Comfort Zone

by Lindsay Tanner

  ‘Still got my mobile number?’ Emily asked, as the three women huddled into a protective cordon and Jack made to depart. ‘Give me a call in the morning. Shouldn’t take long, just a couple of car-loads’ll make all the difference. Only a few minutes away, too.’ She paused for a moment, then added: ‘Only if you’re feeling up to it, of course.’

  Jack sensed a touch of manipulation, but he didn’t mind. Could Emily spot his infatuation with Farhia? Was she exploiting his need to appear noble and generous in front of her? Maybe so, but it didn’t really matter: a long-forgotten niceness gene was stirring under his layers of cynicism and bitterness.

  Jack asked Farhia and Aicha if they were okay, and said goodbye. It wasn’t even lunchtime, but he felt like going to bed. He thought about buying the Sunday paper and doing the big crossword. He was going to have to do something both undemanding and yet sufficiently stimulating to distract him from his growing collection of aches and pains.

  As he walked away from the high-rise towers, Jack tried to take stock. The appearance of the man he only knew as Rooney had added another layer of confusion to the situation.

  He was gratified that he had again helped Farhia escape from threatened violence, but he suspected his infatuation with her was approaching a dead end. She had an invisible wall of reserve surrounding her, an impenetrable barrier that he didn’t know how to deal with. It wasn’t just about race or culture: there was something else. She was clearly terrified, too scared even to disclose the real nature of the threat she was facing. And every time Jack found himself in her presence, serious violence wasn’t far away.

  Jack mulled over his options for the remainder of the day, but couldn’t think of anything particularly appealing. He could go to the pub, watch the footy, fiddle around at home maybe. He considered pursuing Rowan for an explanation of Friday night’s events, but remembered that he was usually hard to track down on Sundays. He thought about hiding out at Billy’s for the rest of the day, but was too stressed and disoriented to even attempt that. He felt paralysed, surrounded by threats, but unable to respond to them.

  As he climbed the stairs to his flat, Jack was hit by a wave of nausea. He felt disoriented and light-headed. It looked like watching the football was the best option: he suspected he had given his head a nastier bang than he’d first thought.

  He was asleep on the couch before quarter-time. When he woke up nearly three hours later, he was shivering and woozy, and his head ached. Jack didn’t know much about concussion, but he thought that he probably had a mild dose of it. He took some Nurofen, and turned on the old gas heater on the far side of the lounge room.

  Once he began to feel better, he decided to go for a walk. He walked a lot, because he only had the cab part of the time, but rarely for pleasure. A bit more walking might help reduce his spreading belly and wheezy breathing.

  His body was still recovering from his recent run around Carlton. Since then, he’d been assaulted twice. He could feel the hayfever tickling his sinuses. I’m an absolute mess, Jack concluded, as he stepped out into the cool, sweet air of early spring.

  He thought about the latest developments. The ASIO guys had got what they wanted, so they probably wouldn’t be back. And Leather Jacket, Karl, and Rooney didn’t know where he lived — or at least he didn’t think they did. His situation with Farhia had reached a stalemate. Every time he was in her presence, he sensed how ridiculous his fantasy was — an unhealthy, pot-bellied, round-shouldered bloke in his mid-fifties, a chronic loser, pursuing a beautiful young Somali woman.

  If I pull this one off, I’ll be able to flog the movie rights, he muttered to himself as he walked along Albion Street. He was unnerved by Rooney’s assault. He could be anything: Farhia’s husband, her lover, a terrorist — maybe even a drug dealer. Farhia didn’t seem to be a dishonest person, but her reluctance to disclose personal information made Jack wary of treating everything she told him at face value.

  He walked along Albion Street to Lygon Street, intending to walk up to Sydney Road. As he crossed Lygon Street, he noticed a familiar figure striding towards him. It was the unmistakable gait of Scabber McPhee, the look of a retired boxer on speed.

  ‘Scabber, how’re you going?’

  ‘Good mate, good,’ Scabber hissed.

  ‘Just going for a walk.’ Jack felt obliged to explain what he was doing.

  ‘A walk, eh?’ Scabber looked sceptical. His bluey was half zipped up, and he was moving his feet up and down. He didn’t want to hang around.

  ‘Yeah, been in the wars, got to walk it off.’

  ‘Like Sunday-morning footy training, hey?’ Scabber cackled, with a rasp born of decades of heavy drinking and smoking.

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘Heading for a drink. You’d better come.’ This was more of a command than an invitation.

  ‘Only got a few bucks on me, better not stay long.’

  ‘Good point. I’m meeting this bloke from Preston in half an hour. You’d better scarper when he turns up — not the kind of bloke you need to know.’

  Jack was grateful for this surprise encounter. He’d only walked about three hundred metres, and he was bored already.

  ‘So what’ve you been doing to yourself?’ Scabber asked, as they lounged at the small section of the Lyndhurst that hadn’t been swallowed by poker machines, and ordered a couple of pots.

  ‘Got jumped by this Somali guy this morning, bit of a domestic. And I was in a blue at the Dan the other night.’ Jack usually kept his words to a minimum around Scabber.

  ‘Yeah, heard about it.’

  ‘Hit the road when some bloke started waving bits of glass around. Druggie, probably.’

  ‘How’d it start?’

  Jack wasn’t exactly close to Scabber, but they had a friendly relationship. He wasn’t a threat to Scabber, and he was useful sometimes. He sensed a chance to get some advice.

  ‘Hard to say. Bit of a mess I’ve landed in.’

  As Scabber tore a beer coaster into small pieces, Jack outlined his encounters with Matt and Rowan. Scabber wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Slippery piece of shit, mate. Steer clear.’ Jack assumed he was referring to Rowan.

  ‘Yeah, after the other night, reckon you’re right. So why’d this bloke in the leather jacket lay into me, you reckon? Never met him before.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t like your aftershave.’ Jack let out an involuntary chuckle. He barely knew what aftershave was, and he had certainly never used it. He was pretty confident Scabber hadn’t, either.

  ‘So how am I going to fuck them off?’

  ‘When are you supposed to do the trip?’

  ‘Next weekend.’

  ‘Let me know when they tell you a time and place. I’ll sort it.’

  ‘I’ve had enough violence for a bit …’ Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to escalate the level of it.

  ‘Nothing like that. Just expose them to some people higher up the food chain, give them some advice. I’m in the advice business, mate. Cat’ll lose interest in a mouse when a big dog turns up.’

  Jack took no offence at the suggestion that he was comparable to a mouse. He wondered if this was how the world looked to Gideon. Maybe he was Gideon’s Scabber.

  ‘Thanks, mate. Free cab rides for a while if you get me out of this one.’

  ‘Done.’ Scabber flashed a broken grin at Jack, and started sorting his pile of beer coaster pieces into the shape of an X.

  ‘One more, mate?’ Jack asked.

  ‘What’re Sundays for?’

  They sipped in silence for a while, and then Jack spoke.

  ‘Funny thing, you know. I’m getting to know the Somalis. Who would’ve thought?’

  ‘Nasty bunch. Stay out of that ethnic stuff. Stick together, you know, don’t play by the rules. Where they come from, bloke’d slit your throat for five bucks. Be
careful.’

  ‘Yeah, will. Thanks for the chat, mate. I’ll let you know when they tell me the pick-up time. You around?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m around.’

  Jack knew most of Scabber’s favourite haunts. He was confident he could find him in a hurry.

  ‘See you, then.’ He walked out of the Lyndhurst feeling a whole lot better. His head still ached, but the beer had dulled the throbbing, and he now had someone serious on his team.

  People didn’t mess with Scabber. He’d done time for armed robbery when he was young, and nearly killed two men in a brawl a few years after he got out. With the assistance of witness amnesia, he’d got off on self-defence. Now he was a freelancer. He was older and smarter, so he only involved himself in lucrative, low-risk stuff. Standover work for trusted clients was his main line of work these days. His network of contacts — even insignificant people like Jack — was a vital intelligence asset.

  Jack could feel the alcohol bubbling around in his system as he walked home. It was time to take some more painkillers, and crash. He didn’t feel like eating. God only knew what he’d feel like in the morning, but he had to work. And move Emily’s stuff.

  13

  Connection

  Emily’s flat was on the tenth floor. For once, the lift was working, to Jack’s great relief. The lifts in the high-rise were notorious for breaking down, and they didn’t always get repaired in a hurry. He didn’t fancy going up and down ten flights of stairs several times, even if he only had to lug stuff on the downward trips.

  Getting past security and into the lift lobby was a big-enough challenge getting into most tower blocks. These days, visiting a resident involved talking your way past security on the ground floor. Jack thought this was ridiculous. Why spend money to protect the tenants from outsiders, when the real need was to protect the outside world from them?

  Luckily, the security virus hadn’t spread as far as Elgin Square yet, and he was able to go straight up. The door to Emily’s flat was open, so Jack took a few tentative steps inside and called out: ‘Hello, anyone at home?’

  The part of the lounge-dining area he could see was a mess. There were all kinds of boxes scattered around, small items of furniture, green garbage bags, presumably full of clothes, and other clothes on hangers lying on a small table.

  Jack strained to pick up a response, but apart from the howling south-westerly whistling its way through the tower block, there was no sound. He walked further into the flat, and took note of some of the other items lying around. There was an antique gramophone that played 78s, a framed Violent Femmes poster, a large chess set in a box, and a small mound of basket, rugs, fur, and fluff that looked like a cat’s home. He was fascinated by the chess set, which was almost too large to be practical, like a large-print version for the visually handicapped.

  As he stepped around the assorted bits and pieces, he heard the muffled sound of a door closing. Then Emily appeared out of nowhere, startling him.

  ‘Ooh, hello, Jack. Been here long? Stupid cupboard, I can’t get the drawer open.’

  Jack was lost for words. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Emily was even more colourfully dressed than the last time he’d seen her. His mind flitted to a picture of an exotic tropical bird he’d seen on a nature documentary recently — a macaw, if he remembered correctly.

  ‘Can you help me fix it?’

  ‘Er, sure.’ There was something about Emily that elicited awe from Jack. He didn’t know how to deal with her. She sure was out there.

  ‘Through here.’ She ushered him down a cramped corridor to the left, and into the main bedroom. She pointed to a built-in wardrobe that was almost empty. A couple of drawers were lying on the floor, but one remained in its slot.

  ‘Haven’t opened it for months, so it’s stuck. Maybe something like humidity expanding the wood. Climate change, all that stuff. I’m not that strong because of my illness … it’s hard enough getting all my stuff into boxes.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go.’ Jack couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Grumpy, cynical Jack, adept at avoiding physical labour and responsibility, had been superseded by obliging Jack, ready to tackle any task, large or small.

  He bent over, grasped the drawer handle, and braced his left foot against the wardrobe frame.

  ‘Nghrr …!’ he scream-grunted as he pulled hard at the drawer. All the injured parts of his body screamed back at him.

  ‘Sure is stuck. I’ll give it another try.’ He took a couple of deep breaths and braced himself again.

  ‘Rrrghh …!’ He turned up the volume even louder and pulled at the drawer as hard as he could.

  Just as he was about to relax his grip and surrender, it gave way and flew out of its socket. Jack stumbled backwards, tripped over a small box, and fell flat on his back onto a pile of clothes.

  Emily couldn’t help herself. The tinkling, musical giggle that had enchanted Jack at the welfare centre came flooding out.

  ‘A ten! Double back-flip with pike!’ She held up an imaginary scorecard to enhance the effect.

  Jack was embarrassed. He’d done his masculine duty by dislodging the drawer, but the immediate aftermath was a little humiliating.

  ‘Thing must’ve been stuck,’ he gasped, pointing to an odd-shaped silver object that might have been an ornamental knife. The red in his face had moved a few notches along the colour chart.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but it was a great circus act. You must be really strong to have gotten it out.’

  He rearranged his shirt, and brushed away a few specks of lint.

  ‘No harm done. Any other jobs for Arnold Schwarzenegger while we’re at it?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled sweetly back at him. ‘Just have to take all this stuff down to the car. How about you do the boxes, and I’ll do the little stuff?’

  ‘No worries. Going to leave the door open? Otherwise we’ll have to go up and down together — unless you’ve got a spare key …’

  ‘Sure, leave it open. Why not?’

  ‘Dunno, stuff might get nicked …’

  ‘No way! Everyone knows me up here. Wouldn’t dream of pinching my stuff. Anyway, can you see anything worth stealing?’

  Jack didn’t respond, in case agreeing with her last comment would upset her. He shuffled towards the door, then turned back to her: ‘Better get started. Hope the lift doesn’t break down.’

  For the next thirty or forty minutes, he tramped back and forth to the cab, barely exchanging words with Emily as they passed each other. His experience of cramming luggage into a family sedan came in handy. He was confident they could do the lot in two trips.

  Emily’s new flat was much more pleasant, but a fraction smaller. The lingering smell of new paint wafted through the lounge room, and the fittings looked like they were brand new. He assumed it had had one of the token upgrades that the Ministry did occasionally.

  Jack huffed and puffed as he dumped boxes on the floor. He pulled out a faded green handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was enjoying being useful and helping Emily, but part of him was wishing that he hadn’t volunteered. Moving house was always an enormous hassle. He stayed in the Balmoral Avenue flat while it crumbled around him mainly because he couldn’t handle the thought of moving. He must have been crazy to think of doing it for someone else …

  The second load was easier. There were still a few bits and pieces left in the flat when they departed, but Emily dismissed Jack’s query with an airy wave of her hand.

  ‘No problem. Couple of trips with shopping bags. Easy.’

  He didn’t argue. As they walked in and out, unloading the second instalment of assorted items, he felt himself flagging. After depositing the last big box on the floor of Emily’s new bedroom, he sank to the floor. He sat with his back against the wall, staring into space for several minutes.

  As he was about to stand up
, Emily poked her head through the doorway.

  ‘Thanks so much, Jack, you’re a lifesaver. That’s really broken the back of it. Sorry I can’t do too much, it’s my illness you know, it’s really …’

  ‘No worries, happy to help.’ Jack levered himself back up again and walked towards her.

  ‘Want to grab a coffee now?’

  He looked at his cheap digital watch, a Victoria Market special that had proved amazingly durable. He weighed up the risks of annoying Ajit again with the attractions of spending more time with Emily.

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Let’s go round the corner to Harry’s.’

  ‘Great stuff.’ Jack had no idea who Harry was, but he thought he knew which café Emily was referring to.

  It was a tiny place, sandwiched between a messy laundromat and an old-style shoe-repair shop. There were only three tables and about ten plastic chairs inside. There was one free table towards the back, so they headed towards it, taking care to avoid bumping into people at the other tables.

  Emily waved a cheery greeting to a grizzled, overweight, and unshaven man who could well have been Harry. A couple of cappuccinos appeared shortly after they sat down. The chairs made an irritating squealing-scraping noise when they dragged them over the floor. Jack didn’t mind, though — he had other things on his mind.

  ‘Thanks so much, Jack. My illness is such a pain. There’s lots of normal things I can’t really do, or I can only do for a short time. Even carrying a few bags at the wrong time would half-kill me.’

  Jack looked at Emily with renewed interest. It was strange how someone with such a vibrant personality could be so physically constrained.

  ‘So it’s some kind of virus or something?’

  ‘No one knows. For years, they all pretended it didn’t exist. Doctors’d say you’re run down, depressed, or whatever. It’s now recognised as a real illness — they just don’t know much about it.’

  ‘How long’ve you had it?’

  ‘About fourteen years.’

  ‘Jesus!’