On the Run

By Derek Mortimer

Lexie Love, is eighteen, ambitious, living in a share house in Sydney, and doing what she loves most, writing. She is in her first year at uni and has just won a prize in a short story writing comp – a secret she is about to announce on her blog.
She works in a fast-food joint where she has befriended Hakim, an Afghan refugee, a shy young man with a passion for photography.
Everything is going fine – until some of Hakim’s photos of iconic Sydney locations appear on a Middle East terrorist web site, allegedly as potential bomb targets. Hakim is accused of terrorism. He escapes a police raid on his house, and pleading his innocence, begs Lexie for help.
She is torn between loyalty to a friend, respect for the law, and fear for her own safety if she helps. Lexie chooses loyalty – and a growing love.
This sets the scene for a fast-paced story in which the fugitives narrowly avoid capture as they flee to a hideaway at Lexie’s family orchard, then, a cave in the bush.
Lexie’s loyalty is tested as she confronts her attempted abduction, a murder threat, and betrayal.
She, Hakim and her parents, are hounded by Federal Police, racists, and an ambitious young journalist, Daniel Rubenstein.
Following an unlikely alliance Hakim and Lexie return to Sydney where they are hidden by a group of sympathisers. Lexie organises Hakim’s escape as a stowaway on a ship to New Zealand where they can perhaps be together sometime in the future. But the plan goes horribly wrong and Hakim ends up where he started – an asylum seeker stranded in Asia. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Mortimer
• Release date: Oct 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310289644

Derek Mortimer

I live in Sydney, Australia, and grew up in Bradford, Yorkshire, the then, industrial north of England, a place of mills, mines and muck. But, beyond the cities were sweeping moors that seemed to go on forever, an exciting landscape for a boy to explore. Which is probably why when I moved to Australia I fell in love with the great open spaces of the Snowy Mountains – and the sea. I love ocean swimming, and ocean swimming is also a journey across space.I’m lucky in the sense that I am at home in two countries; in one I am an immigrant, in the other an emigrant. Some of my stories reflect this duality, the immigrant’s life, and the days of childhood in another country. I have an Australian wife, two daughters who were born in England but grew up in Australia, two Australian-born granddaughters, and countless members of an extended family on both sides of the world.

Book preview

Chapter 1

From the window I can see a figure standing in a dark corner of the shelter. His face is hidden under a red hoodie. At three o’clock on a winter morning he’s not waiting for a bus, that’s for sure. I leave my room, sneak down the stairs and open the door.

The night’s silent. Not even a wailing cop car or an ambulance. I stand on the top step of the front veranda looking across at him. When he detaches himself from the bus shelter and walks towards me, I go back inside and wait at the bottom of the stairs.

He slips through the front door like a cat, closes it softly, and follows me up the stairs into my room. I lock the door behind us and breathe again. He pulls back the hood of his jacket.

You alright? I whisper.

Yes, Lexie.

Anyone know you came?

I don’t think so.

Let’s hope.

I’ve hardly slept since he texted me, asking for help. It’s over a week. I wasn’t even sure he was going to come. I’d half expected the police to arrive before he did.

I planned to spend a few days on catch-up sleep at the end of semester; so much for that.

I remove my jacket from the chair at my desk and he sits.

Hungry? He nods. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll give him my usual, pasta and vegies. I’m not a vegetarian; it’s just cheaper, and better than that crap takeaway from where we both worked – until he took off in such a hurry and the cops came sniffing around. It’s good that he’s OK, more or less. I was worried. Really, really worried. Now that he’s here I realise just how worried.

He doesn’t look too good. Instead of the spunky, swarthy young guy I knew, there’s a skinny, pale one. His eyes are bloodshot. The hair that was neatly cropped and shiny black is sticking up all over the place – and it’s not a style statement. He hasn’t shaved. The black beard that he must have got rid of because he was on the run is growing back, thick and stubbly as a rug. Yuk.

The red hoodie with the number 22 in large black numerals is the same as the one he wore to work. In the street he always looked like any other young guy from Bankstown or Lakemba. The jacket and trackie pants are splashed with mud. He wraps his hands around a black beanie, twisting it backwards and forwards like he’s wringing fear out.

I eventually remember to give him a drink of water, clear my laptop and notebook off the desk.

Give me twenty minutes and I’ll have a feed for you, I whisper.

I shut the door softly behind me and sneak past Kelly’s bedroom. I don’t have to worry about Matt, he’s on the other end of the landing. He’s out till late every night at some activist meeting or other. When he is home he sleeps like the proverbial log.

I get the vegies from the fridge and chop them quietly. I lift a wok from the pile of crockery on the draining board without causing an avalanche, set it gently down on the gas cooker and drizzle in some oil. When blue smoke rises I scrape the vegies into the wok and turn up the heat.

It’s amazing how much noise you make stirring a wok full of vegies. When they’re cooked I manoeuvre them into a bowl, find an apple that’s not too wrinkled, grab a spoon and fork, and take everything upstairs.

I’m struggling to open my bedroom door when a sleepy voice over my shoulder says, Lemme. Kelly. She reaches forward and, before I can stop her, she’s swung the door wide open. Didn’t know you were into midnight feasts, she mutters as she shuffles off to the loo.

Chapter 2

I step through, balancing the food, and just about having a nervous breakdown. Hakim is standing petrified in the middle of the floor.

She didn’t see you, I assure him as I push the door closed with my foot. He’s not convinced.

Trust me. I know Kelly. If she’d seen you we’d both know about it. She’s not one for keeping her mouth shut.

Hakim nods. I put the food on the desk. He relaxes a bit. He takes a camera from a pocket in his hoodie. Always the camera. Hakim thinks in pictures. He once told me it keeps him sane. What’s driving him insane?

From the other pocket he takes a battery charger and a mobile phone. He sits in the space I’ve made at the desk and gulps the food as I watch.

When did you last eat?

He pauses long enough to shake his head and wave his fork in the air as if to indicate the direction of the past. Two days, I think.

Eh! Not so fast, you’ll make yourself sick. You eat like a baby bird.

He looks as though he’s going to ask what the hell I’m talking about, but I don’t think he has the energy.

Slow down, slow down. Have more, later, I tell him. He pauses, then nods. I watch in silence as he devours everything.

He puts down his fork. A smile almost appears. Thank you. Very much. I know you are taking a risk. You are… He doesn’t finish what he was going to say, but nods instead and looks directly at me with his dark eyes. It makes me feel funny.

Do you wanna sleep? I ask.

He shakes his head.

You wanna talk? I need to know what’s happened since I last saw him, and since I promised to help. God, I hope this is the right thing to do. It’s not something I can post on my Facebook and say, Hey guys, I’ve got this problem, it’s not a story, it’s real. I’ve got a friend who cops say’s a terrorist. He says he isn’t. I believe him but how do I know? He’s on the run. Should I help him?

Hakim clears his throat. The photos I sent you. Remember?

Yeah, of course I do. The Harbour Bridge, Circular Quay, Opera House, Central Station. All of them. Awesome. Particularly Central Station. My favourite. It is so beautiful. The way you’ve captured the light, and the people hurrying to catch the trains. You should enter it into a competition.

Someone told the police I was taking them to help terrorists find places to bomb.

Whaaaat! It’s so stupid it’s almost funny. "Who told them? Who knew?"

You, and those guys who used to come into the takeaway. I showed them one or two.

Which guys?

The Afghans.

Why would they be interested?

"They were friendly and we talked about home. One was from the same region. I told them about my photos, I thought they were interested. So I sent them some. They were interested but for a different reason to me. I was stupid. We did not talk much after that. No one else knows."

Not quite. I suddenly remember Emma. We all worked together at the fast-food place. The guys who kept coming in were Afghan, like Hakim. They ignored us, Emma and me and the other girls, and only wanted to talk to Hakim.

I showed Emm some. She thought they were awesome too.

"Why? They were for you."

"I didn’t know that. But that still doesn’t explain what’s happened. Emm might have shown some to Shaun."

Shaun’s the manager at the takeaway. Emm and he were kinda together once. He was always trying crack onto me, but I kept him at bay. He’s a dick. He said I prefer wogs to Aussies, and that meant him. Which is true. I do prefer wogs to him – I prefer anybody to him. God knows why Emm would hang with such a jerk. I don’t give Hakim all the details. I just tell him, Shaun’s a tool. And he’s jealous of you.

Me? Hakim’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. Why?

Because we’re friends, you an’ me. And I wouldn’t go out with him. Like I said, he’s a tool. He might have spread vindictive stories to the cops.

Vindictive?

Mean. Nasty. Wanting to get his own back on you.

Hakim sips his water. Police take my computer. I arrive home and see them. They were dressed in white suits with hoods and were coming out of my house. Police with guns tried to arrest me. For taking pictures! I run. I run away into the storm water drains. They chased me with dogs.

This is totally un-be-lievable. Hakim, you’ve got to give yourself up and show they were just pictures.

Hakim gets to his feet. He stands in front of me, dishevelled and exhausted. How do you prove that?

I don’t really know but I tell him, With evidence. If you run you look guilty.

Hakim laughs, more a snort than a laugh. Police? Courts! It’s the same as in my country.

"No, it’s not."

For you maybe. Not me. I’m a Muslim. They will send me back and I’ll be killed.

We’ll find a free lawyer. Matt will know how.

He laughs. You don’t understand. Your life is safe. You are Aussie.

Maybe he’s right, there’s a near hysteria about asylum seekers and terrorists. Why would they believe Hakim instead of Shaun or whoever dobbed him in? The police will know he emailed me the photos and the message wanting help. They’ll be here looking for him. Soon. We’ve got to get out. But to where?

Chapter 3

I tell him to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning. He says he’s not tired. I spread cushions on the bit of clear floor at the foot of the bed and give him a blanket. When I come back from the loo, he has already collapsed into sleep. So much for not being tired.

I’ve come this far but I’m not sure what to do now. It’s OK feeling sorry for him and saying I’ll help. But how? Hakim’s a friend and I was worried sick when he stopped coming to work and didn’t Facebook or text me. I like him, a lot, but we weren’t together or anything. He never talked much. Up to now it’s been photos between him and me instead of words. Now those photos are dangerous.

What if he won’t go to the police because he is a terrorist?

He lies in front of me curled up sleeping, his hands between his knees. His mouth’s open a bit. He looks like he’s exhausted after kicking a ball around the paddock with his mates all day. But I don’t think that’s been his world, playing with a ball. I don’t know what Hakim’s world was before he came here.

He could end up in jail – me too. I bet the sentence for aiding a terrorist is heaps. I could spend half my life in jail, or all of it.

When I get stuck with uni assignments or a story in my creative writing course, I check out my favourite author, Stephen King. He said somewhere, If your eyes are open, you'll know which way to go or when to turn back. Was he talking about writing, or real life? Whichever, I think my eyes are open.

I have to help. An’ it could make an awesome story. God! Here I go, thinking of me again. First I have to deal with Hakim. Whether he likes it or not I’ve got to persuade him to face the cops.

Which way to go…when to turn back? What if I discover Hakim really is a terrorist and not just some shy, awkward guy? Will I be able to turn back?

Hakim once told me that the only person he’s close to in Australia is his brother Kaleem in Melbourne. But I got the feeling that he left Melbourne to get away from him – and maybe others. I think he’s got no one in Sydney to trust but me. God knows why, I mean, he’s twenty-one, two years older than me, and he’s been here nearly two years – yet he doesn’t seem to have mates.

I step over him. I spread a couple of towels and my jacket across his body and climb into bed. I wish I had more blankets for him.

He’s like a dog lying there on the floor. Better not tell him that, though. Muslims hate dogs for some reason. Why would you hate dogs? Where can I hide him? There must be somewhere in a country as big as Australia. Eventually I fall asleep and have nightmares. I’m in a tunnel, running. I’m not sure who or what I’m running from. There’s water and darkness. I run, run, run and can’t get out.

I’m half awake, then asleep again. They say you never go back to the same nightmare. But I do. It’s the tunnel. And running, running, running.

Something keeps tugging me out of sleep, nudging me to the edges of wakefulness, but it’s not strong enough to bring me all the way back. I fret the night away like this. Then I wake up. Grey dawn’s seeping through the windows of the glassed-in veranda.

I’m scared out of my brain to hear a barely audible voice from the foot of the bed. A man stands and is silhouetted in front of the window. He keeps talking but he’s looking out the window, not at me. He bends and disappears behind the foot of the bed again, still talking.

Chapter 4

I’m so frightened I can’t breathe. I don’t know whether to scream or pretend I’m still asleep.

Then I remember, Hakim.

I realise he is saying dawn prayers. I lay in silence as he completes the ritual. My panic ebbs slowly. He moves closer to the window and stands looking into the road.

Hakim, I whisper.

He turns in surprise. Sorry did I wake you?

Yeah. You did. I’d forgotten you were here. But it’s OK. Did you sleep?

A little.

I forgot to show you where the bathroom is.

I found it.

Did anyone see you?

No, they are asleep.

You must have been cold. Sorry, but I’ve…

No. It was fine. Sleeping is difficult always.

Why?

Things that happened.

I wait for more but it doesn’t come. I climb out of bed, wrap the doona around myself and head to the shower. The place stinks of damp and mould – as per usual. As I stand, letting the warm water run over my face and worrying what the hell to do next, it comes to me. I dry myself and get dressed quick as I can.

Back in my room I tell Hakim, "My mum and dad live on an orchard, a long way from Sydney.