An Inconvenient Terrorist

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