Comfort Zone (13 page)

‘I think I've solved your little mystery.'

‘Excellent. Back in a tick.'

Jack stood at the bar, his left foot leaning on the polished metal railing just above the floor, his fingers drumming impatiently on the bar as he watched the lone barman preparing the gin and tonic with slow, methodical movements. He half expected to hand over the expensive drink and find that Rowan had been pulling his leg. Or that he'd disappeared. Things were never quite as they seemed where Rowan was concerned.

‘There y'go, mate, worth every penny if you've sorted it.' Jack crunched the flimsy chair as he sat down, producing an array of creaks and groans that suggested it could collapse. He weighed over 100 kilos: maybe the chair was trying to tell him something.

Rowan carefully extracted the small black straw from his drink, using his thumb and forefinger, and laid it down on the table between them. He took a couple of sips.

‘I gather your man is John Constantinidis. Nasty piece of work. Doesn't mess around. Not well-known for his mercy — or his sense of humour.'

‘And?'

‘And? What else is there to know?'

‘Can you get him to lay off?'

‘Jack, Jack.' Rowan was in expansive, kindly-friend mode, but to Jack it was as phoney as a three-dollar bill. ‘As luck would have it, he does owe my friend a favour. Only a small one, but maybe enough to buy your friend a few days — and keep his ears.' He smirked with poorly disguised pleasure at the thought of such violence.

‘Shit, that's great. You're a lifesaver!'

Rowan glowed back at him.

‘All in a day's work, and so forth. We aim to deliver satisfaction, etcetera. I expect to confirm the arrangement tonight.'

‘Thanks, mate.'

‘There is one thing, though.' Rowan raised his left eyebrow, indicating there was a catch.

‘Yeah?'

‘My friend needs something in return — that's how it works.'

‘Yeah …' Jack's voice trailed off as he began to imagine what this might entail.

‘Nothing violent, of course.'

‘Mate, I'm just a cabbie, not bloody Pablo Escobar. What use am I to these guys?'

‘You've just answered your own question, my friend. What's more normal, more unobtrusive, than a humble yellow cab? Who notices it — unless they're trying to hail one? Where does a cab ever look out of place?'

Jack was now becoming alarmed. He knew the answer already, but he asked anyway.

‘So what am I supposed to do?'

‘What you're good at, my friend. Drive.'

‘When? Where?' Jack fiddled anxiously with his glass, and then drained the remainder of his beer in a single gulp. He blinked repetitively as he stared at Rowan, frightened by the direction in which this was now heading.

‘Details soon, mate. Maybe the airport, with a parcel or two.'

‘You're fucking kidding! I'm not getting into that shit! Only ends up one of two ways: you're dead, or in the slammer.'

‘I don't think you really have a choice.'

‘What do you mean? When did I sign up to be a courier?'

‘My friend is seeking the favour you need as we speak. If you fail to reciprocate, I suspect your ears could also end up in jeopardy.'

‘Shit!' Without thinking, Jack lifted his left hand to the side of his head.

‘Don't worry, I'm sure we will be able to work it out. You won't have to swallow twenty condoms or fly to Singapore, or anything like that.'

‘I don't want to do any of that shit!' Jack insisted. He squirmed in his chair and put his hands on and off the table several times, his breathing quickening.

‘Leave it with me, my friend. It'll all be okay.' It was remarkable how Rowan maintained his air of casual urbanity in such circumstances. Jack suspected he was enjoying himself.

As Jack drove along Nicholson Street, he cursed himself for being so stupid. Why was he trying to help Matt? And why on earth did he think he could trust Rowan? Matt meant nothing to him, other than as a potential source of fares and tips. Now he had got himself drawn into a drug dealer's schemes. He'd seen enough bad movies to know that once he got involved, he'd be trapped. The demands would keep coming.

Perhaps he was becoming a better person. Jack shuddered at the thought. He cultivated his crusty persona. It was all he had. Life had served up many disappointments, and the only way to minimise emotional damage was by avoiding putting himself at risk. The old Jack would have laughed at the prospect of Matt without ears, and would have made no attempt to help.

As he emerged from the cab in the carpark at the rear of his flat, his phone rang. Without giving it a second thought, he extracted it from his pocket and answered.

‘Mr van Dine, I see you've found your phone. It's Robert Jeffrey here.'

Even before the inevitable shock hit, Jack responded reflexively: ‘It's van Duyn, as in spoon.'

‘We'd like to take a look at the photos of that book.'

‘Er, yeah.'
Oh shit, what am I going to do?
Jack was thinking.

‘When can I see you?'

‘Er, pretty flat-chat at the moment. Maybe in a couple of days …' He knew his stalling sounded obvious, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

‘I hope you're not involved in this business, Mr van Duyn.' The sinister tone in Jeffrey's voice wasn't alleviated by the correct pronunciation of Jack's name.

‘What business? What do you mean?'

‘We know about your history.'

‘History? What history?' Jack was leaning against the side of the cab for moral and physical support. His hands were shaking, and his legs felt rubbery.

‘Criminal damage, wasn't it? Assault charges, ultimately withdrawn. You've been involved in subversive activities before — maybe it's happening again.' His matter-of-fact tone was chilling.

You've got to be kidding
, Jack thought.
I kick a window in at a demo at uni thirty-five years ago, and now I'm a Muslim terrorist?

‘You guys are off the planet! I got revved up at a Vietnam demo when I was nineteen or something. What's it got to do —'

‘I assume you disclosed all this when you renewed your taxi licence?'

‘Er, I guess so. Dunno. It was a long time ago.' Jack's voice was wavering. Jeffrey had him on the hook, and he knew it.

‘Perhaps our initial check was mistaken then. Maybe we should look again.'

Jack was becoming exasperated. First Rowan; now this. He gazed across the skyline at decrepit blocks of flats and minor industrial buildings, and responded with vehemence that reflected his mounting apprehension.

‘Look, I've told you I'll help, okay? Just lay off, will you?'

‘Excellent. Then you will show me the photos. Perhaps you could email them to me.'

‘Come around tomorrow. After my shift's finished, say after five.'

‘You'd better make sure you're home then. I'm very busy.'

‘I will be.'

Jack didn't like being pushed around. A harmless intrigue was now turning into a complex web of deceit and danger. He thought about disappearing for a bit, but quickly dismissed the idea. He wasn't sure who would find him first,
ASIO
or the dealer, but he knew one of them would.

He had almost forgotten about his exploits as a student protester. Every few years or so, something would remind him of his La Trobe days, but he didn't like grandstanding about his revolutionary past — such as it was. He wasn't ashamed of it, but it seemed rather childish in retrospect.

Jack recalled the unpleasant feeling of his cheek against hard asphalt, with a large police boot pressing down on the other cheek. Then being grabbed by his arms and dragged along the road, his T-shirt riding up to his armpits and his bare stomach rasping against the tarmac. And then being punched in the face when he tried to avoid being photographed.

He soon snapped out of this reverie. It was a bit of a shock, being reminded of his days as a minor student protester, and he didn't really want to dwell on it.

Most evenings alone at the Balmoral Avenue flat weren't exactly joyful, but this one was dreadful. Jack chewed over his new problems for hours, until he became so confused that he started losing all perspective. His emotions were all over the place, mirroring his scrambled thoughts. Underneath, though, the part of him that was just plain terrified was getting stronger.

Should he betray Farhia? Or do a runner? But where to? They could track his phone, his credit card, and all that stuff. He'd seen it all on TV, on a show called
Spooks
. It was getting too close to home.

He was caught in multiple traps. He could hardly lose his mobile again. That would be the same as disappearing, or refusing to co-operate, but without any of the advantages. And he was still curious about the book's contents. He wanted to know why a few pages of Somali scrawl were so important to Farhia, and now to
ASIO
. He couldn't imagine any way he could satisfy his curiosity without Farhia finding out — and
ASIO
nabbing him.

The speculations got wilder and weirder. Maybe he could become a serious drug dealer and go underground. He would have lots of cash, so he could have plastic surgery and change his identity. They might even be able to fix his shoulders. Then he wouldn't be a loser taxidriver any more — he'd be a powerful, mysterious drug baron who could sweep Farhia off her feet, and all that sort of stuff.

He went around and around in circles, never quite managing to have all the threads in focus at the same time. Finally, he got to the point of exhaustion, and settled on a couple of strategies for the next day or two. He reckoned that any plan was better than none.

First, he would tell Farhia that he'd taken photos of her book because he was scared of losing it, especially as the cab was sometimes broken into. Then he would track down Matt and ask him to help him get rid of Robert Jeffrey. He wasn't sure what good that would do, but Matt seemed like a guy who would know how to deal with that kind of stuff.

He also decided to stay away from the flat as much as he could. Maybe he could sleep in the cab for a bit, or crash on the couch at his mate's flat downstairs — that would make it harder for Rowan's friend to track him down, and help him avoid Jeffrey for a while. Then practical considerations started to seep into his panic-stricken mind. What would Ajit do if Jack was living in the cab? What would be the point of hiding out downstairs if
ASIO
were watching the building?
You can run, but you can't hide
, he thought grimly.

Jack's sense of perspective had been addled by countless bad movies, and he was drifting into a twilight zone between reality and fiction. He had never been involved in anything like this before, so his tools for assessing his position weren't that effective. And dealing with two separate threats simultaneously was making it very hard to concentrate.

8

Pursuit

Jack had lost interest in driving. The following day was a blur of inconsequential people taking meaningless journeys. His mind was elsewhere.

He called Matt around mid-morning, and asked him if they could catch up after work.

‘Seeing as how you're answering this call, I assume you've still got your ears, mate.'

‘Yep, still there,' Matt replied tersely.

‘Sounds like I bought you some time. So what time suits tonight?'

‘Maybe around eight? Whereabouts?'

‘How far north do you shiny-bums go? What about the Lyndhurst, top end of Lygon Street? Tram does a dog-leg …'

‘Yeah, know it. See you there.'

As soon as he'd hung up, Jack realised he'd made a mistake. Hiding from Jeffrey in a pub two blocks from the flat wasn't very smart.

Then he rationalised it as a clever double-bluff. If Jeffrey thought he'd done a runner, he'd hardly assume that he'd gone no further than the front bar of the nearest pub.

Later in the day, Matt called. Jack was wary of answering his phone, but he recognised the number on the screen. Just to be sure, though, he answered formally: ‘Jack van Duyn.'

‘Hey, Jack, I'm getting away from work early today. Could we make it around seven?'

‘Yeah, sure. See you then.' That suited Jack: an hour less to fill up away from the flat between handover and meeting Matt. He didn't want to be blind drunk by the time Matt turned up.

Handing over the cab to Ajit took longer than he expected. He had to drive to Ajit's flat, and Ajit wanted to chat, so by the time he got back to Brunswick it was after six. He made a quick trip to the flat, entering the back way through the creaking gate in the paling fence, eyes darting all around him as he hurried in to the cover offered by the stairs. There was no sign of Jeffrey, which was fortunate, as Jack's demeanour was so obviously suspicious that the
ASIO
operative would probably have arrested him on the spot.