‘I was just finishing my Masters at uni, and I got really sick. Some flu kind of thing. It went away, but I stayed exhausted — like all of the time. It goes up and down, but it’s always with you.’
She’s got to be in her late thirties, Jack was thinking, maybe just forty. Doesn’t look it. Not doing much was obviously good for her appearance.
‘What’d the doctors say? Any chance of fixing it?’
‘Not really. It’s still a mystery to them. At least they accept it’s real now. Drove me nuts early on. You’re too physically exhausted to do anything for more than about twenty minutes, so you have to lie down for half the day. And most people think there’s really nothing wrong with you.’
‘What’d you do your Masters in?’
‘Art history at RMIT. Not much use for anything — even if I could work.’
‘Haven’t worked since then?’
‘Not much. I’ve done odd bits and pieces, a few part-time things at galleries. I helped out at the State Library for a while — very short hours, though. I’ve been on the DSP for ages.’
Jack had sometimes thought about applying for the Disability Support Pension himself. Surely chronic hayfever and general physical decay would qualify.
His scepticism about people on the disability pension was wavering. He had always assumed that most DSP beneficiaries were frauds and bludgers. From the little he’d heard of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, he’d decided it was just another haven for the pathetic and inadequate, like worker’s compensation stress claims. Emily was so transparently sincere and decent that he was rethinking this opinion. Maybe some of them were fair dinkum after all.
‘So most physical stuff’s a no-no? Like washing the dishes, sweeping the floor, and stuff?’
‘I can do things like that, but only in short bursts. Then I have to lie down for a while.’
Jack wondered if people with chronic fatigue could have sex, but thought it better not to ask. He looked at Emily’s face, and concluded that she was more attractive than he’d initially thought. Her skin was creamy-pink, smooth and unblemished, and her petite snub nose sat easily between pale-blue eyes and full, even lips. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but there was something pleasant and endearing about her features that drew Jack to her. Nothing was outstanding, but nothing was wrong either. He was even getting used to the clashing colours of her outfit and the peculiar hair colour.
‘What about going out — the movies, or even having a coffee, like now?’
‘I could get to a movie, if you’re asking. It varies. Some days, I literally can’t get out of bed. Others aren’t too bad. Last week or so’s been good.’
‘Shit.’ This was all beyond Jack’s comprehension. He had never met anyone with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome before. He didn’t know how to offer help and sympathy.
‘What about your family, boyfriend, or whatever?’
‘Don’t have anything like that. I grew up in Adelaide, and Mum’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. Dad left when I was four, and my brother was killed in a car accident when he was nineteen. And if I had a partner it’d be him carting boxes around for me, not you, wouldn’t it?’ She smiled at Jack, and he basked in the implied admiration. He marvelled that someone who had been dealt with so unfairly by life could be so upbeat, and felt a twinge of shame at his tendency to grizzle about life’s unfairness at every opportunity.
‘I’m not complaining, Jack. I’ve got lots of friends round here’ — she gestured in the general direction of the flats — ‘and I try to do my bit at the welfare centre.’
‘Yeah, I got volunteered to help out, too.’
‘They’re like that. Beautiful people, though. Especially the women.’
‘Yeah. When I bump into Somali blokes, it always seems to end up in an argument. Who was that lunatic anyway?’
‘Not sure. They treat women pretty badly, some of them, but the women stand up for themselves.’
‘He Farhia’s cousin or something?’
‘Dunno. They’re obviously connected somehow. Hard to tell with the Somalis. Clans, tribes, cousins, it all blurs into the same thing …’
Jack looked up and shifted awkwardly in his seat.
‘What do you think of Farhia?’ As he spoke, he noted with surprise that he had barely thought about Farhia over the last hour or so.
‘Nice lady. I think she’s quite well educated, and she’s a bit of a leader with the Somali women. Must be hard with the two boys …’
She looked off into the distance for a moment, weighing her thoughts. Jack tried to look relaxed and nonchalant, just making polite conversation about a person he was only mildly interested in.
‘A bit hard to read?’
Emily tilted her head to one side and gave him a quizzical smile. ‘Some of them are like that … been through a lot, awful things.’
‘How long’s she been in Australia?’
‘I don’t know — a few years maybe.’
‘She’s very beautiful, of course.’ Jack thought he noticed a half-shadow flit across Emily’s face, and he regretted this unguarded comment as soon as he had made it.
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
He sipped at the dregs of his coffee, now heading beyond lukewarm towards cold.
‘Anyway, it’s all window shopping when you get to my age.’ He underlined this tactical retreat with a short burst of laughter.
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jack. You’re obviously a good man. You’ve helped Farhia, and now you’re helping me. That’s more important.’
Jack blushed, and sipped at his empty coffee cup to hide his embarrassment.
‘Yeah, well, the only thing that stopped me from being a Hollywood movie star is lack of talent!’
They both laughed, and he sensed that it was the right time to leave.
‘Better get moving. Got to do the cab handover, Ajit gets cranky if I’m late too much.’
They stood up. In spite of Emily’s protestations, Jack insisted on paying for the coffees. As they walked out into the creeping gloom of late afternoon, Emily grasped Jack’s arm and looked straight at him with wide, clear eyes.
‘Thanks so much, Jack, you’re a lifesaver. Let’s catch up again some time soon.’
‘Yeah, that’d be great. Might see you around the Somali joint or something. Give you a call, maybe. Good luck with the rest of the move.’
As he walked back along Elgin Street, Jack marvelled at his own confusion. Not so long ago, he had been resigned to spending his declining years with porn and pub mates. Now he was infatuated with one beautiful woman, and was talking about catching up with another one.
Yet he was vaguely conscious of a fundamental truth: however low his value in the sexual marketplace might be, there were attractive women out there who faced similar challenges. Somali single mums and middle-aged women with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome weren’t exactly market leaders, either.
He laughed at how stupid it all was. In his eyes, Farhia was stunningly beautiful. Emily was pretty and vivacious. They were both intelligent, and seemed to be caring, decent people. In what kind of world were women like this destined to be single? And, more to the point, why on earth would they be interested in someone like him? None of it made any sense.
14
Abduction
Jack was in a philosophical mood as he trawled for fares the next morning. For once, it was a nice day — lots of sunshine, not much wind, and the smell of jasmine in the air. He’d stopped worrying about the confusion engulfing him. He was fatalistic by nature, and he couldn’t sustain focus on life-shaping issues for very long. So what if he ended up in jail for acting as a drug courier?
After an initial burst, fares were scarce. He stood leaning against the cab at the William Street rank, drawing heavily on his third cigarette for the morning. Determined office workers streamed all around
him, clutching takeaway coffees, briefcases, handbags, and umbrellas. They reminded Jack of the tiny fish he used to chase in the shallows at the beach when he was a kid.
His mobile rang. His paranoia about ASIO had subsided, but he still did a double-take before answering.
‘Jack? It is Farhia. I am sorry. He is after you. You must go away.’ Her words spilled out in staccato bursts, punctuated by short, shallow breaths. She was very agitated.
‘What? Who is?’ The now-familiar surge of adrenalin hit Jack like a drug rush.
‘He hit you at the welfare centre. I am sorry … I had to tell him about your photos.’ She stifled a sob, took another hurried breath, and continued. ‘He wants the book … he hit me. Now he is looking at you … I am sorry … I have hidden it, but he is coming back to get it …’
‘He’s not with you now?’
‘No, he is gone.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The welfare centre.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘Jack, you must not …’
‘I have to. I caused all this, so I’ve got to fix it.’
‘He is dangerous to you …’
‘I don’t care. Stay there, I’ll be there in ten.’
Jack hardly recognised himself. The decisive tough-guy routine wasn’t even an act. He wasn’t trying to impress Farhia: he’d just had enough. The entire world was going crazy around him, and something inside him had snapped. He was sick of being attacked, threatened, and bullied. It was time to fight back. He didn’t want to be the bloke who everyone stood over and took for granted any more. The new-found authority in his voice wasn’t feigned.
He scrambled back into the cab and started the engine. The deep-throated hum of the Falcon gave him some reassurance.
‘Come on, come on!’ He cursed the traffic lights at Victoria Street. At the first glimpse of green, the Falcon shot up Rathdowne Street, exceeding the fifty-kilometres-per-hour limit almost before he had crossed the intersection. Rathdowne Street was less congested than Lygon Street at that time of day.
It didn’t take him much longer than the promised ten minutes to get to the flats. He parked illegally on Lygon Street and jogged down the ramp that led from the street to the ground level of the public housing estate, ignoring the shooting pains in his thighs. As he approached the welfare centre, he heard a crying-wailing noise piercing the calm spring air. His heart missed a beat.
He burst through the doorway, ignoring the clatter as the door slammed shut behind him. Farhia was sitting on one of the broken office chairs, slumped forward, sobbing. Aicha was leaning over her, her arm around her shoulders, comforting her.
Farhia looked up at him, her face radiating pain and anger. ‘They have taken him!’
‘Who? Who has?’
‘Yusuf! My little boy! Abdirahman has taken him. He demands the book.’
With some prompting from Aicha, Jack was able to extract the details of events over the past fifteen minutes from her. There was a slight bruise on the right side of her face, and her bottom lip looked swollen.
The man Jack recalled as Rooney — apparently named Abdirahman — had accosted Farhia outside the welfare centre and threatened her. She had told him of Jack’s photos of the book. She then returned to the centre and rang Aicha and Jack, and then left with Yusuf. Abdirahman had been waiting for her behind the end of the tower block. He hit Farhia, grabbed Yusuf and hustled him into a car, and drove off. She had no chance of pursuing him: by the time she had recovered from the assault, Yusuf was already in the car. Aicha had arrived at the centre only a few minutes later.
Jack’s brain was running in overdrive. Abdirahman wanted the book, and he wanted Jack’s phone. He didn’t know that ASIO also had a copy. They might have to hand over the book and his phone to get Yusuf back.
Now Jack was really out of his depth. It was hard enough dealing with unprovoked assaults. Dealing with the abduction of small children was well beyond his capabilities. It was probably time to get the cops involved.
When he suggested this to Farhia, she was adamant. ‘No police, no police! He will kill Yusuf!’
Aicha nodded. While Jack harboured a longstanding cynicism about the police, he was just beginning to understand how deep the distrust of law-enforcement agencies was in communities like the Somali’s.
‘So where can we find this Abdirahman guy?’
Aicha looked up at him. ‘There is café down that street, Toledo … something. I do not know. They go there.’
‘Where? Which street?’ There was real urgency in Jack’s voice now, as he struggled to take charge of the situation.
Farhia was calming a little, and tried to explain. ‘In Johnston Street, after we cross Nicholson Street.’
A brief silence ensued, and then she spoke again. ‘Be careful, Jack. You must not let him hurt Yusuf. He is a bad man.’
‘I know some bad men, too. But you’ve got to tell me what this is all about. Why does he want your book?’
Farhia looked at Aicha, and Jack noticed a tiny glimmer of surrender flit across her face. Farhia took a deep breath, smoothed her crumpled robe, and sat up. She had stopped crying.
‘Sit here and I will tell you.’
Jack dragged a large wooden box over from the far wall and sat down on it.
‘So this is about terrorists, is it?’ It was easy to imagine Abdirahman as a terrorist.
‘No.’ Farhia smiled weakly through a tear-stained, but still beautiful, milky-brown face.
‘It is pirates. You know about Somali pirates.’
Jack nodded. He was listening intently.
‘My brother was with the pirates. We are from good family in Bossaso, but he went with pirates. He is educated, a leader, they offer him money. He had a fight with other leader, men were killed, he ran away. They chase him because he knows many things. He was the organiser, for the money. He got money from Saudi, he bought guns, he made bribes.’
Jack stared at her wide-eyed, completely transfixed. It was like something on TV, not quite real.
‘He wrote down information in the book, gave it to me when I was in Somalia. It is his protection. They know if he is killed, his family will use the book. The world is against pirates, they will use the book to destroy them. My brother is hiding, somewhere near Mogadishu. I take the book with me everywhere. The pirates work out that I have it, they hurt my father, he tell them it is in Australia. So now they chase me. At first they think my father lied. Now they know I have the book.
‘The pirates have friends in Australia — bad men, Abdirahman and some others. They know he is in our family. Perhaps the Saudis pay them. People think pirates are just fishermen, but it is a business. Rich people make investment, buy guns and boats, pay for the pirates. Saudis, Somalis, Yemenis, maybe even Ethiopians. My brother did not go on the boats, he was like manager. So he knows many things about the pirates. And there is big man in the book. Abdullah bin-Taif, I think he is called, he is working for Saudi prince, in charge of his businesses. If people find this, there are very big problems.’
Jack didn’t know much about the politics of the Middle East, but he knew enough to understand that any evidence of a link between Somali pirates and the Saudi royal family would be explosive.
‘The kids who attacked Yusuf and Omar, they part of it?’
‘I think so. To frighten me. To make me know they will hurt them. The man with the knife, he tells them what to do. They were not sure I have the book. When they hurt Yusuf and Omar, you mess it up.’ She smiled ruefully at him. ‘Police come, so they stay away for days. Then they come back. I am sorry, Jack, this is not your problem.’
Jack’s mind was in turmoil. His mouth was open, he was shifting around on his seat, and absent-mindedly fiddling with his left index finger. At last some of the extraordinary recent events were becoming comprehensible. Bu
t now what?
‘It is my problem,’ he said quietly. ‘I will get Yusuf back for you, but you’ll have to give me the book.’
The pained look on Farhia’s face told him all he needed to know. ‘I cannot. I cannot betray my brother. What about your phone? He knows there are photos also.’
Jack nodded. He didn’t want to give up his phone if he could help it, but if he had to, he would. He would need to use guile, intimidation, and bluff to have any chance of getting Yusuf back, and preserving his phone would be a bonus.
Intimidation? Who was he kidding? He was the one being intimidated.
He stood up with an air of purpose that masked his inner fears.
‘I have a friend who can help. We’ll get Yusuf back, don’t worry. You need to get Omar somewhere safe, where they can’t find him — maybe Emily’s new flat. Still got my mobile number?’
Farhia nodded. She didn’t challenge Jack’s assertion of authority.
He extracted his phone from his pocket and called Emily.
‘Emily? Hi, it’s Jack. Listen, got a bit of an emergency happening here. Farhia’s in strife — the same bloke. We’re down at the welfare centre, with Aicha. Can you take them to your new place, look after them for a bit?’
Emily said she would be there in a few minutes, but baulked at the idea of returning to her flat.
‘Doesn’t matter your place is a mess. It’s an emergency. Yusuf’s been snatched by that guy who thumped her. I’m going to go after him, but you’ve got to look after her.’
Jack turned his phone off and spoke quickly to Farhia. ‘She’ll be here in a minute. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.’ He took Farhia’s hand in his and looked straight into her terrified eyes.
‘I’ll get him back.’
He walked out of the centre, thinking through the limited options available to him. They all ended up pointing to one man: Scabber McPhee. He would know what to do. He was an old-style crim, the kind who didn’t like people picking on kids. One of Scabber’s more notable exploits in prison had been beating up a paedophile so severely that he had almost died.
Comfort Zone Page 18