11

Apprehension

It was still early when Jack called Matt the next morning. He stood in the carpark behind his flat, his mobile pressed to his right ear, walking up and down beside the cab. There was a pleasant chill in the air, birds were chirping, and the initial signs of a nice day were emerging. Jack counted the number of missing and broken palings in the back fence as he waited for Matt to pick up.

The sleepy, disoriented voice that finally came on the line suggested that Matt had had a big night out.

‘Who is it?’ he groaned.

‘Jack. Mate, you’ve got …’

‘Hang on. Time is it?’

‘Bit before seven. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on! I’ve landed in the middle of some fucking drug gang war or something, all because of you! Got whacked in the pub last night, huge blue happened. Rowan’s mate laid into me. What’s the story?’

Jack could sense the rising hysteria in his own voice.

‘Okay, okay, cool it. Jack, stay calm, it’s going to be okay. Driving this morning? How about we grab a coffee?’

Jack grasped this offer eagerly. They agreed to meet at a café in Chapel Street, the glitzy boulevard that dominated Prahran and South Yarra. Jack regarded the area as a kind of Fitzroy for rich people, full of airheads and try-hards.

He calmed down as they agreed on details.

‘See you there, Jack. Stay cool.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m too old for this shit.’

He did his best to shut this latest problem out of his mind as he did several routine jobs over the next few hours, but it proved impossible. By the time he got to the café, he was even more on edge. He couldn’t help scanning the crowds wandering along the street and sitting around in the outdoor cafés, just in case Leather Jacket was lying in wait for him.

‘Mate, I can’t handle this bullshit. I’m a cab driver. Don’t want to get involved in drug stuff.’

He stared glumly into his coffee as he spoke. Matt was now his usual expansive, optimistic self, but there was a decidedly off-hand cast to his conversation. He looked very relaxed, at ease with the world. He was wearing an understated checked blue-and-cream shirt over a navy T-shirt, immaculate tan chinos, and brown R. M. Williams boots that looked like they’d been polished by someone with OCD. As Jack talked around his predicament, Matt checked out the attractive young women on display around the café. He rolled his shirt-sleeves up a couple of folds, so they reached the mid-point of his forearms, adding to his classy, confident look. Jack wondered if it was some kind of signal of sexual availability. It didn’t feel like Matt was paying much attention to him. Jack felt out of place in the fashionable pavement café. The unusually pleasant weather accentuated the unreality of his surroundings.

‘You’re involved, Jack, just like me. Nothing to get upset about — we just have to deal with it. I’m getting the cash together. It’ll be fine. Look!’ He lifted his hands to his ears and wiggled them theatrically, grinning inanely at Jack as he did so. The ludicrous image did nothing to lighten Jack’s mood.

‘You’ve been really helpful, you know. Getting Rowan to have a word did the trick. But now we’ve got to seal the deal. They just want you to drive to Sydney.’

Rowan. Jack did a quick rewind of his conversations with Matt. He couldn’t remember whether they’d discussed Rowan’s involvement in any detail. Matt seemed to know a lot about it.

‘So I have to drive something to Sydney?’

‘Yeah, just a small package. They’ll strap it in between the back seat and the boot somehow, so you’d have to take the car apart to find it. And you’ll get paid a fare a bit better than the going taxi rate.’

‘What is it?’ Jack’s voice wavered. He didn’t want anything to do with this, but he felt trapped. Where could he hide? It was bad enough trying to avoid ASIO, but drug dealers were much worse.

‘Better you don’t know. Not smack, though.’

He noted Matt’s use of the common slang for heroin. Matt didn’t often use slang: he spoke properly and precisely, like a well-raised private schoolboy. It was beginning to sound as though Matt was more involved than he was letting on.

‘That’s okay then. I’ll only do five years.’

‘Jack, you’re a cab driver. What’s more normal, more innocent, more boring than a taxi?’ Matt spread his arms wide, and used his open hands to emphasise the point. ‘No one gives them a second thought. They’re everywhere. How often do the cops pull over a cab?’

‘Not too many cabs driving up the Hume.’ Jack wasn’t giving up easily.

‘Same logic, though. No one suspects a cabbie of anything worse than going the long way round to pump up the fare. You’ll be fine.’

‘So when am I supposed to do this? I’ll have to sort something out with the bloke I share the cab with.’

‘Next few days. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.’

Jack fell silent, weighed down by the choice he was facing. Deep inside, he knew he lacked the courage to defy the drug dealer and his minions. Even thinking about the fracas at the Dan made his hands shake.

His ASIO problem was a consequence of his infatuation with Farhia. The drug entanglement had no upside at all, not even the money he might get paid. He’d tried to help Matt out — with no prospect of personal gain — and now found himself enmeshed in The French Connection.

After saying his goodbyes to Matt and allowing him to pay for the coffees, Jack cruised along Chapel Street in a daze, still worrying about his situation. He needed some protection. Maybe a chat wih Scabber McPhee would be in order. Scabber wasn’t exactly a close mate, but they had some history. He’d certainly know how to deal with stuff like this.

A youngish, well-groomed man wearing an outfit almost identical to Matt’s waved him down near the Toorak Road intersection. As Jack swerved, he startled a skinny, leather-skinned woman emerging from between two parked cars. In spite of her carefully constructed appearance — which made her look almost reptilian — she let fly with a stream of curses that upset the tiny grey poodle she had on a lead. Jack was accustomed to this kind of thing, so he ignored her. His passenger climbed nimbly into the back seat of the Falcon, and they just made it across the intersection as the lights were changing.

‘City thanks, sport. Top end of Bourke Street’ll do.’

‘No worries.’

For the rest of the journey, Jack remained lost in his speculations, which were becoming ever more complex and improbable. The Saturday-morning traffic was heavy, but he still made it to the eastern end of the city in good time. He accepted a reasonable tip with a polite smile, and drove off in search of other passengers. Saturday mornings were good like that: not many violent drunks and lunatics, and passengers were mostly in a good mood.

He thought about Matt, and the look-alike he’d just driven, and compared himself to them. Life hadn’t been kind to him. He’d been like these young guys once, full of vitality and promise. Where’d it all go? he wondered. How’d I end up being such a loser?

As he walked wearily towards the rear stairs of the block of flats at the end of his shift, Jack bumped into a grizzled figure he knew only too well. Billy the Hippy, as he was known by all and sundry, occupied the front flat on the ground floor. He had no idea what Billy’s surname was, and he didn’t need to know.

Billy clung tenaciously to his tenancy in spite of his chronic inability to pay the rent on time. His flat was a war-zone, a chaotic jumble of rubbish, strewn with books, newspapers, posters, candles, broken furniture, and odd bric-a-brac. Jack didn’t understand how Billy survived. He thought he was on the Disability Pension, or something like that.

Billy flashed a smile betraying prolonged dental neglect, and brushed his mottled grey hair out of his eyes.

‘Hey, man, I’ve got it! Get Yer Ya-yas!’

‘Kidding me! Fantastic!’ Jack liked Billy a lot, but he had other things on his mind.

‘There’s an old record joint in Sydney Road, up near the Court House, you know. Found it there for five bucks. Unbelievable!’

‘In good nick?’

‘Perfect. Only driven by a little old lady to church on Sundays. I’ll bring it up later, give it a spin for you.’

‘Yeah, great, see you later on.’

‘Cool, man.’

Billy shuffled off towards the street as Jack mounted the stairs. Billy had long lamented his inability to find a copy of this late 1960s live Rolling Stones album. For all Jack knew, it might have been a straightforward task, but it was easier to humour Billy. A quiet evening listening to him crap on about Altamont or the Isle of Wight or something or other would be a nice distraction.

Jack spent the latter part of the afternoon coaching the Bullets to an unexpected victory over the Collingwood Stars. It was a good outlet for his pent-up emotions. He yelled encouragement from the sidelines with greater-than-usual enthusiasm, and high-fived his kids when they left the court after a hard-fought five-point win.

After the game, he had a quick word with Ben.

‘All sweet with you and Gideon, mate?’

‘Yeah, he’s fine.’

‘Make sure you look out for him. Depending on you.’

‘Yeah, cool.’

Jack sought out Alistair Taylor.

‘How’s the boy been this week?’

‘Much better. Whatever you did seems to have worked. Hope it keeps up. And thanks so much again, Jack — you’re a real lifesaver.’

‘No worries, that’s what coaches are for.’

Jack was dropped off in Balmoral Avenue by another one of the parents, a teacher named Colin, who gushed about the kids’ fantastic performance.

‘Yeah, thanks, mate — see you next week,’ Jack mumbled as he got out of the battered Territory. He headed for the stairs with a sense of satisfaction lingering pleasantly in his mind.

A cup of tea and some rubbish TV later, Jack’s mobile rang. He was heating up an instant meal, which took some time in his ageing oven. Jack hadn’t yet got around to acquiring a microwave, even though they were very cheap now.

He recognised Ajit’s number on the screen. He was calling to organise a different handover arrangement for Monday. As Jack was deep in discussion about street names and times, there was a knock on the door. Got to be Billy, he thought.

He walked slowly to the door, patiently absorbing Ajit’s convoluted directions.

‘Yeah, er … hang on, mate. Someone at the door.’

With the phone still at his ear, he opened the door. It wasn’t Billy.

Standing there was a serious-looking Robert Jeffrey, with another man behind him.

‘Er shit, ah … call you back later, mate.’ Jack clicked the phone dead with Ajit in mid-sentence.

‘Mister van Dine,’ Jeffrey opened with exaggerated sarcasm. ‘Your phone seems to be in good shape. Time we had a look at it.’

Jack was too shocked to even bother to correct his pronunciation. The stress of the past few days had got to him, and now he’d let his guard down. All his efforts to protect Farhia’s secrets were crumbling.

He handed the phone to Jeffrey, and walked back into the lounge area, his shoulders slumped. He didn’t know what to say. He felt like an inflatable doll that had just been punctured: all the air was rushing out, and he was crumpling into an empty skin.

It only took a few minutes. Jeffrey handed the phone to his companion, a nondescript man in his thirties or forties in a medium-grey suit. He didn’t bother to introduce his colleague, and Jack didn’t ask.

He fiddled with the phone for a minute or two, exhaled a brief grunt of satisfaction, and handed it back to its owner.

‘That’s all we need for now, Mister van Dine. Try to stay out of trouble. We’re keen to know why you’ve been so evasive about the contents of these photos.’ The steel in his voice belied the bland expression on his face.

‘I was being chased by a thug the other night … my mate was … just a passenger, got caught up in, you know …’ Aware that he wasn’t making much sense, Jack stopped talking.

‘You understand that if serious matters are involved, you’re at risk of being charged with various offences … obstruction, aiding and abetting, and so on?’

‘Look, I’m … I’m only a cabbie. I’m keen on Farhia, that’s all. Was just curious. Didn’t want to get her into trouble. I wouldn’t know a terrorist if I fell over him.’

‘Not all our enemies advertise themselves with bushy beards and Arab clothing.’

‘You guys are nuts. I don’t give a shit about that stuff. I helped a woman whose kids were getting bashed, and I end up with James Bond after me.’ Now that he was cornered, Jack had little to lose. A fortnight of frustration was spilling out.

‘We’ll be in touch soon, Mister van Dine. Don’t go anywhere, will you? And if you come across anything else, please let us know. If you’re helpful, we may be prepared to overlook your previous lack of co-operation …’

The two men walked to the door in silence and left without further comment. Jack stood there fingering his phone, wondering about what kind of men they were. They were like robots. Did they have families? Go on holidays? Paint the fence? Jerk off? Take flowers to their mums? He wasn’t used to dealing with people like this. They didn’t have veins and arteries inside them — they had filing systems.

By the time Billy the Hippy arrived, Jack had more or less recovered. He knew he would have to track down Farhia and tell her what had happened, but he didn’t want to think about it. He could truly say that he had been forced to hand over the photos of her book. That was something.

He sat back and shared a couple of lame stories with Billy as they immersed themselves in the joys of the Stones’ incomparable live version of ‘Carol’. After a few cans, he was a lot calmer. Losing control of events had an upside: he didn’t have to agonise over so many difficult choices any more. He could revert to being ordinary Jack, the humble cabbie whose life was shaped by the decisions of others.

‘Still got the first Sunbury album, man? Want to put side two on, you know, pay homage …’

Sunbury was the location of an early-1970s rock festival that now held legendary status among ageing baby-boomers. To anyone below retirement age, Sunbury only meant an unremarkable satellite town on the northern fringe of Melbourne. Younger people regarded the seventies as an era of bizarre fashions, antiquated technology, over-heated politics, and gas-guzzling cars. For people like Billy, a shared Sunbury heritage was almost like belonging to a secret society.

‘What’re you going to do when all the banks collapse, man?’

‘Nothing. Haven’t got any money to worry about. Why, what’s happening?’

‘Haven’t you heard? There’s this thing called the Financial Crisis. The banks’re all fucked. The Chinese have got all the money. It’s Armageddon, man!’ Billy evidently relished the prospect of financial collapse.

Jack was used to hearing strange conspiracy theories from Billy, so he didn’t treat these observations very seriously.

‘So what do you care? Got shares in a bank or something?’

Billy’s face cracked into a chuckle.

‘No man, I’m as broke as you. I’m just, like, watching, you know. All those pricks running around, makes me laugh.’

Jack thought of Matt, and wondered if he was involved in all this. Odd that he hadn’t mentioned it. Jack had heard about the Global Financial Crisis, which seemed to him to be mostly an American problem. As it didn’t appear likely to affect him, he hadn’t taken much interest. He took another long sip of his VB and slumped even lower into the couch. His body was almost horizontal now.

‘So how come you’re not interested in money, man? I’m crazy. What’s your excuse?’

‘Course I want to make money. What do you reckon I’m working for — the fun of it?’

‘Should give the cabs away, you know. Shit pay, long hours, dickheads all day. Why don’t you get a different job?’

‘Like what?’

‘Dunno. Banker maybe. Few vacancies going soon, I reckon.’ They both laughed, and Jack stood up to put on another album.

‘How about Blue Oyster Cult?’

‘Yeah, cool.’

The music started and Jack sat back down.

‘Why are you so down on cabbies, mate? An honourable occupation.’

‘Bullshit. You could do it in your sleep. Just driving around, nothing to it.’

‘Bullshit. Need real skill. More than just driving, you know.’

‘Like what? Stashing suitcases in the boot?’

‘When you’re driving all day, you learn stuff. Things ordinary drivers don’t know.’

‘Like what?’

Jack had turned serious, defending the honour of his trade. He sat up and continued.

‘Cars have body language, you know. Can read them, work out where they’re going. Means you know when to change lanes quicker than anyone else, when to speed up, when the guy in front of you’s going to turn left, all that stuff. Try driving along William Street in peak hour, you’ll see what I mean.’

‘Never driven a car in my life.’

‘See what I mean? You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Too easy,’ Billy mumbled, enjoying provoking Jack.

‘Worst ones are the dickheads who don’t move out into the middle of the intersection to turn right. Sit there at the lights, only move when they turn red. If you’re third in line you’re fucked, you know.’

Billy was no longer paying attention.

‘Then there’s idiots who sit on ninety on the freeway, block it up. And the women doing their make-up while the car’s sliding all over the road. Mate, it’s a jungle out there. Takes real skill to drive all day, I tell you.’

‘Yeah, sure man.’ Billy felt obliged to signal that he was still conscious.

‘Just like the dickheads I went to school with, you know. All bluster and bullshit. Pick on people weaker than them. Where you get your road rage, you know …’ Jack’s voice trailed off as he realised that Billy wasn’t absorbing any of this.

When Billy got up to leave, Jack was almost asleep. The session had been very therapeutic. Jack wasn’t sure how many cans he’d knocked over — probably seven or eight, but certainly enough to have the desired effect. He felt okay, that was the main thing. And it was Sunday tomorrow, time to chase up Farhia.

‘Hey Billy, I’m in a bit of trouble, mate. Might need to crash at your joint for a night or two, you know … short notice. Few people after me …’

‘Sure, man, that’s what couches are for. No problem, any time. Let me know, you know.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

‘What’s up?’

‘ASIO’s after me. And I’m helping this guy being hassled by dealers …’

‘ASIO? You’re kidding!’ Billy snorted derisively.

‘True story, mate. Got myself mixed up with all this Somali rubbish, terrorists and all that …’

‘Have you turned Muslim?’

Now it was Jack’s turn to snort.

‘Don’t make me laugh. Knees are buggered — couldn’t handle all that kneeling and praying.’

‘So what’s going on?’

‘Hard to say. They let them in, bring all their fights with them. Crazy stuff. Blokes with knives, attacking women and kids … Don’t know why we let them in …’

‘Sounds like they fit in well.’ Billy had a glint in his eye; he enjoyed winding Jack up.

But Jack’s response was unexpected.

‘Yeah, true, I suppose. Plenty of our own crooks and thugs.’ Jack thought about Rowan, Karl, Matt, Scabber — were they any better?

‘Let me know if you need the couch anyway.’

‘Thanks, mate. Will do.’

‘See you, man, stay cool.’ Billy sounded completely sober, notwithstanding his substantial alcohol intake.

‘Yeah, Billy, see you. Great you found it.’

Billy waved Get Yer Ya-Yas Out over his head as he ambled through the doorway. Jack just made it to his bed, and slipped off most of his clothes, before lapsing into an uneven, intoxicated coma.