The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘Drop it, Karim.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  The leader of the skinheads looked Karim up and down, his eyes narrowed, a look of mild amusement on his face. He spoke in an almost whisper. ‘I do believe, lads, that we have caught us a smart one. Been a long time since anybody called us “gentlemen”. What say we have ourselves a little fun?’ Without warning he lashed out with a boot and kicked Karim’s feet from under him.

  Karim fell to the ground, clasping his ankle. The other three set in on Webby, kicking and punching him to the ground.

  ‘Get up, nigger,’ the leader spat. ‘I want to play some more.’

  ‘Fine.’ Karim got to his feet. His ankle felt like it was on fire but nowhere near the heat of the anger that was welling up in him. The skinhead lashed out with a fist that now wore a knuckleduster. But Karim blocked the blow with one hand and went for the man’s throat with the other. He missed, but felt his fingers rake his opponent’s face. With a bellow of rage the man launched himself at Karim, running straight into Karim’s fist. There was a grunt and he doubled up, gasping for air. Karim spun around to help Webby, who was on the ground, out-numbered, and screaming at his assailants. But before Karim could move he was hit in the back by the full force of the big man’s shoulder. He slammed Karim up against the side of the underpass, smashing his face against the wall. Karim staggered sideways and regained his balance, turning and kicking at the same time. His foot connected with the man’s groin and there was a yell of anguish. He clutched at himself long and fell sideways. Karim looked around for a weapon, but all he could see was a metal garbage bin. He moved, but not fast enough. Two of the others were on him; one grabbing his hair and forcing him back against the wall while the younger boy began punching him.

  Everything went black. He floated down to the floor. An eerie silence surrounded him and he watched as everything went hazy and slow. A shape whirled over him in slow motion, a dervish set on releasing him — Webby.

  ‘Can you move?’ Webby’s hands had helped him to his feet, and to Karim’s amazement he found he could hold himself up. ‘We should get out of here. If the cops come they might bust me for destroying station property.’ He dropped a badly bent metal stanchion on the floor beside the unconscious skinheads. ‘I ripped it from behind the garbage bin.’

  Karim spat blood from his mouth and put tentative fingers to the cuts on his face. They stung like hell. ‘You came back for me.’

  His head still hurt. He moved it gently. Then a hand reached out and shook him.

  ‘Time to wake up, sir. We’ll be landing in Singapore in a few minutes.’

  Rabia watched as the group of women made their farewells and left the room, until only four remained.

  ‘Just check then lock the door, will you, Mandy?’ Rabia said to the woman who had been stacking the chairs at the rear of the hall.

  Mandy Bryson, all sleek bob and self-assurance, nodded and went to make sure the other women had left.

  Rabia turned to the nearest woman, Chloë Wright. The youngest of them, she had flown in from Sydney for the meeting. They had found her through Elizabeth Murray at one of the early meetings in Rockhampton. Chloë had recently returned to Sydney from two years living in the hills behind Mullumbimby. Just turned twenty-two, she was short and stocky, her hair only recently grown back from what she referred to as her ‘bald eagle stage’. ‘I went feral. I was losing me marbs in the big smoke …’ Somewhere along the line she had picked up a Celtic tattoo around her forearm, and found the missing marbles. She came over and helped Rabia out of the pale blue robe.

  ‘What did you make of that lot?’ Chloë nodded her head in the direction of the car park.

  Rabia took a deep breath, glad to be out of the confines of the burqa. ‘Mixed bunch. I guess if we get one or two women out of every meeting then we’re doing okay.’ She tucked the burqa away in her bag. ‘The rest of them all have their hearts in the right place so we’ll pass their details on to ARAC. They’ll slot them in.’

  The Australian Refugee Action Coalition were doing fine work in a lot of areas, but having decided to act well within the law would not even have considered the type of action Rabia had in mind.

  ‘All clear outside,’ Mandy announced as she locked the door.

  ‘Andrea, Kate,’ Rabia called to the two women who had just finished stacking away the tea cups, ‘you want to come and give us your picks?’

  Andrea Waxman and Kate Colbert were friends of long standing, Brisbane women in their forties who laughingly described themselves as ‘rich bitches’. The first part was certainly true. Andrea’s husband, Daniel, had started off as a criminal lawyer and graduated to being a highly paid legal advisor to the top end of town. Garry Colbert was in property, or, as he liked to joke, ‘In Queensland Garry Colbert is property.’

  ‘I thought that Mrs Wilkinson was a possibility. She asked a lot of questions,’ Kate said, then shrugged. ‘Mind you, so did that Carol woman and I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could kick her.’

  ‘Carol?’ Rabia asked, unsure who they were referring to.

  ‘Second row. Halfway along.’ Andrea ran her finger down the attendance list. ‘Carol Brossi. Says she’s from Hamilton. I must say, I’ve never heard of her.’ She shrugged and looked at Kate. ‘You?’

  ‘No. And she grilled me in a none-too-subtle way about you, Rabia.’

  ‘Really?’ Rabia, suddenly tired, slumped into a chair. Wearing the burqa was emotionally and physically draining. Though it had started off as a political statement long before she had formulated her plans, she now hated it and the way it drew the attention onto her rather than what she was saying. Upstaged by a stupid bit of material and now dependent upon it for security. ‘More than usual, you mean?’

  ‘Bloody amateur, I reckon.’ Kate dropped into melodrama. ‘What’s her real name? Where does she live? Have you known her long?’ Her lips creased into a smile. ‘I told her it was your husband — doesn’t let her out of the house unless she’s wearing it,’ I said. ‘Usual routine.’

  ‘Scratch her,’ Mandy said.

  Andrea didn’t wait for agreement. ‘Done.’ She ran a pencil line through Carol Brossi.

  ‘The woman who asked the question about protesting in the minister’s electorate —’ Chloë began.

  ‘Debbie Samuels,’ Kate said. ‘Lives in Auchenflower. Husband died a couple of years ago. Liberal Party stalwart, but I would keep her in the loop. She does a lot of charity work, fundraising, and I think on this issue she could be persuaded to go on the sanctuary list.’

  Andrea nodded enthusiastically. ‘She’ll do it. Ideal situation really. Above suspicion and lives alone. I say we should bring her in.’

  ‘Even if we were to release the names?’ Rabia knew that none of the women in the room had set limits to their involvement, but those outside the group who were being asked to take risks with their reputations and even livelihoods were an entirely different matter. Civil disobedience was not something she would ask anyone to do lightly, especially where exposure would not only be possible but part of the strategy …

  ‘She’s as mad as hell, Rabia,’ Kate interjected. ‘Debbie will be fine.’

  ‘If you think so.’ Rabia was still dubious. ‘One of you want to follow up and have a private word? Not too much. Just warn her that we might have to make the names on the sanctuary list public.’ She reached for a bottle of mineral water. ‘Any others? I was too tired to take much notice of anything other than making sense.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Chloë leaned towards her.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Rabia said and smiled. But she knew she needed a break. It seemed she had done nothing for the last couple of months except attend meetings, and she knew that, even if pushed, she’d have trouble remembering which people she had met where. A blur, that’s what it was. People and places.

  But although there was a sameness to the meeting rooms — formica kitchens, stackable chairs and inefficient ceiling fans — what to
ok place in them had changed dramatically. Now the dynamic was clearer and the team had grown.

  Rabia selected the women she took into her confidence with great care, aware of how easily the networks she was building could be infiltrated or destroyed because someone in a fit of pique decided to inform on them. It was rare that they were all in the one place at the same time. It would take only one person to infiltrate their inner circle, she knew, and the entire project would be compromised. So she started to filter the secondary recruits through others, and only when she was convinced that someone was truly dedicated to taking part at a basic level did she hint that maybe, just maybe, there was more that could be done. It was like stepping stones, she explained to her closest confidantes.

  ‘We convince them that the aim is to step onto a stone. Once they are comfortable with that, we point out that there is, in fact, another step to be taken and they move on. Having done so, they look back and realise that the first stone was not a goal at all, merely an illusion to get them to where they are now. Then we introduce them to the next stone … and the next.’

  ‘What is the first step?’ Mandy had asked.

  ‘Helping draft a petition.’

  ‘And the next?’

  ‘Putting their name to it.’

  In many ways, the women had self-selected, each determined to be involved, each with skills that were needed. When Rabia had revealed the extent of her plans, there hadn’t been one who had flinched or begged off. Certainly there had been surprise, even doubts about their ability to actually carry out the scheme, but each of them had been resolute in support. While six was an ideal number for the informal executive, they needed dozens of others. So the meetings went on. Each woman knew others who in turn could think of further people to be involved. More meetings, more people … and more risk.

  As Rabia became more concerned about the risk factor, she deliberately became vaguer about their goals and at the meetings gave little indication of how far they intended to go.

  ‘Mandy, how many are on the list now?’

  Mandy did a quick count. ‘Sixty-five, of whom twelve are marked as probables rather than definite.’

  ‘Okay. Everyone ready for the next step?’

  There were eager nods and Rabia felt the atmosphere in the room suddenly come alive. ‘Let’s say we drop the twelve we aren’t one hundred per cent sure of. That leaves us fifty-three.’ Bridge-burning time, she thought as she looked around at the faces, hoping this was the right moment to produce the next stepping stone. ‘We have a list of fifty-three women who have agreed to offer sanctuary to escaped refugees. Now, what is the missing ingredient?’

  There was a moment’s silence and then, slowly, in a gesture curiously reminiscent of a schoolgirl, Kate put her hand up. ‘I was thinking about that … I mean …’ She trailed off.

  ‘Go on,’ Rabia encouraged, filling the role of the teacher.

  ‘Well, it all seems hypothetical until we actually have some refugees escape.’

  The silence was absolute.

  ‘As you know, Wilna and I placed one refugee in sanctuary two months ago, and that has gone really well. But what we are planning is much bigger. It has to be a huge display of civil disobedience.’ Rabia looked Kate straight in the eye. ‘And that is the next step.’ Come on, she prayed, come with me. Join me. She turned to the others. ‘If we are all agreed, then we are going to organise a mass break-out of refugees.’

  It seemed like a sudden space had been created. Not of silence, but one in which she could hear a cacophony of sounds. The cicadas shrieking like a thousand whistling drum majors, the birds suddenly raucous, panicked into shrill cries. The traffic on the nearby freeway was a painful roar, but loudest was the sound of her heart beating too loudly.

  Then Rabia heard a new sound. It was the chorus she had longed for. The word ‘Yes’.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you so very much.’

  UNENCRYPTED

  Date: 18 January 2002 15:05:31 GMT

  From: “Rabia Balkhi” *Rabia@afghanemail.com*

  Subject: Question

  To: “The Haha Man” *hahaman@email.brestonline.com*

  I have heard you assist Afghan people to escape their persecution. But I want to do more than that. I am planning an action to force a halt to the imprisonment of my people in Australia. Can you put me in contact with someone who can assist with names of individuals in detention?

  Wa-salam

  Rabia Balkhi

  UNENCRYPTED

  Date: 18 January 2002 19:22:10 — 0700 (PDT)

  From: “The Haha Man” *hahaman@email.brestonline.com*

  Subject: Your question

  To: “Rabia Balkhi” *Rabia@afghanemail.com*

  Dear Rabia — I understand how you feel but I am unsure of what you want to do. It would be safer to use encrypted email. You can get instructions and the software for free at: http://www.pgpi.org/

  Regards

  The Haha Man

  Claude watched the young man come in. He looked hot and hassled, wilting from the oppressive heat. The man wasn’t a regular, but he remembered the face — Arab, of some sort. He had dropped in maybe seven or eight times in the last few months. Always the same order: short black and a glass of water. Claude prided himself on his ability to create entire life histories for all his customers, but this man was still a blank. Cagey type. Always walked past a couple of times before coming in, and never sat anywhere but with his back to the kitchen, facing the door. On two or three occasions he had been joined by another man, sometimes two, and they had talked quietly. Was it drugs? Probably. He nodded to the man and reached for a fresh cup.

  It was most likely the smallest coffee bar in Australia, seating only a dozen or so people, the regulars choosing it because it was perfect on all fronts: local, discreet and served great coffee. Despite being situated in Roslyn Street, Kings Cross since 1950, the Piccolo Bar was a well-kept secret which, over the years, had acquired a small but devoted clientele of poets and deadbeats, strippers and drag queens, hookers and small-time dealers. Patrons died or moved on, but the Piccolo survived and welcomed newcomers who, with the passing years, became the regulars until they too faded like the posters on the walls and were replaced in turn.

  Amir Al-Rahman had selected the Piccolo with great care, and long before he ever used it for a meeting had visited enough times to know his choice had been right. He took his usual seat and waited for his coffee. There was still half an hour before his meeting and he needed time to cool down and settle his nerves. He turned his attention to the window seat where two young women were giggling over a photo album. For a moment Amir thought they must be twins — identical short black dresses, straight peroxided hair, long fingernails. There was something about them that disturbed him. The noses looked sculptured, too long and straight, the eyes, wide and glazed as if they were stoned. It dawned on him: they were boys.

  ‘Stinking day,’ Claude said as he placed the coffee and water on the table. He hovered, knowing that the man liked to pay straight away.

  ‘But cool in here.’ Amir slid a five-dollar note across the table.

  Claude snorted. ‘Only when people bother to shut the door. Mad Malcolm has been in and out all morning, expecting me to play doorman.’

  He nodded across the road to where a man was sitting on the wall cradling a large radio in his arms like a baby. Malcolm had been released from a psychiatric ward a few years earlier and, shunning the hostel accommodation on offer, had staked out a claim to Roslyn Street as his patch. No matter what the weather, Mad Malcolm was a fixture, always accompanied by his best friend, his radio. He was also good for security for there was nothing that escaped his eyes and ears. Mind you, Claude reminded himself, getting information out of Malcolm was often a laborious task.

  Claude handed the man his change and, moving to the door, opened it and called across the street, ‘Who’s winning, Malcolm?’

  Malcolm looked up and laughed then pressed the radio even
closer to his ear. ‘Not South Africa,’ he shouted.

  Amir sipped his coffee and waited. Right on time, a man walked in who fitted the description he had been given: middle-aged, balding, with a silver moustache. There was no mistake, but still he felt himself stiffen. The man ignored him and leaned on the jukebox in the corner, ordered a cup of tea. Then, without hesitation, he sat down next to him and extended his hand.

  ‘I’m Ray,’ he said quietly.

  Amir shook his hand and leaned back into his seat. ‘Amir.’

  ‘I have the name for you, but you can only contact him by email.’ Ray shot him a glance. ‘You do have access to a computer?’

  ‘I can use an internet café. It’s safer.’

  ‘Good.’ Ray paused and looked around. ‘Interesting place.’

  Amir shrugged, his mind on other things. ‘This man can help me?’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘I don’t have much money …’

  Ray smiled gently and touched the man’s arm. ‘We don’t do this for a profit, as you know, but we have an idea that may be mutually acceptable.’ He stopped and waited while Claude placed the tea on the table and returned to the kitchen.

  Amir allowed himself a smile. ‘What I can do, I will do.’

  Ray sat back and watched a young girl, unnaturally thin, unsteady on her feet, come in and go over to Claude. She whispered urgently in his ear. Ray didn’t catch the transaction, if there was one, but a minute later the girl left, clutching her frail hands tightly across her chest. The two young drag queens got up and paid their bill; as they went out the door there was a snatch of cricket commentary from the radio in the arms of the strange individual perched on the wall across the street, then the café fell silent. In the corner an old woman, her face a cruel painted parody of a young girl’s, was engrossed in beating herself at cards.

  Ray turned back to Amir. ‘You have been working closely with the people still in detention, right?’

  Amir spread his hands. ‘I do what I can. I pass news, messages …’

  ‘Then pass this message. We have a possibility of helping many to escape.’