Comeback Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Before

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  Author’s note

  COMEBACK

  Lindsay Tanner was the minister for finance and deregulation in the Rudd–Gillard governments, and held the seat of Melbourne for the Australian Labor Party from 1993 to 2010. Having retired from politics at the 2010 federal election, he is now a special adviser to Lazard Australia, a vice-chancellor’s fellow and adjunct professor at Victoria University, and the president of the Essendon Football Club. Mr Tanner is the author of several other books, including Politics with Purpose (2012) and Sideshow (2011). Comeback is the sequel to Comfort Zone (2016).

  Scribe Publications

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  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

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  First published by Scribe 2019

  Copyright © Lindsay Tanner 2019

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  9781925713909 (paperback edition)

  9781925693584 (e-book)

  A CiP entry for this title is available from the National Library of Australia.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  scribepublications.com

  In memory of Mary Day, who made everything possible

  Before Comeback, there was Comfort Zone

  Jack van Duyn was stuck in his comfort zone. A pot-bellied, round-shouldered cabbie in his mid-fifties, Jack lived alone, had few friends, and got very little out of life. He had a negative opinion of most other people — especially refugees, bankers, politicians, and welfare bludgers.

  Jack didn’t know it, but his life was about to be turned upside down. A minor altercation in a kids’ playground at an inner-city high-rise estate catapulted Jack into a whirlpool of drug-dealing, ASIO intrigue, international piracy, and criminal violence. And he couldn’t escape, because he didn’t want to: he’d fallen in love with Farhia, a beautiful Somali single mother who was at the centre of it all.

  The ensuing turmoil forced Jack to confront some unpleasant truths about himself. After spending decades in the doldrums, could he turn his life around?

  1.

  It sounded like a jack-hammer. His clock said 7.30 am, so it couldn’t be. Maybe it was just his hangover. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Okay, it was a jack-hammer. And it wasn’t inside his head, it was outside his bedroom window.

  Jack groaned, altered his sprawl under the blankets, and lay there for a few moments. The noise didn’t stop. Now I know why they call it a jack-hammer.

  He threw off the blankets, stood up slowly, and pulled on his work pants and a faded-blue jumper. No socks were in sight, so he slipped on his shoes without them and staggered into the bathroom.

  The mirror told a sorry tale: a crooked nose poking out from a blotchy, battered face above uneven yellow teeth. And was his left eyelid drooping a bit?

  ‘Erghh. Fuck!’ he spluttered at the empties on the coffee table. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

  The noise was driving him crazy. What in the hell was going on next door?

  A quick look out of the kitchen window brought no enlightenment. The protruding brick-work made it hard to see everything, and it sounded like the jack-hammering was coming from the backyard.

  Jack was accustomed to life in the less-attractive reaches of the housing market, but this was too much. What gave them the right to disrupt his well-earned sleep — particularly when he had a world-class hangover? He couldn’t think of anyone he could complain to, though, so there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  He tossed back a glass of tepid water, groped around for the Nurofen packet he knew was hiding somewhere in the mess, then ventured outside. An early spring chill greeted him as he walked slowly out onto the street, head still thumping, and into the next-door property that had apparently just become a building site.

  He stepped through a gap in the temporary fencing into a small frontyard already surrendering to piles of rubble and mud. A figure towards the back, partly obscured by the corner of the apartment block, looked like the culprit. As Jack was debating whether to tackle him about the noise — a pointless exercise, he knew, but it might make him feel better — another man appeared at his side.

  ‘What’s up, mate? Not supposed to be here, you know, building site …’

  His stubbies, dirty Rossi boots, fluoro vest, and union-branded T-shirt confirmed Jack’s initial impression.

  ‘What’re you guys doing? Do you have to start jack-hammering this early? My day off, trying to sleep …’

  ‘Tarting the joint up, mate — everything bar knocking it down. Getting rid of the concrete at the back, redoing the cladding, doing up inside. Falling apart. Sorry about the noise — just finishing stuff at the back from yesterday arvo. Got to get a move-on.’ Another burst from the jack-hammer all but drowned out the last words.

  He seemed like a decent bloke who probably liked a beer as much as Jack did. His belligerence fading, Jack took a quick look around the mess of temporary fencing and threatening signs. He’d got home a bit late the day before, and hadn’t noticed any of it.

  ‘Shit, it’s a dump alright. Well, leave you to it then …’

  Pretending to retreat, he snuck back around to have another look at the front of the building. There was a pile of stuff on the front verandah he’d been wanting to check out for a while, in case it contained a working microwave he could salvage. Now the place was definitely empty, there was nothing to stop him.

  No microwave was in sight, but he did spot a CD player that looked usable. He decided to go and ask if it was okay if he grabbed it.

  The man who’d wielded the jack-hammer was now hard at work stripping cladding from the side of the building. The bloke he’d chatted with earlier was attacking the cladding on the top storey. He was perched on the second-highest rung of a stretch ladder, leaning towards a small balcony.

  Catching the eye of the man at ground level, Jack called out: ‘Hey, mate, what’s the—’

  He was interrupted by a jumble of sudden noises: a loud curse, a scream, and a clatter. Instinctively he looked up. The man on the ladder was clinging to the edge of the balcony, stretching out almost horizontally from the top of the ladder, which was standing on one leg at an alarming angle. The crowbar he had been using now lay on the ground below him.

  ‘Dan! Grab the fucking …’

  Unable to move, Jack stood staring at him. The other worker ran along the path towards him, but he was too late.

  ‘Jesus …!’ he screamed as he lost his grip on the balcony ledge, scrabbled helplessly while trying to regain it, then fell seven or eight metres to the ground. He lay sprawled across a small garden bed and a rough concrete doorstep, the ladder lying beside him.

  Jack rushed over and
looked down at the broken body lying awkwardly across the flower-bed. He wasn’t moving, and he seemed to be staring at the window of Jack’s flat.

  With no idea what to do, Jack leaned over the man, wondering if he should try to move him. The other man knelt down beside his workmate’s head.

  ‘Jesus! Oh, fucking Jesus, no!’

  Realisation began to dawn as Jack looked at the stricken man’s face again: he was still staring up at Jack’s window.

  Raw bile began rising inside him. His legs started to shake. His head was pounding, and he had to lean against the side of the building for support. Finally, he found some words.

  ‘Is he …?’

  ‘Looks like it. Got to call the ambos …’ The worker pulled out his phone and, with shaking hands, dialled 000.

  ‘Um … need an ambulance. Twenty-three Balmoral Avenue in Brunswick. Bloke’s come off a ladder, looks like he’s broken his neck … might be dead.’

  He stood up and turned towards Jack: ‘I told them stupid pricks we needed scaffolding. Crooked arseholes, won’t spend a fucking cracker … now this.’ He shook his head slowly, fighting back tears.

  The ground beneath Jack started to wobble. He felt like he was going to faint.

  Barely able to stagger, he took a few steps along the side of the building, heaved violently, and vomited all over the footpath. His senses were drowning in rancid beer and pizza fumes as his stomach churned. The hangover had just been turbo-charged.

  The time it took for the ambulance to arrive seemed like an eternity, but was actually only seven or eight minutes. Jack thought there was a depot somewhere in Coburg, not that far away. Of course, you never knew what other jobs they might have on. As a taxi-driver he had some sympathy for the ambos — they had no control over their schedules.

  Two youngish-looking men in blue-and-white uniforms leapt out of the ambulance and took charge. Jack stepped back, relieved that professionals were now taking over. With amazing speed, they set about dealing with the lifeless body.

  ‘Poor bastard had a good run up till now. I’m Dan, by the way’, the worker confided, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, still struggling to hold back the tears.

  ‘Yeah — Jack, mate. Sorry about chucking and all that, had a big night.’

  ‘He’s only about forty or so.’ Dan shook his head, sadness flooding his features.

  ‘Just horrible …’ Jack could hardly speak.

  ‘Better call the boss, I suppose. And the union. Time someone sorted these shits out.’

  ‘Union?’

  ‘CFMEU.’ Dan pointed to the union logo on his shirt. ‘Me and Paul are both in it, you know. Usually work on big sites, but things are quiet. So we end up doing shit stuff like this for crooks.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack didn’t know what to say. His heart was still beating rapidly, and his headache was getting worse. ‘Er … leave you to it, mate.’

  ‘Thanks for helping out, mate. Live around here?’

  ‘Yeah, next door.’ Jack pointed in the general direction of his flat. ‘Number seven, up the top at the back. I’m a cabbie. My day off.’ He felt obliged to explain why he wasn’t heading off to work.

  ‘No worries.’

  Jack walked slowly back to his flat, still unsteady on his feet. His anger at the jack-hammering was forgotten. Throwing up had made him feel a bit better, but he couldn’t get the horror of the accident out of his mind. He knew he’d have nightmares about lifeless eyes staring up at his window for a while. It was all so arbitrary, so random. One minute, the bloke was hard at work stripping down a decrepit block of flats; the next, he was lying dead on the ground.

  After splashing cold water on his face, Jack sat down on the couch to settle himself. He took a few deep breaths, ran his fingers though his hair, and gritted his teeth. Life had to go on, after all. And it wasn’t as if he knew the bloke.

  The mundane tasks that usually occupied his day off began to surface in his mind: buying a few essentials from the supermarket, possibly making a trip to the laundromat at the top end of Lygon Street, maybe even doing a bit of cleaning. He had to supervise basketball training in the afternoon — he coached the Brunswick Bullets Under-12s — but that was close to home. It would only knock about an hour and a half out of the day.

  After a basic breakfast — just a few pieces of toast and an instant coffee strong enough to blow away what was left of his hangover — Jack set out to tackle his supermarket shopping. It was early, so he’d avoid the usual crowds. All those middle-aged women gossiping in the middle of the aisle, the decrepit pensioners hovering over the shelves searching for Gravox, the small children darting in and out of the trolleys, it all got on his nerves. Shopping was an irritating chore. The fact that some people enjoyed it was completely mystifying to him.

  Locating his wallet under an empty pizza box on the couch, Jack ambled out into the crisp, clear morning. His headache was beginning to fade.

  Making his way along Lygon Street towards the supermarket meant weaving through wandering pedestrians, piles of wicker baskets and cheap handicrafts, shift-workers spilling out of all-night cafés, and stalls of fresh vegetables. He marvelled at the incredible variety of fashion choices — from Mohawk to hijab, and everything in between. A soundtrack of accelerating cars, obscure languages, jingling tram bells, and raucous laughter threatened to revive his hangover.

  Jack wandered around Condello’s IGA supermarket, struggling to concentrate on the task at hand: ice-cream, tea-bags, a bit of cheap steak, Vegemite, milk, a loaf of white bread on special, and a few bananas. Did he need toilet paper? He couldn’t remember.

  ‘How’s it going, Mrs C?’ he greeted Mrs Condello at the checkout. Jack qualified as a regular, one of a diminishing number of fixtures in an ever-changing landscape.

  ‘Ah, Jack, things they are not good. Giovanni, his wife, she has left him. My husband, he is not good’ — she paused and tapped her right hand on her chest — ‘maybe have operation’.

  ‘That’s no good. Give him my best. We’re all getting on a bit.’

  Having unburdened herself, Mrs Condello lightened up. ‘A little something for you? I have some beautiful cheese …’

  Jack didn’t like exotic cheeses, but he knew better than to say no to Mrs Condello’s little freebies.

  ‘You don’t have to, Mrs C. That’s really good of you, but …’

  ‘You try some, you like it … I promise …’

  ‘Okay, just a small bit, thanks …’

  ‘You are good man, Jack. Too many people, they come, steal things, eat things … ah, the young people.’ She shook her head theatrically. Jack nodded in sympathy.

  His hangover began rebounding as he walked home. Another strong coffee was clearly in order. He waved absent-mindedly to the old man in the shoe-repair shop on the corner. He still didn’t know the bloke’s name, but he’d been saying hello to him for years.

  Curiosity got the better of Jack, so he took a quick look at the building site again. There was no one around now, and the temporary fencing was completely sealed. There was no sign of the ladder. It was as if the accident hadn’t even happened.

  A few hours fiddling around in the flat helped to soften the impact of the accident. Jack tidied up the empties from the previous night, opened a couple of windows to let in some fresh air and reduce the single-man smell, and washed a few dishes. Once these immediate house-keeping tasks were dealt with, he dozed on the couch, channel-hopped on the TV, and read some of the newspaper from the day before that he had picked up on a tram.

  Just as he was about to leave for his basketball game, his phone rang.

  ‘Hi, is that Jack? It’s Emily here, remember …?’

  ‘Oh, hi Emily. Yeah, sure, of course I remember. How’s it going?

  ‘Up and down. CFS gets me a bit, but I got the flat all sorted out … finally.’

 
CFS? Oh yeah — chronic fatigue syndrome.

  ‘Just thought I’d check about catching a movie, like we said …’

  Jack was dumbstruck. He’d met Emily at the Somali Welfare Centre and helped her move into a new flat, but the initial connection hadn’t gone anywhere. She was attractive in a kooky, out-there kind of way, but Jack hadn’t quite known how to respond to the signals suggesting she might be interested in him. But this signal was too direct to ignore.

  ‘Um, yeah, that’d be great. What about tomorrow night?’

  ‘How about I meet you at the welfare centre around six? Give us time to go to a café or something. I’ll check out what’s on. What kind of movies do you like?’

  ‘Pretty much anything, I guess. You choose. I like thrillers and action stuff. Comedy, even romantic stuff, you know.’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, see you then.’

  Jack ended the call, and a smile spread over his face. The accident was fading into the deeper recesses of his mind. The world had just become a nicer place.

  His mind awash with visions of Emily, he grabbed his keys and went in search of his faithful bomber jacket. It would be getting cold outside: spring days in Melbourne usually did in the afternoon.

  2.

  Vivid memories came flooding back as Jack opened the creaking security door at the Somali Welfare Centre. Located at the base of one of the giant public-housing tower blocks on Lygon Street, the small, cluttered office had been the site of a brawl with a Somali thug called Abdirahman, and his first meeting with Emily.

  A faint, musty smell wafted over him as he stepped into a familiar scene of noise, colour, and movement. Emily was standing amongst several colourfully attired Somali women and small children, deep in conversation. A few moments passed before she noticed him.

  ‘Hey, Jack, great you’re here! Can you help us put this poster up? It’s a bit heavy.’ She pointed to a large ‘Say No to Racism’ poster that was lying on a desk.

  ‘Sure, no worries.’ Emily had an incredible ability to put people at ease. None of the usual ‘How are things?’ or ‘Do you think it’s going to rain?’ Emily was different: she just got on with it.