Prologue

Monday April 22

‘What’d ya do, old man?’

Al Kirk sighed, accepting his fated position as a living, breathing personification of a cliché. He was the proverbial grumpy old man sticking his nose in everyone else’s business. Cliches become cliches because they are based on truth. Bite sized pieces of wisdom produced by experience and tested by the fire of repeatability become engrained in the collective psyche. It is also true to say that some people become cliches by virtue of them ticking every behavioural box in the list for a particular stereotype. That was Al.

Inspired by the ongoing outrage of other people’s bad behaviour, he’d started a war and the progress of that antagonism had brought him here. He sighed again, letting the air escape his lips slowly as though he was afraid of losing all the breath in his lungs.

Al did not reply to the question but looked up into the tattooed face of a solidly built person with a masculine voice and a clean-shaven head. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, especially with this callithumpian sitting across from him.

‘Ja cross the road against the don’t walk, or somethin?’ The tattooed face revealed a smile which widened as the man began to laugh. It was more like a giggle though; high pitched, like he was embarrassed. He reined it in, then flicked a switch back to his deep tone. ‘Well, dick? Are ya gonna tell me or not?’

‘Not,’ said Al, emphatically.

The man scowled, stood quickly, towered over Al.

‘Sit down!’

Al turned to see a police officer pointing at the man and gesturing towards the seat.

‘Sit your stupid arse down and behave,’ said the officer.

The two men stared off for a moment before the officer said, ‘If you want to add more charges to your sheet today then go ahead.’ He continued glaring at the man until he reluctantly resumed his seat. He then spoke to Al. ‘Come with me please, Mr. Kirk.’

‘Why don’t you speak to me like that?’ said tattooed face. ‘Show me some respect. bro.’

The officer laughed. ‘You can’t even spell respect…bro. Now just sit there and shut up or I’ll find somewhere less comfortable for you to pass the time. You hear me?’

Despite the popping eyeballs and the suggestion he was about to poke his tongue out, the Maori quickly shrunk in his seat. Al loved watching the haka. It was chilling and entertaining at the same time. He would love to learn how to make that wide eyed expression which convinced anyone who saw it that anger would eject the warrior’s eyeballs, firing them like tiny cannonballs at the enemy. After the momentary rebellion ended, Al felt a little sorry for the man, although he couldn’t figure out why. A kindred spirit? Perhaps a frustrated revolutionary.

‘Mr. Kirk?’ said the cop, interrupting his musing. ‘This way, please.’

Al took one last, lingering look at the Maori man, offered a wry smile then turned away.

‘You like trouble too, right?’ said the cop. He grabbed Al by the arm, tugged to hurry him along. ‘Well, you got it, mate. You-got-it.’ They arrived at an open door into which the cop pushed Al, causing him to stumble forward a few steps. The policeman’s friendly, respectful demeanour had evaporated. ‘Sit down!’

Al studied the room before slowly taking a seat. A small, featureless, windowless room; sparsely furnished with a table and three chairs and covered in barely discernible grey paint. He faced the policeman who was standing in the doorway staring at him. ‘There’s no need to be rude,’ said Al.

The cop shifted his stance from leaning against the door jamb to stand tall, deliberately intimidating. ‘And who made you the King of Manners?’

It was clear the officer was spoiling for an argument, looking for an excuse to demonstrate both his authority and his perceived moral superiority. Another bully in uniform. Al could feel a familiar madness creeping up on him, boiling the blood in his veins, but he was wise enough to keep a lid on it. This was neither the time nor the place for an explosion of indignation, and what good would it do anyway?

‘I asked you a question, Captain Kirk.’

Now, he was trying to be funny as well, but Al wasn’t having a bar of it. ‘My apologies, officer.’

The tall man frowned, screwed his face up until his eyes disappeared inside folds of oily skin.

‘May I have a drink of water please?’ said Al.

‘Use the replicator, smartarse.’ And with those words he left Al sitting alone in the small room.

Al presumed someone would come and question him eventually, take his statement, probably charge him. With time to kill, he considered where he was. Oak Flats Local Area Command Headquarters was an impressive but unattractive multi-level block parked beside the train station and bus interchange. The station was new and more vibrant than he imagined. It was quiet too. Although a faint hum of activity and sporadic conversation filled the air, there was no shouting, no tension. The atmosphere was surprisingly calm, especially with Officer Joker out of his face.

Suddenly, the policeman returned and slammed a can of Solo on the table in front of Al. ‘We ran out of water. Sit tight. Someone’ll be in t’talk to ya shortly. Don’t go anywhere.’

Al reached for the can, gripped it in his hand, enjoyed the chill. He popped the can and slaked his thirst. Even though he’d asked for water, a sugary drink was what he’d been after. In fact, something much harder would have been perfect.

It might have been the ideal time for Al to reflect on what had brought him here into the hostile, long armed embrace of the law. It might have done him good to think about what he’d done and why, but he could only think of stupid questions like ‘why?’. Stupid questions only produced stupid answers. His old man had told him that all the time. So much so that eventually Al stopped asking him questions, figuring out stuff for himself or asking someone who wasn’t going to make him feel like an idiot.

He could have used the time to contemplate his sins, but all he could think about was Jeanette and how disappointed she’d be. Al saw that look on her face, the one which most closely resembled his father’s, albeit without the animosity. The look which shouted, you let me down.

 ‘Sorry honey,’ said Al softly. ‘I got it a bit wrong. I’ll do better next time.’

Al nearly choked when the lump in his throat refused entry to the mouthful of Solo he’d tried to swallow, and the heat in his face confirmed he was about to break down again and have another cry. He’d done of lot of that lately. To fight it off, Al rummaged around in his mind until he found a happy memory; the opening of Twin Passions, the coffee and book shop he and Jeanette owned in Oak Flats.

They’d met accidentally in a coffee shop thirty-six years earlier, so it was appropriate they were finally able to open their own place. At the time, Al was managing a bookshop for a national chain in Wollongong and Jeannette was managing a café called Wine Dark Sea further north in the trendy coastal town of Thirroul. It was such a natural step for them both to take and, despite some concerns, mostly expressed by certain family members that living and working together might prove too much for them, they prepared a business plan, secured a loan, and started searching for a property to set up.

Jeanette wasn’t much of a reader and Al wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but each was passionate about their loves, and that strong desire extended to each other. The name Twin Passions was Al’s idea and Jeanette loved it: leapt out of her chair, squealed, and wrapped Al in an overenthusiastic hug. She’d whispered it’s perfect into his ear, but all he could think about then was how perfect she was. Whatever they believed in—invisible unknown god or fate or whatever—caused blessing after blessing and, apart from the birth of their children, the opening of Twin Passions was the greatest moment in their lives.

‘Mr. Kirk,’ said a woman who suddenly entered the room and sat down opposite him. ‘Can I call you Alan?’ She did not look up from her notes.

‘Al’s fine,’ he said, smiling, while trying to shake off the inevitable melancholy attached to memories of his wife. The warmth of the memory faded quickly as he returned fully to his present predicament in the cold police station interview room, under the cold glare of his new companion. Al recognised her as a regular at Twin Passions; Detective Jeffcoate. She looked fiercely feminine as usual, dressed in grey slacks and a light blue blouse buttoned right up. Despite her soft and shapely shoulder length blond hair, there was a hard edge to her face. Her square jaw perhaps permanently clenched, and her piercing grey eyes suggested she was all business. Tough, professional, and above all, Al hoped, reasonable. They weren’t strangers after all.  He served her coffee nearly every day.

Intimidating in her natural environment, the detective leaned forward slightly across the table, stared at Al. He struggled to hold her gaze.

‘What are you doing here, Al?’

Al couldn’t think what to say.

‘You seem like a nice guy, a family man. You’re a business owner.’ Seeing the look on Al’s face, she leaned back in her chair. ‘Twin Passions is one of my favourite cafes. You make a great—’

‘Almond latte,’ said Al, finishing her sentence. He felt pleased and relieved she recognised him too. It was often the case that people failed to recognise others outside of particular contexts. I know you from work, but if I see you at the supermarket, you are just another shopper. It wasn’t normally that way for Al, but he knew it was true for others as he’d often been on the end of snubs or shock.

‘You have a good memory.’

‘Jeanette and I prided ourselves on remembering people’s names, faces, and their orders. It makes people feel special. I think all the reading I do and have done over the years helps my memory too.’

‘Have you finished Al?’ she said. Her jaw more tightly clenched as though she was grinding something hard on her back molars.

‘Sorry,’ said Al.

‘We are not at Twin Passions now,’ she said. ‘You’re in a police station because you’ve broken the law and I want to know why. I’m going to take your full statement in a minute, but I’m curious, Al. I want to know why you did it. Can you explain it to me?’

She stared at him, waiting for him to answer, which he didn’t.

‘Can I get you a coffee and a good book, Al? Will that help you remember what you did and explain your motive?’

Al was wary of her sarcasm turning into anger, so he bit his tongue. This immediately felt like a dumb strategy when she abruptly stood up, leaned right over him—close enough for him to smell her perfume—and said, ‘I’m going to get you a black coffee from the machine and when I get back you are going to stop wasting my fucking time. Okay? You are in deep shit and you will start talking. Got it?’

Just as she reached the door, Al said, ‘Milk and sugar, please. I don’t like it black.’

She snapped around, glared at Al. ‘And I don’t like self-righteous troublemakers, especially smart-arse ones. People could’ve been hurt, Al. Do you understand? You’ve gone too far. You crossed the line and there will be consequences. D’ya get that Al?’

Even though she was clearly waiting for him to say something, Al decided to keep his mouth shut, so she left.

In her absence he wondered if he had come to the end of the fight. Had his good intentions benefited anyone? Had his actions changed anything? Was it time to lay down his weapons and surrender to the tide of discourtesy? He didn’t have long to ponder these questions as Jeffcoate was back in a flash with his coffee. It spilled a little as she slapped it on the table in front of him.

Now,’ she snarled, ‘where were we?’

Al met her glare, deciding in that instant to continue the fight.

Part 1

Origin

Chapter One

Monday April 1

Al woke at sparrows as usual and was straight out of bed, dressed and on his way to Twin Passions within twenty minutes. Even before early starts became necessary, Al automatically woke as the sun rose, at the latest. It was a pain in the neck actually, because on the rare occasion he had a late night, disrupted sleep or no sleep, perhaps with some heavy drinking thrown into the mix, he couldn’t sleep in.

Many workers also enjoyed or endured early starts and they needed coffee to either enhance the pleasure or deaden the drudgery. Coffee was his thing now. It had been Jeanette’s thing, but over the years he had learned more than a few tricks of the trade and had become a competent barista. He preferred not to make coffee too often though and usually hired baristas to do it, so that he could concentrate on other aspects of the business, like serving and maintaining the library. He also loved meeting people and chatting with them. Outside of the morning peak, during which he was run off his feet, Al had plenty of time to relax and relate and that was where the real pleasure of Twin Passions came from.

At five twenty-five, he parked at the rear of the café and, after locking the car, entered through the back door, which required two keys and a code for the security system. Inside, he switched on the lights on his way to the office, a tiny space crammed under a staircase which led to the first floor. An accountant named Les Katakis leased the space up there, but he normally didn’t get in until closer to eight. Les had a coffee tab with Twin Passions which allowed for enough coffee to pay for quarterly BAS and yearly tax returns for Twin Passions. That had never been a fair exchange and Jeanette had bridled at the mention of the deal. The fact Al hadn’t consulted her made it worse. Les was a good bloke who believed in the ‘one good turn deserves another’ principle. It was a very unfair arrangement, but Les wasn’t short of a quid and never asked for a cash top up.

Al put a little money aside each week to slip Les an envelope every quarter. The agreement had been in place for so long now that neither man mentioned it.

While leaning in to toss his bag on the desk next to the computer, Al banged his head. After the application of a magical quickfire handrub to the injured part of his skull, Al went into the café and took a deep breath. Like nothing else, the smell of Twin Passions reminded him of Jeanette. The intoxicating blend of coffee and her perfume which he sprayed in the air every morning and evening, and sometimes during the day, made him feel his beloved was nearby. If he tried hard enough, he could fool himself that she hadn’t really left him here. If only for a moment, such a delusion was a blessed relief.

Standing outside on the footpath, with his back to the café, was the familiar shape of one of Twin Passion’s regulars. Al only knew him as Farhad and although they chatted every morning, the conversation had never gone beyond the superficial. Al liked a chat and could waffle with the best of them, but after a certain amount of time spent discussing the weather and the state of the economy, with a dash of politics thrown in, Al wanted to go a little deeper with Farhad. He’d only started coming after Jeanette died, so Al wasn’t able to lean on her feminine intuition to help him figure out the reason for Farhad’s reluctance to get personal with Al.

All he knew about the affable Iranian immigrant was where he was from, and that he was married with two children. He lived in Mangerton but worked in Shellharbour and he always arrived early at the café. Al often asked him why he always showed up before opening time at 6am, but Farhad shrugged his shoulders as though it was a pointless question. Al had a suspicion that much like the bloke who stayed late at the office to avoid going home, Farhad was leaving his place early to escape. Tensions at home maybe.

As he studied Farhad’s back, watched him shuffle his feet a little and puff on a cigarette, Al decided he’d have another crack at him this morning. One day, Farhad would let him in, so why not today?

Al’s usual routine was to switch on the major appliances then check online for bookings. Jeanette used to love to bake, so when she arrived, she’d get stuck straight into whipping up some goodies like muffins, friands, and cakes. When they were ready, she’d pop a ‘Home Made’ sign on them before arranging them in the display case. She knew the extra appeal of such words. She’d take photos and post them on social media to attract customers for the day. Al was not a baker though, so he ordered in all his baked goods. Twin Passions also offered toasties and wraps which he could handle, although he didn’t really enjoy that aspect of the business and had been thinking for some time about ordering the sandwiches in too.

His initial concerns about business dropping off without Jeanette—both her beautiful self and her delightful baking—had proved unfounded. In fact, there was a brief upsurge not long after Twin Passions reopened following Al’s grief leave: sympathy patronage. The regulars were loyal. The semi regulars became regulars and occasional visitors became semi regulars, for a while at least. After a month, the condolence tide ebbed, and it was business as usual. Except there was nothing usual about it. Twin Passions still felt like a shadow of its former glorious self without Jeanette.

‘Good morning, big fella!’ called a voice from the back door.

Al shook his head, wrestling free from the creeping sadness. He recognised the voice of Hue, the delivery guy from Ace Cakes, and smiled at the appellation. Al was an average size man, probably a belt size smaller since Jeanette’s death, but next to Hue, a wiry little man from Vietnam, Al was something of a giant.

Hue locked the door closer, to keep the screen door open, then returned to his van. Al stepped out through the door. ‘How are ya, Hue, alright?’

‘Busy mate.’

Hue pulled a tray of cakes and slices from the rear of his van then hurried inside and down the hall. Al stood there waiting for him to return, and when he did, asked him; ‘How’s the family?’

‘Busy.’ He said as he rushed past Al to retrieve a second tray. ‘How’s business?’

‘Flat out like a lizard drinking,’ said Al as Hue disappeared inside again.

When Hue reemerged, he handed Al an invoice and wished him well before closing the rear door of the van and jumping in behind the driver’s seat. He gave Al a wave before he put on his seat belt then drove away. Their interaction was the same every morning. Al unlocked the door closer and went back inside. His thoughts were immediately back on Farhad as Al had discovered that one way to get through each day was to have a mission. Purpose was a powerful motivator, and he spent some time each day choosing a specific thing to do or achieve. Something outside of the mandatory assignments of everyday existence. Today was the day he would take his casual association with Farhad to a whole new level.

As soon as he unlocked the front door, sliding the top lock across, Farhad spun around and smiled. Al dropped to his knees and used a key on the bottom lock. He stood to find Farhad as far in the door as he could be with Al standing in his way.

‘You’re early, mate,’ said Al. ‘Been waiting long?’

Farhad smoothed down his impressive salt and pepper moustache, shook his head and offered a little shrug. ‘Not long. Not long.’

‘Come on in,’ said Al as he stepped back. ‘What’ll it be? The usual.’

‘I think I should have double today.’

Al made his way around to the other side of the counter, placed his hands on top of the display case, looked Farhad straight in the eye. ‘You want two shots of coffee instead of one, right?’

Farhad nodded.

‘No problem, mate, but you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on. Why do you need a double shot. I gotta ask or I’m going to die of curiosity.’ A look of shock gripped Farhad’s face, which was Al’s fault. ‘I’m not literally going to die, Farhad. It’s just an expression. It means I really want to know. Why are you here early every day when you know what time I open?’

Farhad turned away for a moment, then turned back. ‘Al, I think you are a man I can trust.’

‘Too right you can,’ said Al. ‘Thanks.’

‘In my country you cannot trust strangers. The secret police are everywhere, and they have, what do you call them?’ He mimed a man being furtive, crouching behind a table, using binoculars then scribbling something down in a notepad. ‘Like James Bond.’

‘Spy,’ said Al. ‘We call them spies. Although, I’m pretty sure double oh seven didn’t think the sword was mightier than the pen.’

Farhad frowned.

‘He used a gun most of the time, not a pen and notepad. And I reckon the only pen I ever saw him with was a gun or a bomb or something. I think it was in Never Say Never Again. The Connery comeback film. Did you see it?’

Farhad looked bemused. ‘Are you going to make my coffee?’

Al laughed. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He immediately busied himself with preparing Farhad’s double strength flat white. ‘I ramble on sometimes. You were saying there are spies all over the place in Iran.’

‘Mainly in the cities. In Tehran, the capital where I come from, it is very bad. They use cameras and microphones, listen to people talking. I was talking to a man once, with a friend, the three of us and my friend said the government should look at the situation in Saudi Arabia. The other man told him he was under arrest for sub, sub, sub something. I don’t know the word in English. Talking against the government, you know. I told him it was nothing, accused him of being crazy. He said we were crazy to talk so openly. Suddenly, two police officers appeared and arrested my friend. I never saw him again.’

‘Shit! Are you serious?’

‘After that I never talk in public place. Just weather and sport. Sport is okay. Safe.’

Al now understood Farhad’s reluctance to talk, but he had started by saying he trusted Al, so things were looking up. He finished making the coffee and handed it to Farhad. ‘You’re safe here. You know that, right? There’s no cameras or microphones. You are safe.’

Farhad looked around as if to make certain there was no one else present in the cafe, then he smiled. ‘So,’ he began, ‘you want to know why I am here early every day?’

Al nodded.

‘My daughter, she swims in the morning before school. I take her to McKeon’s and after she finishes, she showers, changes, then goes to school.’

Al was disappointed until he thought about it. ‘Hang on a tick. You drop her at McKeon’s at 5:30 then she swims for what two, two and a half hours? That’s a long time.’

‘She goes to an Islamic School in Sydney, so she must catch a bus at seven thirty. Not so long swimming as you think.’

‘I see,’ said Al as he saw another customer entering. He greeted the man who was dressed in a dark grey suit. ‘Good morning. What would you like?’

‘Double strength flat white.’

Al looked at Farhad who offered only an enigmatic shrug. To the customer he said, ‘No problem. Take a seat, I’ll bring it over shortly.’

As Al worked on the man’s order, he looked to Farhad who was still standing near the counter, as though he wasn’t ready to leave yet. Did he have something else to say? Better to wait rather than push. Al had made good progress this morning in his illuminating chat with Farhad. The mystery of the Iranian’s consistent early arrival at Twin Passions had been solved.

‘Can I tell you something, Al?’ said Farhad.

‘Of course, mate.’ Al placed the portafilter in the grinder then pressed the double shot button.

‘I’m happy to leave early and I go home late too, you know,’ said Farhad.

Al suspected as much, but he didn’t want to interrupt so he held his tongue while he listened.

‘I am angry with my wife. She—’

‘Hold that thought, mate,’ said Al, lifting his finger. ‘I just gotta deliver this.’ He lifted the cup and saucer slightly, gestured with his head towards dark grey business suit. ‘I’ll be right back.’

When Al reached the man’s table and placed the coffee in front of him, he asked if he was expecting a busy day. The man grunted without taking his eyes off his phone. Al stood waiting for a moment to see if the man would remember his manners and at least offer a verbal response. The wait was in vain. No manners or bad manners was an occupational hazard. Although the majority of patrons could at least be polite, there were some for whom the effort was apparently too much. Even a simple thank you was beyond them. Al had endured rudeness his whole working life in retail but was starting to feel like he shouldn’t have to put up with it anymore. His tolerance for boorishness was wearing thin. Strangely, he felt more patient but less tolerant. Weird. How could that be?

‘I said are you expecting a busy day?’ said Al, a little louder this time.

Had the man’s pause been a second longer, Al would’ve hit him with the would-it-kill-you-to-say-thank-you line. He glanced up at Al. ‘Just another day in the office. Thanks.’ His tone was dismissive which made Al want to ramp up the engagement until he remembered Farhad waiting by the counter, ready to spill the beans on the reason behind the anger he felt towards his wife. Anger which was strong enough to make him want to be at home as little as possible, even though he had two beautiful daughters who no doubt adored him. The intrigue pulled Al away from dark grey suit without another word which probably suited him as well as it did Al.

The only problem was time. Farhad typically only hung around long enough to get his coffee and shoot the breeze for a few minutes before heading off to work. He was already here much longer than usual, and Al was going to be regularly interrupted by customers until Poppy showed up at seven.

He hurried back to Farhad as another customer came in. Detective Jeffcoate. ‘Good morning, Detective,’ said Al, before glancing at Farhad and smiling sheepishly. To the detective he said, ‘Large almond latte to go, coming right up.’ Jeffcoate would have responded but her phone rang and she immediately answered it. With her other hand she handed Al her travel mug.

‘I used to be scared of your police, too,’ said Farhad. ‘In Iran they cannot be trusted. If you have trouble with them, it will be big trouble. Very bad.’

‘I get it,’ said Al. ‘Now tell me why you’re pissed off with your wife.’

‘Pissed off?’ Farhad’s frown inverted with revelation. ‘You mean angry?’

‘That’s it.’

‘My wife, she, how can I say?’

As Al poured almond milk into Detective Jeffcoate’s travel mug, he wondered impatiently. Knowing respect was a huge deal in Farhad’s culture, mainly for men, suggested that Farhad was having a problem with his wife’s loosening up. He’d heard around the traps how hard it was to be a woman in Iran with the restrictions on their freedom and their obligation to servility. Many of the women ditched their hijabs as soon as they touched down on foreign soil, rushing to hair salons run by their compatriots who bleached their dark hair alarming shades of blonde and styled it extravagantly. They dressed differently too, choosing tighter, more revealing clothing. Al was making generalizations from a fairly small sample, but his reasoning was not illogical.

‘She’s been going to English classes. Do you know the AMEP?’

‘No,’ said Al, before turning away to catch the attention of the detective who was still on the phone. She took the travel mug from Al, excused herself from the call, tapped her screen a few times then laid it down against the EFTPOS terminal. Once the transaction was completed, she raised the travel mug in a thank you gesture, returned to her call and left the café. Al went back to Farhad.

‘Mate, never mind the preamble. Just tell me what’s going on.’

‘My wife is having sex with her English teacher.’