Comfort Zone (14 page)

He didn't stay there long. It wasn't much after 6.30 when he walked into the Lyndhurst. Ignoring the discordant music of countless poker machines, which now occupied most of the floor space, he headed towards the small remaining old-style pub zone at the back.

‘How's it going, Jack?' An awkward-looking man in a faded green parka called out to him in a flat, nasal voice as Jack weaved his way through a small crowd of drinkers around the bar.

‘Jim, not bad, mate. No runners or chuckers for a few weeks.'

All taxidrivers were accustomed to dealing with passengers who refused to pay and made a run for it. A new law had been introduced requiring passengers to pre-pay after 10.00 pm. As Jack did the morning shift, it didn't affect him, but like most innovations designed to improve the industry, Jack thought it would be useless.

‘Some people can't afford to pay … '

‘Then they shouldn't get in the fucking cab in the first place, should they?' Jack punched Jim playfully on the shoulder, grinning as he did so.

‘You're a capitalist at heart, Jack.' Jim also cracked an insipid half-smile, about the best he was capable of. The world was a dismal, unfair place, in Jim's view.

‘Not much good at it, though!' Jack laughed at the thought.

Jim was a long-suffering left-wing activist, a genuine sucker for punishment. Jack had met him when he was at La Trobe, when Jim was a fiery young zealot in the Socialist Workers Party, the main Trotskyist group in far-left Australian politics. Since then, Jim had got greyer and scruffier, his glasses had begun to approach Coke-bottle thickness, and his old green parka had been traded in for another one, but his politics hadn't changed at all.

Jim had spent much of the late 1970s and early 1980s working on the production line at the Ford factory in Broadmeadows, an enthusiastic foot-soldier in the SWP's ‘Back to Basic Industry' campaign. After failing to convert the membership of the Vehicle Builders Union to the cause of international socialism, and rising no further than deputy shop steward in his section, he eventually gave up.

In spite of this very disillusioning experience, Jim had remained loyal to the movement, and followed the tiny core group of the SWP as it morphed into new party formations in the 1980s and 1990s. He left Ford and went to work as a tram conductor in the late 1980s, and played a major role in the 1990 dispute, in which stationary trams blocked city streets for a fortnight. Since that brief taste of industrial glory, Jim had drifted in and out of dead-end jobs, still spending most of his time on thankless political activity.

These days, his main contribution was selling
Green Left Weekly
. The centre of gravity of radical politics and fringe culture had moved from Fitzroy to Brunswick, so Jim had relocated with it. He was now something of a regular at the Lyndhurst, the precise geographic point where the radical inner city gave way to traditional industrial northern suburbs.

Jack quite liked Jim. He was authentic. His complete refusal to capitulate in the face of capitalist progress was admirable. He was a bit mad, true, but what did that matter? Who was he to judge?

Jack had known many people over the years who'd been fiery radicals at La Trobe and later drifted into complacent suburban anonymity. Without nutters and zealots like Jim, the world would never get any better. Jack didn't agree with his formula for reshaping the world, but he often agreed with Jim's withering critiques of those who wielded economic and political power.

Jim started to shuffle off towards the pokies area, squinting awkwardly behind his thick glasses, no doubt with some hope of selling a few newspapers. Jack thought about shouting him a drink, then thought better of it. Matt would probably arrive soon — no reason to complicate things.

‘Hey, Jim, know anything about Somalia?'

‘Another classic example of the effects of American imperialism. A puppet government falls, civil war breaks out, the imperialists intervene to restore control, the country is devastated, then the people fight back. It's an old, old story. Always the same …'

‘What about all this Muslim shit? Al Qaeda, terrorism, all that stuff?' Jack sensed a chance to do some useful homework. Jim might be crazy, but he knew a lot of stuff about some very obscure parts of the world. Once you had filtered out the extreme political bias, he could be a source of worthwhile information.

‘An American smokescreen. They demonise the popular resistance, call them terrorists, maybe even stage a few fake attacks, so they can shut down international support and get others to do their dirty work. That's where Kenya and Ethiopia come in.'

‘What's it got to do with Kenya and Ethiopia?' Jack asked. In spite of several hours spent researching Somalia, he had failed to take note of the countries that bordered it.

‘The Americans are using their troops to regain control of Somalia.'

‘Ah, interesting. So why do the bloody Somalis have to come out here and bring their fights with them? I don't care if they want to kill each other, they just should stay home and do it.' Jack's recent mellowing — induced by Farhia — clearly had limits.

‘That's racist thinking, Jack. Everyone fights, we're all the same. Imperialists exploit them, set them against each other …'

‘That's bullshit! Bloke went for me with a knife the other day, just sorting out some kids. What's imperialists got to do with that?'

‘Could've been an Aussie, we're all just as bad. Why pick on them just because they're African?'

‘Jesus, Jim, you're full of it, mate! Ever been in a cab with one of them driving? Bloody hopeless! Just here to rip off the welfare system. Howard was a nasty little prick, but he was bang on the money on this stuff …'

‘You're just a redneck, Jack, we're all migrants, squatting on Aboriginal land …'

Jack grabbed Jim by the arm and shook him roughly. ‘Wake up to yourself, mate! They're different from us …'

Jim recoiled from Jack's unexpected aggression. As he was backing away, Jack spotted Matt entering the bar through the main door. He walked carefully through the crowd, looking nervous. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue suit, and his hair looked as if it had just been styled. The subtle wave was a nice flourish in an otherwise very carefully sculpted appearance.

Jack waved in Matt's direction in a gesture of recognition. Matt noticed him immediately, and walked towards him with some relief showing on his face.

‘Consorting with the ruling class, hey, Jack?' Jim asked mischievously, recovering his balance after their little altercation.

‘Good customer, mate. Got to look after the regulars, you know.'

Matt stared at Jim as if he was a previously undiscovered species on display in the zoo. Jack didn't bother with formal introductions.

‘See you round, then, comrade.' Jim turned abruptly and wandered off.

‘Yeah, see you, mate.'

‘Who's that guy?' Matt asked softly.

‘Just an old mate. Bit of a weirdo, but he's a good bloke.'

Matt lost interest in Jim.

‘I'm in strife. I think I've been followed here. One of the heavies. We've got to get out of here, quick smart.' He almost hissed these words at Jack. He was fidgeting as he spoke, glancing nervously around the bar, showing obvious signs of fear to emphasise that he was serious.

What do you mean ‘we,' white man
, Jack thought as he looked at Matt, but he seemed so distressed that Jack didn't say anything. He recalled that he was also trying to keep a low profile. The argument with Jim had distracted him from the Robert Jeffrey problem. Who could tell — maybe
ASIO
had the place surrounded.

Perhaps they could head off somewhere less conspicuous. There were a few grimy cafés and cheap Chinese joints along the northern end of Lygon Street — the kind of places where no one asked anyone questions. Matt stood out in the Lyndhurst, where not many of the regulars wore $3,000 Zegna suits. Some of them had probably never even seen one before.

‘Okay, okay. Settle down. Where do you want to go?'

‘Don't know. On my way here, I noticed a guy behind me. In a Commodore, I think. I'm pretty sure it's his sidekick, nasty piece of work. His name's Karl, I think. Could have seen me stop and come in here.' Matt's right hand refused to stay still: he rubbed his still slightly bruised cheek, straightened his jacket, checked his pocket, and then ran it over his hair.

‘So where's your car?'

‘Just across the road. Down … I think it's called Albion Street?'

‘That way?' Jack pointed to the east, without making the gesture too noticeable.

‘Yep.'

A bit too close to Balmoral Avenue — could be risky. He thought about asking Matt to collect his car and come back to pick him up, but decided that was too complicated. He was just about to suggest that they walk down Lygon Street when Matt pulled hard at his sleeve.

‘Come on! We've got to move!'

Jack was unable to say no. There was something about Matt that made him comply, even when he didn't really want to. He kept ending up in crazy situations with him, with Matt yelling instructions at him, and he did what he was told. First the Somali kids, then the runner in Doncaster, and now this. Why did he keep doing it?

Matt's magnetism prevailed again. He drove a path through the growing crowd of drinkers, with Jack tagging along behind him. As he neared the door, he turned and scanned the bar.

‘Fuck!' he said in an urgent whisper directed at Jack. ‘There he is! That's him!'

As Jack turned around, Matt grabbed his sleeve and hissed: ‘Don't look! Shit, I think he's seen us! Quick, let's get a move on!' He dragged Jack towards a side entrance that opened up onto Albion Street.

Their departure wasn't exactly surreptitious. Elbows were nudged, drinks were spilled, the door clanged, and regulars stared. Jack noticed a man in a dark jacket heading their way as they went through the door. His determined, athletic stride was a dead giveaway — it had to be their guy. Jack didn't hang around for a second look.

There was still plenty of traffic in Lygon Street, even though peak hour was now receding.

‘Come on!' Matt yelled, as he waded straight into the steady stream of cars, dragging Jack along in his wake as if they were tied together. The dog-leg at the end of Lygon Street forced the traffic to slow down, so the cars weren't travelling much faster than about thirty kilometres per hour. The road was slippery though, as light drizzle was falling.

As they dodged grumpy commuters, Jack scraped against the rear of a BMW that braked unexpectedly, and Matt was almost hit by a car heading south. By the time they'd made it to the other side of the street, Jack was panting and disoriented.

‘Car's just over there!' Matt was also breathing faster, but he was still in command. He pointed up Albion Street, and they set off at a fast walk.

Jack looked along Albion Street and saw a tall, erect figure heading at a brisk pace towards them. He was more than a hundred metres away, but Jack recognised him. It was Jeffrey.

‘Fuck! We can't go up there! It's the
ASIO
bloke. He's after me!'

‘What the …'

Now the roles were reversed. Jack grabbed Matt's arm and turned back towards Lygon Street. He hustled Matt across to the other side of Albion Street, hoping to get out of Jeffrey's line of sight.

‘Come on! Got to get out of here! Hey, there's a tram coming. Let's grab it!'

Now Jack was the source of the magnetic force. As they reached the kerb, the doors of the tram started to close, and impatient drivers next to the tram started inching forward in anticipation. With a supreme effort, Jack hurled himself at the rear door, and squeezed his right arm and shoulder through the doorway. The door sprang back open, he tumbled inside, and Matt followed him in. They both collapsed onto empty seats, completely exhausted. Much to Jack's relief, the tram was almost empty. They had the rear section to themselves.

‘What was all that about?' Matt asked.

‘I was going to ask you the same thing,' Jack protested, panting loudly as the initial tickle and dribble of hayfever crept through his sinuses.

Matt stood up and moved right to the end of the tram.

‘Shit! He's there! Following us!'

‘Who?'

‘Karl. In a purple Commodore. Three cars back. He's seen us!'

Jack stood up.

‘Don't look! Don't look!' Matt slumped back onto one of the seats, hunching his head deep into his shoulders and stretching his legs out in front of him. His face was red and twitchy. The urbane, unflappable facade was slipping.

Jack also did his best to disappear into his seat. His height made this difficult, so he tried to align himself with the pillar at the end of the tram to create some cover.

‘What'll we do now?' he asked Matt. He feared that Jeffrey was also following them. ‘Why doesn't he just dump the car and hop on and grab us?'