The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘And you will release me?’

  ‘If you agree to work with me.’

  Again the thought crossed his mind that she was not human, but a djinniyeh seducing him from the path. But his desire was burning and would not be extinguished.

  ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘What you plan to do, so we can help you.’

  The silence shimmered between them again. Rabia felt as though even God was holding his breath. In the distance she heard a grumbling roll of thunder. A slow creak as, somewhere overhead, a beam, cooling, contracted. The sound of her breath behind the veil was so loud, she thought it must distract him.

  His voice came through the silence like a gift.

  ‘With your help we will attack the parliament in Canberra.’

  ‘Surely, that’s impossible —’

  ‘Not impossible. I have a pass. There is a man who can find a pass for you or those you choose. When the houses of the parliament are sitting we will empty the cans into the air-conditioning. It is simple.’

  ‘And all those inside will die?’

  ‘Just like the others. And when the politicians die, the world will know that to be a friend of the Americans in their campaign against Islam is not wise.’

  ‘Our methods seem so crude. We had planned to follow the path of the bombers.’

  Basim snorted. ‘Sister, it is rare to kill more than a few with such a weapon. Already our virus has killed more than any martyr’s bomb. And by the time the canisters run dry there will be hundreds more.’ He smiled at her and drained the remainder of the juice. ‘We can give you the power to kill thousands.’

  ‘In those spray cans?’

  ‘Of course. The best ideas are the simplest, and it is the simple that the wise trip over, for they are where no one would think of looking.’

  Rabia lowered her head and knelt beside him. ‘You must think us very foolish.’

  ‘You haven’t had the teachers we have had. How could you know? And how foolish are our enemies? Killed not by the blade or the dignity of a bullet but brought down by a scent.’ Basim laughed, his eyes flashing, his confidence growing. ‘Wild Vanilla it is called.’

  ‘There is a poet who said: This history is the fragrance of musk, in our poems. It is the rent in our clothes that shows the bloody wound. It is the colour of our rebellious anger and of our confused silence.’

  ‘That is beautifully spoken, sister,’ Basim said, his breath suddenly short.

  ‘There is more but my memory is bad,’ Rabia said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Memory is important.’

  ‘I am sure yours is very good.’

  ‘It has to be.’

  ‘Will you share your memories with this sister before we die?’

  ‘Of course, every one.’ He stopped and looked at her seated at his feet. ‘But first, kill him for me.’

  Without saying a word, Rabia got to her feet and moved away into the darkness. When she returned she was carrying one of the canisters. She walked straight up to Philson and raised her hand …

  ‘Wait!’ Basim’s voiced echoed through the warehouse.

  ‘You no longer wish me to kill him?’

  ‘Ask one of your men to do it. I have no wish to see you dead yet.’

  ‘But I choose the martyr’s death —’

  ‘Not yet. We have work to do. But if you wish to do it, take care. Tell your men to step back, and spray only the smallest amount.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It needs no more.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rabia signalled to Karim and Amir, who quickly vanished into the dark. ‘For my people,’ Rabia said and, holding the can at arm’s length, sprayed Philson directly in the face. He didn’t flinch but sat glass-eyed and still, his mind gone far away.

  Rabia tossed the can aside. ‘Now, brother, if we are to go to paradise together, I want you to tell me all about yourself. How you came here, what you did — and then … how we will fly together in the purple sky.’

  Basim looked at her with terror and admiration. ‘God is great,’ he whispered. Then, although his speech was becoming slurred, he began to talk.

  In the temporary studio the men held their breath, afraid that the boy would falter. Michael remained glued to the monitors, mixing on the run and muttering. David was chewing his fingernails and constantly checking that the mini-disks were recording properly.

  Fossey worked on a laptop, making notes and adding touches to a press release, hearing the voices coming crisp and clear from the small speakers, hearing Rabia slowly coaxing and prompting as she kept Basim on track. The words tumbled out of him now like water, and time and again she brought him back to his targets in Australia.

  Eventually it was Michael who said it. ‘Enough. We’ve got a mini-disk full, enough stuff to convict them all a dozen times.’

  ‘But do we know the location of every one of those canisters?’ David asked.

  ‘We must,’ Fossey said. ‘And the authorities will know what to look for.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Have you finished the release, Fossey?’

  ‘Yes. I just need to copy the disk. One for us and one for the minister.’

  ‘We pulled it off,’ David said. ‘But before we move out, you’d better check the canister Rabia used. I sure as hell hope it was the right one.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Fossey smiled. ‘It wasn’t even vanilla. I swapped the labels myself.’

  The mist in his mind had begun to clear. He twitched and felt the sensation ripple through his body. ‘I am not going to be treated like this. I am appalled,’ he began, but the words were not coming out. They flapped around his head like great bats.

  ‘You’ve been a little unwell, I’m afraid, Rob.’

  I know that voice, Philson thought. Unwell? He struggled to remember where he was. A reception? No. There had been some kind of function. Maybe he had been drinking. Or simply overworked? He stretched his hand out and flexed the fingers. They tingled.

  ‘You’ll be right soon. Here …’

  A glass of something was placed in his hand. Suspicious, he squinted at it. The glass was warm.

  ‘It’s tea, Minister.’ A female voice. He looked up, but it wasn’t the woman in the … He struggled with the thin edge of memory. Had there been a woman in a … an Islamic woman? Yes. That much was clear.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just tea.’

  The man again. Same man. ‘One sugar, just as you like it.’

  He sipped the tea and giggled. It was like after being at the dentist. His lips were slightly numb and the liquid went down his throat in a mechanical way. He began to imagine its path to his stomach, but became distracted by the movement around him. People were loading things into a van. Others were going backwards and forwards, talking among themselves. Not to him.

  ‘Tea.’ This time the word came out, floating free from his lips, disturbing the steam rising from the cup.

  ‘Just drink it, Rob.’

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, firm. Masculine, like the voice. Fossey. God, it was Fossey. Thank God.

  ‘Fossey?’

  ‘Yeah, Rob.’

  That was good. Fossey was here. Damned if he knew who the others were, but good old Foss would get him out. He lurched forward, trying to get to his feet, but the hand clamped down, pulling him back.

  ‘Give it another five minutes. You’ll soon be right.’

  Anger surged through him. ‘I’m all right now.’ It came out loud and clear and he was aware that around him people had stopped. For a second he closed his eyes and rested. It was all golden inside. Floating liquid orbs circled. Refreshing. Safe in this place, he regrouped, then gave himself the order to open his eyes.

  ‘I am going to go now.’ He spoke with perfect clarity. He was in command again.

  ‘I’ve put a mini-disk in your pocket, along with a copy of the press release and documentation,’ Fossey said.

  ‘You’re not coming with me?’

  �
�Not on this trip, Minister.’

  Philson swallowed another mouthful of tea and reached down cautiously to place the glass on the ground. ‘I think you should come with me.’

  ‘Someone will drive you back to your house. I’ll ring the police to let them know where to find the men involved.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why am I ringing the police?’

  Philson shook his head. ‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘Because when this is all over, I think you will probably want me arrested,’ Fossey said. ‘Now, come on, I’ll walk you to your car.’

  Philson looked around. The place was deserted now, except for a woman standing by the door. He shivered, suddenly cold. The woman looked familiar, but he had the feeling she was looking through him rather than at him. The hand on his shoulder slipped under his arm and started to help him to his feet. He shrugged it off.

  ‘I am perfectly capable!’ he snapped. And to his satisfaction proved it by rising, if unsteadily. ‘Just show me where the bloody car is.’

  ‘Follow me,’ Fossey said. The woman moved aside as they approached. ‘Mind your step,’ she said, her voice cold.

  He ignored her and went out into the night. A light rain was falling and he suddenly knew where he was. With the clarity came another flood of anger. He turned on Fossey. Not ‘good old Fossey’, but Fossey the deserter, Fossey the traitor.

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been playing at, but you’ll pay —’

  ‘We all pay eventually, Minister.’ There was no animosity in Fossey’s voice. He just sounded dead tired.

  Philson saw the ministerial car waiting in the rain, its motor running, the white body burnished under the orange glow of the street light. The driver got out and swung open the rear door for him. But things were not right here. Rules were being broken. This was not his driver.

  He stopped and took a deep breath of the fresh air and knew what he had to do. ‘No. I’ll drive myself.’ And he slipped in behind the wheel and shut the door.

  The driver was nonplussed, but it was already too late. The locks clicked.

  ‘I’m the minister,’ Philson said, and drove away.

  The streets around the docks were unfamiliar territory. He drove with no idea where he was. He needed to think. He pulled over under the next street lamp, intending to take out the map and locate his position. But suddenly the tiredness hit him, and he switched off the ignition and closed his eyes. From nowhere the words of an old song:

  Sometimes in your dreams

  you’ll hear a deep’ning roar,

  Like the ocean surf

  that beats upon the shore.

  Long-forgotten voices will greet you,

  Scenes long past will rise up to meet you …

  It was the boating song from Scotch College. He smiled and let himself drift happily.

  When he woke it was just before dawn. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth and, strangely, he thought he could smell lavender. The night before was a blur. A reception … or dinner party. No, something else. Something odd … He slipped off the seat belt and patted his pockets. There was something in his jacket. A disk? Is that what someone had said? He reached inside and took out the disk and several folded sheets of paper.

  He snapped on the internal light, unfolded the paper. It took him a second or two to focus and then he began to read. He knew at once: the longer he sat staring at these words, the less time he had to limit the damage they would do to him.

  These people had handed him the virus terrorists on a plate — but it was a poisoned dish. He had blamed the illegal migrants. But according to the release, if someone called Karim Mazari had not been broken out of Woomera, the terrorists would never have been caught.

  Trembling, he turned the page and found himself looking at a notification of approval for a business immigration request. On both documents the names Basim Sharifi and Marzuq Yazeed had been marked with yellow hi-lighter — as had his own signature at the bottom of the page.

  An icy calm crept over him. There is no way these bastards are going to win, he vowed. He slammed the car into action and put his foot down.

  The tyres spun on the wet road, then gripped and took off, gaining speed. He remembered the car phone. He could ring his office and get the team onto it immediately. He would call in the federal police, put a security blanket over everything until he figured out how to control the spin.

  He reached for the phone, fumbled to get it out of its cradle. He peered down at the numbers.

  Then he saw he was going too fast for the corner.

  For a moment the minister knew clearly what lay ahead of him. He took in the orange shine of the street light on the black surface of the road. It was beautiful, like the trail of the moon across still water. Ending at a high steel-mesh fence topped with a single roll of razor wire.

  EPILOGUE

  His fingers pushed gently down into the ground, placing the seedling then mounding the soil back around the roots. He rested, arching his back, before moving on to the next one. The early sun had already stripped the dew from the leaves of the young trees and he was eager to complete the row he was working on and get water to them before the day got much hotter.

  He glanced over at the house. He knew he had made the right decision in returning to Afghanistan. This was his home and though it would never be free of the ghosts, it was where he belonged. Soon his guests would be waking and he had promised that he would take them into Mazar-i Sharif to visit the market. His new farm manager, Mohammed Sarwar, was bringing the pickup around in an hour and the day ahead looked as though it would be crisp and clear.

  His guests had offered to help with the planting, but he knew he had to do it by himself. They had assisted in clearing the dead trees, but the planting was his and his alone. One day, in a hundred years, someone would walk between the almonds as they blossomed and say, ‘Old Karim Mazari planted these.’

  There was a noise from the house. He looked up and saw Fossey and Layla walking towards the orchard. He got to his feet and brushed the soil from his knees. What was the verse she had quoted yesterday?

  The desecrated stars are torn from the sky,

  Buried without ceremony in the ashes of the past.

  In the morning, with the healing of dawn,

  We will plant the seeds of new stars.

  Watered with tears for the beloved,

  We await nightfall for the joy of their blooming.

  For him, returning had been easy. But for them? He couldn’t know.

  The charges against them had been dropped, and though they could have resumed their life in Australia, they had both decided to go away, at least for a while. Now Fossey worked with the new government in Kabul, as a media advisor. And Layla was teaching English to a generation of women for whom all learning had been denied.

  Karim watched as Fossey crouched down and brushed the tufty seedlings with the palm of his hand. Layla was smiling. This tiny orchard was the past and the future. Small seeds, but valuable ones.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to: William Maley, Associate Professor of Politics, University College, University of New South Wales for his excellent work on both the Taliban and people-smuggling; my colleague Peter Mares, of ‘Asia-Pacific’ fame on ABC Radio National and author of Borderline — Australia’s treatment of refugees and asylum seekers; Don McMaster, for his book Asylum Seekers; the many members of the Afghan and Hazara communities who volunteered so much useful information and support, particularly my dear friends Hassan and Ali; Brigadier Adrian D’hage (Ret) for the whizz-bangs; Princess Sinetar for the back streets of Sydney; Mme Souliersrouges for Chobham and beyond; Barry Penter, Bronwen Watson and Katya for the great research in unlikely areas. Samina for her poetry. And Suzanna for taking time off from her own writing to read mine.

  Sandy McCutcheon

  Brisbane 2002

  sandy@mccutcheon.com

  About the Author

  Sandy McCu
tcheon was brought up in Christchurch, New Zealand, but since the early 1970s has lived mainly in Australia. He has worked in a variety of jobs, from sheet metal factory employee and swimming pool painter to actor and theatre director.

  Although he is best known as the host of ‘Australia Talks Back’ on ABC Radio National, Sandy McCutcheon is also the author of more than twenty plays. He has travelled extensively in Africa, Asia and Europe as well as living in Finland and Austria. He has twice won awards at the New York Radio Festival for radio documentary making, and been awarded the International Kalevala Medal by the Finnish government for services to Finnish culture.

  A practising Buddhist for the last twenty-five years, he is a passionate campaigner for social justice and human rights and a strong supporter of Community Aid Abroad and Amnesty International, with a special interest in the issues of self-determination for Southern Sudan, East Timor and Tibet.

  www.Sandy.McCutcheon.com

  Sandy@McCutcheon.com

  ALSO BY SANDY McCUTCHEON

  In Wolf’s Clothing

  Peace Crimes

  Poison Tree

  Safe Haven

  Delicate Indecencies

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2003

  This edition published in 2011

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  www.harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Sandy McCutcheon 2003

  The right of Sandy McCutcheon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.