Comfort Zone

by Lindsay Tanner

  The William Street rank was slow that morning — agonisingly slow. Cursing mid-morning slumps and the nasty, biting wind funnelling between the giant office towers, Jack fantasised about sitting at a desk in a nice warm office up on the forty-first floor. He was still only fourth in the queue on the rank.

  There was one pleasure available to him that was denied to all the pen-pushers up in the skyscrapers: smoking. It was time to light up. That was sure to get the rank moving.

  He’d only been in the cab for five minutes or so to escape the wind, but that didn’t matter. He eased his way back out of the driver’s seat, groaning as his aching quad muscles protested. Exercising great care because of the south-westerly barrelling up William Street, he lit his cigarette. He inhaled the warm, acrid smoke with much pleasure. Who cared if they were slowly killing him? After a brief burst of optimism from Louie’s pep talk, his normal pessimistic, cynical self was returning. He didn’t have anything much to live for, so why not smoke? Farhia was just a pipe-dream.

  As he was approaching the point where the cigarette flavour started to change, and the taste was more of filter than tobacco, he noticed the driver of the second cab on the rank get out of his car. He raised his left forearm in a signal of greeting, recognising the dark, skinny driver, but not quite recalling his name.

  ‘Hi, Mohammed, shit day, hey?’ He wasn’t sure he had the name right, but most of these guys were called Mohammed. He was obviously Somali.

  ‘Ibrahim. Mohammed, he is my brother.’

  ‘Er, yeah, sorry, mate, must’ve mixed you up.’ He managed to stop himself saying something like ‘You guys all look the same.’ Ibrahim didn’t seem to mind that Jack had got his name wrong.

  His phone beeped, and, as he reached for it, it occurred to him that this might be the chance he had been waiting for. He could get Ibrahim to shed some light on the contents of Farhia’s book.

  ‘Hey Ibrahim, can you take a look at something on my phone for me? Think it’s in Somali. Found it, you know, think the cops are interested. Can you tell me what it says? Don’t want to drop anyone in it with the cops or anything …’ Jack was pleased with this improvisation. He reasoned that Ibrahim would be keen to protect any of his countrymen from entanglement with the police.

  He fiddled with the phone to bring up the first page, and then used the zoom to make the text large enough to read. Jack was proud of his phone: it was the only cutting-edge thing he’d ever owned.

  Ibrahim stared intently at the screen, with Jack hovering close beside him, showing him how to use the cursor to move the image around. As they huddled on the pavement beside Jack’s cab, the first cab on the rank pulled away.

  ‘My friend, where did you get this? It is bad people in Somalia, criminals. You should not have this.’

  Ibrahim was shaking a little, and glancing around nervously as he spoke. Whatever was in Farhia’s book had frightened him.

  ‘What people? Who?’

  ‘I do not know. They kill people. You must stay away.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  A driver further back on the rank tooted at them as a man in a dark-blue overcoat approached the front of the line. Ibrahim jumped, then handed the phone back to Jack, darted in front of his cab, and leapt into his own with fluid, economical movements.

  ‘Be careful with this. Goodbye, Jack.’ Ibrahim wasn’t about to sacrifice a good fare on a slow morning to help Jack solve his mystery. As he slipped into his cab, Jack called out to him: ‘Who are they? What’d they do?’

  By this point, though, Ibrahim was in his cab apologising to his passenger, and Jack was standing alone at the kerb still holding his phone.

  His mind was racing. Maybe Farhia was involved in some kind of terrorist cell, after all. Or perhaps it was her unfriendly cousin with the knife, and she was an innocent bystander caught up in things she couldn’t control. He couldn’t imagine Farhia as an extremist. She was much too genteel and sensible. He resolved to go looking for her when his shift finished.

  Jack remained standing in the gutter beside his cab, one foot on the pavement, his face contorted with concentration. What was it about the stupid book? Why was it so important — and so scary?

  He was startled out of this deep contemplation by an impatient shout.

  ‘Hey, mate, you moving up?’ The next driver reminded him that the queue needed to move up, as it was now getting congested at the tail end. Jack waved an acknowledgment and got into his cab and crept forward. He was so perplexed, he wasn’t even thinking about the next fare.

  He would have to confront Farhia about the book. If necessary, he would confess everything. He wouldn’t be able to keep Jeffrey at bay for much longer, and he was worried about being charged with obstructing justice, or something of the kind. He might even get locked up under the new anti-terrorism laws he’d heard about. He could be interrogated for weeks without anyone even knowing where he was, apparently. Not that there was anyone who would care, of course.

  His Farhia fantasy was fading a little. The previous night’s escapades had given him more to think about, and the injection of optimism from Louie had receded. All the unexpected excitement was getting to him. He could feel panic rising inside him again. Everything seemed to be spiralling out of control.

  The rest of the shift was uneventful. He marvelled at an elderly man in a grey woollen suit with a polished antique walking stick who looked like an exhibit in a museum. He was impeccably polite, and gave Jack a very modest tip, which he suspected was a reflection of the fact that he was out of date about almost everything.

  Jack criss-crossed inner Melbourne, picking up and dropping off, and he didn’t get another interesting passenger until the last job of the shift.

  She was a slim woman, probably in her late thirties, dressed in an elegant light-grey suit — or skirt and matching jacket, as Jack would have described it. She let out a sigh of exasperation as she sank into the front seat beside him.

  Taking care not to let her see him, Jack rolled his eyes. He had picked up the fabled Gina Hard-Faced Bitch. Doubtless a feminazi who looked down on men like him. It was interesting that she had chosen to sit in the front. Well-dressed women travelling alone usually sat in the back, to keep their distance. Every now and then, one of them sat up front, perhaps to display some egalitarian spirit, or maybe just to have someone to talk to. Location was everything when it came to conversation in the cab. It was hard to talk to someone in the back seat, particularly if they were sitting on the driver’s side. It was difficult not to talk to someone sitting in the front.

  ‘Coppin Street in Richmond, thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’

  The traffic was diabolical, and it didn’t take her long to start venting.

  ‘Christ, this is awful! How long do you think it will take?’

  ‘Hard to say. Twenty minutes, if we’re lucky. Roadworks down the bottom end of Bridge Road.’

  ‘God, this place is a joke! No one can run anything! They let the roads fall apart, and just keep handing out more and more money to “families”. Why I bothered to work hard and get an education, I’ll never know.’ Jack could sense the intense bitterness when she said ‘families’.

  ‘Yeah … pisses me off too … er, excuse the French. I pay full freight on tax, and they give it all to people with kids. Some of them earning a hundred and fifty grand! Take me years to earn that kind of money.’

  ‘Exactly! It’s totally unfair. I know kids cost money, but couples don’t need two fridges, two lounge suites, two washing machines, and all that. Their rent isn’t double what mine is. Stupid politicians … singles are invisible …’

  ‘Yeah, too true.’ Jack was warming to her. This woman had the right idea. ‘Been paying tax for years. What do I get from the government? Nothing. Can’t even fix the roads — knocks the cab around something shocking.’

  ‘We need a s
ingles revolution. I’m sick of “working families” and all that rubbish.’

  Hallelujah to that, Jack thought. ‘And all the money they have to spend on boat people. Detention joints cost a packet, more than the Hilton … Should just send them all back …’

  ‘They’re escaping war and torture and all kinds of horrible things! It’s not their fault their countries are being torn apart. We’re a rich country, we have to be generous. And it’s in our interests … where else are we going to get our cleaners and aged-care nurses and …?’

  She was just about to say taxidrivers, Jack noted grimly. Thanks for nothing, lady. Not your job they’ll be taking.

  Making a big effort to stay calm, Jack returned to the safe ground of unfair taxes. Never upset a potential tipper, he reminded himself.

  As he pulled over, Jack noted the expensive appearance of the elegant double-fronted home his passenger was returning to. It didn’t look like the absence of preferential tax treatment was doing that much damage.

  As she handed over a credit card and Jack fiddled with his machine, she resumed her diatribe.

  ‘It’s time we stood up for ourselves, you know. I’m a lawyer and you’re just a taxidriver, but we should stand together on this.’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ Jack replied as he returned her card with a receipt. He suppressed an urge to tell her that he was a nuclear physicist driving cabs for some extra pin money.

  She stepped cautiously onto the nature strip, making sure she wasn’t about to step into anything unpleasant.

  ‘Phew,’ Jack said aloud to himself as soon as the cab door had closed. Almost had me going until that ‘just a taxidriver’ bit. No matter how much he agreed with her about tax, he couldn’t escape the fact that she was essentially a creature from another planet — a very smug, educated, wealthy planet.

  He was now free to concentrate on Farhia. He was confident she would be at the welfare centre, so he decided to turn up unannounced. Hadn’t he volunteered to help?

  After a running battle with early peak-hour traffic, he arrived outside the Lygon Street towers in reasonable time. He edged his way through the doorway, a mix of fear and bravado churning inside him. Taking the initiative felt liberating, and he kept trying to recall Louie’s words of encouragement, but he couldn’t suppress the old Jack’s automatic presumption of failure.

  The centre was a lot quieter this time. A colourfully clad Somali woman was sitting at the desk with her back to the door, sifting through a pile of papers. It wasn’t Farhia, or even Aicha.

  There was only one other person in the room, a woman with strikingly pale skin wearing even more colourful clothing than the woman at the desk. She had straggly, shoulder-length hair that was dyed a kind of rusty-orange colour. She was wearing a bright-red cardigan over a multi-coloured paisley top, a short lime-green skirt, and thick, long yellow socks. Jack was no authority on women’s clothing, but he could see that she was determined to assert her right to wear bright-coloured clothing of all hues whatever the result. Inside this confusion of colour, she seemed fairly pretty. Jack wasn’t that good at guessing women’s ages either, but he figured she was in her late thirties or early forties, which made her outfit even more adventurous.

  Unconsciously gravitating to the white person in the room, he asked if she knew where Farhia was.

  ‘Not sure. I think she had to take Yusuf to the health centre,’ she replied softly, sizing up Jack as she fiddled with some files on a shelf behind the door.

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Not really. You a friend of hers?’ Wariness now laced her even, tuneful tone.

  ‘Sort of, yeah. Actually, I’m supposed to be helping out here.’

  ‘Great. What can you do?’

  ‘I’m a cab driver.’ He pointed at the logo on his shirt. ‘I can give people lifts I suppose, maybe move stuff. Anything really, I suppose.’

  ‘Could you help me move my stuff?’

  ‘What?’ Jack was taken aback. ‘You don’t look very Somali,’ he joked, and started shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke. He was now feeling awkward, a bit out of place.

  She smiled back at him, a pleasant, friendly smile that showed off her pretty facial features. ‘No I don’t, do I? I’m a friend of Farhia’s, I help out here, too. Something to do without putting too much strain on me.’

  ‘You crook or something?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got CFS.’

  Jack stared blankly at her, wondering if it was infectious.

  ‘Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jack had heard of CFS, recalling that a prominent AFL footballer had suffered from it a few years back, but he’d always assumed it was a medical term for irredeemable laziness.

  ‘It’s a serious illness. That’s why I need help moving my things.’

  She flashed an impish smile, sending an involuntary tingle surging through him. He could feel himself being drawn to this unusual woman without understanding why. There was a magnetic quality to her underneath the outlandish appearance. It seemed impossible to refuse her request for assistance. The illness made her another damsel in distress. And if she was a friend of Farhia’s, maybe he’d win some brownie points by helping out.

  ‘Yeah, no worries, I’ll shift your stuff for you. Just pretend you’re Somali.’

  She laughed, like a light tinkle of piano keys in the higher treble range.

  ‘I’ve got lots of Somali friends. I’m Emily, by the way.’

  ‘That’ll have to do.’ Jack smiled back at her. He knew he wasn’t much to look at — even with his new haircut — but a decent smile would help.

  ‘So how’d you get roped in to help?’ Emily was chatty, her expression an invitation to engage. Jack was back in his comfort zone now, idly conversing with someone who appeared to belong at his level in the social pecking order.

  ‘Through Farhia. You know how her son broke his arm?’

  ‘Yusuf? Poor little thing.’

  ‘I was there, helped break it up.’

  ‘Oh. You’re that guy. Farhia thinks you’re great.’

  Jack glowed. No other four words in the English language could have been calculated to induce such strong emotion in him, with the possible exception of ‘Lions premiers this year’.

  ‘Just pulled them apart. With this guy Matt, who was getting into my cab. My name’s Jack, by the way.’ He gave a quick, embarrassed smile to apologise for his lack of social graces.

  The woman at the desk had been ignoring them thus far. She stood up and walked towards the door, and as she passed, she spoke to Emily: ‘I will come back very soon.’

  ‘Okay Hodan, I will still be here.’ She turned back to Jack, and, with her eyes even wider, asked him with a pleading tone: ‘So you sure you can help me move my stuff?’

  ‘Suppose so. Whereabouts? When’ve you got to move?’

  ‘Start of next week. I’m down in Elgin Square, but the Ministry’s letting me move to a better flat up here. In 480.’ She waved her arm in the direction of the southern-most of the three tower blocks.

  ‘No worries. I could finish my shift a bit early, knock it over before changeover. How much stuff’ve you got? Don’t you need a truck or a van or something?’

  ‘Not much. I’ll have to get someone else to move my bed, but we should be able to do the rest in a couple of trips. I don’t have much apart from books and clothes — and a few little things.’

  ‘Monday should be okay. What flat are you in? I’ll come ‘round about three-ish or thereabouts.’

  ‘I’m in 1011, the end block.’

  ‘Okay. Er … Emily, right?’ Jack smiled at her.

  ‘Emily. Here, I’ll write down my number.’ She scrabbled around on one of the desks until she found a piece of scrap paper, and started to write.

  ‘Errgh! Stupid pen!
They never work.’

  Jack leapt into action, and after a few seconds of looking, found a red pen on the computer trolley.

  ‘Here, try this one.’ This time, the pen worked, and Emily wrote down her number and handed over the scrap of paper.

  ‘Not sure you’ll see Farhia here today. I think she’s got some things to deal with.’

  ‘Yeah? Nothing serious, I hope.’ Jack hoped that this reply sounded sufficiently off-hand.

  ‘Family stuff, I think. Here, in Somalia, who knows. I think with her brother.’ She emphasised the mysterious nature of such matters with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Might give her a call.’ Jack then said some suitable goodbyes and left the centre, hoping that his departure was graceful.

  As he walked across to the cab, Jack pondered this latest piece of information. Farhia had problems with her brother. What kind of problems? Was he in Australia, or Somalia? Then he wondered why a woman he had never met would ask him to help her move house.

  His normal ungainly gait accentuated by his aching thigh muscles, Jack approached the cab thinking about his relationship with Ajit. He didn’t want to be late for changeover again. Ajit was generally pretty relaxed about such things, but Jack was worried about losing him as a share driver. They each paid $1,200 per week out of their takings to the taxi owner, which gave them use of the cab, its licence, maintenance, and access to the booking system and radio. He had grown used to Ajit, who also had one or two harmless peculiarities like an obsessive interest in cricket, and he knew from experience that these partnership arrangements sometimes ended in tears. He made a mental note to apologise even more sincerely than usual when he got to Ajit’s place.

  The Lygon Street ranks were both full, so he turned into Elgin Street and drove down to the rank where it had all started. At least this one was empty, even if it was much quieter than the major ones nearby.

  He leant against the side of the cab and lit a cigarette. As he idly looked around, he noticed a woman in a dark-blue Somali dress with two small children some distance away. He tried hard to focus, and became convinced that it was Farhia. They were heading in his direction, but moving very slowly.