The stadium exploded with sound and fury and Asif’s head whipped back to the action. The Pilgrims (known to most supporters as the Peril) were clustered in a tight celebratory knot by one of the corner flags and the crowd were on their feet dancing once again. Ah Cheng had raced to the front of their bay where the more active support were clutching at each other and writhing in an orgiastic outburst of adoration.
Razzaq’s face was twisted with contempt – eyeing Ah Cheng in disgust.
‘I’m glad it is you and not Cheng who carries the burden of our mission,’ he said. ‘If he was forced to choose between …’
‘Cheng is solid,’ insisted Asif, ‘and he sees the football as symbolic of our struggle.’
‘He does?’
‘Cheng says the Ord City Pilgrims have infiltrated the A-League and are successful. Ordinary Australians deeply resent the loss of face when we Asian invaders take points off them but deep down they know of our inherent superiority … especially in spiritual matters.’
Cheng had indeed said all of that, but he’d said it in the mock-fanatical voice he used for mimicking Razzaq, when Razzaq was not present.
Razzaq looked thoughtful.
‘I still say he is dangerously distracted by football. If we changed our objective from the Node to this stadium … do you seriously believe Ah Cheng could go through with it?’
Asif watched Ah Cheng dancing with the active support as the referee blew full time and felt a wave of affection for his Chinese friend. He knew absolutely that Ah Cheng would violently oppose any plan that jeopardised his beloved Pilgrims, but he said: ‘Ah Cheng is a member of the Tong and has fought our fight for many years. We should not doubt him.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Razzaq, ‘but we will watch him. Too much love of Peril is not good for a man.’
• • •
Asif loved the feel of his neighbourhood.
As he walked home after the game, assailed by the energy, sights and smells of District 11 (also known as K Town after the old Kununurra) he reflected upon his amazing fortune.
Asif had arrived in Australia from Bangladesh in 2022. His family had been forced out of their fishing village by rising sea levels – the floods had become increasingly regular until the water never left. Asif’s village was under two metres of water and the movement of vast numbers to higher ground had caused friction and put a lot of strain on the land that was left. Like so many other unmarried sons, Asif was given the task and the duty to get to Australia and commence a new life in a safe and lucky land where he might re-establish the family.
The journey had been hard, and very expensive. It was easy enough to get to Jakarta and there were any number of boats heading for Australia. The prices charged were crippling – the equivalent of two years wages in Bangladesh – but the family had provided the means and were depending on him.
He managed to find a berth on a ramshackle fishing boat which left the port of Surabaya with nearly seventy refugees aboard, including families with young children. The boat should probably have carried no more than twenty so was dangerously overloaded and very low in the water with the bilge pumps straining to keep the vessel afloat. Fortunately the sea was mild but there were dark clouds to the south.
An hour after departure, when it was impossible to leave the ship and swim back to shore, the captain addressed them all. His friendly pre-departure demeanour was entirely gone and, with an evil grin, he held up a hessian sack.
‘I have here your passports,’ he said, then, without another word, tossed the sack overboard.
Immediately the boat was filled with wails of outrage and despair but the captain just laughed as his two colleagues produced automatic pistols, and the wailing ceased.
‘You learn quickly,’ he approved. ‘That augurs well for your chances of survival.’
He went on to explain that if the Australians knew their true identities and nationalities it made it much easier to send them home. He told them all to choose new names and invent themselves a history. It was simple enough to tell a story of persecution – none of them needed to invent such a story – but the harder it was for the Australians to check their stories the longer they would stay in the country. And with so much international condemnation over Australia’s treatment of refugees, there were rumours that the Australians were about to change their laws.
‘It might soon be easier … it might soon be harder to get residency … who knows? But unless you’re actually in the country you have no chance.’
Asif had brought adequate food and water for the voyage but it was stolen on the first night, so he was obliged to survive on handouts which were grudgingly given and very poor. There was no toilet aboard (except for the crew) so the passengers all pissed and shat over the sides – fathers clutching their children with an eye on the following sharks.
‘Sharks in the water, sharks on board … and sharks at home,’ said Noor, an Afghan Asif had befriended in Jakarta.
‘And sharks in Australia, no doubt,’ said Asif.
‘Perhaps,’ said Noor, ‘but from what I hear they are fat and slow … we will make a good life there, my friend.’
‘So much effort and danger,’ laughed Asif, ‘to get to the happy land of the fat sharks.’
The Australian sharks were not fat and slow. On the third day out from Surabaya a patrol boat had appeared out of the storm murk from the south, as the waves freshened and the wind and the children started howling. The patrol boat sliced through the water as the sharks had done, circled the boat once with two large machine guns trained on them, then a voice thundered from a loudhailer like a shout from hell.
At that moment the fishing boat shuddered and seemed to stop.
‘The captain has scuttled us,’ said a white-faced Noor. ‘Let’s hope the Australians are merciful.’
The captain, wearing an inflatable jacket, fired a distress flare, laughing as the heavens suddenly opened and panic swept the sinking boat.
‘Listen to me,’ shouted the captain. ‘I am not the captain of this boat. The captain was Bamban Sulo who lost his life trying to save this ship. Is that clear?’
There was confusion among the passengers, so the captain explained again, emphasising his words with a pistol.
‘The brave captain, Bamban Sulo, fell overboard while trying to repair the hull. Anyone who tells a different story will receive their punishment in the camps where I already have friends and weapons. Is that understood?’
Waves were beginning to wash over the gunnels and a large fat woman went shrieking over the side, pulling a small child in with her. Without thinking, Asif leapt into the water, swam hard for the panicking woman and tried to calm her as she clutched frantically at his head and shoulders. The child was fine, clinging to her mother’s neck, and just as Asif remembered the sharks and his foolishness in entering their domain, a black rubber dinghy appeared next to them and hands reached down to pull them to safety. It took nearly a minute to get the woman into the lifeboat, even with Asif pushing from below, and that was the time he felt most vulnerable – moments from safety but
