Comfort Zone

by Lindsay Tanner

  You’ve got to be kidding, Jack thought. I kick a window in at a demo at uni thirty-five years ago, and now I’m a Muslim terrorist?

  ‘You guys are off the planet! I got revved up at a Vietnam demo when I was nineteen or something. What’s it got to do —’

  ‘I assume you disclosed all this when you renewed your taxi licence?’

  ‘Er, I guess so. Dunno. It was a long time ago.’ Jack’s voice was wavering. Jeffrey had him on the hook, and he knew it.

  ‘Perhaps our initial check was mistaken then. Maybe we should look again.’

  Jack was becoming exasperated. First Rowan; now this. He gazed across the skyline at decrepit blocks of flats and minor industrial buildings, and responded with vehemence that reflected his mounting apprehension.

  ‘Look, I’ve told you I’ll help, okay? Just lay off, will you?’

  ‘Excellent. Then you will show me the photos. Perhaps you could email them to me.’

  ‘Come around tomorrow. After my shift’s finished, say after five.’

  ‘You’d better make sure you’re home then. I’m very busy.’

  ‘I will be.’

  Jack didn’t like being pushed around. A harmless intrigue was now turning into a complex web of deceit and danger. He thought about disappearing for a bit, but quickly dismissed the idea. He wasn’t sure who would find him first, ASIO or the dealer, but he knew one of them would.

  He had almost forgotten about his exploits as a student protester. Every few years or so, something would remind him of his La Trobe days, but he didn’t like grandstanding about his revolutionary past — such as it was. He wasn’t ashamed of it, but it seemed rather childish in retrospect.

  Jack recalled the unpleasant feeling of his cheek against hard asphalt, with a large police boot pressing down on the other cheek. Then being grabbed by his arms and dragged along the road, his T-shirt riding up to his armpits and his bare stomach rasping against the tarmac. And then being punched in the face when he tried to avoid being photographed.

  He soon snapped out of this reverie. It was a bit of a shock, being reminded of his days as a minor student protester, and he didn’t really want to dwell on it.

  Most evenings alone at the Balmoral Avenue flat weren’t exactly joyful, but this one was dreadful. Jack chewed over his new problems for hours, until he became so confused that he started losing all perspective. His emotions were all over the place, mirroring his scrambled thoughts. Underneath, though, the part of him that was just plain terrified was getting stronger.

  Should he betray Farhia? Or do a runner? But where to? They could track his phone, his credit card, and all that stuff. He’d seen it all on TV, on a show called Spooks. It was getting too close to home.

  He was caught in multiple traps. He could hardly lose his mobile again. That would be the same as disappearing, or refusing to co-operate, but without any of the advantages. And he was still curious about the book’s contents. He wanted to know why a few pages of Somali scrawl were so important to Farhia, and now to ASIO. He couldn’t imagine any way he could satisfy his curiosity without Farhia finding out — and ASIO nabbing him.

  The speculations got wilder and weirder. Maybe he could become a serious drug dealer and go underground. He would have lots of cash, so he could have plastic surgery and change his identity. They might even be able to fix his shoulders. Then he wouldn’t be a loser taxidriver any more — he’d be a powerful, mysterious drug baron who could sweep Farhia off her feet, and all that sort of stuff.

  He went around and around in circles, never quite managing to have all the threads in focus at the same time. Finally, he got to the point of exhaustion, and settled on a couple of strategies for the next day or two. He reckoned that any plan was better than none.

  First, he would tell Farhia that he’d taken photos of her book because he was scared of losing it, especially as the cab was sometimes broken into. Then he would track down Matt and ask him to help him get rid of Robert Jeffrey. He wasn’t sure what good that would do, but Matt seemed like a guy who would know how to deal with that kind of stuff.

  He also decided to stay away from the flat as much as he could. Maybe he could sleep in the cab for a bit, or crash on the couch at his mate’s flat downstairs — that would make it harder for Rowan’s friend to track him down, and help him avoid Jeffrey for a while. Then practical considerations started to seep into his panic-stricken mind. What would Ajit do if Jack was living in the cab? What would be the point of hiding out downstairs if ASIO were watching the building? You can run, but you can’t hide, he thought grimly.

  Jack’s sense of perspective had been addled by countless bad movies, and he was drifting into a twilight zone between reality and fiction. He had never been involved in anything like this before, so his tools for assessing his position weren’t that effective. And dealing with two separate threats simultaneously was making it very hard to concentrate.

  8

  Pursuit

  Jack had lost interest in driving. The following day was a blur of inconsequential people taking meaningless journeys. His mind was elsewhere.

  He called Matt around mid-morning, and asked him if they could catch up after work.

  ‘Seeing as how you’re answering this call, I assume you’ve still got your ears, mate.’

  ‘Yep, still there,’ Matt replied tersely.

  ‘Sounds like I bought you some time. So what time suits tonight?’

  ‘Maybe around eight? Whereabouts?’

  ‘How far north do you shiny-bums go? What about the Lyndhurst, top end of Lygon Street? Tram does a dog-leg …’

  ‘Yeah, know it. See you there.’

  As soon as he’d hung up, Jack realised he’d made a mistake. Hiding from Jeffrey in a pub two blocks from the flat wasn’t very smart.

  Then he rationalised it as a clever double-bluff. If Jeffrey thought he’d done a runner, he’d hardly assume that he’d gone no further than the front bar of the nearest pub.

  Later in the day, Matt called. Jack was wary of answering his phone, but he recognised the number on the screen. Just to be sure, though, he answered formally: ‘Jack van Duyn.’

  ‘Hey, Jack, I’m getting away from work early today. Could we make it around seven?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. See you then.’ That suited Jack: an hour less to fill up away from the flat between handover and meeting Matt. He didn’t want to be blind drunk by the time Matt turned up.

  Handing over the cab to Ajit took longer than he expected. He had to drive to Ajit’s flat, and Ajit wanted to chat, so by the time he got back to Brunswick it was after six. He made a quick trip to the flat, entering the back way through the creaking gate in the paling fence, eyes darting all around him as he hurried in to the cover offered by the stairs. There was no sign of Jeffrey, which was fortunate, as Jack’s demeanour was so obviously suspicious that the ASIO operative would probably have arrested him on the spot.

  He didn’t stay there long. It wasn’t much after 6.30 when he walked into the Lyndhurst. Ignoring the discordant music of countless poker machines, which now occupied most of the floor space, he headed towards the small remaining old-style pub zone at the back.

  ‘How’s it going, Jack?’ An awkward-looking man in a faded green parka called out to him in a flat, nasal voice as Jack weaved his way through a small crowd of drinkers around the bar.

  ‘Jim, not bad, mate. No runners or chuckers for a few weeks.’

  All taxidrivers were accustomed to dealing with passengers who refused to pay and made a run for it. A new law had been introduced requiring passengers to pre-pay after 10.00 pm. As Jack did the morning shift, it didn’t affect him, but like most innovations designed to improve the industry, Jack thought it would be useless.

  ‘Some people can’t afford to pay … ’

  ‘Then they shouldn’t get in the fucking cab in the first place,
should they?’ Jack punched Jim playfully on the shoulder, grinning as he did so.

  ‘You’re a capitalist at heart, Jack.’ Jim also cracked an insipid half-smile, about the best he was capable of. The world was a dismal, unfair place, in Jim’s view.

  ‘Not much good at it, though!’ Jack laughed at the thought.

  Jim was a long-suffering left-wing activist, a genuine sucker for punishment. Jack had met him when he was at La Trobe, when Jim was a fiery young zealot in the Socialist Workers Party, the main Trotskyist group in far-left Australian politics. Since then, Jim had got greyer and scruffier, his glasses had begun to approach Coke-bottle thickness, and his old green parka had been traded in for another one, but his politics hadn’t changed at all.

  Jim had spent much of the late 1970s and early 1980s working on the production line at the Ford factory in Broadmeadows, an enthusiastic foot-soldier in the SWP’s ‘Back to Basic Industry’ campaign. After failing to convert the membership of the Vehicle Builders Union to the cause of international socialism, and rising no further than deputy shop steward in his section, he eventually gave up.

  In spite of this very disillusioning experience, Jim had remained loyal to the movement, and followed the tiny core group of the SWP as it morphed into new party formations in the 1980s and 1990s. He left Ford and went to work as a tram conductor in the late 1980s, and played a major role in the 1990 dispute, in which stationary trams blocked city streets for a fortnight. Since that brief taste of industrial glory, Jim had drifted in and out of dead-end jobs, still spending most of his time on thankless political activity.

  These days, his main contribution was selling Green Left Weekly. The centre of gravity of radical politics and fringe culture had moved from Fitzroy to Brunswick, so Jim had relocated with it. He was now something of a regular at the Lyndhurst, the precise geographic point where the radical inner city gave way to traditional industrial northern suburbs.

  Jack quite liked Jim. He was authentic. His complete refusal to capitulate in the face of capitalist progress was admirable. He was a bit mad, true, but what did that matter? Who was he to judge?

  Jack had known many people over the years who’d been fiery radicals at La Trobe and later drifted into complacent suburban anonymity. Without nutters and zealots like Jim, the world would never get any better. Jack didn’t agree with his formula for reshaping the world, but he often agreed with Jim’s withering critiques of those who wielded economic and political power.

  Jim started to shuffle off towards the pokies area, squinting awkwardly behind his thick glasses, no doubt with some hope of selling a few newspapers. Jack thought about shouting him a drink, then thought better of it. Matt would probably arrive soon — no reason to complicate things.

  ‘Hey, Jim, know anything about Somalia?’

  ‘Another classic example of the effects of American imperialism. A puppet government falls, civil war breaks out, the imperialists intervene to restore control, the country is devastated, then the people fight back. It’s an old, old story. Always the same …’

  ‘What about all this Muslim shit? Al Qaeda, terrorism, all that stuff?’ Jack sensed a chance to do some useful homework. Jim might be crazy, but he knew a lot of stuff about some very obscure parts of the world. Once you had filtered out the extreme political bias, he could be a source of worthwhile information.

  ‘An American smokescreen. They demonise the popular resistance, call them terrorists, maybe even stage a few fake attacks, so they can shut down international support and get others to do their dirty work. That’s where Kenya and Ethiopia come in.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with Kenya and Ethiopia?’ Jack asked. In spite of several hours spent researching Somalia, he had failed to take note of the countries that bordered it.

  ‘The Americans are using their troops to regain control of Somalia.’

  ‘Ah, interesting. So why do the bloody Somalis have to come out here and bring their fights with them? I don’t care if they want to kill each other, they just should stay home and do it.’ Jack’s recent mellowing — induced by Farhia — clearly had limits.

  ‘That’s racist thinking, Jack. Everyone fights, we’re all the same. Imperialists exploit them, set them against each other …’

  ‘That’s bullshit! Bloke went for me with a knife the other day, just sorting out some kids. What’s imperialists got to do with that?’

  ‘Could’ve been an Aussie, we’re all just as bad. Why pick on them just because they’re African?’

  ‘Jesus, Jim, you’re full of it, mate! Ever been in a cab with one of them driving? Bloody hopeless! Just here to rip off the welfare system. Howard was a nasty little prick, but he was bang on the money on this stuff …’

  ‘You’re just a redneck, Jack, we’re all migrants, squatting on Aboriginal land …’

  Jack grabbed Jim by the arm and shook him roughly. ‘Wake up to yourself, mate! They’re different from us …’

  Jim recoiled from Jack’s unexpected aggression. As he was backing away, Jack spotted Matt entering the bar through the main door. He walked carefully through the crowd, looking nervous. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue suit, and his hair looked as if it had just been styled. The subtle wave was a nice flourish in an otherwise very carefully sculpted appearance.

  Jack waved in Matt’s direction in a gesture of recognition. Matt noticed him immediately, and walked towards him with some relief showing on his face.

  ‘Consorting with the ruling class, hey, Jack?’ Jim asked mischievously, recovering his balance after their little altercation.

  ‘Good customer, mate. Got to look after the regulars, you know.’

  Matt stared at Jim as if he was a previously undiscovered species on display in the zoo. Jack didn’t bother with formal introductions.

  ‘See you round, then, comrade.’ Jim turned abruptly and wandered off.

  ‘Yeah, see you, mate.’

  ‘Who’s that guy?’ Matt asked softly.

  ‘Just an old mate. Bit of a weirdo, but he’s a good bloke.’

  Matt lost interest in Jim.

  ‘I’m in strife. I think I’ve been followed here. One of the heavies. We’ve got to get out of here, quick smart.’ He almost hissed these words at Jack. He was fidgeting as he spoke, glancing nervously around the bar, showing obvious signs of fear to emphasise that he was serious.

  What do you mean ‘we,’ white man, Jack thought as he looked at Matt, but he seemed so distressed that Jack didn’t say anything. He recalled that he was also trying to keep a low profile. The argument with Jim had distracted him from the Robert Jeffrey problem. Who could tell — maybe ASIO had the place surrounded.

  Perhaps they could head off somewhere less conspicuous. There were a few grimy cafés and cheap Chinese joints along the northern end of Lygon Street — the kind of places where no one asked anyone questions. Matt stood out in the Lyndhurst, where not many of the regulars wore $3,000 Zegna suits. Some of them had probably never even seen one before.

  ‘Okay, okay. Settle down. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Don’t know. On my way here, I noticed a guy behind me. In a Commodore, I think. I’m pretty sure it’s his sidekick, nasty piece of work. His name’s Karl, I think. Could have seen me stop and come in here.’ Matt’s right hand refused to stay still: he rubbed his still slightly bruised cheek, straightened his jacket, checked his pocket, and then ran it over his hair.

  ‘So where’s your car?’

  ‘Just across the road. Down … I think it’s called Albion Street?’

  ‘That way?’ Jack pointed to the east, without making the gesture too noticeable.

  ‘Yep.’

  A bit too close to Balmoral Avenue — could be risky. He thought about asking Matt to collect his car and come back to pick him up, but decided that was too complicated. He was just about to suggest that they walk down
Lygon Street when Matt pulled hard at his sleeve.

  ‘Come on! We’ve got to move!’

  Jack was unable to say no. There was something about Matt that made him comply, even when he didn’t really want to. He kept ending up in crazy situations with him, with Matt yelling instructions at him, and he did what he was told. First the Somali kids, then the runner in Doncaster, and now this. Why did he keep doing it?

  Matt’s magnetism prevailed again. He drove a path through the growing crowd of drinkers, with Jack tagging along behind him. As he neared the door, he turned and scanned the bar.

  ‘Fuck!’ he said in an urgent whisper directed at Jack. ‘There he is! That’s him!’

  As Jack turned around, Matt grabbed his sleeve and hissed: ‘Don’t look! Shit, I think he’s seen us! Quick, let’s get a move on!’ He dragged Jack towards a side entrance that opened up onto Albion Street.

  Their departure wasn’t exactly surreptitious. Elbows were nudged, drinks were spilled, the door clanged, and regulars stared. Jack noticed a man in a dark jacket heading their way as they went through the door. His determined, athletic stride was a dead giveaway — it had to be their guy. Jack didn’t hang around for a second look.

  There was still plenty of traffic in Lygon Street, even though peak hour was now receding.

  ‘Come on!’ Matt yelled, as he waded straight into the steady stream of cars, dragging Jack along in his wake as if they were tied together. The dog-leg at the end of Lygon Street forced the traffic to slow down, so the cars weren’t travelling much faster than about thirty kilometres per hour. The road was slippery though, as light drizzle was falling.

  As they dodged grumpy commuters, Jack scraped against the rear of a BMW that braked unexpectedly, and Matt was almost hit by a car heading south. By the time they’d made it to the other side of the street, Jack was panting and disoriented.

  ‘Car’s just over there!’ Matt was also breathing faster, but he was still in command. He pointed up Albion Street, and they set off at a fast walk.