Comeback Read online

  ‘We want to put it up here, but it’s a bit too heavy to hold while we muck around getting the wire onto the hooks. You’re nice and strong: can you hold it while Hodan and I hook it up?’

  Jack glowed. He was already back in that pleasant zone of a couple of months back. Round-shouldered, grumpy, fiftyish cabbie Jack was fading into tall, strong, reliable Jack. Emily always managed to make him feel good about himself. The way she approached even the humblest activities with him made his confidence soar.

  With a flourish, he lifted the poster above his head and held it against the wall.

  ‘Here okay?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Emily grabbed one of the broken office chairs scattered about the room, and gestured for Hodan to do likewise. It wasn’t long before Jack’s arms began to hurt, but he refused to show it.

  After a lot of fiddling and a couple of false starts, they finally got the poster into place. Emily stood back and admired it from a distance.

  ‘Just a fraction down on the left, I think.’ Jack edged it away from him accordingly.

  ‘That’s it. Wonderful — thanks, Jack. Wouldn’t have been able to do it if you weren’t here.’

  Jack was enjoying himself, but was also wondering when this working bee would transform into the date they had planned.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  With the daylight beginning to fade and trams rattling past them, they strolled down Lygon Street. They weren’t quite hand in hand, but in Jack’s mind they might as well have been.

  ‘How’re you feeling? You know, the illness and all that?’

  ‘Pretty good at the moment. This morning was bad, had a rough night last night — stupid meeting.’

  Jack was surprised by the sudden irritation in her tone. ‘How come?’

  ‘Tell you about it later. Come on, just down here.’ She put her arm inside Jack’s, and steered him around the corner into Elgin Street.

  The restaurant was a tiny Lebanese café. Melancholy Middle Eastern music echoed around them as a bleary-eyed waiter handed them a menu and laid out cutlery.

  ‘You into tabouleh? I love it. Middle Eastern food’s great, don’t you think?’

  ‘Er, yeah, guess so. Don’t eat out much.’

  ‘It’s cheap, too.’

  Jack fell silent, embarrassed by this reminder of his humble status. A plate of hummus and pita bread arrived, and they nibbled away quietly.

  ‘So what happened at this meeting last night?’

  ‘Tenants Association? I’m a rep on the committee now. The government’s just told us they’re going to redevelop the estate. All sorts of stuff — pull down the old walk-ups, open up Drummond Street again, let a developer build a big pile of private apartments. It’s called a public–private partnership.’

  Jack had heard of the term, but he didn’t know much about it.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Place’s falling apart. Particularly the walk-ups.’ She paused to take another mouthful of food. ‘Government says they can’t afford to fix it all up, so they get a developer to do it and let them build private yuppy flats.’

  ‘So a bit of a shit-fight?’

  ‘Yeah. Tenants Association’s a bit divided. Worried about kids in the traffic, reckon the new private owners will eventually force us all out. Others think we should just try for the best deal we can get.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Don’t know. Meeting voted for a big campaign against it. Got to stick up a pile of posters, run off some leaflets, maybe go and see a few politicians …’

  ‘Happy to help if you need me, you know …’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. That’d be great. We’re having a bit of a get-together in the association office tomorrow arvo around four. You should come along. It’s at the other end of the building from the welfare centre. Big green door.’

  ‘I’ll come at the end of my shift. It’ll help me take my mind off yesterday.’

  ‘So what happened yesterday?’

  Jack gave her a brief outline of the accident, doing his best to sound tough and unaffected. His stomach was churning, though, as memories of the experience resurfaced. She was suitably shocked.

  Their conversation drifted onto movies. Emily seemed to know quite a lot about the cinema, and he felt a bit intimidated. His movie-watching experience was limited to little more than thrillers and blockbusters.

  ‘A lot of Hollywood stuff is rubbish, but they’re good at real-life stories about interesting people. That’s why I love Meryl Streep. Have you noticed how often she seems to play characters based on real people?’

  Trying not to show his ignorance, Jack mumbled a non-commital reply. It was time to change the subject.

  ‘Better get moving. I’ll just grab the bill.’ He didn’t wait for the waiter, but walked over to the cash register and paid as they were leaving. That made it easier to avoid paying a tip.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. I’m looking forward to this. The movie should be great.’ They had chosen to see Julie and Julia — or, rather, Emily had suggested it, and Jack had agreed.

  The movie wasn’t that great, but Jack didn’t mind. The story about a woman cooking every night did nothing for him, and he found Meryl Streep annoying. He resisted the temptation to put his arm around Emily or take her hand in his, but he still enjoyed the physical closeness, her faint scent, and the companionship. It was a long time since he’d been to the movies with a woman.

  A pleasant glow spread through his body as they left the theatre. But a harsh voice shattered his dreamy calm: ‘Hey, mate, any change?’ A dishevelled man crouching against the wall outside the theatre extended his hand. His long, matted hair dangled over a mottled, unshaven face and torn khaki jacket. A red beanie containing a few coins sat on the ground in front of him.

  ‘Kidding, mate? I drive cabs, she lives in the flats …’

  ‘Doing okay, then?’ he sneered at Jack.

  ‘I might have some …’ Emily said, fiddling around in the pocket of her jacket.

  Sensing he was on dangerous ground, Jack relented.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a few coins.’

  ‘Thanks, mate, appreciate it. Not everyone gets to live in the flats, you know. Been on the list for a few years … Hey! It’s Jack, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, yeah’, Jack replied cautiously. He usually ignored beggars and homeless people. Trying to impress Emily was turning into a bad move: somehow, this crumpled human wreck seemed to know him.

  ‘It’s Phil, man — you know, from the Royal Oak. Remember?’

  Jack vaguely recalled working as a barman with a bloke called Phil at the Royal Oak in Richmond, many years before. Could this actually be him?

  ‘Yeah, mate, long time ago. In a bit of strife?’

  ‘I get by, man. Can’t stay off the piss, can’t find anywhere to live. Used to be easy, years ago — now all the yuppies have squeezed everyone out. No more share houses, cheap rent, you know. Nowhere to go. If you’re in the high-rise, you’re doing okay.’

  ‘Emily is, but I’m in a rat-hole flat in Brunswick. Know what you mean.’

  ‘Hey, man, you still owe me a hundred, remember?’

  Jack stared at him. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’

  ‘The little bar down the side, remember? Lent you a hundred bucks, to help your sister — she was crook. You never paid me back.’

  ‘Got the wrong bloke, Phil. Sister’s never been crook in her life, and I wouldn’t help her if she was.’

  ‘Arsehole, when’re you going to pay me back? And interest, too … have to be a heap of interest …’ He trailed off into incoherent mumbling. Jack stretched a protective arm around Emily and shepherded her away, sending a parting shot at his accuser: ‘Stay off the booze, mate. It’s messing with your head.’

 
Turning into Lygon Street, a nasty thought struck him: would that be him in ten years’ time?

  ‘Good bloke, Phil — just couldn’t handle the grog. Sad to see him like that.’

  ‘Shows why the stuff about the estate matters. People like Phil, they’ve got to live somewhere. Have you noticed how many more homeless people there are on the streets these days?’ Emily sounded very earnest, so Jack kept his opinions about begging to himself.

  She took Jack’s hand in hers. He tingled with pleasure. He didn’t know what more to expect, but that didn’t matter.

  ‘I’ll walk up with you — flats can be dodgy late at night.’

  Jack was unsure how to press home the advantage, but felt conscious of the need to show he wanted to. Then he had an idea.

  ‘Hey, how’s the flat looking now?’ Helping Emily move her stuff into the new flat a couple of months ago surely gave him licence to inspect the outcome.

  ‘Getting there, but it’s still a bit messy. Hey, Jack, thanks for a great night, but I can feel the CFS taking over. I’ll catch you tomorrow.’ She gave him a quick peck on the cheek outside her flat, and that was that.

  Jack didn’t mind. His expectations were low, and they’d been well and truly exceeded. He wasn’t sure how to deal with the possibility of greater intimacy, and he was convinced it would be a disaster. And he was still struggling to put the horror of yesterday’s accident behind him. Better to live to fight another day.

  His sleep was an odd jumble of nightmares and fantasies — terrifying images of the dead man’s staring eyes, mingled with dreamy glimpses of Emily. He was tired and disoriented when he eventually squeezed himself into the cab the next morning.

  The day passed in a dreamy haze, as the pleasure of the previous evening washed slowly through him. It mightn’t have been much, but it was all he’d had for a very long time.

  As he sat well back in the queue at one of the Collins Street ranks, his day-dream was interrupted by a news item on the radio:

  Housing Minister Robert Eccles announced today that 473 new apartments will be built on the Carlton public housing estate, almost 200 of them private. He described the proposed public–private partnership as a landmark deal that will finance a major upgrade of deteriorating public housing stock at little cost to the taxpayer. However, the Public Tenants Union slammed the deal, claiming it would lead to the full privatisation of public housing in inner Melbourne.

  Interesting, Jack mused. Looks like this is going to be a big deal. He didn’t know what he thought about the issue, but that didn’t matter. Anything that gave him an excuse to be with Emily was fine with him.

  He’d been able to persuade his share-driver, Ajit, to do the changeover in Carlton, but not as late as he had hoped. At least he could go straight to the Tenants Association, so he was suitably thankful when Ajit appeared in Rathdowne Street a little after four o’clock.

  ‘Hi, mate, thanks for this. I owe you one.’

  ‘It is my pleasure’, Ajit responded. ‘I am doing contract work at a different call centre this week.’

  Ajit was tall and very thin, with profoundly Indian features. His sunny outlook on life suited Jack. Ajit was prepared to tolerate Jack’s grumpy demeanour and erratic changeover habits.

  ‘I hope you are getting excited about the Pakistan tour, Jack.’ Ajit was a cricket fanatic.

  ‘Haven’t really thought about it yet, mate. Too much else to worry about.’ Jack feigned some awareness of cricket to keep Ajit happy, but in reality he had little interest in the sport. Keeping their cab-share arrangement afloat was very important — reliable, honest partners were hard to come by — so he was prepared to fake it a bit.

  ‘I will be supporting Australia, of course. Ricky Ponting will murder them. He is still the best batsman in the world — apart from Tendulkar, of course, and maybe Dravid.’

  ‘Yeah, mate, he’s great. Might watch it on TV a bit, depends.’

  Ajit eased his lithe, lanky body into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Am I dropping you somewhere, Jack?’

  ‘No, seeing someone around the corner.’

  Ajit sped off, and Jack walked slowly up the hill. He was a little early, so there was no need to rush.

  There was something about the dull, grey-brown towers of the Carlton public housing estate that was grim and depressing. The bare ground surrounding the huge towers was little better: blotches of dead grass on a background of dirt, dust, and concrete. The vibrant colours of the kids’ playground stood out so much it didn’t seem quite real. The entire area smelled of clinker and spices.

  Jack knew that an interesting bunch of people lived inside these vast lumps of concrete, steel, and glass. Some of the flats were undoubtedly revolting inside — especially those inhabited by junkies — but he was in no position to criticise. And the few he’d been inside had felt surprisingly pleasant and comfortable. The estate was full of contradictions: it was friendly and dangerous, ugly and attractive, intimate and anonymous.

  He found the Tenants Association without too much difficulty. The big green door was half-open, and a lot of noise was drifting through the doorway. He soon found out why.

  The babble swept over him as he crossed the threshold into a large open room flanked by a couple of small glassed-in offices. He could hear people arguing, an old photocopier clattering, and a baby crying. Situation normal, he thought.

  There was no sign of Emily. A few older women sat around a large table in the centre of the room chattering cheerfully as they folded bits of paper. A small group of Somali women were conversing in their own language, possibly about the tiny baby one of them was holding. A compact, neatly dressed woman with grey hair was operating the photocopier while talking with the women at the table. And through the haze and confusion he could see a large man standing on one side of a desk in one of the offices, yelling at another man sitting on the other side. He could just make out what he was saying.

  ‘You are crook! They are bloody fascists … come here … No good, bloody bastards. All money-money-money.’ To emphasise his point, he leaned on the desk and made the traditional gesture with his thumb and forefinger under the other man’s nose.

  Then, without warning, the big man leaned across the desk with his arm extended, and swept all the papers and bits and pieces onto the floor. Bits of paper flew everywhere, staplers and plastic trays crashed onto office chairs, and a bust of Lenin fell into the rubbish bin.

  He then rose to his full height — he was even taller than Jack — and grabbed a large bookshelf standing against the side wall and slammed it down onto the desk. Books, reports, pieces of clothing, and small plastic containers flew everywhere. The other man cowered behind the desk, hands and arms raised to protect his face, as the avalanche spread across the office.

  The big man turned and stormed out of the office. He marched past the chattering women, who seemed only mildly interested in this outburst, and crashed right into Jack. At close quarters, he was a truly fearsome sight. His head seemed enormous, and his broad, creased, and scarred face crowned by dark hair swept straight back from the forehead gave him a very intimidating look. A faded leather jacket, stained pale-blue shirt, and crumpled jeans added to his sinister appearance.

  He started yelling again, and Jack noted the gaps in his yellowing, uneven teeth.

  ‘You must make him go! Bloody bastards! He is a fascist, takes money! I’m not going …’ He waved his hands right in front of Jack’s face for effect. ‘I won’t let them!’

  With a final flourish and a cry of ‘Pbah!’ he shoved Jack hard in the chest and stormed out of the office.

  Jack just managed to stay upright by grabbing the edge of the table. He was speechless. He’d turned up to help, and had walked right into a madman on a rampage.

  The man at the desk came over to him, a worried look on his face.

  ‘You okay, mate? Sorry abo
ut that — Marko goes off sometimes. Sure you’re okay? Grab a seat or something. He’s harmless, just a bit volatile …’

  Doesn’t look that harmless to me, Jack thought. He ignored the offer to sit.

  ‘Maybe grab a coffee … just instant, but hey …’

  Jack was puzzled. This bloke’s office had just been trashed, but he seemed more concerned about his visitor’s state of mind. He wondered how old he was — maybe early thirties?

  He was about medium height, slim, and dressed in a dull jumper, shirt, and trousers. His only distinctive feature was a mess of straggly red-brown hair framing a pudgy, unattractive face that looked flushed. Maybe he suffered from high blood pressure.

  Finally, Jack found his voice. ‘Er … no worries, mate. No drama. Just looking for Emily. Come around to help, you know …’

  ‘Oh, great. I’m Michael, by the way — Michael Dempsey. Tenant worker.’

  ‘Emily around?’

  ‘She was. Should be back soon. You a tenant?’

  ‘No, cab-driver. Friend of Emily’s. Said I could help. Er, I’m Jack.’ He was still shaken by the confrontation with the madman.

  ‘Great, no worries. Plenty of stuff to do.’

  ‘What’s that mad bastard on about?’

  ‘Lots of arguments about this PPP thing. He lives in the walk-ups that they’re going to pull down. It’s a shithole, but it’s his shithole. You know the story. Reckons the private flats will take over.’

  ‘Hi, Jack. Sorry I’m a few minutes late,’ Emily chirped from behind him. ‘How’s it going?’ And in a much less affectionate tone: ‘Hello again, Michael.’

  ‘Hi, Emily. Some big bloke just went nuts, trashed the office over there, but he’s nicked off,’ Jack said.

  ‘Want to help me do these posters?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Jack spent the next hour laboriously writing in details of a forthcoming public meeting into blank spaces on posters as Emily sat beside him doing the same. The office ebbed and flowed with people and activity around them.