

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.

Alan Chalmer's entry to the cabinet room was almost presidential. Lawrence Parker swept in before him, as if shooing away any annoying reporters, and to a man, everyone sitting at the table stood, a clear recognition that something monumental was about to occur. Chalmers wasn't used to such reverence, but was able to keep his surprise in check and waved his hand somewhat regally to indicate that sitting in his presence was fine. After Parker had placed a numbers of papers in front of him, and submissively disappeared into the background, Chalmers sat at the head of the table ready to brief his cabinet. The room fell silent and Lawrence couldn't help noting that he had not seen anything like it since he had taken his two nephews to the circus. Mouths open and eyes agog with suppressed excitement that might, at anytime, lead to a soiling of underwear. He resolved to stay exactly where he was until it was all over.

'Gentlemen.' The Minister for Public Works, Ms Margaret Bowden winced but decided to let it go. 'At exactly 10:15pm last night, a man was taken into custody under the Anti Terrorism Act. It is understood that an anonymous 'phone call led to the apprehension of the suspect, but not before a bomb was set off in St Kilda. As I understand it, the man in question is, as we speak, being transported to Barwon Jail, in Victoria, and the Victorian police are now investigating. The federal police will be kept informed of all developments, as will my office and the Ministry of Defence. I will be speaking to you all separately as time permits but for now, be aware that the press will begin to sniff around very shortly. Lawrence has already emailed your offices with appropriate answers to questions that may arise. DO NOT vary your answers from those given. We need to present a common front. Stick to the facts but do not ignore the press. We need to keep them on side. Finally, I would like to thank you all coming in so early, and on a Saturday, but I thought it was important that you were not caught off-guard. I will make every effort to keep you informed of events as they occur. Good morning.'

With that, Chalmers rose from the table, motioned Parker to get the door, and swept out of the room much like a Diva leaving the stage after a standing ovation. There was to be no ovation here, however. A stunned silence hung over the room, and the energy of schoolboy humour that preceded the meeting had now been replaced by a realisation that the most depressing piece of legislation that any of them had ever encountered was actually going to be used. To a man, and woman, they had looked at the Anti Terrorism Act as a nod of acknowledgement to the US presidency and a deterrent, at best, to disaffected Muslim youth in Australia. As they slowly left the Cabinet room, muttering disjointed, and at times nonsensical appreciation of Chalmers' brief statement, there was a growing understanding that a course of events had been set in place over which they had no control whatsoever. Later they may regard this as a misappropriation of their elected positions but for now, many were happy to sit in the background and join the electorate in observing developments as they were uncovered.

There was an equally nonplussed feeling in the offices of the Melbourne Age. Although it was Saturday Morning, and the process of collating the Sunday Age had begun, calls had been made to the heavyweight reporters of the daily edition explaining that something was 'breaking' and they should tear themselves away from whatever reporters did when they were not annoying people. 'Get into the office now' had been the call and most had responded to that call.

As it was, news of events had not so much reached the 'Age' offices as a result of 'Investigative Reporting' but more as a result of a cadet reporter's mission to get coffee for the night shift. The Age's proximity to the Remand Centre meant that that the very same café that Hasna Ahmet had spent all night ruminating over events was the preferred establishment for the Age's coffee run. While the cadet waited for the Lattes, Cappuccinos and Long Blacks to be made, he overheard the staff talking about the strange lady who had drunk coffee all night while looking out of the window. Although she hadn't spoken to them, other than to order yet another coffee, when, at 3:00am, Arthur from the remand centre had come over for his usual black tea and toasted sandwich, everything had become a bit clearer. At the very least they understood that someone important was inside. By the time the cadet paid for the coffees, and loaded up those painfully stupid cardboard carrying trays, he knew that something big was happening. As he explained once he got back to the office, only losing two Long Blacks and a Mochaccino coffee on the way, the word terrorism was never used but the implications were obvious.

With that, the Age editor, Jim Buchanan, after being called himself by the Sunday staff, had dragged his best scribes away from family duties and, after apportioning the more mundane duties of quizzing police, state government officials and remand centre staff, pulled his lead reporter aside to discuss ways of approaching the story.

'What do you think?' Jim asked as they entered his office.

'Tell me again what we know so far,' answered Caroline Webb as she took up his offer that they should sit. She fluffed her hair, still wet after being dragged from the shower to answer his 'phone call, and listened as he recalled the cadet reporter's story. When at last he finished his appraisal of the situation, she was silent for a couple of moments as she mulled over the information.

'I think you've done what needed to be done. The remand centre was the obvious place to start, although I imagine you'll get very little from there. The same with the police and the State Government, but we have to do the obvious first.' With that, she went quiet again, for a couple of moments, before continuing with a question of her own.

'Do we know who this man is or anything about him?'

Before Jim could answer, the same cadet reporter that had started all this activity knocked on the door and rushed dementedly to the desk, waving his hands and hyperventilating in excitement.

'There's been a fire,' he blurted out uncontrollably.

'A what?' Jim responded trying not to show annoyance, but failing to do so.

'A fire, sir. In St Kilda. Last night.'

'Look. We are in the middle of what might possibly be the biggest news story of the year and you come barging into my office with a story I already heard on the radio this morning. Get out! Now!'

It was one of those moments when any trainee has to decide whether they wanted to keep their job or risk everything on something that they think they are sure about. The cadet decided to trust his Grannie.

'I know sir. It was reported as a shop fire but my Gran lives in St Kilda and she says she heard an explosion.'

'It was a kebab house.' Jim was beginning to get annoyed. 'Gas, cooking fat and whatever else they store in those places. Of course things exploded. Now go away.'

'Sir. My Gran lives in Loch Street just over the road from the shop. She knows the owners. She went up to Fitzroy Street to see what was happening and....'

'Will you go away!' but the cadet was on a roll now.

'....she saw what she thought was the army running up the street and arrest two people. They were thrown into the back of a van and driven away. My Gran was so shocked she went back home, opened a bottle of whiskey and turned the TV up.' Finally he had run out of breath and waited for his boss to shout at him again; but he didn't. Jim Buchanan slowly began to sit down again and by the time his body was enveloped in his leather look-a-like Captain's chair, he had put two and two together. So had Caroline, who grabbed her purse, and the cadet reporter, and shot out of the office en-route for St Kilda.

As Caroline gunned her Commodore down Canterbury road, heading straight for St Kilda she talked with David, as she now knew the cadet to be named, trying to establish whether there was anything else he might have heard in the café that could be of use.

'I've told you everything I know. I was only there long enough to pick up the coffees' he said as they arrived at the corner of Fitzroy St. and Canterbury Rd. As she turned the car into Fitzroy St. and looked around for somewhere to park, she was faced with fire engines, ambulances and enough police to control rioting English football supporters on a very bad day.

'Go down there,' David suggested pointing towards Loch St. 'You can park up outside my Gran's place. I'll just nip inside to see that she's alright and then we'll go and see what's happening.' Caroline wasn't used to being told what to do but hadn't the heart to say anything. It seemed to her that it was actually a good idea to have a chat to her anyway, and after locking the car, joined David on the steps of the beautifully presented 1900's terrace house.

After David knocked on the door for what seemed like an eternity, a gap slowly appeared and a wrinkly old face appeared just above the door lock. My God, Caroline thought to herself, she's tiny. The face recognized David straight away.

'Quick, come in. They're everywhere. Quick. Quick.' They entered on her command and David's Gran closed the door behind them. She ushered the pair into the front room and sat down at a chair positioned by the window where she peeked behind the lace curtain and resumed her watch on Fitzroy St.

'Are you OK, Gran?' David was very disturbed by what he saw. She had always been an active old lady spending hours at the various coffee shops on Fitzroy St. She was well known to many St Kilda locals, both young and old, who loved her disregard for her age, but as David watched on he knew she had changed; she was scared. He also noticed the empty whiskey bottle.

'I've been watching all night. Police, ambulances, the army. I know what is happening. Alan Chalmers has been telling us for months. It's started.' David was too distressed to talk. The change in his Gran was too much but Caroline knew this lady may have important information.

'Mrs....I'm sorry I don't know what to call you.'

'Just call me Ada.'

'Well, Ada. You've had a very exciting time down here. Do you want to tell me about it?' Caroline asked, before mouthing to David that he should nip out to the kitchen and make some tea.

'Schhhh. Something's happening,' was Ada's response before she dropped the curtain and turned to face the room.

'It's OK. It was only Mrs Cooper walking her dog. I've seen so many dogs in the last few hours; I thought it was one of those blokes again. Now, sorry, what did you say?'

'Blokes?' Caroline responded cautiously.

'You know. You see them on the news all the time. Big, with blotchy clothes and dogs that would rip your arms off.' Caroline made a mental note and continued.

'Now, Ada, I should just tell you that I work with David, at the newspaper, and I need to find out exactly what you saw last night.'

'We've been invaded.' Ada was very clear about this. 'I heard the explosion, went out to see what was happening and saw an army, running up Fitzroy St.' She sat back in her chair to regain her breath before continuing.

'All I could think about was what my husband went through in Korea. I came straight home, called David and sat by the window waiting for it to happen.'

'For what to happen?' Caroline was beginning to get a little confused.

'Death,' she said as David entered the room with a tray of mugs. He was about to say something but Caroline motioned for him not to. She wanted to get back to the story.

'Did you see anything else while you were up there?' Caroline asked.

'No. That was it. I feel sorry for Mr and Mrs Ahmet though. I had one of their kebabs once and it was very nice, if you like that foreign stuff that is.' And with that, Ada turned back to the window, ignoring David's offer of tea, and continued the wait for her inevitable demise. It was enough for Caroline as well, and after wishing Ada all the best, she headed for the door, closely followed by David who at least was able to give his Gran a kiss on the cheek before meekly following his senior outside.

'Let's wander up to Fitzroy St. and see what we can find out,' Caroline said as she closed the front gate. With that they both headed for what remained of the kebab house that they could clearly see about fifty metres away. If they cared to, they could have counted at least twenty local policemen, two ambulances, twelve fire-fighters still engaged in their duties and a number of men dressed in black and, seemingly, very out of place.

Just at that moment, Hasna had arrived back in St Kilda, and, after paying the taxi driver, walked down Fitzroy St in the direction of her home. She wasn't overloaded with hope that she could retrieve anything of value from the place. She remembered back to the moment she opened the back door the previous night and it was not a vision that inspired her with any hope in that regard. But there might be something that she could salvage and she owed it to herself, and to Yoosuf, to try. It was obvious very quickly, however, that she was not going to get anywhere near the shop to find out, when, as soon as she was within ten metres of the security tape that seemed to encompass the whole of Fitzroy St., a number of the assembled forces recognized her and formed a wall she was never going to get through. In the manner of so many that have experienced unjust invasion, her shoulders drooped, and tears began to fall once again. A tap on her shoulder pulled her back from her personal abyss.

'Hello. My name is Caroline. I think I can help you.'

At about the same time, Yoosuf could have done with his own support. His mobile cell had just passed through the outside perimeter fence of Barwon Jail, and the relevant papers were now being checked by the security guard in charge of the internal gates. As he looked through the windows of the bus, he could see a mob of identically dressed cutthroats milling around in, what he presumed to be, the exercise area of the jail. There was no mistaking the fact that their collective centre of attention was what was going on at the gate, and specifically him. If it wasn't so frightening, he would have laughed at the sight of grown men, dressed identically appearing to be waiting for the school bell and a return to playing with plasticine and poster paint.

His observations were quickly cut short as the security checks were concluded and the bus was allowed to move through the gates and into the prison proper. It was a signal for mayhem to begin. As the bus moved through the fenced area en-route to the holding area, the seething mass of the prison's population rushed forward to get a better look. A number of them made unsuccessful attempts to climb the fencing, yelling and screaming as the bus passed by. The noise was deafening and throat-cutting gestures made by those at the front left Yoosuf in no doubt what they wanted to do to him.

'Bastard. Fuck all Muslims' shouted one particularly insane looking inmate who was attempting to make the appropriate gesture from one ear to the other while using the other hand as leverage to climb the fence. His dislocated finger forced him to fall back to the ground but was quickly replaced by a look-a-like who, with great foresight, gesticulated before beginning his climb.

'Death to all Wogs. Death to all terrorists. Keep looking over your shoulder you Bastard. I'll be there waiting.' It was the longest series of words this particular inmate had put together since he had held up the Commonwealth Bank in Abbotsford, and he fell back exhausted. There was no doubting his conviction, however, and although Yoosuf had missed some of the vitriol, he understood the main theme. 'Terrorist.' Was he talking about me? He was tempted to look around the inside of the bus but he knew that, apart from the guards, he was the only one present. So what are they talking about?

'What are they talking about?' he asked the guard sitting in front of him but all he got was a stare and a particularly odious grin.

'Tell me. What is going on?' But he realised it was hopeless. His experiences of the last few hours had shown him that he was unlikely to gain any information other than whatever it was they wanted him to do next.

The bus finally came to a stop outside what appeared to be the main building. Yoosuf was ushered inside and forced to stand between two vary large uniformed officers while numerous officials filed in through the main door. Finally the door was closed and the riotous cacophony that had greeted his arrival finally began to subside. Governor Smith stood in front of Yoosuf, having taken time out from his workforce rosters, keen to see what a terrorist actually looked like, and he was surprised by what he saw. Far from the villainous dervishes he had read about in his school-day stories of the British Empire, the man standing in front of him looked no more frightening than the shopkeeper he actually was. He could imagine this man standing in a market in whatever country he came from, discussing the merits of his recently bought donkey while depositing a couple of kilos of onions into the bag of a women with a blue blanket over her head. But there was no woman dressed in a burka, only a confused middle aged man dressed in Remand Centre orange.

He wanted to leave the room and return home to his bed but he knew he had a job to do. He turned to the counter and addressed the prison guard in charge of admissions.

'Search him, process him, put him into holding and,' he said pointing at the best that the Remand Centre had to offer, 'get him out of those things. He may be a terrorist, but in here he's like everyone else.'

Of course he wasn't like everyone else. In fact, Smith now understood he wasn't like anybody he had ever looked after in this place. As he walked back to his office to rejoin Frederick Ambrose, he knew that his staffing problem had become somewhat easier. This man wasn't danger to anyone. He knew he shouldn't think this way but, from what he'd just seen, far from being some kind of international threat while enclosed in the jail's walls, it was far more likely that he, himself, was in danger and as far as Smith was concerned, that made him the same as anyone else locked-up in a maximum security prison. Smith quickened his step as he approached his office. He had decided how the new block was going to be policed and he knew that Fred was going to agree. It was cheap, it wouldn't lead to internal workplace problems and essentially would leave Fred's bottom line pretty much intact.

Yoosuf had never stood in front of anyone without his clothes on before. His rare visits to the doctor had simply not required it and his married life had been conducted with Islamic decorum resulting in appropriate amounts of both subtle passion in the early days and middle-aged reserve that in later life that they both regarded as proper. Now that he had removed the Remand Centre Orange clothing that had seriously began to itch over the last couple of hours, he stood in front of, what appeared to be, the complete complement of prison staff who seemed fascinated by the naked man in front of them. Embarrassed by having to place his hands over his crotch for such a length of time, fear suddenly replaced embarrassment when the largest of the guards forced his head over to the level of his knees and he was able to glimpse above the level of his testicles, or below depending on your appreciation of physics, the full complement of correctional officers observing his difficult situation. He was then subjected to an internal intrusion that made his eyes water, marched to the holding cell still naked, and locked inside holding prison greens that felt like they had a far better chance of standing upright at that moment than he did.

'Put those on and keep quiet.' Nothing came to mind that he could respond with, and having kept silent since departing the transit bus, Yoosuf felt that his own inner thoughts were far more preferable than conversing with a large group of uniformed voyeurs. As he sat in the corner of the cell he inwardly broke down, invisible tears falling down his cheeks. He didn't yet know whether he was broken, as might be defined by textbook psychology, but whatever he felt, he wasn't going to let these bastards know what he was feeling and sat resolutely looking at the wall that was no more than five feet in front of him. Whatever it was that they wanted from him, they would get nothing cheaply. He was going to stay silent. Mute. The next person he would speak to would be Hasna and, with Allah's will, he hoped that was going to be sooner rather than later.

Leo's café had been given the all-clear to open again, even though it was only fifty metres from the still smouldering debris on Fitzroy Street, and it was to here that Caroline and David ushered the distraught Hasna, dodging the hate filled stares of the assembled police who knew who, and what, they were staring at. Luckily for Hasna, their orders were limited to maintaining control of the situation and adhering to the tried and trusted rule-book of uniformed civilian forces the world over. Namely, they were waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

Caroline ordered tea for three, and some raisin toast, and began the process of persuading Hasna to give up any printable information she may have.The unreadable bloodshot eyes and blank expression she viewed over the table told her that a certain amount of sensitivity was going to be needed, but she also knew that time was of the essence. She was one step ahead of all the other news agencies and she had to use this to her advantage. Starting at the beginning seemed the best approach and as the tea and toast arrived, Caroline began the interview. With pen an inch above notebook this was going to be the story of her literary career and in the excitement her pen began to wobble a little.

'What exactly happened last night?' she began hopefully.

'That did.' Hasna replied, pointing at what was left of The St Kilda Kebab House.

'No. I mean how is it that that,' Caroline continued with a graceful sweep of her hand in the shop's direction 'happened?'

'I don't know,' was all Hasna could say.

'You must know something. You were there when it happened.'

'I don't know anything,' Hasna responded while clutching a peace of the raisin bread that she knew she would not eat. 'It blew up; the police, or army, or whoever they were took my husband away and now I don't know what to do.' Actually she did know what she was going to do. She was going to get away from here. Away from the shop, away from the police and as far away as she could get from this awful woman.

Despite the loud protestations from the reporter Hasna got up from her chair and ran off in the direction of the tram stop. Although Caroline and David were racing after her, Hasna was able to leap on the number 112 that would take her back to the city. The tram driver grinned as Caroline attempted to get his attention. He loved leaving people waiting for the next tram. It says in his timetable departure time 1:15pm. They should get to the stop on time, he mused, as he released the brake and gunned the engine, causing a little old lady to drop her shopping and land in the lap of a very surprised fellow passenger. This even brought a smile to Hasna who was fully aware of the, often, tense symbiosis between tram passengers and crew. As the old lady continued her futile attempts to catch a solitary egg that rolled annoyingly with the movement of the speeding tram, she focussed again on what she was going to do. She would get off the tram at Spencer Street station, curiously only half a kilometre from where she had spent the night drinking coffee, and catch a train to Footscray. She knew a few people that went to the Mosque there, and they may be able to help. Decision made, Hasna leaned forward to pick up the egg that had finally finished circling the floor of the tram and handed it to the old lady who promptly threw it at the passenger whose lap she had encountered earlier, presumably because he hadn't stopped laughing since the tram had left St Kilda. It was, Hasna thought, just another day on Melbourne's transport system, and sat back to enjoy the ride as best she could.

Meanwhile, Caroline and David were still standing at the tram stop wondering what to do. They could, of course, run up to Loch St. to retrieve the car and then chase after the tram, trams being easy to chase because their direction is, primarily, dictated by the tracks upon which they travel. Their encounter with the maniacal driver of said tram, however, led them both to believe that he would probably play the same trick again and, in any case, by the time that they caught up with it, Mrs Ahmet could well have alighted and disappeared. So it was back to the shop ruins and the stock questions that they had been hoping to leave to others. To their dismay, as they walked up Fitzroy St. to begin their tedious enquiries, they saw that representatives of at least three other newspapers had arrived and that far from having a 'scoop', they were now in danger of trailing their competitors. The round of applause they received from the assembled scribes, as they arrived at the site of the explosion, did nothing to quell the feeling of disappointment they both now had and it was with heavy hearts that opened their notepads and began to write.

Hasna arrived at the Footscray Mosque with no particular idea of what she expected to gain from her visit; she just knew that her experiences of the last few hours had shown her that to search for help from those agencies that promised to uphold law, order and ethics was more than a lost cause. As she entered the Mosque, through the ladies entrance of course, and with her head covered, she was overcome with a feeling of peace. Certainly she was still angry with all that had happened, but this place seemed to suck the hurt out of her, replacing it with hope and a steely resolution. The mosque was also full with people. Every spare space in the building was taken with worshippers who, it appeared, were just finishing prayers and were slowly, but joyfully, heading for the exits. Being careful to adhere to designated women's areas, she attempted to find the friends she was looking for, especially Al Abass Sayed. It was only once she found herself outside again, where family groups were allowed to mingle freely, that she saw him, alongside his wife and four children, and what looked like his younger brother, Hassan. Once the greetings were duly exchanged, and admonishments received over non-attendance and absence in general, she was able to explain to Sayed what had occurred since the previous evening and waited, in reserved silence for his conclusions.

'Hasna. You go with my wife and I will join you at home later. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. She will give you some clean clothes and she will keep the children quiet. You look like you need some sleep.' After whispering into his wife's ear, he rushed off, collecting a number of men along the way, and disappeared back into the main building. Sayed's wife, Hasna and the children were then herded into the mini bus that the Mosque had acquired to transport car-less women and children back to their family homes. Hasna was happy for others to be in charge of her direction for a few hours, and slowly, and somewhat blissfully, she drifted off to sleep.

They sat in a circle in the main hall of the mosque, digesting Al Abass Sayed's news, at a loss at what to do. Of course Hasna would be given all of the nourishment she needed to get her through these troubling times, both physical and spiritual, but none of them seemed to be able to come up with a plan that might get Yoosuf out of his predicament. Many of them had settled in Australia after leaving countries whose religious and political regimes had left them as outcasts. The more welcoming arms of Australia had enticed them to leave and establish a life in the great southern land that would allow them to bring up families in a safe environment and worship as they saw fit. There was not a little confusion, therefore, to hear that what they had believed for so long may not actually be true. If the law of the land was such that you could be imprisoned because your house had blown up, what chance would there be for a group of ageing Muslims to seek justice from the people who had actually introduced such a law? The young, radical, and Australian born members of the Mosque had been saying this for years, of course, but had not, until now, been given an event that would truly explain what they had been saying. They now had and this group of religious elders appeared powerless to prevent what they had always considered to be dogma, espoused by a small group of pubescent youths, from becoming a call to arms that would galvanise the disenchanted of their faith.

Al Abass Sayed's younger brother, Hassan, was neither pubescent nor disenchanted, especially not after what he had heard from his position behind the door to the main hall. His time had come. It was very clear to him that his brother, and his ageing group of fellow worshippers, would never have the balls to work collectively against a society that they were desperate to fit in with. Hassan and his loyal, and loud, band of renegades had no such social obligations. They had already had their call to arms. Wars in Afghanistan, Iraq and the continuing problems in Palestine had provided the initial leap of faith. They also had money. Young Muslims had access to cash that their fathers had only dreamed of at the same age, often because their fathers provided it. Finally they had a tool that their fathers simply did not understand but in the right hands it was more powerful than any number of rockets and suicide bombers. The Internet. As Hassan turned to go home, and switch his weapon on, he beamed the smile of the chosen ones. Just a couple of clicks, and the typing of a few well-crafted paragraphs, and he would be welcomed into the world of Jihad and Osama Bin Laden.

Winston Churchill, named as he was after the celebrated 1st Lord of the Admiralty and future war leader, and Sid Barrett had received their emergency calls at the same time, which was quite fortunate since they were having a shared barbeque with their families. While playing with their Grandchildren, and in Sid's case one great Grandchild, Winston's wife had rushed into the garden carrying a cordless 'phone.

'It's Governor Smith. He wants to talk to you,' she shouted breathlessly. Winston put one of the bundles of energy on to the ground and placed the 'phone to his ear.

'Hello.'

'Hello Winston. I guess you know who it is. We have a bit of a problem and I need both you and Sid to get here right away.'

'But...' Winston began but was stopped dead in his tracks.

'Look. You know you are paid a retainer and you are both on call. I'll see you in half an hour,' and with that the 'phone went dead.

Twenty minutes later they both stood in Governor Smith's office listening while Smith outlined both the situation and what was required of them. Both Churchill and Barrett had, effectively, retired 5 years before, but as part of the contingency plan that Frederick Ambrose had had to present to the State Government as part of his tender, they had been listed as experienced staff that could be called upon to cover illness, rostering problems and, in the worst case, riot. There was none of that here and the paltry $5000 per annum each received to cover such eventualities did not, at that moment, seem a fitting on-call payment when called out to look after a terrorist, but when it was explained that they would only be required to work at night, while the prisoner was, presumably asleep, and for that would be paid $35 per hour, they both saw this addition to their small superannuation funds as a great positive.

This was going to be a long night however. How could it not be, it was only 3:30pm and they had to spend some time learning the layout of the new block, the rules and regulations as laid out in the Act and a profile of their prisoner. Whilst the first two points would take some time, and they were handed official documentation to immediately achieve this as they were ushered out of the office, the latter was an issue that was perplexing all involved with this case. Who was he, what did he do, and why did he do it? It didn't particularly help when Sid asked those questions only to be told that the man was a terrorist. As both he and Winston walked to an adjacent office to scrutinise the paperwork, a sense of foreboding overwhelmed them both. One thing was clear to each of them. They may not know exactly how to deal with the situation, but neither did their employers and that, at least, allowed a certain amount of creativity.

Yoosuf continued to stare straight ahead, at a wall that still hadn't moved. Well, that actually wasn't quite true. He had discovered, like so many before him, that if you stare at something for long enough, what ever it is that you are staring at will give the impression of movement. By adjusting the stare to where the object has moved, it will move again, very, very slightly. This had entertained Yoosuf for all of ten seconds before he rubbed his eyes to clear them and refocused once again on the wall. How long had he been there now? Two hours, maybe three. He was so bored. He checked the watch on his left wrist, something curiously overlooked when he was processed. It was worse than he thought. He'd been there for just 25 minutes. It was going to be very difficult to remain silent and aloof in this place if time was going to go so slowly but what choice did he have. Every time he had tried to interact with his captors he was either given the silent treatment himself or he was given orders, neither of which he found very palatable. His mind drifted again, this time to events of the previous evening and what those events actually meant. His wife had been threatened; he had thrown the offender out and a few moments later his shop had blown up. He could see no connection but there was no doubt in his mind that there was one. But why? Nobody blows a place up just because they had to wait for a Donner Kebab, do they?

He was grateful to be diverted from answering such an obscure question. Keys were being rattled in the door of the cell, and as Yoosuf continued his marathon staring game with the wall, the door opened and two geriatric men entered wearing very ill fitting uniforms. Governor Smith's great plan stood proudly, if not a little shakily, to the side of a bemused Yoosuf who, while never taking his eyes off the cell wall, had peripherally followed their entry with some amusement.

'Mr Ahmet. We are here to take you to your cell. Get up and walk this way.' It was the elder of the two officers that spoke, making him, Yoosuf thought, at least 80 years old. And as for walking 'this way' he was sure that without severe arthritis and a certain amount of sciatica, it was probably impossible. Still, he was happy to have something to do and joined them at the door. Making sure that he shuffled at the same lethargic pace as his guards, Yoosuf was led down an adjoining corridor, through a couple of security doors and then the short distance to the new terrorist cell (he knew that to be the case because of the 'Terrorist Cell' sign above the door).

Their entry to the cell astonished all three.

'Bloody hell!' Churchill exclaimed while Barrett just stared in astonishment. Even Yoosuf forgot his vow of silence and uttered something resembling 'Wow'. The cell looked, for all the world, like a studio apartment in up-market Port Melbourne. A microwave oven, fridge and radio were standing proudly on, what looked like, a designer kitchen workbench, there was a Queen-size bed against the opposite wall and in one of the corners a very large TV stood in front of a two-seater leather sofa. Yoosuf noted that each piece of electrical equipment was purposely placed very close to their source of power, ensuring that their cables could only be misused by a suicidal mouse, and, curiously, the bedclothes had a very distinctive floral pattern, reminiscent of something he had seen on 'Better Homes and Gardens'.

He also saw that there was another door to the cell, directly opposite that one that he had just entered. Since he now knew this to be the 'Terrorist Cell' he made a presumption that it was direct access to an exercise area ensuring he wouldn't be required to mingle with general prison population and left it at that. After what he had encountered earlier he was very grateful to the designers for their astute planning. The only things that would be out of place in an over-priced Port Melbourne apartment were the shower and toilet that could be found in the corner opposite the TV but even that didn't diminish the luxury status that the room gave. In any case, Yoosuf pondered, there were many people, men especially, that would love to complete their ablutions while watching a re-run of 'The Great Escape' on the TV.

Churchill gathered himself for the speech he had decided to give the prisoner, the one about rules, regulations, exercise time and the like, but unable to fully overcome the shock that he felt was only able to give a shortened version of what he had planned.

'Your meals will be brought to you on request. You just chose from that little menu sheet,' Churchill explained while pointing to a little document folder on the workbench, 'and use the intercom over there to order. You can use the TV at any time, but you should know that certain programs, like the news and programs that might get you a little excited will be prohibited.' Apparently they had a little computer program to do this but Churchill didn't bother to elaborate. 'Sid and I will look after you during the night and, at other times, the normal guards will perform the function. They will explain exercise options, access to the library and anything else to you tomorrow. Any questions?'

At this point Churchill had no idea whether his prisoner had understood anything, given that that he had yet to say a word in his presence, but Yoosuf dispelled any ideas of ignorance by walking over to the workbench, picking up the document folder and pointing. By repeating finger movements, he was able to able explain to his new friends that he wanted a donner kebab with extra chilli and garlic sauces, followed by a cheese platter with fruit and coffee. He thought the idea of the kebab was a really funny statement but it was completely lost on Churchill and Barrett and they left to go and organise the request as they were mandated to do.

As the cell door closed, Yoosuf looked around at his new home, happy, lonely and not a little bemused. He now knew that he was a terrorist prisoner; had been poked, prodded and strip-searched and been placed in a hotel room with a charge account that allowed almost everything except alcohol, which he didn't drink anyway. With curiosity, he turned on the TV to see what may, or may not be, too subversive or too exciting to watch. Football on Channel 10, motor racing on Channel 7 and what seemed to be a cooking show on Channel 9. ABC had a show about a sculptor who made things out of macaroni and the SBS channel was showing overseas news. 'News from Peru' was just finishing and the next offering to Australia's diverse population was about to begin. As he sat in the $3,000 leather sofa, hanging his left leg over the arm, something Hasna would never allow, he began to sway to the sounds of the next program. Middle Eastern music was emanating from the speaker and an earnest young Arabic man began reading the news from his own area of the world.

'Welcome to Al Jazeera World news. And today...'. Yoosuf didn't know it but the computer program censoring programming had a 'bug' and he immediately snapped out of his reverie. The old age pensioner who had given him a speech only a few moments before had explained that censorship applied to his TV and here he was watching a show that certainly gave an alternative appreciation of world events. Had the authorities based their censorship on TV ratings? SBS, well known for its approach to multiculturalism, received ratings that started with a nought and didn't get much better. In this age of information, had the prison authorities presumed that, because of that, he was unlikely to watch TV's ugly sister? Yoosuf checked the time displayed on his brand new microwave, having finally relinquishing his watch to one of the geriatrics, and taking note never to mess with the machine just in case he affected the machine's internal workings (it didn't matter whether the time was accurate so long as it was comparable), he settled back to watch the news and await his dinner.

*****

Chapter 3

Detective Chief Inspector John Abbot hated the city and this often came to mind as he drove from his home in Oakleigh to the St Kilda Rd. Police station, even though, with its underground parking and direct entry to the building he didn't need to get within a bull's roar of a pavement with its ignorant, self obsessed people who took no notice of anyone but themselves. People with their mobile phones sending SMS messages to other ignorant people that were doing exactly the same thing themselves. Groups of four or more people that were compelled to walk in a line across the pavement, just in case they missed their friend saying something funny about somebody else that they had never heard of. Idiots that, to begin with, appeared to understand that there was an etiquette that involved walking at the same speed as everyone else, until they realized that they had forgotten to send their friend an SMS, often leading them to stop abruptly, turn and walk straight into you. Worse, they look at you horrified as if you should have known that they were sending a 'MIA' message (Missing In Action – Where are you?) and were most annoyed that as a result of the collision they had actually sent 'MI' which might mean anything (Mi what? Mi birthday? Mi GOD!). It didn't help Abbot to find out that while there was no longer any etiquette to walking in general, there was for walking while sending an SMS, and he often failed the test miserably.

As he walked up Collins St on his way to Parliament house (it was quicker that driving from the police station) his latest pet hate was slowing his journey. Four female 'suits' walking abreast, one with her head down sending an SMS, dragging behind them big carts with tiny briefcases on them. In his mind John started talking to himself again, desperately attempting to rationalise what he saw. It wouldn't be so bad, he thought to himself, if they left enough room for him to walk around them, even though that would probably lead to a collision with a mother pushing her three kilo baby in something resembling a Sherman tank. But what he didn't understand were the carts. Nobody carries anything anymore. Everything gets dragged as if the effort of lifting was something that had been relegated to history. Everybody seemed to have them even though the briefcases that they so manfully dragged behind them, were only big enough to hold a pack of Post-It notes, a chewed pencil and a couple of used tissues. Worse, he could not come to terms with the idea that the ladies in front of him spent hours every day in gyms to make themselves thin, lithe and athletic, only to triple their effective size when walking to their next appointment.

Hell, he was in a bad mood. A call at home, just as he had persuaded his wife that a bit of fun on a Sunday morning was not, in fact, sacrilegious, had led him to drive to his office that afternoon, and a summons to Parliament House the following day. He spent the Sunday establishing what had actually occurred, ensuring that all of his investigative tools were in place, such as forensics and the like, and had made a very quick visit to St Kilda to see for himself the damage that had been inflicted. As he had been leaving, one of the many police officers had handed him a plastic bag containing numerous charred documents and he had returned to the station satisfied that preliminary investigations were progressing as required. Although a little concerned that since Saturday morning there had been no contact with Mrs. Ahmet, who was, if nothing else, a material witness, there was little doubt that they had their man and he would deal with her as time permitted.

In the meantime, as he sat outside the Premiers office, he reflected on the situation as he saw it. A terrorist had been anonymously reported, a bomb had exploded in St Kilda, although tests were needed to confirm this, and he had a man in custody that was certainly central to both events. It wasn't an open and shut case yet, he doubted that terrorism could ever be, but he had a lot to work with and could certainly satisfy the Premier of Victoria that he was on the case.

The door to the Premier's office opened and he was ushered into opulence that his police budget could only dream of. He was faced with a mahogany table big enough to sit eight people for dinner, chairs with leather upholstery of the deepest red he had ever seen and at least one painting on the wall that he was sure he had seen on a Sunday afternoon arts show. It occurred to him that whether or not you were able to do the job that your title said you could, you should at least adorn yourself in a manner that made questions of your ability at least difficult if not futile. A voice quickly brought him back to the matter of his visit.

'Please take a seat, John.'

As they both sank into their voluminous seats, Abbot was taken with how out of place the man in front of him looked. Everything in this office was large. The table, the furniture, the wide-screen TV that presumably relayed events of monumental international proportions that a Premier of his standing would be called upon to salve, if not actually solve. Even the drinks cabinet appeared to hold enough alcohol to keep the Rolling Stones going between meals, but the man in front of him looked as insignificant as an accountant. Thick black glasses, hair swept over to cover a vast bald spot and a suit that was so old it was destined to be back in fashion very shortly. But he was the Premier and had to be treated as such.

'As you are aware sir, we have a man in custody as a result of the events of Friday night. He is, at this moment, in Barwon Jail under maximum security, and investigations are continuing.' Not bad, Abbot thought. Clear, concise and to the point.

'Has he been charged?' the Premier asked, while swivelling in his leather comfort blanket.

"No. Not Yet. We have another twelve days before we have to do that, and I want to make sure there are no legal issues to contend with. You have to understand sir, that the Terrorism Act is contentious and we have to ensure that all bases are covered.' Good answer, Abbot thought. Professional and to the point.

'OK, John. Just be aware that although is a national issue, we are in charge. If you get any pressure from the 'Feds' you must talk this over with me first. Terrorism is a national issue but investigation, and prosecution, is essentially under s State mandate. Do not be caught off-guard.' Abbot wasn't likely to be. He understood that there were greater political issues at large here, and as he had done many times before, he would keep his head down, release information only as required, and get a result despite interference. He would do it, however, with a nod to procedural correctness, even political correctness, and removed himself from the Premier's office having left the great man glowing in his perceived standing as a leviathan of statesmanship.

As Abbot helped a particularly beautiful young lady squeeze her Sherman Tank onto a tram, while she SMS'd her girl friend about the really cute guy she had just met while having a coffee with her therapist, he decided to walk back to the station, and take in the fresh air that he would enjoy scarcely little of over the next few days.

Sunday had disappeared very quickly for Yoosuf. He had slept solidly on Saturday night, all of the events of the previous twenty-four hours finally catching up with him, and the daylight hours had been spent with the doors of his cell being constantly opened by guards of the day shift curious to take a look at the opulence of his surroundings. None of them had explained his rights, or let him out for a bit of a walk, and it had taken him until 1:00pm simply to get his breakfast. But his friends of the night shift had looked after him very well when they arrived at 8:00pm. He had pressed his little buzzer and waited for their arrival, pointed at tomato soup with croutons and a little garlic, chilli chicken with saffron rice and lemon sorbet, and half an hour later sat in front of his TV watching a particularly interesting program about suicide bombers in Afghanistan on SBS. Even though he hadn't really seen daylight for sometime, apart from light given from the little fortified window that also acted as an air vent above the shower, he felt quite settled in his new environment, and although he desperately wanted to be out of the place and into Hasna's arms, if it was that he couldn't achieve that at this particular moment, his position wasn't exactly that bad. Tomorrow was another day. In fact, tomorrow was Monday and hopefully the wheels of the legal profession would begin to turn. That was presuming that Hasna could actually grease those wheels and given that he had had no contact with her since Friday night, he wasn't at all sure that she would be able even to talk to him, let alone get him freed. As he took a shower, watching another revealing SBS program about the US's involvement in yet another South American revolution, Yoosuf comforted himself in the knowledge that he was alive, well fed and in no particular danger. He just wished he knew how his wife was faring.

As it was, Hasna was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her escape to Footscray was unlikely to help in her quest to have Yoosuf freed. By midday on Monday, she had spent 48 hours in the overpowering arms of what was becoming her adopted family, and although the Sayed's were obviously earnest in their sympathy, a level of inertia had fallen on the family home. Meals were made, rooms were cleaned and meals were made again. Children had played, been shouted at and retreated to safer havens. Plenty of middle-aged men had come and gone, been ushered into the sitting room, loudly discussed options and left again, impassioned but impotent. Hasna reflected that with the entire western world's fear of the Islamic scourge, when you saw it in action, you couldn't help but think family life was pretty much the same across all cultures and that most Muslim elders' organisational abilities lay in ferrying people to afternoon prayers and leading financial appeals to redecorate the Imam's bedroom. When she finally got round to asking Mr. Sayed whether they had a plan, all she got was that paternal little smile, most often used when refusing a child's request for more pocket money. It was very depressing.

She was close to making a decision to move on and explore other avenues, when the phone that sat next to her on the coffee table burst into life, almost making her drop her orange juice. She called to see if anyone else was available to take the call and receiving no response, picked up the receiver.

'Hello. This is Al Abass Sayed's phone. You are speaking to Hasna,' she said, still looking around to see if anyone in the household had arrived to take over.

'Good.'

Was it? Hasna was unsure but the seeming reluctance of the caller to continue meant that she had to try again.

'Can I help you?'

'Er...yes. I'm sorry Mrs Ahmet. I'm not sure how exactly to put this, but I think I can help you in your current difficulties.' The caller was obviously a little nervous but he had definitely got Hasna's attention.

'To whom am I speaking, please?' she asked.

'I'm sorry Mrs Ahmet. I can't tell you that over the 'phone, but I would like to meet you so that we can see what we can do.'

We? Not him? Hasna's curiosity had been tweaked and the inaction she had seen over the weekend led her to believe that she should take up this offer.

'Where do you want to meet?' she asked, beginning to flush with the excitement of the moment.

'Just leave the house, turn left and then left again at the corner. You'll see a red Commodore. Get into the passenger seat.'

Hasna was already out of the chair, reaching for her coat and rushing to the door. With a cursory 'Goodbye and thank you' to anyone who might be there she left the house and walked at pace to the end of the street. Finally the inactivity of the weekend was being replaced with....something. Anything, she thought, was better than nothing and as she reached the corner, and saw the gleaming red car, feelings of fear at venturing into unknown territory were counter-balanced with the euphoria of action. As she approached the Commodore, a man of obvious middle-eastern descent got out of the driver's side and rushed round the front of the car to open the door for her.

'Good afternoon Mrs Ahmet.'

'Good Afternoon Hassan.'

Alan Chalmers sat in his office awaiting the arrival of his PA, Lawrence Parker, still basking in the glory of the weekend's events. The news of the explosion, and subsequent capture of the terrorist that performed the heinous crime, had hit the TV and print news and, with the miniscule amount of information that had been released, had been overwhelmingly positive. Even the Melbourne Age had been unable to come up with anything remotely disparaging and had even run a piece that congratulated the security services on their speedy response to the shocking events.

As he sipped his coffee, and mulled over ideas of an early election, Parker entered the room accompanied by a nondescript man wearing a nondescript suit and carrying, well, a nondescript attaché case.

'Good morning Lawrence. And you are...'

'This is Mr Smith,' Lawrence answered even though the question clearly wasn't aimed at him. 'He is a member of our security services.'

The words hung in the air, clouding the PM's thoughts for a few seconds. They had their man didn't they? Parker understood the question emanating from the look on the PM's face.

'We have a Mr. Ahmet securely locked up in Barwon but we need to see how big this problem is. Mr Smith has put a team together that may be able to look into things that the police on the ground are unable to.' The inference to Chalmers was obvious. Covert investigations, unregistered wire taps and other actions that he really didn't want to know about. In truth he was angry with himself anyway, for not looking at the bigger picture. He was happy that he had a result that he could sell to the public but was now somewhat apprehensive in regards to the possibility that the prospect of widespread terrorism, a subject that he had force-fed the people of Australia for months, may actually be true. Things were about to get even worse.

'Initial enquiries made by Mr Smith and his team indicate that, far from being a terrorist, Mr Yoosuf Ahmet is, in fact, a seller of kebabs. He is well known in St Kilda, as a hard-working and pleasant man who rarely takes time off and appears to have no links to any subversive groups in Melbourne; not that there are any there. He even votes for the Liberal Party,' Parker concluded eying Chalmers' bemused face with interest.

'Are you trying to tell me that we have the wrong man?' said Chalmers directing the question squarely at Smith. Parker answered the question once again.

'What we know is that he was definitely there when the shop exploded and that he was immediately taken into custody. This was accomplished due to an anonymous tip-off the police received; but no materials conducive to bomb making have been found at the scene and, in any case, it was his own shop and was, apparently empty at the time. A suicide bombing, therefore, would also seem to be out of the question.'

'It might have gone off by accident,' an exasperated Prime Minister responded.

'I just said that no residue consistent with a bombing has been found.' Parker had started to enjoy himself. His personal concerns at the new legislation, and his growing dislike at the PM's blossoming ego, were being replaced, slowly but surely, with a belief that his boss had been caught out and Parker was determined to go along for the ride. He had more.

'Mr Smith has also checked citizenship details and we can prove that both he and his wife were born here, married here and have only left the country once to have their honeymoon in, what you could call, the 'old' country.'

'Which was?' queried Chalmers, becoming more and more alarmed.

'Afghanistan.'

'Aha!' said Chalmers but not with any degree of spirit.

'The conclusion is, sir, that no connection can be made between this man and any known terrorist agency and as a result, we may have a bit of a problem.'

Parker was finished and so, it seemed, was Chalmers. He was about to become a laughing stock and the press would have a field day. There was only one thing he could think of to say.

'Can he prove it? And I want you to answer this question,' he said pointing at the mysterious Mr. Smith.

'Prove what Sir?' Mr Smith responded quizzically.

'That he's Australian.'

'Well we can,' Mr Smith answered again, although this time with a slight smile showing in the corners of his mouth.

'That is not what I asked. Can he?' Mr Smith's mouth had now grown into a grin.

'Apart from a few scraps of what looked like documents, which are now in the hands of Chief Inspector Abbot, nothing else was found at the bomb site, Prime Minister,' Smith said, fully aware now of what was being asked. 'Mr Ahmet has been searched twice now, and nothing like that was found. Even though Mrs Ahmet is still at large, we think it is unlikely that she would carry their birth certificates and passports while she was making toasted sandwiches.'

'You know what to do then,' Chalmers said with what power he could still muster.

'I do indeed Sir,' said Mr Smith as he turned to leave.

'Prime Minister. You can't do it. You can't sanction theft from the Victorian State Police,' Parker was outraged but he knew that he was powerless to stop what was about to occur. The last physical evidence that Mr and Mrs Ahmet were Australian citizens was about to be stolen from the office of head of detectives in the State of Victoria. He knew that if the Ahmet's could not prove that they were natives of this country, it would be far easier for Chalmers to sell the idea of a successful terrorist capture. He also knew that apart from the PM, and the now departed Mr Smith, he was the only other person who new what was about to happen. He didn't know what he could do to stop what was about to happen, but he resolved there and then to do something.

As the bright Red Commodore arrived at the car park, to the left of the main doors of the mosque, Hasna still had no idea of what she was letting herself in for. Hassan Sayed hadn't said a word since gallantly ushering her into the front seat and she thought it inappropriate to break the silence. He now led her to an adjacent building that had all the hallmarks of a rather large garden shed, but which had a quite imposing sign above the door that read 'Mosque Administration and Rudimentary Training for Young Researchers'. It wasn't lost on Hasna that, as an acronym, this spelt MARTYR and Sayed noticed her quizzical expression immediately.

'Primarily this was indeed set up to perform day to day administration functions for the mosque and slowly began to take on the same duties for things like day-care, aged-care and overseas pilgrimages.' Sayed knew he sounded like somebody giving a tour around an art gallery but he wanted Hasna to understand that this office was of value to all people associated with the mosque before he took matters further.

'In return for the younger members taking on all administrative functions, we have been allowed to set up what we call the 'Computer Club'' he continued with a smile as they approached the door. 'The oldies don't like computers,' he added as a final comment. They entered the room and Hasna was faced with something that had the appearance of something that share-market brokers would be very happy to spend their busy lives working in. She counted eight beautifully neat workstations, each currently being operated by earnest looking adolescent Muslim youths. With deference to the arrival of their leader, and noting the lady accompanying him, they all stopped what they were doing and, as one, rose from their seats. Although stunned by what she saw, and still unclear as to where this was all going, Hasna bade them to continue what they were doing and followed Sayed into a separate office to the right of the door through which they had entered.

'Please take a seat Mrs Ahmet.'

'Please call me Hasna,' she said while taking up his offer.

'I'm sure that all sorts of things are going through your mind at the moment but let me take a few moments to explain,' Sayed began his explanation and was happy to see that Hasna did indeed look as though she was beginning to relax.

'You will, by now, be fully aware of the inability of our fathers to react to something such as the events that have recently affected you and your husband. I love them with all my heart, but you must understand that many of them arrived in Australia after escaping brutal regimes and they see organized repression as something to escape and not something to stand and fight against.' Sayed accepted the nod from Hasna as an encouragement to continue.

'My little group, here, have vowed to fight such repression. Do not make the mistake of disregarding them because of their youth. They are not here to fight in a physical manner. They are here to organise and facilitate.'

'You mean they arrange for other people to fight and blow things up,' Hasna asked, confusion re-entering her thoughts.

'There is no evidence that any of our activities have resulted in what you say, but if they did, then so be it,' Sayed responded, more than a little appreciative of Hasna's understanding of what he was saying. 'Each of the computers out there is connected to the internet via super-speed broadband meaning we have world wide access 24/7 and we use an internet provider with the best of Islamic connections. They are able to encrypt our on-line traffic so that, shall we say, if any government agencies wish to eavesdrop on what we are doing they will have a very hard time of it.' Sayed sat back in his chair exuding what he hoped would be taken as omnipotent glory, but Hasna still hadn't fully grasped what he was saying.

'So, what have you achieved so far?' she asked, hoping that eventually they would get round to the small matter of her husband. Sayed then reeled off a series of world-wide events that they may have helped to organise, including bombings in Spain, kidnappings in Afghanistan and even a link to the famously failed 'Shoe Bomber' from England, who apparently was foiled when he took his shoe off to scratch his big toe. Hasna remembered that cabin crew had suspected that some kind of gas had been released in the plane and after a thorough investigation found the offending shoe and flushed it down the loo. Bomb disposal experts had, apparently, now included this disposal method in the appendix of their most recent manual and terror groups, including Sayed's own presumably, had been told by their terror masters, to find another method of 'Body Bombing' as they called it.

'OK. So what can you do for me?' Hasna asked of Sayed, although she had the feeling that blowing things up in the current climate might not be overly helpful.

'We are waiting for directions from, shall I just call them, our friends,' Sayed replied. 'What I can tell you is that the State Government, in all their wisdom, have posted aerial photographs of Barwon Prison on the internet and we think they are going to prove very useful.' With that he rose from his chair and began to usher Hasna out of the building. 'I'll get one of the boys to drop you back at my brother's place and when I've heard anything more I'll let you know.'

And that, for the time being, was that. Hasna was to be driven back to the home of Al Abass Sayed and Hassan returned to his desk to continue with his planning and look over the photographs one more time. He smiled and shook his head at the stupidity of a government that would, in an effort to show off their prized modifications to Barwon Jail, also advertise a terrible fault at the same time. The photos showed how beautifully laid out the jail actually was, with six metre high fencing all round, heavy concrete cell blocks and other nondescript buildings. They also showed an inner mesh type fence that stood approximately 5 metres in from the main fence, presumably acting as an extra security measure. The mesh fence stood parallel to the perimeter fencing all around the jail except for, curiously Sayed thought, the exercise area of one block in particular. Maybe they'd run out of money, he said to himself, and chuckled at the thought. Given that the block in question had obviously been heavily remodelled, and recently, it wasn't that difficult to presume that this was the Terrorist Block and was where Yoosuf was being held. He could just make out, by using his glasses as a makeshift magnifying glass, a single door on the side of the block. What was through that door? He simply had to find out. He had the beginnings of a plan, having discussed a few things with his 'friends' but a lot would hinge on what was behind that door. Quickly he rose from his chair and raced out to catch up with Hasna before she left the car park.

By Monday afternoon, Yoosuf had reached his boredom threshold and decided it was time to stretch his legs. Ten minutes of intermittently pressing his little intercom buzzer had achieved precisely nothing. Each time a guard had responded he said nothing, his vow of silence remaining intact and his wish to go outside not expressed and therefore not answered. In the time old fashion of those annoying and unwelcome visitors that refuse to leave your premises if you don't answer the door, Yoosuf put his finger on the little button and left it there. The response this time was immediate and physical. Within a few seconds he heard footsteps running down the hall and the lock of his cell door being noisily released. It took a few moments for Yoosuf to release the pressure on the buzzer after the entry of two very large uniformed officers, and when he saw that they were becoming agitated, pointed the offending finger at the door to the outside world.

'What do you want, you little prick?' said the one with the key, clearly annoyed at Yoosuf's silent gesticulation. It didn't really help when he wasn't answered but the pointing continued. In an effort to help with negotiations, Yoosuf walked in the direction of the door until he had his finger pressed against it, in much the same way he had aroused the guards in the first place.

'Can't you speak?' exclaimed the other guard, becoming a little unsettled at what was happening. Yoosuf merely continued to point but now used his other hand to gently knock on the door, occasionally flicking his head in the same direction in that 'come hither' way that a prostitute would attract a punter. This clearly had both guards on their guard, but it did slowly dawn on them what their charge actually wanted.

'You want to go out?' Yoosuf responded with a series of nods, and a series of knocks on the door, although he had finally removed his offending index finger from the scene.

'Well, OK, but you might not like what you see,' and with that a key was inserted in the lock and the door opened to glorious sunlight and a release from captivity. Yoosuf almost ran from his cell and immediately regretted his action. An enormous roar rose up from an adjacent exercise area and even though it had to be at least 100 metres away, what seemed like the entire prison population was assembled as if it had been waiting there for this moment since his arrival. Shouting and gesturing of a very different kind than he had employed himself were very evident, and he immediately recognized one inmate who had greeted his arrival on Saturday in much the same way, until so obviously injuring his hand. The man was giving him the finger again although now that he seemed to have a number of fingers taped together, the effect was somewhat diminished. Nonetheless, it was enough for Yoosuf and he shot back into his cell and closed the door. Immediately the door opened again, and the guards he had left outside, entered, locked the door and exited the cell door happy in the knowledge that this terrorist scumbag was going to have a very hard time of it inside. At that moment, Yoosuf would not have disagreed with them, and resolved to have a chat with his elderly night shift friends about exercising at night when everybody else had gone to bed. It was all very well being let out for a bit of R & R, but if that was accompanied by the possibility of grievous bodily harm it seemed to him to defeat the purpose somewhat.

'Oh, sir. There's someone to see you. We put him in your office,' said the Desk Sergeant before returning to his mountain of paperwork.

'Who is it?' Abbot asked.

'Can't remember his name sir, but his card showed that he was from the Department of Defence.'

The Department of Defence only meant one thing. Interference. He should have expected it. Indeed he did expect it but not quite so soon. By the time he exited the lift on the third floor of St Kilda Road Police Station, he had decided his approach would be non-committal, bordering on dismissive, with a view to establishing how much interference he was likely to expect. On entering his office, fully prepared for a little bit of cat and mouse, he stopped dead in his tracks. It was empty. Abbot immediately got on the phone to the front desk and was assured that the gentleman in question had been deposited there some 30 minutes before and, to the best of his knowledge, was still there.

'Well he isn't here now,' and with that Abbot replaced the receiver and opened the desk drawer to his left, nervous at what he might find. What he found was exactly nothing. The charred documents he had been handed on his visit to the St Kilda bombsite had gone. He'd only given them a cursory glance at the time, but had noted what looked like an Australian passport, and other pieces of paper that may have amounted to birth certificates or other forms of ID. He knew that he would not be able to prove theft against the man. In fact he was sure that he was unlikely to be able to find him at all. He was also sure that the importance of those documents to the secret services could only mean one thing. Without them, the man currently biding his time in Barwon Jail may not be able to prove who he was. It was going to be very much easier for the legal system to prove guilt if the offender appeared to be an illegal immigrant. Abbot now knew that his investigation had been turned completely on its head. He wasn't even sure that there was much left to investigate. He resolved, however, to meet up with the fire service and bomb disposal personnel to establish, once and for all, what had caused the explosion and then to arrange to travel to Barwon to see the man himself. He, after all, must have something to say about what had happened.

'So where is she now?' Jim Buchanan was having great difficulty understanding how his most senior reporter had allowed a prime witness, and possible suspect, simply walk away and disappear.

'We were able to establish that she got off the tram in Spencer Street and we believe she caught a train to Footscray,' Caroline Webb answered with as much conviction as she could muster. 'There is a mosque there and I think she may have gone to get some kind of help. David is over there at the moment trying to find her.'

'Well while you have been playing hide and seek, I've been talking to our legal eagles and they've come up with something very interesting. We know that the Terrorism Act prevents any communication between the prisoner and the outside world. Apparently, that clause contravenes the International Convention on Human Rights, and as such is illegal.'

'That's good for tomorrow's front page' Caroline said as her mind began to formulate the story.

'Yes it is and I've already written the copy,' Buchanan continued. 'I have another idea though, and I want you to follow it through.'

'Which is?'

'The minimum requirement of the convention is that communication is only through close family and legal support if requested. We don't know if he has requested help, and given you can't find the wife, we don't know if she is yet aware of her rights.'

'OK. What do you want me to do?' she asked, somewhat bemused.

'Well obviously find Hasna Ahmet, and...'

'I've found her,' David, the cadet reporter who had started everything in the first place, rushed into the office breathless and hyperventilating, apparently the way he spent most of his waking hours. 'She's staying with a Mr. Al Abass Sayed in Footscray and I've spoken to him. He seems to think it would be a good idea to talk to us.'

'Have you got his phone number?' Buchanan still hadn't got used to David bursting into the room as he was speaking but was becoming more and more impressed with the young man.

'Yes; and a mobile number that will allow us to get in touch directly with Hasna. He's going to give her his own mobile.'

'Caroline?'

'I'll call her right away and, as I think you were about to say, impress on her rights as the wife of an imprisoned man.' Caroline's mind was now running at 100 miles an hour. 'I'll also try to get her to give me an interview or at least let me accompany her when she goes to see her husband.'

'OK. We're all set,' said Buchanan as he returned to his keyboard to continue with his daily grind. 'David. Very well done. You should work directly with Caroline on this,' and even Caroline, who was used to working on her own, saw the value in his remark.

Caroline and David rushed off to her own office and, after collecting his laptop on the way, David keyed in the mobile number into Caroline's phone, and pressed the speaker button.

'Hello, Hasna speaking.' The reply was immediate and a bit of a shock to both of them because of it.

'Hasna, it's Caroline Webb from the Melbourne Age. How are you?'

'Wonderful' but it was obvious from Hasna's tone that she was far from that.

'Listen. I've got a couple of things to tell you.' With that, Caroline explained about the Act's shortcomings and her right to see her husband. She also told Hasna that she could call her husband at any time and gave her the direct number of Barwon Jail, something Hasna had been looking for over the last couple of days. Finally, Caroline asked for exclusivity and took Hasna's silence as a nod of agreement.

'I will arrange for us to go down to the jail tomorrow and I will bring the company solicitor with us. I will also ask him right now to talk to the authorities with regards to you phoning the jail to speak to Yoosuf. Just give me half an hour and then call them yourself. Is that OK?'

'Thank you, Caroline. I will call them in 30 minutes as you say, and I will see you tomorrow to go down there. I will talk to you then.' The phone went dead.

'David. Nip over to the solicitor's office. Tell them to get in touch with Barwon and say that Buchanan has OK'd it.'

David shot off in that breathless way of his, leaving Caroline at the keyboard of her computer. 'The Real Story behind the St Kilda bomb' she typed and even though she knew it wouldn't be finished in time for tomorrow's edition, it may even take a few days to get it into print, she looked forward to completing what may possibly be the defining story of her career.

Lawrence Parker was, to say the least, horrified at the way his boss was abusing his elected position. He had always been aware of some of the underhand methods used in Federal politics, but for Chalmers to sanction the theft of documents that may allow someone to fight for their release from jail was, to Parker unconscionable. With this in mind, he had put in for a couple of days off to see whether there was anything he could do to halt this travesty of justice. He had decided to travel down to see his friends at the Gay Pride headquarters, funnily enough based in St Kilda, where he knew that the Government's refusal to allow gay marriage had galvanized the group to action, much of it bordering on illegal. They may, he thought, have some idea as to rallying support behind Mr. Ahmet. His entry to the Gay Pride's offices, actually the front room of the house of their leader, Tarquin Letterby, immediately made him feel at home. His eyes were immediately assaulted by a vision of pink chiffon and tight leather trousers that sashayed down the corridor in his direction.

'Hello Sweetie.'

Before Parker could answer, he was enveloped in wafts of fine flowing material and the odour of, what could have been, Chanel No 5.

'Hello Tarquin. I need your help.'

'Come into the front room darling. Let's see what we can do.'

Without going into too much detail, and more specifically the illegal nature of the PM's most recent activities, Parker went over his concerns at the events that had occurred over the last few days and explained that he wanted to try to help the poor sod languishing down in Barwon Jail.

'Well actually I think I can help you. We've just held a 'coming out' party and one of the boys, very nice he was, big, strong, masculine and so cute, told us that he was a construction worker and had just finished a job down at the jail. I think he said his name was Robert.' Tarquin was very happy with himself, flicked a non-existent fringe from his eyes and continued before Parker could ask how that helped.

'He says that the perimeter wall outside the terrorist block is so weak that a slight wind could blow it down.' With that Tarquin spent a couple of moments in self absorbed bliss before continuing. 'Something to do with cost blowouts or something, darling. He also said that the Terrorist cell had a door to the outside and that any terrorist worth his salt could probably just walk out, get through the wall and begin his Fatwa all over again.'

Parker still hadn't caught on and it showed.

'Well sweetie. If the terrorist can just walk out, we should be able to just walk in,' Tarquin concluded. Finally it dawned on Parker that if this were true, even if they were unable to get away with it, it would make a great statement and expose the shortcomings of the Terrorism Act both legally and constructively.

'But we can't go down to the jail ourselves, belt a hole in the wall with a dirty great lump hammer and rush off with a 'terrorist' over our shoulders, can we?'

'No' said Tarquin with a huge smile on his face 'But Bob the Builder most definitely can.' Tarquin stood up, went over to his phone, which was a model of a blue poodle with a yellow ribbon in its hair, punched in some numbers and chatted excitedly with his new friend, Robert. By the time he finished he was so flushed that he almost fainted. After almost falling back into his chair, he informed Parker that everything was in place for the following night. Robert would pick them up the following afternoon and they would head down the highway to their date with destiny.

'Speaking of dates sweetie, let's clean up and hit the clubs. I have some friends that would absolutely love to meet you.' After keeping his sexuality a secret throughout his years in the maelstrom of Federal politics, a night of whole-hearted debauchery was something that Parker thought would help clear his mind in preparation for the following day's events. If nothing else, a really good honest shag seemed like a very good idea.

It took Hasna a good hour and a half to get through to someone at the jail that was actually prepared to talk to her. As it was, the confusion of shift change-over meant that whilst her final call had been met with a dismissive response yet again, and the phone was clearly no longer in anyone's hands, the line had not actually been disconnected. She waited a couple of minutes in the hope that someone would pick it up again, and was pleased to hear a voice on the other end.

'Hello.' Sid Barrett had picked the phone up along with a piece of paper that was sitting next to it.

'My name is Hasna Ahmet and I would like to speak to my husband.'

'I'm afraid he is not allowed to speak to you,' Sid responded, and decided not to add that his prisoner was not, at that particular moment, talking to anybody at all.

'You should have a Fax there, sent to you by a solicitor acting on my behalf. It explains that it is illegal for someone who has not been charged with a crime, to not be allowed contact with close family or legal representative. I say again I would like to speak with my husband.' This was the third or fourth time she had said this and now had no great hope of talking with her husband before she travelled down to the jail the following day.

'Just one moment' said Sid before putting the phone down again and walking to the tearoom to talk this over with Winston. Hasna was left hanging in the air once again and although tempted to simply hang up and end the farce she had been playing a part in, desperation pushed her into waiting for the response she was sure she would get.

'What do you think?' asked Sid, scratching his head in the time-honoured fashion of someone who had absolutely no idea what to do.

'Well, we've got our orders but this is pretty official looking stuff' said Winston as confused as his workmate at what to do. 'The afternoon shift said they had tried to contact the Governor and Ambrose and they're not answering their phones.'

'We could get into trouble letting him speak with his wife' said Barrett quickly.

'According to this,' Winston replied waving the fax in the air 'we could get in bigger trouble if we don't. In any case, he hasn't said a word since he got here. What trouble can he get us into?' And with that Churchill shuffled off to get the prisoner, leaving Barrett to stare at the phone as if trying to force it to hang itself up. Churchill returned within a minute with his charge and pushed him towards the receiver. Yoosuf looked back at him with a confused look on his face but fully understood what was happening and, maybe, too eagerly picked it up. At the other end, Hasna heard a noise through her earpiece.

'Yoosuf, is that you?' Silence.

'Yoosuf, this is Hasna. Please speak to me.' Again there was no answer, but Yoosuf began to tap lightly on his receiver to give some kind of response.

'Are they still there? Are they watching you?' Yoosuf tapped away until his finger began to hurt. He quickly stopped this activity because he thought the guards might think he was communicating by code and he just wanted to hear Hasna's voice.

'OK. Just listen. I am coming down there tomorrow, with a lawyer, and an annoying woman from the press, to see about getting you out. There's something about what's happened to you that is illegal. Well I guess we both know that. I'm not sure what it all means but I'll be down there to see you tomorrow.' Yoosuf risked more taps to let her know that he understood. 'Just hang in there my love and we'll be together again soon.' A quick flurry of taps reassured her that she had been heard.

He was sure she had finished and was about to put the phone down when she began talking again.

'Yoosuf. I know you can't talk so just tap on the phone if the answer is yes. OK.' Tap Tap Tap. 'Are there two doors to your cell?' What? What was she talking about? 'Please Yoosuf. Are there two doors to your cell?' Tap. Tap. Tap. This was very confusing to Yoosuf but, he had to admit, a little exciting at the same time. 'Does one door lead directly to the outside?' Tap. Tap Tap. 'OK I'll talk to you tomorrow.' With that the phone went dead and Yoosuf replaced his own receiver.

'You finished?' Barrett asked. He merely nodded and began to walk back to his cell. The guards followed, slowly. As he let them catch up, and was led back in to his surrogate home, he decided he should have a little celebration. He immediately pointed to the opposite door.

'You want to go out.' It was Churchill this time and he fumbled for the relevant key. It was a beautiful sunny evening, with the sun just beginning to disappear over the back of the security fence. There were no other inmates to upset his feeling of freedom. They were inside having their dinner and wouldn't be allowed outside again until tomorrow morning. He was free to walk around, smell the air and daydream about what was to happen the following day. The contented smile on his face alerted his guards that the call he had received had changed things. He was no longer the sullen, silent foreigner they had been tending to but a happy human being who, although still uncommunicative, had been talking, or in his case listening, to his loved one. They were pleased. A happy prisoner was easier to deal with and all fears about the banned contact they had allowed were put firmly to the back of their minds.

Hasna hadn't quite finished with the phone yet. She punched in the number Hassan Sayed had given her. The response was almost immediate.

'Hassan Sayed.'

'Hassan this is Hasna. I have the information you wanted.'

'Yes?'

'Yoosuf has two doors to his cell. One of them leads directly to the exercise area.'

'Thank you Mrs Ahmet. I believe now that we will have your husband out of there very shortly. Leave things to me and I will talk to you very soon.' Hassan put the phone down and smiled. The news was wonderful. He could now truly make his mark in the arena of International Islam. It was time to talk to the 'Computer Club.'

For Hasna, the phone-call had been her insurance. After what had occurred over the last few days, she did not have an overwhelming trust in the legal system, and any help Hassan Sayed's little outfit could provide, she believed, would only help. Whatever happened, she was sure now, that at the very least, she would be able to see Yoosuf very soon, and the possibility of getting him out of prison would be a wonderful bonus.

*****

Chapter 4

Twenty-four hours later Yoosuf Ahmet woke from having an afternoon nap. He'd slept fitfully the night before, visions of freedom, Hasna and a return to St Kilda making a full nights sleep impossible. He had used his option of going outside on a number of occasions, and although his guards had taken a little longer to respond to the buzzer each time, something to do with their age one of them had told him, they had kindly let him into his personal exercise yard each time his finger pointing had explained what he wanted. After the seventh or was it eighth time, he couldn't quite remember, they had simply left the door unlocked and told him to come and go as he pleased. They would lock the door at the end of their shift. After all, they had told him, 'where was he going to go?'

Yoosuf knew their shift was about to start, and perused the menu sheet. After deliberating for a few minutes, he decided on scalloped potatoes with garlic and chicken, fresh vegetables and a bowl of ice cream for desert. Decision made he buzzed the guards, pointed at his selections with the, now, practised dexterity of a touch typist, and awaited their return. Half an hour later, his steaming main course was presented to him. One of them placed his ice cream in his brand new fridge while the other wandered over to the outside door to unlock it.

'Sid's arthritis is playing up and my lumbago is giving me hell,' explained Winston before leaving the cell, locking the main door and returning to their rest room, supporting Sid by his elbow all the way. 'Isn't that nice?' thought Yoosuf, as he tucked into his chicken. Good food, ice cream in the fridge and his own little bit of freedom outside the door. His only concern was that Hasna was yet to arrive. It wasn't so much that he was worried. She would have made sure that he would be told of any change of plan. It was more that the expectancy of the previous evening had been replaced by an over-eagerness for everything to happen, in much the same way a child awaits its birthday or, as he understood it, Christmas day. He would eat his dinner, have half of his ice cream, and go outside for a little walk to help with his digestion. The guards would let him know when his visitors arrived, and he wanted to be nicely relaxed when that happened.

Tarquin had decided they should make a party of it, and dressed himself in his Calvin Klein shirt and high cut denim shorts. Lawrence decided to join in the fun, and wore a silk shirt he had acquired in Thailand the previous summer, along with a pair of black leather trousers he had borrowed from Tarquin's extensive wardrobe. Even Robert, who had picked them up in his workman's van as if he was going to his latest building site, which was what he was actually going to do, returned home before they left St Kilda to put on his cheeky dress chords and cowboy boots. Two bottles of pink champagne added to the festivities and by the time they were halfway to Barwon, each in his own sweet way was primed for a really good time.

'Darling, have you got all the gear we need?' said Tarquin looking into the rear of the van.

'There are two lump hammers, a jemmy and a change of clothes if we get a bit dirty' replied Robert who was really beginning to enjoy himself.

'Is that enough to get inside?' asked Lawrence now beginning to realise that the champagne was going to his head.

'You could get inside that jail by blowing on the walls, but I've brought that stuff as a bit of insurance.' answered Robert before swigging his third glass of Champagne and nearly taking out a set of traffic lights.

'Isn't he just marvellous?' Tarquin thought he was beginning to fall in love with this very impressive hunk of man, but he would keep that a secret for the moment. 'I believe he can fix anything,' he said as he dropped his empty glass and reached for another from his Armani overnight case.

'So it's true then,' exclaimed Lawrence with a giggle, 'Bob the Builder can fix anything.'

The comment provoked shrieks of hysterical laughter out of all three and they sang the song known to children the world over, again and again, as they continued their drive into the unknown.

Hasna received the call on the mobile she had been carrying, at about three o'clock. Caroline Webb apologized profusely for the delay and explained that the solicitor had spent the entire morning ensuring that the necessary paperwork was in place to expedite proceedings. Caroline and the solicitor were well aware they would need court orders to actually get the man out of jail, but this was a very important part of the process. They arranged to meet at the Age building and, at precisely four o'clock, Caroline, Hasna and the solicitor drove down Spencer St beginning their journey south to Barwon jail.

'Now, Hasna. You realise we won't be able to get your husband out of jail today, don't you?' Caroline asked from the driving seat 'This is just a small part of a much larger process'.

'I have no expectation of anything anymore. I just want to see my husband. If this process you speak of helps get him out later, all the better.' She made it as obvious as she could that she did not want to talk and gazed blankly out of the window. Caroline understood the signs.

'I know you don't want to talk now, but once you have seen your husband I really need to go over things with you. This is a big story and needs to be told. Whatever your husband is or may be, or may not be, he has been treated illegally in terms of international law at the least. We have to tell this story.'

Hasna nodded and remained silent. She hadn't actually agreed to tell this woman anything but for the time being would go along with the pretence. Besides she had the resources of the 'Computer Club' working on her behalf, and the energy exuded by Hassan Sayed led her to believe that they, and not the people in the car with her, were more likely to get Yoosuf released. Whichever alternative worked best, legal or illegal, she was filled with new expectations. Even though it was only a few days since Yoosuf had been taken from her, it felt like an eternity and she found it most comforting to know she now had two avenues working towards a solution. She closed her eyes and began to imagine the moment when it would all be over and normality could return.

The group of adolescent Muslim youth, dressed from head to toe in black, complete with balaclavas purchased, ironically, from the Army and Navy store in Footscray, piled out of the 'Computer Club's' minibus, as Hassan Sayed pulled on the handbrake and cut the engine. Pulling his own balaclava over his head, he joined them at the perimeter fence and noted happily that the sun had now set and he was beginning to have difficulty making out the faces of his charges. Each was armed with metal headed mallets, thoughtfully covered with squares of cut-off blankets to deaden the noise, and he carried a small hold-all containing enough explosive, supplied by a friend employed in the quarry business, which he had been assured would blow open the cell door. It was time to give them a rev-up.

'As far as we know this wall,' he said tapping his palm against the wall, 'is single depth breezeblock. We will take it in turns to smash this point,' he tapped the wall once more, harder this time 'and make a hole big enough to climb through. We will then go straight up to the cell door' and with a final flourish, he hit the wall once more. Accompanied by gasps of what could only be taken as awe, a single block shot out of the wall and landed softly on the grass beyond. To a man, or more specifically boy, their appreciation of their leader had risen to levels of worship and Hassan himself was greatly impressed in his newly found power. Before any of his charges were able to help, he pushed three more blocks out of their poorly mortared positions and turned to face the group to receive more impressed, but deliberately muted, congratulations.

'Mutazz. You collect the mallets, put them in the van and wait for us here. The rest of you, follow me.' Hassan clambered through the hole in the wall followed quickly by his more athletic group of warriors. The darkness around them was now complete, but slivers of light could be seen about fifty metres away and they took that to be the targeted door. It took them no more than twenty seconds to assemble by the door and Hassan used a pencil torch to shine light on his explosive device and set the timer to go off in three minutes. He then placed it by the lock of the door, fixed in place by double-sided tape, and knocked on the door.

'Yoosuf get away from the door. Get under the bed or something. The door will blow in three minutes.' He had to make sure that Yoosuf would be safe and knocked again, repeating his message. He went through the process one more time and moved about three metres down from the door where his group had already placed themselves.

'Get yourselves ready,' he told them. 'It will blow in 2½ minutes.' And so they waited.

Yoosuf had finished his dinner, had a quick shower, and was watching another documentary on SBS. Something about child labour issues on the Sub-Continent. He wasn't really concentrating. It was beginning to get very late. The little digital clock on his microwave showed 8:30pm and there had still been no contact with Hasna. He was mulling over the idea of waking up his guards when he heard tapping on the outside door and somebody mumbling something he couldn't quite pick up. As he stared at the door it happened again. This was enough to make him leave visions of three-year children sewing together $200 Nike footballs and he walked over to the door and placed his ear to the steel reinforced panels. It happened one more time.

Slowly, he turned the door handle and poked his head out.

'Hello?' As his eyes became used to the darkness outside, he was shocked to see a group of what appeared to be children, accompanied by a moustachioed adult, outlined by the fluorescent ceiling light shining from behind him. They seemed frozen, just like rabbits caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

The shock that Yoosuf felt was multiplied ten times for the group in front of him and it took all of ten seconds before Sayed rushed up to Yoosuf, grabbed his arm and began to frog-march him in the direction of the hole in the wall. The rest of them charged ahead, clambered through the hole and waited for them to arrive.

'Let me go!' Yoosuf had found his voice again and was coming to the realisation that he was being kidnapped. 'I am waiting for my wife and she will be here at any minute.' Sayed said nothing and pushed Yoosuf roughly through the hole and followed quickly himself.

'Let go!' Yoosuf said again with much more force.

'Shut up!' Hassan responded.

'I will not!' but it was to be the last thing he could say. Hassan had thoughtfully brought some masking tape with him, as all good kidnappers do, and, tearing off a piece, placed it around Yoosuf's mouth, threw him into the back of the minibus and raced around to the front of the vehicle. In one deft movement, he inserted the key, slammed it into 1st gear and gunned the engine with such force that the minibus door closed itself and Yoosuf was thrown against the rear of the minibus, knocking him out cold.

With empty bottles of bubbly now bouncing around the back of Robert's truck, the little group of gay amigos arrived at Barwon jail just in time to see a minibus, full of black shadows, bouncing around the corner and disappearing into the night. In a more sober moment, it may have made them question what they were about to do, but fuelled as they were by the finest champagne, and able only to concentrate on one thing at a time, they ignored what they had seen and parked up against the perimeter wall. Tarquin and Lawrence fell out of the passenger side amid shrieks and yet more giggles, quickly shushed by their travelling companion. Robert reached inside the van for his torch, switched it on and began to walk alongside the wall looking for a spot that may be weak enough to work on. He quickly came upon the hole and stopped dead in his tracks. He was quickly joined by the other two, whose drunken state had been exacerbated by the cold night air.

'Look darling' Tarquin said to Lawrence, pointing towards the hole 'I told you he's marvellous. He's done all of the work already.' He tried to start another rendition of 'Bob the Builder' but Robert, suspecting what was about to happen clamped his hand around Tarquin's mouth and told him to keep it down.

'No need to be so rough sweetie' said Tarquin once he had been released from Robert's grip. 'At least not until a bit later.'

Robert went back to the truck again, picking up the jemmy, and motioned the other two to follow him through the hole in the wall. This was accomplished noisily, with more giggles and a lot more shushing. They could see the cell door in front of them, outlined by light as it had been for the earlier visitors and marched unsteadily in that direction. Robert got to the door first and noticed immediately that, far from requiring brute strength to open it, it was actually already ajar. It was too late to stand and contemplate what this all meant and he grabbed the door handle, the back of his hand brushing softly against something metallic. All three marched in, ready to greet the prisoner and take him away to freedom. Instead all they found was an empty cell and a TV programme discussing child slavery in the era of economic globalization.

At the same time that the second invasion of the 'Terrorist cell' occurred, discussions that had now been going on for almost two hours, were coming to some kind of conclusion. Caroline, Hasna and the solicitor had arrived at the jail shortly after 6:30pm and it was now nearly half past eight. Finally the solicitor had been galvanized into action and had produced so much legal documentation that the man on the desk had made a phone call to Governor Smith, who arrived 20 minutes later. Arguments and counter-arguments ensued until a dread of legal fall-out had convinced Smith to allow a meeting to take place. He demanded that the two guards, who were looking after Mr. Ahmet, be present throughout and he would remain outside the cell in case the guards needed to consult with him. With that they began to make their way to the terrorist block where Sid Barrett and Winston Churchill, having been warned of their impending arrival by the guard on the front desk, were there to take the group to the cell. An agonisingly slow walk, brought on by the guards' respective ailments, finally concluded and Sid produced the relevant key from the collection hanging from his trouser belt. As he turned it slowly in the lock, and after grabbing the door handle, there was a massive explosion that blew the cell door over Sid's head with the key still in the lock and his trousers following behind like a windsock at an airport. Winston rushed to his aid while Caroline, Hasna and Governor Smith rushed as one into the cell. What they found there was, to some extent, more shocking than losing their hearing. Three flamboyantly dressed individuals, at that moment of indeterminate sex, covered in dust and apparently watching a documentary on a TV that had surprisingly survived the explosion. It was then that Lawrence let out a piercing scream and Tarquin grabbed hold of the be-muscled arm of a very large man who was blubbering like a baby.

After a few moments Winston, who had spent a few moments making sure that only Sid's trousers had been ripped away from his body, entered the cell and was as shocked as everyone else.

'I knew I shouldn't have left the door open,' he said and wandered out into the night through what was left of his mistake.

Only one person standing among the devastation was unaffected by what they saw. Once Hasna had established that Yoosuf was not actually present in the cell, and that his body parts were not distributed around what was left of his accommodation, she silently rejoiced. Oh how clever she had been to agree to help Mr Sayed and his band of adolescent subversives. One phone call and twenty fours hours later her husband had been released and was free. All rhetoric aside, she now began to see value in trusting her own judgement and trusting in her own kind. She resolved to let Caroline drive her back to Footscray, maybe giving her some kind of vague interview on the way, and wait for the arrival of her loved one.

He had received the call at 4:00am and, dressing quickly and quietly so as no to wake his wife, Chief Inspector Abbot was soon driving south with his brain in overload. His outrage at the theft of what must have been important documents had been put aside and replaced by incredulity. Another explosion, and the loss of the man central to his current case, at least cemented the idea that he was dealing with no ordinary investigation, but even saying that, events had given it all the hallmarks of a Mr. Magoo cartoon. Members of his team were already at the prison and had informed him that although Mr. Ahmet had disappeared, the prison authorities had found three grubby looking men of dubious sexuality who, it seems, had simply walked in through a hole in the perimeter fence and then through an open door to the cell. Further, it would appear, there was CCTV footage of what appeared to be the forcible capture of Mr. Ahmet by a group of men dressed completely in black. As he parked the car and entered the prison buildings he started to compile a list of probable charges. Kidnap, breaking and entering, letting off an explosive device, destruction of property and, after checking out the three new prisoners, he thought about adding bloody awful dress sense. In fact, the latter was the only charge he could definitely apply to anyone.

'Jesus, where do I start?' he muttered a little too loudly, noting that also present were two ladies, one of middle-eastern appearance, two guards, one of whom was in his underpants and a studious gentleman in a suit who looked completely out of place. His comment generated a cacophony of questions, denials and pleas from the assembled crowd.

'I only left the door open because he couldn't go anywhere' said Winston concerned at how things might go.

'But he did, you idiot!' It was Governor Smith this time, concerned for his own reasons.

'Can I sit down?' said Sid whose knee had begun to throb.

'Sweetie. I need to pee,' Tarquin pleaded, spitting bits of masonry as he did. Abbot ignored him.

'You.'

'Me?' said Smith hoping that it wasn't him, but noting Abbot's stare was immediately disappointed.

'Yes you. Take me to the cell.' Smith led the way down the corridor and, tiptoeing around rubble, and over a smashed door with a pair of trousers attached, ushered Abbot into the cell. It was immediately obvious to Abbot, looking at the mangled door opposite where he currently stood, that the prison guard's admission to leaving the door open was, to say the least, a moot point. It did, he thought, beg the question as to why someone would blow it up if it was already open, but that would be a question for later on. Making sure not to disturb any evidence, or more specifically break their ankles, they made there way through the rubble and went outside into the early morning sunshine. The hole in the perimeter wall was evident as soon as they got outside and as they made their way in that direction the prison population, having finished their breakfast, watched them from their own exercise area.

'Just chuck one of those over here, mate, I wanna go down the pub' shouted the prisoner who had been most vociferous when Yoosuf had first arrived.

'There's no damage to these blocks,' Abbot noted when they got to the wall. He pushed one of the blocks, that was still part of the structure, only to see another seven fall out, two of them landing on his left foot. This was heralded with loud cheers from the inmates.

'Come over here, muscles, and I'll give you a really good time' screeched one inmate who looked like a cross between a bulldog and Mike Tyson, only far more ugly. Abbot ignored the comment and began to limp back to the main building.

'I'm not here to give you any grief about that,' he said pointing back at the wall 'but I will have to report what I see. I suggest you get your stories straight and wait for the government lackeys to arrive. Good luck.' With that Abbot made his way through the demolished cell, pausing once more to look at the trousers that Sid Barrett was now trying to release from the grip of the cell door, and walked up the corridor where his assembled detectives were waiting for him. He returned five minutes later having resolved to get something out of the mayhem.

'You three,' he said pointing at the three amigos 'will go with my detective back to St Kilda Rd. police station where you will be charged with criminal trespass.'

'What about my truck?' asked Robert.

'It will be impounded for forensic testing. If there is the smallest trace of explosive found, you are in big trouble.' Robert's quivering lower lip satisfied Abbot that interviewing those three would be a piece of cake.

'Mrs. Ahmet, I am presuming that's who you are,' he said looking at Hasna 'will accompany me there. I want to hear your story.'

'And you two.' He said, this time pointing at Caroline and the solicitor. 'Actually, who the hell are you?'

Caroline whispered in the solicitor's ear and left the talking to him.

'My name is Simon Thring, of Thring, Thring, Pascoe and Thring, solicitors representing The Melbourne Age. After consultation with Ms Webb here, I will also be representing these three gentlemen and Mrs Ahmet, should they so desire.' There were nods of agreement all round.

'So be it. Let's go.' With that, Abbot led the group towards the exit, picking up his detectives on the way, and leaving Governor Smith and his terrorist task force to repair the damage as best they could.

The room was cold and dank, with a slight odour of day old meat. Yoosuf awoke from his enforced comatose state and spent a few moments trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was at a loss to make any sense of it at all.

'There you are, Yoosuf. We were a little worried about you.' The voice came from the only corner of the room that provided any light, and Yoosuf could just make out the outline of a slightly built man sitting at what appeared to be a counter of some sort. Realising that he was lying on the floor, he attempted to get up but was immediately hit by a sharp pain at the back of his head and he was nearly overcome by a feeling of nausea.

'Where am I?' In his befuddled state, it seemed like a logical question.

'We are in Mustafa Ali's Halal Butchers shop in Footscray, and my name is Hassan Sayed.' Yoosuf was carefully helped to his feet and led to a seat. 'I helped to get you out of prison last night.'

The nausea had returned but Yoosuf's head was beginning to clear.

'Mustafa Ali?'

'He is a friend of mine, should I say ours, and we are going to stay here for a while, until everything quietens down a little.'

'A friend of ours?' Yoosuf had never heard of any Mustafa Ali.

'I'll explain everything a little later. For now, I should get you something to eat and drink, and then we'll get someone to look at that head of yours.' Hassan picked up a phone and was about to make a call when he was stopped by a question.

'Why am I here?' Yoosuf was beginning to recall the events of a few hours ago and wanted a few answers.

'As I said we got you out of prison?'

'But I was about to see my wife.'

'So you told me, but we were there to get you out.' Hassan really didn't see the problem.

'I told you I didn't want to go.'

'I know, but by then it was too late.'

This was getting nowhere. Yoosuf rose from his chair and looked through the darkness for a door.

'I'm leaving. I want to see Hasna.' Yoosuf's statement would have had much more dramatic affect if, by then, he had spotted an exit. He hadn't.

'You are, of course, free to go, but you should be aware that the police are out in force to find you. After all, you have just broken out of prison,' Hassan told him.

Yoosuf's response was swift and to the point.

'But you broke in and took me.'

'I know but that's not how they'll see it,' Hassan responded, somewhat aggrieved by Yoosuf's lack of gratitude. Yoosuf sat down again and pleaded with his captor.

'Can't you put me back in?' But he knew it was hopeless. He had been moved from one cell to a different one, this time without his microwave, his TV and apparently without any doors.

Yoosuf wasn't the only one who, at that moment would have liked to wind back the clock. Alan Chalmers was about to give a press conference, now that the news services were beginning to understand the broader implications of events in St Kilda, and just prior to walking down to the steps of Parliament, he had received an update from the mysterious Mr. Smith. On the positive, Mr. Ahmet's documents had been retrieved from St Kilda Rd. police station, thereby allowing the deletion of any reference to him from all relevant I.D. databases; driving licence, birth, marriage and the like. Unfortunately for Chalmers, the authorities no longer had Ahmet in custody. A group of black clad individuals had broken into the cell and replaced him with three gay men, one of whom happened to be Chalmers' press secretary.

'Lawrence is gay?' asked Chalmers who was having difficulty taking any of this in.

'Apparently' Smith replied. 'Also present was a reporter from the Age newspaper, a solicitor and Mr. Ahmet's wife.'

'They have her in custody?' Chalmers asked hopefully.

'For the moment.'

'Make sure she stays there,' Chalmers saw a glimmer of hope. He may not have the 'terrorist' any more but he could still portray the wife as a threat to decent society.

'I am unable to influence the situation. It is a state, and not federal issue.'

'But that is simply stupid. Federal government must control terrorism issues.' Chalmers was exasperated. 'Who allowed such a ridiculous situation to occur?'

'You did, sir. Paragraph 13, sub section 3a of the Terrorism Act specifically states...' But Chalmers had already replaced the receiver. He was now five minutes late for his press conference and any cancellation, given the news he had just heard, would surely be misinterpreted. As he made his way outside to the assembled news hounds he decided to presume that the break-out was not yet news, and give them a speech full of bravado and self-glorification. After all, they had just captured Australia's first terrorist. He was greeted by noise resembling that of a Grand-final football crowd.

'Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Please.' The noise slowly subsided.

'I will give you an explanation of events in Victoria, as we know them, and then I will then take a few questions.' Chalmers took out his reading glasses and began to read from a few scribbled notes, his usual type written speech unavailable due to his press secretary's incarceration. Once he had finished his discourse of events, he conducted a brisk question and answer session that, for the most part, was limited to the actual events. What time did the bomb go off? Was anyone killed or injured? What is the terrorist's name? As everything was drawing to a close, Chalmers began to thank everyone for their presence and, as he was explaining that he would keep everyone fully informed, a mobile phone rang out from the back of the crowd. Chalmers turned to leave but before he had taken a single step, one last question stopped him dead in his tracks.

'Prime Minister. Could you explain to us the disappearance of documentary evidence from St Kilda Rd. police station?'

Chief Inspector Abbot placed his phone back into its cradle and signalled for his sergeant to bring Hasna into his office. She had seemed happy to be brought to the station, even after he had released Caroline Webb and her solicitor, and compliantly sat in the chair in front of him. She was, in fact, the only person still in custody after the events of the previous evening. Given that the CCTV footage showed the group of masked avengers planting the explosives and releasing the prisoner, the only charges that could be applied were those of trespass against the three gentlemen that were found in his place, and the prison authorities had decided that there was enough embarrassment already without adding a court case at which they may have to explain unauthorized visits from drunken gay activists.

Abbot decided to be direct and to the point.

'Where is your husband Mrs. Ahmet?'

'How should I know?' Hasna replied quickly.

'You were there when he disappeared,' Abbot continued.

'Of course I was. I was there to visit him.' Hasna was beginning to enjoy herself, safe in the knowledge that her husband was finally away from these morons.

'This was a well organized break out,' Abbot said, not completely satisfied that he was speaking the truth 'and very few people knew he was being held in Barwon Jail. You are one of them.'

'Are you saying that I organized this?' Hasna knew, of course, that to some extent that was exactly what she had done.

'Well, did you?'

'Did I also arrange to have three homosexual perverts substituted in his place?'

'Possibly,' although Abbot thought not.

'Did I organise for Yoosuf to be looked after by two geriatric guards, one of whom looked to be, literally, dead on his feet?'

'No I dare say you didn't do that,' said Abbot, beginning to lose control of the conversation.

'Did I help to build a, so called, secure correctional facility with a child's building blocks and double sided sticky tape?'

'Obviously not' Abbot reluctantly agreed.

'So what's your point?'

Abbot was no longer sure the he had one and motioned for his sergeant to take her away.

'That will be all Mrs Ahmet. Please give your details to the sergeant and don't leave the country.'

'I can't do that anyway. I no longer have a passport,' Hasna said while turning to leave. At last, there was something that they both agreed upon.

Lawrence said goodbye to his friends outside the police station and watched as they walked hand in hand towards the vehicle testing depot, Robert's truck having passed the required examination. At least, Lawrence reflected, something good had come out of everything that had happened. In fact, truth be known, it wasn't the only happy result. Mr. Ahmet had been released, in a somewhat unorthodox manner it had to be said, the authorities were deeply embarrassed and he, himself, felt a sense of release. Being able to metaphorically put two fingers into the Prime Minister's face was greatly satisfying and his fear of losing his job if ever his sexual preference had become more widely known had been replaced by the knowledge that he was much more likely to lose his position for completely different reasons. The thought was very gratifying, but at the same time a little sobering. His bank balance indicated how much he needed his job and like many 'thirty-something' civil servants was not at all sure that he would be able to pass muster in any other professional environment. He could now add breaking and entering to his CV, and, at a push, could demonstrate a working knowledge of explosives, or at least the result of their use, but was sure that the listing of these activities in his resume alongside 15 years in the bowler hatted brigade was sure to send mixed signals to prospective employers. No; he would go back to Canberra and await his fate. Given that he had not been charged with any offence, he decided to rejoin the Prime Minister where their mutual digressions against the laws of Australia were known only to themselves, and a few government officials who were unlikely to use their knowledge against them. The symbiosis of his new relationship with the PM had great appeal and could be of great use to him in the future.

*****

Chapter 5

Caroline Webb had waited for Hasna outside the Police Station and agreed to take her to the Mosque in return for a short interview given during the journey. Nothing was said that gave Webb any greater insight on the events that she herself had played a major part in, but it was always good to put a name to a quote and by the time they arrived at the Mosque, she was satisfied that she had something to put out on tomorrow's front page. With a cursory 'Goodbye', she left Hasna on the steps on the Mosque, after agreeing to a meeting the following day, and sped off to Spencer Street to prepare her piece, happy in the knowledge that, now that Yoosuf was no longer incarcerated, there was every chance that if she stayed close to his wife, a meeting with the man himself may well be possible in the not too distant future.

In fact nothing had been said during the trip to Footscray about Yoosuf. Caroline had tried to let Hasna speak when she wanted to, and as to where Yoosuf was at that moment, neither of them knew a thing. But it was clear to Caroline that Hasna knew a lot more about events than she was letting on. Apart from the initial shock and fear displayed when his cell had blown up, over the last few hours she had observed in Hasna a calm, almost serene peace as if the first stage of a plan had successfully come together. Her bodily movements had been slow and deliberate, not the jerky and snappy movements of someone under pressure, and she was sure that with a bit of coaxing, and maybe a wad of money, she would have Yoosuf sitting across from her, telling his own story.

She couldn't have been further from the truth. Hasna stood on the steps giving a polite wave as a thank you for the lift and began nervously to walk around to the computer club, her only real connection to the events of the escape. She had already spotted one of the detectives she had seen at the prison, standing at the bus stop over the road, pretending to read a timetable that was completely obscured by someone's spray-painted tag. It was obvious that care was going to be needed to prevent everything from unravelling, but she was here, and Yoosuf was waiting for her somewhere close, she was sure. As she entered the club, the tap, tap, tap of computer keyboards heralded another day's accounting and surreptitious internet activity, and she sought out one of the oldest boys to find out what was happening. The look of horror on his face told her that she had not been expected, and he quickly ushered her into the boss's office.

'Excuse me Mrs. Ahmet, but what in the name of Allah are you doing here?' he asked.

'I am here for my husband,' Hasna responded, as if the question needn't have been asked in the first place.

'But don't you realise there are cops everywhere?'

'Well, actually I do. You even have one watching this place at this very moment' she replied, sparking immediate silence in the computer room and a rush to the windows to take a look, in much the same way that school boys do when a fight starts in the schoolyard. She was asked to sit as the boy made a frantic call to Hassan Sayed. His voice quickly lost its tremulous intonation and a slight smile replaced the grim expression that had preceded it.

'Ah, of course Mr. Sayed. Please accept my apologies and I will see you soon' he said while replacing the receiver. 'Everybody, back to what you were doing' he shouted through to the office and turned to face Hasna.

'Mr Sayed will be here soon. He has pointed out to me most clearly that the police have nothing to link us to anything and we should return to our duties. Is there anything I can get for you before I do so?'

Hasna shook her head, both in refusing the offer but also because she had just realized that if the police could not make that link before, they most definitely could now. She really hadn't thought this through properly. Her presence in these offices, although not proving anything in regard to Yoosuf's escape, certainly gave the police something interesting to look at. She was slowly coming to the realisation that she now had to take care in her activities. So much hard work had been put into getting Yoosuf out of jail, that it would be negligent to put his freedom in jeopardy merely to satisfy her own personal needs. She wanted to see him soon, even if only to make sure that he was OK, but from now on she resolved to be guided by those people who had shown not only great generosity of spirit, but also an ability to turn that spirit into successful resolution. Her self-examination came to a close as the leader of that group now entered the room and shut the door behind him.

'Good day to you Mrs Ahmet,' he said before taking a seat opposite his guest.

'Hello Hassan, and please call me Hasna. I think we know each other well enough by now,' she replied 'and before we go any further, may I apologise for coming here. I now realise the implications of my visit but as you would understand I'm very eager to see my husband.'

'I understand fully, Hasna, and you will see Yoosuf in just a moment.'

She nearly fainted. Not seconds before she had persuaded herself that she should wait for such a meeting until Hassan thought it was safe enough to do so. Now he sat in front of her saying that she may get what she had wanted all along.

'I don't understand. Isn't that just too dangerous?' she said.

'It's not ideal, of course, but we didn't get Yoosuf out of prison simply to have a go at the authorities. We want to see you two together and living your lives again,' Hassan replied. 'Before you see him I want you to be clear that whatever happens over the next few days, you have to give us time to ensure that after everything that has occurred, he doesn't simply end up back inside.'

'I now understand that, and I thank you and all of your colleagues for everything that have done,' Hasna said, producing a smile that lit up the room. 'And I should finish by saying that if there is ever anything I can do in return, please let me know.'

'You can be sure that I will. But in the meantime, let's go and see your husband.'

Before Hassan had risen from his seat, Hasna was out of the door and making her way outside the building.

'Hasna..... HASNA. He is here,' said Hassan pointing towards one of the many computer screens found in the office.

'I thought we were going to see Yoosuf?' said, confused.

'You are. He is right here.'

She approached the workstation cautiously. 'We are not going to see him? In the flesh?'

'Of course not. That would be far too dangerous. This is a recording we made at the place where we have him safely housed. He has a message for you. We will leave you two together.' With that Hassan Sayed motioned for everyone to leave the office and Hasna sat at the desk and stared at the screen. There was a little box there, in the top right hand corner, that said 'Play', and she used the mouse to point at the box and clicked.

Someone Yoosuf had not seen before had spent the last half an hour setting up a computer in the back room of Mustafa Ali's butchers shop, and now that he was satisfied that everything was working, had asked Yoosuf to sit down in front of the computer screen.

'What do you want me to do?'

'You see that little round thing on top of the computer? That is a camera. We are going to record you and send your message to your wife,' the man said while still motioning with his arms that Yoosuf should sit where he indicated.

'What message? I want to see my wife not talk to a little round thing,' he said pointing at the circular object in front of him that contained an indentation that, presumably, held the camera spoken of.

"I don't know anything about that Mr. Ahmet. I've been asked to make a recording so that you can let your wife know that you are safe. If you don't want to continue I will leave.'

Yoosuf considered the situation quickly, and before the computer man could begin the process of disconnecting his equipment he sat down and made himself ready.

'Is it on?'

'Yes. Are you ready to begin?' and taking Yoosuf's nod as an indication to continue, the man hit a few computer keys, and tapped Yoosuf on the shoulder. 'It's ready for you.'

The embarrassed silence, and coy smile, of someone not used to being in front of a camera enveloped Yoosuf. As so often at family events when he would wave away some relative who had been given a camcorder for their birthday, he was lost for words. Interacting with an inanimate object, for Yoosuf, was a purely physical event. Chopping meat, painting a doorframe, putting out the garbage; all of these things required effort on his part but no thought and certainly no feeling. Now he had to tell a little hole that he loved it and was missing it, neither of which was true. He didn't love the little round plastic thing in front of him and he couldn't possibly be missing it. It was right in front of him, with a little flashing red light that had come on reminding him that it was alive.

'When ever you're ready Mr Ahmet.'

'I know, I know. Just give me a moment.'

Yoosuf took a deep breath, composed himself and began, slowly.

'Er......Hasna, it's me. Well of course you can tell it's me, but I didn't know how to start this. Oh and don't worry about this,' he said pointing at the large bump on his head, the result of his journey in the minibus, 'it doesn't hurt much. Well it does but not as much as it did yesterday, although when I woke up this morning it throbbed quite a lot just here. Ouch. But anyway, enough about me. How are you? Were you there when I got out? You said you were coming down to see me. I wanted to see you but they dragged me off and brought me here. I don't want to be here but they won't let me go. They say it would be too dangerous to leave but I don't care. I'd rather be back in my cell than here. I had a TV, a shower and a microwave. The food was very nice and they used to let me out for a walk at night. The only thing I've got here is a chair and this computer and I don't think the computer will be here for long. As for a walk, I can tell you this room is 6 paces wide and 5 paces long; or if I walk the other way, it's 5 paces wide and 6 paces long. My cell was bigger than this. My other cell I should say. I want to go home. Have you been back there? What's it like? I suppose there's a lot of work to do. But we can do it my love.' Yoosuf decided to take a breath.

'Are you finished?'

'No I'm not' said Yoosuf indignantly.

'It's just that I've got a computer swap meet to go to, after I've dropped your recording off. Then I've got to do some shopping for my Grand-mother and then go to prayers at the mosque.'

'Ok, Ok. Let me just finish what I was saying,' Yoosuf replied. But he sat there in silence. How do you say goodbye to a little hole. How do you express your fondest sentiment to a little round thing while being watched by a spotty faced computer nerd? He could only think of one thing.

'I love you.'

Lawrence Parker's journey back to Canberra was spent in reflective contemplation. He knew that the whole episode had not been that well thought out, but he tried to persuade himself that not only had he made a somewhat obscure statement for gay rights, he had also played a part in exposing the corruption of the present government. His concern was that only he, and his two friends, knew what they were demonstrating against. Being found drunk in a blown up maximum security prison cell had not, he was well aware, explained the voracity of his opinions and, far from signalling a ground swell of anger at the attitudes and performance of the leadership of the country, his actions had sent no signals of any kind. This was not helped by the minimal coverage given to events by the media, its silence appearing to support the PM in his activities. He realised, though, that the press was as confused as everyone else, and so far had only reported events as they occurred, new libel laws installed by Chalmers' government preventing presumptive newspaper coverage. Whatever the reasons for the lack of investigative journalism, Lawrence was now determined to display the government's dishonest activities for all to see. To do this, he knew that he must stay close to the action and as he approached the main doors of Parliament House, he tried to come up with some explanation of his arrest.

'Good morning Mr. Parker,' said the doorman with a smile, if not the hint of a giggle. This wasn't a good start.

'Morning' he replied, and hurried left and down the corridor in the direction of the PM's office. Swiping his security card through the machine to the left of the main entrance to his boss's suite, and pushing his way through the now open double doors, he was reminded that of all the damage inflicted by the explosion at the prison, the one thing that had remained intact was his wallet containing the grand sum of $45, his driving licence and his security access card. If the intent of terrorist bombing was to prove the frailty of national security, he mused, this particular one had failed miserably.

'Parker. In here, now.' He hadn't even had the chance to quickly wash his face and splash on a little Onyx aftershave that that nice boy in Thailand had given him on his last visit. The PM had spotted him through his open office door and looked angry enough to rip him apart.

'Prime Minister. May I say...'

'Sit down.' He did as he was told and waited for the onslaught.

Lawrence sat at the desk and faced his boss. This was the moment he would find out if his position as press secretary was at an end or whether there was some way out of the mess he had so explosively created. Alan Chalmers leaned forward, placing his clasped hands on the desk in front of him, and began.

'What on earth were you thinking of?' In the circumstances the question was probably fair enough, and Chalmers wasn't finished yet.

'And what was it with those.....men? What possessed you to break into a maximum security prison with a group of homosexual cross-dressers? People break out of prisons, not break into them.'

'There was only two of them and they aren't cross-dressers,' responded Lawrence.

'But they are homosexual, are they not?' Chalmers continued his probing.

'Yes, but so am I and I don't see what that had to do with anything.' Lawrence felt a tear beginning to appear in the corner of his left eye.

'If you can't see the potential political fallout when there is the possibility of a suspected Islamic terrorist being broken out of prison by a group of gay liberationists, I obviously made a great mistake employing you as my press secretary. And as for you being gay don't you realise that you were fully investigated by the secret services before being accepted to work at Parliament House. I've known since you started here.' This was a lie, as both of them were fully aware, but this was hardly the time for Lawrence to point that out.

'That was the reason I did it,' he announced with what he thought to be a steady, even steely voice.

'Because you are gay?' the PM responded quizzically.

'No. Because of the secret services. And you.'

It was time for Chalmers to be surprised. 'Me?' he said slowly.

And out it came. The initial meeting where the ubiquitous Mr Smith had been present, the doubletalk regarding the prisoner's ability to prove his nationality and, ultimately the theft of the documents. Lawrence explained his outrage at elected governments acting in such a way and his determination to ensure that it shouldn't happen again. The PM remained silent while all of this was being explained and seemed completely unconcerned at what was being said. Once it was clear that Lawrence had finished he responded.

'Do you want to keep you job?'

'Yes, but I want you to understand that...'

'Do you want to stay out of jail?' The question was an interesting one given Lawrence's most recent visit to Barwon.

'Yes. But as I was about to say.....'

'Ok. Meet me here in the morning. Early! We need to prepare for a press conference tonight. I want to be able to deflect the inevitable criticism that is going to be generated by all of this, and you are going to help me to do it. You may go.' As Lawrence left the office, Chalmers leaned back in his chair. He knew that many would think him crazy at retaining his press secretary after what had happened but, apart from any admissions made to the Victorian police, no-one knew of Parker's position and, as far as press secretary's go, there was none better. As for Lawrence Parker, any surprise he had at so easily retaining his job was tempered by his need to use that position to, if not prevent any other perversions of the course of justice, at least expose them for what they were. He entered his own office and began to write his master's speech full of enthusiasm and not a little anger.

Meanwhile at the Melbourne Age offices, the editorial meeting had been completed, and people had started to disperse to begin their many and varied tasks. As with all other mainstream newspapers, hampered as they were by new libel legislation meant to protect an increasingly isolated and ambiguous government, there was a feeling of being peripheral to the events of the last few days. They had certain ideas pertaining to events but the sum of the whole painted a confusing picture. They knew that a man had been taken into custody for, possibly, blowing up his own kebab shop; the man had been deposited in Barwon jail whereupon he had been released, illegally, and replaced by three men of dubious character, after the prisoner's cell had also been blown up. It was also clear that the retirement age for prison guards in Victoria had risen by as much as 20 years and that building standards had retreated disastrously in the last few years. Investigative reporting being limited, as it now was, to events as they occurred, and not to speculation that was subject to huge fines and possible incarceration, hands were somewhat tied as to the extent to which reporters could now dig for their copy. Jim Buchanan was, however, fully aware of two things that put his newspaper way ahead of any other news service. They knew about the three men found in the cell and they had a direct line of contact with the terrorist's wife.

'I'm not at all sure we should call him a terrorist anymore. Anyone who has gone through what he has faced over the last few days should probably be called a Martyr,' he said to Caroline Webb who had waited behind after the meeting.

'Which may be closer to the truth than you actually understand,' Caroline replied.

'How so?'

'When I dropped Hasna off at the Mosque, I saw a sign on a building to the side that said 'Mosque Administration and Rudimentary Training for Young Researchers,' Caroline told him, waiting for that to sink in.

'Mosque Administration and.......M.A.R.T.Y.R. Bloody Hell. What are we talking about here?' Buchanan asked, horrified.

'I don't know yet, but I'll keep looking.'

'Well I at least have something that may be of interest. While you have been involved in events having their own national dimension, I received a call from our Canberra reporter that may prove to be extremely useful.'

'Yes?'

'Apparently, said reporter was at a press conference where the PM was giving non-descript answers to the usual non-descript questions when he received a call demanding that he ask questions about documents that had been stolen from the Victorian Police Headquarters. This he did and the PM shot out of the room like a startled rabbit.' Caroline looked at Buchanan in disbelief.

'What were these papers?' she asked.

'The reporter's not sure, but he believes that they may have been identity papers belonging to the, now, escaped terrorist.'

'And this is important because?'

'Well, how better to prove that a suspected terrorist is in our midst, if the suspect is unable to identify himself?' Buchanan replied.

'Are we talking conspiracy here?'

'Well. Why did the Prime Minister run from the room? And....'

'And who made the call?'

Buchanan took a moment before answering.

'The reporter thinks it may have come from the Victorian police force itself' he finally replied.

'You're telling me that...'

She was interrupted by the breathless entry of the ever hyperventilating cadet reporter, David.

'What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?' Buchanan still hadn't got used to the drama surrounding every move the young man made.

'Sorry sir, but it's important.' David was once again struggling to breathe in deep enough to construct a sizeable sentence, but both people in the room with him had learnt to wait for him to settle down.

'I've just been speaking to my Auntie' David said before almost collapsing in a faint.

'Not your Grannie?' Caroline couldn't help smiling but she could see that David was not only a very strange colour, but was earnestly trying to say something important. They looked at each other and gave him a little more time.

'No. My Auntie Anne. She lives pretty close to Barwon jail and she thinks she saw something the other night.'

'Go on,' said Buchanan, his interest stirred by the mention of Barwon.

'Well, she was just unclipping the lead from the dog – she takes the dog for a walk every night – and she said her fence was nearly knocked over by a minibus.'

'She's OK?' asked Caroline hoping that the showing of concern may allow David to get to the point.

'Well she is but Sammy hasn't been seen since' David replied.

'Sammy?'

'Sammy's Auntie's dog and he's very protective. He shot off after the bus and was last seen on the Geelong Highway heading for Melbourne.'

'So getting back to your Aunt,' barked Buchanan. 'What did she have to say?'

'Oh sorry, sir. Well, all she said was, the minibus seemed to contain a lively group of children, all dressed in black, and that on the bus's side she saw the word MARTYR. Given what's been happening, she thought she'd give me a call and, well, it didn't make much sense to me, so I've asked around a bit, and I think I know where to find this MARTYR thing.'

'The Mosque,' said Caroline and Buchanan together.

'You knew?' responded David, utterly crestfallen, his great scoop diminishing to confirmation at best.

'We both knew about MARTYR,' said Buchanan 'well Caroline told me about 2 minutes ago, but we had no way of linking it to anything. You've just done that. Well done and I think that you should continue to work with Caroline on this and take the story as far as...'

It was too late. Caroline was already out of the door, quickly followed by David in a rush to catch his next breath. Buchanan put his head in his hand and breathed in slowly, something he would have to teach the young man sometime. The speed with which those two went about their business reminded him of why he had become editor of the 'Age'. If the only way to get a story these days was to rush about at the speed of Carl Lewis, and to get information from geriatric, but observant relatives, he did not qualify. All his relatives were dead, and he had always come last in anything but a race to the dinner table. He opened his desk drawer, took out a half empty bottle of Bushmills and sat back to await the next development of this saga comfortable in the knowledge that if energy was to win out, the 'Age' had already won the race.

It had been two, or was it three, days now that Yoosuf had been cooped up in his new cell and he was not happy. Food arrived at regular intervals, and good it was too, and he had now been supplied with a radio and small TV to occupy his time. But he was still riddled with the thought that his sense of freedom had been lessened by his release from prison and not increased. He had no buzzer to press when he wanted something, even though he had previously only used this to order food and to annoy his captors, and the joyous freedom he had felt when taking a shower while watching TV was now a distant memory. In fact, he hadn't had a shower since his arrival in this ghastly place, and to watch his favourite documentaries on SBS he now had to hold the 'rabbit ears' in the opposite corner to where the TV was actually connected to the power, so that it was now impossible to read the subtitles. Banging on the door that he had finally established to be in the same corner as the TV, had only resulted in silence, or the occasional expletive from the other side that he thought better to ignore.

So Hassan Sayed's entry through that door, just as he had got a picture showing starving children in Mumbai, was a welcome relief.

'Good morning Yoosuf,' said Hassan, with all the ostentation of a door-to-door salesman.

'Is it?' came the curt reply.

'Is it what?' questioned Hassan, a little confused.

'Morning!' said Yoosuf as strongly as he was capable.

'Ah. I see. Yes it is morning, and it is a good one. Things have begun to quieten down a little, and we are sure that the police have no idea of our connection with what happened the other night,' said Hassan, proudly.

'They know of my connection' barked Yoosuf, beginning to feel his anger rising again.

'Well I didn't mean that but I understand what you imply. Anyway, we think it might be a good time to move you to a new address.'

'Am I going to see Hasna?' Yoosuf asked.

It was obvious to Hassan that this man had absolutely no idea of what was at stake here and, more importantly, did not merit the great achievements of his group and, not least, himself. His anger was beginning to match that of his charge.

'Not yet. That is simply impossible. But we are going to take you somewhere where you will be able to get a shower, cook your own food and generally feel a bit more relaxed.'

'Where?' Yoosuf asked.

Did this man ever run out of questions, Hassan asked himself.

'Well, where are you now?'

'Well apart from you telling me that it's a butcher's shop, I haven't got a clue,' responded Yoosuf.

'So what does it matter.' And at that they both went silent. The futility of the whole conversation overwhelmed Yoosuf and as Hassan left the room to prepare, he turned on the TV and went to stand in the corner.

A little while later, Hassan went to see the other member of the Ahmet family currently under, if not his control, what could possibly be his tutelage. Hasna, he knew, was back at the home of his brother, Al Abass, and not only would she be glad of a break from the overwhelming family activity, but she had expressed a wish to be of help in the current situation. At least he would be able to talk to her free of antagonistic responses and was happily aware of her gratitude for what he, Hassan Sayed, had been able to achieve. As he arrived outside his brother's house, he could see Hasna wandering in the garden, seemingly relieved to have escaped the family cauldron within, and a sharp toot on the horn attracted her attention. She was quickly at the passenger door.

'Hassan, it is very good to see you again,' she said.

'And I am happy to see you, Hasna. I should just tell you that within the last half hour, I have talked to your husband and he is well.'

'Will I be able to see him soon?' she asked.

'Unfortunately, no. I still think it is too dangerous. In any case, I have a job for you to do; if you are prepared to take it.'

'I have told you that I am more than happy to be of service, after what you have done.' Hasna was excited. She had never, ever been interested in what you may call 'international events' and, along with her husband, had endeavoured to live life as anonymously as possible. But what had occurred had made her husband an international event all of his own and all rules had, she now acknowledged, been compromised. She was ready.

'We want you to go to Canberra.'

She was stunned. Why Canberra? The only people who live there are politicians, and the only people who go there are people who want to talk to politicians. Everyone knows that, don't they?

'Why?'

'We want you to follow the Prime Minister. Follow him everywhere he goes. Go to every press conference, every meeting you can get close to. To put it simply, to annoy the hell out of him.'

'And just how am I supposed to do that?' Hasna asked.

Hassan smiled as he handed her a plastic card with her photo on it.

'This says it is an official press pass. And where did you get that photograph. I look terrible,' she said as she unconsciously brushed her hair back with her hands.

'You don't need to know any of that, but it should get you into most press related functions. You will also have a driver with you at all times, in fact he is my cousin, and you will stay with him while you are up there. Here is your plane ticket, my cousin will provide you with clothes and any other personal needs, and there is a plane leaving in one hour. We have to go now.' With that, Hassan gunned the engine and shot off toward Tullamarine airport.

It was only while they were driving that she noticed that the press pass actually had her real name embossed on it and she quickly pointed this out.

'I know, and the boy in question at the computer club has been reprimanded, but you should be OK. After all, we apparently all look alike and your name will mean nothing to security. At least, not as a reporter,' Hassan concluded.

Hasna was now used to things moving at pace since the events of the previous Friday, but this was something else. What possible benefit could there be in her becoming part of the press corps in Canberra and wouldn't it be better for her to stay close to her husband. She expressed this to the man driving the car.

'You expressed a wish to help and I am giving you the opportunity to do just that. Your husband is safe and we think you could be very useful in this task we are giving you,' he said, replying to her question. 'We don't think you will be up there for too long, but you could have a great effect on proving the innocence of Yoosuf'.

That was enough for Hasna. If there were anything she could do to help get her husband back, she would do it. But do what? She had to find out.

'What do you want me to do?' she asked.

'Simple. If no-one else asks the question, just ask the Prime Minister what he did with the papers taken from St Kilda Rd. Police Station.'

'And that is all?'

'That is all'.

*****

Chapter 6

At Tarquin's love-nest, the euphoria of the previous few days had now settled into something resembling 'Priscilla, Queen of the desert'. Bob the builder who had until now kept most outward signs of his sexuality under wraps, it not being the done thing to dress in gold lame when hammering rivets into tonnes of steel, had spent most of his time trying on much of his, now, lover's extensive clothes collection. Filling most of the apparel fit to bursting, Robert had paraded in front of his friend with all the deportment of a hod-carrier, leaving Tarquin either in fits of giggles, or more often so light-headed that he had been close to swooning.

'Try that little pink number again Sweetie,' he pleaded. 'Your bum looked wonderful in it'.

'I can't Tarqs,' Robert said, using his new pet-name for his lover. 'The shorts are completely split and my arse will hang out the back of them.'

'Precisely,' Tarquin responded, slowly removing his own while 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA kicked in on the stereo.

'Not again!' Robert exclaimed, blowing him a kiss. 'It really is time for me to get back to work you know.'

'I don't know. So shy and yet so up front.' Tarquin replied, giggling at his cheeky remark. 'Ok, but let's catch a taxi down to the Pink Palace on Fitzroy Street. There's something I want to talk to you about, and a couple of Daiquiris might be needed to help me think.'

Tarquin threw his bright orange feather-boa around his neck, grabbed Robert's arm before he had been able to properly squeeze himself into his oh so tight leather shorts, and they both minced their way down to the corner of the street to see if they could grab the attention of a passing taxi. They needn't really have worried.

On arrival at the Pink Palace, they found an empty table and ordered the required drinks. Lightly touching hands across the table, and staring deeply into each other's eyes, Tarquin took a quick sip of the Daiquiri through a straw, nearly skewering his nose on the yellow umbrella sitting dangerously in the glass, and shook his head so that he could concentrate. He had something to say and needed a clear head to explain himself properly. Just at that moment, a large group of his friends descended noisily upon there table.

'Darling. I've just heard. They said you'd been blown up!' said one in disbelief. "Marcus. I thought you said Tarquin had been in an explosion?' He continued, turning to one of his friends.

'Maybe he's just been blown!' said another, giggling hysterically. 'Is that right Tarquin?'

'Well actually both, Sweetie.' replied Tarquin with a smile.

Shrieks of laughter accompanied his statement as his friends sashayed towards the bar to order their drinks. 'Cock Sucking Cowboys all round Darling.' said the first to arrive at the bar. 'And heavy on the cocks.' which produced yet more raucous laughter.

'Sorry about that, Sweetie. Now where was I? Oh yes, I wanted to talk to you about what has been happening.' said Tarquin.

'I know what's been happening,' Robert said, interrupting Tarquin 'and I've enjoyed every moment of it!'

'Oh you are wonderful,' said Tarquin, pausing to savour the moment. 'No. It's not that, although we will talk about that too! No I've decided I want to do something. To make a stand. We went along with Lawrence the other day, and only succeeded in getting caught up in an explosion and politics as well.' He paused again as Robert stroked his knee. 'Oooh I think I'm going to faint. No! Let me finish, please, and then you can send me to La-La land again!' It was taking a large amount of self-control but Tarquin was determined to finish what he had to say.

'What I was thinking was that we could make some kind of stand, like we, sort of, intended in the first place.'

'Do you have anything in mind,' Robert asked, getting more curious by the minute.

'Not at the moment Sweetie, but I thought something long the lines of civil disobedience; a statement of Gay rights; something to bring this government to task,' Tarquin said, bowing to take another sip of his drink, and producing another fight with his umbrella.

'Well, we're in the right place,' Robert pointed out 'Why don't you get your friends to help' he concluded' indicating the clientele of the Pink Palace with a grand sweep of his arm.

'Brilliant. You are just brilliant.' Tarquin said before kissing his lover on the forehead and flouncing off in the general direction of the bar.

'Gather round everyone. Come on, don't be shy. I have something to say.' Tarquin was quickly surrounded by a motley collection of brightly clad clubbers who, if Tarquin was able to keep focussed, may be able to make the stand he was hoping for. Whatever happened, he thought to himself, they might at least make the front cover of Vogue magazine.

After saying goodbye at the airport, Hassan Sayed had arrived at the butcher's shop to take Yoosuf to another hiding place and received the usual frosty glare from the man incarcerated within. He didn't know it, but the reception he got was not, as it had been before, to do with the fact that Yoosuf was actually there, but that he had finally found a working position for the TV aerial, thereby getting receiving a channel he was actually interested in. But once Hassan had explained what he was going to do, Yoosuf, to Hassan's surprise, did not produce the expected sulk. Even though he was to leave his successful interior design, the opportunity to move to somewhere that may contain a window, or, hope against hope, a garden to walk around, was too exciting to ruin by bad attitude. That said, the sulk did come when he arrived at his new hiding place. Not only was he not able to get SBS on a TV, there was actually no TV at all! Of course, there was a computer. After all, they had placed him at the Footscray Mosque's computer club building. Unfortunately for Yoosuf, he now resided in the storeroom of the club and, far from having a single computer to keep him company, he was surrounded by 20 to 30 of them, each considered surplus after the club's most recent upgrade. What was worse was that Hassan, seeing the change in Yoosuf's demeanour, had shot out of the room like a scalded cat, not wishing to be drawn into a long, and ultimately fruitless moan. So Yoosuf was now left with a collection of computers, a flask of vegetable soup, a desk and his own thoughts to keep him company, none of which filled him with any kind of glee.

After all of the turmoil of recent events, Detective Chief Inspector Abbot once again found himself at his desk, ready to take on the more mundane of his daily tasks. Budgets, overtime sheets and general resource issues. Those pieces of paperwork that provoked the worst form of angst amongst all officers of his managerial level. If nothing else, he thought it would take his mind off events that had upset his structured and extremely ordered approach to policing. In any case, there was little he could or was prepared to do. Yoosuf Ahmet was, he was sure, secreted somewhere in the Western Suburbs and without huge increases in budget and manpower, there was no chance of finding him in his Muslim stronghold.

He was also now convinced that the man was not a terrorist, despite the fact that he had been central to two large explosions in the space of a few days. Abbot pondered what now seemed to be Ahmet's bad luck in all of this, and chuckled at his thoughts. He was also sure that Ahmet's wife was also now domiciled in or around Footscray, based in part on reports sent in from the small number of surveillance teams he had despatched to the area but, notwithstanding her own presence at both explosions, did not appear to be guilty of anything either.

In truth, apart from attempting to prosecute someone for criminal damage, and he had to think that both the local government and the prison service were negligent in respect to the second of the major events, the only aspect he thought deserved his full investigative powers was the theft of documents from his own office. For this reason he had allocated two of his men to attempt to establish, conclusively, where they had actually gone, fully aware that it was extremely unlikely they would actually get anywhere.

Abbot opened the desk drawer to obtain the expenses sheet he had decided to collate first, and noticed, immediately, the corner of a clear plastic evidence bag sticking out from under a Manilla folder. Carefully removing it, he was completely shocked to see its contents. Scraps of documents, some of which clearly had the name 'Ahmet' on them, and other sundry pieces of paper. They had been returned. But why?

First things first, he thought, picking up the 'phone and punching in the numbers of the front desk.

'Abbot here,' he said. 'Can you check the records for the last couple of days to see whether anyone unusual has been allowed into the complex?'

'Unusual sir?' asked the bemused desk sergeant.

'Yes. Someone new. Someone who hasn't actually been here before. Something like that.'

'Just a moment sir. I'll check the system.'

Abbot knew what the answer would be but he waited for a reply anyway. He didn't have to wait long.

'Only one person that hasn't been here before, sir. One of the overnight cleaners. But it would seem they all had the correct documentation,' the desk sergeant said while studying his screen. 'There's just one thing. The cleaner in question only stayed for about ten minutes before leaving again.

'Thank you, sergeant. That's all,' said Abbot, replacing the receiver. It had happened again, only this time in reverse. But why bring the documents back? It didn't seem to make any sense. Abbot pondered this for a little while longer before it became clear to him. While Yoosuf Ahmet could be considered to be a terrorist, during his period of incarceration, it was most helpful that he not be able to identify himself. As soon as he was out of prison, however, and especially now that the original explosion was becoming harder and harder to pass off as a bomb, the theft of the documents became an offence in itself, and whoever had carried out the theft could not take the risk. 'Well,' Abbot said to himself, 'they may think they have got away with this but I'm not finished,' and with that he went back to his paperwork.

'Well it was nice to see that Auntie was Ok anyway,' said David while shovelling Macdonald's French Fries into his mouth.

'Yes it was,' replied Caroline quickly 'but apart from confirming that the mini-bus in question contained men in black, had a sign on the side that said something like 'M.A.R.T.Y.R' and that Sammy had returned tired and somewhat footsore from his adventures, we are not much further on than we were before.'

'But at least we can now place the 'bus, belonging to the mosque, at, or near, Barwon prison at the time of the prisoner's escape,' David implored.

'I guess so,' Caroline concluded, concentrating on particularly heavy traffic just outside Werribee. 'I'll file a report when we get back to the office, and we'll go on from there.'

'Go on where?' said David quizzically.

'Well as you say, we can almost certainly connect the mosque to Mr. Ahmet's escape. So if we concentrate solely on the obvious.....'.

'We should go to Footscray.'

'Exactly,' said Caroline, after checking for any signs of hyperventilation.

As far as plans go, although they were not aware of it themselves, the mosque in Footscray was now exactly where they should go. On arrival back in Melbourne, Caroline left David in the car on Spencer Street while he went up to the office, filed a quick piece that would be much the same as produced by any of the other hacks covering the story and checked for any messages. Establishing that she had none, and that the boss was not, at that moment, in his office, she left again and went back to the car.

'Ok. Let's go,' she said and gunned the engine. Having formulated no particular plan, the first part of the short journey to Footscray passed in silence. Before too long, however, David's enthusiasm burst forth.

'What do you think we should do? I've got an idea but you might not like it and in any case, it would be illegal. Not that I haven't done illegal things before, working for the paper. Like speeding to a story and things like that, but this is a bit different. I think... I think we should break into the Martyr club, if that is what it is called, and see what we can find. What do you...'.

Caroline had heard enough.

'Ok. Ok. Ok! Slow down. First of all, it would be illegal, but only, really, if you were caught. Secondly, I think it could be a very good idea, but we need to think about it.' With that, Caroline pulled to the side of the road and they both got out of the car and entered a café that looked remarkably similar to the one that Yoosuf Ahmet had exited so dramatically a few days before. Clearly, while it was possible that terrorists were actually residing in Footscray at that moment, one exploding café was, for the time being, enough to satisfy the leaders of the Jihad.

A cup of coffee later, and after approximately twenty ideas supplied breathlessly by David had been discounted as unworkable by his boss, something of a plan was put together, the simplicity of which appealed to both. They would drive to the mosque, walk up to the Computer Club, knock on the door and, in the time-honoured fashion of reporters the world over, ask questions of the occupants. If, however, they found the place empty, they would attempt to gain access by other means and see what the inside of the building had to tell them. Simple, logical and concise and fifteen minutes later they parked directly outside the building, took a collective deep breath, which in David's case was particularly difficult, and knocked. There was no response after 30 seconds and David took this as his cue to spring into action, disappearing around to the back of the club in a flash of teenage adrenalin. Just as quickly, and accompanied by the breaking of glass, the front door was flung open, revealing to Caroline a very self-satisfied trainee.

'I'm not going to ask,' she said joining David inside.

'It wasn't my fault,' he said. 'I got in Ok, but when I closed the window behind me the glass just, sort of, fell out'.

'Whatever. Now have a look round for anything that might tie the group into what's been happening' she demanded.

David looked around him, and noticing that dusk was settling on Footscray, looked for a light switch, which he found almost immediately.

'Turn that bloody thing off, you idiot!' Caroline exclaimed. 'They can see that light down the road and around the corner. David sheepishly did what he was told.

'I'm sorry. I didn't think, but I can't see much in this light,' he said.

'Follow me. I've got this,' Caroline said, producing a pencil-style light she had connected to her key-ring. With such a small light, they still couldn't see that well, but one thing became obvious straight away. The Computer Club was furnished with equipment of a standard they could only dream about at the Age. They made their way cautiously through brand new work-stations, with the most modern of PCs and laptops, and both quickly came to the conclusion that not only was this very impressive, it was also much more than was required for maintaining accounts and playing games on the Web.

'You could run Microsoft with all this,' David said under his breath, and Caroline concurred.

They continued their slow progress through the office, only once having to extricate David from a jumble of leads that were coiled invitingly to trap an unwary burglar. Finally they reached an office at the back of the club that was kept spotlessly clean and appeared to belong to supervisor of some kind. Nothing here, Caroline thought to herself, trying each of the locked desk drawers in turn. Seeing that the desk contained only a keyboard, mouse and computer screen, she made to leave, dragging David by the arm when, by chance, she shined her weakened torch-light against the wall, and what she saw there stopped her dead in her tracks.

'See that,' she exclaimed. David followed the path of light and was as shocked as his boss.

'That's Barwon Prison,' he shouted, before stopping himself and forcing his mouth to close. 'That's the poof we are after,' he said much more softly.

'It's only a photo,' she said 'but it is very interesting.' Just at that moment, they both heard a noise, emanating, it seemed, from the corner at the back of the main office.

'What was that?' said David pointlessly.

'I don't know. Shush,' said Caroline as they both left the small office containing the photograph that so interested them both. Caroline brought them both to a halt as, once again, they heard the noise. This time they could make out what it was. A voice and they were about to hear it one more time.

'Hassan? Hassan, is that you?' said the voice from behind a door in the corner.

'Should we answer him?' whispered David, beginning to show signs of the nervous excitement that may, one day, be fatal.

'No. I'm going to try something else,' said Caroline somewhat mischievously.

'Is that you, Yoosuf? She asked.

Silence now fell on the building, one side of the door nervously awaiting a response and the other attempting to formulate one, which was proving more difficult than may have been expected. Over the last few days, every time that Yoosuf had encountered something slightly unusual, something remarkable had happened at his expense. He had been blown up, arrested, locked up, twice, evacuated against his will, locked up again and, finally moved to his current location where he had been locked up one more time. He wasn't going to fall for that one again. Silence had proven to be his only weapon of control and he decided to employ it one more time.

'Come on Yoosuf, we know it's you. Look, we're reporters. We can help get you out of there,' Caroline said, concluding her current appeal.

That was the end of it as far as Yoosuf was concerned and a further ten minutes of coaxing altered his opinion not one jot. Even an heroic attempt by David to break the door down, only succeeded in flinging him across the corridor and banging his head violently on the fire extinguisher hung there.

Maybe it was this that finally alerted the outside world to events occurring in the club, and David heard a key being loudly turned in the lock of the main door. Caroline quickly extinguished the fading light of her torch and they made their way quickly to the broken window and, just as the main door opened and the main lights came on, they both got to Caroline's car and slowly departed the scene.

Hassan heard, what he thought was a car being driven away, but there was nothing surprising in that. Even the extra chill inside the building did not, at first, alert him to any untoward. He went to the rear of the building, opened the door to Yoosuf's hideaway, and began to place a number of food items and beverages on the table, next to a computer.

'How are you Yoosuf?' he said to the silent and morose object on the other side of the table. Yoosuf replied by applying a pen to a piece of paper, both of which he had found in a drawer of the desk now laden with foodstuffs. When he had finished, ignoring number of attempts made by Hassan to get him to say something, he pushed the note over the top of the desk and sat back with his arms folded. Hassan read the note.

'Fine, thank you, but extremely bored. I will not be talking to you again until I am reunited with Hasna,' it said. Ok, thought Hassan. That might now be happening sooner rather than later anyway. But there was an addendum to the note. 'Two reporters have been here and they know I'm being kept in this room' the note concluded.

Hassan began to ask questions but realized that he was not about to get any answers. He had learnt that his charge was as stubborn an individual as he had ever met, and there would be little point in continuing. It was only now that he noticed a chill in the air and before very long had traced it to the broken window. After ensuring that Yoosuf was, once again, locked away, he sat down in the office to consider hat he should do next.

The journey back to the Age offices could be compared to that of a school trip to the sea-side. A lot of silly little jokes producing a great deal of giggling and little in the way of productive thought. It took some time for the adrenalin rush to subside but in some ways, their behaviour was not that surprising. They were sure that they were the first reporters to have established exactly where Mr. Ahmet was, even though it was probable that they could never prove it, and as such, were at least one step ahead of all the other news agencies. Once they were parked, they headed upstairs to the newsroom, found Jim Buchanan in his office and Caroline, by now a lot calmer, related the story as concisely as she was able.

'Nice story,' Buchanan said. 'It's a pity we can't use any of it.'

'Why not?' questioned Caroline.

'It's simple really,' continued Buchanan. 'Firstly, while we can show that the Computer Club's minibus was close to Barwon Prison on the night in question, we cannot show that it was actually at the jail. Inferring something that we cannot definitively prove is close to a capital offence under this government.'

Caroline and David remained silent and deflated.

'Secondly, it is impossible to show that Mr. Ahmet was ever in the minibus even if we could actually prove its involvement.'

Caroline now began to understand, disappointed as she was.

'And lastly, you have no way of showing, categorically, that it was Mr Ahmet in that room. It could have been the Imam polishing his prayer beads for all we know.'

'But....' began David before Buchanan stopped him in mid sentence.

'Of course, even if it was, we might have difficulty explaining exactly how you came by the information.' Buchanan looked at his reporters in turn noticing their collective disappointment. 'I will say, however, that everything that you have told me, including your own thoughts and observations, I believe to be correct.'

'Which is all very well, but where do we go from here?' Caroline asked of her boss.

'Well, presuming that it was Yoosuf Ahmet in that room, he is unlikely to be there for very long; after your breaking and entering, they will not be able to take the risk.' Caroline and David nodded their agreement. 'I believe that one of you should return to the mosque to see what may, or may not, transpire over the next couple of hours. Caroline, you stay here with me and we'll se what we can put together for tomorrows paper. David; go down to the front desk and pick up the key to a pool car. I'll ring through now and authorize it' Buchanan concluded, picking up the receiver and punching in four digits.

By this time Caroline was already at a terminal, keying in what she knew would be full of excellently structured English, but very little substance. If they were to be so limited in what they could put in newsprint in literal terms, because of legal restraints, they surely had to find a way to interpret events in such a way that they, once again, were able to create debate in the traditional fashion of the newsroom hack. She deleted everything that she had just entered and began again, with a greater degree of purpose, and a smile upon her face.

*****

Chapter 7

The trip to Canberra was, for Hasna, as uneventful as it was tedious. She had been politely introduced to Hassan's cousin at Tullamarine; they had checked in separately, and in silence, and travelled the short flight to the capital sitting 9 rows apart and unable to speak even if they had wanted to. On arrival at their hotel, they booked into separate rooms, naturally, and were now eating dinner in the hotel restaurant once again divided but this time by a family of Nigerian migrants, in Canberra to see their ambassador, a Chinese gentleman who looked remarkably like Mao Zedong and a Romanian long distance lorry driver who had spent the previous 2 days trying to find his way out of the city.

Not that this gave Hasna any real concerns. The silence gave her the opportunity to reflect on the last few days and to rehearse her lines, such that they were.

'Prime Minister. Where are the documents?' That really didn't seem to be emphatic enough.

'Mr Prime Minister. We understand that...' No. That would end up being too long. In truth, she didn't really understand her role in any of this, but was grateful for the chance to help the man that had released her husband from his incarceration. She simply had to believe that every step forward, however bizarre it may seem, was one step closer to the reunion she craved and she was determined to play her part in that process.

By the following morning, Parker had completed his speech for his political master that he had worked on since returning from his sojourn in Victoria, and after re-reading it for the second time, apart from a couple of inserts and deletions, was happy to present it to the PM. He was still a little unsure of his position in the heady atmosphere of parliament, but was grudgingly prepared to believe what Chalmers had said to him and was, in any case, happy to be working again. Chalmers for his own part was pleased to have his most trusted offsider alongside him again and welcomed him into his office like the prodigal son he wished he was. Chalmers sat down quickly to go through the speech and apart from a couple of modifications that Parker immediately applied on his laptop, was comfortable with what he saw.

'I've arranged for the press corps to assemble at 11:00am so you have a couple of hours to relax first,' Parker told his boss. 'As you saw, the speech concentrates on events in Victoria and leaves other day to day issues to another time.'

'I understand that Lawrence, but the government of the country as a whole cannot be ignored for too long. We still have a lot to do,' Chalmers replied. 'Water shortages, waste, that sort of thing.' he concluded.

'Well, that is true, Prime Minister, but in the circumstances, whatever you got up there to talk about, the only questions you would be fielding are about events from down south, and it makes sense to me that you are not seen to ignore them just so that you can announce a possible nationwide initiative to recycle waste water.'

'I understand that but it is an important issue after all is said and done,' the PM responded.

'Of course Prime Minister, and if you want headlines in the Herald Sun saying 'PM Talks Shit While Terrorists Roam Free' I'm sure I can change the speech, but I advise against that at this moment.' Parker enjoyed his comment and Chalmers realized he was correct. He dismissed his press officer and went to his fridge, which was now in dire need of re-supply. One can of Victoria Bitter, an interesting choice given the circumstances, and two cans of that bloody awful West End beer was too much. Frustrated he left his office to go to the Treasurer's whose fridge no doubt, given his attention to the public purse, would be fully stocked with choice imported European ales. A bottle of single malt was also to be found hidden behind the Treasurer's gargantuan collection of Business Review Weekly, and the PM decided to spend the next couple of hours comfortably calming his ever-fraying nerves.

'Is everyone here?'

'Yes sir. The TV stations are all here. I haven't checked the newspapers, but I'm sure they wouldn't miss it, and I hear that a couple of overseas news groups are curious enough to have made a visit.' Lawrence thought he saw a few beads of sweat appearing on the brow of the PM and hoped that they wouldn't show up under the TV lights. Whatever he thought about the less than legal activities his boss had been engaging in, he still had a job to do and with this in mind he had prepared a speech of strength, statesmanship and solidarity. He hoped that this might deflect from the more searching questions being asked about events, not the least being the rumours that were coming out of Victoria that the destruction of the shop in St Kilda had not, as a been trumpeted before, a direct result of the construction of a bomb, but the inevitable consequence of a group of drunken yobbos playing with matches at the site of a gas leak.

'Lets go then,' and with that the PM left his office and marched steadfastly towards the steps of Parliament House, closely followed by his press secretary and a bunch of no-name hangers-on. What met them on the steps would have done a World Cup final crowd proud, and made them all stop dead in their tracks.

'Prime Minister, where is he?' shouted the man from the Herald.

'Are you going to resign over this?' asked another.

'What about the workers?'

'Is your wife going to sell her shares in Chubb security?'

'Will you marry me?' shouted the man from the Enquirer.

The questions refused to stop and things showed every sign of getting out of hand. But the PM refused to move. He waited, and waited, and waited until finally the assembled throng began to collectively realise that they were being very silly, and a hush slowly settled on the group.

'Thank you for that rather amazing welcome' the PM said while reaching for his speech being proffered him by his press secretary. 'I will read this prepared statement after which I will be open for sensible questions' at which he stared at the reporters in front of him, daring them to start again. They did not. Well, the 'reporters' didn't, but somebody from the back did.

'What can you tell us about the disappearance of documents from St Kilda Rd police station?' It was a female voice and everyone looked around for the source but it couldn't be pinpointed. Nonetheless, it had the desired effect and the call was taken up by the 'Age' reporter who had originally offered the question in the previous press conference.

'Tom Brown from the Melbourne Age, Prime Minister. I would also like an answer to the question.'

Chalmers had hoped that the question had been dropped, having seen no mention of the subject in any news report since the original question a couple of days before.

'Well that is a very interesting question,' he lied. 'Exactly what documents are you talking about?'

Before any response to his own question could be made, a mobile phone began ringing, and the PM plunged his hand into his jacket pocket.

'Excuse me for one moment. I have to take this,' he said while moving far enough away from the pack that his conversation could not be overheard.

'Chalmers,' he said.

'It's Smith here. The documents have been returned.'

'Ah. Many thanks.' Chalmers immediately pressed 'End' on the mobile, and returned to the assembled reporters.

'Mr. Prime Minister. Could you please answer the question,' said one of them, forcibly.

'I'm sorry. I will need a few moments to consult my staff,' was the response and with that Chalmers marched up the steps towards his office, closely followed by Parker and a selection of flunkeys. 'I won't be needing you,' he said, pointing over Lawrence's shoulders. On arrival at the PM's office, both men sat down

'I can tell you now, Lawrence, there has been no disappearance of documents from Chief Inspector Abbot's office,' Chalmers said, trying very hard not to gloat. 'The newshounds will have to find another story to invent.'

Parker was quick to understand what had happened.

'I see. That, presumably, was our good friend Mr. Smith on the 'phone,' he said.

'It was,' Chalmers replied 'and while it is very good news, we now need some closure on this whole problem.'

'Well, that may now prevent you from prosecuting for terrorism, given that he can now identify himself properly,' Parker pointed out, 'but he was locked up and held without charge, and one way or another that part of this situation needs to be concluded.' As it was, both already had ideas in this regard. The PM went first.

'I believe that I should announce the dropping of terrorism charges, but I think we should still impose charges of criminal damage, at least to Barwon Prison, and maybe one of manslaughter; after all, four human beings died in unusual circumstances on his property.'

'That's all very well sir,' Parker replied, 'but he had been incarcerated as a suspected terrorist, which it now seems he was not, and the boys that died were trying to torch his property, something they seemed most adept at.'

'Yes I understand that,' said Chalmers, 'but we need to be seen to, firstly, prove that we are up to the fight against terrorism and, secondly, against crime in general.'

Parker was not happy with this, but a conversation the previous evening with his friend Tarquin, had led him to believe that something could be done to both satisfy the PM's political agenda, and his own lingering thoughts about the same subject.

'Could I propose something of my own,' he asked.

'Of course. You know that I value your judgement,' Chalmers replied.

'Why don't you announce that it had been your intention to charge him in the way you suggest, but because of mitigating circumstances, you have decided to ask the Victorian police to remove all charges against the man? Indeed, you are delighted to announce an afternoon of reconciliation in St Kilda, where everything may finally be put to rest.' Whilst this may have sounded like a very well thought out political manoeuvre by Parker, it was more a collaborative effort by himself and a very excitable member of the Pink Palace. Given his own confusing thoughts with regard to his position, the opportunity to facilitate a potentially vigorous debate on a number of important issues, was too fascinating to ignore.

'But won't everybody be expecting someone to be arrested?' Chalmers said in reply.

'Well I suppose you could charge Mr. Smith with theft and, possibly, breaking and entering, but I'm not at all sure that you would be successful.' Parker knew, now, that he had his boss exactly where he wanted him

'I must admit that it does have some potential advantages,' said Chalmers, 'but how exactly do I put it to that mob outside on the steps?'

'I suggest, Prime Minister, that you announce that you have discussed the issue with the Premier of Victoria, and as a result, charges of terrorism against Mr. Ahmet have been dropped. Whilst the Victorian police were still looking into the possibility of an arrest for criminal damage, it is possible, but not likely, that any new charges will apply to Mr. Ahmet. Finally you announce the afternoon of reconciliation we talked of.'

'Where should we do this?' the PM asked, now warming to the idea.

'Well, as I said,' Parker replied, 'St. Kilda will probably make sense and I think the Catani Gardens would be the perfect spot, with the Bay on one side, St Kilda on the other and the gardens in the middle where you could make a speech from the bandstand thoughtfully erected there.'

'Ok. No need to write that up Lawrence. I'll go outside straight away and get it over and done with' Chalmers concluded, rising from his chair and heading for the door.

'Mr. Prime Minister,' Parker said, picking up the desk phone and holding it ready to hand to the PM. 'I think you should take a few minutes to talk to the Premier of Victoria given that you are about to announce an agreement with him.'

Fully rebuked, Chalmers returned to his desk and hurriedly punched a series of numbers into the 'phone. The call didn't last long however, especially as the Premier had had enough of the international terrorism spotlight and longed to return to collecting State taxes and selling off State assets. So only a few moments later, the Prime Minister of Australia stood in front of the press and for the first time in days, both the press and the political leadership had a concrete proposal in front of them, and, apart from the reporter from the Enquirer who was still to receive a reply to his proposal, the group broke up more or less satisfied with their afternoon's work.

Satisfaction was not exactly the feeling that Hasna felt as she left the site of this momentous speech. For her, a state of mixed emotions was far more applicable. She had travelled all the way up to the capital, stayed in a less than adequate hotel, been dragged to Parliament to ask a short question, receiving no reply, and had then been led immediately back to the airport by her escort. Deflated, and not a little bored, she once again returned to a feeling of uselessness trying to make sense of it all on the short trip back to Melbourne.

As they flew over the parched Victorian grasslands, she went over events, step by step, and for most of the flight was unable to see through the haze of confusion. Just as they began their descent into Tullamarine, it hit her like a thunderbolt. What had immediately been so obvious to Hassan's cousin, leading him to make so speedy an exit, finally became clear to her. Yoosuf was no longer considered to be a terrorist! It's all over! Allah be praised! She could now start her life again. Surprisingly, the thought of rebuilding the shop no longer filled her with dread and she now sat back and contemplated a life of normality. Even the sipping of a coffee, that had the appearance of sump oil, and which had been delivered to her by a stewardess that looked remarkably like a steward dressed like a stewardess, could not remove the sweet taste she once again had for life.

*****

Chapter 8

In the office of the Age newspaper, Caroline Webb had attempted to put an article together that would both detail events as they had occurred, minus her own less than successful attempt at sleuthing, but which would also question the validity of the government's response to Ahmet's incarceration, and what she presumed to be the less than honest handling of documents that appeared to have some bearing on the case. The lack of anything concrete in this regard, and the harshness of the new legislation pertaining to reporting ensured, once again, that interpreting the facts had taken a back seat to the reporting of them. Consequently a drastically shortened version of what she had intended had actually gone to press. Undeterred, however, she was determined to have a critical piece ready, should events allow, and after spending a sleepless night at home, Caroline returned to work the following morning, more determined than ever to complete what she had started.

As the wall mounted clock clicked past 11.30am, she sent her completed expose to Jim Buchanan by internal Email, unaware that he, too, had been at his own desk for some time mulling over his own take on this episode. Whereas she had worked in silence at one end of a very large office, Buchanan had been in his own office at the other end, accompanied by a large supply of coffee, and with CNN on the TV. It was he, therefore, who caught the press conference in Canberra, and therefore he that was aware that something newsworthy was finally to result from all this frustration. Just as the conference came to an abrupt end, a pop-up window on his computer announced receipt of an Email. It was obvious straight away that it has been sent internally, and he rushed out into the main office and in the direction of Caroline's desk.

'Caroline?' he shouted, somewhat out of breath. 'Are you there?' A head peeked out over the workstation divider.

'What are you doing here?' she asked.

'The same as you,' he replied.

'Well, I've just sent you the piece I really wanted to have printed last night,' she said defiantly.

'I presumed that's what it was,' he said 'but that doesn't matter now.'

'Of course it matters,' she exclaimed.

'No. You don't understand' he said in response.

'Yes I do, and I'm sick of pandering to this man.' Caroline felt a tear developing in her left eye but she was determined not to show any weakness.

'I know, but something has just come up,' Buchanan continued.

'I don't care! I want....'

'Will you shut up? Jeez!' Buchanan had finally been able to stem the flow. 'You didn't catch the news conference, did you?'

'No, but it would have been more of the same,' she replied.

'Well it wasn't.' And Buchanan explained what had eventuated and about the great event that was to occur the following day. Once he had finished, Buchanan fell silent as they both contemplated what to do next.

'I guess we could take a risk and write what we have wanted to from the beginning,' said Caroline, more in hope than anything else.

'You know we can't quite do that,' Buchanan replied 'but let me give the lawyers a call and see what they have to say.' They both moved to one of the meeting rooms from where they could conduct the call through one of the ultra modern conference units, which would record what was said for future reference. Buchanan also regarded it as 'secure', something of growing importance given the environment in which they now operated.

Almost immediately Buchanan had finished keying in the number, the call was answered, somewhat mechanically, by a receptionist.

'Thring, Thring, Pascoe and Thring. How may I help you?' They both couldn't help smiling at the sing-song type name of the solicitors.

'Hello. This is Jim Buchanan of the Melbourne Age. I would like to speak to Simon Thring if that is at all possible.'

'Just one moment, sir. I'll see if he is free,' the receptionist replied. The meeting room was immediately filled with the sounds of Barry Manilow singing 'Copacabana' and the two journalists remained nauseously silent.

'Hello Jim, it's Simon speaking.'

'Thank God for that,' seemed to be the only suitable reply Buchanan could give.

'Are things that bad?' asked Thring.

'No, No, That's OK. Just a statement on your firm's musical taste,' replied Buchanan.

'Ah,' said Thring, with something of a stifled giggle. 'Anyway, how may I help you?'

'Well, did you see the pres conference that the Prime Minister has just given?'

'Yes I did Jim. Something of a back-down I would say,' replied Thring.

'Yes, I know; but are we able to use any more punch in the reporting of it?' asked Buchanan.

'Afraid not, Jim. The law is now very tight, as you know, and anything you use that you cannot prove absolutely, will lead to court. I can assure you of that.'

'Simon, it's me, Caroline Webb. I think we can be pretty sure that the story of stolen documents came directly from someone high up in the police force. In fact, I think it came from the Chief Inspector himself. What about that?'

'I can't really see him confirming things on record,' Thring replied, 'but maybe you can follow it up.'

There was silence all round. An air of defeat surrounded the reporters, but their lawyer hadn't quite finished.

'Caroline. When we travelled to Barwon prison, we were effectively working on behalf of Mr Ahmet, were we not?'

'Yes, I think we can say that,' Caroline replied. 'He had had no legal advice to that point and we did accompany his wife to the jail.'

'Well in that case, you may at least be able to make a statement of your own, that you we legally be able to report. It might also prove to be somewhat sensational.'

'How so?' said Buchanan once again warming to the conversation.

'If my understanding is correct, the charge of terrorism has now been dropped, but they may still charge him with criminal damage' said Thring, clearly beginning to enjoy himself.

'That's correct,' said Buchanan in confirmation.

'Well, I hardly think the Victorian Police can charge him for breaking down a wall, escaping incarceration that may now, possibly, be viewed as illegal. I can produce civil court documents preventing the Victorian Police from returning Mr Ahmet to prison. We could take the papers down with us tomorrow, to the thing down in St Kilda, and you can quite happily report all of it.'

'Great. Get on with that, Simon, and we will meet up with you tomorrow,' said Buchanan. 'Who knows? Maybe the PM will react in a way that we can actually give him a headline that he cannot prevent.' Buchanan ended the call and looked directly at Caroline.

'What do you think?' he asked.

'I think it's a wonderful idea, and one which could throw up all sorts of interesting possibilities. Can you write up a report about today's press conference and I'll try to get hold of Mrs Ahmet to make sure that she's OK with the idea,' said Caroline.

They turned out the light in the meeting room and went their separate ways excited in the knowledge that they may now be able to influence events in ways they hadn't for some time.

Chief Inspector Abbot sat in a coffee shop at the corner of Flinders and Swanston Streets contemplating life, the world and the crap he had to deal with on a daily basis. Cafes being blown up, people escaping from prisons, government interference, probable government theft, the dropping of the original charge and, finally, the possible application of a new one for criminal damage made when escaping from a cell in which the man had been illegally imprisoned.

'Maybe the world has finally gone completely mad,' he thought to himself. As he sat there mulling over these things, he was brought back to the present by the sight of a twenty-something young lady walking past his table, wearing the latest midriff exposing style of top. Along with 95% of the population, Abbot new that there was only a small percentage of women who could wear such clothes and look good. Unfortunately, for the majority it is not a good look, as so obviously displayed to all by the lady in his sights. Each step she took acted like a NASA launch mechanism, resulting in her flimsy peach coloured top shooting upwards as if trying to escape the gravitational pull of the earth, resulting in a display of flesh that would lead a Hollywood starlet to almost certain suicide. As a consequence, for each forward step the woman took, she had to pull down her top, both front and back. Step, tug, tug. Step, tug, tug. It was completely nonsensical and after watching her cross at the lights, where a sudden movement, caused by the lights changing unexpectedly, nearly released her clothing into the stratosphere, Abbot paid his bill and set off down St Kilda Rd. towards his office and the rest of the working day.

Upon his arrival, he sat down and tried to concentrate. There simply had to be someone he could arrest. Someone had blown up a shop in St Kilda, resulting in the deaths of four young men. A man had been arrested and sent to prison where he had escaped, once again as the result of an explosion, only to be replaced by three gay men who, at the very least were trespassing. On top of this, his office had been broken into twice and he had few doubts who had organised them, and even fewer that he would be able to prosecute the offender.

He was, however, sure that there was one thing that linked all of these events together; the newly introduced anti-terror laws and, more specifically, the Prime Minister of Australia. And there was his problem. How could he arrest the person who was, ultimately, his boss? Even if he could, what could he arrest him for? This had mostly been a state issue. State prison, state police and the state legal system applying a federal law.

Abbot got up from his chair and began to pace around the room. He simply couldn't get the Prime Minister out of his mind. He knew, or was almost certain, that it was he that had requested the theft of the documents and logic told him that it would have been the same man that demanded their replacement. Cursing under his breath, his paces became shorter and faster, and some of his colleagues had now become aware of unusual noises coming from his office. One by one they began to leave their desks, making their way towards Abbot's door when suddenly, with all the energy of a Bass Straight fog-horn, Abbot cried out 'Yeesss!', quickly followed by 'Sergeant Jones. Get in here!'

As Detective Sergeant Steve Jones entered the office, Abbot was once again seated at his desk, with a smile that would make a Cheshire cat proud. Although he was still unsure that he had come up with anything that would ultimately lead to a conviction, the idea of using the legal systems 'Law of Last Resort' would at least mean that even if the case was thrown out, inevitably some mud would actually stick. The charge that had resulted in the arrival at the Australian penal colony, in 1834, of the Tolpuddle Martyrs; the law that meant that for years everyone from Lyndon Baines Johnson to Fidel Castro's gardener were under threat of prosecution after the JFK shooting. CONSPIRACY. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He may not even be able to get a case to court, and could quite possibly lose his job pursuing it, but Abbot knew that the honest reports given by officers on the day of the original theft, and the obscure statement, made by one of the gay cell invaders, detailing questionable activity between a certain Mr Smith and the Prime Minister, certainly gave him enough ammunition to draw up the relevant paperwork. In any case, if the charge was made against a Mr Alan Chalmers, it was very unlikely that anyone would understand the true nature of the charge until he, Victoria's top detective, turned up at the Catani Gardens to arrest the main speaker for 'Conspiracy to pervert the course of Justice.'

Neither Chief Inspector Abbot, nor the hacks from the Melbourne Age, were, after being in receipt of the news from Canberra, as dramatic in their response as the many and varied members of the Pink Palace. Although many had only slowly taken in the call to arms made by Tarquin only a couple of days previously, the said call to arms now had a focal point as a result of the press conference and, as they all quickly realised, the meeting that was to be the focal point, was to take place just down the road from the club, at the Catani Gardens.

Since addressing his flamboyant friends at the club, Tarquin had been no closer to establishing what was to be done to make his, or their, act of defiance of any relevance. Not that he had been short of suggestions from the more interested of the members. Rupert, the transvestite policeman, by day a policeman but by night 'Agatha the Lash', had suggested marching down Fitzroy Street wearing cod-pieces and singing 'We shall overcome some day'. When it was pointed out to him that this may simply be an act of stupidity, he had fled the club in tears, threatening a whipping to anyone who continued to laugh at him, prompting a chase into the street by excited clubbers. Another member, simply known as 'Cuddles', and weighing in at 120 kilos when kitted out in full leather, suggested that he could take his motorcycle gang, 'The Backside Bandits', up to Canberra and invite the Prime Minister to a club outing. After some consideration, Tarquin was forced to explain that 'outing' the PM was unlikely to serve any particular purpose however interesting the idea actually was.

Other equally confusing plans were presented and dismissed, and this had left him extremely disappointed and not a little lost. The press conference had changed all that. There was now, literally, something to aim at, and with the announced event, being held so close to the club, everybody should be free to focus and they must, he thought, be able to come up with something that would make a statement. It had not taken long to call most of the club members, imploring them to meet at the club that night. He had even managed to get through to Rupert at St Kilda Road police station and, after spending a tear-filled 5 minutes explaining that no-one had really been laughing at him before, had persuaded another member to turn up.

Later that day, he entered the Pink Palace, with the obligatory builder on his arm, and, in a somewhat presidential fashion, made his way to the stage that was positioned close to the bar. It was already 7.30pm leaving them with not much more than 15 hours to come up with an idea, develop a plan and, hopefully, execute it. It had to be said that he was not that hopeful.

The microphone was already turned on, having been originally prepared for the 'Liberace Appreciation Band', and who could now be seen in the darkened corner opposite, no longer laughing all the way to the bank. Slowly the club went quiet. Rupert was there, still dressed in his policeman's uniform and attracting a great deal of interest from the Backside Bandits. Robert had settled himself at the bar, sipping a beer and attracting an entourage of his on. There was even a collection of groupies surrounding the stage admiring Tarquin's most fetching open-bum Levis, brown leather jacket and matching leather cap. He always liked to look attractive and was quite happy for the attentive stares he was receiving, but the sixty-something toothless transvestite who was grabbing his genitals through a pencil skirt made out of, what looked like a pair of curtains, quickly brought Tarquin back to the matter at hand.

'Good evening ladies, gentleman and.....and...well you know what I mean,' he said, stammering through his opening line.

'And good evening to you, you Hunka, Hunka burning love,' shouted the over-zealous toothless one. He was quickly spotted by Robert, who led him away to the bar, ordered him a Pink Gin and handed him a copy of 'Workmen and their tools' magazine, which he had been saving for later on.

'I think you all know why we're all here tonight,' Tarquin continued.

'Well I know why I am, but I can't speak for Shirley Valentine here,' shouted one member, pointing at his friend, who looked rather more like Demis Roussos than Pauline Collins. The comment was met with a thunderous round of applause, and the smashing of some plates by Liberace and his gang, who now looked ready for a fight in the powder room.

Exasperated, Tarquin decided to start from the beginning and after confirming the events to be held in St Kilda the following day, it wasn't long before he was able to channel the members' energies into more constructive behaviour. This being the Pink Palace, of course, meant that it was well after midnight before they had drawn up a shortlist of three. Suggestions that didn't manage to be listed were Robert's idea to get all of his mates from building sites across Melbourne to converge on the Gardens and appear to be extremely menacing. Tarquin had to point out, with great love and affection of course, that, depending on the type of friends he was talking about, they would either be a laughing stock, the cause of an uncontrollable riot or, worse still, both. Robert did not sulk, and decided to bring his friends anyway. There was also a suggestion that they should all rush up to Canberra and take over parliament on the basis that, if all the politicians were in St Kilda, it should be easy to do, even though the hoped-for effect was a little unclear. Nonetheless, for proposing a plan that very nearly exhibited a modicum of intelligence, policeman Rupert was promoted to Sergeant-at-Arms of the Backside Bandits, and was carried off Caesar-like and rather flushed with expectation.

There was even a suggestion that they should do a little kidnapping of their own, it now being generally accepted, one way or another, that that was what had occurred a week ago. Unfortunately for this one, no-one could agree on whom, exactly, should be spirited away.

'The Bishop of Melbourne,' Liberace had demanded. 'He wouldn't let my Dad,' he said, pointing at Liberace, 'marry my cousin,' he continued, pointing at another Liberace. This was far too confusing for the members to accept as a principle to fight for, although there was genuine sympathy expressed throughout the room.

In the end, it was pretty much left to Tarquin to drop the impossible and/or ludicrous ideas and, finally, he decided to choose a winner himself.

'Ladies, Gentlemen and....and.... Oh you know....I have the results of the vote and the winner is...' he shouted over the top of a cacophony of noise.

'Vote? What vote?' asked one of the members.

'Have we just voted for something?' exclaimed another, utterly confused.

'Who did you vote for?'

'Not who, what.'

'What?'

'Yes.'

Tarquin concluded he had just about one more minute before the whole thing descended into complete madness.

'Quiet......QUIET!'

Suddenly reminded of, now, distant days of school assemblies and the like, a hush fell upon the club. Somewhat apprehensive of the reception he was about to receive for, what was to be, a none too conclusive end to the evening, he decided to deliver his statement and get out of the way; quickly. He needn't have worried, the collection of club members now being far too excited to be disappointed.

'We'll meet up at Catani Gardens at 11.00 o'clock tomorrow, and decide what to do then,' he said in a clear and precise voice.

The Pink Palace erupted. Men and women hugged; men and men hugged; women and women hugged. Even the 'others' hugged although it had to be said, with a degree of mutual inquisitiveness. Tarquin made his way to the bar, and Robert, with a growing feeling helplessness, even ignoring a toothless suck on his earlobe from someone who had definitely had too many Pink Gins.

'It's going to be a disaster, isn't it?' he asked of his boyfriend.

'Maybe not,' Robert replied with a grin.

For the most part, the Computer Club at the Footscray mosque has been, since the announcement that Yoosuf was no longer to be considered a terrorist, a hive of activity. While waiting for Hasna's return from Canberra, Hassan had marshalled his troops into groups, each with a responsibility to send Emails to relevant related organisations throughout Australia and the world in general. In all honesty, as Hassan happily recognised, as wonderful a conclusion to events as it was, he wanted the world to know his own part in it. With that in mind, all communications were electronically marked with his signature and an appeal for funds to enable him to continue his, now acknowledged, great works.

The room at the back of the club remained in complete silence, even though the occupant had been fully informed, and the door now remained unlocked, and indeed open, for the first time since Yoosuf's arrival there. Hassan's statement to Yoosuf had been met with customary silence and a short note informing him exactly where he could shove his success, and a second demanding to know where his wife was. Being told that she was in Canberra did nothing to temper his mood and Yoosuf had sunk back into the corner to continue his dark mood. Nothing, however, could keep the smile from Hassan's face.

'Keep going my young friends,' he shouted to his team of helpers. 'We must make sure that everyone knows the great deed that we have accomplished.'

'God is great!' shouted one of them, leading to a chorus of equally emphatic epithets.

'Allah be praised!' came from another, as he pressed the 'Enter' key on his PC, sending an electronic note to the Freedom Fighters for Islam, significantly based in Glasgow, and a well known contributor to anti-western organisations. The Scottish National Party had, for some time, been receiving money from a mysterious group calling itself the FFI, and the funds had been very helpful when Scotland finally was able to establish its own parliament. It was entirely possible that the FFI could divert some of the reserves towards Footscray.

As all of this activity continued unabated, Hassan returned to his office where the 'phone had begun to ring.

'Hello,' he said.

'Hello, this is Caroline Webb from the Melbourne Age,' said the caller. 'I wonder if there's any possibility of speaking to Hasna Ahmet?'

Hassan was somewhat unsure how to respond to the question.

'I'm afraid she is not here and I must ask what made you think she might be?' he replied quizzically.

'I'm sorry. I thought she may have told you,' she said. 'I tried to help her when Yoosuf was first arrested.'

'She may have mentioned it, but things have moved on greatly since then,' he said.

'In that case, would it be possible to get a message to her?' Caroline said.

'It may be,' Hassan continued to be evasive, but got a pen and paper ready to take details down.

'Well could you please let her know that the Age has instructed its lawyers to draw up court documents preventing the police from arresting Yoosuf for criminal damage, should that be their intention,' she said. 'It would be nice if we could have her permission to present this document tomorrow, in St Kilda.'

'As I said to you, she is not here, but I will try to get a message to her.'

Caroline decided to try another tack.

'Maybe you could ask Yoosuf instead?' she asked.

Hassan's silence at least gave the reporter the confirmation she needed of the person incarcerated in the room at the rear of the club.

'I do not understand,' he said.

'That's ok,' she replied, 'Please pass on to Hasna my information and shall we say that if I have not heard anything by 9.30am tomorrow morning, we have her consent to present the document?'

'I cannot possibly say,' Hassan replied.

'Thank you,' she said before ringing off.

This was very interesting, thought Hassan. One of the bastions of White Australian journalism, albeit one with something of a dissenting voice, appearing to be championing their case; well Yoosuf's case at any rate. If their offer of help was indeed true, maybe he could finally be rid of the brooding idiot taking up space in his storeroom. After all, he had done pretty much what he had set out to do. Release a fellow Muslim from detention, entrenched his leadership of a, currently, small group of potential martyrs and had begun to make himself known to the broader brotherhood of Islam. It was time to speak to the man in the broom-cupboard.

On entering the storeroom, he found Yoosuf still sitting in the corner, silent and miserable.

'I have great news Yoosuf,' he said.' You are free to go. The government no longer consider you a terrorist and I am currently negotiating to have all other charges dropped.

'What other charges,' Yoosuf thought to himself. 'What is this moron talking about?' He remained, literally, unmoved.

'I can see that you still want to behave like a child. No matter. The door will remain open, and you can go whenever you wish.' With that, Hassan turned to leave, immediately bumping into one of the computer club members, who passed him a written note.

'Ah, thank you. Great news, Yoosuf. Your wife has just arrived and wishes to see you.' He whispered something to the boy and stood at the door observing Yoosuf for any change in his demeanour. There was none.

'You have to start talking soon. She will want to know how you are. I will go and see what is keeping her,' Hassan said before leaving the room.

Yoosuf didn't show it, but he felt as if his heart was about to burst. He had so much to say, but because of everything that had happened to him in the last few days, and because of his overwhelming excitement, he wasn't sure that anything that he might say would come out properly. He decided to take things slowly and maintain his silence until both he and Hasna were truly alone.

Hassan, meanwhile, welcomed the woman in question with a series of questions about her trip to Canberra, and was effusive in his praise of her activities.

'But I didn't do anything!' she exclaimed.

'Well all I know is that you spent one day in the Capital, and charges against your husband have been dropped,' said a smiling Hassan.

'Well ok, Hassan. Now where is my husband?' she asked.

'I will take you to him now,' he said, 'but I must explain that he's been in a very strange mood these past few days and I don't now, exactly, how he will react to you. He may not even speak.'

'Just take me to him, please,' she said, and they made their way to the rear of the building.

As Hasna appeared at the dor, Yoosuf felt a surge of what could only be described as passion, and he was about to leap out of his seat when he saw that his jailor had followed her. He remained seated and his appearance continued to be sullen at best. There was, however, no chance of Hasna remaining calm and she rushed around the table and flung her arms around her husband. Hassan was about to leave when he remembered what was to occur the following day.

'Hasna. Before I leave, may I just say that I think we should appear at this, so called, 'Day of Reconciliation' tomorrow. Before you leave, please let me know where you are to stay tonight, and I will collect you in the morning.

'I will,' said Hasna as she returned to touching, prodding and poking Yoosuf as if believing that since they last met, some part of his body had disappeared.

'Yoosuf, speak to me. What is the matter with you?' she asked her husband.

It had been so long since he had spoken, that it was all he could do to finally put a sentence together.

'Please, my love. Get me out of here,' he said. 'I want to be free and happy again. I want to smell fresh air. I want to just sit alone with you. I have so much to say and I want to do it without interruption. I want to go now!'

Hasna helped Yoosuf to his feet and they left the room and began to walk towards the main door.

'Hasna. Excuse me. From where should I pick you up in the morning?' asked Hassan.

'We are going to my mother's home,' she replied.

Yoosuf inwardly groaned and felt a sulk coming on again.

If Yoosuf Ahmet was feeling depressed again, it was nothing compared to members of the Catani Garden's Aboriginals. The CGA, as they liked to call themselves, spent most days holding Corroborees, or booze sessions as most of the locals preferred to call them, dotted around the gardens, incomprehensibly discussing their lot. Whatever the historical reasons for their perceived lack of productive activity, their daily group sessions, fuelled as they were by cheap wine and cigarettes, gave them a feeling of belonging in, what seemed to them, an extremely inhospitable environment. So when a member of the group returned from his latest visit to the Esplanade Hotel bottle shop, clutching his 4 litre cask of wine and a packet of cheap cigarettes, drunkenly announced that they were about to be invaded, it produced a scene right out of a Zombie horror film. Men and women alike, some waking from a drunken slumber, rose from the ground, slowly and unsteadily, all making their way to the central point of the gardens; the bandstand.

'I tell you, brothers, they're coming to invade us tomorrow,' the man said.

'Who?' shouted another from the back of the group, while never taking his eyes off the cask of wine.

'They are,' said the first, before falling back into a rose bush, cursing but maintaining his grip on the wine. He was helped upright, before punching a woman, his mother, that he was convinced was trying to steal the packet of cigarettes. It was very probably true.

From the now, increasingly, agitated mob emerged someone who could move without rubberized body parts and who appeared to be something of a leader. At the very least he was sober. He approached the once again prostrate man, who had now lost his cigarettes but was still bravely hanging on to the alcohol, created some space for himself and began talking softly to the man. This gave the rest of the group time to discuss the matter.

'What did he mean they were going to invade us?'

'Brother. They invaded us years ago.'

'You got any grog?'

'He's got the grog,' said one, moving closer to the man in question.

'Brothers......Brothers. Calm down and listen,' the sober one said.

A certain unsteady serenity returned, although none took their eyes off the fresh box of wine.

'Now most of you know me. For those of you who don't, my name is Henry Wurripindi and I work for the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission and you often see me down here, talking to you about your problems.'

Recognition slowly began to emerge through the alcoholic fog.

'So what?' shouted someone from the back. This was not, he quickly understood, going to be easy.

'It seems like there's going to be a big meeting here tomorrow, my brothers. Something to do with terrorism,' Wurripindi said.

'We're not terrorists,' shouted the lone barracker from the back. 'We're just, well, us!'

'Yeah, that's right brother,' and a ripple of applause went around the drunken throng.

'I know,' continued Wurripindi, 'but I know what he says is true. There will be hundreds and hundreds of people here tomorrow.'

'But this is our land,' shouted the barracker. 'It's the only place the Jacks leave us alone.'

'I know brother, but the police will be all over the place tomorrow. We need to decide what to do.'

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then to a man, and woman, they squatted down exactly where they stood, finally wrestling the wine from the beleaguered delivery boy, and began to loudly discuss the possibilities.

Henry Wurripindi knew that he had lost his audience and began to walk back to his car worried that whatever did happen the following day, the Aboriginals of Catani were going to be central to events. For Henry, what he had just witnessed kept the festering sore that was Aboriginal Welfare firmly in the face of modern day Australia, but for all the wrong reasons. He knew that the average person's perception was that the country threw millions of dollars at the problem each and every year, only to see the majority of it find its way into the tills of nearby bottle shops and hotels. He knew that there were still many problems to overcome but was frustrated that many didn't see the monumental leap forward that had been taken that saw native Australians making their mark in politics, the legal profession, entertainment and especially the sporting arena. Seeing aboriginals wandering around in a drunken stupor was what many expected to see and was, supplied by obliging news agencies, exactly what they got. Henry knew that he had no choice. Success stories could look after themselves. He would cancel his trip to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island Commission monthly progress meeting, held on Hamilton Island, and would instead be among his people of the Gardens.

Approaching midnight, and having cleared his in-tray of the residue of day-to-day paperwork that kept the wheels of government turning, Lawrence Parker decided to make a quick 'phone call that might give him an insight into what he might expect the following day.

'Tarquin? It's Lawrence. How are things going?'

'Fine Sweetie. Fine,' said Tarquin. 'We've been having a ball and we're really looking forward to tomorrow.'

'Well, you said you wanted to make a statement. Have you decided what the statement is going to be?' asked Lawrence.

'We're going to turn up!' said Tarquin.

'Is that it?' asked Lawrence, incredulously.

'Well you know how it is with this lot down here,' Tarquin replied.

'Haven't you come up with anything yet?' said Lawrence, continuing to probe.

'Well I was given a number of ideas but they weren't really of much help,' replied Tarquin.

'Such as what?'

'Well, the pick of the bunch was given to me just as I left the club,' said Tarquin. 'The barman, Florence, reckoned that we should all go down to the gardens, sober.'

'And do what?' Lawrence asked.

'That's it. He seemed to think that the reason nobody had listened to us before was that when we get together, we normally drink enough alcohol to power a rocket to Mars!'

'Well, he may well have a point.'

'The whole idea's too frightening to even contemplate,' Tarquin responded.

'Why' that?' Lawrence asked.

'Sweetie, I don't know what half of my friends actually look like. I've never met them sober!'

At this, Lawrence laughed out loud and even Tarquin saw the funny side of his comment.

'Well look. I'll be coming down tomorrow, with the official party,' said Lawrence. 'If I get a chance, I'll try to slip away and join you.'

'What are you going to wear,' asked his friend.

'A business suit as usual,' Lawrence replied.

'We really must get you to come out properly,' said Tarquin. 'At least make it a colourful one. Pink, or peach, or maybe lime green with a see-through open necked shirt.'

'I'll see you down there tomorrow,' said Lawrence.

'Just try to get away early,' Tarquin replied. 'I'll make sure I have something more appropriate for you to try on.'

'See you tomorrow.'

'Bye Sweetie.'

*****

Chapter 9

Friday morning, one week to the day of the original explosion, finally arrived accompanied by frenzied activity in the Australian capital. Lawrence Parker had risen early, made his way quickly to his office and by 8.30am had produced the outlines of three speeches Prime Minister Chalmers had asked him to prepare for his appearance in St Kilda. Each had elements of strength, leadership and a modicum of apology that he thought would persuade the assembled crowd of the PM's desire to learn by mistakes, but would also confirm the desire to maintain strong control in these times of perceived threat. Parker still felt non-compromised by doing this. He remained sure that by continuing to perform his duties as a professional public servant, there was every possibility of being able to influence events from the inside, at a later date. It would also enable him, while remaining outwardly supportive to Chalmers, to gain access to information and at the same time to pay his bills.

For his part, Chalmers has decided to approach the day as something of a victory. He remained somewhat oblivious to the growing acceptance that his participation in events had bordered on the suspect, and he regarded his dismissal of terrorism charges as something of a master stroke, albeit with considerable help from his press officer. Upon his arrival at Parliament House, he made his way to his office, ordered a coffee from a bemused cleaner on the way and placed a call to Parker asking him to join him.

'Good morning Prime Minister,' Parker said as he entered the room.

'Morning, Lawrence. Are we ready for the great day?' replied Chalmers. 'The plane's ready? Speeches written? That sort of thing?'

'Yes sir. I have three speeches ready for you to run through and there will be a car out front in ten minutes to take us to the airport. On arrival in Melbourne, a helicopter will transport us to the Junction Oval in St Kilda from where the police will escort us to Catani Gardens. We should arrive fashionably late, I would estimate that we will be at the gardens for no more than forty minutes and we should be back in Canberra in time for afternoon tea.' Parker failed to mention that he had no intention of returning to the capital at the end of the day, but there seemed little point in mentioning the fact.

'Wonderful. Efficient as ever Lawrence,' said Chalmers. 'This should be a momentous day. A day when the country comes together to cement a concerted effort against the scourge of terrorism, and a celebration of what it means to be Australian.'

Apart from the day being momentous, Parker had grave doubts that anything else the PM had said would actually occur. He knew that there was now too much information in the public domain for the speech, whichever one he chose, to be received with collective acceptance. If any cementing was to occur, he thought it much more likely to include the chaining of blocks to the PM's ankles and a short trip to the middle of Port Phillip Bay. But there seemed little point in pointing this out and, in truth, he was far more interested in finding out which of the interested parties was going to be captain of the boat.

Detective Chief Inspector Abbot smiled as he put the phone back into its cradle. The Chief Commissioner of police had just called, frantically trying to find any spare policemen, including detectives, that could help to police events that were to begin within a couple of hours.

'They've given me 24 hours to plan peace keeping duties for a crowd, if it fills the gardens completely, could amount to more than twenty thousand people,' the Commissioner had said. 'We could get every sort of nutter possible down there today. Communists; skinheads; unionist; the Movement for the Liberation of Tasmania for all I know. What am I supposed to do?' he had asked in conclusion. Abbot had been most happy to disappoint his senior officer given that when the explosion that has started the ball rolling, had originally occurred, far from getting the Commissioner's help in investigating what had happened, his superior had actually brought out Melbourne's own S.W.A.T team which had proceeded to deny his own officers access to the kebab shop for at least two hours. "Bugger him,' Abbot had said in silent conclusion to the call.

There was a knock on his door, and Sergeant Jones entered the office.

'I have what you asked for, sir,' he said, placing a manila folder in front of Abbot.

'Did you have any trouble getting it?' asked Abbot.

'No sir. The Crown Prosecution Service was only too happy to help. But who is this 'Alan Chalmers' anyway?'

'Close the door Jones, and sit down,' Abbot said in reply. He had been correct. They had not connected this Alan Chalmers with the Prime Minister of Australia and he could now charge the PM with 'Conspiracy to pervert the course of Justice' with, if not impunity, at least an element of shared blame if things backfired. Once he had completed his explanation to his Sergeant, he had a question of his own to ask.

'Are you with me?' he asked.

'You mean you want me to come down to Catani Gardens to help you charge the Prime Minister of Australia, sir?' Jones asked.

'Yes,' came the swift reply.

''You bet!' said the Sergeant who failed to see the potential detriment to his career.

'OK Jones. Meet me back here in exactly one hour,' and Sergeant Jones quickly left the office.

Whilst Abbot was sitting smugly at his desk, Caroline Webb was just sitting down at hers at the Age Newspaper offices. Hard though it was not to sit there and simply imagine how the day was to unfold, she decided to be more pragmatic and began instead, to type up a piece for the following day's edition as if it had actually occurred. She could, after all, modify the contents later for any unexpected events and, in any case, it would feel like she was writing a commentary that she was no longer allowed to have published.

Completing a sentence with '...and never, in the history of Australian politics has a Prime Minister been more embarrassed,' she was interrupted by the terminally breathless David who, having been sent out for coffee, once again, had returned dishevelled and with three containers that had begun their life as Long Blacks but were now nothing more than espressos.

'Sorry Ms Webb,' he managed to utter, 'I tripped getting out of the lift. Is there anything else I can do?'

Impossible as she thought it would be for anyone else, she swallowed the cold coffee and began once again to type.

'Probably not!' she laughed, 'and I wouldn't bother to take one of those to Buchanan.'

'That's OK,' said Buchanan arriving at her desk. 'I'm giving up caffeine for Lent,' he said with a smile. He was brandishing a piece of paper.

'This,' he said proudly, 'is a copy of the court paper preventing any further charges to be laid against Mr. Ahmet. Simon Thring was able to get a magistrate out of bed last night and, under threat of disbarment, and probably expulsion from the Masons, was able to get both the document, and the magistrate, put to bed before the clock struck midnight.

This was greeted by a round of applause by his audience of two. He took the limited congratulation in good heart and, before going back to his office, stopped and addressed his team once again.

'I want you both to be ready by 10 o'clock. We'll drive to St Kilda together, meet up with Simon, and face Chief Inspector Abbot together,' he said.

''You want me to go as well?' asked a stunned cadet reporter.

David, you more than any of us deserves to be there. I want you to present it to Abbot yourself,' he said before once again turning to leave.

'The junior reporter held on to Caroline's desk to ensure he remained upright, as she cheerily returned to her writing.

If a certain reporter was excited by how the day had begun, a certain Yoosuf Ahmet was less so. Finally gaining his release from incarceration, along with a reunion with his wife, life had promised so much. But twelve hours in the company of his mother-in-law had dashed any hope of the joy he had longed for. Upon arrival at Hasna's mother's flat in Caulfield, the initial hugs and kisses that always greeted members of the extended family had quickly been replaced by anger and concern. This had continued the following morning.

'How could you do this to my daughter? How could you blow up your own shop?' she wailed as if present at a family funeral.

'I didn't blow up the shop! Don't you see? That's the point. They made a mistake,' he shouted, finally regaining a voice that had been dormant for days.

'Well who did then?' she asked, continuing her attack.

'I don't know, but I didn't,' Yoosuf replied.

'Mother,' said Hasna. 'They now don't think anyone blew up the shop.'

'Well it blew up didn't it?' her mother replied.

'Well, yes it did, but it wasn't blown up,' said Hasna exasperated. 'They now think it was probably a gas leak.

'Hah!' her mother shouted, pointing at Yoosuf. 'I told you that you should have used a Muslim gas man when you installed the new boiler. I told you!'

'I don't know any Muslim gas fitters!' Yoosuf exclaimed.

'What about Hasna's cousin, Rashid,' she said. 'He knows about gas!'

'From what I've heard, his body produces more gas than he knows what to do with!' said Yoosuf triumphantly.

Haaaaa,' screamed Hasna's mother. 'How can you say that about your own family?'

Yoosuf was about to continue the futile argument when the door-bell rang. He rushed to the door to answer it.

'Hassan. Thank God it's you. Get me out of here,' he said.

'I see you're talking to me again?' said Hassan with a smile.

'Oh don't you start!' said Yoosuf, before grabbing his coat and sprinting out of the door.

The captain of the RAAF plane containing the Prime Minister and his entourage had just announced the final descent into Melbourne airport, when Alan Chalmers turned to Lawrence Parker and informed him of the thing that Lawrence had dreaded. Dread, not because he feared that the PM was going to make a fool of himself; he knew there was every chance that he would, no matter how well prepared he may be. In truth, he worried for his career, given that an election was due to be called sometime in the next 12 months.

'These are very good,'' the PM said, holding the three speeches Parker had written that morning, 'but I think that what I say today should be fresh, unprepared and reactive to the situation. After all, we have no idea how, exactly, things will develop in St Kilda.'

''That's the problem,' Parker thought to himself.

'I thought we should start by welcoming everyone to the culmination of a wonderful democratic process,' said Chalmers.

'That's rich!' mused Parker.

'We should then go on to champion our belief in the strength of our resolve against any terrorist activity found on Australian soil.'

'What's this we; our?' thought Parker.

'And conclude with our thanks to Mr. Ahmet and his family for their understanding in what has been a very difficult week.'

'This man is deluding himself,' was Parkers final silent contribution. He decided he had to say something.

'I'm sorry, Prime Minister, but I think you may be making a mistake,' he said, fully understanding that he had made a civil servants mistake of the highest order; that of criticizing his political master.

'How so?' asked Chalmers, not a little annoyed.

'Sir. Firstly there has been no democratic process to speak of, save for the fact that you were originally elected in a democratic election.'

'Precisely,' was the PM's response.

'Secondly, there has never been an acknowledged terrorist act committed in Australia,' Parker continued.

'That's a matter of opinion,' Chalmers replied.

'Finally, far from Mr. Ahmet and his family having an understanding of what has befallen them in the last six days, I have no doubt that they are as baffled as the majority of people and, almost certainly, deserve a complete and abject apology.' Parker was now convinced that he had signed his own political death warrant, but instead, the PM remained silent for a number of minutes. Slowly a smile came across his face.

'I think I should also announce the creation of a secret police force to ensure that terrorist activity in any Australian territory can be prevented before it begins,' concluded the PM, smugly.

'Where in Hells name did that come from? This man is completely crazy,' Parker concluded silently, and decided, there and then, that he would slip away to join his friend Tarquin far earlier than he had originally planned to do.

At the exact time that Parker was planning his exit from politics, Tarquin was arriving at the Pink Palace, arm-in-arm with his builder boyfriend, Robert. As the club was not licensed to open until 11.00am, in the time-honoured fashion of the 'lock-in', they entered the premises down a side alley and through the back door, as had most of the club members. Passing tourists, walking down Fitzroy Steer looking for copies of the New York Times or 'Le Journal', were, no doubt, rather surprised to see very large, short-haired ladies wearing leather waistcoats emblazoned with 'Dykes-on-Bikes' accompanying equally large, but longer haired, men wearing T-shirts with the moniker 'Backside Bandits', disappearing down an alley and out of sight. Quizzical looks were followed by shrugs of the shoulders and a return to the futile search for newspapers of international repute.

This was all of little concern to Tarquin, and upon entering the club was presented with a sight to gladden the heart. The place was as packed as the last George Michael look-alike contest held at the club and, not only that, everyone appeared to be almost reverential in there welcome.

'Tarquin, Tarquin, Tarquin,' chanted the Liberaces, now free of their anger displayed to all the previous evening.

'Sweetie, Sweetie,' shouted a toothless man, who had lost the curtains but not his desire.

'Even Robert joined in the fun, throwing Tarquin onto his shoulders and carrying him around the room like Caesar returning from battle, to shouts of 'All hail our great leader' and 'Get em off.' The latter produced a slap in the face and a stiletto in the foot, but generally speaking this was a happy place to be. Robert finally put Tarquin down in front of the same microphone he had used the night before, and a hush descended upon the club. For what seemed like two minutes, but was probably less than twenty seconds, there was complete silence. Finally, Tarquin tapped the microphone and coughed lightly.

'My friends. Thank you for that wonderful welcome. Unfortunately, I don't think that I really deserve it. I really wanted to make some kind of statement. I just can't think of anything,' he said.

'The, what sounded like, stage-managed 'Ahhhs' and even tears in some sections of the crowd, did not help, but were much appreciated.

'Thanks for that. But look, this is a big event they're having down the road. We should at least go down and check it out.'

Applause started to ripple around the club.

'If nothing else,' said Tarquin, much encouraged, 'we should go and have a bit of fun.'

With that, the Pink Palace began to shake as everyone started to jump up and down, shouting and throwing their hands in the air.

'Please, please, please,' Tarquin shouted above the din. As silence slowly returned, he continued. 'As we always do with the Gay Pride march, I think we should have a theme. Any ideas?' he asked.

A hundred arms went into the air, and cries of 'Me, Me, Me' echoed around the room. One member, close to Tarquin, stood out from the rest of the members. His toothless admirer, once again standing in front of the stage, but now minus the desire in his eyes, along with the bulge in his pencil skirt, held a hand at shoulder height, slowly moving his index finger from side to side.

'Quiet please. QUIET!' Slowly Tarquin was able to settle the crowd.

'Yes, you sir. What do you have to say?' he said, pointing at the man in question.

'Police!' came a one-word reply, resulting in a ripple of panic through many of the members.

'How do you mean, sir?' asked Tarquin.

'Remember the review that we performed at Sexpo 2003?' asked the toothless one.

'Yes I do,' Tarquin replied. 'It was wonderful.'

'Well I really enjoyed the last bit, where we dressed up as policemen and danced around the stage singing...'

'I remember,' said Tarquin. 'I shot the Sheriff..'

'...but I did not shoot the deputy,' continued the crowd, followed by hoots and whistles.

'Well,' continued the denture deficient member, 'we still have the uniforms. They're in the store room, out back.'

Tarquin decided that he may well have found his statement.

'Break out the uniforms, put on your lippy and let's get out there,' he shouted, before leaping off the stage and into Robert's arms.

Slowly but surely, curious locals, meandering tourists and bully-boy roller-bladers made their way to Catani Gardens, mindful that something of interest was beginning to take shape. Banks of speakers, microphones and a rather dramatic lectern, with bullet proof screen, were already placed in the bandstand. This hardware was being closely observed by members of the CGA who could see a few casks of wine, and a couple of cartons of cigarettes, being available later on if they could just see a way of distracting the very large men in black who were guarding the area against some kind of ground attack. There was also that bloody awful middle-aged bearded bloke who was always present at sporting events, singing patriotic songs about Bushmen being good to their neighbours while defending Australian shores against invading Asian boat-people. He had, apparently, found a gap between annoying football crowds at the MCG, and turning returned servicemen into blubbering wrecks, and had installed himself behind one of the microphones to sing a medley of Victorian poems about sheep-stealing swagmen.

All was set for the great day of reconciliation in St Kilda, and the CGA were happy that they had been able to install themselves in front of the bandstand, staking a claim for Australian soil long since taken from them. It was, they all agreed, just a shame that they had to sit through yet another verse of 'True Blue'.

'Who is this bloody white fella?' asked one, who was busily cracking open a cask of particularly cheeky Moselle; four litres for $15 or eight litres for $20 at the Esplanade Hotel bottle shop.

'Don't you know, brother? He sings all that shit about Waltzing Matildas at the footie every year,' said another.

'Bastard!'

'Right. Now give us a drink brother.'

'OK,' and the day had well and truly begun.

Hassan drove his car, also containing Hasna and her husband, up Glen Eira Road on the way to St Kilda, enjoying the first true conversation with Yoosuf that had been possible for the six to seven days that he had known him. Beginning with apologies on both sides, and a mutual laugh at Yoosuf's attempts to be stoic and indomitable throughout, they began to discuss their expectations of what should occur that morning.

'So you think I should get up on stage, or whatever they have, and stand alongside the Prime Minister of Australia?' Yoosuf asked.

'I think you should both get up there, receive his apologies, and also receive the congratulations of everyone present,' Hassan replied.

'Do you really think Chalmers will apologize for everything that has happened?' asked Hasna with curiosity.

'I've no doubt that he should, but your presence there may force the issue anyway,' Hassan concluded.

'What do you think, my love,' Hasna asked of her husband.

'Well it will be a lot more interesting than what I've been doing for the last week,' Yoosuf replied, nodding towards Hassan. Hassan smiled in acceptance of the less than disguised put-down.

'Sorry, Hassan,' Yoosuf continued, tapping the driver on his shoulder. 'That was mean but, I hope, understandable.'

''Of course,' Hassan replied as he drove to the lights at the bottom of Alma Road and turned left into Fitzroy Street.

'I thought you might like to see what is left of your place before we go down to the gardens,' he said while passing through the Grey Street/Fitzroy Street intersection and pulling up directly outside the Ahmet's kebab shop.

Slowly, both Hasna and Yoosuf got out of the car and stood close together, looking at what was left of their home and business. There was actually nothing to look at. The whole site had been cleared. Yoosuf couldn't help thinking that the area that had once been their backyard, the place where four young people had lost their lives, had never looked cleaner.

'Where has it gone?' he asked no-one in particular.

'A lot of material was taken away by the police as evidence,' explained Hassan. 'All that was left was literally rubble. I had that cleared away for you.

'Thank you,' said Yoosuf blankly. He began to walk down Fitzroy Street in the direction of Catani Gardens, quickly followed by the other two.

'Yoosuf. Yoosuf!' shouted Hassan. 'It is too early to go down there yet. Let's go in here,' he said, pointing at a nondescript cafe. We'll have a coffee first and then we'll go down there together.

Yoosuf reluctantly agreed and they entered Leo's together, joining the very diverse clientele for morning coffee and a sticky bun.

Tarquin's friend and lover, Robert, had spent the last 24 hours in communication with his building worker friends, to see whether there was anything at all they could do to help. He needn't have asked. Unions of all kinds were mindful of the exposure that could be gained at such an event, but few had the extensive muscle, both literal and metaphorical, that men involved in the building trade possessed. For that reason, they had already been planning an intervention of their own. As with many of the participants gathering to show their worth, they had no clear objective, but in the time-honoured fashion of blue-collar workers the world over, they intended to make one hell of a lot of noise, and if, by chance, there was a little collateral damage along the way, then sobeit. With this in mind, they had been gathering outside the Casino, in the City, since early morning and by 9.30am had amassed sufficient numbers to begin their march through Port Melbourne and down Beaconsfield Parade, directly to Catani Gardens.

Feverish activity at the Pink Palace had resulted in all but two of the members being kitted out in Police uniforms, along with very realistic walkie-talkies and handguns, and with truncheons that looked realistic because they had been supplied by WeaponsRus in Richmond. The members now assembled on the footpath, outside the club, causing a great deal of concern to a couple of drug-dealers hanging around outside the Prince of Wales Hotel, and an atmosphere of great jollity had overtaken them all. Happily this also included the two that had been left out of the dress-up party, who had now been handcuffed by Cuddles, and another member of the 'Backside Bandits', and been pushed to the front of the group where Agatha the Lash, dressed in his own police issue uniform, promised to hit them occasionally with his own baton, to make the march look a bit more authentic.

'Now then, everybody,' shouted Tarquin above the excited chatter. 'We haven't got far to march, as you know. In fact, the gardens are just over there,' he said, pointing westward towards the Port Phillip Bay.

This was greeted with applause and general merriment, and, slowly, a rhythmic rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan's 'A policeman's lot is not a happy one' began to spread through the crowd. Tarquin decided to cut this short before he lost complete control of his audience.

'Hold on. Hold on!' he shouted as he slowly began to regain his authority.

'We'll cross over to the Gardens by the pedestrian crossing over there,' he said pointing to a spot on the other side of Fitzroy Street. 'As we do so, I think we should make a bit of noise. For this reason, I've had the words to 'Bad Boys' printed and they're being distributed right now.'

The song-sheets were passed around, and after a little confusion as to who was to start the singing, they set off with a rousing rendition of the song in question.

'Bad boys, Bad Boys'

'Watcha gonna do'

Watcha gonna do when they come for you'

Bad boys, Bad Boys'

'Watcha gonna do'

Watcha gonna do when they come for you'

They slowly made their way across Fitzroy Street, gaily swinging their batons, with an occasional prod to the ribs on the non-uniformed clubbers. Tarquin and Robert were both dressed as Chief Commissioners of Police, and it was only the fact that they walked hand in hand that locals were alerted to the fact that this wasn't, in fact a raid on the town, but actually some kind of oddball celebration.

'You got to school and you learn the golden rule'

'So why are you acting like a bloody fool?'

'If you get hot, you must get cool'

Bad boys, Bad Boys'

'Watcha gonna do'

Watcha gonna do when they come for you'

They continued to sing as they crossed Beaconsfield Parade and began to enter Catani Gardens from the east gate.

By this time, Chief Inspector Abbot and Sergeant Jones had made their way to St Kilda by tram, realising before they left the police station that entry to the town would, because of the potential numbers that could be present, be somewhat difficult by car. As the number 69 slowly turned from St Kilda Road, and into Fitzroy Street, Abbot turned to Jones to explain what he wanted to happen that day.

'I don't think we will be able to get anywhere near him until he has finished his speech,' he said. 'The Federal Police will be all around him from the beginning.'

'By the look of the cops down there,' Jones said, pointing down the road towards the Prince of Wales, 'they're expecting this to be a big one.'

Abbot turned to see where Jones was pointing, only to be confronted by more than a hundred people in blue uniforms. He was about to agree with his colleague's statement when he was stunned to see 200 arms reach into the air in unison. As the tram came to a halt at the corner of Acland Street, he was deafened as the blue wave crossed the road.

Bad boys, Bad Boys'

'Watcha gonna do'

Watcha gonna do when they come for you'

Some were even kissing, and two men at the front appeared to be being beaten to death, although it has to be said, with a smile on their respective faces.

Both detectives got out of the tram after it had crossed the junction, and come to a halt at the stop on the other side. They turned and were both able to cross over Fitzroy Street to follow the marchers on their way to the gardens.

'Why are over one hundred members of the Victorian Police Force dancing, singing a Rap song and beating two men black and blue?' Abbot asked rhetorically.

'Maybe they just enjoy their job,' replied Sergeant Jones with a smile. 'Actually sir, I don't recognise any of them, except for the one at the front taking so much pleasure beating the crap out of those guys. That's Rupert, something or other, from St Kilda Road nick.'

'Bloody Hell! You're right,' Said Abbot. 'Come on. We'll follow them and see what happens.'

This they did getting too close to the group as they queued at the crossing to get over Beaconsfield Parade. One of the officers turned, toothlessly, to face them brandishing two large truncheons, one in his right hand and the other below his waist. It was only when the beeps from the crossing alerted the man that it was time to cross the road, that he turned, once again, to continue his march to the gardens.

'This is very odd,' said Jones.

'This, sergeant, is St Kilda,' Abbot replied before they both leapt out of the way of a semi-trailer that had jumped the lights, making a statement all of its very own.

Adding a little more colour to this, already, colourful situation, was the arrival of a group of very large, and noisy individuals now approaching the northern entry to the gardens along Beaconsfield Parade.

'We're big; united; will never be defeated,' they shouted over and over again. One hundred year old union banners were carried at the front of the marchers and, to a man, they wore hard-hats and tattoos of various designs. No muscle flexing was required. Their employment gave them the strength that built a nation and that destroyed the opposition. There was no need for this group to wait at the lights to cross over Beaconsfield Parade. They already took up both lanes of the south bound carriageway. To gain entry to the gardens they simply snarled at on-coming traffic and turned right. The result was never in doubt and their numbers quickly swelled the crown already present, much to the visual appreciation of many of the large group of policeman found there.

There followed a prolonged period of lusting, and loathing, that was not helped by certain members of the police force breaking out into a raucous rendition of 'In the Navy' but before ten minutes had elapsed, an uneasy quiet finally descended as the respective groups awaited the start of proceedings.

*****

Chapter 10

Their touchdown at Junction Oval had been perfect and the Prime Minister, and his immediate entourage, were quickly ushered into a number of black limousines that had been ready and waiting for the previous 45 minutes. Chalmers settled himself into the back of one of the ministerial cars and looked around for his press officer. Lawrence Parker, however, was nowhere to be seen, having taken the opportunity upon landing, to rush over to the Cricket Club changing rooms to relieve himself. Despite the initial panic at losing his most trusted aide, Chalmers had already announced his intention of ignoring Parker's selection of prepared speeches and, instead of wasting time waiting for him to appear, decided to get things rolling.

'Let's go!' he said to the Federal policeman sitting in the front passenger seat.

'But Sir, Mr Parker is not here yet,' the policeman replied.

'No matter. He can make his own way down there.' A message was sent out via a walkie-talkie, and the cars moved off, in single file, towards their destination.

Lawrence Parker watched the motorcade slowly move up the hill towards Fitzroy Street and as he did so, took out his mobile phone, and punched in the number of a local taxi company whose advertising sign could be found on the boundary of the oval. After being told that the cab would be there to pick him up in no more than five minutes, he decided to break his cover and wandered out into the street, nearly colliding with a yellow car that was just pulling up.

'Taxi for Parker,' shouted the driver through the open passenger window.

This was amazing service, thought Parker. In Canberra it often seemed quicker to walk than to wait for a taxi driven by a recently arrived Nigerian migrant who, he imagined, probably relied on African mysticism rather than a road map to navigate around the city.

'Catani Gardens, thanks driver,' Parker said.

'That might be a little difficult, sir. There's some big meeting going on down there today, but I'll see how close I can get you,' replied the driver, before gunning the engine, slamming Parker's head into the head-rest. There then followed a mystery tour, at great speed, around the back streets of St Kilda. Fitzroy Street into Canterbury Road; then into Mary Street. A short trip up Park Street, finally turning left into Cowderoy Street. The taxi finally pulled up outside the Beaconsfield Hotel.

'There you go sir. That will be $12,' said the driver with his hand out. 'As you can see, there's a pretty big crowd over there.'

'You're not wrong,' Parker replied as he handed over $15. 'Keep the change.'

'Thank you, sir,' came the reply as Parker exited the cab, nearly losing his arm as the taxi sped away, turning left into Beaconsfield Parade and disappearing back into Fitzroy Street looking for another punter.

He quickly collected himself and walked over to the same crossing that might have been used by the building workers should they have been so inclined. The crowd was immense and all he could see from his current vantage point were tattoos and hard-hats. There was nothing for it. He would have to walk through this sea of humanity to try to find his friend Tarquin, having tried his mobile a number of times already, without success.

As he arrived at the rear of the mob, a couple of very large men turned to face him and, seeing his immaculate suit, nudged their fellow workers who also turned and performed the same action themselves.

'Who the hell are you?' asked one, who seemed able to flex every muscle in his body at the same time.

'My name is Lawrence Parker and I would like to pass through, please,' Parker replied with a slight tremor in his voice.

'Well, Lawrence Parker, be our guest,' came the reply, as a slight gap opened up for Parker to move forward. A little jostling aside, which in all honesty he didn't mind too much, he slowly made his way through until he came across a wall of blue.

'Excuse me officer. Could you please give me a little room? I'm trying to find my friend,' he asked the nearest policeman, tapping him on the shoulder.

'Whoever did that had better be blond and handsome,' came the reply as the officer turned to face him. 'Well, not blond but most acceptable. I'm a little busy at the moment honey, but I'll see you a bit later at the club and we can get to know each other better,' he said with a wink. Parker now knew he was in the right place, even if the mode of dress was somewhat confusing.

'Can you tell me where Tarquin is please? He's a friend of mine,' Parker asked PC 473.

'Oh, are you his friend from Canberra? Lawrence isn't it?'

'Yes, that's right. Do you know where he is?'

'He's at the front, darling,' came the reply. 'Just hold on. Excuse me,' he said, patting PC 394 on the bum. 'Coming through.'

'Not yet, but you can try me later,' came the reply as a gap opened up. The same statement was used a number of times, receiving a number of colourful responses, until they arrived at the front of the police squad, where they were just in time to see a police training drill re-enacted for their benefit. The heavy use of batons was, Parker thought, a little disconcerting, but the smiles of all involved alerted him to the fact that it was just some kind of act. It was just then that he saw his friend resplendent in his Commissioner's uniform.

'Hello, hello, hello. What's all this then?' he asked. Tarquin turned to face him, his joyous scream deafening all around.

'Sweetie, you made it!'

'I have, I have,' Parker replied. 'Just as a matter of interest, what's all that about?' he said pointing at the two men seemingly being beaten senseless.

'Oh, we ran out of uniforms,' came the reply.

'Well if that's what I'm going to get for wearing a suit, I'm going home,' said Parker with a smile.

'It's wonderful to see you. How did you manage to get away?' Tarquin asked.

'Via a Cricket club toilet and a taxi-driver, who was on speed,' Parker replied as he extricated himself from a bear-hug inflicted on him by Commissioner Robert.

'Hello Robert. How are you?' he asked his assailant.

'Excited!' was the reply.

'I would never have guessed,' Parker said with a smile. 'Now what is planned? What are we going to do?'

'Wait and see,' said Tarquin.

'Wait and see?'

Yes, wait and see.'

'What you mean is that you have no idea what to do.'

'Correct!'

'OK, I'll wait and see with you.'

'OK,' said Tarquin as he began to lead the Boys in Blue in another of his favourite songs.

'....You can stay there and I'm sure you will find,'

'Many ways to have a good time,'

'It's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A.'

The song was so well received that the policemen at the front began to beat their prisoners in rhythm with the music.

Just as the Prime Minister's cavalcade arrived at the southern entrance to Catani Gardens, Jim Buchanan and his team parked up at pretty much the same spot. He had concluded, correctly as it happened, that the majority of people attending the day's events, would be making their way to it from Melbourne itself, which could only mean approaching St Kilda from the north or east of the town. It was also impossible to gain entry to the town from the west because it would mean arriving by boat, and this, he considered, would not allow great numbers to arrive unless they employed the help of the United States Seventh Fleet.

With this in mind, and after meeting up with Simon Thring, he had driven circuitously through South Yarra, and eventually down to Caulfield before driving up the same Glen Eira Road that had carried Yoosuf and his wife towards the bay. This now ensured that, as Alan Chalmers and his entourage of Federal policeman bullied their way to the bandstand in the middle of the gardens, Buchanan and his group, along with Hassan and his, were able to follow as if part of the official ministerial party, and were soon standing just behind the PM. Caroline Webb quickly realised that Hasna was standing close, and moved to reintroduce herself.

'Hasna, it is so good to see you once again,' she said, offering her hand. 'And this must be your husband.' Hasna politely took Caroline's hand and nodded in acknowledgment.

'I think we almost had a conversation at the Computer Club, recently,' Caroline said to a mystified Yoosuf. Now free of his self imposed silence, Yoosuf responded with a curt 'Yes' and moved a step closer to his wife.

'It is good to meet you, Ms Webb,' said Hassan, eager to impose his leadership.

'And you, Hassan,' replied Caroline, having understood immediately to whom she was speaking. She now fully understood that her work over the previous few days had, in fact, been closer to the truth than she had ever imagined.

'This is Jim Buchanan. Editor of the 'Age'' she said in introduction. 'This is David, another of the reporters at our newspaper, and this,' said indicating Simon Thring, 'is Mr. Thring, the company solicitor.' There were nods and handshakes all round.

'Mr Thring has been able to obtain court papers preventing any new charges being laid against Yoosuf. These will be presented by David to any policeman attempting to issue a charge of any kind.' Glances between them all indicated an understanding of the situation.

Standing not 10 metres away from this little group, Henry Wurripindi had some paperwork of his own in his hand. A series of 'phone calls that began as an apology for being unable to present himself at the ATSIC meeting in far north Queensland, quickly led to a conference call and a resolution that he should present himself at the gardens to represent the organisation. It was left up to him as to his approach, and using his own laptop and printer, he produced a document that, while not exactly legal, at least may grab the attention of the news hungry press. As he now moved closer to the bandstand, members of the CGA that surrounded it recognised their friend and welcomed him as the leader he hoped sometime to become.

Prime Minister Alan Chalmers now had his stage, and was preparing to use it. As so often seen before, however, he simply did not possess the required statesman-like presence and continuous chants of 'It's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A' and '..will never be defeated' continued unabated. Given no other options, he began to tap the microphone in front of him and with an occasional 'One two; One two' hoped to gain the attention of the mob in front of him. The fact that he looked like some kind of demented roadie preparing for a music 'gig' was not particularly helpful, but before too long Parker noticed that his, soon to be, ex-employer was about to begin, and nudged Tarquin in the ribs. His friend quickly understood what was required and turned to face the massed ranks of policemen under his command.

'Everyone; Everyone. Quiet. It's about to start.' Excited 'shushing' followed which many took to be all part of the game and many 'shushes' were accompanied by prods and tickles.

'You touch me one more time like that and I'll take you home right now,' shouted one to a particularly cute PC that he hadn't met before.

'I arrest you in the name of all that's naughty,' commanded another, grabbing a colleague's arm while patting his buttocks.

'It's a fair cop,' was the breathless reply.

Finally, silence fell upon the thin blue line and even the massed banks of building workers, who collectively had begun to wonder whether they were at the right meeting, also fell quiet.

'Thank you. Thank you. It's truly wonderful to be here on such a momentous occasion,' Chalmers shouted down the microphone, nearly deafening a CGA member who had fallen drunkenly asleep with his head against one of the speakers.

'Now you all know why we are here today,' he said. 'It's been a very difficult week, but I hope that we can now accept that the anti-terrorism laws that my government has introduced have now been vindicated.

'Bugger off!' shouted a particularly disgruntled CGA member who had just dropped his cup of Moselle and was not too pleased about it. Thankfully for the PM, this did not move the crowd into raucous agreement, although there were some boos from the back of the crowd who couldn't hear a thing anyway.

'The various security teams reacted quickly, effectively and within legal guidelines,' continued Chalmers, 'and I am very proud of the end-result.' This prompted a number of incredulous looks from many that stood close to Chalmers, but for the moment, they kept their own council.

'Whilst I do realise that at the conclusion of the process it was decided not to pursue the charges of Terrorism any further, I hope you can see that the processes now in place give us the best chance of preventing terrorist acts on Australian soil.' Chalmers leant slightly backwards with his arms folded in front of him, nodding and smiling happily. The addition of a black shirt, and leather boots, might easily have provoked comparison of the PM with a certain Il Duce. As it was it certainly engendered loathing in the mind of Chief Inspector Abbot who had now made his way to the front of the crowd, along with his sergeant. Only the CGA now stood in the way of his presenting charges that would silence this idiot.

'It must be said, however, that the destruction of property in St Kilda last week may still require the imposition of charges. You must understand that even though Mr. Ahmet owned his shop, we simply cannot allow him to blow it up whenever he feels like it.' Chalmers turned to receive the congratulations of his support team, and was disappointed to see that Lawrence Parker had still not arrived. What he did see, however, was a man of middle-eastern appearance who was definitely not showing signs of support.

He turned, once again, to face the crowd, only this time to be confronted by the Chief Inspector who, in one hand, was holding documents charging the Prime Minister with perverting the course of justice, while in the other he was displaying his police ID card for confirmation of his identity. Chalmers duly took possession of the papers, and that act was taken by the Age's junior reporter, as the presentation of documents detailing new charges against Mr. Ahmet. Revelling in the opportunity to be part of the general scheme of things, David thrust himself forward to present Abbot with papers of his own, only to trip over one of the many cables found of the floor of the bandstand, slamming his nose into the policeman's knee.

The sight of blood reminded many members of the CGA of what occurred in the gardens on a daily basis and to a man, and woman, they surged forward in act of unselfish solidarity with the fallen young man. Happily this also included the recently deafened member who, after regaining his sleeping position against the speaker, had now had it wrenched away from his head as a result of David's entanglement. The Prime Minister's contingent of Federal policeman took all of this to be an incident of major concern, grabbing hold of Chalmers and rushing him back to the waiting parked cars. This merely alerted Henry Wurripindi to the fact that the microphone was now free, and fuelled by indigenous passion, and a half bottle of Jack Daniels thrust into his hands by a CGA member he rushed forward. Grabbing the microphone in one hand, and waving paperwork in the other, he declared that, in the absence of any evidence of ownership pertaining to the area, he was taking the gardens in the name of the CGA, and would all those present get ready to hand over $20 dollar as an administration fee.

All this activity alerted Tarquin's own group of renegade cops to what could only be described as a breakdown in communication and they once again launched into a rendition of 'Bad Boys. Bad boys. Watcha gonna do when they come for you.' This was too much for the superior numbers of hard-hatted unionists, who now charged the ranks of dancing policeman in an attempt to take the bandstand for themselves. The screams of downed policemen could be heard in South Melbourne as they were barged out of the way most unceremoniously. Only Robert stood his ground, with a quivering Tarquin alongside, and he dropped two members of the Amalgamated Steel Fixers Union before an understanding of who he actually was, began to permeate brains squeezed into the hard-hats. Everything came to a standstill.

'You....You're a copper?' asked one of them incredulously.

'No, but I am Gay,' Robert replied with pride, 'and if you come any closer I'm going to ram this,' he said pointing at his baton,' where you probably wouldn't like it.' An armistice was quickly agreed. Suddenly, tapping could be heard coming through the massed banks of speakers.

'May I please have your attention?' It was Parker, who had spotted Yoosuf Ahmet on the bandstand and had decided that his own moment in the spotlight had arrived. 'I think we are all aware of why we are really assembled here today, and I think it's about time we allowed the man in question to say a few words himself. Please welcome Mr. Yoosuf Ahmet,' he concluded before leading a round of applause. Excitement began to build once again and Tarquin felt impelled to lead a chorus of 'We are the Champions' that even the building workers joined in.

Parker turned to Yoosuf and, after Hasna whispered a few words in his ear, he was persuaded to move forward to the microphone.

'I think everyone would love to hear you say a few words,' said Parker. Yoosuf nodded his agreement, and tapped the microphone as he had seen others do.

'Thank you for coming,' he said before returning to his place alongside his wife. If nothing else, the week had shown him that saying as little as possible provoked the least aggravation. The loss of his shop proved that much. For the Ahmets, the day was over. They quietly left the bandstand to begin the rest of their lives.

The chances of everyone else leaving in the same manner was less than likely, and Tarquin, eager to have some fun, was standing close enough to a real police officer to overhear a message on his walkie-talkie.

'Fight outside the Esplanade Hotel. Twenty people involved. Hotel security on scene. Help needed.'

'PC 256 receiving. Show assisting,' and he shot off in the direction of Fitzroy St. Tarquin thought it would be fun to help and turned to face his own massed ranks in blue.

'Everybody!' Most members of the Pink Palace were too busy trying to make arrangements with any blue-collar worker that they could manhandle, but he persisted and was eventually able get their attention.

'There's a problem at the 'Espy' and I think they need our help,' he said, following PC 256 in the direction of the hotel closely followed by Robert and 200 policemen, along with a number of carpenters who were being swept along in the crowd, most, but not all, against their will. If this was a shock to the carpenters, it was an even bigger shock to Outlaws and Hells Angels who were discussing amphetamine distribution on the front steps of the hotel. While many passing tourists thought such police numbers was a little heavy handed, they thought the collective singing of 'Bad Boys' as 20 Harley Davidsons sped off towards Elwood, was a really nice touch.

*****

Epilogue

Over the following few months, a sense of normality returned to the Great Brown Land. The Prime Minister of Australia was able to return to Canberra with his reputation, such that it was, intact, and his ability to show that the catastrophe that was the Day of Reconciliation only reinforced his argument for the need for laws of strength. Encouraged by agreeable reports from a toothless national press, Chalmers had called an early election, won by a landslide and immediately created a new force named, ominously, the Federal Police of State Control. He rode a wave of public support until the secretary of the Carpenters Union of Victoria shot him outside Crown Casino, and hung him from a slot machine in the 'high-roller' room. His replacement immediately offered Lawrence Parker his old job back and Parker once again found himself flying to Australia's capital city.

Chief Inspector Abbot quickly came to the realisation that his time in the Victorian Police Force was coming to an end and quietly took a retirement package that allowed him to start his own satirical magazine. His attacks on the use of mobile phones during childbirth became legendary and it was not long before he was asked to front a new pressure group demanding the introduction of zero tolerance to the display of skin, between the knee and the neck, between the hours of 6.00am and midnight.

Because of his appearance on the bandstand on the great day, Jim Buchanan was offered, and accepted, a position with CNN News (Australia) who, despite the State control of news reporting, were convinced in his ability to place himself at the centre of political events. Buchanan, however, lobbied for overseas work, and was last seen crossing the border into North Korea, from where he reported on starving children whose rice rations were now being diverted to produce ethanol to power the President's motorized bicycle. Rather than being elevated into Buchanan's old position, Caroline Webb became the Editor of the Age on Sunday, and became lauded for her articles on Muslim Fashion in the 21st century. The Age on Sunday was to cease publication within three months. As for David, he was fast-tracked through the political reporting department of the Age and his final report of the following year won numerous prizes for its celebration of government control of children's bathroom habits in year nine.

A number of builders workers and, as it happened, members of the Pink Palace, were locked up in Barwon Prison on the same charge that had originally required the incarceration of Yoosuf Ahmet. Because of this, the perimeter wall that had played such a part in events, was rebuilt with a great deal of pride by the builders, thereby guaranteeing their own extended stay. But at least their stay could be said to be comfortable, the interior design of the cell block being funded by Hello magazine, designed by Gucci and installed by a man who, although requiring a great deal of dental work, was to become a front page feature of many an up-market magazine.

Tarquin, Robert and a number of like-minded builder friends, took it upon themselves to rebuild the St Kilda Kebab shop, Yoosuf and Hasna providing the finance through their insurance, and although Tarquin had been most adamant that the entrance to the shop should be a sweeping pink-carpeted pathway, with three foot high fountains and with a counter of the deepest purple suede frontage, Yoosuf was finally able to persuade him that everything should be rebuilt exactly as it had been. After successful completion of this exercise, Tarquin and Robert went on to be building contractors to the stars, and their redesign of Dame Edna Everage's Moonee Ponds apartment cemented their fame for years to come.

And what of our intrepid terrorist? After the rebuilding of their shop, and home, Hasna and Yoosuf fell back into a rhythm they had enjoyed before their life had been so explosively interrupted. Hasna continued to deal with customers politely from behind the counter, while mentally calculating the day's figures, while Yoosuf maintained a growling mechanical presence at the spit of meat, accompanied by his beloved Sabatier knifes. Truth be known, however, their lives had truly been changed forever. This was especially true of Friday nights where the shop was as busy as it ever was, but there was now a much greater degree of respect. Yoosuf had even been able to make the till turn over quicker by offering himself up for photos, brandishing Sabatier steel against the throats of men, sometimes out on their stag nights.

More unsettling for Yoosuf, however, were the occasional phone calls for Hasna, made by a man with whom he had spent a very uncomfortable seven days. Polite as ever, Hassan would ask Yoosuf about life, his health and the business before, very politely, asking to speak to his wife. Hasna would then take the phone, nod her head, say goodbye and go to pack.

Today was no exception. Hasna had been called at 5.00pm, concluded the call in the usual way, and had disappeared upstairs immediately. One hour later, she had reappeared with case packed and a sparkle in her eyes.

'I have called my cousin Rashid, and his daughter will be coming to give you a hand for the next few days.'

'Should I ask where you're going,' said Yoosuf, accepting his wife's kiss.

'No,' came the swift reply.

"When will I see you again?'

'I don't know, but I shouldn't be away for too long.'

'I love you.'

'I love you too,' said Hasna, as Jihad's most recent convert left the shop and made her way outside, and to Hassan's car.

The End.
