Comeback

by Lindsay Tanner

  Just as he’d finished texting, his phone rang again. Thinking it was Franklin, he answered straightaway.

  ‘Mister van Duyn? You’re a hard man to get hold of. It’s Peter Lanscombe from Worksafe speaking.’

  Shit.

  ‘We need to make a time for you to come in and do a statement about the accident.’

  How did the heavies know he was talking to Worksafe — before it had even happened? Where did they get his number from? And why was this guy ringing so late in the evening?

  ‘Er, yeah, sure. Whereabouts is your office? I’ll drop by some time …’

  ‘Can you come in tomorrow?’

  ‘No, got some dramas with the cab. What’s the big deal? What about the other bloke? Dan, or whatever his name is? He’d know lots more than me.’

  ‘He’s disappeared. Can’t find him.’

  Smart bloke, Jack noted.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m busy. Try me in a couple of days.’

  He hung up abruptly and glared at his phone, daring it to ring again. It did, but this time he ignored it.

  A few minutes later, Franklin replied to Jack’s text: ‘Stay cool Jack. Keep your head down. Will be okay.’

  But they know where I live! He didn’t respond to Franklin, and sat on the couch staring into space. How could he get out of this mess?

  8.

  Emily’s revelation that she’d been sexually abused by her stepfather was starting to sink in. Jack still found it hard to square with the bright, upbeat Emily that he knew. Didn’t abuse victims carry huge emotional scars, suffer depression, and stuff like that? He struggled to imagine Emily as a vulnerable teenager being assaulted by an evil predator, then decided he didn’t want to think about it.

  His mental image of Emily was changing. Her outward appearance — the bright colours she wore, her warmth towards all, and her resolute defiance in the face of an awful illness — masked a much darker reality.

  Without any real idea what he was doing, Jack decided to drop by at the association that afternoon and check out what Dempsey was up to. Fares were few and far between, and he was too distracted to hang around on ranks all day, so he gave up earlier than usual.

  He parked in Lygon Street and headed down the path towards the tower block. Just as he was beginning to wonder what his next step should be, he spied a small group of people at the far end of the block. One of them was Dempsey.

  They appeared to be in the middle of a nasty argument. As he reached the edge of the huddle, he recognised the man at the centre of it: the councillor who’d interrupted the developer at the meeting and started ranting. Richard Fletcher, maybe? Jack wasn’t sure if that was his name. He was yelling at a well-dressed middle-aged woman, who looked like she was giving as good as she was getting.

  ‘You don’t give a damn about them! You’re just playing politics!’ she yelled at Fletcher.

  ‘Typical ruling-class bullshit! All you’re interested in is your property values …’

  ‘Call yourself a councillor? I don’t think people are interested in the international socialist revolution …’

  ‘Beats dinner parties. You’re trying to sell your joint for nearly two million bucks …’

  ‘Not my fault prices have gone up so much. And we have to move closer to Daniel’s school: the traffic’s horrendous.’

  Dempsey tried to quell the confrontation: ‘Comrades, we haven’t got all day. We have to decide what’s going to be on the banner for the Day of Action.’

  ‘That’s easy. “Hands Off Carlton”. We don’t want more traffic, we don’t want more people, we don’t want property developers …’

  ‘And we don’t want rich people telling us how to live!’ Fletcher retorted.

  A young man alongside Fletcher spoke up: ‘It should say “Justice for Public Tenants, Workers and Students”. This isn’t an isolated struggle, it’s part of a wider attack on teachers, rail workers, disability pensioners, students …’

  Dempsey rolled his eyes. ‘Here’s my suggestion: “Fairness for Carlton Tenants”. Everyone okay with that?’

  Several conversations broke out in response, and Fletcher handed around copies of a document headed ‘Popular Resistance’. Jack took one and scanned a few points: ‘Occupy Auspart office’, ‘Coalition with CFMEU and militant unions’, and ‘Disrupt construction work’.

  ‘What’s Fletcher’s story?’ he asked Mary, who had turned up beside him. ‘Does he really believe in all that revolution rubbish? Does he live here?’

  ‘Of course not. Lives over in Bell Street in Fitzroy.’

  ‘And that posh woman?’

  ‘Angela Wright? I suspect she has a shower after every time she comes here.’

  ‘Seems like a funny way to run a campaign.’

  ‘Plenty like her. Go to uni, get a good job, marry someone they went to uni with, buy a nice house in North Carlton, then discover “the community”. They get all fired up about preserving the local community, stopping freeways, more apartments … It’s all about their lifestyles, property prices … Fletcher’s a professional stirrer, moves around from cause to cause, always pushing the most extreme position. He’s smart, but he’ll move on. They always do.’

  The small crowd was beginning to disperse, and Jack suddenly felt self-conscious. He pulled out his phone and pretended to make a call, watching as Dempsey headed off towards Palmerston Street by himself.

  On impulse, Jack walked past the stragglers and followed Dempsey. He was almost 100 metres behind him. Dempsey was walking quickly, and didn’t look back.

  He searched his memory for tips on shadowing people — consisting entirely of scenes from TV shows — but nothing particularly useful emerged. Dempsey continued on past the school and into Palmerston Street. It looked like he was heading towards Fitzroy.

  There weren’t many other people around. Two men lifting an old couch onto a trailer provided a bit of cover, but Jack was already feeling conspicuous as he trailed Dempsey down Palmerston Street.

  For a moment he panicked when he realised that Dempsey would probably have to stop at the lights. Praying that he wouldn’t turn around, he marched up behind him and ducked into a pub on the corner while Dempsey stood waiting for the lights to change.

  Once inside, Jack made his way past a couple of tables and peeked out through the window. Dempsey was still waiting for the lights.

  ‘Hi, what can I get you?’ the lone barman asked.

  ‘Er … nothing just yet, mate.’

  He glanced out the window again. At last, the lights changed. Dempsey was now striding across Rathdowne Street.

  ‘Er … back in a sec.’

  Ignoring the lights, which had turned to red again, he jogged across the street, weaving between slow-moving cars and waving apologies. For a second he thought he’d lost sight of Dempsey, but then discovered that he’d been briefly obscured by a car coming out of a laneway.

  Puffing and panting, Jack reverted to a more measured pace as he kept his eyes firmly fixed on his prey. They were now in a section of Palmerston Street dominated by old workers’ cottages — narrow, long boxes attached on both sides, without front gardens and unrenovated. Jack sized up some of these small residences as he passed by, noting relics of bygone eras like ‘Stop Uranium Mining’ stickers and more recent posters like ‘Vote Greens’.

  Where on earth is he going? he asked himself as Dempsey approached Nicholson Street. Should’ve offered him a lift in the cab. He still had no idea why he was following him, but he was almost starting to enjoy himself.

  Crossing Nicholson Street was easier — the tram tracks provided a kind of pedestrian demilitarised zone between the streams of traffic. Dempsey walked north for a short distance, then turned into Kerr Street, a much narrower street with a mixture of bland commercial buildings and compact single-fronted homes. Jack held back: there were no other
pedestrians around, no trees to hide behind, and no shop windows to pretend to look in. If Dempsey looked back he would spot him straightaway.

  As his quarry approached Brunswick Street, Jack wondered how much further he intended to walk. Looks like we might end up in Kew, he muttered to himself. When Dempsey turned at the Brunswick Street corner, Jack realised that if he didn’t make up the gap between them very quickly, he might lose him. The footpath would probably be crowded, and he might duck into a shop.

  He made the corner just in time: as he scanned the footpath in front of him, he noticed Dempsey’s straggly red-brown hair disappearing into a shop about 50 metres away. The doorway was just past a sandwich board sitting on the pavement. Jack continued along the crowded footpath, gradually regaining his breath as he thought about what to do next.

  Jack regarded Brunswick Street as Melbourne’s most avant-garde location. Exotic cafés, colourful handicraft shops, and new-age art outlets crowded around fashionable hair-dressers and dingy bookshops. Well-dressed tourists and professionals mingled with lots of outrageous body-piercing, extreme tattooing, and garish clothing. Emily’s home turf, Jack observed as he stepped into Mario’s, the popular café that Dempsey had gone into just moments beforehand.

  There was no sign of him in the front part of the café, so Jack looked along the side wall towards the back. He spotted Dempsey, with his distinctive hair, sitting at the very last table at the end, with his back to him. Dempsey was deep in discussion with a man in a suit. He looked a lot like the bloke who’d spoken at the public meeting. Jack couldn’t quite remember his name. Tom something?

  Jack sat down a couple of tables away, foolishly facing in their direction. He picked up a menu and studied it intently, trying hard not to look too obvious. He put it close to his face, as if his sight was impaired, and tried to listen to what they were saying.

  ‘… got to stop them …’ he heard Tom hiss, with menace in his tone.

  ‘I’m trying’, Dempsey replied. ‘Some of them are out of control.’

  ‘Politicians are getting wobbly … if the tenants get out of hand, the whole thing’ll go haywire …’

  Dempsey said something inaudible and Tom responded: ‘We’ll look after you, lot riding on this. Don’t fuck it up.’

  As he spoke, a waiter arrived, and, without thinking, Jack put the menu down.

  ‘What’ll it be for today, sir?’ he asked in a lilting accent Jack couldn’t quite place.

  ‘Er … just a coffee …’ he began.

  At exactly the wrong moment, Dempsey turned around, and his face froze in startled recognition.

  ‘Shit! It’s that fucking cabbie!’ he gasped at Tom. ‘Looks like he’s spying on me.’

  ‘You idiot! That’s all we need.’

  By this point, Jack was up on his feet, muttering apologies to the waiter. As he picked his way through the scattered chairs and tables, he heard the developer call out: ‘Get after him!’ A tall, lean man in a navy-blue jacket and T-shirt sitting alone near the front of the café responded quickly, standing up just as Jack was stepping out into the street.

  Luckily, a waiter carrying a full tray of bowls, a teapot, and cutlery stepped in front of the tall man, gifting Jack a few precious seconds’ head-start. He wasn’t sure how much of a look at him the man had managed to get, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  As he weaved and stumbled his way along the crowded pavement, Jack thought of the story he’d heard of South Melbourne’s Brownlow Medallist Peter Bedford practising his evasive skills by running along crowded city footpaths. Pity I’m a bit past my best, he thought, as he barged his way through sneering Goths and dishevelled hippies.

  Without thinking, he retraced his footsteps and turned into Kerr Street, heading back towards Carlton. His mind was churning through the encounter he’d just witnessed. He jogged along Kerr Street and across Nicholson Street, and continued back up Palmerston Street.

  A row of trees in the middle of the street provided him with some cover, so he stepped behind one and pretended to check his phone. Looking slightly ridiculous, he peered out from behind the tree, and spotted his pursuer heading across Nicholson Street.

  As he ran across Rathdowne Street, his gaze landed on the primary school at the edge of the estate. There were kids milling around everywhere, probably enjoying recess, or maybe about to finish for the day.

  Can hardly attack me in there, he thought hopefully, so he jogged across the street and walked through the open gateway into the schoolyard.

  Battling his way through the throng of boisterous children, Jack snuck behind a large concrete pillar on the edge of an undercroft beneath the main school building.

  Red-faced and panting, he poked his head out from behind the pillar, but could see no sign of the tall man. He was now attracting the attention of several small children who were milling around him and all yabbering at once.

  Just as Jack was regaining some composure, a deep, aggressive voice barked in his ear from immediately behind him.

  ‘Excuse me! Can I help you …?’

  Jack jumped, and turned around to find himself face to face — or chest to face, to be more accurate — with a small, dumpy woman with short, spiky hair who appeared to be wider than she was tall.

  ‘Can you explain why you’re in our schoolyard talking to the children?’

  ‘Er, ah … sorry, I’m trying to get away …’

  ‘I’m going to have to call the police. If you can’t explain yourself to me, then I’m sure they’ll be happy to deal with you.’

  She glared at him, convinced he was up to no good. They were now surrounded by dozens of children: playground confrontations between adults weren’t an everyday occurrence.

  Jesus, I can’t take a trick, Jack observed as he struggled to calm himself.

  ‘Listen, lady’, he fired back, ‘I’m not a fucking paedophile, if that’s what you’re thinking …’

  ‘ … and you’d be advised to cut out that language …’

  ‘I’m a taxi-driver, I’ve got a heavy after me, I just ducked in here to get away from him — next thing I know I’m banged up as a kiddy-fiddler!’

  ‘Not very convincing. I’m sure the Carlton Police will be able to sort this out …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, if I was a paedophile, do you think I’d be standing here in the middle of dozens of kids? Use your brain, if you’ve got one …’

  The teacher stood there, glaring at him, arms crossed and feet planted firmly apart. She grabbed his arm, and Jack tried to pull away.

  ‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Making a citizen’s arrest. Come on …’

  As he tried to wrestle free, he caught sight of the tall man walking up Palmerston Street. He saw Jack almost at the same moment, and with a smooth, athletic movement swung himself over the wire fence and started running towards them.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack yelled, and, with a determined wrench, broke free from the teacher’s grip. This made her stumble backwards, just as the tall man reached them, and he crashed into her. They both collapsed onto the ground.

  It only took Jack a fraction of a second to register what had happened. He pushed and weaved his way through the crowd of children, ran out the far side of the undercroft, and jogged along the outside of the building towards Lygon Street and the cab. It wasn’t that far away, but it was uphill, and he had little energy left.

  Not daring to look back, he huffed and chugged his way around the tower blocks, hoping the overzealous teacher was now interrogating the tall man about his paedophile tendencies. He got to the cab within a few minutes, and by the time he threw himself into the driver’s seat he was almost exhausted.

  Just as he’d recovered enough to drive, the tall man appeared on the footpath, and Jack hurriedly pulled out into the traffic. Still breathing in deep gulps, he accelerated quickly al
ong Lygon Street.

  He snuck a quick look in the rear-view mirror and cursed when he saw his pursuer scrambling into the passenger seat of a silver Mazda on the other side of the road. Ignoring a red light, Jack turned into Elgin Street, hoping desperately that they hadn’t seen him peel off.

  No such luck. The Mazda was two cars behind him. As it was mid-afternoon, there wasn’t much traffic, so he had no helpful congestion to lose them in.

  Shit, shit, shit! What do I do now?At least Jack wasn’t on foot any more. He checked the time on his dashboard clock and realised he had another problem: changeover time was approaching. As Ajit seemed on the verge of pulling the pin, a late changeover would be a disaster.

  He leaned forward into the steering wheel and slammed the car left into Nicholson Street, this time with the aid of a green light. The silver car followed.

  Jack’s mind was in overdrive. They didn’t seem to be trying to catch him and force him off the road. That made sense — why risk a major incident when all they had to do was follow him until he eventually stopped and got out of the cab?

  Then he had an idea. As he hurtled through the Princes Street intersection, Jack fumbled with his phone until he was able to get Ajit on the line.

  ‘Ajit? I’m on my way. But, mate, I’ve got a problem. Got some bad guys after me. Can we do the switch in the Coles carpark behind your joint? I need to do a runner once I’m out of the cab. Can we talk tomorrow? Okay?’

  The panic in Jack’s voice persuaded Ajit to agree without any argument. His block of flats backed onto a suburban shopping centre, so it wouldn’t be difficult to meet Jack in the carpark rather than out the front.

  Jack exhaled slowly and looked in the mirror. The silver car was still there — or at least a silver car was. There were so many look-alike cars on the road these days, it was getting hard to tell them apart.

  He concentrated on playing the cat-and-mouse game as he headed along St George’s Road towards Reservoir, speeding up, slowing down, changing lanes, and even running red lights, but nothing worked. Whoever was driving the other car knew his craft. Which was a bit unnerving. What did they have planned for him?