Comfort Zone (22 page)

‘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.

12

Assault

As a penance for letting down Farhia, Jack spent the first couple of hours of Sunday morning cleaning his flat. He assumed it would be unwise to disturb her too early — she would probably be at the mosque or something. Jack was unaware that Sunday was not the main day of worship in the Islamic faith.

He wiped crumbs off the kitchen bench, scrubbed the sink, wiped many months of dust from the TV, cleared away the night before's mess on the coffee table, and even vacuumed the carpet. He gazed with distaste at the layers of dust on the books and other bits and pieces in the spare room next to his bedroom.
Maybe next time
, he thought.

He tried to remember when he'd last changed the sheets, and made a mental note to deal with outstanding laundry matters later in the day. No need to go overboard.

When it was almost eleven, he rang Farhia. There was no answer. He exhaled slowly, with a mixture of relief and frustration. She might have gone away — or maybe she'd already been picked up by
ASIO
.

He tried again twenty minutes later, and this time Farhia answered immediately.

‘Farhia? It's Jack. We've got a problem.
ASIO
took my phone. They've emailed the photos back to their office or something.'

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' Jack pleaded. ‘I couldn't stop them. I'll come over now, sort something out. Anything …'

‘I will be at the centre later. You must come then.'

‘No worries. When should I come?'

‘Maybe one hour. I am helping Aicha. She will not worry.'

‘I'll see you in an hour. I'm sorry, Farhia. I hope it doesn't …' Farhia had hung up.

Jack didn't know what to do for the next hour. He was already sick of cleaning: he'd reached the point where he either had to get serious or stop. Truly ugly jobs like cleaning the stove and the toilet beckoned.

He sat down to watch TV instead, and lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. He could barely take in the programs, and was still on edge when it came time to leave. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He owed Farhia nothing, and he hadn't done anything wrong, really. He was bewitched, obsessed, focused on a quest that was absurd and impossible. And now he felt like he was locked in a room with no doors, with the walls closing in on him.

The Carlton estate was even more desolate and windswept than usual when Jack got off the tram. He sneezed several times as he walked around the vast concrete structures, and cursed the gathering hayfever storm. With his eyes swimming and his sinuses crackling with irritation, he opened the creaky door of the welfare centre and stepped inside.

The light wasn't on, so it was gloomy inside. Farhia was at the far end of the room, talking to Aicha. Or to a woman in traditional Somali dress who appeared to be Aicha: it wasn't easy to tell in the murky light. And Jack hadn't paid much attention to her when they'd met a couple of weeks ago.

There were a couple of other women sitting at a desk, but Jack ignored them and went straight over to Farhia.

‘Hi, Farhia. Er … g'day.' He played it safe, and didn't refer to Aicha by name.

‘Hello, Jack. You are worried.' Farhia's face remained calm and still as she spoke, without any hint of anger or distress. That didn't help matters. Jack felt like a prisoner in the dock begging the judge for mercy.

‘I'm worried about
ASIO
. They think you're a terrorist or something. Don't know what's in the book, but they twist things …'

Farhia turned to Aicha. ‘Do you think I am a terrorist?' She enunciated the word with special emphasis, stretching out the syllables for effect. A smile lit up her smooth, oval face. Jack relaxed a fraction.

‘We must be asking Yusuf and Omar.'

Farhia and Aicha giggled. They were evidently unconcerned about
ASIO
.

‘Look, I'm sorry … know what I mean? They forced me, grabbed the phone. I only took the pictures because I was scared of losing the book.'

‘I think you like Farhia and have big nose …' Aicha demonstrated with her left hand, and giggled again. She seemed determined to turn everything into a joke. Jack blushed and said nothing. Farhia glanced at Aicha, but also stayed silent.

‘Can I buy you a coffee or something?' Jack was itching to find out more about the book's contents.

‘I am sorry, but we must do things.'

‘Have you heard from the cops about the court case?'

‘No. I do not think of it. If they stay away, it is good. Those boys, they have family, not good people. They go to prison, maybe they attack us again.'

‘Sure everything's okay?'

‘Yes.'

The last thing Jack had expected was such a business-like, unemotional encounter. He was prepared for anger, insults, cold fury, and rejection, but this was more like a Centrelink interview.

Deflated by the lack of drama, Jack prepared to leave.

‘Well, I'm glad it's not disastrous. I'd better get moving …'

As he turned to leave, the door opened suddenly, swung through its full arc, and banged hard against the leg of a broken chair. A dark-skinned man, with a shaved head, wearing a loose-fitting Manchester United guernsey, stormed into the room, bumping into the printer as he rushed towards Farhia and Aicha. Jack froze. As the man brushed past him, he noted the ‘Rooney' and ‘10' on the back of his guernsey. He didn't think he was the knife-man.

But he wasn't there for a friendly chat. Upon reaching Farhia and Aicha, he unleashed a stream of invective in Somali. He grabbed Farhia's left wrist and twisted it outward. Jack took a few steps back into the room.

Aicha screamed at Farhia's assailant, and he turned and struck her on the side of the face with the back of his left hand. She reeled back, stumbled against the desk, and slipped down onto the floor.

Jack lurched forward and grabbed the man's forearm with both hands, trying to free Farhia.

‘Leave them alone! You can't do that …' Jack yelled. He wrestled with Rooney — as inevitably he was registering in Jack's mind — while Aicha wobbled to her feet, her left hand over a reddening bruise on her face.

Rooney let go of Farhia's wrist. He was very slim, and only of medium height, but he made up for his lack of strength with an astonishing level of raw aggression. He shoved Jack violently in the chest and leapt on him as he teetered backwards. They clattered to the floor in a jumble of papers, coffee cups, and broken chairs. Rooney had stopped yelling, but Farhia and Aicha were still screaming. The women sitting at the far desk had disappeared.

Jack was lying partly on his side, wedged in amongst the legs of an office chair, an old wooden desk, and a small plastic bin. Rooney wasn't entirely on top of him, but he had the upper hand.

He tried to grab Jack by the throat, but didn't succeed. He then started throwing wild punches. The awkward angle made them ineffective.

As they scrambled, Jack banged his head against something hard. Rooney clambered to his feet and returned to Farhia.

Farhia and Aicha had stopped yelling, and were standing there, shaking and crying. They exchanged a few words in Somali, and Farhia hugged Aicha.

Rooney grabbed Farhia's upper arm, put his face very close to hers, and spat a few words in Somali at her. As Jack was wobbling to his feet, Rooney turned around and walked out, banging the door behind him.

The entire incident had only taken a couple of minutes. It took another ten seconds or more before anyone said anything, such was the effect of this sudden whirlwind of violence and abuse. As the echoing clang of the slamming door faded, the only remaining sound was laboured breathing. Aicha started sobbing, with Farhia still holding her and staring blankly at the door. Jack rubbed his head and moved away from the tangle of furniture.

Just as Jack started to speak, the door opened again, and a cheery Emily bounced into the room.

‘Hi everyone, how's it … Oh my God! What's happened? Oh my … come here, let me help … you should sit down …'

She shepherded Aicha and Farhia onto chairs. Jack hovered next to them, still rubbing the side of his head and wincing at the pain reverberating through his skull.

Emily looked up at him: ‘Jack, you okay? What happened?'

‘Dunno. This nutcase attacked the girls here, jumped on me … couldn't work out what he was on about.' Jack was swaying as he spoke. He could feel nausea creeping up into his throat.

‘You okay?'

‘Yeah, yeah. Knocked my head on the table or something. Nothing serious.' He was smart enough to avoid saying something like ‘just a scratch'.

‘I'll make some coffee. You all need to chill out for a bit. That guy's bad news.'

They drew breath for a couple of minutes until Emily produced a few cracked mugs full of instant coffee. As Farhia and Aicha battled to control their shaking hands and sipped their coffee, Jack spoke.

‘What the f …? Er, what's going on round here? Twice in two days I've been attacked by some maniac I've never met. Who was that guy?' He looked at Farhia, seeking an explanation.

‘He is my cousin. I think you would call it second cousin. He is a nasty man …'

‘Is he the reason
ASIO
think you're a terrorist?'

‘I don't know.'

‘So why's he abusing you, all that shit?' Jack had tried to avoid swearing in front of Farhia until now, but he couldn't help himself.

‘It is difficult. Things in Somalia, family things. He wants me to do something I cannot do. So he shouts at me …'

‘The ones who attacked your kids … are they part of it?'

‘A little. In our community, everything is connected. Everyone knows everyone.'

‘We should go to the cops. Getting out of control.' Jack was always reluctant to put himself anywhere near the police, but this was getting serious.

‘No, no!' Farhia was vehement. ‘How will that solve family problem in Somalia?'

‘But next time he might really hurt you — or the kids.'

‘I do not trust police.'

Jack let it rest. He didn't trust the police either, so he could understand why a refugee from Somalia wouldn't. He was worried he had a concussion, and he was once again struggling to understand what was happening. His head was aching, and he felt hot.