An Inconvenient Terrorist
Stephen R Bailey
An Inconvenient Terrorist
Copyright © 2009 by Stephen R Bailey
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Stephen R Bailey
Published 2009 by Creswick Publishing
(Please note that this book is available in print at Amazon, Ingrams, Blackwells and others)
Smashwords Edition 1.0, November 2009
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*****
Chapter 1
‘Perfect,’ said the PM. ‘Only a week after the Act is passed, we catch our first fish.’ It was true. Seven days after the Anti Terrorism Bill had finally completed its meander through the upper house, somebody had been detained. Better still, he was Arabic. A Wog. A Dago. It was proof of everything that he had been saying. Even though it was very late, and he was supposed to be having dinner with his wife, this was a truly defining moment in his chequered political career. His Carpetbagger Steak at Antonio’s would have to wait.
Alan Chalmers had been groomed for great things for all of his privileged life. English preparatory schools had been followed by private educational academies around the world, a slightly disappointing 2.2 at Melbourne University and, after a great deal of political and financial arm-twisting by his Cabinet minister father, a Rhodes scholarship at Oxford. He had then entered the family mining business at a position that somewhat belied his publicity team’s claim that he started his working life as an apprenticed fitter, and had proceeded to generate a fortune during the guilt-free and highly corrupt decade of 1980’s Australia. It was, therefore, somewhat inevitable that he would be led by his father into the world of politics, upon the elder’s retirement in 1990, before investigation of his more questionable activities could be called into question.
Although his lack of political acumen was noted early, having his father’s name was seen as enough political adhesive to bind the more right-wing elements of the Liberal party together and his gaff ridden march to leadership was assured, something he duly attained shortly after the great events at the turn of the century.
His position as Prime Minister, however, had never been fully secure. His government had introduced a number of contentious new laws that had polarized public opinion in a way that had rarely happened before. Tighter gun laws had lost much of the bush vote, new migration legislation demanded that applicants understood the English language better than the average Australian citizen, and more recently, changes to employment regulations had seemingly undermined many workers’ rights. He had survived all of this and anti terror laws were his most recent contribution to governmental control.
Chalmers had secured support for this most contentious piece of legislation by using the ‘9/11’ card. ‘There is every chance that we will be targeted next’ he had trumpeted on his weekly radio address, every week for the previous four months. People had woken daily to Breakfast TV discussions about civil liberty, the protection of borders, suicide bombings, social disorder and identity cards. He knew that such blanket coverage was bound to have an effect but the outbreak of paranoia that had followed his broadcasts had been truly remarkable. There had been numerous reports of blue collar workers checking the underside of their vans, convinced that, for reasons that could not possibly be explained, they were targets for marauding bands of international bombers. Little old ladies were sitting for hours behind the lace curtains of their front rooms believing that when the invasion began, mobs of bearded warriors would stream through the gates of their retirement homes, taking them in the name of Islam. Even police-force members had been drawn into the climate of fear, refusing to venture out onto the streets without cars full of armaments that would do a Third World army proud. In this atmosphere Chalmers had known that he was always going to succeed.
‘What about the press?’
‘Euphoric,’ his press secretary told him. ‘Apart from the Melbourne Age, of course.’
‘That’s OK. It’s good to have a dissenting voice. It’s democratic.’ Chalmers smiled as he said this. The ‘Age’ had snapped at his heels throughout all of his campaigns. Civil Liberties had always been a ‘cause celebre’ of the newspaper and this was one that was more celebrated than most. The PM opened his drink fridge to celebrate his own contribution to democracy.
‘Where has he been taken, Lawrence?’
‘He’s in the Remand Centre at the moment. The police will take him to Barwon Jail in the morning,’ his secretary, Lawrence Parker, replied. Parker had been in his job for three years now, was always outwardly supportive of his political master, but had many misgivings regarding the Prime Minister’s political abilities, his questionable intelligence and most definitely suspect honesty. He had watched while political dogma had been gift-wrapped as economic or legal requirement, and this final Act was the icing on a very disturbing cake. Now, however, was not the time to air his increasing concerns. He had a job to do and while guilt was never far from the surface, an occasional look at his bank balance, expense account and accrued pension benefits was enough to ensure that his guilt never quite expressed itself.
‘We can hold him there for fourteen days before charging him, but I’ve talked to the Chief Prosecutor and he’s sure that under the terms of the new law, he’ll be in court in a few days,’ Parker continued.
‘And who’s got the case?’ Chalmers asked.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Abbot.’ Parker replied.
‘Wonderful,’ was all Chalmers needed to say. The State of Victoria’s top detective would investigate the open and shut case against Australia’s first true terrorist. He walked over to the fridge and got himself another beer.
Two hours earlier, Yoosuf Ahmet had had no idea that he was a terrorist. He barely even recognized himself as Arabic. He had been born in Australia, as had his father before him, and although there had been numerous, what could be called, racist encounters during his life, they were never serious enough for him alter his belief that the vast majority of people were good and, on that basis, all should be treated in an open and friendly manner. It was true that as a Muslim, his approach to many everyday things was different to that of a large majority of Australians, but he had always been secular in nature, and found the excesses of modern day Islam a threat to himself, his family and the country that he loved.
His generosity of spirit, however, was about to be sorely tested. This was Friday night in St. Kilda and if you wanted to see the worst that democracy had to offer, Friday night on Fitzroy Street certainly provided an insight. Sex, drugs, Rock and Roll, and groups of drunken morons who saw his kebab house as the final piece in their Friday night jigsaw. He cursed under his breath.
‘I heard that. I’ve told you before. Smile, be polite and take their money.’ Hasna, his wife of 20 years, went through this every week and she fully understood his frustration, In fact it would be fair to say that she held far more sympathy for the more radical of her religious brethren than did her husband, Having been brought up in a more orthodox family environment, she expected a greater degree of adherence to the values of the Koran than did Yoosuf, even though she acknowledged that most people she met had never even seen a copy of the Great Book, let alone read any of it, After all, it’s message of love, peace and goodwill to one’s neighbour was a fundamental of most religions, so what was so difficult?
As annoying as she found many people’s behaviour, however, it was she that looked after the books and keeping up a façade was a small price to pay when, in two hours time, they could close and go upstairs to their flat, safe in the knowledge that one night’s aggravation had paid the week’s rent.
She wasn’t to know, however, that this was to be no normal Friday. After serving two groups of unusually reserved year twelve students, out celebrating end of term exams, the door of the shop exploded inwards, throwing up five extremely loud and drunken twenty-somethings. As they approached the counter, giggling and preceded by an invisible mist of alcohol fumes, Yoosuf turned to face the group, forced a weak smile and began the tedious job of establishing exactly what these Neanderthals wanted.
‘Good evening lads. What can I get for you?’ he asked through a smile that would have done a politician proud. The befuddled group seemed surprised that anyone else was in the room. Since entering the shop they had spent the time adjusting themselves to the shop’s fluorescent lights, and the fact that the last eight pots of beer, sculled during bar games at the Greyhound Hotel, had had enough of meandering around their flabby bodies, and were now making straight for the weakest part of their systems.
‘Wot?’
‘Wot ya say?’
‘Who said that?’ said another. Wonderful, Yoosuf thought to himself. Progress.
‘I just asked what it was you would like to eat.’ He now had their attention and knew that he could begin to prepare five large donner kebabs with extra chilli and garlic sauce. It was always the same. They get drunk, eat something foreign and as hot as they could get it, and then fall asleep while attempting sexual positions with their girlfriends that they couldn’t possibly accomplish while sober. He shuddered to think. While he began to open six pieces of pitta bread, Hasna took over at the counter with pencil and pad in hand, smiling in amusement at the drunken brainstorming that had now commenced.
‘Meat pies,’ said one.
‘Nah. Fish and chips,’ his mate proposed before falling away from his secure position at the counter, knocking over the potato chips cabinet and landing head first in a collection of the day’s newspapers.
‘I’ll just have a….’ said another who was waiving his finger at what he thought was the menu board. He couldn’t possibly have known that it was actually a community advertising cabinet and he was pointing at a card from a lady called Sugar who would have entertained any position he wanted, for a fee that his girlfriend would almost certainly be happy to pay later on.
This was all too much for Eddy, the leader of the group. ‘Five large donner kebabs with extra chilli sauce’ he announced with composure before burping so loudly that his four mates began howling with laughter.
‘And don’t forget the garl…hic…garlic hic…sauce.’ This final culinary comment came from a mouth stuffed full of cheese and onion chips, residue from the battered cabinet. Soggy bits of reconstituted potato were now being sprayed all over the shop and the back of his leader’s 501s. In the normal way, such an act would have been regarded as a form of treason, punishable by something extremely painful, followed by the cold shoulder until at least the following Friday night. As it was, his leader would not find out until the following day when memories of this moment would be somewhat cloudy.
Hasna took Eddy’s $50 note, handed over the correct change and turned to make sure that her husband was aware of the details. She knew of course that he would be well on the way to completing the order and proceeded to get five paper bags from under the counter. She made sure not to make eye contact with the group in front of her, conscious that it could be taken as an antagonistic gesture or even worse as an intimate signal that was sure to be misinterpreted. As it was she was not given a choice.
‘Where’s the grub?’ It wasn’t so much a question as a demand but emanating as it did from the floor of the shop, Hasna chose to ignore it. Unfortunately for her, the speaker’s friends did not. There was a slow and inebriated realisation that the utterance, whilst appearing to have emanated from the sports page of the Herald Sun, was an enquiry that demanded an answer. Four heads turned to face the counter, the fifth one slowly appearing above the counter as the owner began to search for the truth.
Yoosuf was beginning to get the feeling that the atmosphere was becoming uncomfortable and speeded up his slicing of minced lamb from the vertical spit in front of him. He was about to run out of time.
‘We ordered bleedin’ ages ago. Tell her Eddy. We did didn’t we?’ This entreaty came from the same voice as before but was received as a much more genuine enquiry, coming as it did from a height of all of six feet. It also allowed Eddy to assume his acknowledged position of team spokesman. He was good at this. He was the only one that had completed Year Ten at school, could put an acceptable sentence together and at one time had even captained the school’s debating team. He was also big. Very big. At six feet six and at least 100 kilos he frightened the crap out of all of them.
‘It was only a couple of minutes ago sir,’ Hasna responded. ‘Your food won’t be long. Just take a seat and I’ll get it for you soon.’
Eddy’s brain was beginning to get the odd clear moment. He enjoyed confrontation, especially when backed up by the lads, and adrenaline was beginning to sharpen his focus. Putting his clasped hands in front of him on the counter, he began to stare at the bitch in front of him, the wog bitch that was giving Him lip. Although receiving no acknowledgement from behind the counter, the merry men slowly began to recognise that they were about to become part of an event; maybe an incident. Their collective chests began to expand; muscles seemed to fill their Chinese made LA street clothes; to a man they had the feeling that they had grown at least six inches. They had become…Warriors.
‘Just a couple of minutes lads,’ said Hasna who had noticed none of the extraordinary physiological changes occurring in front of her. All she saw was a Rottweiler slobbering on the counter and a litter of puppies messing up her shop.
Eddy thumped the counter. ‘Listen you bitch. Gives us our food. Now!’
Hasna slowly approached the counter, took a deep breath and began to open her mouth to explain the situation once again. She never got the chance. In one, barely coordinated, explosive moment, Eddy grabbed her lapel and pulled her towards him with so much force that she was lifted off her feet, leaving Hasna no more than an inch away from a face that was almost as frightening as that of her Grandfather. While she mentally apologized to the patriarch of her family it all became too much for Yoosuf. He had done what Hasna had demanded. He had dutifully layered the salad and meat in the Pitta bread He had applied lashings of garlic and chilli sauce and neatly placed all but one of the kebabs in the bags provided by his wife. He hadn’t even complained, as she would expect him normally to do. But now he saw the danger she faced and had to act. Surprising himself with his speed, he picked up the Sabatier carving knife that he always used in the shop, turned to face the counter and had the knife at Eddy’s throat before he could throw any more bile in his wife’s direction.
For all of five seconds the silence in the shop was palpable. The Friday night traffic, moving slowly down Fitzroy Street, now sounded deafening. The second hand on the wall clock loudly counted down as if indicating the end of time was nigh. For four occupants of ‘The St Kilda Kebab House’ the end of their time in that particular establishment was. They’d seen enough, disappearing out of the door as if their lives depended on it; which was exactly what they each thought. If he’d been asked what he thought himself, Eddy was sure that his renowned bravado would be answer in itself, but at that particular moment, eight inches of French steel was pressing forcibly against his neck, and mediation seemed a far more appropriate approach to the situation.
“I’m sorry. Just let me go and let’s forget all about it,’ he said hopefully, whilst at the same time letting go of Hasna’s clothing.
‘Fuck you!’ Even his wife, who was used to the occasional expletive during late nights in the shop, was surprised at her husband’s angry response. He wasn’t finished.
‘I hate you. I hate your mates. I hate Australians. Fuck you. Fuck your mother. Fuck your sister.’ Yoosuf continued to rant as he slowly manoeuvred his charge towards the door.
‘Osama is right. None of you are any good. I will get my friend to sort you out. If you come back here you are dead.’ Even Yoosuf didn’t know why he had used such an expression. He didn’t really have any friends, and had only said anything like it on the schoolyard before, resulting in a bloody nose and a trip to the infirmary. However, using the strength provided by anger he had never experienced before, Yoosuf threw his, now, very frightened protagonist onto the street, closed and locked the door, and with the habits of 20 years in the retail business not deserting him, turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.
Nothing like this had ever happened to Eddy before. He had lost the occasional fight. He accepted that. But he had never lost without putting up a struggle. Not only that, his mates had deserted him just when it was time to show that they were worthy of him. In an instant, his whole world had changed. And what was it that the little bastard had said. ‘I will get my friend to sort you out’. Eddy’s recent experience seemed to indicate that no help was needed. Nonetheless what had he meant? He needed to get away and think. After giving the shop door a retaliatory kick, he hurried away down Fitzroy Street and sought solace in the Esplanade Hotel, ordering a pot of beer and ignoring the assembled late night dipsomaniacs who had noted his entrance with curiosity. With a noticeable shake of the hand, he finished the contents of his glass and ordered another.
Taking a large gulp of the beer placed in front of him, he began to try and understand the events that had occurred only five minutes previously. Ignoring what he now saw as a less than adequate response to the physical challenge thrown out to him, he kept returning to what had been said. ‘I will get my friend to sort you out.’ It was the sort of threat that he’d heard countless times before, usually responded to by a swift kick to the balls and a witty retort of his own. No. That wasn’t what was niggling away at him. With annoyance he waved a $5 note at the barmen, signalling that another drink was required.
‘Bastard. If I got hold of him I’d rip his throat out.’
Eddy was surprised by the venom uttered by the dishevelled figure that was staring into the corner of the bar. He turned to follow the man’s gaze and saw a bearded face beaming at him from the TV that was to be found in that direction. In the bottom left-hand corner of the screen was a name that answered all of his questions. That was it. All of the talk on the TV, the radio and in every bar in the country for months had convinced him that they were everywhere. He just hadn’t expected that he would be the first to be targeted by one. The name on the screen was Osama Bin Laden and Eddy’s acquaintance in the St Kilda Kebab House had just announced that he was coming for him.
Hiding behind the tram stop that was opposite the kebab shop, they watched him hurry down Fitzroy St and disappear round the corner onto the upper Esplanade. They had seen him fall onto the street and there was no indication that he had, as he always had before, sorted the guy out. There was no pointing, no smiling and definitely no swagger. There was no getting away from it; he’d run. Eddy had run away. Sure, they had run away, but they weren’t Eddy. In just a few short minutes, the whole structure of their adult life had changed and for the first time, they had to decide what to do. The idea of following their man was decidedly unappealing. They had let him down badly and they knew it. He was likely to be angry, certainly angry with them, and they had no intention of being close enough for him to release his aggravation in their direction.
‘What are we going to do?’ said one, not in any particular hope of getting an answer. ‘Go and find Eddy?’
‘Let’s go home,’ said another ‘I’ve had enough’.
But nobody moved. There knew that something had to be done but going after Eddy, they all knew, was not an option, and going home only added to their collective weakness.
‘Why don’t we smash the fucking place up?’ It wasn’t exactly constructive, quite the opposite in fact, but they were heading in the right direction. They each began to focus their collective energy on revenge. This was Eddy’s area of expertise, of course, but he wasn’t there and there had to be something they could do. Wandering up to the front of the shop with baseball bats and loud threats didn’t seem such a good idea, however, and their speedy exit from the shop that night had already indicated a lack of interest in such an obvious confrontation. They didn’t have any baseball bats anyway. No, there had to be something else and after an uncomfortable silence, something of a plan began to develop.
‘Josh. Have you got a petrol can in the car?’ The night’s designated driver, who had stayed alcohol free for at least the first thirty minutes of the evening, nodded.
‘Go and get it.’ As Josh hurried up Loch Street to find his Subaru WRX, there was the birth of an idea. At least something they could all focus on even if they still didn’t know exactly what they were going to do. There was also an awareness that there was someone else in the group that could lead. Eddy’s brother Harry had begun to take control in his absence. It was time to make his brother proud of him.
Harry’s sibling wasn’t exactly sure what to say. He’d now decided what he was going to do, but how do you exactly say it? By now he had moved to a corner of the bar convinced that the, seemingly, disinterested clientele would hear him as he rang triple 0. He needn’t have worried, though, their most pressing issue being that of getting off their bar stools and negotiating the steps down to the toilet. The call he was about to make, however, should be done without eavesdropping and without interruption. His hands started to shake again as he keyed in 000 and waited for a response.
It took him a few moments to decide which of the services he needed. Ambulance, no. Fire, no. Police? Well he supposed so, but whenever he saw Channel Nine News, terrorism and the Army always seemed to go together. It was a war on terrorism, wasn’t it? But he wasn’t given that choice.
‘Police,’ he said reluctantly and waited for the clicking noises coming through his mobile’s ear-piece to stop.
‘Police. How can I help you?’
Eddy still hadn’t decided what to say. It would be easy to report an assault; after all, he had been assaulted. But he wasn’t going to do that. That bastard deserves much more. He’d held a knife against his throat. He’d threatened him with a visit from the world’s most wanted man, sort of. More importantly he’d made him look small in front of his mates. He deserves all of this, Eddy decided, and took a deep breath to steady himself.
‘I’d like to report a terrorist,’ and that was it. He explained where the terrorist was, and was asked to stay on the ‘phone until the police arrived. As he walked out of the bar, and hailed a passing taxi, he knew that his work was done. He quickly punched his girlfriend’s number into his mobile and in his own inimitable way, began the preamble to a night of Friday night sexual endeavours.
Josh returned quickly with the petrol can and joined the excited group of vigilantes. He’d never been central to the action before, always preferring to watch late night activities from a distance. He didn’t like pain, his one and only fight resulting in a visit to the local hospital when he was twelve, but he loved to watch. Other people’s blood and pain, usually extracted by Eddy, acted like a magnet to him and the boys had always seemed happy to leave him to his own voyeurism. But this was different. It was time to play his part.
Harry grabbed the petrol can, weighed it in his hand and handed it back, happy to see that it was almost full. He pulled a cheap cigarette lighter from his pocket and lit a Benson and Hedges before handing the lighter to Josh.
‘I’ll just finish this and we’ll do it,’ he announced in a clear and almost commanding voice. In truth, his heart was beating so wildly it felt as if it was about to shoot out of his chest and disappear down Fitzroy Street. He had never imagined being in such a position. A leader of men. A General, about to win a battle. A hero. He was better than his brother. Eddy had run off, hadn’t he? As the second in command, he had just made a tactical withdrawal and was now ready to counter-attack. Pulling one more drag from his cigarette, he tossed it into the gutter and faced the group.
‘This is what we’ll do,’ he said, whilst at the same time attempting to put a plan together that would make some kind of sense. They had petrol; they had a cigarette lighter. They also had Fitzroy Street on a Friday night. There were hundreds of people milling around, many of them standing, disappointedly, outside the Kebab shop demanding entry. A frontal assault was out of the question but something had to happen soon or he would start to look as useless as his brother.
‘Quick. Over the road and down the alley. We’ll get round the back,’ he ordered. They were off. The team were about to enter the field of combat. Well at least to give someone a very nasty surprise. The four of them quickly marched across the street, passing the group of hungry revellers and disappeared down the unlit passage next to the shop. The sight of a group of mean looking semi-drunken men, carrying what looked like a petrol-can, did not appear to surprise those waiting for the kebab shop owner to open the door. They were hungry, everywhere else in the street was full and they could see the shop owners in the shop. Maybe they will flick the sign, soon, maybe. Anyway, this was St Kilda on a Friday night. Weirdos were everywhere. Who cares?
Harry quickly found the gate to the backyard of the shop and motioned for everyone to enter. He closed the gate after them, and with the help of lights shining from the motel next door, surveyed the scene. The shop building had no windows at ground level, just a door that probably opened to a storage area. The yard itself was surprisingly empty. There were a couple of bins in the corner and a collection of short plastic pipes left over from some recent plumbing activity. If they were going to set light to something, something that was going to do a lot of damage, there was no obvious thing in this yard to help.
Josh was so excited he was shaking. This was it. He had the petrol. He had the lighter. The target was in sight. What the hell were they going to do now? He could see that Harry was having the same problem, and the other two were just waiting to be told what to do. Wandering over to the pile of plumbing off-cuts, the beginning of an idea started to form. There were pipes, some bits of old cloth, the odd bit of wood. I can do this, he decided. Picking a piece of pipe about 3 feet long, and a scrap of cloth from what looked like an old AC/DC ‘T’ shirt, he walked over to the door and checked it out. It was a very solid, and recently installed, wooden door but he had a lot of petrol and was sure it would do the job. He could also see an unusually large gap at the foot of the door and now knew exactly what to do.
‘Step back guys. Leave it to me.’ Harry was a little taken aback at this challenge to his authority so soon after assuming it, but he wasn’t at all sure what to do himself so he let it pass. Josh placed the end of the plastic pipe at the base of the door, balancing the other end against his legs and began to nervously pour the petrol down the hole in front of him. He was elated to see that most of the petrol was disappearing under the door, not noticing, in his excitement, that not a small amount was actually coming back in his direction, attempting to join up with the residue that had dripped down his trouser legs. He splashed the last litre of petrol over the door and slowly moved to the back of the yard where he found his friends stupefied in concentration. Motioning them to move over to the gate, he threw the can to the side after using the last few drops to moisten the cloth he had picked up earlier. This was it.
While he clicked and clicked and clicked the lighter Harry had given him, so much petrol had leaked back from under the door, that it was beginning to puddle at his feet. He didn’t notice. He only noticed the dampness of his jeans beginning to feel warm, heat being generated by the fuel he had dripped down himself a short time before. But it didn’t bother him. The lighter bothered him. Click. Click. Click. For God’s sake will you fucking light. Click. CLICK. Finally he got it to flame, and with growing excitement quickly placed it under the rag. Satisfyingly, the rag took the flame and he was ready. Ready to do himself proud. Ready to show Harry what he could do. Ready to show the world what a man he was.
No-one could have been ready for what actually happened, however. They could not have known what was behind that door. They could have guessed at items needed for the shop. Plastic bags and tins of food. Refrigerators and storage jars. Paper bags and cooking oil. They could never have guessed at a gas leak. No-one could have. Yoosuf and Hasna didn’t know. Nobody did. But as Josh threw his flaming rag at the door, the whole of St Kilda was about to find out. As a very satisfying fire began to engulf the back door of the shop, Josh had only a second to realise that he was in great danger, and as the realisation hit him, so did the fire, shooting up his left leg and assaulting his genitalia in a most disturbing manner. As his friends made a, what seemed to be, slow motion effort to go to his aid, the petrol flames ignited the escaping gas and the resultant explosion, hurled the back wall in their direction, killing all four instantly, and launching the gas boiler through the ceiling and into Hasna and Yoosuf’s little flat. It didn’t stay there for very long. The loss of the wall had had a terminally damaging effect on the whole structure and the flat, along with its newly acquired boiler, fell to the ground, forcing another fireball in the direction of four terribly burnt and broken bodies.
Hasna was still trying to come to terms with her husband’s explosive demeanour as the first smells and sounds of fire began to emanate from the back of the building. Pulling Yoosuf from the floor, where he had remained since expelling their final customer, she just had time to straighten his apron and smooth down his hair when the explosion brought them both fully to their senses. Pieces of ceiling fell about them. The clock that had so loudly accompanied recent negotiations had been blasted into silence. Even the community cabinet gave up the ghost, being wrenched from the wall and launched through the shop window, where Sugar, and her friends, would have a much more appreciative audience.
Dusting Yoosuf down again, Hasna decided she had to investigate this assault on her property. Checking that her husband was OK, she picked up the fire extinguisher from behind the counter, and tiptoed towards the door to the storage room. Why she tiptoed she really didn’t know, but anything that could make that sort of noise was likely to be extremely dangerous, and she had no intention of letting it, or him, or them know that she was approaching. As she slowly opened the door, it became clear to her that she needn’t have been concerned. There was no-one there. In fact there wasn’t very much there at all. The hideous leather lounge that Yoosuf had bought last year sat on top of what was nothing more than rubble, there was an awful lot of flame and also what appeared to be four human figures, burnt to a cinder and in varying stages of interrupted movement. She was reminded of documentaries she had seen on the TV describing volcanic eruptions, and couples in Pompeii forever caught in static coitus. She slowly closed the door again in an effort to make it all go away.
It wouldn’t of course. She knew that. She also realized that they had just become homeless. If the storage room had disappeared, so had their flat with everything that they owned. The sofa had been a dead give-away. Their photos, all their clothes, their furniture and that stupid talking kangaroo, made in China, that Yoosuf’s mother thought every Australian should have; gone. All of it.
‘What’s happening?’ It was the first thing that Yoosuf had said since closing the shop door.
‘Come on. Out the front door. We’ve got to get out of here.’ Hasna grabbed her husband by the arm and led him to the front door. Quickly releasing the bolts, and using one of her colour coded keys, she opened the door and they both walked on to Fitzroy Street, passing the group of now silent prospective customers who had now been convinced that they should move on to MacDonald’s, even though the door had finally been opened.
As they both turned to take a last look at their once proud operation, they noticed a group of very large men, clad in black fatigues, and carrying the largest guns either had ever seen, sprinting up Fitzroy Street in their direction. As they neared their objective, two of them each dropped to one knee and pointed their enormous weapons in their direction.
‘Get down. Hands behind your heads. Get on to your stomachs now.’ After what had occurred just a few moments ago, they weren’t going to argue. As far as they were concerned, whoever had just blown up their shop was equally capable of starting a war in an inner city suburb. They both did as they were told, and lay down on the ground and awaited their fate. As the local fire brigade arrived to extinguish the blaze behind them, they were handcuffed, with those horrible plastic ties they had seen on countless US police shows on the TV, pulled to their feet and thrown into the back of van. They didn’t know it, although they did suspect, that their lives had been changed forever, and they weren’t at all sure that the change would be for the better.
Yoosuf’s arrival at the Spencer Street Remand Centre had all of the hallmarks of a British farce. The correctional officers had never come across a terrorist before. They were used to heroin dealers and street punks and violent yobbos. The man standing at the front desk, accompanied by three of the Darth Vader look-alikes, looked more like a refugee from a comedy show they all knew. Small, nervous and moustachioed he bore a strong resemblance to a famous Spanish Waiter, and cries of ‘Basil!’ were soon coming from the office behind them. None of this was of any interest to Yoosuf. He was alone. On arrival at the Remand Centre, Hasna had been forcibly asked to make her own way home, wherever that now was, and he had been left to face, well, whatever he had to face.
Hasna’s removal from the scene had, in it’s own way, added to the comedic nature of events, and could only be blamed on the fact that the closest Australia had ever come to be being threatened by terrorism was in the nineteenth century by a certain Mr Ned Kelly, and the idea that someone was prepared to blow up St Kilda on behalf of International subversives was a far cry from Kelly’s argument that the wages of an ever increasing police force had led to taxes so high that an honest Irishman could only get drunk every other day, and twice on Sunday. There was, simply, no precedent and, knowing this, the government had provided a document detailing a step-by-step approach to handling the perpetrator.
This was especially useful for the guard at the front desk who, having spent 20 unsuccessful years in the Australian army, functioned best when thinking was kept to a minimum. Complete and unthinking obedience had become his creed after the unfortunate accident he had engineered when polishing a hand-grenade at Puckapunyal army barracks some years before. Having been told, then, not to handle things he didn’t understand, and with the loss of two of his fingers and his best mate Harry, he had promised himself to follow orders to the letter, however silly they may sound. Being faced, therefore, with a man and woman that a group of very large uniformed had declared as terrorists, he had consulted the document provided by the government for situations of this nature. Finding statements therein that referred to such things as ‘he should be searched’ and ‘he should be kept isolated’ provided all the information he required.
‘Get that woman out of here. Now!’ he shouted at the darkly uniformed officers.
‘But…’ began the largest of the men in question.
‘No buts. I have my orders. Only he,’ the guard said pointing to a completely mystified Yoosuf ‘is to be detained.’
Yoosuf was not the only one to be mystified, but it was very clear that the man behind the desk was not for changing. Besides, Yoosuf’s captors were equally adept at doing what they were told, as could be shown by the fact that, to a man, they still had all their fingers, and so Hasna was removed from the scene and quickly shown the door. From that moment on, and for the duration of events that were to follow, the accusatory finger of suspicion was pointed at one person only. Mr Yoosuf Ahmet, lately, though thankfully not too lately, of ‘Ahmet’s Kebab Shop’, Fitzroy Street, St Kilda.
The sense of mystery that Yoosuf had had on his arrival did not continue as he received a sharp dig in his ribs. Not only that, these idiots seemed to think his name was Basil and he had been part of a ‘70s TV show that he seemed to remember watching years ago. Was this some kind of sick joke? It couldn’t be one of those 'reality' TV shows could it? Surely not even they would destroy his shop in the name of ratings. As he was stripped, searched in the most intimate of places and deposited in a cell with an orange jump suit that they demanded he wore, Yoosuf decided to relax and wait until everything quieted down a little. He has always believed in the rule of law and with that had accepted that occasionally things went wrong. Things would be better in the morning. He would be able to speak to his wife and she would get him out of there. Then, maybe, he would be able to work out what the hell had happened to them both. Despite his outburst in the shop, Yoosuf had always been renowned for possessing a sense of humour and he began to giggle as he put his right leg inside the jump suit. With St Kilda’s well-known alternative lifestyle, he had seen many odd characters walking past his shop dressed in something similar, especially during the Gay and Lesbian Pride march, and he found it amusing that the boot was now on the other foot. As he slowly drifted off to sleep, confusing images of flaming knifes, fire drills and extremely tall lunatics, goose-stepping and dressed in orange chiffon, filled his mind. Things would be all right, wouldn’t they? He certainly hoped so.
While her husband had, for the moment, decided to accept his lot, his wife most definitely had not. Hasna tried for at least an hour to get the guards at the Remand Centre to allow her to speak to her husband but to no avail. She was still outside when the men in black had left, their mission complete, and took their absence as an opportunity to try one more time.
‘Mrs. Ahmet. This is the last time I am going to tell you. You cannot see your husband at this time. He is currently being processed and will be moved to Barwon Jail in the morning. I have given you the number of the legal services and they will be able to take you through the process. Now please leave us to do our job.’ This little speech was given by a guard who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Quentin Tarentino film, and, to Hasna, was making as much sense. But she began to feel that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with this man. There was no evident sympathy, no understanding of her plight and certainly no offer of help apart from the business card that they had given her. Didn’t they realise what had actually occurred tonight? She and her husband had been assaulted, blown up and then arrested by gun-toting aliens. They had then been thrown into the back of a van, driven to a prison where they had taken her husband into custody and then they had the temerity to demand that she return home to a war-zone. She wasn’t going anywhere. She wandered over the road to the all-night café at the end of Latrobe Street, ordered a long black and sat at a table facing the Remand Centre. She had no idea what she was going to do, but she knew she had to stay close to her husband. Hasna didn’t know it but this was going to be as close to her husband as she would be for quite some time.
*****
Chapter 2
Barwon Jail was abuzz with anticipation. The modifications to the special block set aside for terrorists had only been completed a few days before, and no-one had expected it to be housing anyone quite so soon. Indeed, none of the correctional officers, including the Governor himself, had any idea how to approach the situation that was about to be thrust upon them. Governor Joel Smith had received a call at 6:30am from his counterpart at the Remand Centre, explaining that he had a suspected terrorist on site and, under the new legislation, had to despatch him to a long-term correctional facility within 24 hours. With this in mind, a Mr Yoosuf Ahmet had been loaded on to the daily prisoner transfer bus that was about to depart his facility en-route to Barwon.
‘OK.’ It was all the Governor had been able to say. Within 1½ hours, he had to have everything in place to receive a prisoner that would have everyone’s interest, not the least the press, and his mind was already trying to think of everything that he needed to do. Of course all physical activities had been completed. The Terrorist block modifications had been finished in record time, on the back of political goodwill, and cash, from Federal Government and all security apparatus had been tested to a more than satisfactory level. Although originally set aside for standard high security prisoners, it had taken little effort to ensure that it could handle terrorist prisoners in the manner designated by the new act of parliament. Meals could be made, and securely delivered, for all nationalities and religions, and the exercise area could warrant no complaints being designed, to some extent, on the Collingwood Football Club’s training facilities in Melbourne.
Each cell gave inmates access to TV, radio and computer, although not the internet, and was a size that met international guidelines set down after the last UN investigation into the human rights of inmates at Guantanamo Bay. They had even ensured that disabled access to all parts of the block were possible, thereby removing the possibilities of law suits from the equal rights lobby. While Joel had great difficulty coming to terms with the idea of wheelchair bound cut-throats training in the hills of Afghanistan, he had been delighted with the progress so far and had no doubt that the structure would meet the requirements for holding Australia’s first true terrorist.
He did have some specific problems, however, not the least being how he was going to staff the new block. Whilst it was true that private security firms had manned the prison for a number of years now, with the relevant security and propriety checks in place, a number of the officers had already begun to show signs of discontent at the amount of overtime required to do their jobs, and the new Workplace Agreements that they had had to sign, as a result of new legislation, appeared to have reduced the average take-home pay if not dramatically, certainly to a point that had a number of their members seriously questioning their worth. In this atmosphere, the security company was having difficulty in negotiating what was, in effect, a new job title. As a result Governor Smith was yet to have a roster in place for the time when they actually had someone in place to monitor.
As he arrived at his desk at 7:05am, he immediately got his coffee machine going, a leaving gift from the inmates at his last posting at the Women’s Open prison in Eden, New South Wales, and picked up the handset of his desk ‘phone. He quickly dialled the mobile number of the CEO of Chub Securities and steeled himself for what he thought was going to be a most difficult call.
‘Hello. Fred speaking.’
‘Fred, It’s Joel. We need to talk.’ Joel took a deep breath and got ready to make his demands.
‘I’m about to take delivery of a package for the new block.’ He sounded, he realized, like he thought that the ’phone was bugged. Hell, in this day and age it probably was. ‘I’m going to need staff in place and immediately.’
Although Frederick Ambrose had been up and about for some time, long enough to take a short walk on the beach with his dog ‘Pickles’, he wasn’t ready for this.
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘No. He’s on his way now and will be here in about an hour,’ Joel answered quickly. ‘ It will probably take a couple of hours to process him but he will then have to go straight to the new block, and we need people in place for that.’
‘But I don’t have anyone,’ Fred responded, almost pleading for Joel to sort out the problem himself. But he knew that Joel couldn’t do anything to help. The only people that worked for him directly were his driver and his secretary Mavis, who, although being the most frightening, and protective, personal assistant Fred had ever come across, was unlikely to want to spend her semi retirement looking after someone who blows up children for a living. In any case, he had signed a contract with both the Federal and State governments to take on this extra workload. It was very lucrative, and although he had taken it on believing that the block would never be used, at least not so soon, he knew it was up to him to sort things out.
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get the coffee on.’ He needn’t have worried. Smith had already started his second mug, this one topped up with a little Bushmills for good measure. It was going to be a long day.
The windows of the Remand Centre Transit bus were not blacked out, as may have been expected, and Yoosuf sat at the back enjoying the drab journey to Geelong in all its glory. The city of Melbourne was behind him, and if had looked over his shoulder he would have seen the smoke haze still hanging over St Kilda. Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t. The intoxicating euphoria of the previous night had now been replaced by the reality of incarceration. He had not, as he had expected, been released into Hasna’s loving arms when he had woken. He had actually been faced with a member of the centre’s night shift who, while scratching his crotch with the determination of a street dog, deposited a mug of lukewarm coffee next to Yoosuf’s bed, before turning his attention to his bottom and departing the cell. This was quickly followed by a visit from three of the Darth Vader look-alike ensemble who grabbed him, rather roughly Yoosuf thought, and marched him to the awaiting vehicle. So here he was; handcuffed, in transit to God knows where and accompanied by three Star Wars refugees. In fact he now had a pretty good idea where he was going. Two years previously he had travelled to Barwon Heads, with his brother, to do a spot of fishing, and they had driven past Barwon Jail en-route to the fishing spot. It wasn’t a good memory. He had caught nothing but a cold, argued with his brother all day about the merits, or otherwise, of live bait and had a puncture just outside Werribee on their way home.
Yes, he remembered this road very well and was pretty sure that he wasn’t about to be given another chance to catch snapper. He was going to jail and although he still believed in the fairness of Australian justice, his belief was beginning to get a little frayed around the edges. Even so he still clung to the idea that Hasna would know what to do. He could picture her now, demanding, in her beautifully polite way, the return of her husband from the authorities. Yoosuf sat back and relaxed a little. The last nine hours had been a huge test for him but it wouldn’t be long before he would be back with his wife and they could start to rebuild, if not their shop, at least what remained of their lives.
‘Where is my husband?’ For Hasna, nothing appeared to be any different from the night before. It was now 7.30am and her pleas for answers were once again falling on deaf ears. After spending the last eight hours in the all-night café across from the centre, she had marched across Spencer Street about half an hour before armed with increasing anger and enough caffeine in her system to make an elephant schizophrenic. Finally the uniformed idiot behind the counter had had enough. She watched as he reached behind him and flicked through what appeared to be a list of names and numbers. Satisfied, he lifted the handset and dialled. After a brief conversation, he handed the ‘phone to Hasna and went back to work.
‘Hello.’
‘Mrs Ahmet, this is Joel Smith speaking. I am Governor of Barwon Jail.’ Governor Smith then explained to Hasna, if not all the reasons for, certainly the realities of, her husband’s arrest and detention. He detailed the rights of the government under terrorism legislation to incarcerate those they suspected of terrorism, their right to hold suspects without charge for at least two weeks and that, during that time, offenders were held incommunicado.
‘My advice to you is to arrange for a lawyer for your husband and see where you go from there. Now I’m sorry but I have to go. I have a prisoner arriving and I have a lot to do.’
And that was that. He didn’t say that the prisoner was actually Yoosuf, but he didn’t have to. She handed the ‘phone back and left. It was only outside the Remand Centre that everything hit home and she broke down uncontrollably.
‘That’s all right love. You’ll see him again soon,’ said middle-aged women on her way in to visit, presumably, her own loved one and the sympathy was obvious. In the event, though, it was misplaced. Hasna didn’t need sympathy. She needed her husband. Her tears now finished, they had been replaced by anger. How was it possible that a middle-aged, middle-class shopkeeper had so suddenly, and nonsensically, been elevated to the level of some demonic terrorist? How was it that someone had blown up their shop? What in God’s name is happening? All she had were a lot of questions and no answers but she was becoming more and more determined to get some. She resolved to go back to St Kilda to see what, if anything, she could salvage from the shop and then go round to her mother’s. Hasna knew that very soon she was going to need to rest and she had a feeling that she would find sleep very hard to come by over the next few days.
The cabinet room was full. Full of excited cabinet members, staffers and sundry no-names eager to hear what had occurred overnight that would lead to such a surprising call to arms. Parliament had long been recognized as a highly developed rumour-mill and when the messages had gone out for attendance at an emergency cabinet meeting, it wasn’t long before a litany of reasons for it had begun to do the rounds. By the time that all had assembled, a league table of outrageous ideas had been formed, nearly all of which could be dismissed as the ramblings of a six-year-old. One reason stood out, of course. Terrorism. After months of discussions, speeches and political dogma, terrorism was surely the only reason for being woken early and transported to Parliament House in the dark.
The Minister of Defence knew why, of course, as did the deputy Prime Minister. They had received phone calls directly from the PM, and before anyone else, and as a result were able to sit in their allotted positions around the cabinet table, smugly acknowledging the maelstrom around them. That was all that they could acknowledge, however, given that all they had been told was that a terrorist was in custody, and they would be briefed at the meeting. However nice it was to be individually informed, their information wasn’t enough to use to their own advantage and so they waited for events to unfold along with all the other excited acolytes. They didn’t have to wait too long.
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