by Jen Cole
~~~~
CHAPTER 11
The train rolled into the platform and Jo rose stiffly, hunched against the cold. She walked to an empty carriage and pressed numb fingers against the door button. Inside she took a window seat and stared out unseeing at the afternoon gloom. Three stations rattled by. Gradually the warmth thawed her frozen limbs and she blinked, forcing herself out of her stupor.
Come on Jo, she thought. Don’t go all zombie now. You’ve done well so far. Use this traveling time to think through your next steps. She looked at her watch. 2.35 p.m. What was the plan? Leave at Murrumbeena station and walk to Chadstone. Get her hair cut short and use the Internet lounge she’d spotted with Danielle, to study street maps and work out escape routes. Maybe there’d even be time to check out the names of her dad’s killers! And while she was doing all that, the Hunter and his agents would be off searching for her in the city – if they’d fallen for her trick. But even if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t know where she was. The final thing she needed to organize was her 5.00 p.m. exit strategy, such as a taxi ready on the spot.
Jo gave a little gasp of realization. If I make sure I’m in a taxi for each coordinates broadcast, I’ll be able to relocate instantly and stay clear of the Hunter. Then between broadcasts I can work on tracking down those responsible for Dad’s murder.
As her confidence returned, Jo began to relax. She had things under control. When the train pulled into Murrumbeena station ten minutes later, she jumped up and strode to the gate. Taxi cabs waited in the rank and on the spur of the moment she decided to save time and take one, rather than walk to Chadstone. She certainly now had enough change in her pocket to pay for a short trip.
A young couple seemed to have bagged the first cab. They were talking with the driver through the window. She’d have to take the second. As Jo stepped forward, she found herself doing a classic double-take. The driver of the first taxi was Hassan! As if her mind had screamed his name, he looked up and saw her.
His mouth dropped open and he began raising an arm to point in her direction. Jo turned and sprinted back into the station. The train was still there but its doors were closing. With every sinew straining at the effort, Jo hurled herself forward, leaping through what remained of the opening. The doors crunched on her backpack, but with a great wrench she freed it and staggered into the carriage. As the train pulled out, Jo ran to the window in time to see the young couple standing on the platform. The woman had a phone to her ear and was speaking urgently into it. The man, his face tight, stood watching the carriages pass.
“You’re a silly girl,” said a white haired old man sitting near the door. “You could get yourself killed pulling a stunt like that.”
Jo barely heard him. She collapsed onto the nearest seat, pressing hands against her pounding heart. How could she have been so stupid? Murrumbeena station was where she’d first caught Hassan’s taxi. This was where he waited for fares and he’d returned to his usual spot. The Hunter’s agents must have just arrived to question him and she’d walked right into their arms.
If only she hadn’t shown herself, those agents would now be on their way to Dandenong to grill the station staff. Instead they knew she was on this train and would be sending operatives to every station along the line.
I have to get off right now! As the train pulled into Carnegie station, Jo leapt out and sprinted across the platform. The exit path took her to a busy road. A hundred meters up on her right, the road crossed a highway. To her left, the footpath dipped under the railway track and came up into a shopping strip. Jo ran left, slowing to a brisk walk as she reached the shops.
A variety of cafes, along with food shops selling roast chicken, fish and chips, cakes and pastries, bread, fruit and Asian takeaway, vied to entice the passing trade. Between them, keeping the peace were the occasional newsagent, optometrist and real estate agent.
Jo looked for a place to retreat and hide her flowing blond hair. An open area between the shops turned out to be a walkway leading to a setback public library. She hurried along the path to the tinted glass doors and pushed through into a large foyer decorated with posters and advertisements for children’s competitions and literary events. To her right, double glass doors opened into the library proper. On the left, framed by posters, two doors displayed the childlike cutout symbols of a man and a woman.
Jo pushed through the ladies door and entered a small washroom. It was empty and she shrugged off her backpack. Bending to untie the flap, she noticed one of the shoulder straps was half ripped off. Damn, the train doors had wrecked it. Still, she thought, I couldn’t keep the backpack anyway. By now those two agents will have updated the others on my new outfit and everyone will be searching for a blond in jeans with a backpack. I need to change my look again.
She pulled out the light brown wig and twisting her hair up, put it on and studied the effect in the mirror. Definitely odd, but maybe that’s because I’m not used to myself as a curly brunette, she thought.
Wispy strands of her own hair were already escaping and Jo knew she had to find a hairdresser fast. Grabbing the pack by its good strap, she headed back to the shopping strip before fear got the better of her.
In her short time away, the thickening rain clouds had caused the automatic streetlights had come on, though it was barely three. The first shop Jo passed was a novelty store and calling out to her from its window was a large V-shaped straw bag with red poppies sewn on the side. She backed up, entered the shop and leaned over the items in the window to inspect the bag. It was spacious, but didn’t seem very sturdy. Instead of a zipper, just a thin ribbon tied the top halves together. Still, it was only five dollars and would do. She walked over to the pink-cheeked grandmother knitting behind the counter, and had barely opened her mouth before the old lady spoke.
“The straw tote bag? Yes, you can take it dear. It’s our last one. They’ve sold like hotcakes.”
Jo extracted the bag from the window display and pulled a five-dollar note from her jacket pocket. She was tempted to ask about a hairdresser, but decided such a question would make her too memorable to this on-the-ball grandma. Instead she ducked back to the ladies room in the library foyer and this time in the privacy of a cubicle, transferred the contents of the backpack to the straw bag, tying the pink ribbon to keep it from gaping.
Back on the main street, Jo threw the empty backpack into a rubbish bin and continued until a sign told her the shop ahead was A Cut Above the Rest! A pair of scissors formed the offbeat exclamation point.
Jo hurried to the salon, remembering to pull off her wig and stuff it into her bag before entering. A young apprentice sweeping the floor immediately set aside her broom and came to the counter to inspect the large open appointment book. Two hairdressers busy cutting and chatting with their clients, paid her no heed.
The apprentice smiled at Jo. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I was hoping you could fit me in.”
“Oh.” The apprentice looked doubtful. “We’re pretty busy. What did you want done?”
“Just a cut,” Jo was nonchalant. “I’ve washed my hair, so I won’t be needing a shampoo.”
“Well… if it’s a quick trim,” Jo didn’t correct her, “perhaps we can fit you in.”
The apprentice went over to one of the hairdressers and had a hurried conversation before returning.
“If you can wait twenty minutes, Nadine can do you,” she offered.
“Thanks, that’ll be fine.”
Jo crossed to the waiting area and settled into a chair in front of a huge potted aspidistra. Screened from the street, she selected a magazine and opened it on her lap. It was just after 3.00 p.m. by her watch. She set a new alarm for two minutes before five and jumped as a flash and boom signaled the arrival of the storm. Rain pelted down and what was left of the daylight, vanished. It was going to be, Jo realized with a sinking heart, a long night.
Nadine wasn’t happy when she discovered the ‘trim’ was to actuall
y be a whole new style, but she warmed to the project under Jo’s profuse and laughing thanks for fitting her in, and before long the two were chatting like old friends while Jo’s golden locks piled up on the floor. At 3.50 a very shorthaired Jo stepped out into the cold. The shopping crowd had thinned dramatically and cars already on their homeward journeys swished by with the slanting rain in their headlights.
Cutting her hair had been a good move, Jo decided. The sophisticated, ultra short style made her appear years older and would dry in a minute. More importantly, she could wear wigs without having to worry about her own hair slipping out. Grabbing the brown one from her bag, she pulled it on and ducked into a cafe to check her blind adjustment in their restroom. It looked fine, she decided, teasing out the curls a little, and sat better than it had before – or perhaps she was just getting used to it. Jo decided to stay for a coffee and a bite to eat. She was hungry and realized it would be wise to refuel when the opportunity arose.
Now cutting into a slice of microwaved quiche, the only thing the cafe had left at that hour, she considered the night ahead. It was Monday. Shops would close in an hour, but cinemas would be open, so movie watching could kill some time. Maybe she could also find an Internet cafe open till late.
The big problem was where and how she would get any sleep during the night. She had to find ways to sleep or her thinking and reflexes would rapidly deteriorate and the game would come to a quick end.
Jo shuddered, remembering a documentary she’d once seen. In it, a camera crew had followed a Kalahari bushman hunting a kudu. The bushman had carried only a spear, water bottle and the calm knowledge that he would eventually run the big antelope down. At first the kudu had raced off easily, barely concerned about the puny human follower, but the bushman, setting himself an easy jogging pace, had followed its tracks relentlessly. The hunt had gone on for eight hours until both hunter and prey were exhausted – the prey, with no water, a little more so. When the kudu finally collapsed, the hunter had been able to walk almost up to it before throwing the killing spear. As she’d watched this riveting scenario Jo had wondered at what stage in the hunt the kudu had realized it could not outrun the hunter, and how long it had been forced to live with the terror of that knowledge before finally being overtaken.
The silence made her look up. She was the only customer left in the cafe, and although more than half an hour remained until 5.00, the cleaning, closing-up rituals were beginning. A passing waitress picked up Jo’s empty plate.
“Anything else you’d like?” she asked with obvious reluctance.
“No thanks.”
Jo stood and tucked the straw bag under her arm. As she stepped through the door, a freezing gust slammed it behind her. She shivered, regretting the thinness of the jacket, and began retracing her steps along the covered walkway. At the turnoff to the library, she paused.
Was there time to go in and use their Internet? How long would it take to check some maps? Too long, she reluctantly decided. My first priority is to make sure I’m moving fast when my five o’clock coordinates are broadcast. I should go back to the station and wait for a train.
Jo continued towards the station but the closer she got, the less the idea appealed. Although the mobs of commuters now heading home would provide camouflage, she hated the thought of being stuck in a carriage when her coordinates were sent. A taxi felt safer, but where to get one?
She reached the end of the shops and the overhead shelter they’d provided. The rain, although currently just a drizzle, would eventually soak into her clothing if she was out in it too long, but it couldn’t be helped. Jo walked forward briskly and reaching the side street leading to the station, peered down it. The cab rank, she noticed, was empty. Several people, huddled under umbrellas, waited in a queue. This was definitely not where she wanted to be.
Up at the main highway, she spotted a better solution. A hotel on the corner, bearing the original name of ‘The Corner Hotel’, beckoned passersby with a floodlit sign advertising this week’s special – a beer, burger and chips for ten dollars. If that wasn’t sufficient incentive, neon lights in the outline of poker machines promised instant riches…
The hotel doors opened into warmth, light and jangling slot machines, and Jo paused to get her bearings. Beyond the down-at-heel punters glumly pushing buttons on the slots, glass doors led to a bar and dining tables. She stepped through and scanned the area for a public phone. Spotting one on the wall of a short passageway leading to the restrooms, Jo reached into her pocket for change.
Battered volumes of the White and Yellow Pages sat on the shelf beneath the phone and looking up taxis, Jo made the valuable discovery that she could dial “13 cabs’ anywhere in Victoria to call one. Her watch showed twenty minutes remained until five. She drew a long calming breath and let it out slowly, then lifted the handset, fed in some coins and dialed the number.
A brisk female voice answered. “Taxi service, your location please.”
“I’m at The Corner Hotel near Carnegie station. How long will it take for a cab to pick me up?”
“To go where?”
Jo’s mind went blank.
“What is your destination?” repeated the voice impatiently.
Jo felt a rising panic. “I’ve forgotten the name of the suburb… but it’s by the beach,” she added in inspiration.
Rapidly the voice began reeling off suburbs.
“Brighton, Elwood, St Kilda, Port Melbourne?”
“St Kilda!” pounced Jo gratefully, as a childhood memory surfaced of walking through the mouth of a gigantic grinning face on an outing to Luna Park in St Kilda.
“A taxi will be at the front of the hotel in ten minutes. Please be waiting for it.”
“Thank you.”
Jo hung up and sagged briefly against the wall. While there was time she should call Tayla. Her earlier text that everything was boringly fine wouldn’t hold for long. Tayla would want details about the cancelled interview and if enough of her texts and calls went unanswered, she was quite capable of stirring up a hornet’s nest. Her family had known Jo since she was a baby. They might call the police and she could find herself picked up and having to answer impossible questions while time ticked by and the Hunter closed in.
Tayla’s mobile phone number had been on Jo’s auto-dial and she’d never memorized it, but she knew her friend’s home number, and fed in some more coins. Please don’t let Lyn answer, she thought as the tone sounded. It was almost impossible to stop Tayla’s mum, once she started talking.
“Hello?”
“Lyn, hi. It’s Jo.”
“Jo, dear. Tayla told me about your interview being cancelled. How frustrating for you. What happened?”
“Just a stuff-up at their end, but they’ve sorted it out and re-scheduled me for Friday. I’m going to stay in Melbourne until then.”
“Jo what can you possibly do in Melbourne all that time? You’ll be bored and lonely after two days.”
Jo glanced at her watch and spoke quickly. “I’ll be fine, Lyn. Just wondered if Tayla was there.”
“Tayla’s out with some friends, but she’s got her mobile with her. Jo I really think you should come back to Shep…”
“Normally I would Lyn, but I dropped my phone on the street and a big oaf stepped on it. So it’s a good thing I’m in Melbourne. I should be able to find a repair place here, but if it can’t be fixed I’ll have to organize with my provider to get a new phone. Could you let Tayla know? She’s probably wondering why I’m not answering her texts.”
“Oh Jo,” Lyn sounded worried. “That sounds expensive, or is replacement covered under your contract?”
“I’ll have to find out, but it could all take a while, so tell Tayla it might be a few days before she hears from me. Lyn I’ve run out of coins for the public phone, and the light’s blinking. We may be cut off any second.” Jo put on a cheerful voice. “ Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly fine.”
“If you say so dear.” Lyn sounded re
signed. “But you’re to come and have a roast lunch with us on Sunday. At least you’ll have one decent meal this week…”
“Thanks, Lyn. Looking forwa…” said Jo, and hung up.
Her mouth felt dry. She bought a mineral water and took it to a window table overlooking the front of the hotel, where she watched lines of vehicles crawl up to the traffic lights, stop and move on again. A narrow strip in front of the hotel enabled cars to pull over briefly for passengers to alight, but no lengthy stopping was possible, so Jo kept a watch out for her taxi, ready to spring up the minute she saw one in the stream.
Sipping the water, she tried to remember what she knew about St Kilda. Luna Park stood out – she’d enjoyed it a child, but remembering horror movies of chases through darkened fun parks, Jo had no intention of returning there. In any case, she thought, I can’t stay in St Kilda. The five o’clock photo will show me sitting in the back seat of a car, so they’ll likely check which cabs were in the area of my coordinates. That will lead them to my driver, who’ll tell them he took me to St Kilda. I’ll need to keep moving after he drops me off. I wish I knew more names of Melbourne suburbs.
A taxi light on the roof of one of the cars in the stream caught her eye. Jo grabbed her bag and dashed for the exit. The taxi was waiting on the narrow strip, its indicator light flashing, and she ran to the open window.
“St Kilda?” inquired the driver.
“Yes, that’s me.”
As she climbed into the back seat Jo recognized the driver’s tall slender build and deeply black skin, and nearly asked if he was Sudanese, but caught herself in time. She could just picture the conversation – “Yes I’m Sudanese. How did you know?” She knew because of the large Sudanese community living in Shepparton, but she couldn’t tell him that. If he was later questioned, it would give her away. In any case, what if he asked her why so many Sudanese families had moved to a country town? What would she say? That Melbourne was a bad place for teenage Sudanese boys already traumatized by the warring in their own country? That city-life enticed many of them into American-style street gangs? Even though the move by Sudanese families to Shep and other country regions had been a great success, it wasn’t a conversation she’d feel comfortable having.
