A Distant Land

by Alison Booth

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did you get back?’

  Joanne looked at her watch. ‘Maybe an hour ago.’

  ‘When I was at the laundromat?’

  ‘I suppose so. You weren’t in, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I think someone’s been through my room when we were all out. Lisa wasn’t here today, was she?’

  ‘No, she’s staying at Ross’s place. She always does that on Saturday night.’

  ‘And she didn’t come home?’

  ‘No. As far as I know, she’ll be back around eight tonight, as usual. What’s missing?’

  ‘Just something from work. A little cassette.’

  ‘Maybe you left it in the office. You’ve been pretty distracted lately.’

  ‘I know I didn’t leave it in my office. I brought it home last night.’

  ‘But Zidra, the house was locked when I got back. Both the front door and the back door.’

  ‘I’ll check there’s nothing missing anywhere else.’

  They went through the house together, including a quick inspection of Lisa’s room. It was a tip, with clothes everywhere and the bed unmade, but that was nothing new.

  ‘Perhaps you should call the police, Zidra.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, what could I say? Nothing else is missing. They’ll say what you said: “I expect you left it in your office. You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound patronising.’

  Zidra decided to phone Joe Ryan. An hour later she was sitting in his office, telling him of her suspicions about the cassette. When she’d finished, Joe sat in silence, frowning so hard his eyebrows met in the middle. She tapped her foot on the leg of the chair. Maybe he’d want to hold the story back, and then everything she’d worked for could be lost. Even if he agreed to run with it, if anything else happened – another massacre in Vietnam or Africa, or some sex scandal – the story might be lost or displaced, at best a tiny paragraph hidden away between the advertisements for David Jones and Gowings.

  ‘We’ll run with the article,’ Joe said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘We’ll put it out on Tuesday. You’ve got it just about finished, haven’t you?’

  She swallowed. The draft she’d done this morning was pretty good, she thought, but it needed more work. Could she do it in time? Of course she could do it in time. Rising to the challenge was all that was keeping her going after Jingera. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s well on the way. I was going to add that extra stuff Lorna gave me though.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I think it was more of the same. Lorna couldn’t tell me much – the pub was really crowded. But she did say that Steve, the cop from intelligence, is starting to put more pressure on her. Threaten her. She seemed pretty rattled. She reckoned she was being followed. I reckon I was too.’ She told Joe of the footsteps she’d heard behind her as she walked down the lane.

  ‘You need to take care of yourself, Zidra. But it sounds as if losing the tape won’t make much difference to your story. Let me see the draft, will you? You could give the article a final polish tomorrow. Having the cassette go missing could work in our favour. But if someone’s been into your bedroom to steal it, now’s the time to get Lorna shifted somewhere. She mightn’t be all that safe at her place until this is out. Bridget and I would be only too happy to have her stay with us for a few days until things quieten down, like I said to you the other day.’

  Zidra stood up. She felt in control of her life for the first time in weeks. After all, the story she’d wanted to tell was roughly in place. Another few hours’ work this afternoon and evening and it would be ready.

  It would have been good to have Lorna’s extra material, but she knew that sometimes you just had to make do with what you’d got. That’s what she’d been struggling to teach herself. Make do with what you’ve got.

  Chapter 29

  Zidra decided to drop in to see Lorna. It would be easier to persuade her to accept Joe’s invitation personally rather than by phone. She hadn’t visited Lorna’s house for ages; they’d thought it best that she didn’t. Though there was space right outside Lorna’s place, she parked fifty metres away. Before getting out of the car, she checked in the rear-vision mirror to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

  The road was as deserted as a small country town, although she could hear the hum of traffic from the main thoroughfare a block away. The night was moonless and Lorna’s single-storey terrace house in a pocket of darkness between street lights. Zidra peered up and down to see if she was being watched. Not a soul in sight, though she could hear voices raised in argument from a house over the road and the sound of a television from next door.

  The low gate to Lorna’s verandah was shut, and she fumbled with the catch. The roof of the verandah was in need of replacing; several sheets of corrugated iron were missing and another one was loose and clanged as the wind worried at it. Becoming aware of the doormat only after tripping over it, Zidra fell hard against the front door, bumping her elbow. A syncopated crash from the verandah next door startled her, and a second later she heard a cat meowing and an empty milk bottle rolling across concrete. This announcement of her arrival went unnoticed by anyone. She knocked on the door.

  No one answered. Through the obscure glass panel in the front door she could see that a light was on somewhere inside, and she could hear the sound of a radio or a television. She knocked again, more loudly this time, and at last heard footsteps.

  The door was opened by an Aboriginal man of around her age and height. Lorna’s new flatmate, she guessed, who’d moved in a month or so ago.

  ‘I’m Zidra,’ she said. ‘Lorna’s friend. Is she in?’

  ‘I’m Jeff. I’ve heard a lot about you. Lorna’s not back yet but she shouldn’t be too much longer. Do you want to come in? You’re shivering.’

  Zidra followed Jeff down the long narrow hallway and into the kitchen at the far end. A radio was playing country music. On the table was a plate with a few abandoned baked beans and next to it was a can of beer. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve interrupted your dinner.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve just finished. Would you like a cup of tea?’ As Jeff spoke, he turned off the radio before clearing the table and filling the battered aluminium kettle with water from the tap over the sink.

  ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom? I know where it is.’

  She went out to the tiny backyard and into the lean-to bathroom at the back of the house. Over the old-fashioned rust-stained bath a couple of Lorna’s shirts and a white plastic curtain were suspended from the shower rail. As she was drying her hands, she heard a loud knocking from the front door. Lorna home at last, she thought, before common sense told her that Lorna would have a key with which to let herself in.

  She turned off the bathroom light and stood for a moment on the uneven brick paving outside the kitchen. A sweet scent, orange blossom perhaps, or jasmine, overlaid the faint odour of drains. Through the open doorway she could hear Jeff unlocking the front door. The kettle was simmering on the stove but something made her hesitate rather than moving at once into the kitchen to turn it off. Now she heard footsteps thudding along the hallway. She stayed where she was, out of sight, as first one policeman and then another erupted into the kitchen. They were too big, or the kitchen was too small. Solid men, both of them. Their short-sleeved blue shirts strained across their chests, and bulky tooled-up belts encircled their waists. Next to these big blokes Jeff looked as puny as a fifteen-year-old.

  ‘Any idea where Lorna Hunter is now?’ The larger of the two policemen, with the closer-cropped hair, leant towards Jeff as he spoke.

  Jeff stood his ground. ‘No.’ His face could have been no more than twenty centimetres away from the policeman’s collar.

  ‘Having a cuppa, are you?’ th
e second policeman said. ‘I thought you said Lorna wasn’t here.’

  ‘She’s not.’

  ‘What have you got two mugs out for then?’

  ‘For a friend.’

  ‘A friend, eh? I don’t see any friends here, do you, Keith?’

  ‘No. There aren’t any friends here,’ Keith said. ‘Unless you count the two of us. But maybe there’s some more friends behind those doors we passed on the way down the hall. Don’t mind if we have a squiz in a minute, do you, mate?’

  ‘You’ve got no right to come barging in here without a search warrant.’

  ‘We make the rules, mate, not you. Any idea when Lorna will be back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll just have a seat here and wait. You don’t mind, do you? Maybe Lorna’ll be in for that mug of tea in a minute, that’s what I reckon.’

  At this point Zidra opened the back door and stepped in. Both men swivelled around in triumph. When they saw her, their expressions altered. Disappointment that she wasn’t the one they’d been looking for, but predatory as well, their eyes moving up and down her figure as if she were up for sale. Yet she was pleased with this reaction: they hadn’t recognised her as Lorna’s contact; they were viewing her only as Jeff’s girlfriend.

  ‘Is this mug for you?’ Keith said, grinning.

  ‘Which mug do you mean, mate, the cup or this fellow here?’ the smaller policeman said, and both of them laughed.

  ‘What are you doing here, love?’ Keith moved close to her as he spoke.

  Perhaps there was something wrong with his sense of distance or else he was trying to intimidate her. Looking up at him, Zidra was close enough to see a few blonde whiskers on his neck that had escaped the morning shave. ‘I’m just visiting,’ she said and stepped back a pace.

  ‘Well, so are we. But maybe it’s time for us to go.’

  On the way out the larger policeman, Keith, stopped at a closed door. ‘Where does this door lead, mate?’

  ‘A bedroom.’

  ‘Sure there’s no one in there?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Don’t mind if we have a look?’

  Before Jeff had a chance to reply, Keith opened the door, flicked the light switch and stepped in. Zidra wriggled past the smaller policeman obstructing the doorway and watched Keith closely as he looked around the bedroom. His fists were balled on his hips, exposing dried sweat-stains in the armpits of his shirt. Though he might have been poised to punch someone, at least in this pose his hands were clearly visible; she could spot right away if he were to dig into his pockets for little packages to plant. Or to pick up an object that wasn’t his.

  ‘You can’t do this without a search warrant,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t do what? We’re not doing anything.’

  ‘Can’t search.’

  ‘Well, there’s no independent witness here now, is there?’

  ‘I’m an independent witness.’

  ‘I don’t think so, love.’

  You’d be surprised, she almost said, and then thought better of it. Sometimes it was wise to keep your mouth shut.

  He shepherded her out of the bedroom and stood in front of the next door. ‘And what about in here?’

  Though the smaller policeman moved to block her way, Zidra was too quick and followed Keith into the next bedroom. This was Lorna’s. The bed was neatly made but had garments strewn across it, as if Lorna had been trying on clothes for an evening out. On her desk were piles of law books and a couple of folders. Keith bent down to look under the bed and stood up again with a struggle and a grunt.

  Jeff was ahead of them into the third bedroom. Zidra observed the men from behind. No little gifts, no little plants, and she sighed with relief. After this the policemen thundered to the front door. They opened it and banged it shut behind them. Zidra and Jeff stood in silence while they listened to the receding thump of police boots on the footpath. Soon afterwards came the slamming of car doors, and the sound of a car being started up and driven away.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ Jeff said.

  ‘They may be too late,’ Zidra said, more confidently than she felt.

  Only now did she realise that neither she nor Jeff had asked why the police were looking for Lorna. She thought of her last conversation with her friend, in the Gladstone pub on Saturday. There’d been more intimidating stuff, Lorna had said, only this time against her. Threats to plant drugs on her and then arrest her. Threats to beat her up in the police station.

  Zidra felt that the two policemen who’d just visited would relish that sort of thing.

  ‘Lorna and Mick will be back soon,’ Jeff said. ‘Lucky they didn’t return while the pigs were here.’

  ‘She needs to get away from here,’ Zidra said.

  ‘Too bloody right,’ said Jeff.

  Chapter 30

  Since arriving at work that morning, Zidra hadn’t had a moment to herself. It may have been a long day but it was rewarding too, for now the Tuesday-morning edition of the Sydney Morning Chronicle was spewing out of the printing machines, with Zidra’s article on the front page. Piles of newspapers were being parcelled up and fed into the distribution network; they would travel into the heart of Sydney, into the suburbs, and on to the more distant towns of New South Wales. Bundles of papers were being loaded onto vans, onto trucks, onto trains, absorbed into the network connecting the communities of this vast state.

  And once Zidra’s piece had been read, other media would take up the story: radio and the television networks, and the press agencies, who would distribute it to all the other states and territories, including the federal capital. There it would cause an uproar, Zidra knew. For it was the coalition government that had allowed this police state to develop, that had used the security intelligence organisation as a tool for its own political purposes.

  Although Zidra’s article did not prove this, it was what she suspected. It was what Joe Ryan suspected. It was what thousands of others like them suspected. Her article dealt only with the specifics. It made clear the type of blackmail in which the intelligence arm of the New South Wales Police was engaged, and the Special Projects Section of ASIO too.

  Time and time again Zidra inspected the front page of the Chronicle, which was spread out on the table next to her desk. Though she knew her article off by heart, it gave her a glow of pride just looking at it and at its continuation on page two. Occasionally, when no one was looking, she ran her hand over the newsprint and each time felt a thrill of excitement. To think that she could have written that, the girl from Jingera, a place no one from Sydney or Melbourne had ever even heard of.

  ‘It’s dedicated to you, Jim Cadwallader,’ she whispered. ‘To your memory. To my very best friend, and the love of my life.’

  She retrieved a handkerchief from her handbag and blew her nose loudly before inspecting her face in the compact mirror. She looked exhausted but she certainly wasn’t going to miss the celebrations in the pub across the road. ‘My shout,’ Joe had said. ‘You deserve it.’

  I deserve it, and so too does Lorna, Zidra thought as she absent-mindedly powdered her nose. While Lorna wasn’t her only contact, she was the most important one. It was Lorna who’d taken all those risks to obtain hard evidence. Lorna who’d recorded Steve trying to blackmail her and more. Lorna who’d recorded him saying explicitly that the goal of his activities was to damn the Aboriginal-land-rights movement. Few people would like this. Certainly not the Aborigines, certainly not the growing number of Labor Party supporters. For different reasons the coalition government wouldn’t like this either, for there was to be an election next year. The prospects don’t look good, Zidra thought, for the prime minister or his government.

  This country was becoming a police state, she reflected as she ran her fingers through her unruly hair before peering ag
ain at the tiny mirror in the compact. It was the Labor government who’d set up the security organisation after the Second World War, prodded by pressure from Britain and the United States. But how far should this surveillance go, she wondered. What should it be used for? Would it ever be feasible to monitor whoever was drawing the line between surveillance for national security and surveillance for political purposes? What was clear was the necessity of stopping misuse of all the information that was accumulating, hour after hour, day after day, week after week.

  She put her powder compact into her handbag before calling Lorna’s house. The phone rang and rang but no one answered. After this she made a half-hearted attempt to tidy her desk. Was it going to be possible in the longer term to limit the amount of information collected by the authorities? Probably not. Technology would change, new methods of snooping would be devised.

  She picked up the telephone again. After dialling Lorna’s number, she listened to the ringing while she hummed the theme tune from The Avengers, her favourite television program. At the ninth ring, the phone was picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Jeff. Is Lorna home?’

  ‘She’s gone out. It’s Zidra, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I should have said.’

  ‘It’s okay, I recognised your voice.’

  ‘Did she get back all right last night?’

  ‘Yes, but not till very late.’

  ‘Thank heaven. I was worried. Have you had any more visits from the cops?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Can you tell Lorna to phone me when she gets back?’

  ‘You bet, though not if it’s after midnight.’

  She laughed and hung up.

  By the time Zidra unlocked the front door of her house, it was well after eleven o’clock. Lisa and Joanne were in bed and the house was in darkness. Although she still felt on a high, fatigue and disappointment that she hadn’t seen Lorna were starting to creep around the edges of her euphoria.