by Alison Booth
Making it easier for those people to be tracked, she thought. Cars followed, phones bugged, meetings infiltrated. ‘Which groups in particular?’
‘Anything left wing really, and lately the Aboriginal groups.’
‘Could I reveal your identity if I wrote you up?’
‘Yes. I want this to be an exposé of what ASIO’s doing. I think it’s wrong. I want my name in the article. I started on this because I was patriotic and I thought it was the right thing to do. Now I know it was wrong but I’m not ashamed that I’ve changed my mind. I’m still patriotic. I feel that by exposing it I can make up for what I did.’
‘Why do you think it was wrong?’
‘Last year I did a course in political science and I started to think about things. Like how closely should a security intelligence organisation check on the private lives of ordinary people. And how far is ASIO motivated by other interests that have nothing to do with national security.’
‘Good questions,’ Zidra said. ‘But getting to more practical things, can you name people? Mr Jones doesn’t sound like a real name.’
‘No. It probably isn’t.’
‘Do you know a Mr Jamieson?’
‘I once met Steve Jamieson. He reports to ASIO.’
Zidra felt suddenly very cold and shivered. ‘How do you know?’
Malcolm frowned. ‘Mr Jones told me. And I met Jamieson at Jones’s flat. He took me there once, for a little party, and Steve Jamieson was one of the guests. I reckon the flat was borrowed, actually. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if it was borrowed from the organisation.’
To conceal her excitement, Zidra pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. So this is it, she thought. Now I have both sides of the story. Until today she’d felt she was getting nowhere as she trawled through her contacts in left-wing groups. All she was finding was suspicion and paranoia about ASIO. Nothing of substance.
‘I’m not doing this cloak and dagger stuff any more,’ Malcolm said.
‘Okay. But tell me, why come to me?’
‘I know you and I trust you. And the Chronicle is the only small-l liberal newspaper in New South Wales. I certainly couldn’t go to your competitor. It’s as simple as that.’
She said, ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know that.’
‘And you feel you’re a good judge of character?’
‘Yes. I never trusted Jones. It was my own character that I misjudged. I thought I could do this spying stuff and I thought that the end justified the means. But I’ve changed my mind about that. Now I know myself better.’
‘I’ll have to verify this, Malcolm. Do a few checks. Can you help me there?’
‘You bet I can.’ He pulled out a manila folder from his briefcase. ‘You can’t reveal I’ve got this though. I don’t want to be arrested.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Zidra. ‘I’ll have to call in my editor, Joe Ryan, on this next. Are you happy with that? He’ll have to deal with the legal aspects.’
‘I have to do this, Zidra. I have to make up for the wrong I’ve done.’
‘Good man,’ she said, smiling. Already she was thinking of how she would weave this exposé into the narratives of Lorna and Wendy. It was going to make a terrific story.
Chapter 27
The Gladstone pub was becoming way too popular, Zidra decided. When Lorna had phoned the day before, she’d suggested meeting there rather than the usual place in Darlinghurst. Zidra circumnavigated the crowded tables around the perimeter of the saloon bar, before threading her way through the dense mass of people who hadn’t arrived early enough to bag a table. All the doors and windows were open but there was no breeze, and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air.
It was when Zidra was wriggling past the scrum in front of the bar that she glimpsed Lorna at the far end. Resting her elbows on the counter top, she was holding a dollar note in her hand. Although facing the man serving, as if waiting to be noticed, she wore a preoccupied expression. Indeed, she seemed to be focusing on something distant, something over the heads of all the drinkers.
Zidra changed direction, narrowly missing the schooner of beer that a burly six-footer with no neck was pointing her way. ‘Watch it, love,’ was his first response, quickly followed in an altogether different tone by, ‘Hello, babe. Looking for anyone?’ Smiling, she shook her head. There was no point trying to reply against the noise: raised voices competing with one another to be heard, waves of sound bouncing off the walls and rippling back into the room, myriad conversations in which only the loudest could communicate.
A smile stuck on her face like a Band-Aid, she negotiated a path through the interweaving stories. At last she reached Lorna, who was still staring across the room, seemingly oblivious to what was happening in her immediate vicinity. When Zidra kissed her cheek, Lorna started.
‘Hell’s bells, you gave me a shock.’
‘Sorry, Lorna, but we did arrange to meet. That was a kiss for the Sleeping Beauty.’
‘How are you, Dizzy? You look exhausted.’
‘I’m coping. Working hard helps me forget a bit.’ She felt her eye twitch. This had been happening a lot lately and she hoped it wasn’t noticeable. She didn’t want Lorna getting needlessly rattled. ‘And how are you? You seemed distracted, like you were miles away.’
‘I guess I was. Well, twenty metres away, to be precise. I thought I saw someone come in that door.’
‘That was me, Lorna. I’ve just arrived.’
‘No, through the far door. You didn’t come through that. I’ve been watching it all the time.’
‘What’s up? You seem really on edge.’
Lorna bent forward so that her mouth was close to Zidra’s ear. ‘Give me your hand, would you?’
Almost at once Zidra found she was clutching what felt like another of the microcassettes. Carefully she turned it over in her palm, before slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. She said, ‘Do you want to go somewhere a bit quieter?’
‘No, this’ll do just fine.’
‘What was wrong with the usual meeting place?’
‘Too close to home. Time for a change, I reckon. But even so, I think I might have been followed here. Not by Steve or John or whatever he’s called, but by someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘You won’t be able to see him from here because he’s just moved out of sight. He’s mid-twenties, average height, ordinary looking, like Steve. I saw him watching me when I was waiting for the bus in Oxford Street. When the bus came, I got on and at the last minute he hopped on too. When I got off, I thought at first he was staying on, but he leapt off just as the bus started moving. So I turned down Queen Street, took a left, then a right, and immediately hid in a doorway. I saw him go by, walking fast. After a minute I came out again, thinking I’d lost him, but two minutes later he was tailing me again.’
Zidra glanced around the room.
‘Don’t look so obviously, Dizzy. Just relax.’
‘How can I, after what you just told me?’
‘Well, I’ve got to head off again in a couple of minutes. You’re late, you know. I’d buy you a drink but this bloke behind the bar’s never going to serve me, even though I’ve been waving a dollar note at him.’
‘I don’t really want a drink, but thanks anyway. I’m going to Stella and Nic’s for dinner. Nic always tops up your wine glass when you’re not looking, so you can’t gauge how much you’re drinking. It’s best to arrive there cold sober. What’s on the tape?’
‘Listen to it and see. More threatening stuff, only this time against me.’
‘You and not Daisy?’
‘Yes. And it’s not nice.’
‘You’d better tell me.’
‘You’ll hear it on the tape.’
‘Tell me.’
<
br /> ‘He says I’m not leaking fast enough. He threatened to plant drugs on me and then arrest me. Said they’d follow that up with a beating in the police station, and worse.’
‘That’s terrible. And you’ve got it all on tape?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll soon be ready to print the story. Joe’s had the legal aspects checked and we’re okay. I’ll transcribe this new tape tomorrow. Thank God it’s Sunday. By the way, Joe thinks you should move into a safe place somewhere, once the story’s printed. He offered to put you up at his place.’
Lorna raised one eyebrow and drew down the corners of her mouth.
‘Don’t look so horrified. The Ryan family’s really nice. You’d love his wife, Bridget, and they’ve only got two boys at home now.’
‘I don’t want that, Dizzy. Get the story out fast. I just need some peace. I feel like things are spinning out of control. My exams are less than a month away and I’m desperate for some time to study.’
‘Give it some thought, Lorna. Let me know in a day or two about staying with the Ryans.’
‘Okay. Look, I’m going to have to leave in a minute. Mick’s picking me up at the top of Queen Street in five minutes.’
‘Who’s Mick?’
‘My flatmate. You’ve met him.’
‘Oh, that Mick. The incredibly handsome one with the big smile and the nice teeth.’
‘That’s him. My, you are observant.’
‘That’s why I’m a journalist. And I saw you with him at the march. He was wearing a T-shirt with the Aboriginal flag on it, like you.’
‘What are you grinning about?’
‘Nothing. Well, not quite. I’m just very pleased.’
‘We’re only friends.’ Lorna smiled for the first time. ‘I’m out of here now, Dizzy. You look after yourself, won’t you. Don’t come with me. Stay here for a bit.’
Zidra watched Lorna until she was swallowed up by the crowd, and then pretended she was waiting to be served. It was a good place to pick if you didn’t want a drink, she thought; not once did the barman glance in her direction. After ten minutes or so, when she saw the burly six-footer heading her way, she left the hotel by the side door.
Outside the humidity hung heavy in the air, wrapping itself around her like a blanket. She stopped in front of the grocery shop fifty metres down the street from the pub. An observer would assume she was inspecting the array of small goods rather than checking to see if she was being followed. Obliquely she looked up and down the road. No one was paying her any attention. The crowds on the pavement in front of the Gladstone were getting more raucous but they were engrossed in each other and the sound of their own voices. A few couples were strolling down the hill in the other direction and a jogger was running along the road as if he had right of way. She watched him pass by, wearing a dogged expression and a sweat-soaked T-shirt and running shorts. He looked to be in his mid-forties and anyway was too tall to be the man Lorna had described.
Although Zidra had planned to go home before Stella and Nic’s dinner party, there was nowhere near enough time now. She remembered a short cut, a long narrow lane running between the backyards of the rows of terrace houses. This would take her straight to the street in which her friends lived. For an instant she hesitated at the corner. The lane was empty, apart from a few garbage bins that hadn’t been claimed since the last refuse collection and a supercilious-looking white Persian cat. Glancing around, Zidra saw that the jogger had gone and only the self-absorbed crowd in front of the Gladstone remained. Apart from the cat, no one was interested in her. She ran a hand over her skirt pocket, feeling the microcassette tucked securely away, before turning into the lane.
After several metres the cat altered its expression to one of enquiry, and she bent down to give it a quick pat. When she was straightening up, she heard footsteps behind her. Revolving quickly, feet poised ready for flight, she was relieved to see that there was no one in sight. The sound she’d heard must have been a resident of one of the houses pottering about in their backyard or about to reclaim their garbage bin. Someone called out, ‘Pussy pussy pussy.’ At this the cat abandoned its dignity and Zidra, and leapt onto the top of the paling fence and down the other side.
Zidra began to stride along the lane. The light was fading and the way was longer than she’d thought. When the single street light was switched on, she flinched; it was almost as if someone were watching her progress. Her nerves were going to pieces. What was she thinking of to take short cuts through deserted alleyways in the evening with an important tape in her pocket? Her palms became clammy and her pulse sped up. Quickening her pace, she once more heard footsteps behind her. Firm steps, leather slapping down on bitumen.
She stopped and the footsteps stopped too. Again she turned. There could have been a person crouched behind a garbage bin twenty or so metres away, or it could have just been a shadow. The sudden screaming of an ambulance made her jump. She broke into an adrenalin-charged sprint to the street at the end of the lane. The ambulance sped by, its siren wailing and light flashing. At this instant she bumped hard into something and gave a little yelp. It was a couple, whose features she barely registered, so intent was she on peering behind to see who was trailing her.
The lane was empty.
It was her imagination, nothing more.
‘So sorry,’ she said to the woman standing next to her. ‘I thought I was being followed.’ As her heart rate slowed and her panic abated, the features of the couple became more clearly focused. An elderly pair, their faces lined with the passage of years and too much sun, their expressions as anxious as hers must have been.
The woman took Zidra’s arm. ‘There’s no one there that I can see, dear. But you really shouldn’t walk down lanes like that on your own, in the daytime or the night-time. Where are you going? Do you want to walk with us?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m only going a short way. To that white terrace house with the red front door.’
The elderly couple waited with her until the door was opened by Nic, his shoulder-length black hair as unruly as ever. After she’d thanked them, Nic ushered her inside.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Apart from the fact that I thought I was being followed.’
‘That’s unlikely, unless you mean those old folk you came with. This place is as safe as a country town.’
As safe as Jingera, she thought. But she hadn’t always felt safe there.
‘Mind the floorboards, they’re a bit rickety. I haven’t had time to nail them down properly but at least the wiring’s done. We’re going to eat in the kitchen. The dining room’s still full of boxes. Follow me and I’ll get you a glass of wine. Is red okay? We’ve just opened a bottle.’
Now she could admit that she felt desperate for a drink. As she followed Nic along the hallway, she wondered if she was losing her grip. She patted her skirt pocket. The cassette was still there. But there was no point taking any more risks. She would get a taxi home that night.
Chapter 28
The next morning Zidra woke with a start and looked at her watch; it was ten minutes past nine. How had it got to be so late? She’d gone to bed before midnight and had planned to go to the office to transcribe Lorna’s new tape this morning as well as work on her article. She sat up and reached for the notebook and 2B pencil on the bedside table. After adjusting the pillows behind her back, she began to make a list of points. ASIO were violating their charter and reporting to the Liberals; ASIO were endeavouring to fabricate links between Aborigines and Communists to wriggle out of land-rights issues and to satisfy vested interests and lobbyists; ASIO were blackmailing young Aborigines, using threats to get them or their families welfared or jailed if they didn’t toe the line.
She chewed the end of her pencil. The ideas she wanted to get across were the warp; they would hold the article tog
ether. But the weft was the important thing, the human stories that would bring colour to the tapestry. After some thought she began to write, her pencil skipping over the pages. She stopped only to sharpen the pencil and flex her aching fingers. By noon the new draft was done. All she needed to do next was listen to Lorna’s latest tape.
After a shower she looked for some clean underwear. There was nothing. Everything was in the dirty-linen basket. She pulled on the knickers and bra she’d worn the day before, and retrieved from the basket some crumpled trousers and a shirt. They would do for today. She’d drive to the laundromat and come home for a quick lunch before heading off to the office with Lorna’s cassette.
It was mid-afternoon before Zidra opened the drawer in which she’d put the cassette the night before. It wasn’t where she thought she’d left it, under her tights. Maybe it had slipped to the back of the drawer, but it wasn’t there either.
Could she have put it in another drawer? After all, she’d been pretty tired last night. She sifted through the other drawers. No sign of the cassette anywhere.
Maybe she’d left it in her handbag, although surely she wouldn’t have been that careless – she never left anything really valuable in there. Her irritation with herself was beginning to turn to anxiety as she fumbled through the compartments of her bag. She found the pink lipstick she thought she’d lost a few weeks ago but the cassette wasn’t there. Now her apprehension was starting to metamorphose into panic.
Had someone broken in while she was out? She glanced around the room. Everything looked much as it had before she went out. Or did it? The papers on her desk were misplaced and the portable typewriter had been shifted. Had she done that? After all she hadn’t really been concentrating on anything apart from her article and how much more work she still had to do on it. Keeping her depression at bay, that’s what she’d been concentrating on.
And yet she didn’t think she’d been anywhere near her desk. Someone must have come into her room and taken away the cassette.
She ran downstairs and knocked on Joanne’s bedroom door. After the second knock Joanne opened it. Her hair was tousled and her face marked from lying on creased sheets. ‘Sorry to wake you,’ Zidra said. ‘Have you been here all morning?’
