Comeback

by Lindsay Tanner

  ‘Yeah, no worries. What time?’

  ‘Maybe around six. I think we’ll be at the Church of All Nations. You know it? On the edge of the estate, Palmerston Street, where the demo started …’

  ‘Yeah, know it well. Can’t say I’ve ever been to a service, though.’ Jack sniggered, then stopped himself. He had no idea if Emily was religious.

  ‘Mary’s now saying that Michael’s being paid by the developers …’

  ‘She’d be right, wouldn’t she?’ It annoyed Jack that Emily was still calling her would-be rapist ‘Michael’.

  ‘Looks like it. Anyway, it’d be good if you could come over.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, see you then.’ It’s nice to be needed, he thought, but then his cynical nature took over. She’s probably worried Dempsey will expose her as a welfare cheat.

  Fuck this, he said to himself. Time to head somewhere else. No point sitting here all day.

  He swung out into the traffic crawling along Russell Street and drove up to the La Trobe Street corner, marvelling at the exotic architecture of the old Melbourne Magistrates Court on the corner. A few minutes later he was sitting fourth in line at a rank in Queen Street, cursing his own stupidity. Why had he thought Queen Street would be any better? Eventually he got a fare, but yet again it was only a short trip.

  His phone rang again just as he was about to drop off his passenger in North Melbourne. It was Billy.

  ‘He’s got the stuff, mate. Found it!’ Billy sounded excited.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack said, forgetting about his passenger. ‘Can I get a copy of it?’

  ‘There’s a back door into the court in Little Bourke Street — he says it’s about fifty metres down from William Street. Can you pick him up at 5.30?’

  Jack checked his watch. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Better make it a freebie, wherever he’s headed. Don’t say anything. He’ll leave the stuff on the back seat when he gets out.’

  Jack looked over at his passenger, hoping she hadn’t heard enough of the conversation to make sense of it. He had enough time to drop her in Abbotsford Street and make it to the Supreme Court.

  Forty minutes later, Jack was sitting in the queue at the Elgin Street rank, thumbing through a document headed ‘Statement of Claim’. It didn’t add a great deal to what he already knew. The details of the accident were shocking, but there were no further surprises.

  He closed the document, feeling dissatisfied that he’d taken so much trouble for such little reward. It explained to him why the Auspart bosses were so worried about the accident next door, but he was still puzzled. The 1994 stuff had been in the paper: surely it was already a problem for them even before the Balmoral Avenue accident?

  He cast his eye back over the front page of the document. It was headed ‘In the matter of:’ and then listed Pieter van der Graaf as the plaintiff against a list of several defendants starting with BuildFast Pty Ltd. Jack looked down the list of names, which started with David John Clarkson.

  One of the names leapt out at him: Robert James Eccles. Shit! He knew that name — he’d heard it on the radio. Wasn’t he a politician?

  He fiddled frantically with his phone, and quickly confirmed his suspicions. Eccles was the Victorian housing minister. Jack flicked back through the opening paragraphs of the document: Eccles had been a director of BuildFast.

  The housing minister. Wasn’t he the bloke who gave the Carlton estate tender to Auspart? Jesus on stilts! No wonder they’re after me.

  With shaking hands, Jack looked up Robert Eccles on Wikipedia. Before entering parliament in 2002, he’d run a crane-hire business and been ‘active in several construction-industry businesses’. He must have been a silent partner in BuildFast. There would be a proper record of all this somewhere, Jack was sure, but you would need to have some idea of what you were looking for to be able to find it. They clearly assumed no one would go poking around company records from fifteen years ago.

  Jack didn’t know much about the rules governing ministerial conduct, but he could see that this stank to high heaven. Anyone who decided to do some research on Auspart’s safety history would sooner or later stumble across the 1994 accident. It might have been a different company, but it was the same main bloke. And the housing minister who’d given Auspart the ticket to rebuild the estate was in it up to his eyeballs.

  No wonder they’re desperate to cover up the accident next door, Jack thought. It’s not really about money at all — it’s about these blokes going to jail.

  He had to talk to Emily about his discovery. He didn’t really trust Franklin, who seemed keen to fight the developers down to the last drop of Jack’s blood, but Emily might have some good advice. If he moved fast, he could get the cab to Ajit and make it back to the estate to see her.

  His phone interrupted him.

  ‘Jack? It’s Pauline from Anglicare here. It looks like Phil is going to be okay. Got some nasty burns on one side of his face and neck, but I don’t think they’re in skin-graft territory. They’re going to discharge him in a day or two.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Don’t know why anyone would do …’ He didn’t ask her about the parking cop.

  ‘I gather a woman got stabbed as well. I think the police will be contacting you to make a statement, and that kind of thing.’

  ‘Can’t help much — I barely saw the kids who did it. I was concentrating on helping Phil.’

  ‘I don’t know how soon they’ll get in touch. I think she’s given them enough to go on with for a day or two.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you’re speaking to them, tell them not to bother.’

  ‘I was wondering …’

  The line went quiet.

  ‘Um, would you be able to pick him up, maybe look after him for a day or two? Our place is overflowing, and I’m off to Sydney for a week first thing tomorrow …’

  Christ almighty. Jack stopped walking, unable to respond. What was she thinking?

  ‘Seriously? How am I going to look after him? He’s a nightmare, I’m broke, I’m not a fucking social worker … oops, sorry.’

  ‘There’s no one else.’

  Jack swallowed hard and rolled his eyes. How had he got himself into this situation?

  ‘If you just check at St V’s tomorrow, you should be able to pick him up. Just let him crash on the floor in your loungeroom or something.’

  ‘I work long hours, I live in a dump, I’m broke …’ Jack churned out rapid-fire excuses, but he knew he was cornered.

  ‘Please, Jack. They’ve cleaned him up. He hasn’t been drinking. Just a couple of days …’

  The pleading tone did the trick.

  ‘Alright, maybe one night. But you’d better give me the number of someone at your joint I can call if he goes feral.’

  ‘Thanks. Jack. You’re a lifesaver.’

  He slumped into the driver’s seat in a dispirited haze. Real Jack would have seen Phil’s woes as mostly self-inflicted, and refused to help without giving it a second thought. But where had Real Jack gone? He wouldn’t have even been looking for Phil in the park in the first place.

  The sense that he was going soft troubled him. His recent dramas had confirmed the critical importance of his crusty outer shell. Without it he didn’t really exist, and certainly couldn’t survive.

  15.

  How on earth was he going to handle looking after Phil? He might nick the TV, maybe piss on the carpet, or bring a few of his mates around for a party.

  A tiny spark of inspiration pierced his confusion. Billy. He’d know how to deal with it. Might even let Phil crash at his place. Jack was regretting giving in to Pauline’s pleading, but he was stuck with it now, so enlisting Billy’s assistance felt like a good strategy.

  That’ll teach me to help someone out for no good reason, Jack mumbled to himself. Give them an inch, and they’ll take a mile. Hope
Billy’s up for it.

  Unfortunately, Billy had other ideas.

  ‘He’s your mate.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘Well, he certainly ain’t mine. I can’t take him … been living on my own for thirty years, couldn’t cope with anyone else.’

  Jack resisted the temptation of reminding Billy that he’d been living alone for a long time, too.

  ‘So what am I going to do with him?’

  ‘Put him on your couch.’

  ‘It’s falling apart!’

  ‘Don’t think he’ll complain, somehow. Better than what he’s used to.’

  Jack couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘You got to help me, okay? He’s crazy. I’m only doing it ’cause I owe him money. One night, maybe two, then he’s out of here.’

  Who am I kidding? Once he’s in, he’ll never leave. It’ll be like that movie … whatever its name is …

  ‘I can give you an old blanket’, Billy said. ‘Dog used to sleep on it.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, he’ll appreciate that. Feel right at home, smell of dog-piss, all that …’

  ‘Yeah, best I can do.’ Billy was sounding defensive. He clearly didn’t relish looking selfish.

  Jack trudged back upstairs, now even grumpier than when he’d knocked on Billy’s door.

  He laboured his way through yet another barren, depressing shift the next day, then went to collect Phil from the hospital. For a bloke who’d just had his face set on fire, Phil was in a surprisingly good mood. On the way to Jack’s place, he seemed to perk up.

  ‘You got Foxtel, Jack? Some great stuff on the Discovery Channel …’

  Jesus. ‘I’ll check with the butler. Of course I haven’t got bloody Foxtel! You think I live in the fucking Hyatt? You’re bloody lucky it’s a colour TV.’

  ‘Just asking. Anyway, thanks for helping out. Won’t stay long, just got to get over this.’ He touched the side of his face and winced.

  ‘Yeah, no worries, you can sleep on the couch.’

  ‘Good stuff. Hey, you ever catch up with Harmo? You know, from the Royal Oak?’

  ‘Nah, not for ages.’

  ‘Heard he opened up a restaurant or something, over in Footscray. Always chasing the big time, you know.’

  ‘Since when is Footscray the big time? Think you’ve got your suburbs wrong, Phil.’

  ‘What kind of cabbie are you? Been there recently? Whole joint’s getting tarted up. Wall-to-wall yuppies and all that stuff.’

  ‘I thought the Vietnamese took over.’

  ‘Still there, but now all the young lawyers and whatever are moving in. Buy the old house, big block, close to the city, away you go …’

  Jack cast a glance at Phil as he turned into Balmoral Avenue: ‘You sure know a lot about all this property stuff for a bloke who can’t even find a place himself.’

  Phil bristled, but didn’t take the bait.

  ‘I keep my eyes open, Jack. Just because my heart’s dodgy and I drink too much doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with my brain. I listen, I watch, I see things. Amazing what you find out when you don’t have much else to do.’

  Jack almost felt like apologising. ‘Yeah, same in the cab. I’ll take your word for it. So Harmo’s finally made it big?’

  ‘Not quite. Some bloke working for him ripped him off, rigged the till or something. Still chasing him for the money, apparently.’

  ‘That’d be right’, Jack muttered. If you were a nobody who worked in pubs, the odds were always going to be stacked against you.

  He looked across at Phil, suddenly curious about him.

  In spite of his hospital stay, Phil still exuded the rotten-fruit smell of stale alcohol. Jack wondered what the flat would be like after Phil had been there for a couple of days. It was bad enough having him in the cab.

  He crawled off to bed weighed down by a sense of weary resignation. Phil had insisted on watching an SBS show on obscure Indian religions, and didn’t seem to mind the poor reception and crackling audio.

  ‘Make sure you turn the light off.’

  ‘Yeah, mate, she’ll be right.’

  When his alarm ended a stretch of fitful, unsettled sleep, Jack’s first thought of the day was how he could get rid of Phil. He certainly didn’t want him hanging around in the flat all day, that was for sure.

  But when he hobbled into the lounge room, it looked like the problem had solved itself. Phil was gone. There was no sign of Billy’s blanket. It even looked like one of the cushions was missing.

  Bastard. He’s done a runner and nicked everything. Jack wasn’t sure what to think. A tattered old cushion was a small price to pay for getting rid of his unwelcome guest.

  He soon discovered that the price might be higher. As he pulled on his clothes and picked up various bits and pieces to head down to the cab, he realised he couldn’t find his watch. He’d taken great care to keep his wallet and phone with him, but he wasn’t sure where he’d left his watch.

  It was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘You arsehole!’ he screamed at the fridge. The watch wasn’t worth much, but the sense of violation enraged him. He’d tried to do the right thing, and look what the bastard had gone and done! It didn’t matter what it was worth; it was the principle of the thing.

  A wave of rage surged through him. Without thinking about where to look for him, he barged through the door in pursuit of Phil.

  ‘Where are you, you thieving prick!’ Jack screamed, ignoring the fact that it wasn’t yet seven-thirty. ‘Give me back my fucking watch!’

  As he hurried down the stairs, a voice responded. It seemed to be coming from underneath him.

  ‘What are you going on about, Jack? Shut the fuck up, people are trying to sleep.’

  Was it Phil? Unable to believe his own ears, Jack stopped halfway down the stairs, his eyes darting about in all directions.

  ‘I’m down here, you idiot!’

  ‘Hey, Jack, what’s up, man? Why all the carry-on?’ Billy the Hippy poked his head around the stairwell corner and blinked repeatedly at him. ‘We don’t all get up as early as you.’

  Jack wobbled down the remaining stairs. There, lying in a messy bundle of clothes, blanket, and cushion was Phil, glaring up at him.

  What kind of insanity was this? He’d given the bloke a safe, comfortable place to sleep in, and he’d reverted to type. Maybe no-hopers like Phil actually preferred sleeping on freezing concrete in lanes and under bridges. It didn’t make sense.

  Billy tugged at his arm. ‘What’s up, mate?’

  ‘He nicked my watch. Christ only knows what he’s doing down here …’ Jack’s voice trailed off. It was starting to dawn on him that if Phil had indeed stolen his watch, it was unlikely he would hang around.

  ‘You must be off your fucking head, Jack’, Phil snarled up at him. ‘What do I need your stupid watch for? Think I’m worried about being late for appointments or something?’

  ‘Yeah, well, what are you doing down here then, you stupid prick?’ Jack shot back at him. ‘Set you up on the couch, let you watch TV …’

  Phil laughed. ‘Ants, mate. Fucking ants. Turned off the TV and the lights, crashed out on the couch, woke up with thousands of the little bastards crawling all over me. Been off the grog a few days, thought I might’ve had the DTs, but they were real. So I shifted out here. Not too bad, actually … until you started yelling and carrying on.’

  Jack stared at him. There weren’t any ants in the couch. Surely.

  Billy snickered. ‘Told you to get an ant-eater, man.’

  Radiating hostility at the world, Jack stormed back upstairs. Billy followed: now his sleep was well and truly destroyed, he wanted to see this entertainment through to the end.

  Jack stared at the couch. The end closer to the door was crawling with ants. The couch looked like it w
as alive.

  ‘Looks like your ants might like a bit of pizza, Jack.’

  Jack moved one of the cushions and found the source of the problem. A half-eaten slice of his Hawaiian from the other night had slipped down into the crack.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘Maybe you should drown them in boiling water or something.’ Billy seemed to have forgotten his live-and-let-live attitude to all creatures, however small and insignificant.

  ‘You kidding? The couch is bad enough as it is. It would probably fall apart. How do I get it dry afterwards? It’d start rotting and stinking.’

  Jack picked up the pizza slice and hurriedly discarded it in the bin, brushing real and imaginary ants from his arm.

  Ignoring Billy, he hurried back downstairs to confront Phil again about his watch.

  ‘So what have you done with my fucking watch, you …’

  There was no sign of Phil. A forlorn pile of makeshift bedding was all that was left.

  ‘Hey, Jack, what are you doing now, man?’ Billy eased his way around the corner of the stairs and looked down at his blanket. He sounded like he was running out of patience with Jack’s strange behaviour.

  ‘Come on’, Jack barked at him. ‘He can’t have gone far. We’ll drive around for a bit, bound to find him.’

  ‘Er … I was thinking of going back to sleep.’

  ‘This is an emergency.’ Billy looked doubtful, but relented and followed Jack out to the cab.

  ‘You look left, I’ll look right, okay?’

  They crawled around the streets of Brunswick for about half an hour without any result.

  ‘We’ve lost him, Jack. Better drop me back home …’

  ‘Just got to try along Mitchell Street, okay …’

  Billy shook his head and muttered under his breath, but Jack took no notice.

  Eventually, Jack gave up and deposited Billy back at the flats.

  ‘Thanks for helping, mate. Sorry for waking you up. Things are a bit mad.’

  He turned his mind to trawling for fares. The Phil problem would have to wait a bit. He was overdue for a good day. Maybe today would be it?

  It wasn’t. Long, slow-moving queues at ranks, empty streets, short trips, and angry drivers: everything stressful about driving cabs was crammed into one awful, demoralising day. The final blow came late in the afternoon as he was thinking about giving it away for the day.