Comfort Zone (9 page)

He thought about finding someone to translate the contents of the book for him. He could barely make out the letters in the text — his eyes weren't what they used to be, admittedly — and he wasn't sure that anyone would be able to read them directly from his mobile. He knew a few Somali drivers, but he wasn't sure he could trust any of them.

In the end, he resolved to sleep on it. Tomorrow was his day off. He would have plenty of time to think it through and work out a plan of attack.

Jack's bedroom was next to the lounge room, a small, square space that was almost filled by an old double bed that sagged in the middle. Apart from built-in wardrobes with sliding doors, the only other piece of furniture was a small bedside table. It held a clock radio, a bedside lamp, a few books, a dirty handkerchief, and a half-empty packet of Nurofen. An ashtray with a horseshoe rim lay beside it on the floor, containing plenty of evidence of Jack's unfortunate habit of smoking in bed.

There was no decoration on the walls at all. The naked light bulb dangling from the middle of the ceiling reminded Jack of the opening sequence of the 1960s cult British spy drama
Callan.
For the thousandth time, he resolved to do something about the lack of decoration in his bedroom, as he stripped down to his underpants and singlet and fell into bed. He lit up a Peter Jackson, and groped around between the bed and the bedside table for the book he was reading, an early Robert Ludlum novel. He tried to imagine Farhia sharing the room with him. But he knew that, even for a single mum from the flats who'd escaped from a brutal civil war in Somalia, it would not be an enticing prospect.

5

Adventure

Jack didn't sleep well that night. Normally he was a heavy sleeper, but he'd had a lot of random thoughts spinning around in his head. By the time he'd eventually nodded off, he'd worked out a rough plan of attack. He would call Farhia and ask to see her again. He might mention his latest encounter with law enforcement, without being too specific. She would assume it was the police, and he could play his
ASIO
card when they were face-to-face. He would deliver a carefully edited version of his meeting with Robert Jeffrey, and offer to help her sort the whole thing out.

Exercising extraordinary self-restraint, he delayed calling Farhia until just before lunchtime.

‘Hello, Farhia, it's Jack van Duyn. How are you?'

‘I am well, thank you.'

Jack paused to allow Farhia to respond in kind, but when nothing happened, he concluded he'd better get to the point.

‘I've had another visit from the law, asking questions about you and stuff.'

‘What questions?' The quiver in her voice was subtle, but unmistakable.

‘Strange stuff. About Somalis … Think I should drop round and fill you in. It's my day off today so …'

‘I am sorry, Jack, but I help at the Somali Welfare Centre this afternoon.'

‘… or I could drop by after my shift tomorrow. Or the next day.' He hoped the pleading tone in his voice wasn't too obvious.

‘Perhaps tomorrow. If you think it is important.'

Jack gazed wistfully at the expensive jeweller's shop on the other side of the street. His heart was sinking as the reluctance in her voice grew stronger.

‘I'll drop around a bit before four. Should be able to do my changeover by then.'

‘You may have to play with Yusuf and Omar then.'

‘No worries. You're at 20 Elgin Street? What flat number is it?'

‘It is better if you call me and I will come down.'

‘Okay, great — thanks, Farhia. See you tomorrow.'

He refused to be put off by the distance she was maintaining. The refusal to allow him to come to her flat could mean any number of things. She might even be embarrassed by her poverty.

Jack spent the afternoon watching a Port Adelaide–Fremantle game on TV, the ultimate in pointlessness in late winter. He didn't mind, because he had another date with Farhia. And it was tomorrow.

Monday morning was usually busy in the taxi scene, so Jack was hoping for a nice, normal shift with a few solid fares. He hadn't counted on getting a call from Matt.

The young investment banker had faded into the back of his mind. He was so besotted with Farhia, and so disturbed by the intrusion of
ASIO
, that he had almost forgotten about Matt.

It was not much later than nine when Matt called Jack's mobile.

‘Hey, Jack — Matt Richards. We saved those Somali kids, remember? Need to get to Doncaster toot sweet. You up for it? Return trip, too.'

‘Yeah, I'm free. Where'll I pick you up?'

Jack imagined Matt still being dressed by his valet in his Toorak mansion, and then corrected himself. He was probably years away from that stuff.

‘One-oh-one, where else?'

‘Be there in five.'

‘See you then. Don't be late.'

Jack detected anxiety in Matt's voice. He immediately sensed this trip was unusual. There wasn't likely to be much investment-banking action happening in Doncaster. Still, it was another fare, and quite a good one at that.

He pulled up outside 101 Collins Street, just past an enormous new tram stop that made life even harder for cab drivers. It really was an absurd building, a late-1980s indulgence fronted by four fake Greek columns with nothing on top of them. It had a huge revolving door and a cavernous marble foyer decorated with large original artworks. As Jack marvelled at the vanities of the business classes, Matt burst through the revolving door, spotted the cab, and vaulted into the front seat.

Even though he was driving against the last phase of peak-hour traffic, the drive to Doncaster proved to be slow going. Light rain had started to fall, so the swish-thunk of windscreen wipers filled the gaps in their conversation. Matt was distracted, and much less urbane than when Jack had driven him to the airport. He sat next to Jack in the front seat, but only talked every now and then. He obviously had things on his mind.

‘Few late nights, mate?' Jack inquired, as Matt stifled a yawn.

‘Yeah.' Matt's voice was flat. ‘You know what it's like. Investment banking …'

Jack had little idea of the hours investment bankers worked, so he said nothing.

Matt sniffed loudly a couple of times. ‘How much longer?'
Sounds like a six-year-old kid
, Jack thought.

‘Ten minutes maybe.'

‘Good.'

After a short burst of confusion as they conferred about directions, they finally pulled up opposite the driveway of a home with a high fence in an obscure street in Doncaster, Melbourne's ultimate middle suburb.

‘Wait for me. I'll only be five minutes.' Matt fidgeted with everything from his tie to his belt and his jacket as he got out of the taxi. He disappeared up the driveway.

Jack couldn't see much of the house because of the high fence. It was a pleasant-enough morning, so he wound down his window to get a better look. There were a couple of cypress trees in the front garden, and the house was set well back. It was double storey, and made of dark-red brick.

Jack noted a security camera staring at the entrance from the point where the gate met the fence.
Interesting
, he mumbled to himself.
Wonder how many homes in Doncaster have security cameras?

Aside from this oddity, which could have been a symptom of middle-class paranoia, the house had all the features of the dull brick dwellings so typical of Melbourne's middle suburbs. Built on sizeable blocks in quiet streets, these places were finally generating some excitement in the property market, after decades of relative obscurity.

For want of anything better to do, Jack began to speculate about the house's owner. One of Matt's bosses perhaps. Investment bankers weren't liked, of course, but surely not to the extent that they needed to screen visitors with security cameras?

He fiddled with his cigarette packet, and thought about lighting up. On the principle that this would inevitably bring about Matt's return, and hence mean wasting a cigarette, he put the packet down unopened. Better to light up at the rank in Collins Street, he reckoned.

He resumed his speculations. Did investment bankers do home visits? Did their clients live in Doncaster? It was very perplexing.

Then things started to happen. He heard a couple of loud bangs from the direction of the house, like doors slamming or things falling over, and then saw Matt coming down the driveway towards him, half-running, half-stumbling. He tripped on the edge of a flowerbed and nearly fell, but after staggering for a few steps, he regained his balance and ran through the gateway. He didn't even check for traffic as he ran across the road, came around to the passenger side of the cab, and leapt into the front seat.

‘Quick! Drive! Got to get out of here!'

Jack had been waiting years for this. It didn't matter that he hadn't been told to follow that car. He was in the middle of the action, his driving skills crucial to a quick getaway.

He took off with a squeal of tyres, and almost collected a tweedy, middle-aged woman who was about to cross the road in front of him. Within seconds, they were out of the street, and heading towards the Eastern Freeway at speed. The quiet suburban landscape flew past in a blur. They were well away from the mysterious house, and there was no sign of anyone following them. Jack kept checking his rear-vision mirror to make sure. His heart was pumping, and his hands gripped the steering wheel with unusual intensity. He was sitting bolt upright, with his head almost touching the car's roof.

As they merged onto the freeway, Jack relaxed and settled back into his seat.

‘What was that all about, mate?'

Matt was still breathing hard. He sniffed, took a couple of deep breaths, and then sat back in his seat. He had a large red mark, with a touch of a graze, on his left cheek. His perfectly groomed hair was now dishevelled, and his tie was off-centre.

‘Can I trust you?'

Shit
.
ASIO
one day, financial conspiracy the next,
Jack thought. Curiosity was eating him up: what on earth was this all about?

‘Of course you can. I'm a cabbie.' Jack's attempt at dispelling the tension didn't work. Matt failed to respond.

‘You in trouble?'

‘What does it look like? Sorry … yeah, big trouble. Shit!' Matt banged the heel of his right hand hard on the dashboard in frustration.

‘Hey, careful with the vehicle! No harm in telling me all about it, mate — I hate cops,' Jack said in a sympathetic tone. Passengers who might tip well were always worth a bit of pastoral care.

‘Not cops I'm worried about. It's dealers.'

‘What kind of dealers?' Jack assumed he was referring to drug dealers, but he knew Matt mixed with other kinds of dealers in his job — marginally more legitimate ones — so he felt it necessary to ask.

‘The kind that play for keeps.' Drug dealers, obviously. How did a fancy kid in a striped shirt and gold cufflinks get mixed up with heavies?

‘How come you're …'

‘Don't even go there.' Matt rolled his eyes, glanced at his watch, and pulled down the sun visor so he could use the mirror to straighten his hair and tie.

‘Fuck! That'll bruise. What am I going to say?'

‘Dunno. Domestic violence? What's going on? Not every day I drive a getaway car for a bloke who's been beaten up by drug dealers.'

‘Sure I can trust you?' Matt was now casting anxious, darting glances at people in the street as the car sat waiting for the lights to change. He was shaking, even though they had been back in the cab for over twenty minutes.

‘Mate, I gave up dope ages ago. Only dealers I know are small-fry types. And like I said, I don't like cops. So who am I going to tell?'

This seemed to reassure Matt. He exhaled slowly, making a discernible whistling noise as the air escaped through his teeth, and then turned to look at Jack.

‘Okay, okay. I'm in deep shit. I've been scoring coke for my boss — lots of it. He's into it big time. Must have a few mates he shares with, I guess. Doesn't like dealing direct, too much risk, so I get to do the business for him.'

‘How come? Can't you tell him to piss off?'

Matt laughed — a sardonic, cheerless guffaw.

‘You serious? I can't afford to lose my job. And once I'd done it for him once, he had it over me. I've only done it four or five times … and I get a bit of free stuff for my trouble.'

‘So what's all the aggro about? You rip them off or something?'

‘How stupid do you reckon I am? Just fucked up, that's all.'

‘How?'

‘Got ripped off by a mate. Now I owe them money. I put together a group buy, and got left holding the baby. I can't pay for a week or so, so I'm in the poo. Big time.'

‘Thought you guys were rolling in it?' Jack assumed that investment bankers purchased cocaine like ordinary people bought beer.