A Distant Land

by Alison Booth

  Joe said, ‘I haven’t read it and I’ve got no intention of doing so. But I did think that you ought to know about it.’

  ‘Why didn’t they send you that when you hired me four years ago?’

  ‘Well, I did make it very clear to them that I wasn’t going to check out any of my new reporters. They’ve probably sent it to me now because of the moratorium marches.’

  It occurred to her now that there might be some other reason for Joe’s revelation. She took a deep breath before saying, ‘Is this going to affect the story I’m writing?’

  ‘Do you mean, did ASIO mention anything about that? No, I’ve had no contact with them. This file was here when I returned. Left at reception, apparently, and with no note. Remember I said I was giving you a bit of a free rein? Well, I meant it. But is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Quickly she explained what had been happening with Lorna recently and the meeting she was planning with Wendy Ferris. ‘Do you think I should change my strategy?’

  ‘Hell no,’ Joe said. ‘I employed you in the first place because you can write well and you’re hard-working, but also because I could see you were a bit of an investigator. Your stuff in the student newspaper Honi Soit showed that. You’re one of the people I hired to shake up the stuffy atmosphere that used to pervade this newsroom. Okay, you did have to have a trial on the women’s pages but I soon got you out of that. And ASIO have sent me files on all of you.’

  ‘Can I read my file?’ It might be useful to know if ASIO had been following her recently. Recording her meetings with Lorna. Spying on her other activities.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to let you read it,’ Joe said slowly. ‘It might change you. I’m going to put it in my safe. You can bet it’s only a copy and they’re trying to intimidate us. But we’ll need to be a bit more careful. Keep the tapes locked up. Keep the transcripts under lock and key.’

  ‘I lock them up already.’

  ‘Good woman. Where?’

  ‘In my filing cabinet.’

  ‘That’s not very secure. Anyone could break into that. After you’ve transcribed them, they can go into my office safe. At any rate, the arrival of this file now can mean only one thing: they’re becoming suspicious of you.’

  ‘Do you think there’s anything else I should be doing?’

  ‘Well, I reckon you should get your story about Lorna and the rest out really soon,’ he said, ‘after the fuss about that MP’s sex scandal has died down, the randy bugger. A man in his position ought to have more sense. We’ll have to think of putting Lorna somewhere safe. Maybe she could stay with us. Bridget wouldn’t mind. And I want to consult a lawyer.’

  ‘I might need a bit more time than that,’ she said.

  ‘Not too much more time, Zidra. You never know what else might happen.’

  You never know what else might happen. In a moment her grief returned, driving away everything else. She stood up, legs shaking, and made her way blindly out of Joe’s office.

  The ladies’ room was empty and she locked herself into a cubicle. She felt cold and alone, but her eyes were dry. The time for crying had gone. She’d done enough of that at Jingera before and after the memorial service. There remained only this cold vacuum inside her. It would be an absorbing state if she let it, but she wasn’t about to do that.

  Chapter 25

  The following day Zidra stopped at the Chronicle reception desk. ‘Was the envelope I left with you this morning collected?’ she asked Emma, a pretty girl, in spite of the pancake make-up as thick as a clown’s and false eyelashes like furry black caterpillars weighing down her upper eyelids.

  ‘Yes, two hours ago,’ Emma said. ‘And one was left for you too.’ With the thumb and forefinger of her left hand she delicately picked up the envelope. Her bright-red fingernails looked as if they’d been glued on.

  The envelope was of poor-quality manila and sealed. Zidra put it into her handbag and ran down the stairs and out of the building. The first bus that turned up was bound for Circular Quay and she hopped onto it. It was only a quarter full and she took a seat at the very back. Ripping open the envelope, she pulled out a black-and-white photograph of an Aboriginal girl who looked about eighteen or nineteen years old. She had a long upper lip, a wide unsmiling mouth, large sad-looking dark eyes and wavy black hair cut in an old-fashioned pudding-basin style. Zidra studied the portrait carefully before stowing it inside the internal compartment of her bag.

  At the Quay, she alighted and strolled across to the ferry terminal, where she bought two return tickets to Neutral Bay. There were ten minutes to go before the ferry was due to leave. She ambled along the Quay to the finger wharf from which the Manly ferries departed. A young Aboriginal woman, wearing a nondescript blue denim dress, was waiting next to the turnstile. Zidra walked by and stumbled, knocking into her with her bag. ‘So sorry,’ she said, briefly resting the hand in which she was holding one of the ferry tickets on the woman’s right forearm. The fingers of the woman’s left hand closed around the ticket. ‘Neutral Bay in seven minutes,’ Zidra murmured, before striding off.

  The Neutral Bay ferry had just arrived and people were streaming off it. Zidra didn’t look behind her to check if Wendy was following. After an elderly couple boarded, she slipped into the front of the queue and surged on board, ignoring the hissing of the woman behind her. Quickly she moved along the side of the cabin and sat on a hard wooden seat on the deck in the bow of the boat. A cool breeze was blowing and she guessed that few people would want to sit in such an exposed position. One of the deckhands unslung the ropes and pulled the walkway on board. Seconds later the ferry chugged away from the wharf. Zidra kept her eyes firmly fixed on the Opera House, its white shells stark against the relentless blue. She watched the two red cranes, slowly shifting, like vast insects straddling the curving construction.

  Someone sat down next to her so abruptly the seat rocked. She turned. ‘Good to meet you, Wendy,’ she said, smiling. ‘Is that your real name?’

  The girl nodded, her face giving nothing away.

  ‘Thanks for coming. You do know that I’m a journalist, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Good. We haven’t got all that much time. Neutral Bay and back, that’s all, and we don’t know how many people will be getting on at Neutral Bay. We mightn’t be able to talk much on the way back.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ The girl’s voice quavered. ‘It’ll only take twenty minutes at most to tell you what’s been happening.’

  ‘Do you mind if I record you?’

  The girl looked suspicious. At once Zidra said, ‘Okay, it doesn’t matter. I’ll take notes instead.’

  Wendy hesitated before blurting out, ‘You can record me if it’s easier. Just don’t say my name, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay. Now tell me how it all began.’

  Wendy started to talk rapidly and sometimes so softly that her words were lost to the breeze and the wailing seagulls, and several times Zidra had to ask her to repeat what she was saying. Wendy was involved with an Aboriginal-land-rights movement and had, several months before, moved from northern New South Wales to Redfern, where she was staying with friends in a shared house. The trouble had begun when the house was raided by the police and marijuana had been found, some in her backpack. She knew several of the others smoked it, but she didn’t. She’d never touched it, never. She’d seen what ganja and booze and petrol-sniffing did to you. Clearly it had been planted on her.

  ‘You’re shivering.’ Zidra pulled a cardigan from her bag and spread it around Wendy’s shoulders. She sensed that Wendy wasn’t as strong as Lorna, who was made of a sterner material tempered by fire.

  Wendy explained that, after the police had planted the marijuana, they’d arrested her and in due course they’d let her go, after the man called John
said the charges against her would be dropped if she became an informer. The Abos were a bunch of no-good Communists, that’s what John had said. After she’d been released, she’d got in touch with Legal Aid in Redfern and that’s how she’d made friends with Dave Pringle’s daughter. John had recently found out about her visit to Legal Aid, and only yesterday he’d found her and told her to keep away from bloody lawyers or else. The girl now glanced around in great agitation.

  ‘You’re okay,’ Zidra said. ‘No one’s seen us together.’

  But suddenly Wendy ducked below the gunwale. ‘John’s there,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘He’s on the jetty.’

  Zidra turned off the tape recorder and stowed it out of sight at the bottom of her bag. Then she stood up and leant on the railing. There were perhaps half a dozen people standing on the wharf at Neutral Bay but she couldn’t make out their features from this distance. ‘Go inside,’ she said but it was to the empty air. She saw a flash of blue dress through the window behind her. After picking up the abandoned cardigan, she moved to the other side of the boat. Sheltered by the cabin, she could nonetheless distinguish the people on the jetty. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw that one of them was indeed Steve Jamieson, alias John Ordinary.

  She walked along the deck and slipped inside and up onto the top level. Protected by the cabin, she watched the passengers disembark. Wendy wasn’t among them. She ran down the stairs and saw her slipping into the toilet cubicle, and heard the snick of the bolt as it slid across. Running upstairs again she scrutinised the new passengers boarding the ferry. Mr Ordinary was still standing on the wharf, arms akimbo, watching. Just as the deckhand was about to pull on board the walkway, Mr Ordinary dashed over it. She could see him taking a position on the lower deck outside. He was holding up his camera as if he were a tourist taking photographs of the harbour foreshore. It had a telephoto lens, she observed and wondered if he’d seen her and Wendy together.

  For the rest of the voyage she remained where she was, keeping an eye on Mr Ordinary. Back at Circular Quay he was the first to disembark and at once he vanished into the anonymity of the crowd. Probably watching or photographing from somewhere in there, she thought. As she passed the toilet door, she saw that it was still locked. On the wharf, she waited by the milk bar. The next passengers were about to board and there was still no sign of Wendy. At the last minute Wendy got off and sprinted across the finger wharf and onto the ferry on the other side. Wise girl, and stronger than she looks, Zidra thought. She hoped that Mr Ordinary, or another of his ilk, wouldn’t be waiting for her at the other end.

  Zidra walked over the street and caught the first bus that came along. It was heading for West Ryde. She alighted at the Town Hall stop and flagged down a taxi.

  ‘The Chronicle building,’ she told the driver before settling herself in the back.

  ‘You look very pale,’ the driver said, peering into his rear-vision mirror. ‘Feeling okay?’

  She succeeded in transforming her frown into a smile. ‘Never better,’ she said, although the cold emptiness inside her was growing again. She began to tremble and hoped she wasn’t going to faint.

  Once inside the Chronicle building, she made straight for her bolthole in the ladies’ room. Perched on the shut lid of the WC pan, she fought the vacuum inside her by counting the mosaic tiles on the floor. When she’d reached three hundred, the void had shrunk to a manageable size and she unfastened the door. Her face looked ghastly in the mirror above the washbasins. She pinched her cheeks. Fluorescent lighting was terribly draining, she told herself. Maybe a bit more make-up was called for. She opened her bag and pulled out a red lipstick. A part of her had been amputated with Jim’s death and the wound gaped still. When will I heal, she asked her reflection. When will I heal?

  Concentrate, said her reflection. Concentrate on your work and the time will pass.

  Wendy Ferris and Lorna, she answered back. Focus on Lorna and Wendy. Here, now. They’re what you must think of. Their stories, their treatment.

  Chapter 26

  Zidra’s office telephone rang for the fifth time in ten minutes. She picked it up wearily. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said a familiar American voice. ‘I’ve been thinking of you. Wondering if you’d like to meet up for lunch again.’

  ‘I’m busy at work.’

  ‘You still need to eat,’ Hank said. ‘Couldn’t you manage to get away for an hour or so? Or we could have dinner, if that’s easier.’

  Not dinner, she thought. Definitely not dinner.

  ‘There’s a great new restaurant I’d like to take you to. My treat.’

  ‘Thanks, Hank. It’s really sweet of you but I’m barely holding it together. Too tired all the time. Maybe in a couple of weeks?’

  ‘Okay, gorgeous. I’ll call you then.’

  ‘Lunch not dinner,’ she said firmly.

  As soon as she put the receiver down, it rang again. ‘There’s a fellow here who wants to see you,’ said Emma from reception. ‘Are you free?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Won’t give his name.’

  ‘I’ll come down right away.’ People who wouldn’t give their names were either time-wasters or had a story to tell. Mostly the former, and she’d become expert at getting rid of them.

  She picked up a notebook and pen from her desk, just in case, and slipped them into her bag. She took the staircase rather than the lift. It was faster and, with a bit of luck, would give her a chance to observe the visitor before he saw her. Pausing on the landing at the top of the last half-flight, she inspected the brown-haired young man pacing around the lobby. He was short and overweight; walking wouldn’t be his usual activity. The tweed jacket, blue button-down shirt and moleskin trousers were the uniform of someone from the country, although the briefcase wasn’t. He looked vaguely familiar and she wondered where she’d seen him before. Or perhaps it was just the type that she recognised.

  She clattered downstairs two steps at a time and saw him turn towards her.

  ‘Zidra Vincent,’ he said, his voice light but steady.

  When he shook her hand, he held it longer than was customary, as if testing its weight. Taller than him by a few centimetres, she looked down into the glistening yellow-brown pebbles of his eyes – the most interesting feature, she thought, in a pleasant but otherwise unremarkable face. When he released her hand, she noticed that his fingernails were bitten down to the quick.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Well, you certainly look familiar but I can’t quite place you. Do we know each other?’

  ‘You were three years ahead of me at Burford High. Everyone in my year knew who you were.’

  ‘That’s often the way,’ she said easily. ‘You know the people ahead of you but not the ones behind. Everyone trying to grow up faster than they need to. Always looking ahead.’ She wondered if he was fabricating this connection; she could have seen him anywhere. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Malcolm Edgeworth.’

  ‘Oh, Malcolm Edgeworth! You’re Jane’s little brother.’ She recognised him now, though she hadn’t seen either him or Jane for years. ‘My, how you’ve grown!’ She laughed but noticed he didn’t smile. He was tensed up and nervous; she’d have to go carefully with him. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m in my honours year of Arts at Sydney University.’

  ‘That’s great. There weren’t too many of us at Burford High who went on to university.’

  ‘No. Three in my year, that’s all.’

  ‘And Jane, what’s she up to?’

  ‘Married with a kid and living in Eden. Listen, I’ve got something to tell you, but here’s way too public. Can we go to your office?’

  ‘We could, but it’s even more public than this. Open-plan. I can take you to a quiet room though, where we won’t be overheard.’

 
In the interview room he sat down opposite her. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said again. ‘I think you might find it very interesting.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take notes?’

  ‘No. That’s what I want you to do.’

  She took out her notebook and pen. He began to talk, so fast that several times she had to ask him to slow down and repeat what he’d said. Three years ago he’d been recruited by ASIO as an agent. Her excitement grew as she listened. She noted he didn’t make eye contact but stared at a point behind her head. For the first couple of years he’d felt honoured that he was serving his country, he said. He’d always been deeply patriotic. He’d been told to gradually infiltrate a number of organisations. It had taken a long time. He’d been informing for ages but now he was having a crisis of confidence. He thought what he was doing was wrong. He’d been young and naive when he’d agreed to be an ASIO agent and had made a mistake.

  When he’d finished, she thought for a moment. He began to pull at a piece of loose skin next to his fingernail, so hard it must be hurting, and she looked away. Mustn’t reveal my enthusiasm before making a few checks, she thought. Carefully she said, ‘How did it work? Who handled you?’

  Malcolm stopped pulling at the loose skin and folded his hands on the desk. He looked at her now, his eyes more yellow than brown under the artificial lighting. ‘An ASIO officer called Mr Jones. I met him every third Tuesday in a café in Kings Cross. Then we’d go outside and sit in his car, and he’d debrief me.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘For my country.’

  ‘Did you get paid?’

  ‘Yes, quite well.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well it wasn’t very much at first. Fifty dollars each month. But then last year it went up to four hundred a month.’

  ‘What did you report on?’

  ‘Members, party meetings, car number plates, home telephone numbers.’