CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

DAY THIRTY – FRIDAY

Vitriol and extremism were the calls coming in to talkback radio and being stoked by announcers after two nights of targeted fire bombs in Gerrard’s electorate of Melbourne. The community was angry and wanted action, but the police were finding it hard to find the perpetrators and the politicians were ducking for cover, trying to avoid the media.

The broader Melbourne community was on edge with increasing signs of anxiety and chaos. A sense of fear hung like a storm cloud over the city, persuading citizens to stay close to their homes at night with the streets becoming still as if a curfew had been enacted. Daylight brought people from their homes, but their heightened anxiety was evident in their nervous interaction with each other as they wondered what was going to happen next in their suburb. Discussions about the urban terrorism was dominating the media. Community leaders demanded police protect their citizens and called upon the government to stop talking and act to stop the violence. Gerrard was nowhere to be seen, preferring not to comment on police procedural matters.

Perfect.

This was a campaign playbook Wolff had used before when he needed to focus the electorate on issues that would change their vote. He wanted chaos, but violent demonstrations were not his preferred strategy. He much preferred the media and social media to create a wave of dissent and anger, but given his strategy to shift large numbers of votes in Melbourne, he needed a quicker emotional response from voters.

He didn’t want to target a specific ethnic group – he wanted to scare them all. He firebombed ethnic businesses after smearing uncivilised racial slogans across their windows calling for a cleansing of the culture. He recruited groups of Sudanese youths to stalk the city during the evening rush hour creating a nuisance with their numbers. He paid them to skylark, enjoy themselves and be loud. They were harmless, but within the community they were to be feared.

Disturbed and increasingly anxious commuters and visitors to the city were extremely worried by the youths’ presence, providing excellent footage for the provocative media of scared citizens worried for their safety. The youths didn’t engage in any direct conflict and followed Wolff’s careful instructions to just provide a menacing presence. In response, other extreme gangs had begun to muscle up their presence in the city streets thinking it may be a good idea to assert their own ethnic identity. The tension between the ethnic groups was palpable with police and church leaders insisting on calm.

Deploring the violation of their city, concerned citizens entered the Twitter debate and gained immediate community traction with #notmycountry. Wolff mobilised his many Twitter trolls to begin a sustained program of hate speech inciting emotional and at times unbalanced responses from various community groups, which threw social media out of control with outrageous claims. Other racist hashtags began to appear, as did #notmyprimeminister #closetheborders and #Jaya4pm.

Perfect.

Wolff strategically mobilised a further twenty covert operatives with the direction to take at least four taxi trips before midday throughout the city. They were to sit in the back seat and fake a telephone call complaining about immigration, saying racially provocative comments against Indians immigrants. ‘Talk about curry and cricket and the manner in which our national symbols are changing – blame the immigrants.’

He wanted to organise a public backlash from the tight and supportive, yet frequently anxious, community of Melbourne Indian taxi drivers. During the lunch period, Wolff directed his Twitter and Facebook trolls to initiate messaging news of a public protest by taxi drivers at four o’clock in the city – word spread quickly of the demonstration with drivers and their supporters congregating in the major intersection outside Flinders Street Station, bringing city traffic to a standstill. Gridlock soon took hold of the city and the streets ground to a traffic nightmare.

The demonstration was vocally hostile toward the government with chants including anti-racism cries such as, ‘What do we want? A safe city. When do we want it? Now!’ Commuters supporting the demand for action to end the violence joined the massive throng and soon they were singing the John Lennon classic song about peace and giving it a chance

Perfect.

The mob was pining for leadership, someone to listen to their needs and speak for them. As instructed by Wolff, Jaya Rukhmani gave it to them.

Robert Wong cleared a way through the throng to the centre of the intersection and set up a stepladder with a platform so Jaya could easily address the crowd and be heard. Wolff provided speaker notes and she took the megaphone offered by Wong before nervously climbing the ladder and standing on its platform.

Wong then raised a hooter above his head and pushed the button that emitted a piercing wail, silencing the crowd, most turned toward the noise to see Jaya high above her audience just like at speaker’s corner.

‘Fellow Australians,’ she started nervously, waiting for the crowd to quieten and listen. With an even louder voice projection she started again. ‘My fellow Australians, we have a simple principle in Australia that draws upon the values of modern democracies: freedom, equality, community. We hold these values to be true and we have fought many battles to uphold them. Battles here in this country right throughout our history. Indeed, Australians have also supported other countries against attacks to their democracy.

‘We Australians pride ourselves on our culture and we welcome people from all lands to come and work with us to build our wealth so we may provide for all of us – together. We have built a magnificent country and for those who wish to contribute, there are ample rewards.’

The crowd fell completely silent listening to the woman before them. ‘My name is Jaya Rukhmani. I came to Australia thirty years ago as an immigrant, just like many of you. I could speak no English and I was bonded under arrangements from India. I was in a position of poverty, but Australia gave me a chance. I worked hard to repay the debt I owed this country for providing me the peace and love of which you speak. I’ve worked hard.’ Jaya paused for a moment for emphasis. ‘But many do not. I’m sad to say there are people who take advantage of Australia and its people. They take advantage of all of us.’

‘You got that right!’ yelled a Sikh taxi driver in a blue turban and the crowd around him cheered agreement.

‘There are those in the community who come to this country and take advantage of those who work hard and pay their taxes. There are those who come here to take government money, your money, as if it is their right without any contribution to the community.

‘Friends, these are not just random individuals rorting the system. No, this is a culture of entitlement and you have the privilege of paying.’ A sudden vocal agreement ripped through the crowd.

Jaya paused to take a calming breath, looked around behind her, smiled and then continued. ‘It’s not their fault. It’s the government system that is giving our money to them. It is the government system insisting hard workers, like all of us here, have to pay. We pay those not willing to work. We pay those in the community demanding more money and demanding greater government services.’

Jaya paused and the crowd cheered its agreement again. She was gaining confidence and slowed her words so they could be clearly heard. She looked behind her and waited for the noise to calm.

‘Let us not blame individuals. Nor should we ever blame any race nor ethnic group or religion. The people to blame are the politicians.’ Her voice rose and the crowd erupted agreement again. ‘Politicians ignore us. The elite tell us what to think – even what to say – suppressing our views. The elite never hear us; they don’t want us to tell them the truth. They sit quietly in their glass houses while they open our borders to the takers, the leaners and the entitlement generation. The elite are not listening, and it needs to stop.’

The mob was now in unison with Jaya’s words and again cheered and clapped when she paused.

‘We must restore Australia’s freedom, equality and community and rid ourselves of the policies that promote a culture of entitlement. We must demand our government listens to the people. A government must provide leadership. A government that does not weaken to the call of the elite. We need a government to take responsibility.

‘We, the people, should be participants – not watchers and not the victims we are becoming. We, the people, are the rightful guardians of this great country along with our first nation people. And we, the people, must regain control so we all share equally in its abundance.

‘Friends, we need to take control.’ Jaya paused and looked out on the expectant faces. ‘We don’t take control by stalking and demonstrating in the streets. We don’t take control by fighting and waging war against each other. We don’t take control by burning our businesses. We don’t take control by complaining—

‘We take control by voting.

‘We, the people, can take control of this policy mess the government has given us that is our immigration policy. We can take control of this mess that is the misuse of government funds – our taxes. We can take control of the policies that affect us all—

‘We take control by voting for a change of government next week.’

A supportive cheer erupted.

‘Over the next week, Prime Minister Gerrard will present his plans for the future. But rather than listen to what he has to say about the future, I ask you to consider his past. What can he do in the next five years that he could not have done in the last twenty? Gerrard will come to you with false promises asking for another five years, but in five years’ time he won’t be here. Gerrard will have retired long before then and we will be left with nothing. Again.

‘Friends, I ask you to maintain the rage you have. Not on the streets of Melbourne but in the ballot box next week. Let’s all Make A Difference and use it as an acronym. Let us be MAD about the government; let us be MAD about Prime Minister Gerrard. Let us not be little m mad and disrupt our community, let us be MAD and disrupt government by changing it.

‘I stand before you as a candidate at this next election wanting to make a difference. I want to serve the community in Canberra. But I need your help. I need you to take your rage for action off the streets to the ballot box and vote for change.

‘It’s time for Australia to change government. It’s time we, the people, took back control, and it’s time for all of us to end the days of privilege and entitlement. Together, we can achieve a future we can all be proud of. Let us change the government and vote.

‘I thank you.’

The crowd erupted with applause and cheering. A number of strategically placed Wolff-paid operatives began to chant her first name as she stepped down from the platform.

Perfect.

Wolff smiled as he watched Jaya move through the crowd being stopped, hugged and touched by appreciative supporters.

Anita looked out upon the cheering crowd with respect, initially convinced the professor would have struggled to be heard, but she delivered a measured yet electric speech, matching the mob’s angst and fervor. She had positioned herself on the steps under the famous clocks at the entrance to the iconic metro station with its yellow façade and arched entrance and looked out on to what seemed to be the entire Indian taxi driver community of Melbourne. Ironically, Flinders Street Station was built using 1906 plans originally meant for New Delhi, and Anita thought it appropriate as a location for the Indian community to meet.

After Jaya stepped off the stepladder, Anita followed the professor’s progress through the milling enthusiastic crowd, with Wong carrying the folded aluminum steps, leading the way toward Federation Square on the opposite corner. As she watched, she caught a glimpse of a bald man dressed in black waiting by the traffic lights. She had seen him weeks earlier at a Stanley event and recognised him with Hancock. Now he was hugging the professor, kissing her on the cheek and shaking Wong’s hand.

‘Who is this guy?’ she muttered to herself. She pulled out her telephone and called her editor, Peter Cleaver. ‘Cleave, I’ve just listened to a speech at a public demonstration the likes of which astounded me.’

‘Who by, Gerrard?’

‘No, his opponent, outside Flinders Street Station with around five thousand protestors.’

‘Did they give her a fair hearing?’

‘Like a pin drop.’

‘Really?’ asked Cleaver. ‘I thought she was Indian?’

‘She is, but this was not about immigration, this was about getting rid of Gerrard.’

‘Will she?’

‘Not in Melbourne, but the crowd responded, and I think it was a great nod for Stanley,’ said Anita. ‘So, what story do you want me to write? A demonstration story promoting chaos, or a story about leadership and a change of government?’

‘If it’s going to help Stanley, let’s go with leadership.’

‘Do you know what else is interesting?’ smiled Anita. ‘The Hyphen was supporting Rukhmani.’

‘Really? What do you make of that?’

‘Conspiracy!’ laughed Anita.

‘You and your damn conspiracies, surely you’re done by now?’ ‘Always good for a front page, Cleave,’ joked Anita.

‘Get your story in and take care please.’

As Anita pressed the end call button the smartphone rang. She recognised the caller and tossed up whether to answer before doing so. ‘I’m not sure I should be speaking to you.’

‘Anita, its politics,’ Messenger said.

‘That’s crap. You know it wasn’t true and yet you still did it.’

‘Anita please, let me explain.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Just tell me this. Is the Hyphen still on your campaign?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Was it his idea for the lie?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘You just did.’ Anita pushed the red button and didn’t respond when Messenger immediately rang back. Soon after, her phone pinged with a message.

Please call me

She didn’t hesitate in deleting it.

Anita looked up to see the man in black cross the intersection toward Saint Paul’s Cathedral and saunter along Swanston Street toward the university. With the crowd now dispersing, she made a quick decision to follow him, sticking to the opposite side of the street some twenty metres behind. There were enough people in the busy pedestrian mall to obscure any direct detection of her stalking him and anyway, he didn’t turn around, so she felt confident in her strategy of keeping a reasonable distance between them.

The man walked past the entrance to the Metro underground, crossed Collins Street passing the Town Hall before heading right into Little Collins Street. The manoeuvre was problematic for Anita as significantly less pedestrians were going about their business, creating the possibility of detection, so she dropped back to fifty metres.

The man was yet to look over his shoulder and when he turned into Royal Lane, Anita quickly scampered to the corner. Her sneakers luckily allowed her to run unhindered. When she got to the corner, she was panting from the uphill run so took a moment then peered around the edge of the building to watch the man. He was ambling, checking out store windows and looking into cafes.

There were just a couple of pedestrians walking toward her so she waited until he turned right into Bourke Street and then she quickly dashed to the end of the lane, again creatively peering around the corner, her breathing rapid from the quick run and the increasing excitement from her covert activity. More people on the footpath in Bourke Street encouraged her to re-engage the stalk.

He stopped at the traffic lights on Russell Street, waiting for the green pedestrian light. Anita stopped and looked at the shoe display in a store advertising a summer sale. The stilettos didn’t impress her and she positioned herself so she could observe him from the reflection of the window.

The man stepped off the kerb when the traffic lights turned green and Anita made a dash to catch the lights so she could cross before the flashing red. When she reached the other side of the crossing, she was now much closer to her quarry so again looked into a store display for a short time, allowing the man to move further ahead. He then unexpectedly darted to his right, bouncing up stairs at the entrance to Southern Cross Lane heading back toward Little Collins Street, which Anita thought a little odd given he had already been in that street. She quickly caught up by running to the stairs – he was nowhere to be seen.

She hurriedly spun about, scanning the outdoor tables of the cafe full of busy executives discussing business over a coffee. The foyer of the Australia Post head office showed no sign of him. She checked the back-entrance foyer of the state government building. Nothing. She stood looking about her wondering what to do, quickly dismissed entry into the government buildings and checked out the cafe again. Still nothing. She walked slowly then more quickly to the end of the lane but didn’t see him. He had disappeared, and she looked about wondering where to go.

Anita then realised the next street to her left was Exhibition. The opposition’s campaign headquarters were nearby, almost around the next corner, so she surmised he could be going there. She scuttled up a rise toward Exhibition, wondering why he had taken the deviation unless he stopped for business further back in the lane and she had missed him. She stopped and looked back but could not see the man so went with the idea that he was heading for the campaign headquarters. She dashed toward the corner opposite the party’s headquarters at 106 Exhibition.

Distracted by her intent to look across the street to the building entrance to see if the man was about to enter, as she turned the corner, she almost collided into pedestrians scurrying about. She didn’t notice the man in black waiting for her who stepped out from an alcove forcefully manhandling her off the street and into a recessed doorway of an abandoned store, thrusting her hard up against a wall. Panting from her run, Anita was now choking for air as the man squeezed his hand firmly around her throat, digging into skin. Pushing her against the wall up on to her toes, forcing her to gasp and look down her nose at him, his eyes squinting with effort as he stared back.

‘Why are you following me?’ Wolff hoarsely whispered.

Anita struggled to speak. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m your worst nightmare, lady, if I ever see you again.’

‘Please … you’re choking me …’ Anita struggled to say as she felt his squeezing fingers dig deeper into her throat. Her hands were gripping his wrist, rapidly trying to lever his fingers away and attempting to kick or knee him but needing to keep balance as he pushed her higher. Her frantic attempts to stop him were fading.

‘If I ever see you again, I will do worse than choke you.’ Wolff was nose to nose, staring into her eyes. ‘Do you understand?’ Anita couldn’t answer. Wolff squeezed her throat tighter. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’ Anita’s voice whispered as she gulped and gasped for breath. Her hands were scratching at the man’s fingers trying to relieve pressure, but she could not budge the tight grip. ‘Please … I can’t breathe.’ It was the last thing she could remember.

What seemed like moments later, Anita was aware of a woman bending over her asking if she was okay. She was lying crumpled among papers and rubbish in the corner of the doorway, her bag still slung on her shoulder. The woman helped her to her feet and asked again if she needed medical aid.

It hurt to speak as Anita struggled to get the hoarse words out. ‘I’m okay, thank you.’ The woman helped her to a kerbside iron bench seat, and she was grateful for the assistance. Anita took a bottle of water from her bag, uncapped it and tentatively sucked in a mouthful, unsure if it would hurt when she swallowed. It did.

‘What happened? Were you assaulted?’ the woman asked. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’

‘No, I’m okay. I must have fainted, but I feel fine now.’ Anita wanted to be left alone to collect her thoughts. ‘I appreciate your kindness, but I’m okay now, really.’

After staying a few more moments the woman left reassured Anita was recovered. Anita looked around wondering if the man could still see her. Her throat was sore and she gently rubbed her thumb and finger along her voice box. She took another drink and looked about, still nervous about seeing the man. She never wanted to see him again – ever.

She brushed down her trousers and straightened her jacket, then took another mouthful of water. It still hurt to swallow; she tried to clear her throat, which also felt uncomfortable as she coughed.

She thought about going across the street into 106 and demanding an answer to her assault claim but thought better of it. What was she to say, a campaign worker tried to kill her? No, she had a story to write about the protest and wanted to link this mercenary thug she assumed accosted her with the Mercantiles. Her revenge would be with her words.