect two little kids from a beating to almost stalking an unattainable woman, double-dealing ASIO about potential terrorists, and protecting one drug dealer from another one. And sorting out the odd juvenile bully for good measure. How had all this crept up on him? A good, honest taxidriver ought to stay well away from this sort of stuff.
7
Traps
Rowan had a twinkle in his eye when Jack found him in the lounge bar at the Dan. It was after eight o’clock, though, so the twinkle was probably nothing more than alcoholic haze meeting fluorescent glare. Rowan was tarted up more than usual. He was wearing a newish-looking blue shirt with studs instead of buttons and a turned-up collar, with a black T-shirt underneath. Below these was a pair of faded Lee jeans, uncomfortably tight in unfortunate places, and dark-brown casual slip-ons.
Jack noted this improvement in Rowan’s appearance with mild surprise. He never dressed slothfully, but tonight he had an air of dressing up for something special. He didn’t look like a man intending to spend the rest of the night in the lounge bar of the Dan.
Rowan spent most of his waking hours acting out some role or other, and Jack wasn’t entirely sure who the real Rowan was. He was friendly, entertaining, and sometimes useful. That was enough for Jack.
‘Looking flash, mate. Picking up tonight?’ Jack needled Rowan. He understood Rowan’s vanity, and knew he wouldn’t mind a bit of gentle sledging.
‘Moving in circles you can only dream of … or read about in Who Weekly.’
‘Ah-ha. Give them my regards. Most of them have probably chucked in the back seat of my cab at some point.’
‘Or given blow jobs.’
‘Any news?’
‘Um … the dollar’s dropped, Ablett’s injured, Bert Newton’s crook … er … let me see …’ Rowan raised his eyebrows towards the ceiling, pretending to scroll through his recent memory.
‘Hysterical. Get you a drink?’
‘I’ll have a G and T, my good man.’
Shit, thought Jack, I should’ve just grabbed a pot and slammed it down without asking.
‘Any luck on the dealer front?’ He couldn’t wait until the drinks had been poured and paid for.
Rowan leant back on his chair, put his hands behind his head, and smiled at Jack like a man without a worry in the world.
‘I think I’ve solved your little mystery.’
‘Excellent. Back in a tick.’
Jack stood at the bar, his left foot leaning on the polished metal railing just above the floor, his fingers drumming impatiently on the bar as he watched the lone barman preparing the gin and tonic with slow, methodical movements. He half expected to hand over the expensive drink and find that Rowan had been pulling his leg. Or that he’d disappeared. Things were never quite as they seemed where Rowan was concerned.
‘There y’go, mate, worth every penny if you’ve sorted it.’ Jack crunched the flimsy chair as he sat down, producing an array of creaks and groans that suggested it could collapse. He weighed over 100 kilos: maybe the chair was trying to tell him something.
Rowan carefully extracted the small black straw from his drink, using his thumb and forefinger, and laid it down on the table between them. He took a couple of sips.
‘I gather your man is John Constantinidis. Nasty piece of work. Doesn’t mess around. Not well-known for his mercy — or his sense of humour.’
‘And?’
‘And? What else is there to know?’
‘Can you get him to lay off?’
‘Jack, Jack.’ Rowan was in expansive, kindly-friend mode, but to Jack it was as phoney as a three-dollar bill. ‘As luck would have it, he does owe my friend a favour. Only a small one, but maybe enough to buy your friend a few days — and keep his ears.’ He smirked with poorly disguised pleasure at the thought of such violence.
‘Shit, that’s great. You’re a lifesaver!’
Rowan glowed back at him.
‘All in a day’s work, and so forth. We aim to deliver satisfaction, etcetera. I expect to confirm the arrangement tonight.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘There is one thing, though.’ Rowan raised his left eyebrow, indicating there was a catch.
‘Yeah?’
‘My friend needs something in return — that’s how it works.’
‘Yeah …’ Jack’s voice trailed off as he began to imagine what this might entail.
‘Nothing violent, of course.’
‘Mate, I’m just a cabbie, not bloody Pablo Escobar. What use am I to these guys?’
‘You’ve just answered your own question, my friend. What’s more normal, more unobtrusive, than a humble yellow cab? Who notices it — unless they’re trying to hail one? Where does a cab ever look out of place?’
Jack was now becoming alarmed. He knew the answer already, but he asked anyway.
‘So what am I supposed to do?’
‘What you’re good at, my friend. Drive.’
‘When? Where?’ Jack fiddled anxiously with his glass, and then drained the remainder of his beer in a single gulp. He blinked repetitively as he stared at Rowan, frightened by the direction in which this was now heading.
‘Details soon, mate. Maybe the airport, with a parcel or two.’
‘You’re fucking kidding! I’m not getting into that shit! Only ends up one of two ways: you’re dead, or in the slammer.’
‘I don’t think you really have a choice.’
‘What do you mean? When did I sign up to be a courier?’
‘My friend is seeking the favour you need as we speak. If you fail to reciprocate, I suspect your ears could also end up in jeopardy.’
‘Shit!’ Without thinking, Jack lifted his left hand to the side of his head.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure we will be able to work it out. You won’t have to swallow twenty condoms or fly to Singapore, or anything like that.’
‘I don’t want to do any of that shit!’ Jack insisted. He squirmed in his chair and put his hands on and off the table several times, his breathing quickening.
‘Leave it with me, my friend. It’ll all be okay.’ It was remarkable how Rowan maintained his air of casual urbanity in such circu
mstances. Jack suspected he was enjoying himself.
As Jack drove along Nicholson Street, he cursed himself for being so stupid. Why was he trying to help Matt? And why on earth did he think he could trust Rowan? Matt meant nothing to him, other than as a potential source of fares and tips. Now he had got himself drawn into a drug dealer’s schemes. He’d seen enough bad movies to know that once he got involved, he’d be trapped. The demands would keep coming.
Perhaps he was becoming a better person. Jack shuddered at the thought. He cultivated his crusty persona. It was all he had. Life had served up many disappointments, and the only way to minimise emotional damage was by avoiding putting himself at risk. The old Jack would have laughed at the prospect of Matt without ears, and would have made no attempt to help.
As he emerged from the cab in the carpark at the rear of his flat, his phone rang. Without giving it a second thought, he extracted it from his pocket and answered.
‘Mr van Dine, I see you’ve found your phone. It’s Robert Jeffrey here.’
Even before the inevitable shock hit, Jack responded reflexively: ‘It’s van Duyn, as in spoon.’
‘We’d like to take a look at the photos of that book.’
‘Er, yeah.’ Oh shit, what am I going to do? Jack was thinking.
‘When can I see you?’
‘Er, pretty flat-chat at the moment. Maybe in a couple of days …’ He knew his stalling sounded obvious, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘I hope you’re not involved in this business, Mr van Duyn.’ The sinister tone in Jeffrey’s voice wasn’t alleviated by the correct pronunciation of Jack’s name.
‘What business? What do you mean?’
‘We know about your history.’
‘History? What history?’ Jack was leaning against the side of the cab for moral and physical support. His hands were shaking, and his legs felt rubbery.
‘Criminal damage, wasn’t it? Assault charges, ultimately withdrawn. You’ve been involved in subversive activities before — maybe it’s happening again.’ His matter-of-fact tone was chilling.
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