Assassination Shuffle

Chapter 1

The man’s name was Fallon. Arthur Fallon. An inoffensive name for a thoroughly obnoxious man. He was a vile purveyor of misery. He was a trafficker of human flesh and narcotics.

Today Fallon was dressed in black, his trousers hanging low, causing his portly stomach to drape over his wide leather belt unencumbered, like some sort of flesh coloured wave. His silk shirt, also black, stretched tight and open almost to his navel, battled valiantly to contain its owner’s obese form. Around his flabby neck he wore a collection of gold chains, each one supporting a large gaudy medallion, which clinked and rattled, flashing ostentatiously in the sunlight as the huge man waddled to and from his car.

Fallon normally obtained his ‘girls’ from places like China and the Philippines, but occasionally looked closer to home. The drugs came from Afghanistan. Fallon was someone who Wilson had shown deserved to die.

Of course, the assassin knew Fallon's death would not stop the heinous practice of sex slavery. Not even the small amount of sex slavery which was occurring in this outwardly quiet suburban backwater, situated one hundred and twenty kilometres south-west of central Sydney, Australia. Not for long at any rate. Nor would the supply of drugs dry up for any more than a few days. Someone else would be standing in the wings waiting to take up the reins even before the obese monster’s black heart stopped beating.

According to Wilson however, there were at least a dozen young women who would have a chance at freedom and a much better life once Fallon was taken out. Provided, of course, Wilson and his team could get them somewhere safe before the next arsehole took over. More importantly, the financial repercussions associated with the Al-Qa'ida backed supply of drugs would be much more far-reaching. Until a new buyer could be found, the money leaving the country headed for the Al-Qa'ida coffers in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria would dry up for months.

That was good enough for the assassin.

He had chosen a spot on the third floor of the multi level car park. Although the position was a compromise, the sniper considered it an acceptable one. It was high up, but not overly so, with a low grey concrete wall on which to perch the bi-pod of his Venom Tactical ‘Sidewinder’ sniper rifle. The wall was not perfect because it meant he would have to kneel, rather than lie prone as he would have preferred, but it was better than nothing. Besides, as the range was only two hundred and ten metres, kneeling was easily accommodated.

With the dark blue Toyota Hi-Ace van, stolen just that morning, wearing false plates and now parked between him and the wall opposite the entrance, the south-east corner also provided good cover from accidental discovery. As did the light coating of spray adhesive he'd applied to the lenses of the four, CCTV cameras he'd found on level three. The glue looked like cobwebs and didn't obscure the vision totally, just made it slightly hazy, just enough to make it impossible for anyone watching to make a positive identification, though not enough to have someone from the building's maintenance crew realize something was drastically wrong and rush to the cameras with their tool kits.

But the spot wasn't perfect. There was a moderate and maddeningly fluctuating, breathtakingly hot breeze blowing in from the north which had to be accommodated and a set of traffic lights on the corner which partly obscured the entrance to the 'Pussycat Club'. That was where his quarry had lunch every Wednesday. The man was still there now. His ostentatious, yellow Ford LTD limo sat parked at the kerb just a few metres from the door, with his chauffeur-bodyguard dozing behind the wheel.

Fallon was a creature of habit, and it was habit which would get him killed. Every Wednesday morning he made his inspection of the 'Pussycat Club'. Every Wednesday, regular as clockwork, he arrived at eleven thirty, stayed for exactly two hours while he made sure everything was in order, stuffed his fat face with expensive foods like lobster and oysters, and then collected the weeks takings from the safe in the manager's office. Today would be the last time he did so.

At one ten, the sniper began what Sergeant Bruce Avery, his old friend and weapon’s instructor, had once called the dance of death. Rather than a dance, it was simply a series of internal exercises, similar in many ways to meditation. The ‘dance’ was designed to lower his heart rate, slow his breathing and calm his nerves. Not that the sniper wanted to feel calm before making the hit. Not any more. Now all he felt was rage, an all consuming, inescapable rage which meant Fallon and three others had to die. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t just stop at four.

At one fifteen the assassin unpacked the tools of his trade, assembled the rifle, fitted the telescopic sights and adjusted them to suit both the range, and what he felt would be the most likely level of sideways drift affecting the bullet in the blustery breeze. It was at best a calculated guess. But then it always was.

At one twenty-two, he carefully positioned the rifle on the low wall, raised the stock to his shoulder and placed his right eye to the telescopic sights. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later he squeezed the trigger.

Fallon had waddled out of the club. A lesser scumbag, fawning at his elbow, rushed forward to open the rear passenger door of the LTD, leaving his Lard and Master standing alone on the footpath. The sniper was a little out of practice and the hit was slightly off target. The projectile struck Fallon high up on the left side of his chest, travelling slightly downwards. But the hollow point bullet glanced off the inside of his shoulder blade, instantly mushrooming out to almost twice the size of the original slug. Deflected slightly by the bone, the bullet skewed off and tore through the bastard’s aorta before blowing an exit hole the size of a grapefruit in his back. He’d died instantly.

That was the first one. Wilson had told him there were another three.

The sniper dropped down behind the wall almost as soon as he saw the bullet strike home. The club was in a busy street surrounded by multi-story buildings. He knew that under those circumstances it would be almost impossible to pinpoint the exact direction from which his single shot attack came. There had been just one loud retort from his rifle, and even then, the noise would have echoed off the nearby buildings, making it highly unlikely anyone would be able to locate where the sound had originated. As long as he stayed out of sight, behind the low wall, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d be discovered. Slowly, keeping his head down, he collected the spent cartridge, disassembled the ‘Sidewinder’, slipped it into its specially constructed, padded case, and placed it under a blanket in the back of the van. Then, ignoring the drama being enacted by a team of paramedics, police and other emergency services personnel on the street below, he simply climbed in behind the steering wheel, carefully backed out of his parking spot and made his way slowly to the pay station. He paid the required $4.20 at the machine, fed the validated ticket into the slot at the boom gate and turned left into main street. He indicated properly, accelerated steadily and joined the flow of traffic heading out of the town. No squealing tyres. No sudden moves to attract attention. No traffic infringements which might inadvertently get him nicked. Steady, calm, unobtrusive.

Two hours later the van was parked in a side street in one of the numerous, small industrial areas on the other side of the city. The sniper had replaced the van’s original plates and taped an official looking notice to the front and back windscreens, with another identical notice fixed to the passenger’s side window. The notices were printed on yellowy green, Hi-Viz paper which stood out starkly. They had the New South Wales State Police logo in the top right-hand corner and the words POLICE AWARE printed in big, black, bold lettering.

Of course, the police were in fact, totally unaware of the vehicle. But the public would now assume the cops knew all about it, and as a result, everyone who worked in the area, or who drove or walked past the van, would assume the police had everything in hand. They would surmise it had been stolen, abandoned or perhaps used in a robbery or some other crime, and ignore its presence completely. Of course eventually, maybe some days or maybe even weeks into the future, some irate business owner would phone the police and ask them when the hell they were going to come back and remove the piece of shit from out the front of their business. By that time, even if the cops had somehow miraculously made the connection between Arthur Fallon’s assassination and a dark blue Toyota van which had been seen in the car park overlooking the ‘Pussycat Club, the assassin would be long gone.

He had headed north, back to where it had all begun, back to where, just twenty-one weeks ago, he had made a decision which would change his life forever.

Chapter 2

Twenty one weeks ago.

THE GIRL WAS NINETEEN, tall with a curvaceous figure. That is to say she was narrow waisted, but even so, had full pert breasts and a curvy bottom. Her hair was short, black and frizzy. She had long legs, deep brown, soulful eyes, full, kissable lips and skin the colour and lustre of polished ebony.

I'm headed north, she said, leaning in through the open passenger's side window. She smiled, showing a set of perfect, sparkling white teeth.

Yea, me too, said the boy. Chuck your backpack on the back seat and climb in.

The girl did as she was told, dropping the heavy rucksack onto the back seat next to the boy's duffel and slamming the door. She climbed in, clipped on her seat belt and then reached over and offered her hand in greeting.

Later Simon was to say, that at that moment, despite the fact they had only just met, he felt an almost inescapable, all consuming compulsion, to tell the girl he loved her and to ask her to marry him. Later the girl was to admit, that if he had, she would have said yes.

Until that moment Simon had dismissed the concept of ‘love at first sight’ as just a myth. But now, confronted undeniably by exactly that event, he knew without doubt such things could happen. The girl had never had any qualms on the subject.

I'm Caaliyah, said Caaliyah.

Simon, replied the boy, taking the daintily proffered fingers in his own and smiling warmly at his new passenger.

Been waiting long? Simon asked.

About an hour and a half.

Wow, he said, then indicated, pulling out into a gap in the traffic and accelerating up to the posted 100 kph.

Waiting an hour and a half for a lift on a busy highway didn't seem possible somehow. A young woman hitch-hiking by herself should have been offered a lift almost immediately.

The 'White Knights' should have been eager to offer a damsel in distress a ride. Even though that distress may have been only minor and caused by the slight inconvenience of not having a car of her own.

Families or couples should have hurriedly hauled on the skids and stopped as soon as they saw her, vocally urging the silly young woman to seek refuge within the safety of their boring family sedan. Get inside quickly, they would demand, before her ‘foolish actions’ of hitch-hiking found her lying dead in the bottom of a shallow grave.

Solo travellers too, especially male solo travellers, should have been equally keen. For them there was the appeal of having the company of a beautiful young woman. Even though that company would be little more than just someone to talk too during the possibly long and boring drive between where they had picked her up and their next port of call.

But for an hour and a half, no one had stopped. Of course, both Simon and Caaliyah knew why. It was the elephant in the room that neither of them were willing to mention. Australia was widely thought of as a tolerant, multiracial country in which every race and creed had an equal opportunity in society. Equal that is, if you happened to be white, Christian or at a pinch religiously ambivalent. Not so equal for a person with skin the colour of midnight. No so equal for ‘One of them.’

So where are you from? asked Simon.

Sydney, born and bred, she replied. "But my folks came here from Mogadishu in the late eighties.

Somalia! So Caaliyah’s parents must have been refugees when they came here, thought Simon. They were lucky. If they got here in the late eighties, they must have just scraped in before the government virtually closed the county’s boarders to refugees.

They drove north together, chatting like old friends or just enjoying each other’s proximity in silence. When they reached the turn-off to Noosa Heads in the world-famous ‘Sunshine Coast’ district, Simon took a right and headed east towards the coast.

They stopped at a cafe for drinks and sandwiches, then took a long, leisurely stroll through the national park, along the tops of the cliffs to Alexander Bay. The track wound down the side of the sand dunes behind the beach and then spilled out onto one of the most beautiful, secluded beaches in Australia. The sand was soft and golden and warm under their feet, stretching away in a wide, golden crescent towards the tree lined hills to the south.

People, many of them naked, lay in the sun or dove into the crystal clear, briny, azure sea, swimming, playing and laughing, enjoying the freedom of the ocean. In the distance, Simon and Caaliyah could see a small group of sun bronzed Aussie surfers expertly carving up the waves, their bodies glistening from coconut oil, their long, sun-bleached hair, knotted and stiff with salt from almost constant immersion in the sea.

They found a spot on the sand, out of the breeze and away from the others, and sat to eat their lunch.

Do you feel like a swim? asked Caaliyah when they’d finished the last morsel.

Sure, Simon answered.

They rose together, and as Simon slipped his t-shirt over his head, Caaliyah pulled off her jeans and blouse. Her underwear quickly joined the rest of her clothing on the sand. Simon thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. She was a dark skinned princess, a vision of African loveliness, a Goddess from a parched, sun baked, mysterious land. She was perfect. Simon also stripped naked, and then Caaliyah held out her hand and together they ran across the sand, down to the water and dove in.

The sea was cold from the almost constant, cooling, south-easterly breeze which blew along the entire east coast of Australia. But it wasn’t unpleasantly so. They dove below the waves and swam out beyond the breakers, then floated lazily on the surface, rising and falling slowly with the swell.

Caaliyah swam over and wrapped her arms and legs around the man she would one day marry, and they experienced their first kiss. Later, under the blazing summer sun, behind the dunes, away from prying eyes, they made love for the first time.

They were ‘Backpackers’. Two young people travelling the country in search of adventure, excitement, and experience. Caaliyah had just finished an extremely unrewarding stint working as a supermarket checkout chick and wanted to see her country before marrying the man she knew her parents would soon choose for her. They had been adamantly against the idea of her ‘travelling around the country.’ But Caaliyah was a headstrong girl and in their hearts they knew she would do this thing with or without their permission. So they grudgingly granted her three months to see Australia with her friend Sara. Sara was twenty-three and well respected in the community. She also had a car and was a regular attendee at the Catholic church where Caaliyah’s parents worshipped. Both girls had promised they would call or Skype every single day. Their trip together lasted ten days. They’d been in Brisbane two of those days when Sara’s mother became gravely ill and Caaliyah’s best friend was forced to return to her mother’s home in Campbeltown.

Caaliyah had shrugged her backpack onto her shoulders, stuck out her thumb and headed north.

Simon was five years older. He’d been in the Australian SAS, an elite section of the Australian Army since the day he turned eighteen. Three weeks ago he’d decided not to sign on for another term and just two days previously, had rejoined the ranks of the civilians he’d sworn to protect six years ago. He’d seen active service in Afghanistan and had received special training in both weapons and unarmed combat. Unlike Caaliyah, he didn’t have deeply religious, traditional parents who would one day betroth him to a woman he barely knew.

Simon didn’t have any parents at all. At least not anymore.

He’d received a substantial payout from the army the day he called it quits, but with no genuine plans of doing anything other than travel the country for the next few months, Simon was on a tight budget. Caaliyah’s was even more so. But, rather than simply pitch their tents, that night they booked themselves into a cheap motel a few kilometres north of the town of Noosa Heads and treated themselves to a night of moderate luxury. Somehow roughing it under canvas on their first night together just didn’t seem right.

The motel was one of those chain things. The type of establishment to be found in any moderately sized city or large town all over the western world. It had an instantly recognizable logo above the arched entrance to its central car park, a clean, though slightly dated reception area, heated swimming pool, guest laundry, a restaurant which served ‘tasty home style meals’ and twenty-two rooms spread over two floors. Simon and Caaliyah’s room was on the top floor, above the restaurant and overlooking the swimming pool.

The Sunshine Coast is a tourist Mecca, and although the heady days of the latter part of last century are long gone, the area still plays host to almost a million overseas visitors each year. Which meant if someone built a motel on the Sunshine Coast, they needed to make sure they offered an excellent place to stay. If not, with all the competition in the area, they were sure to fail. Simon and Caaliyah’s motel room, although not luxurious, was certainly a cut above the backpacker hostel and camping ground they’d each slept in previously.

Caaliyah took charge of the room key and lead the way up to the room. Simon slung her backpack over one shoulder, lifted his own swag by its canvas handles and followed her.

The room was clean, smelt of pine needles and was formulaic in its décor. It was comfortable, yet at the same time cold and impersonal. The walls were cream, the carpet grey and stiffly industrial, unyielding in both texture and softness. There was a large, firm bed made up with white, overly starched linen, two uncomfortable, straight backed rattan chairs, a small rectangular coffee table and a large flat screen TV bolted to an adjustable frame which was fixed to the wall opposite the bed. There was also a tiny fridge under a short, Formica topped counter attached to the wall under the window overlooking the pool. On the counter they found ‘Free’ tea and coffee, plus their attendant long life milk and sugar, plus an electric jug which made a considerable amount of noise, leaking a puddle of scalding hot water onto the counter as it very slowly came to the boil.

The bathroom had a shower cubicle which they quickly proved was large enough to take two people, a gleaming white handbasin under a small mirrored cabinet and a similarly pristine toilet.

They washed the salt from their bodies as they made love for the second time under the steamy torrent of the shower’s huge shower head, then dried each other with cloud soft towels before clambering naked onto the bed.

Caaliyah’s dark skin contrasted starkly with the snowy white bedsheets as she stretched luxuriously on the bed, arching her back and twisting her lithe frame first one way then the other, stretching her tired muscles, like a sleek, sexy black panther. Her skin tingled from the heat of the shower and her body ached from their love making.

Simon rolled over on his side and once more gazed in amazement at the beautiful young woman laying next to him. She was perfect. Totally perfect.

What’s the story behind the tattoo? Caaliyah asked, gently stroking the deep blue and brown art work adorning her new boyfriend’s right shoulder. It depicted a stylized, big balled, hugely muscled Bulldog, wearing an Australian Army slouch hat and with a bandoleer of bullets draped over its left shoulder and across its barrel like chest. In big bold print the number fifty-seven was superimposed over the caricature, as were the words Div. and SAS.

Fifty seventh division, Simon explained. I used to be in the army. SAS...uh that’s Special Armed Services. Bit like the Commandos in the US.

Oh! said Caaliyah and for the first time, Simon saw a flicker of concern flash behind Caaliyah’s beautiful dark brown eyes. Perhaps she was wondering if one day soon he might have to return to duty.

I resigned three weeks ago, explained Simon, knowing even as he did, that such an explanation might mean everything or nothing. I have no intention of ever going back into the armed forces.

Oh.... That’s good. She smiled expansively once again.

So, tell me about yourself, Simon enquired, desperate to change the subject away from one which Caaliyah obviously found a bit confronting. How come a beautiful nineteen-year old woman like you is hitch-hiking around the country by herself?

Caaliyah smiled. You mean, how did a young, black woman with parents from Somalia manage to escape from what you’d imagine would be a totally cloistered existence? Especially when you would know most women from my father’s country, are stuck at home swaddled in a Yashmak?

Well...yes...that too. I guess.

Easy. My parents are Christian, Catholic to be precise, not Muslim. That’s the main reason they left Mogadishu in the first place. Catholics aren’t well regarded in the land of my father’s birth. Also, my dad’s a mathematician at Sydney University, not some ex goat herder now working seven nights a week, packing shelves at our local supermarket. He’s the son of a Somali diplomat and was sent off to England to boarding school when he was six. He converted to Christianity when he was twenty-two. That was around the time his father was killed, gunned down by a Muslim radical. God knows what the nutter’s reasons were. He killed himself shortly after murdering my Granddad, so no one could ask. Oh, another thing, my father received his doctorate in mathematics at Oxford, England, in the late nineteen sixties.

Oh! I see, said Simon, nodding his head. The nineteen sixties? In his minds eye he could see Caaliyah’s father as a young black man, sporting a huge Afro and dressed in a purple tie-dyed, satin shirt, open to the waist and wearing flared and ripped jeans. He could also envisage him smoking copious quantities of Ganja and immersing himself in the ‘Free Love’ era of the swinging sixties. Simon guessed it would be a bit hard to live your formative years in such a way and then expect your children to live the life of a nun in a monastery.

So.... if your Dad was in England way back in the sixties, he must be.....oh! close to seventy now?

Yea. Mums about twenty-five years younger than my Dad though. Simon’s face took on a look of surprise when the girl spoke of the huge age difference between her parents.

It’s an African thing, she explained. An arranged marriage. There’s frequently a bit of an age difference when that happens.

Caaliyah smiled, and then went on to tell Simon about her friend Sara and how fate had thrown a spanner in the works and halted their planned trip together.

But you decided to continue on your own? Simon suggested.

Uh huh!

But aren’t your parents worried? I know I would be if I had a daughter who went hitch-hiking around the country on her own.

Yea. Of course they’re worried. They weren’t completely happy with me going in the first place. They’re completely pissed off I didn’t come straight home when Sara had to return. She was quiet for a moment while she considered, not for the first time, the repercussions of her actions. But they’ll survive. So will I. Now that I have a handsome new boyfriend to look after me, she said, playfully nibbling his earlobe.

The truth was, Caaliyah knew that defying her parents was a stupid, somewhat childish thing to do. But she was young and felt certain in her heart that this trip was going to be the adventure of a lifetime. An adventure the likes of which would never be repeated. She was convinced that when this journey ended, when she finally made her way back home to Sydney, despite her parents more modern outlook on life, she was destined to a life full of nothing more than being someone’s husband and mother to a tribe of children. There could be no other expectations for a young ‘Somali’ woman, regardless of her father’s religion and British upbringing. Her future would be filled with the drudgery of home making and child rearing, and for Caaliyah, that somehow felt like no future at all.

She needed this adventure. Desperately needed it. She had to have something to look back on as she grew old. Some experience which she could mark as a highlight in her life. Such an event had to be an occasion which didn’t revolve around a husband or one of the kids. She needed that time to be something for no one else but herself. Because without even the memory of such an adventure to sustain her during the ensuing years, life would surely be unbearable.

She rose gracefully from the bed, rummaged through her backpack for a few moments before dragging out clean underwear, a long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.

Actually Simon, she said as she dragged a pair of knickers over her incredibly beautiful bum and then reached for her jeans, I’d better give them a call. It’s almost six in Sydney now and I promised them I’d Skype each day around that time.

Simon followed her lead and put on some shorts and a t-shirt. Are you going to tell them about me? he asked. He felt that question might be seen as a bit presumptuous considering they had only just met. But somehow he just knew they were meant to be together. Not just for now, but forever. In his heart he felt sure Caaliyah felt the same way.

She shook her head. I will....But not just now. I want to give them time to realize I can take care of myself. If I tell them about you, they’re only going to worry.......Do you understand what I mean Simon? I need to let them deal with one thing at a time. At the moment, that one thing is the fact I didn’t come home with Sara when her mother got sick. If I throw a new boyfriend into the mix, they’re going to have kittens.

He nodded. I’ll give you some privacy then. I’ll meet you in the restaurant when you’re finished, he said and left.

That was day one. One hundred and forty-six days later, Simon Belleden would be sitting in a wheelchair next to Caaliyah’s grave saying a final goodbye.

Chapter 3

There were a dozen chairs and a few tables scattered around the pool. Furniture made from large diameter white plastic tubing, moulded and bent into shape and then upholstered with some sort of plastic mesh. That mesh was coloured in stripes of various shades of brown. Light, mid, dark. The tables were round and made from the same white tubing and then topped with a thick, large diameter circle of textured fibreglass. Simon chose a seat with his back to the building and gazed unseeingly at the sparkling clear water of the swimming pool. He smiled contentedly to himself and waited for his beautiful new girlfriend to finish her Skype call to her parents.

Parents. How often had he wondered what his life would have been like if he’d had parents of his own? His mother had died bringing her only child into the world. No one knew who his father was. His first ‘family’ had been a group of Catholic nuns at an orphanage in Adelaide, South Australia, followed by an elderly couple, recently emigrated from England. The old couple were well-meaning foster parents who initially lavished him with love and then later secretly reviled him when they realized that fostering a kid was hard work. The novelty of parenthood quickly wore off for Mr and Mrs Belleden when the gratitude of their church became less forthcoming, and the warm fuzzy feeling they had when Simon first entered their lives, disappeared along with the realization that they weren’t really cut out for raising children.

He’d been a good kid. Not perfect, of course. He’d got into fights with other kids at school on a semi regular basis, and there’d been a scrape or two with the law during his teenage years. He’d tried his hand at shoplifting once or twice and learnt how to hot wire his step dad’s car with catastrophic results. Plus there’d been a scare when Carol Turner missed her period. That turned out to be a false alarm. But even so, the repercussions for both she and Simon were swift and extremely unpleasant. Catholics didn’t engage in sex before marriage, especially fifteen year old Catholics, and those that did, were condemned by others in their congregation for being evil sinners. Even as a young teenager, Simon had been unable to understand why a church, which preached love and understanding, could then act as if his love for Carol was a sin.

Cyril and Marjorie Belleden were already in their late fifties when the toddler Simon joined their fold. They’d emigrated to Australia, some thirty years previously from a small rural village in Yorkshire in the north of England. But it had to be said, even though the Belledens were physically present in Australia, in their hearts they’d never left the UK. Cyril in particular found it difficult to adapt to the vastly different, more carefree, way of life enjoyed by those in the land of Oz.

Simon’s most vivid and persistent recollection of his stepfather, was of a man, old before his time, scrawny, grey skinned and frail, sitting in his favourite, over stuffed lounge chair with his pipe clamped firmly between his teeth and a copy of that day’s ‘TIMES’ spread out before him. There’d always been a large mug of sweet, milky tea on the little table besides his chair, and a pair of long grey socks and ratty old carpet slippers on his gnarled and puffy feet. Even at home, inside and in the middle of the South Australian summer, Cyril always wore a tie.

It’s what an English gentleman does, the old man would say, puffing out his bird like chest with pride.

The Belleden’s tiny, three bedroom, one bathroom house was always cluttered with old furniture. Stuff they’d brought out from ‘home’ on the ship which had carried them from Blighty. It was always dark and oppressive inside the house, with the heavy, royal blue drapes pulled shut against the intrusion of the searing glare from the Australian sun. The ceilings were low and claustrophobic. The walls of every room were covered with old, fly speckled wall paper, the most common theme being blood-red roses on a field of yellow, and somehow the rooms always seemed to shrink inwards every time Simon entered. Everywhere throughout the house were mementos and keepsakes from the UK. A half dozen china dolls, each dressed in traditional Yorkshire clothing, stood to attention on the dresser in the corner of Mr and Mrs Belleden’s bedroom. A huge beer tankard, moulded in the shape of the head of a jolly, fat old English man, dressed in the manner of a publican from the Shakespearian era gazed down on the dark wood dining table from its shelf next to an old grandfather clock. A commemorative plaque, celebrating the wedding of Prince Charles to Lady Diana Spenser, took pride of place atop Marjorie’s polished timber display cabinet in the kitchen, and three china ducks of different sizes flew up the wall in the living room above the television. That device was only turned on, on rare occasions and never seemed to show anything but programs from the BBC. The whole house was as maudlin, sombre and quiet as a church. But the ‘most maudlin, sombre and quiet’ thing of all, was old man Belleden himself.

Simon’s step-parents were deeply religious and pious, and they brought up their young charge to be the same. The family went to mass every Sunday morning and again on Wednesday evenings. Benediction was attended Sunday afternoons and all three Belledens went to confession at least once, but more often, twice a week. Even as a child, Simon felt uneasy with the concept of a supreme being, and as he grew older, the very notion seemed more and more ludicrous. After all, how could such an omnipotent God, a deity, who he had been told, professed to love us