State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

  ‘And you’re not a cop, Bailey. Remember that.’ She started the engine. ‘Stay at your place tonight.’

  ‘Shame. I was all up for a cuddle.’

  ‘Then stop pissing me around.’

  Bailey watched her speed off down the street, wondering if she was still talking about work and hoping to God that Ronnie would take her call.

  He was still holding his phone in his hand when it started to vibrate.

  A message from Annie Brooks.

  Are you home?

  I could do with a chat

  How about a walk?

  It was the second time she’d been in contact today. Annie was supposed to be Bailey’s AA sponsor, but for some reason he was feeling like the strong one.

  Sure

  Home in 45

  He was feeling guilty the moment he hit send. Confiding in a woman like Annie Brooks, someone he’d known in another life, was deeply personal. They were getting close. He felt it.

  It was just a walk.

  CHAPTER 14

  A cloud of smoke was hovering next to the window on Bailey’s front porch.

  ‘Been waiting for you, bubba.’

  He couldn’t see Ronnie, but he could smell his cigar.

  ‘For a second there, I thought my house was on fire,’ Bailey said, opening the gate.

  ‘Where would I sleep if I burned the place down?’

  ‘I’m going to start charging you rent soon. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Now, now. Who’s going to water the plants when you’re at Sharon’s place?’ Ronnie stood up, pointing at the dead fern in the pot by the front door.

  Bailey laughed. There wasn’t a green thumb between them. ‘Got anything for me?’

  ‘Matter of fact, I do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Would I lie to you, bubba?’

  ‘Seriously want me to answer that?’ Bailey said.

  Ronnie took a drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke at the street. ‘We ran a trace on that phone number Mustafa was using.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We couldn’t get a location on where the call came from.’

  ‘I thought you –’

  ‘But we traced the SIM card to an address in Al-Qa’im.’

  ‘Northern Iraq?’ Bailey had spent enough years in and out of Iraq to know the geography. Al-Qa’im was a small town along the Euphrates that touched the border with Syria. ‘Sounds way too simple to me.’

  ‘Cell numbers aren’t brought into this world by immaculate reception.’

  Ronnie paused for Bailey to acknowledge his bad joke.

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ronnie smiled. ‘Whoever bought this one did it four years ago, registered to a shopfront in Al-Qa’im. At least, that’s what the computer said.’

  It made sense, considering what was happening in Iraq. Islamic Nation had been using the Euphrates River Valley in Al-Qa’im to ferry fighters and supplies between Syria and Iraq. It was also one of the group’s last known strongholds. On that basis, the intelligence stacked up.

  ‘So, you think it’ll help track him down?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Ronnie said. ‘You haven’t helped us find anything we don’t already know.’

  We.

  ‘You’re pretty plugged in for a guy who spends his days fishing.’

  Ronnie ignored the sledge. ‘It’s no great secret that Mustafa has spent time in Al-Qa’im. Until recently, it was the most solid ground he had. Before the Iraqis took it back, the son of a bitch was living in a hospital.’

  ‘You can’t hit a hospital,’ Bailey said.

  ‘No. We can’t.’

  ‘What happened to the phone?’

  ‘Dead. The SIM card would be a melted blob of plastic by now. But the fact that he had someone give you the number makes me think that Mustafa wants us to believe he’s in Al-Qa’im.’

  ‘When he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Bailey snapped off a twig from his shrivelled fern. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Nothing, bubba.’ Ronnie had one last drag on his cigar, then stubbed it into the coffee mug that he’d been using as an ashtray. ‘We just wait for him to get in touch again.’

  Ronnie knew Mustafa about as well as Bailey did. Maybe better. He also knew that Mustafa should have been dead by now. The fact that he was still alive was clearly getting under Ronnie’s skin.

  ‘How long till you get a copy of my file?’

  ‘Still working on that. Won’t be long.’

  ‘Anyway, mate.’ Bailey could see Annie Brooks walking towards them on the other side of the street. ‘I need to go out for a bit.’

  Ronnie followed Bailey’s gaze, clocking Annie just as she was crossing the road in a pair of bright green tights and a hoodie.

  ‘Hello, boys!’ She waved at them.

  ‘Holy hell,’ Ronnie whispered. ‘You’re in a whole world of trouble, bubba.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Bailey mumbled, quietly, before returning the wave to Annie as she opened the gate. ‘Just give me a minute to change.’

  The Centennial Park Circuit is exactly 3.8 kilometres. Throw in a kilometre each way from Bailey’s house, and he wasn’t getting much change from a six-kilometre walk.

  A few months ago, Bailey would have been puffing like a chain-smoker and looking for excuses to stop and stretch his hamstrings whenever he could. Now he had some semblance of fitness and an hour on his feet wasn’t so daunting.

  ‘Nice sneakers,’ Annie said, noticing Bailey’s fluorescent blue trainers as they stepped through the gate on Oxford Street and into the park. ‘Are they new?’

  ‘My daughter bought them for me. She and my partner have teamed up and formed the “get Bailey fit” brigade. I’ve told them the gear stops at lycra. No one needs to see that.’

  Annie laughed. ‘Some girls don’t mind a bit of padding.’

  ‘Thanks for the reassurance,’ Bailey said, stumbling on a tree root, just managing to stay upright.

  They walked down the hill on the sun-tinged grass, passing under the outstretched arms of the Australian figs. The park was usually a feast of green at this time of year but the drought was biting hard, spreading from the bush to the city.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,’ Annie said, noticing that Bailey had gone quiet. ‘I’m just playing with you.’

  ‘Takes a lot more than that to embarrass me,’ Bailey said. ‘I’ve just got a bit on my mind.’

  Bailey was feeling guilty. He wanted to get back out there and look for Tariq. But the deal with Annie was important. If she was going to be there for him, then he needed to do the same for her. And he liked her company.

  The sun had already disappeared and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The white beam from the moon was lighting their way.

  They hit the circuit down by the café and headed in a clockwise direction around the park.

  With the cars locked out at 6 pm, only fitness troupes were left. Running groups. Power walkers. Dog owners out for a stroll, their poo bags dangling from their wrists.

  A horse trotted past, its tail raised while it dropped a load on the dirt track. Its rider wasn’t stopping to pick that up. They’d need a bloody garbage bag. Horse shit was one of life’s great mysteries – how someone who owns a chihuahua cops a fine for failing to pick up a tiny twig of excrement, while a horse owner gets away with leaving a mountain of manure on the pavement. Baffling.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Annie said.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question.’

  Horse shit wasn’t very interesting.

  ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘No. You just seem like . . . like there’s something bothering you.’

  ‘I had a drink two nights ago.’ Annie kept her eyes on the path. ‘Half a bottle. Bit more.’

  Bailey knew vodka was Annie’s poison, so half a bottle couldn’t exactly be classed in the ‘slip-up’ territory. It was a binge.<
br />
  ‘Are you okay?’

  He wasn’t going to admonish her. Alcoholics punished themselves enough, once they’d stopped lying to themselves.

  Annie stopped, her torment clear in her watery eyes, glistening in the moonlight. ‘Just disappointed. You know the drill.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Doesn’t make you weak. Don’t overthink this one, Annie. You’ve been doing so bloody well. Been a saint to me.’

  She stopped, their eyes meeting in the night. ‘Have I?’

  ‘You know you have. Ninety-four days and counting.’

  She stepped closer and Bailey could smell the fruity balm on her lips.

  ‘I just blew up two years of sobriety,’ Annie said, shaking her head.

  ‘You know how this works. One day at a time. What’s that saying you said to me the first time we caught up?’

  ‘Control the things you can control.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Won’t work this time.’

  ‘Why? Is there something else?’

  She rested her forehead in her hand, looking down at the track. Her shoelace was loose and she bent down to tighten it.

  ‘Annie?’

  She stood up again, a tear trickling down her cheek. ‘Barron’s getting out next month.’

  Her ex-husband, Barron Norris. The wealthy property developer who turned out to be a violent drug addict. He was currently serving a two-year sentence for bashing Annie so badly that she’d spent two weeks in a coma and had her jaw reconstructed.

  Bailey hated the guy and he’d never even met him. Knowing he’d bashed up Annie was enough. And also because his name was ‘Barron’.

  ‘Shit, Annie. I’m sorry,’ Bailey said. ‘Surely, his parole conditions will be so strict he won’t be allowed near you and Louis.’

  Louis was Annie’s sixteen-year-old son. Bailey had only met him once but Annie talked about him all the time.

  ‘You’d have thought so,’ she said, her voice cracking up. ‘He can’t come near me but somehow he has visitation rights with Louis.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Louis doesn’t want to see him, of course. Not after what he did to me.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’m talking to my lawyer, we’ll fight it. Anyway, when I found out I just panicked and hit the bottle.’

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t around.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant; this was my fault.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You know you can call me. Whenever.’

  ‘Thanks, Bailey.’

  He squeezed her on the arm and she leaned in, inviting him to put his arms around her. He did and he could feel the curves of her breasts pressing into his stomach. He rested his chin on the top of her head, smelling the shampoo in her hair. Their arms wrapped around each other, neither of them in any hurry to let go. It was Annie who moved first, stepping back, touching the stubble of his chin, giving him a look that most men dreamed about.

  ‘Annie.’

  She pulled her hand away, looking embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I just needed a hug.’

  Bailey pulled her back into his arms, lying to himself that the comforting moment was just for her. He closed his eyes, thinking back to their nights together in Beirut. Watching her walk, naked, from his bed to the shower. Remembering how she used to leave the door open so that he could watch her bathe under the steaming bristles of water, inviting him to join her so they could have one more go for the road. When they were ordinary people. Before they had to be foreign correspondents again.

  Sensing the change in him, Annie pulled back again, chin raised until she found his lips with hers. The kiss lasted about five seconds before Bailey remembered where he was, who he was.

  ‘Sorry, Annie. I can’t. I –’

  ‘Sharon’s a lucky woman.’

  ‘Not sure she’d agree with you,’ Bailey said, laughing, awkwardly, at his own joke.

  ‘It’s just . . . hard to be alone at the moment.’

  ‘You’re not alone.’ Bailey touched her shoulder. ‘This thing with Sharon, I just can’t fuck it up again. We’ve been to hell and back.’

  Annie took a step back on the path. ‘Like I said, she’s a lucky woman.’

  Ding!

  A white strobing bicycle light was racing towards them.

  ‘Excuse me!’ The guy on the bike called out when he was only metres away.

  Bailey and Annie stepped to the side to let him pass. The guy had plastic spears on his helmet to ward off the magpies and a side-mirror strapped to his arm. He was wearing a fluorescent lycra outfit that emphasised the fat gut hanging over his waist like a muffin top.

  ‘That’s why I don’t wear lycra,’ Bailey said, trying to break the tension.

  Annie laughed, punching him on the arm. ‘You’re doing all right.’

  ‘And you’re a bloody catch, Annie. You know that, right?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah.’

  ‘We just need to find you someone who doesn’t have a name like Barron.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Gerald was sitting alone on Bailey’s front porch when he arrived home from his walk.

  ‘I’m a popular man tonight,’ Bailey said, swinging open the gate. ‘I’m surprised you’re still talking to me after that plane ride home.’

  ‘I’ve known you for thirty years, mate. You’ve been a much bigger pain in the arse than that.’

  He had him there.

  Gerald took a sip of his whisky. ‘How was the park?’

  ‘Nice night for it.’ Bailey sat down in the chair next to Gerald. ‘I see you’ve found my stash.’

  ‘I’m doing you a favour.’

  Bailey noticed the empty glass on the table. ‘Where’s Ronnie?’

  ‘He went out. Said something about picking up your file. What’s all that about?’

  Bailey kept nothing from Gerald. Not after everything they’d been through. So he told him about the CIA file and the phone call from Mustafa al-Baghdadi.

  ‘It’s pretty explosive stuff, Bailey. What’re you going to do with it?’

  Gerald Summers. The editor. Always thinking about his newspaper.

  ‘Nothing, until I know what the hell it’s all about. But don’t worry, old boy.’ Bailey tapped Gerald on the shoulder. ‘When there’s a story there, I’ll write it.’

  Gerald undid the top button on his shirt, loosening his tie. He must have gone home for a wardrobe change and to say hello to Nancy. Always the sharp dresser. Even when he was a war correspondent Gerald had worn suits. Including a white one, ‘for the heat’. Mr Slick.

  ‘Why are you here, by the way?’

  It was unlike Gerald to turn up unannounced. He always had a reason.

  ‘Yes. That.’ He shifted, uncomfortably, in his chair. ‘I don’t quite know how to broach this one with you, mate.’

  ‘The Queen’s English will do.’

  Gerald took another sip from his glass.

  ‘It’s about your job.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The suits are circling, Bailey. This time they’re coming after you. I think I’m gone, too.’

  More cost-cutting at the newspaper. Bailey could see that Gerald was serious. Only, this conversation should have happened years ago, when Bailey had stopped filing stories because he was a drunken insomniac, torn apart by the things he’d seen. The Journal had paid for his rehabilitation and now he was getting fired? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘What’s brought this on? I’ve never been more productive, and you know it.’

  ‘The new world, mate. It just isn’t for guys like us anymore.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Bailey, I’m talking about me too!’ Gerald tapped his chest with his fingertips. ‘It’s both of us. And Judith, Alan, Gavin. We’re all being looked at.’

  ‘You’ve just named The Journal’s three best fucking reporters.’

  ‘If you’d just listen to me, Bailey! It’s this social media stuff, third pa
rty platforms. All this shit about new audiences.’ Gerald drained what was left of his whisky. ‘Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, video comments for the web – you guys don’t do any of that stuff. And these private equity blokes don’t read your articles, mate. They only look at the numbers. The clicks.’

  ‘Let’s see the type of stories that get ripped off and shared on social media after guys like me stop breaking them.’ Bailey yanked open his front door. ‘Fucking suits.’

  He slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 16

  Iraq

  Unknown location

  The restraints were cutting into Bailey’s wrists and ankles, creating deep welts that were burning his skin.

  The constant pain was making it difficult to sleep.

  Not that he was getting much rest with his kidnappers taking it in turns to remind him of his fragility. His worthlessness. Eliminate hope. Teach him about fear.

  He was facing a wall, tied to a hardwood chair. Bailey had no idea how long he’d been there.

  Hours. Days. A week.

  He’d lost track of the time because of the bulb above his head. The bright light illuminating the windowless shithole where he was being held. Always on.

  They’d removed his blindfold and gag after strapping him to the chair on the day he’d arrived. He’d been there ever since.

  He’d had plenty of time to study every detail of the room. Time to imagine what had gone on here before.

  There was a bucket in the corner – Bailey’s toilet, when they let him use it.

  The floor was layered with sand and pocked with pools of dried blood.

  There was a steel wash basin. Old rags piled in the corner. A stack of leather sandals. All sizes.

  And the cracked wall.

  Rows of bullet holes stretching from one side to the other – two neat lines, one for the adults, the other, slightly lower, for the children.

  An entire family lined up and executed. This had probably been their home.

  Click.

  The door opened behind him.

  Footsteps.

  More visitors. More pain.

  A man appeared in front of him, a gun in his hand.

  ‘Hello, dog!’