A Distant Land

by Alison Booth

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘All right,’ Lorna said. ‘John took the bait. I managed to get him to repeat a lot of what he’d said last time and it recorded okay – I checked it when I got home. I told him I was going to cooperate by letting him know what’s going on at the meetings and telling him what my friends are doing, all that sort of thing.’

  At this moment Zidra glanced up and saw two women entering the bar. ‘It’s those two old dears who were here the other day. You’d better keep your voice down.’

  Lorna twisted around for a quick look, before beginning to speak so softly that Zidra had to lean forward to hear. ‘I’ve arranged to meet John again next week. Same time, same day, but not in Railway Square. I’m to go to Hyde Park and mill around with the crowds by the war memorial at lunchtime. Then he’ll casually come up to me. He’s rather good at that. Didn’t see him until he was right beside me, although I’d been on high alert the whole time.’

  Zidra turned to see where the two women were sitting. They’d chosen a table as far away from theirs as possible. She said, ‘What else does he want – any more details on that?’

  ‘It’s all on the tape. Advance knowledge of protests, information about demonstrations being planned, information about any unusual sexual activities. “For anyone?” I said. “You can’t expect me to get such private information for just anyone.”’ Lorna took a sip of her drink before continuing. ‘Then he said, “I’ll tell you who in due course. I’ll give you some names and get you to find out if they get up to anything.”

  ‘“Oh,” I said. “What do you mean precisely, get up to anything?”’

  Lorna paused dramatically, her wide open eyes expressing innocence. Then she continued in an exaggerated drawl: ‘“I think you know,” he said, “but let me spell it out for you anyway. Fucking the wrong people. Not their wives or husbands if they’re married. Fucking underage kids. Same-sex fucking. Fucking their bloody dogs. Get what I mean?”

  ‘“Yes,” I said, “I’ve got the idea now. So what will you use that stuff for?”’

  ‘I reckon we know,’ Zidra said.

  ‘But I wanted to get it all down on tape, see.’

  ‘Of course. You’re a natural at this, Lorna. Go on.’

  ‘So John said, “You’re the law student, supposed to be so clever. You have a guess what that stuff might be used for.”

  ‘“Do you mean prosecution if they don’t cooperate?” I asked, just to clarify.

  ‘“That’s right,” he said.’

  ‘This is all on the tape too?’ Zidra said.

  ‘Yes, it’s all there.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘So then I asked him, “How do I know you’ll drop the charges?”

  ‘And he said, “As long as you carry on cooperating, you won’t get prosecuted. You’ve just got to be a good girl.”

  ‘“Oh, I will be,” I said. “I’ll be a very good girl. And nothing will happen to my kid sister either, will it? Last time we met, you said you’d welfare her if I didn’t cooperate.”

  ‘“I’m a man of my word,” he said. “You’ll see that, believe you me.” And then he left, after telling me when and where to meet next time.’

  Zidra took the tape that Lorna held out for her and put it in her pocket. ‘Phone me if you need me. By the way, John didn’t mention his surname, did he?’

  ‘No, though I did try asking. “You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Then he laughed, as if he’d said something original.’

  ‘So he’s not going to be easy to track down. John Ordinary. He could be anyone.’ She stood up. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘You bet. You know me, I’m always careful.’

  Zidra hesitated on the pavement opposite the building housing New South Wales Police Intelligence. It was an imposing-looking red-brick edifice that probably dated from the turn of the century. The facade of the building was punctured by windows displaying just about every type of arch known to humankind. Did she really want to go inside? Was this the best way of learning what she wanted to know? She took a deep breath, swung her bag onto her shoulder and crossed the street with a gaggle of pedestrians. Once inside the building, she checked the information board. New South Wales Police Intelligence was on the third floor. Avoiding the lifts, she ran up the wide staircase.

  For a few seconds she waited by the lift shaft to regain her breath. Through a set of glass doors she could see a carpeted reception area with a large desk, behind which a blonde young woman sat, her head bent over some papers. No one came in or out. She decided to wait for half an hour before opening the glass doors and asking to see John. ‘John who?’ the receptionist would say, and then Zidra would be stymied. ‘How many Johns have you got?’ she might ask, and with a bit of luck the woman would list them all. There’d be dozens though, it was such a common name, and anyway John wouldn’t be his proper name. Again she wondered why she was wasting her time like this.

  Be patient, she told herself. Give it a go. She sat on the bottom step of the flight of stairs and took a map out of her bag; if anyone came along, she would pretend to be studying it. Although she could occasionally hear one of the lifts rattling by, none stopped at the third floor. After fifteen minutes or so, a grey-haired woman wearing a blue overall trundled a tea trolley into the reception area. Zidra licked her lips; she could do with a cup of tea herself. Her throat felt dry and her palms clammy. The tea lady and the blonde receptionist chatted for a few minutes before the trolley was wheeled along a corridor at the back of the reception area. The lift shaft hummed again and soon a car stopped with a clang on her level. As the doors were opening, she dashed up the stairs towards the next floor, turning at the dogleg in time to see a couple of burly young men in police uniform push through the swing doors below.

  When she was slowly descending again, the door of the reception area opened and a man in a suit appeared. She held her breath and stood perfectly still, back pressed against the wall, barely half a dozen steps above him, her pulse resounding so loudly in her head that he must surely hear. It was Mr Ordinary. He was of average height, average shape, mid- to late thirties. Under the standard grey suit he wore a white shirt with an unremarkable tie. His round face, lacking any striking feature, might have been formed by a child from slightly grubby flour-and-water dough.

  After the lift door opened and Mr Ordinary stepped inside the car, Zidra began to breathe normally again. The doors slid shut and the lift rumbled down towards the ground floor. Quickly she ran down the stairs and through the glass doors into the third-floor reception area. The blonde woman looked up and smiled. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with the man who just left. He got into the lift just as I was getting out and I didn’t twig in time who he was.’

  ‘An appointment with Steve Jamieson?’ The woman looked up the diary in front of her. ‘I don’t think so. There’s nothing about a meeting here.’

  ‘Oh dear, I must have made a mistake. I could have sworn it was today.’ Steve Jamieson, she thought. I’ve got exactly what I wanted. Now she could identify in her article precisely who John was.

  ‘Would you like to leave a message?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll phone tomorrow morning.’ Zidra smiled at the receptionist before pushing through the swing doors and running down the staircase and out into Cleveland Street.

  While she’d been indoors, the stiff breeze had swept away the earlier haze of pollution. Now it was intent on driving eastwards the few remaining wisps of white cloud. It was a beautiful afternoon and she would mark her success at identifying Mr Ordinary by walking back to the Chronicle building. Fast; she’d have to walk fast. Only that way could she keep the pain at bay. Keep busy, always busy, and try not to think of Jim.

  The pressure of the headphones hurt the si
des of her head but Zidra barely noticed, so absorbed was she in the words she was hearing. Once she’d listened to the cassette Lorna had given her, she pressed the rewind button on the machine. The content of the tape was more or less as Lorna had recounted it in the pub, even down to her imitation of Steve Jamieson’s drawl. It was clear he was enjoying exercising his power, enjoying threatening Lorna. But worse than that was the viciousness in the way he sometimes spoke. At first this had made Zidra feel sick, and after a time angry. This fury was good, she knew. Feeling outraged was firing her up, getting her going, giving her the resolve she needed. She hated the way Jamieson was making charges against people who didn’t have the resources to refute them, and then using his charges to force them to do what they would never otherwise do. Intelligence was abusing people’s privacy in order to pursue their own ends. It had to be exposed.

  She spooled into her typewriter a couple of blank pages with carbon paper between and pressed the play button again. There was a faint hiss as the tape started running, and then Steve Jamieson’s twang filled her ears. ‘G’day, Lorna. Glad you’ve turned up. I’ve been watching you.’ Zidra began to type, her fingers speeding over the keys. Occasionally she paused to rewind and listen again.

  An hour later she’d finished the transcript. She clasped her hands behind her head and arched her back. Since the memorial service, she’d become more conscious of the effort required to breathe, of the effort to stay alive. As she exhaled, she realised she hadn’t thought of Jim once while she’d been transcribing Lorna’s tape, so involved had she become. But then it hit her like a physical blow to her chest, the realisation that she would never again be able to write to Jim of things that were happening to her.

  ‘Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip,’ she muttered to herself. She still had Lorna and she wouldn’t let her go. She would fight her cause no matter what.

  She put the transcript and cassette in the back of the filing cabinet under her office desk, locking the drawer afterwards. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have another word to Joe about the piece she was working on. After all, anything could happen. If she had an accident, no one would know about the latest tape or the story. Yet if she started telling people about it too early, it might get out and Lorna’s confidence – and security – would be breached.

  Still undecided, Zidra stuck her head around Joe’s office door just before leaving. Feet up on the desk, he was talking on the telephone. Seeing her, he waved. After putting his hand over the receiver, he mouthed, ‘See you when I get back from Canberra on Friday,’ before resuming his conversation.

  So that was that. The matter had been decided for her. She put the filing-cabinet key into her bra cup just as photographer Chris appeared unexpectedly in front of her. ‘It’s where I keep my twenty-dollar notes,’ she said, smiling sweetly.

  ‘Wish I could do the same, Zidra. You girls get all the breaks.’

  She grinned and headed for the lift.

  Chapter 23

  Voices shouting, sound reverberating off the hard walls of the café. The coffee machine hissing, the air humid, more people squeezing in from the street to join the raggedy queue at the counter. Zidra was glad that she and the foreign editor, Dave Pringle, had got there early enough to secure a table for two in a quiet corner at the back. ‘A working lunch,’ he’d said that morning when he’d suggested getting together. ‘Joe’s told me a bit about what you’re up to and I’ve heard something that will interest you.’

  They sat without talking while Dave finished the first of his sandwiches. There was still a whole round in front of him, and an iced finger bun waiting in the wings, when he began to speak. ‘Did you know that ASIO’s engaging in more spoiling activities, like they did after the Freedom Ride? You know, that bus trip to country New South Wales that was organised by university students and the Aboriginal activist Charlie Perkins?’

  ‘Of course I remember it,’ Zidra said. ‘It was in the newspapers and on the telly. It’s what got me really interested in politics. My mother said the Freedom Riders should have come to Jingera and Burford as well as going to all those northern New South Wales towns like Moree and Walgett.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Dave continued, after wiping his lips with a paper napkin, ‘The Bulletin ran a piece called “After the Freedom Ride”. It was anonymously written and argued that there was growing Communist preoccupation with Aboriginal affairs. It implied that the Communists were taking over the land-rights movement.’ He picked up a quarter of a sandwich and neatly posted it into his mouth. It didn’t take him long to process it. ‘You know what spoiling is, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes: trying to slag off one group you don’t approve of by linking them with another group you don’t approve of. Raising suspicion about Aboriginal activists by saying they’re closely supported by the Communists.’

  ‘That’s right. Now here’s something that might interest you. My oldest daughter works for Legal Aid in Redfern. And one of her clients is being blackmailed by someone called John.’

  ‘John?’ Zidra’s voice cracked and her throat suddenly felt dry. She picked up her water glass and took a swig.

  ‘Yes, she only knows his first name.’

  Steve Jamieson, Zidra thought, and waited for Dave to continue.

  ‘She had drugs planted on her. Then this John fellow told her the charges would be dropped if she informed on other members of her land-rights group.’

  ‘I’ve got to meet her. Is she clean?’

  ‘Yes. So my daughter says.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Wendy Ferris.’

  Zidra thought for a moment before saying, ‘Can your daughter tell Wendy she can collect an envelope with her name on it from the lobby here next Tuesday? It’ll contain details of where and when we can meet. What does Wendy look like, by the way?’

  ‘She’s Aboriginal and quite young but that’s all I know.’

  ‘In that case she’d better leave her photo with the woman at the desk when she collects the envelope. That’ll make it easier for me to recognise her.’

  ‘Good girl. She’ll have to put it in a sealed envelope, mind. You wouldn’t want anyone else checking up on her.’

  ‘Tuesday afternoon, Dave. By two o’clock at the latest.’

  ‘Got it,’ Dave said, smiling. ‘I thought this would interest you.’

  Too bloody right, she thought. Too bloody right.

  Chapter 24

  Hands clasped behind his head, Joe Ryan leant so far back in his chair that Zidra feared he might fall over. He’d called her into his office not long after he’d arrived back. So far they’d been sitting on opposite sides of his desk for five minutes and still Joe hadn’t told her why. It was unlike him, she thought, to waste time yabbering about whether or not she was happy in her work. Usually he just assumed everyone was; most journalists at the Chronicle knew they were incredibly lucky to work in this newsroom.

  Through the open window she heard the distant hum of cars from the street far below them and a sudden screech of brakes as someone got caught at the traffic lights. Inspecting Joe’s face, she tried to infer from his expression where this conversation was heading. His skin looked redder than usual; it made his eyes seem even bluer. Sunburn rather than high blood pressure, she decided; he must have spent time out of doors and forgotten the zinc cream. But she certainly wasn’t going to learn anything from his bland expression. She sighed, but not so that he’d hear. She wanted to get on with her research, rather than sitting about waiting for Joe to get to the point.

  At this moment he released his hands and let his chair tilt forward again. Resting his elbows on the desk, he said, ‘Are you aware that ASIO used to vet all new reporters to the Sydney Morning Chronicle? They did that until I took over as editor back in 1966.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said.

  ‘The funny t
hing is that no one ever told me. I had to find out the hard way. The outgoing editor didn’t tell me, and neither did Bolton, the newspaper proprietor. I only found out when I got a call from somebody in Special Projects in ASIO asking why the new reporters I’d hired hadn’t been vetted.’

  Zidra leant forward in her chair. ‘Was I checked?’

  ‘No. I’ve never had any new reporters checked,’ Joe said and grinned at her. ‘That was a practice that had to go. You can’t have an independent media if its reporters and editors have to be approved by a government-funded body. We’re not a police state. Yet.’

  ‘Do you think you were checked?’

  ‘Almost certainly. But you know me, squeaky clean. Anyway, even though I’ve never asked for any reporters to be vetted, ASIO carry on collecting their own information. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. This afternoon when I got back I found something had arrived on my desk from ASIO. Something that looks rather serious.’ He leant towards her and placed a hand on a folder that lay before him on the desk. ‘It’s your file,’ he said. ‘And three other files as well, of people appointed at around the same time as you.’

  Zidra gulped. ‘You mean it’s the file that ASIO have on me independent of anything this newspaper’s ever done?’

  ‘Exactly. And for some reason they decided to send me a copy now.’

  What sort of material would be in there? Meetings with her various contacts, could they know about those? She doubted it somehow. She was always so careful. Maybe what was in the file wouldn’t be all that bad: joining the Labor Club at university; the time a bunch of students tried to flood the state’s tax department by flushing all the toilets and urinals at once; the brief marijuana-smoking period; her involvement with the university revue. All harmless things. This file’s appearance was surely just a bluff.