by Tim Ayliffe
Mr Lam stopped talking when he noticed the waiter arriving with their coffees, placing them in the middle of the table, leaving them for Jonny to distribute.
‘Thanks,’ Bailey said, accepting his takeaway cup, leaving it to cool down in front of him. ‘Go on, Philip.’
‘We’ve lived in Australia for more than twenty years. It’s a great country. It’s been good to us. But there are things people don’t like talking about. Racial issues. They don’t like to talk about them because they want to believe they don’t exist.’ He paused, taking a sip of coffee. His words measured, like he’d been rehearsing them in his mind. ‘I brought my children up to understand they’ll be forced to endure things other children won’t. Because of the colour of their skin, they’ll be treated differently. Not always, not by everyone. Second glances in restaurants, more attention from the police. It happens.’
Bailey popped the lid on his coffee, bringing it to his lips, testing the heat. Listening.
‘More recently, it’s not just sideways glances my children have been getting. My daughter was forced to delete her social media accounts because people were saying unkind things to her. People she didn’t even know. She was getting… what do you call it, trolled?’
‘Yes, Philip. That’s what it’s called,’ Abdo chimed in. ‘She was getting racially abused and it turned out it was coming from other students at her school.’
‘That’s all been dealt with now. The school was very supportive. But it’s part of an increasing pattern, I fear, which brings me to my son,’ Lam said. ‘Matthew’s a passionate boy and, despite all I’ve taught him, he’s far less tolerant of this type of thing. He was deeply upset about what happened to his sister. He’s the type of boy who fights back.’
‘And that’s what happened the other night,’ Bailey said. ‘He fought back.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this what you want to say to the media? You want to share your story?’
‘More than that,’ Lam said. ‘I want to call out what’s happening. It’s time for people like me to have a voice in a conversation that has to be had.’
Bailey was wondering if today’s meeting was Jonny Abdo’s idea. The activist leader recruiting more people to his cause.
‘How long have you two known each other?’ Bailey said.
‘We met through Matthew,’ Abdo said. ‘I thought I told you, he’s one of my students. I reached out to Philip after what happened on Oxford Street.’
‘Only a few days then.’
‘Why do you ask?’ Lam said.
‘I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into, Philip. Speaking publicly can also make you a target.’
‘We’ve talked about that,’ Abdo said, giving Bailey a look that made it clear he didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken.
‘I understand and I appreciate you bringing it up,’ Lam said. ‘Jonny said you were a good man. I do want to speak out. I want to do it now. If you can’t help, who should we speak to?’
Bailey had been pondering that question ever since it had been raised. If Lam was chasing maximum exposure, then commercial television was probably the best way to go.
‘There’s a reporter that I trust from Inside Story. I’ll talk to her and come back to you.’
‘Thank you.’ Lam stood up with his coffee. ‘If you don’t mind, Jonny said he’ll be the contact for the family.’
‘That’s fine, Philip,’ Abdo reiterated. ‘John and I can work this out. I’ll let you know how we go.’
The two men watched in silence as Philip Lam walked back through the café, disappearing into the main foyer of the hospital.
‘Are you sure about this, Jonny?’
‘It’s time. And remember, we didn’t start this.’
Abdo was sounding more and more the activist and an experienced journalist like Bailey knew that people who held placards and led demonstrations were often willing to take risks and go to lengths that other people wouldn’t dare. The conversation had also made Bailey think about his own relationship with Jonny Abdo. He barely knew the guy. Apart from keeping tabs on Abdo’s career in the years that had passed since he’d arrived in Australia as a child refugee, the two men hadn’t really had much contact at all.
‘Jonny, I’ve got to ask you a serious question. I’ll ask you only once.’
Abdo’s face hardened, sensing Bailey’s change in mood. ‘What?’
‘Do you have any idea who killed Augustus Strong?’
‘No. I don’t.’
Bailey couldn’t think of one good reason not to believe him.
Still, he wasn’t so sure.
CHAPTER 24
‘You seriously handing this one over?’
Annie was surprised that Bailey would give up an exclusive story so easily.
‘As I told Philip Lam, I don’t work in daily news any more. I’ll use him for the feature I’m writing. Anyway, I figured that, well, I owe you one.’
‘For what?’
For being a prick, Bailey wanted to say. Although he wasn’t one for casual admissions.
‘Family wants an honest reporter. That’s you.’
Annie hung on the line like she was about to say something else, before switching gears. Business-like. ‘If I’m going to get this up for tonight, I’d better get moving. Who’s the contact?’
He gave her Jonny Abdo’s details and ended the call, his thoughts already turning to his next move. Finding Margie Roundtree. The witness who had told police that Augustus Strong’s killers were Black. She had been on his mind ever since he’d discovered her existence during his conversation with Silvie out front of the State Theatre that morning.
It turned out the soup kitchen where Margie had been known to accept a free meal had four wheels and was staffed by a group of people preparing for the second coming of Jesus Christ. After a simple search on the internet, Bailey had also discovered that a team of volunteers from the Hand of God charity would be parking their van behind St Mary’s Cathedral at around 6 pm to hand out hot dinners for the homeless.
Bailey knew that if Margie really was the person who had witnessed Augustus Strong being beaten to death then the police would probably have her holed up in a hotel somewhere. Safe. But Bailey had decided to head down to St Mary’s anyway to see whether he could find an acquaintance of Margie’s, or anyone who may have heard anything about what had happened to Strong. It was a gamble. But he couldn’t think of a better idea.
The Hand of God people were already unloading boxes of food and stacking complimentary bibles in a stand on the grass by the time Bailey arrived at St Mary’s Cathedral. They were all wearing green shirts with the charity’s logo on the front – predictably, an outstretched hand – with quotes from the bible on their backs.
‘How’s it going, mate?’
Bailey picked out the person who appeared to be in charge. A tall, skinny guy who looked like he’d had a hard life himself and pulled it back just in time.
‘Good, brother.’ He stopped walking, balancing a box of apples on his knee. ‘We’ll start serving food in around fifteen minutes. Still getting set up.’
The response made Bailey uncharacteristically self-conscious about his appearance. Maybe his daughter was right. Maybe the flannelette shirt, jeans and Blundstone boots combo didn’t cut it any more. Although his stubbly face and shaggy, unkempt hair probably didn’t help.
‘I’m not here for a feed,’ Bailey said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘I’m looking for someone. A woman. Wondering if you might be able to help.’
‘We don’t give out information about the people who come here,’ the man said, doing his best to sound unhelpful. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ve got to keep setting up.’
The man walked down the grass to where he and the other people in green shirts were lining up boxes on a table. Bailey followed, careful to keep his distance, not wanting to antagonise him any further because he had a right to be suspicious. Almost half of Sydney’s h
omeless were women and many of them were escaping domestic violence situations. Bailey imagined there would be husbands and partners who went searching for the women who’d decided that a life on the street was a safer bet than living under a roof where they were assaulted and raped. Women who didn’t want to be found.
‘Sorry, I should have identified myself.’ Bailey tried again with the skinny guy. ‘Name’s John Bailey. I’m a journalist. I’m looking for a woman who may have witnessed a murder.’
Bailey was trying to claw back trust so he decided to go straight for the truth.
‘A murder?’ The man stopped, lowering his voice as his colleagues walked past to collect more boxes from the van. ‘Someone was murdered?’
‘You may have heard the news, that American guy, Augustus Strong. Happened early this morning,’ Bailey said, relieved that the man was at least talking to him again. ‘I just need to ask her a few questions.’
‘Heard about that on the radio. What’d you say your name was again?’
‘John Bailey.’
‘I’m Alec.’ He squinted at Bailey, a thought clearly popping into his head. ‘You’re that journalist who got caught up in that terrorist attack in London?’
Here we go, thought Bailey, a stranger in a Jesus shirt was about to pretend that he knew everything about him. Someone else to save.
‘Happened a while ago now.’
‘I’m sorry, brother. Hell of a thing.’
‘Yeah. It was.’ Bailey gave him a look that told him he wasn’t his brother and to mind his own business. And then he realised that he was the one questioning a stranger in a park about a woman he didn’t know. ‘If you don’t mind. Old wounds, and all that.’
‘Sure. Sure. Sorry.’
‘The woman I’m looking for goes by the name of Margie Roundtree.’
Alec shrugged. ‘Faces, I know. But I couldn’t tell you many names. The type of people who need us don’t come wearing name tags, if you know what I mean. And we don’t ask.’
‘I get that.’
Bailey noticed a few people loitering around the table that was now stacked with boxes of food. Alec had clocked them too and he glimpsed at his watch. ‘We need to get started.’
Under instruction from Alec, the volunteers took their positions by the table. One person handing out plates. Others serving scoops of spaghetti bolognese and distributing bread rolls, apples and bottles of water. Alec standing at the end of the line, politely offering bibles for anyone interested. There weren’t many takers.
People of all ages were turning up and Bailey wondered whether he might get lucky and that one of the dozen or so women already sitting on the grass and on park benches could actually be Margie Roundtree. The only way to find out was to take a walk and make a few polite enquiries, starting with the three middle-aged women who had managed to get a seat at one of the two tables in the park.
‘Excuse me, my name’s John Bailey. I’m a journalist and I’m looking for someone called Margie Roundtree. Does that name sound familiar to any of you?’
The women paused their conversation, exchanging glances, shaking their heads. ‘Sorry,’ one of the women answered for the rest.
‘Thanks.’
Bailey moved on, asking the same question of the others he found scattered on the grass making quick work of their plates of food.
No luck.
He noticed a group of younger people sitting in a circle beneath a tree and he wandered over. ‘Hey, guys. Sorry to disturb. I’m looking for someone called Margie Roundtree. Name familiar?’
‘Nah,’ a guy with bad teeth answered, dismissively. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Yeah, I know Margie.’ A woman who Bailey guessed was aged in her early twenties piped up. ‘What’s she done?’
‘Kaz!’ Another one of the women in the group clearly resented Kaz’s apparent cooperation. ‘Why the fuck are you talking to this bloke?’
‘Fuck off, Gemma. I can talk to whoever I want.’
Bailey cleared his throat, dropping onto a knee so that he wasn’t looking down on them. ‘I’m not here to get anyone in any trouble. I just need to talk to her about something she may have seen. I’m a reporter.’
‘You mean that dick who got bashed down on George?’
Kaz again.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Yeah, well. I know nothing about that.’ She made a huffing sound through her nose, shovelling a fork full of spaghetti into her mouth. ‘Margie sure did all right out of it though.’
Gemma was glaring at her friend. ‘Kaz, seriously. Shut up!’
‘No, fuck it, Gemma.’ Kaz was speaking while chewing her food. ‘She’s pissed off back to that arsehole who pimps her out, didn’t give us fuck all of what she got.’
‘What d’you mean, Kaz?’ Bailey said, knowing that he needed to push. ‘I’m concerned that Margie could be in danger.’
‘You think?’ Kaz laughed, awkwardly. ‘Bitch gets paid and goes straight back to the boyfriend who kicked her out. She’s in shit, all right. Won’t listen to anyone. Not even her little sister.’
A girl sitting a few metres from the others quickly looked away and started packing what remained of her dinner into her backpack. Bailey caught her just as she was getting to her feet. ‘Is Margie your sister?’
‘Fuck off, mate.’
‘I really need to speak to her.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m a reporter. My name’s John Bailey.’
‘Cops already took her statement. Told her not to speak to anyone else.’
‘Who’s this boyfriend they were talking about? If you know she’s in a dangerous situation, I might be able to help her. What’s your name?’
The girl had tearful, angry eyes. She looked like a kid. Fifteen or sixteen years old. Bailey wasn’t even factoring in the years stolen by the street.
‘Is everything okay?’ Alec appeared beside Bailey. ‘Are you okay, Jules?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.’
‘Jules, I really need to talk to your sister,’ Bailey said.
‘You don’t need to –’
‘She needs to get out of there.’ Jules was speaking as though Alec wasn’t even there. ‘I need to get my sister away from him.’
‘Where, Jules? Where can I find her?’
‘Someone gave her money. I don’t know who they are. I don’t want to know.’ Jules lowered her voice so the others sitting nearby on the grass couldn’t hear. ‘We were supposed to meet up here tonight. Now. We got enough money to get the bus to Byron. She was just going to say goodbye to him but…’
She stopped talking, clearly upset.
‘It’s okay, Jules. What’s happened?’
‘That fucking arsehole. She told me she wouldn’t touch it. I knew she wouldn’t get out of that house without hitting it.’
‘Where can I find her, Jules?’
‘Jules.’ Alec was still standing beside Bailey, checking on his homeless customer. Doing the right thing. ‘If you’re really worried about your sister, maybe we should call the police?’
‘No,’ Jules snapped. ‘No cops. It’ll get her in even more bloody trouble now.’
‘Where can I find her?’
Jules went quiet, looking from Bailey to Alec, back to Bailey again.
‘There’s a share house on Morehead Street in Redfern. Fifty-one or fifty-three. Can’t remember. Anyway, that’s where you’ll find her. When you do, tell her thanks a fucking lot.’
Bailey nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Actually. Wait.’ Jules zipped her backpack closed. ‘I’ll tell her myself. I’m coming with you.’
CHAPTER 25
The townhouses were squashed together like plasticine. Almost every home identical. Two storeys high with just enough room for front doors and windows. Tessellated tiled pathways. Tiny front gardens inside arrow-tipped fences. Second-level balconies with steel, patterned railings. Skylights poking through sheets of corrugated iron like pressure valves.
Surry Hills was a place where the rich and the poor lived side by side. Venture up the hill towards Redfern and you could quite literally see the wealth drain away, house by house, until there weren’t even houses any more, just tall blocks of concrete stretching into the sky.
‘Slow down,’ Jules said. ‘Might as well park down this end, stay clear of the towers.’
Suicide Towers.
The Redfern housing estate with the nickname that told you everything you needed to know about what went on there. The towers personified all that was wrong with the welfare system. Home to forgotten people. A place where hope often died.
Bailey pulled his wagon to the side of the road, parking in between an old Mercedes and a plumber’s van.
He hadn’t managed to get many words out of Jules during the short drive to the Redfern end of Surry Hills. Most of his questions had been met with one-word answers.
‘Lived in Sydney long?’
‘No.’
‘Is Margie your only sibling?’
‘No.’
He tried one more time as they were getting out of the car. ‘Who’s in Byron?’
‘Mum’s sister.’
‘Where’s your mum?’
‘Dead.’
They were standing on the footpath beside a house with a broken fence.
‘Sorry to hear that, Jules.’
Jules looked down at the ground, crushing a leaf with her foot. ‘Dad lost interest in me and Margie when he got remarried and had a baby with his new wife. She never liked having us around. Guess we reminded her of Mum.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Bailey didn’t know what else to say and Jules was still looking at the ground.
‘My aunt reckons she can get us jobs in a restaurant, or something. Give us somewhere to crash. Probably should go back to school, I guess. Been trying to talk Margie into moving for ages.’
‘Sounds like a good move, Jules.’
‘Yeah. We’ll see.’ She shrugged, pointing up the hill, starting to walk. ‘Hundred bucks says my stupid sister’s smacked out of her mind when we find her.’
