Greater Good

by Tim Ayliffe

  Tonight’s party was the most important event in town. The people who had turned up in their pretty frocks and black suits thought they were pretty important too. In Sydney, they probably were.

  ‘Is that Matthew Parker over there?’ Dexter was pointing at a man partly concealed by the crowd that had gathered around him.

  ‘Yeah. Big name like Davis gets called off the bench, the PM pays a visit. They can be crime fighters together for the cameras.’

  ‘He’s a fit looking bastard,’ Bailey said, noting the prime minister’s barrel chest and chiselled cheekbones.

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Must be the surfing, and all those fun runs I see him doing on the television. I always thought a car drove him to the finishing line.’

  Bailey was starting to get loose.

  ‘Page will be here too, somewhere. And slow down on the French, will you?’ Dexter had noticed him holding another two glasses in his hand.

  ‘Pardon, madam. J’ai très soif.’ Bailey winked and took another sip from his flute. ‘I think I might have a mingle.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘I was hoping you would.’ He held out his arm and she took it.

  ‘Dexter!’ They had barely walked another five metres before a group of police called out for her to join them.

  ‘Bring your chequebook, guys?’ she said.

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Davis can look after himself. We’re just here for the free piss!’ a short, stocky bloke replied, his colleagues laughing and clinking their glasses at his joke.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ Dexter said. ‘I don’t recall the commissioner putting on a party like this for us!’

  ‘Might leave you to it,’ Bailey said in Dexter’s ear. ‘I’ve never been popular with the boys in blue.’

  ‘Make sure you come back – and stay out of trouble!’

  Bailey walked to the back of the room and climbed the steps to another bar. It had a view over the function space, where he could get a good look at the guests.

  ‘Whisky, mate – two fingers.’ Bailey gestured with his hand to the waiter, resting his elbow on the glass-top bar.

  ‘Beer, wine and champagne only on the tab.’ The young barman’s skin was so tanned it made his teeth shine. He looked bored, like serving drinks was beneath him.

  ‘I’ll pay. Single malt, if you’ve got it.’

  Davis was a cheap bastard too.

  ‘Still want a double?’

  ‘Yes, mate, I’ll pay for a double.’

  ‘Just checking.’

  The glass made a cracking sound when the barman plonked it on the table in front of Bailey. ‘Twenty-six bucks.’

  ‘No wonder this gallery looks so nice.’ Bailey handed him the money, annoyed that it wouldn’t be the last overpriced whisky he’d be buying from the tosser with the tan. He could only do so many glasses of bubbles.

  Bailey checked out the room. Half of Matthew Parker’s front bench was here. He counted Health, Social Services, Arts, the Attorney-General and the Treasurer. Davis knew how to pull a crowd. Bailey also clocked eight Australian Federal Police officers standing in strategic positions around the room. Their earpieces and bulging jackets made them stand out in the crowd. That was the point.

  Ambassador Li Chen was standing close to the stage, a glass of red wine in his hand, having a casual conversation with the foreign affairs minister. Bailey felt like wandering over and asking the ambassador about the death of Victor Ho, if only to gauge his reaction. But it was a little too early to rattle the cage.

  He kept looking around, wondering if the mysterious fat guy in the leather jacket would make another appearance. Probably not. By the way he delivered his last message to Ambassador Li down at the quay, he didn’t look like the type of bloke who would turn up at a public function.

  Eventually, Bailey’s eyes settled on the short and stumpy figure of Gary Page in the corner by the entrance. He was deep in conversation with a man with a slicked-back ponytail who looked like a gangster – which wasn’t that surprising for a Labor fundraiser. Their conversation looked heated, with Page poking his finger at the man’s chest, reinforcing his words.

  The two men were interrupted when the lights flickered and the music stopped. Page tapped the man on the cheek with the palm of his hand – a cocky, domineering gesture in anyone’s book – and headed for the small stage near the windows. The speeches were about to start.

  Page was the master of the stump and tonight was easy because he would be performing before a friendly crowd. He took his place in front of the microphone, the lights on the stage bouncing off his bald head and highlighting the creases in his suit. Page held up his arms in a gesture for quiet, shoulders hunched over like Tricky Dicky.

  ‘I want to welcome you all here tonight.’ His amplified voice carried over the uninterested party crashers chatting and downing the free booze. ‘But firstly, I should remind anyone taking a shine to the fine art hanging from the walls that there’re more cops in this room than you’d see patrolling the harbour on New Year’s Eve.’

  The crowd roared with laughter – nearly everyone, except for Bailey.

  ‘It’s my great pleasure to speak about this man.’ Page was pointing at Davis, gesturing for him to join him on stage. ‘He’s been a great friend and servant to the people of this great state. I could think of no better choice than David Davis to be our candidate for the seat of Grayndler at the next federal election. And let me tell you why . . .’

  Bailey had lost interest. He turned to the barman and held up another two fingers to let him know that he was in for the full twenty-six bucks again.

  Most of the crowd had moved closer to the stage when the defence minister started speaking, the rest had retreated to the bar with Bailey. Among them was radio host Keith Roberts, who had been encircled by fans paying homage to the sound of his voice. He caught Bailey’s eye, waved, and started walking in his direction. He was coming over for a chat. The last time they’d been in the same place together Bailey had thrown a glass of wine over him and used a colourful array of expletives to describe both Roberts’ radio program and the man himself. Why on earth would he want to speak to him now?

  ‘That looks like a nice glass of whisky, Mr Bailey. Terrible waste to throw it!’

  ‘How’re you, Keith?’ Bailey would never apologise to a creep like Roberts, but he was trying to be civil.

  ‘Wonderful, thank you. Top rating program in Sydney, why wouldn’t I be? And you? Still the crusading reporter?’

  Bailey found the man’s hubris irritating. He looked down at his glass. He definitely wasn’t going to waste his single malt, not at these prices.

  ‘Not sure we need to go over this old ground again, do you?’

  ‘My dear man, only toying with you. The baggage you must carry around, it must explode from within sometimes. I didn’t take it personally.’

  Bailey held back from saying what he was thinking. He looked around for a distraction and found one. Anthea and Ian were standing ten metres away, watching Page and Davis do their thing on stage.

  He downed his whisky. ‘Sorry, mate, another time.’

  ‘Sure, but before you go . . .’ Roberts grabbed his arm. ‘I’ve got a question, if I may.’

  ‘Shoot.’ Bailey was barely listening.

  ‘I’d love you to come on my show one day to talk about the Middle East. I’d really like to hear your assessment.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Bailey didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Great! How’s the day after next? Seven o’clock?’

  ‘Call me ten minutes before I’m due on so I can have a shit and shower.’

  ‘Terrific! The war correspondent, John Bailey! On my program! What number should my producers call?’

  ‘This one.’ Bailey pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote down ten digits on a napkin. It could have been anyone’s number. It certainly wasn’t his.

  ‘Excellent. Talk with you then.’ Roberts looked happy with himse
lf, folding the napkin and placing it in the pocket of his jacket.

  Anthea noticed Bailey wandering in her direction and gave him a look that made him reconsider his approach – he knew that look – but he ignored it.

  ‘Hello darling.’ He leaned in and gave his ex-wife a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Ian.’ Bailey held out his hand and Ian begrudgingly shook it. He had never liked Bailey and resented being the bloke who had picked up the pieces.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you – we’re celebrating a change in career for one of the nation’s great crime fighters, aren’t we?’

  ‘Please.’ Anthea squeezed his arm. ‘Let’s play nice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The champagne and whisky had gone to his head and his cheeks were flushed.

  ‘Okay, Bailey,’ Ian said. ‘We get it. I presume you’re here in a journalistic capacity? Davis is a good story, correct?’

  Correct.

  Bailey hated the way Ian often finished his sentences with self-affirmation.

  ‘Sure is, Ian. He is a good story.’ And he had always struggled to control himself around Anthea’s husband. It was a bloke thing. He’d never like him.

  ‘Interesting to see you here though, Ian,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Ian turned his body away from the stage so that he was face to face with Bailey.

  ‘You’d have to be the only merchant banker in Australia that supports the Labor Party.’

  Ian went to open his mouth but Anthea stopped him. ‘Okay, you two, you can put your dicks away.’

  ‘You’re right, Anthea, that could be very embarrassing for Ian.’

  Ian’s face was going red and Anthea grabbed her husband’s arm tightly.

  ‘Hey, is that Sharon Dexter over there?’ She changed the subject. ‘Didn’t I see you walk in together?’

  ‘Yeah, you did.’ Bailey was aware he’d outstayed his welcome. ‘Better go and see how she’s doing.’

  He nodded at Ian and bent forward to kiss Anthea goodbye, but instead whispered in her ear. ‘Davis is a bad guy. Be careful.’

  She gave him a perplexed look – confused at how he could be such an arse, then sincere. The infuriating contradictions of the father of her child.

  Bailey sidled past Dexter and signalled to her that he would be back in a minute. He had a burning pressure in his bladder and needed to get to the restroom.

  The only people who ventured out into the foyer were those, like Bailey, who had been making the most of the open bar and didn’t care about missing any of the speeches inside.

  He reached out and leaned with his right hand on the wall in front of him and pissed into the urinal. The lean was an obvious sign that he’d better slow down on the whisky.

  There was a tap running behind him. Bailey turned around and could see the man with the ponytail – the one who’d been talking with Page – washing his hands at the marble sinks on the opposite side of the room. He was staring at Bailey through the mirror.

  Bailey moved to the sinks to rinse his hands and tried to break the awkward moment. ‘Evening.’

  ‘Time for you to go, my friend.’ The bloke was glaring at Bailey in the mirror.

  ‘Sorry, do we know each other?’ Bailey turned on the faucet and met his gaze, the conversation taking place through the glass.

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘My mistake.’ He knew that now would be a good time to walk away. But that wasn’t John Bailey. ‘Friend of Gary Page though, right?’

  ‘I’m not sure if you realise what’s going on here, mate.’ The bloke turned away from the mirror and stepped closer to Bailey. ‘And it can be done one of two ways –’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to say it’s the easy way or the hard way?’ The barman with the tan had looked after Bailey a little too well and his whisky glow had given him false courage.

  ‘Nah, you’re right. Forget I said anything.’ The man winked at Bailey and walked out of the restroom.

  Bailey knew this wasn’t over. He splashed water on his face and took his time drying his face and hands with a paper towel before straightening his tie in the mirror. Miranda really had done a brilliant job with his bat wing.

  He walked outside, bracing himself for trouble.

  ‘G’day boys.’

  Three burly men were waiting for him. They could have passed for triplets – shaved heads, tight black t-shirts that showed off their extensive gym work, and more ink on their arms than an entire football team.

  ‘Didn’t get invited inside, hey lads? You missed some great speeches, not to mention the open bar.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s this guy?’ The short guy in the middle was in charge.

  ‘I think I’m the guy you’re supposed to escort outside.’

  Bailey had an inkling that wasn’t all they’d been asked to do.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ the short guy said.

  The two mute brutes grabbed Bailey by the arms while the short talkative one stepped forward and headbutted him in the forehead.

  ‘Fuck!’ Bailey would have fallen over had the other two men not been holding him. He refocused his eyes in time to catch a fist crash into his stomach, knocking the wind out of his lungs, making him slump forward, gasping for air.

  They steadied him on his feet and escorted him outside, nodding at the security guards on the door to let them know that Bailey, who was too dazed to protest, had had a little too much to drink.

  ‘He’s okay. We’re looking after him. We’ll put him in a taxi round the corner.’

  But they didn’t put Bailey in a taxi. Instead, they crossed the road and walked him behind a giant oak tree.

  ‘You must’ve really pissed someone off tonight, mate. Apologies in advance.’

  Bailey didn’t see the fist that crashed into his temple, nor did he catch the boots that belted into his ribs, stomach and back when he fell to the ground. The beating didn’t last long. But he must have sustained another half-dozen punches and kicks before they decided he’d had enough. Their orders must have been to hurt him, not kill him. Small victories.

  Bailey looked up to see the three goons walking across the road, back-slapping each other, leaving him lying in a pile of leaves, struggling to catch his breath. He ran his fingers across his ribs and quietly reassured himself that nothing had been broken, then closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 21

  Something was poking into Bailey’s side, every movement hurt. The smell of freshly mown grass diverted his attention from the pain and reminded him of when he and Mike used to play rugby as boys. The brothers were so close in age that they’d played in teams together, and Bailey had never minded that his little brother was the more talented one. Running out on that field, sharing victories and losses, was enough.

  Mike was fast and skilful, which meant that he always played either nine or ten. The playmaking roles. He’d order everyone around on the field and they always listened because he was good. With so many rules, rugby was the closest thing a contact sport came to chess, and Mike always knew where to position his players.

  Bailey, on the other hand, was the type of player who only knew how to tackle like a demon and run headfirst into every ruck. He didn’t have much talent, just a big heart, and a mission to protect the best player in the team – his little brother.

  He wondered what Mike would have thought of him now, lying dishevelled, covered in dirt and leaves on the ground. He probably would have laughed. But Bailey also knew that Mike would have been disappointed with the way his brother had been hiding from life these past few years. It was why he had been ignoring the gaze of his brother through the clouds, over his shoulder, the sound of his voice in his head. Bailey didn’t want to be judged, especially by the best friend he’d ever had.

  But something had changed, he didn’t need a beating to recognise it. He had spent too long feeling sorry for himself, too long dismissing his second, third and fourth chances in life as rites of pas
sage.

  He was lucky to have had a friend like Gerald, who had pulled him out of the Middle East after what had happened in Iraq and sent him to England to be The Journal’s Europe correspondent. After all that Bailey had been through, Gerald knew he wasn’t ready to come home to Australia. Giving him a new home in London was a good idea and, for a while, it had worked. Bailey was filing regularly, writing about international politics and the ideological love affair between Tony Blair and George W. Bush – two men trying to engineer peace with the barrel of a gun in the post – September 11 world.

  Four months after he had been released from captivity in Iraq, Bailey was feeling normal again. He’d moved on from the mad militant in the cave and he was back near the top of his game. Then four young British men with backpacks filled with explosives walked onto three trains and a bus and blew themselves up. Fifty-six people died that day, if you included the bombers, and one of the world’s busiest cities was brought to its knees. Less than twenty-four hours after Bailey had written a story about London’s successful bid to host the 2012 Olympic Games, he was back in what felt like a warzone.

  When Bailey arrived at Edgware Road tube station on the morning of 7 July 2005, the smoke was still billowing from the underground and people were stumbling over each other, their blackened faces in shock at the terror that had killed, maimed and bloodied so many. Later, he stood staring at the bus that had been gutted by the explosion at Tavistock Square, the stains of blood and flesh on the pavement. He talked with some of the hundreds of thousands of Londoners sent home early from work, who had no other option but to walk because the transport system had been paralysed by twisted metal and fear. The people he spoke to in those first hours were resolute that the four Islamic fundamentalists would not change their city. Two weeks later, when another group of young terrorists tried to set off more bombs in London, the people remained defiant.

  But the bombs triggered something different in Bailey.

  They sent him into a state of confusion and despair. The card that brought down the house. At least, that’s how Doctor Jane described it later.

  In Bailey’s line of work he was used to being alone, just not to feeling lonely. The images of the violent attacks he had covered in Beirut, Iraq, Jerusalem and now London had begun playing like a slideshow of horror in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.