No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  I stay far too long at Diana’s. She potters around, tidying up, reading the papers, looking over some documents for her job with a non-religious aid program, leaving me to do whatever I want. I fix her computer, then immerse myself in the papers for a while too. I flick through her New York and London Book Reviews. I see there’s going to be a Turner retrospective in the Tate, and I have a little daydream about going to London next year. I could go back to that wonderful room in the National Gallery with the two Turners and the two Claudes. They say when Turner first saw Claude’s Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba he wept because he thought he could never paint the sky like that. But then he did it with Dido building Carthage.

  “To Carthage then I came,” I muse sleepily. What happened at Carthage? Something bad, no doubt. Lines like that from The Waste Land seem to punctuate my life. “April is the cruellest month.” Well, not this year. This year it’s June.

  If Miranda gets a job and moves out, if I work extra hours and stick to a budget, there’s no reason why I couldn’t go away. I calculate it all out in my head. That’s what the warmth and security of Diana’s lovely house is doing to me; instead of wondering whether I’ll survive another day, I’m now planning a whole year into the future.

  I don’t mention going overseas to Diana, because I’d love her to come with me and I know she won’t. She doesn’t like to travel these days, because she’s afraid she won’t be there if Chloe comes home. No-one says what we all know: Chloe won’t be coming home.

  Diana goes for her walk, but I don’t dare go outside the house with her, so I stretch out on the couch with the cat and doze. Before I know it she’s back, opening a bottle of wine, with irresistible cooking smells coming from the kitchen.

  “I really should get going,” I murmur.

  “Now, it won’t hurt if you just help me eat a bit more of this food,” insists my seductress.

  More time passes. We eat, drink the wine, talk, laugh and watch a DVD before I manage to summon enough will-power to leave.

  “It’s cold out there,” she protests. “Go in the morning.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “It’s a rule. I’ve made a rule. No staying with friends.”

  I pick up the blue parka and start putting it on.

  “Well, you’re not going out in that,” she says, taking the parka from me and disappearing upstairs. I go on collecting the rest of my possessions. A minute later she reappears with something draped over her arm.

  “Where’s my jacket?” I ask.

  “In the ragbag, where it belongs.” She helps me into a beautiful long crimson wool coat.

  “I can’t take this, Diana. This is your good coat!” I gasp. I have lusted after this coat for a couple of years.

  She shrugs. “You have rules, I have rules. I’ve already bought its replacement, so it has to go.” Diana has a zero-growth policy for her wardrobe: every time she buys something, she throws something out. This creates conflicts of interest for me when she asks my advice, as I’m the main beneficiary. She goes into the hall and comes back with an equally beautiful black cashmere coat.

  “Oh, I see!” I stroke it. “I’m glad you didn’t consult me.”

  22

  With Diana’s coat wrapped around me, I slip out the back gate and walk quickly down to Wellington Parade. There are a few restaurants and hotels down there, and it’s not long before I pick up a cruising taxi to take me back to Footscray. I get the driver to drop me near a big new apartment building in Barkly Street and wait until he’s out of sight before I double back along the street towards the Khá Sen. Smiling to myself at the thought of Diana’s horror, I pull out the Bulldogs beanie and jam it down on my head.

  It’s late, and there are few people around. Not much night life in this part of Footscray. The Trocadero, where my grandmother used to go dancing, is a ghostly shell. Everyone walks fast, like me, heads down, eager to get home and out of the cold.

  I walk straight past the Khá Sen. It’s closed, and the doors onto the street are locked and bolted. There are no lights on. The other unseen guests don’t hang around at the weekend. They have homes to go to.

  My key will get me in through the back door, so I slip into the car park in the street behind. The back entrance to the building looks horribly exposed, and my heart contracts as I consider it. A watcher would have many places to hide if he wanted to stand in the shadows and wait for me. I pull the beanie further down over my ears, walk quickly to the door and let myself in.

  On the upper landing, just before the last flight of stairs to my attic, there’s a window overlooking the street at the front. I wait until the automatic light goes off, then peep out.

  The street is deserted, apart from a young Vietnamese couple holding hands as they hurry towards the station. There’s a cold mist floating around the street lights. I’m about to go when something catches the corner of my eye. Was that a movement? I peer towards a narrow alley opposite. It’s dark. There’s room for someone to stand there, unnoticed, and watch this building. Did I just spot a shift in the light, as though someone has moved their arm a little carelessly, changing position?

  I watch and wait. My senses are dull, and I wish I hadn’t drunk that wine. Fear paralyses me. The staircase rises behind me, and the lone light bulb mocks me, ready to leap into telltale life as soon as I move.

  Eventually my wits return, and I look around for the movement sensor. Careful to avoid it, I reach up and remove the light bulb, then tiptoe up the stairs and into my room. The blind is up, and there’s just enough light in the room for me to take stock. Everything is just as I left it.

  I sit on the bed, shivering in the dark, listening. Did the stair creak? My bag is at my feet, still packed with all my things. I know I can’t stay here any longer. The shadows are closing in. I count out the money I owe Lily and put it on the pillow, pack up my computer and hoist my possessions onto my shoulders. Then I creep back down the stairs and replace the light bulb.

  It takes me a while to get out of the building, avoiding motion sensors and automatic lights, and I eventually emerge from another door onto the car park and scurry into the next street. It’s started to rain, a fine drizzle. I half walk, half run past houses and parked cars, then crouch behind a tree and wait, looking back the way I came. Nothing moves. I stand up and walk, fast, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the Khá Sen, the back of my neck prickling. When I think it’s safe to pause, I dig around for my umbrella and put it up. It’s raining hard now; my hair is plastered to my head, and the bottoms of my jeans are sodden.

  At one point I look around and realise I’m heading in the direction of Lily’s house, so I abruptly change course. I don’t really know where I am, but somewhere in front of me is the city. In my mental map, though, there’s a great wasteland between here and there. I’ve seen it from the train, and I’ve never crossed it any other way. I picture myself, a desperate little figure, toiling across that wilderness through the dark, in the freezing rain. Wasn’t it once called the Dudley Flats? Wouldn’t it be a kind of marsh in its natural state? I think of the Cambridge fens and how they used to swallow up people who strayed from the path.

  I could get to one of the railway stations from here, but they’re too brightly lit, and so are the trains. I’m beyond that now. I’ve crossed to the dark side of the road, a fugitive, and I don’t want anyone to see my face. I wish I could find a hole or a cave somewhere and crawl into it, curl up and pull Diana’s coat over my head, and just wait until the end of winter. But if I stop the spectre that’s pursuing me will catch up.

  I’m reminded of the old Persian story about a man who comes face to face with Death in the marketplace at Baghdad. Death gives him a look of startled recognition and the man fears his time has come. He runs all the way home, saddles his best horse and rides like the wind through the night. At dawn he reaches Samarra, just as the gates of the city are opening. There among the throng is Death.

  “What are you doing here?” gasps the ma
n.

  “Waiting for you,” replies Death. “That’s why I was surprised to see you in Baghdad yesterday, as my appointment with you is here, this morning.”

  I wish I could call Lewis. My hand closes around my phone. His number’s there. If I called him maybe he would arrive, miraculously, in minutes, with his retinue of police cars. I could tell him I saw someone watching me from across the street. He wouldn’t doubt me. He’d take me somewhere warm and safe, and everything would be all right.

  And where would that warm safe place be, Elly? I have to get myself out of this.

  Again my brain reboots, and I realise I should go back towards the busier areas. Maybe where the taxi dropped me off, or beyond that to the hospital. You can always get a taxi near a hospital. I work out a rough course.

  Ten minutes later I’m peeling off my damp coat in a taxi. The driver, a young Sikh with a clipped beard and a turban, regards me incuriously in the rear vision mirror. He doesn’t care what I do as long as I don’t mess up his cab. I ask him if he can take me out to the airport then fold the coat carefully and put it in my bag before struggling into a denim jacket and putting the Bulldogs beanie over my wet hair.

  “Your mob had a good win today,” he remarks as I pay the fare at the airport.

  “Oh, did we?” For the first time I notice the brown and yellow Hawthorn emblems adorning his taxi. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He counts out the change. “Our boys played like a bunch of sissies. Too much hand-passing and fancy footwork. You’d think they’d learn.”

  I go into the international terminal with my overnight bag on my back, both straps over my shoulders. At a glance, if anyone was scanning grainy CCTV footage, it might pass as a backpack. Most of the check-in counters are closed, but there are a few people around. There are always people who look like me, down-at-heel backpackers with early flights to catch or connections to make, saving on a night’s accommodation. We’re barely distinguishable from the homeless people who hang out here all the time, nowhere else to go.

  I find an out-of-the-way corner which is occupied by a Middle Eastern family, the men with heavy moustaches, the women veiled. A number of children are sleeping on and under a row of seats, protected by a barricade of luggage, much of it in those ubiquitous striped plastic bags. The men squat on the floor, playing cards. The women sit protectively over the children, occasionally whispering to each other. They have blankets and pillows, and seem to be settled in for a long wait. As I drift close their heads turn, wary dark eyes scanning me. Seeing nothing threatening, they look away and take no more notice. What cataclysm in their lives has caused them to fetch up here, surrounded by their possessions in bags and bundles? I hope fervently that they’re not waiting to be deported.

  In a secluded spot between this stoical group and the far wall I lie down, using my bag as a pillow and Diana’s coat as a blanket, and wait for this long night to end.

  23

  Sydney is a miracle. When I emerge from the station at Newtown, the sun is shining and people are walking around in t-shirts, some girls even wearing cotton dresses and flimsy sandals. The usual European tourists are showing off their spray-tanned legs in shorts as they clutter King Street, puzzling over the GPS on their phones.

  I put on sunglasses and drift along the street, revelling in my invisibility. The directions I was given were good, and I soon find the incense-scented shop, give money to the owner and pick up the keys. She explains how to find the entrance to my flat in a narrow side street.

  The flat is done out in brown and cream, the compulsory colours of the day, but the bed has clean white sheets and a patch of sunlight falls across it through the double-glazed window. It’s got a well-equipped kitchen and televisions in the living room and bedroom, both with DVD players. I strip off, put nearly all my clothes in the washing machine, and take a long hot shower. Then I crawl into bed, warm at last, and fall asleep.

  When I wake it’s early afternoon. Hunger drives me out into the street, where there’s a dizzying selection of cafés to choose from, many with open fronts or tables on the footpath. I let the smell of coffee draw me to one that’s not too crowded, find a small table that’s out of public view and order something from the all-day breakfast menu.

  An extended family settles in nearby. The father and son are both tall and lean, the son very Scandinavian-looking with smooth skin and cropped fair hair. His young wife chatters in Swedish with their child, a tiny white-blonde girl.

  The child suddenly squirms out of her mother’s arms and runs past me, tripping over my feet. Before she hits the floor the young father swoops, swinging her into the air with the sort of easy confidence Max could never manage with Miranda.

  “Watch out, Olga!” he says, revealing himself to be Australian. “You’re all over the nice lady.”

  “Nice lady!” says the little girl, beaming at me.

  “She’s fine,” I say, longing to lift her from his arms and feel those sticky fingers on my face. You’re hardly allowed to look at children these days, let alone touch them.

  The grandmother catches my eye and smiles, giddy with love for her offspring.

  Another young woman arrives. She’s also very tall, head-turningly beautiful and pregnant.

  “Sorry we’re late!” she cries. “Giancarlo’s parking the car.”

  Why, I wonder, do other family’s lives seem so idyllic from the outside? They probably have just as many problems as I do. Well, maybe not quite as many, because they probably don’t have somebody trying to kill them just at the moment. But looking at them makes me yearn for a future when another woman might smile indulgently at me and Miranda, some sweet son-in-law and a beautiful child of our own.

  I wonder again what happened to the Middle Eastern family at the airport. They were gone when I woke up, surrounded by a forest of legs, my head throbbing and a bitter taste in my mouth. I hope they moved on to a better chapter in their own sad story.

  I pay my bill, find an overpriced supermarket where I buy food, other basic supplies and even the Sunday papers, then saunter back to the flat and get settled in. Soon my washing is hanging all over the place and my computer is set up and connected.

  Steve Li has somehow got access to Talbot’s mobile phone records. He’s got me worried again. This data was definitely not on the Carlos backup, so he must have been hacking on his own, unless he’s got some other good explanation. What he’s found out is that the payments into Talbot’s account coincided with calls that Talbot made to a landline in Sydney. He would make a call to the number a few days after each payment. Steve’s traced the number to a company which also has an account with the Mercantile Mutual bank. He can’t see which account the regular payments to Talbot came from, but there has to be a link.

  The company is called Sutherland Investments. I write down the phone number and an address in Castlereagh Street.

  I push my computer away and make a nice herbal tea. There’s plenty of that in Newtown. Drinking it, I flick through the Sunday papers, but they’re trashier than ever, with nothing to grab my attention. In my mind, I’m putting together a sequence of events.

  Every month for the period we’ve been looking at, someone puts money into Peter Talbot’s account. A few days later, Talbot calls Sutherland Investments. Was he telling them the payment had gone in? Was he giving them something, information presumably, that they’d paid for in advance?

  Then Peter Talbot disappears. Was someone from Sutherland Investments involved in his disappearance? If not, what happened when they didn’t get his regular phone call?

  We don’t know yet whether that money is still sitting in the account, untouched, or whether it’s been taken out. I ponder the possibility that Talbot is still alive somewhere, enjoying his ill-gotten gains. Maybe he thinks two million is worth killing for. Maybe he found out, somehow, that Carlos was prying into his affairs. Maybe he’s prowling the streets of Melbourne, in disguise – I think of the alleged Telstra guy with his
glasses and overlong hair that sounds like a wig – trying to tie up loose ends. I wonder who else down there might be in danger.

  I send an email to Steve Li:

  Steve

  (a) What did I tell you? NO HACKING!!!

  (b) Notwithstanding (a), have you found anything on Fiona or

  Brian O’Dwyer?

  We need to find out how Talbot made that money. Did you see any other accounts like his – i.e. regular deposits to individuals building up like that?

  But please, please BE CAREFUL!

  Elly

  Shadowy figures shimmer in front of my eyes. Peter Talbot, clutching his money. His attractive wife, Fiona, with his friend Suresh. Brian O’Dwyer, who’s somewhere here in Sydney. A personal trainer. He’d be fit and strong, well able to chase an innocent victim down and cut his throat; well able to outrun a group of police in a cemetery.

  I wish I knew what Brian O’Dwyer looked like.

  I open Wolf Hall. Anne Boleyn’s sister, widowed and ambitious, seems to be trying to seduce Thomas Cromwell. She’s clearly got some ulterior motive. Will he succumb?

  24

  On Monday morning I take the lift to the eighth floor of a shabby building in York Street and announce myself to the haughty girl – I wouldn’t dare call her a receptionist – who’s minding the front desk. After several minutes a young man with collar-length dark hair, a shiny grey suit and pointed-toe shoes springs into the foyer and holds out his hand. I feel a stab of disappointment. Just once I’d like to work with someone my own age.

  “Hi!” he says. “I’m Brett. We’re still getting set up for you.”

  “Jane Elliott,” I say, matching his firm handshake. “Sorry for the short notice.”

  He doesn’t comment on the name. Why should he? Only a brain crammed with trivia like mine would immediately see Jane Eyre toiling across the cold drenched moor, fleeing Thornfield, her mind made up to be called Jane Elliott henceforth so no-one will ever find her.