Comfort Zone (27 page)

This time, Jack was lucky. Ajit was relieved to hear about the delay, as he was caught up in a major drama at the call centre. Apparently, it involved sexual harassment of some kind. Jack didn't ask for further details, in case Ajit was the culprit — or even worse, the victim. He didn't want to know.

By the time he reached the head of the rank, it was almost 3.30. As he was mulling over the risk that he would get a longer job that would make him late returning to Farhia, a man in a dark-charcoal suit got in and said: ‘Just up to BHP in Lonsdale Street, thanks. Sorry it's only a short one.'

Normally, Jack would have flashed a dirty look at the passenger to show his displeasure. Sitting on a rank for an hour for a five-dollar fare was the bane of the inner-city driver's existence. That and violent, drunken passengers, of course.

On this occasion, though, Jack felt relieved. He could drop his passenger in Lonsdale Street and continue on to Lygon Street. He didn't care that his earnings for the day were well below average.

‘No worries, mate — nearly finished anyway.' The passenger smiled back at him.

He looked at his smooth, smug passenger, and wondered what kind of life he led. Everything about him was immaculate: neatly trimmed grey hair, understated designer glasses, hand-tailored Italian suit, Lloyd's shoes, the lot. Jack often felt like a small boy looking through a window into a world of comfort and indulgence. It was a world so foreign to him that he had no real idea how it functioned.

His passenger gave him a ten-dollar note, and told him to keep the change. Jack thanked him with feeling. It was a good sign for the events about to unfold.

It was almost five minutes to four when he knocked discreetly on Emily's door and called out ‘It's Jack'.

Once again, Emily opened the door and let him in. Farhia and Aicha were now sitting around Emily's small kitchen table. She had tidied up since the last time he'd been there, but there was still a great deal of unpacking, moving, and sorting to be done.

Farhia looked up at him, intense anxiety written all over her beautiful features. Jack noted the faint bruise where Abdirahman had hit her.

‘Nothing yet. One of my nasty friends is helping out. They know if they bring Yusuf to the Dan at six o'clock, they'll get the book and the phone.'

‘Dan?'

‘Dan O'Connell's. Hotel down in Princes Street.' It didn't readily occur to Jack that there were people living in Carlton whose world didn't revolve around the Dan — including people whose religion forbade the consumption of alcohol.

‘We've made up a fake book,' Emily said. ‘Aicha wrote it all out. It's quite good, actually.'

‘Great. Now all we've got to do is find a mobile.'

‘Got one. Don't ask where from, though. Took some pictures with it.'

Jack smiled. One less thing he had to worry about — or ask Scabber to help with.

‘Emily, you're a star.' For someone suffering from Chronic Fatigue, she was remarkably resourceful.

He turned back to Farhia and Aicha. ‘Can you guys stay here for a bit longer? Hey Emily, why don't you get them something to eat?' He offered her a twenty-dollar note.

‘Thanks, Jack, we can cope.'

‘No, take it. Couple of good tips this arvo.' Once again, he was unable to recognise himself.

Emily accepted the creased note, and Jack sat down on a tiny stool beside the main window.

‘Tell me more about this pirate stuff,' he said to Farhia.

‘There is not much more. For five years, it is a big business. Mainly in Puntland. Other countries, they are stealing our fish, dumping poison rubbish, then Americans pay two million dollars to get a ship back. Insurance companies make deals with pirates, give them money. So they see that stealing ships is good business. Puntland men are smart. A lot of them lost jobs when al-Shabab came — like police, in government, these things.'

‘Why were they sacked?'

‘Puntland has always ruled Somalia. Hawiye hate us. Al-Shabab are mostly Hawiye. Others from the south do not like Puntland either.'

‘Why'd they get into the pirate game?'

‘There is not many things to do. They must eat, find food for their families. Some are educated, like my brother, but there are no jobs for them. Many ships come past Puntland. It is easy to take them and get money to give them back.'

‘How'd your brother get involved?'

‘Our father is in government. He is a …' She hesitated, and looked at Aicha. ‘I think it is called official. My brother is smart, but he is wild. He does not like to be official, so he goes with the pirates. He did not go on ships — he organises, money from Saudi, guns, food, everything. When he see them killing people, giving money to politicians, he ran away. But he knows much, so they go after him.'

It was now making sense. By the simple act of picking up Farhia's book and taking photos of it, Jack had inserted himself into this web of intrigue. And while Farhia's brother was still alive, it was hard to imagine an end to it. Even if they rescued Yusuf from Abdirahman, another petty thug would pop up in his place. They had to neutralise the threat from her brother. Jack understood that piracy was big business in Somalia, and that they didn't follow any rules. And underneath the surface, the woman he'd become obsessed with was living in unimaginable torment.

‘I'd better get moving,' he said to Farhia. He turned to Emily, who was staring out the window, looking quite detached and calm. ‘I'll call you when there's any news.'

‘Please, Jack, bring Yusuf back to me,' Farhia pleaded as he moved towards the door.

‘I will.' Trying to display a confidence he didn't feel, Jack departed, thinking bleak thoughts of soldiers in the trenches about to go over the top into the machine-gun fire. Even though he had the comfort of Scabber on his team, he was feeling very frightened.

16

Confrontation

The Court House Hotel was one of Melbourne's older pubs. It was little more than an extended shopfront, on the west side of Sydney Road, just south of where Brunswick turned into Coburg. Unlike most inner-Melbourne pubs, it had defied the gentrification trend and remained proudly down-at-heel. Few inner-city professionals ever graced its well-worn carpets.

As he entered, Jack spotted Scabber standing where the token half-size pool table had once lived but was now just another nest of pokies. As soon as he noticed Jack, he started moving.

‘Ready?'

Jack nodded. As they walked out, a couple of older patrons cast wary glances in Scabber's direction. He inspired respect in this part of Melbourne.

‘So what's the plan, mate?' Jack asked as they wriggled into the front seat of the cab.

‘Not much. Sit and wait. They'll show.'

‘We faked up a book — should get us through, but the mobile'll be tricky. Pretty easy to work out when they were taken. What if they arc up?'

‘We grab the kid, thump them a bit, then scarper.'

Jack wasn't sure if he was joking.

‘There's another complication.'

‘Yeah?' Scabber sounded like he wasn't keen on complications.

‘Rowan rang me and told me to turn up at the Dan tonight. Early. Says they want to get a move on. Was supposed to be the weekend. Told him I had other stuff on, but he wouldn't listen.'

‘What time?'

‘Around six-thirty. Bit vague, though.'

‘Could get interesting. Rowan involved in the Somali stuff at all?'

‘No.'

Scabber went quiet for a couple of minutes as they crawled along the southern end of Sydney road. The traffic was heavy.

‘So what do you reckon?' Jack asked.

‘We'll work something out. Bit more confusion might help. But I need to know one thing. What matters most? The boy, or getting Rowan sorted?'

Jack thought about this dilemma, and then had to swerve to avoid an erratic cyclist.

‘Um, the kid, I suppose.'

Feeling embarrassed by his uncertainty — more for his own sake than Scabber's — he added: ‘No, the kid, definitely. Rowan's a pain in the arse, but we can sort him out later.'

‘Okay. Need to know.'

They drove on in silence, eventually turning into College Crescent. The peak-hour traffic was always very heavy in this part of Carlton, so it took some time before Jack was able to turn into Canning Street and park a little way north of the main thoroughfare. He wasn't sure whether it was better to have the cab well out of harm's way or close by if they needed to make a quick getaway, but this spot was about the closest he would get anyway. Princes Street was one of Melbourne's main traffic sewers at any time, and in the early evening it was always choked with cars. A quick getaway would be easier from the northern side, but that meant crossing the road on foot. As he didn't really expect they would have Yusuf with them, he didn't worry about the challenges of making a run for it with a small boy in tow.

It was still well before six o'clock as they crossed Princes Street at the pedestrian lights and entered the public bar. An unpleasant mixture of apprehension, adrenalin, and panic surged through his body.

As Jack passed through the discoloured grey-green door leading into the bar, he noticed a sign: ‘Happy Hour Tuesday 5.30–6.30'. That explained why the bar was crowded. It might complicate their efforts to negotiate Yusuf's release, particularly if they were dealing with Rowan at the same time. He had probably chosen the time deliberately, to give himself extra cover from a dense crowd.

As they wriggled their way through to the lounge bar, a couple of drinkers noticed Scabber, and made an effort to get out of his way. He still commanded respect at the Dan, too.

The lounge wasn't quite as crowded as the public bar, but there were more patrons than usual for an evening early in the week — perhaps fifteen or twenty of them.

‘Get some drinks. I'll be over here.' Scabber gestured towards the far side of the lounge, and walked off. Jack took a nervous glance around the room, but he couldn't see Rowan or Leather Jacket in the crowd. He leant on the bar and waited to be served.

He did notice out of the corner of his eye that Billy the Hippy was at the other end of the bar, deep in conversation with an equally bedraggled, weather-beaten man. Jack raised his left hand in a token gesture of recognition, but Billy was too engrossed to notice.
Probably crapping on about the Isle of Wight or some rubbish
, Jack thought.

After receiving his drinks, he wandered around cluttered tables and boisterous patrons, carefully protecting the glasses in each hand. Scabber had parked himself at a tiny table against the rear wall.

He was about to sit down when a melodious voice laced with false bonhomie boomed from behind him.

‘Jack! Great to see you're already here. Can we pull up a chair?'

Rowan looked neat and dapper, as always. Immediately behind him, looking every bit as nasty as he had at their previous encounter, was Leather Jacket. It looked like he hadn't even changed his clothes.

‘I'll decide that,' Scabber growled at Rowan.

Rowan shrank back a little as he took note of Jack's drinking companion. Then he resumed the phoney charm-offensive.

‘But of course. I'd offer drinks, but you seem to be well provided for already.'

Jack had recovered his balance by this stage, and he tried to put Rowan off.

‘Rowan, we've got some serious stuff to attend to. Can I catch you a bit later?'

‘So have we, my boy, so have we. You're going to have to travel tonight, I'm afraid. Bit of urgency and all that. Change of plan, that sort of thing.' Rowan seemed to be playing a character from a Miss Marple movie.

‘You're kidding!' Jack exploded in response. ‘No fucking way, mate. We've got a big problem to sort here. Kid's involved. You're going to have to wait.' Jack put the glasses on the table and pulled out the remaining chair. Leather Jacket was now hovering close by.

‘Jack, Jack, I'm sure we can work this out. We don't have any time to waste.' Rowan's tone was getting smoother as his intent got nastier.

‘You heard what he said. Now piss off.' Scabber's voice was flat, and he didn't alter his expression or position as he delivered this instruction.

Leather Jacket bristled like an attack dog at the end of a chain. Rowan raised a restraining arm.

‘No need for any excitement. We don't have any issue with Mister McPhee.'

‘He won't be driving anywhere tonight, except home. It's not convenient.' Scabber still didn't raise his voice, but there was a steely ring to it that suggested dissent was out of the question.

‘I'm afraid we have an arrangement …' Rowan's voice was harsher now, the friendly veneer discarded.

Scabber stood up. Leather Jacket grabbed Jack's left arm in an iron grip.

‘Let him go.' Scabber's tone was still very matter-of-fact.