Comfort Zone (3 page)

His flat was on the first floor at the back. The stairs annoyed him, but they did provide some distance from marauding teenagers and wandering drug addicts. Things were quiet most of the time. No one hassled him.

Jack dumped a small calico bag filled with basic groceries onto his kitchen table and slumped into the threadbare couch that marked the boundary between the kitchen and the lounge room. The afternoon's exertions had taken a toll: he wasn't used to physical activity, particularly anything involving violence.

He thought about taking some Teludene. The full horror of hayfever season was still a few weeks away, but he could sense the early signs creeping through his body. The pressure in the sinuses, tickle in the throat, water in the eyes, irritation in the nose — they were all there, stalking him like jackals shadowing wounded prey.

Jack had an unusual drug problem. His hayfever had got much worse over the past few years, so he was grateful that a new, and much better, drug had come onto the market. Teludene didn't get rid of the hayfever entirely, but it made it bearable. The trouble was, it was expensive because it wasn't subsidised by the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme. He'd looked it up on Wikipedia, and discovered that it was a slightly modified version of an earlier drug called Teldane, which had been withdrawn because it caused liver damage. Jack wasn't sure whether he wanted to know if they'd fixed the problem.

Jack knew a bloke whose brother worked in the warehouse of the company that distributed the drug, so he'd managed to gain access to an illicit supply. It wasn't easy: security at the warehouse was strict, and Harry's brother wasn't very reliable. Luckily, though, he was a keen gambler, so he was always on the lookout for a bit of extra cash. Jack paid well below retail for his Teludene, but it was still expensive, and he had to ration it.

He gritted his teeth, and accepted that it was more important to preserve the meagre stock that had arrived a few days before. He knew his need would be much greater in a few weeks' time, and there was no guarantee of future supply from Harry's brother. Last year he'd gone on holiday at a very inconvenient time, leaving Jack high and dry until early October.

Another empty, meaningless evening loomed: dinner, crap TV, a few cans of VB, and fitful sleep. Jack thought about watching some porn, but it didn't feel right. The encounter with Farhia had really got to him, and he didn't want to sully the moment with the crude trash he used to fill the void in his life. He could indulge in fantasies of a higher kind for a while.

Jack wasn't accustomed to being a hero, even a minor one. His life was mundane. He had a few mates, but he regarded them as nobodies like himself. He enjoyed going to the football occasionally, even though his team had been forcibly absorbed by the Brisbane Lions, which meant it wasn't quite the same. Now and then, he'd have a few beers and a few laughs with interesting characters, but that was about it.

He hadn't had any kind of relationship with a woman for years. His only protection against drowning in loneliness and boredom was his passengers. A lot of them were windbags and dickheads, but at least every day was different. That afternoon had certainly been an interesting experience. He grimaced as the aches and twinges in his quads and lower back reminded him of his exertions.

A Current Affair
was running a segment on Melbourne's worst taxidrivers. Within thirty seconds, he was yelling at the screen. There were plenty of bad drivers, that was for sure, but if people had any idea what cabbies had to put up with … aggressive drunks, obnoxious teenagers, middle-class twerps, smelly wogs, vomiting dickheads.
You name it, we get it. Who cares if a few drivers don't know where the Royal Melbourne Hospital is?
Jack was too tired to continue seething, so he turned the TV off and got up to start cooking his dinner.

The standard Balmoral Avenue dinner consisted of cheap sausages, mashed potatoes, carrots, and beans. Jack liked good food — and even ate out at restaurants from time to time — but when he was home alone he made little effort. He couldn't afford to spend much on food, once rent, bills, cigarettes, and alcohol were taken care of. He worked long hours for a limited reward, and was so settled in his ways that even if he had more money he knew he wouldn't know what to do with it.

The kitchen was very basic. A tarnished steel sink fronting the picture window was littered with dirty dishes and scraps. An inch or so of dishwater lingered at the bottom of the sink, held in place by food scraps clogging up the plughole.

To the right of the sink was a set of cupboards, hovering over a food-preparation area. On the bench was a tube of Glad Wrap, a battered old toaster, and a liberal sprinkling of bread crumbs.

Directly opposite was another bench that, along with Jack's old couch, marked the boundary of the kitchen. An old Yellow Pages, some unwanted junk mail, and a couple of newspapers lay at the far end, while next to the window was an old grey phone that had been disconnected long before.

Against the free-standing wall that separated the kitchen from the entrance area was a yellowish Kelvinator fridge, a tiny round wooden table, and a couple of plastic chairs that Jack had pinched from the local scout hall. The only decoration was a calendar for the previous year, courtesy of Donellan's Tyres, which Jack kept because he liked the nude model, and a poster for a 1982 Cold Chisel concert.

He made a mental note that he had basketball training the next day. For nearly six years, Jack had coached the Brunswick Bullets under-12 team. A mate had roped him into it, and he'd never had the gumption to bail out, even though his mate had long since moved to Geelong. He didn't get paid, and he had to cadge a lift with parents to away games, but he enjoyed it enough to stick at it. He'd played a bit of basketball in his youth, and the kids were still young enough to take notice of what he said.

Once he had mechanically munched his way through dinner, Jack sat back with his first can for the night. He scanned the
Herald-Sun
TV guide, and noticed a documentary on the Horn of Africa. He normally didn't watch SBS — except the late-night porn movies — because the signal was poor and the content was boring. Tonight, things were different: he now had a serious interest in Africa.

He didn't have the stamina, though. After twenty minutes of a snowy screen and crackling voice-overs, Jack fell asleep, half-sitting, half-lying on the couch, mouth wide open, snoring fitfully. When he woke up a few hours later, an obscure Mexican historical drama was playing. It was after ten-thirty, so he crawled off to bed, forgetting to brush his teeth. In the world of the single middle-aged bloke living by himself, such things didn't matter that much.

Jack was in a remarkably sunny mood the following day. He didn't abuse any other drivers, or complain to any passengers about the nation's politicians. Tiny grains of hope and expectation mingled with absurd fantasies as he thought about the prospect of meeting with Farhia. With the ingrained pessimism of the chronically single, he put off calling until the afternoon. At least that gave him some time to prepare himself for the inevitable rejection.

He wasn't able to hold out much beyond his lunch-break. After dropping off a passenger in Collingwood, he stepped out of the cab, took a few deep breaths, and punched Farhia's number into his phone. She answered after the second ring.

‘Er, ah, hi. Is that Farhia?'

‘Yes, it is me. Who is speaking?'

‘Um, er, it's Jack. Er … the cab driver who helped with your kids yesterday. You know, when those two big kids …' Jack's voice trailed off as he thought better of reminding her of the ugly details of yesterday's confrontation.

‘Yes, I do remember.'

‘How's your son?'

‘Yusuf? His arm, it is broken.'

‘I'm sorry about that. Look, I found a little book with a light-blue cover, with writing that might be in Somali or whatever, thought it might be …'

‘It has a blue cover?' There was excitement and anxiety in her voice.

‘Yeah, kind of pale-blue, I guess.'

‘Allah be praised! I am now two times in your debt. Can I take it back from you?'

Jack did his best to ignore Farhia's unusual use of language.

‘I can come round in a few minutes, if you like. I'm just over in Collingwood — not much of the shift left.'

‘Can we meet in the playground?'

‘Yeah, no worries. I'll be there in five minutes.'

Jack got back into the cab and punched the air in triumph. The book had to be important.

This was puzzling. It didn't look like an address book or diary, or anything like that. It only contained a few pages of handwriting in a language he assumed was Somali.

On a sudden impulse, Jack took a photo of each page with his mobile. He wasn't a tech head, but he did own one of the latest-model phones, one with a camera built in. He still enjoyed the novelty of taking pictures for no particular reason, as he'd never owned a camera before.

He didn't think about why he was taking pictures of the book: his fascination with Farhia was sufficient motivation. He knew a few Somali drivers. Perhaps he could get one of the ones he hadn't had a fight with to translate the writing for him. It might contain interesting information about Farhia. There was no harm in it; she would never know.

He also wondered about the man who had attacked him. Was he the teenagers' father? Farhia's husband? Why would someone flash a knife in a harmless scuffle with a few kids?

He arrived at the Elgin Street rank just as Farhia and Yusuf were getting out of the lift on the ground floor of the flats. They walked around the outside of the building past a bank of overflowing rubbish bins and a couple of scrawny druggie types arguing about something, and spotted Jack as he got out of the cab.

He noticed Farhia's robes straightaway. The multiple shades of blue stood out against the drab, depressing landscape, as though she was in three-dimensional colour standing in front of a black-and-white movie backdrop. With a calm, imperious air, Farhia floated towards him, trailing a downcast Yusuf close behind her.

In Jack's limited experience, small boys with broken arms were usually rather upbeat about their situation once the initial pain and shock had passed. It was a magnet for sympathy and attention. But Yusuf must have been an exception. He stood silently at his mother's side, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of him. Jack offered a token expression of concern, but when he got no response, he turned back to Farhia, shivering momentarily as a nasty gust of wind pierced his thin uniform.

‘Perhaps we must sit,' Farhia said as she pointed to a wooden bench next to the playground. She said something to Yusuf in Somali, and he went and sat on one of the swings. He had the playground to himself this time.

‘Do you know the kids who attacked him?' Jack asked.

‘A little,' Farhia replied.

‘Why'd they do it? Big kids pick on little kids all the time, but they don't usually break their arms and stuff. Not in front of their mum, anyway. And who was the guy who went for me? Had a knife …' A touch of indignation crept into Jack's voice as he recalled his apparent brush with death.

Jack was trying to look at Farhia as much as he could without making it too obvious. Sitting side by side made it difficult, so for much of the conversation he was peering at her out of the corner of one eye. He sat forward on the bench, with one buttock half-suspended in mid-air, to allow him to face sideways more. Farhia was sitting about three feet away from him.

‘It is a Somali matter — clans, tribes, that sort of thing.'

‘Oh.' Jack didn't know anything at all about Somali tribes and clans, but he thought it best not to reveal his ignorance. She obviously didn't want to discuss any details. Farhia's dark, bewitching eyes dominated her face. Her skin was surprisingly pale, up close, like a faded sepia photo. She was dark-skinned, but with a fair tone that reminded Jack of stonewashed jeans.

Her lips were full and rounded, with no sign of lipstick. Jack noticed that there was no evidence of makeup of any kind, in fact.

He lamented the fact that her traditional dress made it impossible to assess any part of her other than her face. He couldn't even see most of her hair. It didn't make any difference, though: he was completely entranced. He'd never encountered such an alluring mix of beauty, calmness, and colour before.

‘So you can give me my book?'

‘Yeah, sure.' Jack extracted the book from the pocket of his finest Big W trousers and put it on his lap. Farhia didn't move, but her exaggerated stillness betrayed her excitement.

‘So what's in it? Sounds like it's important.'

‘Only family matters. We are all separated, and some are not in a good place.'

‘Will you go after those idiots? Like in court, and so on?'

‘I do not think so. I must go to the police tomorrow afternoon.'

‘Yeah, me too. What time you going?'

‘They told me to come at one o'clock. Omar will be at school, and Yusuf must go to my friend's house.'

Jack was quick to capitalise on this information.

‘Hey, I might see you there. I arranged to drop by there in my lunch break. Guess they're trying to sort it all out in one go.' Jack usually ate lunch earlier than one o'clock, and he hadn't spoken to the police, but Farhia didn't know either of these things.