‘They take it. The smugglers when you get on boat. Many problems on boat, gangs take our bags and people who pretend they police. But they all liars and take our money, it was big plot between smugglers and gang.’

‘And what would’ve happened if you didn’t hand over your passport?’

Ahmed paused, exhaled, and said, ‘They kill me.’

His shoulders slumped like those of a man at the gallows. Dragging his feet across the floor, he finally sat down. Bending forward, he held his face in his hands as the dark memories came to him. Deacon, unmoved, smoked on.

Ahmed proceeded to detail a harrowing sea journey to Australia, in an old fishing boat overcrowded with Arabs, Kurds, Syrians, Afghans, Sudanese. Adrift for days, vomiting, sunburn, fever, drownings. Indonesian pirates boarded their boat, smashed their engine and left them to die, until they were rescued by the Australian navy.

‘You will help me?’ Ahmed asked again.

Manolis paused, wanting to choose his words carefully. Eventually, he asked Ahmed what would happen if he returned to his homeland.

Ahmed’s dark eyes froze with horror. ‘I can’t go home. They will shoot me dead in a day. We think Australia is the place of freedom. But what freedom? There are people in centre on their third and final asylum, like me. If that fails, then, we have no choice…’

‘No choice than what?’ Manolis asked.

Ahmed looked down at his hands, like claws. He spoke to them almost reluctantly. ‘Aintihar.’

Manolis shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand Arabic.’

Ahmed spoke again. ‘Suicide,’ he said gravely. ‘We not go home to die.’

His words settled in the room. They seemed almost to echo, resonating for longer than anything said before.

Manolis leant forward and placed his hands together in a contemplative pose.

‘You don’t want to do that. Think of your daughter.’

Ahmed met Manolis’s gaze, his eyes suddenly alive.

‘I do,’ he snapped. ‘Every day, I do, all the time. But we have no future here. Here is nothing, it is not even death.’

Ahmed stared at the floor, the dull coins of his eyes downcast and wet with unshed tears. Manolis sat upright, digesting what the detainee had said. Was this man a killer? Could he kill? What life had he led before arriving illegally? How much was truth and how much lies?

‘I feel I go crazy,’ Ahmed said softly. ‘I don’t want to go back to Iraq as crazy man. Dying is better.’

Ahmed’s eyes were soon closed, his voice mumbling. Deacon turned, fired a glance, then returned to staring at the vacant street. It took a moment before Manolis realised what the young asylum seeker was doing.

Ahmed was praying.

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

‘MOLLY ABBOTT,’ MANOLIS said.

Ahmed snapped his eyes open. ‘A tragedy. We all very sad. Mrs Abbott taught me, she taught us all. Our visa applications need good English. Mrs Abbott helped.’