Comfort Zone (5 page)

‘You're kidding!'

‘Might be worth a try. Never done it with a Somali chick.'

Jack was horrified by his casual arrogance.

‘But you're a merchant banker! Fancy Collins Street types don't go out with single mums from the Carlton flats!' His vehemence was revealing, but Matt wasn't paying attention. In his world, taxidrivers weren't entirely human, especially ones like Jack. The idea of Jack as a romantic rival was so ludicrous that it would not have occurred to him.

‘Yeah, I know. Still, world's a funny place.'

‘How're people going to react when you turn up at cocktails and garden parties with a Somali chick?'

‘I don't really go to garden parties.' Matt was now sounding pensive, and he didn't take the bait, so Jack returned to safer subject-matter.

‘So what do you actually do at work anyway?'

‘I'm in M and A. Mergers and acquisitions. I'm a vice-president, which means I'm a kind of apprentice on the way up the ladder.'

‘An apprentice is vice-president? What's your boss called? Grand Pooh-Bah?'

‘Managing director. I've been there for about four years, so I might get promoted to director soon.'

‘You get shitloads of money?'

‘Not yet. Pay's good, but it's only the guys at the top who light cigars with hundred-dollar notes.'

Matt elaborated on his role in the investment bank. He was part of a team that advised big companies in negotiations on a merger or takeover. Matt was in the engine room of the process, organising research, crunching numbers, and assisting the senior banker handling the deal. He often worked very long hours, sometimes beyond midnight.

‘So it's not all glamour and celebrities and stuff?'

Matt chuckled. ‘Nope. Maybe for the big guys, but it might be a while before I'm up there.' He sniffed, and looked at a large, garish watch that looked like it belonged on a wrist about twice the size.

‘Hey, do you do direct callouts? Can be hard finding a cab sometimes. Got a card or something?'

‘Yeah. I gave you a card after the shit-fight, remember?'

‘Oh, yeah.'

‘I do mornings, so you won't get me taking you home after work. Give me a call if you need me.'

‘The way things are heading, I might end up leaving work around the time your shift starts.' Matt raised himself off the seat and rearranged his expensively tailored trousers. He sniffed again, and then looked out the window at the ugly light-industrial landscape.

There was no congestion on the freeway, so they approached the airport terminal with time to spare. Jack was relieved: traffic was out of control on the freeway these days. Passengers who missed flights tended to blame the cab driver, regardless of the real cause of the delay.

Jack crawled to a halt on the upper level of the terminal building outside the Qantas section. He took Matt's Amex card without comment, and processed the EFTPOS transaction on his card reader.

‘Hey, catch you soon, Matt.'

‘Yeah, thanks. I'll call if I need a cab.'

Jack caught sight of an airport parking officer in a fluoro vest heading his way, so he pulled out and sped off.
Stupid fucking airport Nazis
, he grumbled to himself. The airport had made a number of changes that seemed deliberately designed to irritate taxidrivers. Jack was always getting into arguments with minor airport workers about where he could prop, and things like that.

He checked the time and made a quick calculation. He still had plenty of time to get to the police station before one o'clock. Even if the mythical fare to Warburton turned up, he would still make it.

Farhia floated around his mind, inciting longing and admiration in equal measure. He did the wide loop needed to enable him to enter the pickup line, and soon had another passenger who looked and sounded just like Matt — another well-groomed, well-dressed young man with no distinguishing marks and the early signs of a double chin.
They must clone these guys
, he said under his breath as his passenger settled into the back seat.

His latest fare was preoccupied with the contents of his briefcase, so the return journey was silent and peaceful, and Jack was able to keep daydreaming about Farhia. He revelled in the unimaginable joy of a romantic relationship, built on the heroic role he had already carved out for himself.

One more short fare, and it was almost time to venture back to Carlton. He thought about trawling for another one, but decided to play it safe. There was no point chasing a few extra dollars if it meant getting caught in traffic and missing his chance to see Farhia again.

The Carlton police station was an unsightly red-brick building tucked away in Drummond Street, just back from Elgin Street. Other than a very small sign and numerous police cars parked outside, it could have been almost anything — maybe a down-at-heel printing business or even a small distribution warehouse. Its ugliness gave it a forbidding air: a stern, unforgiving presence suited to its purpose.

Jack parked further up Drummond Street in a one-hour zone, and thought about his next move. The idea of another encounter with Farhia was already making his skin tingle. It was twenty to one. A mottled grey sky hung heavily over the handful of people wandering up and down the street. Aside from a couple of Italian restaurants, a hairdresser, and a Salvation Army citadel, there weren't that many buildings that dealt with walk-in customers. One block further west was where all the retail action was, in the heart of Lygon Street.

Jack leaned forward towards his rear-view mirror so that he could see the front of the police station. He was confident he could recognise Farhia even from over fifty metres away. Her preference for colourful outfits would help — although this seemed to be common among Somali women, so he hoped that none were about to come along and confuse things. He assumed that they didn't visit the local police station readily — Jack had noticed that Somali drivers took great care to stay out of the way of cops.

For something to do while he waited, he turned on talkback radio.

‘It's Bill from Croydon.'

‘What's on your mind today, Bill?'

‘It's all them foreigners coming in. Why should taxpayers' money be wasted supporting them to live the life of Riley? Bound to be terrorists, some of them. I was in Springvale last week, and not an Aussie to be seen.'

‘True enough, Bill. Now it's Bob from Avondale Heights. We're talking about the government's changes to asylum-seeker rules, Bob …'

Jack switched it off. Although he often agreed with their complaints, he usually couldn't stand the morons who rang in on talkback radio. It was like getting a whole day's worth of loudmouth passengers in fifteen minutes. He didn't like foreigners much, but he didn't like whingers either. In fact, he didn't like most people. To Jack, people were dickheads until proven otherwise.

He sometimes fantasised about being a shock-jock. He figured the studio would be similar to his taxi, and it would be just like putting up with opinionated passengers all day without throttling anyone. Just like Derryn Hinch and co., he would pretend to agree with stupid opinions, or at least tolerate them.

He only lingered on this thought for a moment on this occasion. His Farhia obsession was much more powerful.

It was almost one o'clock, and he was now feeling very nervous. It was a long time since Jack had experienced the thrill of the chase, the tingling apprehension of desire.

The digital clock on his dashboard ticked over to 12:59, and he glanced in the mirror again. Then he froze. Two women in traditional Somali dress were standing outside the entrance to the police station. The bright, flowing robes and headscarves were unmistakable. One wore bright yellow with a black pattern, the other a rich shade of purple with crimson highlights. One of the women was slightly taller, but he couldn't be sure which one was Farhia from this distance. He guessed she was the one in purple.

He hadn't counted on her bringing a friend. That complicated matters. It did make sense, though, a bit like women going to nightclub toilets in pairs.
I wouldn't trust cops either if I was her
, Jack said to himself.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he got out of the cab, did his best to suck in his stomach, and walked steadily — and, he hoped, manfully — down the hill towards them.

He could feel the tension rising inside him. He couldn't escape the awful feeling that, to these women, he was mildly ridiculous. In spite of his casual contempt for people of other races, Jack was intimidated by Farhia's calm dignity. After all, he was just a no-hoper living alone in a suicide flat. He could hardly look down on a single mum.

‘Thought I might see you here. How's Yusuf?' Affecting a casual indifference, he tried to behave as if this encounter was entirely unremarkable.

‘Yusuf is going well. This is my friend Aicha. She has come to help me.' Farhia then turned to Aicha and spoke rapidly in Somali.

‘I inform Aicha you are the one who helped me. Her English it is not very good.'

Jack did his best to radiate nobility and modesty.

‘Matt helped a bit, too. Picked him up in the cab this morning, actually.' In Farhia's presence, a different personality took over Jack's body. He was no longer the cynical, bitter loser who regarded life as an unfair struggle in which you always had to look after number one. He was now Don Juan in a taxidriver's uniform, ready to risk his life for a damsel in distress.

Aicha was taller than Farhia, with a pleasant face that was dominated by a large mouth and protruding teeth. After a brief, instinctive glance of appraisal, Jack turned back to Farhia.

‘Maybe we should go in …'

‘Yes. Are you here to speak to the police?'

‘Yeah, thought I might as well get it over with.' Jack hoped the tiny tremor in his voice didn't betray the fact that his arrival wasn't a coincidence.

‘I hope this will be the end of the whole thing,' Farhia said. If she suspected that Jack had an ulterior motive, she didn't show it. Her smooth, calm features and deep-brown eyes were just as entrancing as they'd been the previous day.

Aicha flicked a loose part of her bright-yellow robe over her left arm, and turned towards the entrance, signalling that they might as well get on with it. They walked along a narrow gap between the side of the building and a high fence, and stepped through a small doorway into the reception area.

Inner-suburban cop shops are all the same
, Jack thought, observing the small windows, worn lino, wanted posters, and plastic chairs
. Maybe it's about deterring criminals: they'd try to avoid the place because it's so ugly and uncomfortable
.

He waited for Farhia and Aicha to sit down. There were only two chairs, both looking like they could do with a wash, which the women sat down on after an exchange of gestures and mumbles established that Jack was doing his gentlemanly duty.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and finally a uniformed policeman appeared at the counter.

After a brief explanation from Jack, the policeman left; a couple of minutes later, Senior Constable Davies appeared through a side door.

‘Mrs Mohammed? Can you come this way, please?'

‘I have my friend with me …'

‘And I thought I'd come to do my statement, too …'

The police officer flashed an exasperated look at Jack, stepped back as he ushered them towards the door, and conceded.

‘Suppose it won't hurt. Come on, let's get you in and see what this is all about.'

He ushered them along a small corridor.

‘Second room on the left, thanks.'

They entered a cramped interview room containing more plastic chairs, a small laminated table that was chipped around the edges, and a poster on the wall promoting Crime Stoppers. A tiny frosted window was the only connection to the outside world, but the sliver of light it allowed in did little to help the single 40-watt globe dispel the gloom.

With a good deal of scraping of chairs on the lino floor, they sat down on the far side of the table. Farhia and Aicha looked like obedient schoolgirls, while Jack did his best to sit up straight. Davies leant back on his chair, boredom oozing through every pore in his rough, reddish face.

He looked down at a couple of pages of notes, and then looked back up at Farhia.

‘So, Mrs Mohammed, the two big kids just came by and attacked your sons?'

‘Yes, that is right.'

‘Why would they do that?'

‘I do not know.'

‘Your boys didn't do anything to them? Throw stones at them? Call them names?'

‘Of course not. They are good boys.'

He scribbled a few additional words at the bottom of one of his pages of notes.

‘They both said that Yusuf — that's the right name, I think — kicked the older one in the genitals …'

‘They are telling a lie.'

‘Why would they do that?'