The builders found asbestos. That cost a fortune to remove.
He’d put in plans to go up a storey to make up what he’d lost and immediately ran into problems with the local council. That held up the development by six months, which meant that he and the partners had to go for bridging finance, which had become murderously expensive, the banks being nervous about deals of that type.
One of the partners decided he wanted out, saying he’d been promised a return in such-and-such an amount of time, so that left Roger holding more of the broken eggs in an overloaded basket.
Then came an interest rate rise, which on top of everything else meant that the whole deal was in trouble, since the profits had been calculated on a certain rate of return. There just wasn’t enough of what estate agents call ‘fat’ – excess money to be made, having bought it, paid taxes on it, renovated it and sold it – to have made the deal worthwhile.
Any extra stress would mean they were no longer in the black but in the red, so when the council came and refused to certify the building works, saying the steps down to the garage were too steep and the gaps between the wires on the stainless-steel balustrades were too wide in all seventeen apartments, the deal essentially went bust.
Roger could not fix what was wrong because he had no money, and he could not cut his losses and sell, because he’d never get back what he paid. He had to keep paying the interest on the loan, which meant that he was cash-strapped but also stuck in a corner. He stopped taking all the ‘blocked’ calls on the phone in case it was his private banker – the one who fought so hard to get his business – asking him to come in for a chat and maybe ‘work some things out’, which was code, he knew, for repossession – not of the redevelopment, which wasn’t saleable in its current condition, but of the family home, because he’d secured the loan against the family home.
On some level, Roger knew that he wasn’t the only one suffering. Other people were suffering. His own neighbours were suffering. The difference for Roger was, he had nothing to fall back on. His neighbours in Malvern were the kind of people who could ride out a rough patch. They had what was known as ‘old money’ in trusts with so many directors and executors and accountants attached that no agent of the tax department could make sense of the spaghetti of connections.
Roger was not one of those people.
His parents had always been solidly middle class. They’d paid off their mortgage and were now retired, still living where he’d lived as a boy, drawing on their superannuation, growing some of their own vegetables, doing all the shopping in one hit so there were no unnecessary trips to the supermarket because petrol was expensive, and keeping the Coles docket to get a ten per cent discount as well.
They weren’t poor but they didn’t have the kind of money he’d need to get him out of that particular jam.
Amy, being an insatiable spender, had no money tucked away; he was sure of that. Her mother had money – he’d sold her house for her, and he knew she had barely touched half the capital to buy her new place – but he could hardly ask for that. He was the successful one, the good catch, the man she’d been so sure would take care of her daughter.
So, he was going broke.
His response to this was not to sit down with Amy after dinner one night, to put down his gin and tonic with the jumbo ice cubes from the dispenser in the hidden fridge, and to say, ‘Amy, we need to have a serious conversation. I’ve gotten us into a mess and I’m not sure how I’m going to get us out.’
That would have been a sign of maturity.
He tried instead to get Amy to ‘slow down’ with the spending. She’d look at him quizzically or laugh it off or, if he pushed the point, she’d say something like, ‘I don’t see you cutting back, Roger. If we’re so short of cash, why don’t you sell the sports car? Get something more sensible.’
Roger’s solution to this was to go to strip clubs and get drunk – and to rely more and more heavily on Krystal. He’d been less than three years into his marriage when he’d taken up with her. Times had been good and, as with Amy, he hadn’t let on that things were going bad. And, although Krystal was a party girl with a cocaine habit who still stripped for a living, he madly started to think: maybe I could run away with her.
Maybe that would be the solution to my problems.
Maybe I should get off this treadmill – selling real estate, giving all the money to Amy to spend on silly handbags and private school fees and men to manicure the lawns – and go and live with Krystal in Sydney.
Unlike Amy, Krystal was always happy to see him.
Unlike Amy, Krystal always wanted to just have fun.
Krystal never said, ‘We have to be here,’ and ‘We need to do that,’ and ‘It’s my mother’s luncheon today; you need to be there by 2 pm, and don’t be late.’
Krystal didn’t weigh him down with, ‘Why weren’t you at soccer practice?’ and ‘Don’t you know how much it means to Milo to have you there?’
Yes, it had been absolutely idiotic to get involved with her. The money he’d spent on her rent and furnishing the apartment – he sorely needed it. She was a prostitute for God’s sake – a stripper, and former brothel worker; as wily as a fox – but she also represented everything that Amy did not.
A lack of care.
A lack of responsibility.
Who cared if he had two secret credit cards, both of them maxed to the $50,000 limit? There were days when he just needed to see her, and that day in April, the day of the siege at Surf City, had been one of those days.
He’d gotten out of bed around 6 am to the regular chaos that is a house with three small children: Isabella was at the table with Cheerios spread all over the mat in front of her. Roger hated that. Amy had this thing where she’d scoop a handful of Cheerios out of the Tupperware container and drop them on the mat and let Isabella pick them up, one at a time, like a little monkey, let her suck on them and spit them out. He’d asked her once, ‘Why don’t you give the kid a bowl?’
Amy didn’t usually give him cheek but she’d taken a plastic bowl from a collection she kept in one of the glossy drawers, the ones that closed themselves with a little push, part of the $35,000 kitchen renovation that had also included the hidden fridge and the built-in coffee machine, and she’d placed the bowl on the table in front of Isabella and Isabella had picked it up and thrown it on the floor.
‘That’s why,’ she’d said.
Then she’d picked the bowl up and put it back in the drawer with the other plastic bowls with Hello Kitty and Dora the Explorer and she’d carried on cutting the sandwiches for Milo’s preschool play lunch, peeling carrots for Oscar, and filling their juice bottles with water. Roger was tempted to say, well, why not discipline her a little more? But that was Amy’s domain.
‘Good morning, all!’ Roger said.
Nobody replied, but Roger was used to that. He kissed Isabella on the head and tousled Oscar’s hair and pinched a piece of toast from somebody’s plate before he headed for the door, saying, ‘I’ll be a bit late, not too late.’ Amy had nodded and, next thing, he was in the car in the underground garage heading toward the airport, and a flirty conversation with the flight attendant about the best place in Bondi to buy a pair of frilly knickers.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It seemed like much longer but the siege at Surf City actually lasted not much more than three hours. Ali Khan had arrived at the main entrance at around 9.30 am, I got there shortly after 10.30 am and it was over by 1 pm. It took at least that long again to clear the scene but most of the complex had re-opened to shoppers by the following afternoon.
No doubt management was happy about that but it has occurred to me how events like the siege – events that end lives, and change lives – can start and finish in a really short period of time: not quite the blink of an eye, but almost.
The end, when it came, was swift.
Police were doing their best to open a dialogue with Ali Khan, talking softly to him through the interco
m, saying things like, ‘The best way for this situation to end is with no loss of life. We know who you are, Ali. We know your story. We can help you. But you have to move away from the door.’
Ali Khan didn’t acknowledge any of it.
Mouse would pipe up from time to time, saying, ‘Just pop the door open! I’m sure he’ll let us out!’ but Wolf didn’t see that as an option. He was concerned that Ali Khan would run into the shopping centre and, although it had been cleared of shoppers, there were plenty of police around, plus the four hostages in the shop, and if Ali Khan exploded himself, or if he was shot, who knew how many people might die?
Everyone was hoping to end the siege peacefully. The frustration for police wasn’t in the amount of time it was taking – it didn’t take very long – but in not being able to make any contact with Ali Khan. A hostage-taker who made no demands – that was a near unprecedented situation for police.
It was Mitchell who finally made the connection. I say ‘finally’ but really less than three hours had passed. He’d been sitting quietly on the floor near Kimmi K, no doubt listening to what the police were saying over the intercom, watching Roger getting more agitated, saying things like, ‘I don’t think this guy can understand English. Why are we sitting around waiting for him to set himself off? Just shoot him through the door!’
Wishing and hoping for that kind of thing wasn’t in Mitchell’s nature. He was a quiet, respectful boy – almost a man, which he proved that day.
By my watch, it was a few minutes before noon when Mitchell got up from where he’d been sitting. The movement frightened Kimmi K, who said, ‘No!’ and grabbed his forearm to try to get him to sit down again.
Mitchell said, ‘It’s okay. I just want to say hello to him.’
The reaction of the police – well, I’ll say it was mixed. Wolf had been sitting down at his desk, the CCTV playing in front of him, near banging his head in frustration, when he saw Mitchell move.
He leapt to his feet. He was surrounded by the SWAT teams, all of whom were suddenly on high alert, and some of whom immediately drew their guns.
Mitchell was a schoolboy, the kind who wore his shoes slightly too big because his mum always bought everything a size up so he’d ‘get some wear’ out of them. His face was still that of a child: there was no bum fluff, no big Adam’s apple, just a few pimples in that triangle between his eyebrows and his nose, to show that puberty was on the way.
The police wanted to protect him.
Wolf got up from his chair, pressed the intercom button and, as steadily as he could manage under the circumstances, said, ‘What are you up to, Mitchell? We can handle this.’
Mitchell looked up over Ali Khan’s head, through the glass door and, to me anyway, it looked like he gave Wolf one of those gentle smiles he kept mostly for his mum, a smile that said, ‘It’s okay.’
He said to the room, ‘I’m just going to say hello.’
Wolf said, ‘I really need you to sit down, Mitchell. We can handle this.’
Mouse told me later, ‘My heart was hammering. I was still standing near the counter. I was thinking, are the cops really not going to do anything other than keep saying, “Sit down, Mitchell”? Because that wasn’t working. I hadn’t been worried about talking to Ali Khan. I’d said to him, “What are you playing at?” and “Why are you doing this? We’ve done nothing to you,” but he never even looked at me. I was thinking, this is hopeless. He doesn’t speak English.
‘Then Mitchell got up and went to sit next to him on the floor. That made me very nervous. I was like, are you crazy? That guy’s got a bomb on him. But he started up a conversation. It was like the two of them – they were basically the same size, and I know they weren’t but they looked kind of like the same age.
‘It was like Mitchell was trying to relate to him like a friend. Like the new kid at school, or like a toddler who gets lost in the shopping centre. He was saying, “What is your name?” It was that simple, he just said, “What is your name?” and Ali Khan looked up.’
Outside the shop, I saw police tighten their grips on their guns. Wolf was holding one hand up, a gesture meaning, ‘Steady.’
Mitchell said, ‘I’m Mitchell Cousins. What’s your name?’
I’m only guessing but, knowing what I do about government agencies, I’d say that was a question that Ali Khan had been asked 300 times by officials of some sort, and Cate, standing next to me, seemed to think he’d be able to answer it. I heard her say, ‘Come on, Nudie. Speak up.’
Ali Khan didn’t speak up – but he had looked up, which was something. We could see him clearly on the computer screen. He had an ugly face, that’s for sure, and the wound in his head wasn’t easy to look at, but those bloodhound eyes made him look sad.
Mitchell said, ‘My mum’s going to be really worried about me. I’m supposed to be at school. Do you go to school?’
No answer.
‘My school’s great,’ Mitchell continued, ‘but if you turn up late, you get a demerit. If you get ten demerits, they put you on detention.’
Who knows what Ali Khan made of any of that? The important thing was, he appeared to be listening. Cate was still beside me, whispering, ‘Good, good, talk to him; he’s not a bad person.’
I looked over at Wolf. I can’t say for certain what he was thinking but he looked like he’d never been more alert.
Mitchell said, ‘Have you got a mum? I’ve got a mum. I’ve got a sister, too. She can be annoying! But she’s not allowed to walk home alone. I’m supposed to pick her up from school. My mum works hard. I go home and make myself a snack, and I make one for my sister, too. I guess she’ll be worried if I don’t pick her up.’
Ali Khan still didn’t answer but he hadn’t looked away, either.
Mitchell had settled quite close to him on the floor. At one point, their faces were almost touching. Mitchell’s expression was one of genuine concern. He was speaking softly, too. On the outside we had to strain to hear him. From what I could make out, his message didn’t change much. He was saying things like, ‘If you got up now, and let us all go, I don’t think you’d be in much trouble. You’re just a kid and kids don’t get blamed for stuff.’
He also said, ‘I know my mum will be worried if she finds out. Do you have a mum? Somebody’s going to be worried about you.’
A few minutes later, he said, ‘I’m feeling a bit hungry, too. If we came out, I think they’d give us something nice to eat. Aren’t you hungry?’
When Ali Khan still didn’t answer, Mitchell said, ‘Do you know what I think we should do? We should take that thing off your neck. That has got to be heavy. That smells bad. Let’s take it off and, you and me, we’ll go out of here together.’
Wolf was on the intercom immediately.
‘Mitchell, this is the police! You are not to touch that device. That device is dangerous! I order you to step back.’
Mitchell looked up through the glass again, and said, ‘It’s okay. I think he wants me to take it off. You want me to take it off, don’t you? That thing smells.’
It seems clear to me that Mitchell had been studying the device – first from a distance and then up close – and he’d figured out that the box, with the petrol and God knows what else inside, was hooked onto Ali Khan’s neck with that U-shaped bicycle lock. Those things look pretty secure but any schoolboy could show you how to open them. All you need is a ballpoint pen. You take out the nib and the ink, and you cut four small slits into the pen’s barrel to ease it in, and in one twist, most of those locks will pop right open.
It’s a design flaw, one acknowledged by the manufacturer, but not before a heap of them had been sold.
Mitchell had a ballpoint pen in his bag but I suppose he didn’t want to get up from where he’d made his connection with Ali Khan to go and get it. He spoke to Mouse over his shoulder, saying, ‘Do you have a Bic biro? I reckon I could get this off pretty easy with a Bic biro.’
Wolf was close to bursting out of his shirt by this
point: ‘You’ll do no such thing, Mitchell! This is the police, ordering you to move back!’
Mouse said, ‘I’ve got a pen on this string.’ She held up the one that was taped to her counter, the one she kept for customers so they could sign their credit card dockets. She gave it a hard tug and it came away from the counter, string and all.
‘Here,’ she said.
Mitchell said, ‘Can you give it to me?’
Mouse looked reluctant. I noticed that Kimmi K hadn’t moved during all of this, except to bury her head a little deeper into her knees. Roger was offering no assistance whatsoever. He had returned to the back of the shop, as far away from Ali Khan as he could get.
Mouse took a few steps forward and held the pen in Mitchell’s direction. He reached for it, and showed it to Ali Khan. He said, ‘Would you like me to try to get that thing off with this pen?’
Wolf’s voice exploded into the space again, ‘Mitchell, you’ve done a great job and we can take it from here. Please sit back; let us open the door.’
Mitchell said, ‘It’s okay.’
He put his hand gently on the U-lock and studied it, looking up every now and then to look back into Ali Khan’s bloodhound eyes. He said, ‘The problem is, this lock doesn’t come apart,’ he said. ‘I can open it, but it’s not going to split into two pieces. It’s going to loosen up, and then we’re going to have to lift it over your head.’
For the first time, Ali Khan nodded. Cate gasped, and Wolf looked like he might jump out of his skin. ‘He can understand us!’ he said.
Mitchell said, ‘The whole thing looks pretty heavy. I’m going to need a bit of help to lift it, okay? Don’t worry. We’ll get it off.’ He looked around the shop, at Mouse, at the terrified Kimmi K, and at Roger, trembling in the back.
‘Can you help me?’ he said.
Roger said, ‘Me?’ like he, as the only real adult in the room, wasn’t the obvious candidate.
‘I can open it but it’s going to be heavy,’ Mitchell said. ‘I just need you to help me lift it.’
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