Chapter 1

Jake had inherited the two storey weatherboard building from his mother. It had been her little nest egg, 'to pass onto you when I pass away.' Well she passed away and a fat lot of money the two flats made for him.

His mum had spent little money on them for the last ten years and he'd found they were in dire need of serious renovations. They proved hard to let in a contracting market; even varsity students could get better, and cheaper, accomodation elsewhere. If they were to make a return, he had to spend big money or sell them below market value.

'If I did most of the work myself?' he reasoned, 'maybe I can get away with about 4 grand for materials?' He knew he had to get the work done quickly, otherwise, if they were left untenanted for too long, he wouldn't be able to keep up on the costs.

Jake laboured after work and weekends to get the flats up to scratch. His accountant advised him to sell, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do that. They had, after all, been his mother's gift to him.

He'd barely finished the bottom flat, the one needing the most work, when he received a request from the local women's refuge. The lady on the phone had an almost desperate tinge to her voice, as if someone's life depended on his decision. 'Could he offer emergency accomodation to a young woman in appalling circumstances?' That word, 'appalling:' yes, that was the word she used: made it impossible to refuse. How can someone turn down the request of a woman in 'appalling circumstances?'

The lower flat had been newly painted and still reeked. He'd found a second-hand stove, but it had yet to be cabled in by the electrician. The internal wiring needed repair before he could get certification. A window pane needed replacing, having been cracked by some previous tenant, but it was liveable, just, and he agreed to rent to this 'woman in appalling circumstances.'

'Work and Income Department was going to pay the rent. What was he going to charge?' Well, if the government was going to underwrite her rent, he'd better make it worth his while. But, they had a formula, and he'd little chance to pad out the bill. 180 bucks per week, shoot! He began to wonder if he was being screwed, by the women's refuge and the bloody government.

He was upstairs, painting, when the Salvation Army van arrived with a load of used furniture for his new tenant. A couple of worn chairs, a double bed, dining table topped with yellow formica like some relic from the sixties... He figured he could do a little better than that crap, he thought. A woman in 'appalling circumstances' need a little break, rather than someone's cast offs.

Jake owned the local second hand mart. It was far from a cash cow these days because of the internet trading sites. There's was no way he could undercut the prices offered on 'Trade Me.' But he had some stuff in the shop that was better than that offered by the Sallies. That night, he swapped over some of the furniture and brought kitchen things: cutlery, a few appliances, and a Television set. Why was he doing this? He didn't know. Certainly there was little profit in it.

Battered spouses didn't stay long, he knew that from his mother's experiences. They usually left after about a fortnight, often owing rent, to go back to their partners. Apparently everything was 'now okay, ' they had forgiven the last beating and made up. His mother often shook her head in frustration. Her Frank had never laid a hand on her in anger, and if he ever did, he'd never see her again. 'Those women have no self respect, ' she'd told him, 'to be so treated and go back for more.' She was a hard woman, his mother, who saw things in monochrome.

His mum was definitely old school, who thought that people get what they deserve. Perhaps that's why she'd never spent a penny on the flats? They should be grateful for a roof and running water, not bellyaching about the peeling paint and the dodgy wiring. 'If they don't like it they can piss off, ' she'd told him repeatedly.

But, today, you can't run a business like that. His tenants were 'clients' who required 'service.' An existing client cost a fifth of what it would be to attract a new one. A satisfied customer saved the businessman money, so he learnt from his 'small business diploma course' at the local college.

On the other hand, if he didn't own the building freehold, then he'd be out of business. When push comes to shove, it was the bottom line that dictated the difference between going down the gurgler or making a profit.

Jake lived alone, having never married. He'd converted the top floor of the mart into an apartment. A year ago, he'd decided to try internet dating, but it hadn't worked out. He'd figured, at 42, he'd become too set in his ways to have someone come into his life.

Kids didn't interest hime either. He was far too selfish, he thought, to have to care for children. It wouldn't be fair to impose that attitude on another human being. He was better off without them.

The following Saturday morning, a car turned up in the drive while he worked on the refurbishment of the upper flat. A stern looking woman got out and approached him.

"Jake?" she asked, forcing a civil smile. Jake shook her hand and the lady introduced herself as 'Mary from the refuge.' She had with her papers for him to sign; tenancy agreement, privacy statement, and forms from 'Work and Income.' "Thank you for this," Mary smiled genuinely for the first time, "it's difficult finding reasonable accomodation and landlords willing to take in these people."

'These people? What are they? Lepers?' he thought, but he left it unvoiced.

"I see you have gotten her some things?" Mary continued, as Jake unlocked the door, "that's very kind of you, Jake." He felt a fleeting warm glow of sainthood. It soon disappeared, however, when Mary pointed out the stove still not wired in.

"I'll get that done today," he told her. She hadn't finished with her inventory, however, and soon he had a list of work still to be done before she was satisfied. She required him to notorize everything on the tenancy agreement. By the time she returned to the car his anger was beginning to rise. He was doing this out of the goodness of his heart for bugger all reward and here she was demanding more. No wonder she found it hard to find suitable accomodation with willing landlords. He knew what his mother would tell her, 'take it or piss off!' 'No mucking about with mum, ' he thought.

Presently, the 'woman in appalling circumstances' rose unsteadily from the back of the car. She was Asian, small in stature, with a flowery, billowing sari wrapped around her. Her expression was one of uncertainty, her eyes were downcast and submissive. "This is Shamira," Mary introduced her, "could you fetch her bags from the boot?"

'Fetch her... !' Jake stopped the thought in mid sentence. 'Damned cheek of the woman! No please or thank you, just an instruction as one to a hotel busboy.' Nevertheless he found himself obeying and pulled the suitcase and one carrybag from the back of the car.

'Is this all there is?' he mused, 'the sum total of the woman's possessions?' He thought of her fleeing into the night with barely the clothes she stood up in with a raging husband inside threatening to do unspeakable things. Maybe a flying wedge of supporters from the refuge then returned to collect these meagre things for her? A flying wedge consisting of women like this Mary? 'Hell, ' he thought, 'the guy must have run for his life?' He found himself chuckling at the thought.

'But, hey, wait a minute? What if the guy should show up here with his cousins and uncles?' He didn't want some pack of goons breaking up the place. His insurance premiums would go through the roof! He should check with Mary.

"Mary?" he asked, "is she, er, safe here? Is there anyone, er, likely to cause trouble?"

"I see," Mary smiled, "worried about the windows?" She made it sound such a craven question, like he didn't care what happened to Shamira as long as his property was safe. He guessed it could be interpreted that way and felt a twinge of guilt. "There'll be no trouble," she replied, "there won't be anything like that, don't worry."

Jake was far from reassured but he left it. He felt like some caricature of a grasping landlord.

Shamira seemed pleased with the place at least. Mary did her best to warn her of the work still to be completed, but it didn't seem to dent her enthusiasm. Her face broke out in a smile of pure delight and thanked Mary, nodding repeatedly. "You must thank Jake," Mary told her, a little embarrassed, "he gave you this television... and kitchen things, look!"

Once again, Jake felt a wave of sainthood course over him as the woman turned to him, eyes still downcast, but smiling.

"Thank you," she told him.

She looked briefly up at him. Her dark eyes gleamed and they mesmerised him in their beauty. He noticed for the first time the spot on her forehead and the lock of dark hair escaping from beneath her scarf.

"We'll let her get settled in then!" said Mary, bulldozing through the moment. Jake took the hint and mumbled that he'd some work to do upstairs. "You get the stove fixed soon?" Mary commanded, and he obeyed. He'd get onto the electrician immediately. "How is she supposed to cook dinner?" Mary continued, unnecessarily.

'He'll get the damned thing fixed if she'd shut the fuck up about it! Hell, he'd order Shamira some takeaways tonight if it would get this Mary off his back.'

Later, as Jake worked away upstairs, he began to think about his whole attitude. His mother had dominated both him and his father. In some ways, he thought his mum had hounded his dad into the grave. Certainly, he thought what little pleasure he remembered from his childhood had been days with his father: afternoons in the park, down by the river, places they could escape to.

Some of his mother's hardness had rubbed off on him. That hardness had secured them from poverty, had given them respect and a good life. Without his mother his father would have gambled everything away. He was one for the horses and, latterly, the pokies down at the local pub. His mother rationed his money, told him what he could spend, and firmly banked the rest.

'Without control of your money you're dependent, nothing but a small child living on handouts. Money gave you power over your own life.' His mother held the power.

His business grew out of a hobby. He'd always liked old things and his father once told him, 'there's money in muck.' He was from Lancashire and had a sackful of sayings from that part of the World. His mother's accent had been refined and affected, but his father's had lost none of the Midland's earthiness and burr. 'If thow gets ort for nort, say nort.' Yes, he remembered them all.

He took his mother a business plan, and finally convinced her to extend him the finance. She would buy the whole building in case the mart failed. In that event she could re-tenant the space and not disturb the cash flow.

In any event, he hadn't failed, despite his mother's sanguine expectations. Jake knew the value of things, what would sell and what wouldn't. He looked after his customer base; that group of landlords flicked on from his mother in one of her benevolent moods. She never let him forget it, too. His mum had made him what he is; without her indulgence, he'd be out of business.

His mother's conditioning had served him well in the hard-headed world of the second hand business. He knew how to close the deal, to make money work for him rather than the other way around and the difference between gross and net. That lesson had sunk many an aspiring businessman if not learned thoroughly.

His mother wouldn't have tolerated Mary, Sharmila, the women's refuge, or 'the bloody state dictating what rent to charge a tenant.' But Jake wasn't his mother. He hoped he had a little more humanity and caring for those less fortunate.

That's the difference, he decided, between those that had to claw their way to prosperity and those who had it handed to them. Coming from the bottom only made you more determined to stay at the top. Empathy for the poor was the preserve of inherited wealth. Maybe something about the guilt of having it so easy?

And, despite his mother wishing he make it on his own, he knew that, without her money, he'd never have had a start. He wore the knowledge on his shoulders. It hunched him down long after his mother had died.

'Well, ' he decided, 'it wasn't going to be easy getting an electrician on a Saturday. Maybe I should offer to buy her dinner?'

He stood taller, braced himself, then walked out, down the stairs to the floor below. He tapped lightly on the half-open door. He could hear her rummaging about and felt his nerve begin to fail. 'These Asians, ' he thought, 'might misinterpret his approach.' Was it okay to make such an offer to a woman he'd only just met? Would she run frightened from the room and call the formidable Mary? Would she defend her honour with some hideous Indian blade concealed beneath her sari? Maybe she'd just get an uncle to beat the snot out of him for his impudence?

'Dammit! In any case, she'd just have to get used to our Western ways.'

The rummaging stopped and there was an unpleasant pause. Presently, she appeared at the door, eyes startled with a hint of fear.

"Yes?"

"Excuse the intrusion, madam. The electrician won't be able to get the stove working until Monday morning. Perhaps, if you would permit me, I could buy you a meal tonight from the local takeaways? What would you prefer... er... Indian food perhaps?" To his ears he sounded over-formal and mildly patronising. He wondered how well she understood English. Hopefully his manner would fly over her head and he could try a simpler, more natural, approach.

"That is very kind of you, sir," she replied in text book, upper class English with a faintly lilting New Delhi accent.

'Damn!' he thought, 'she speaks better English than I do!' He didn't know why he felt so surprised. Perhaps he thought, being Indian, she'd be poorly educated? Another block of prejudice kicked out from under him?

"Call me Jake," he hastened to be less formal.

"Jake. You shouldn't spend your money. The Work and Income Department has given me a cheque for expenses. I will go the the grocery shortly."

"No," he told her boldly, "allow me. I insist. Call it a house-warming gift."

"But this apartment is warm already," she explained, "I have a heater, look!"

The comment floored him. Gradually it dawned on him that she was kidding. She betrayed a cheeky grin and he smiled back.

"Very good!" he chuckled, "but, please... it is the least I can do for not having the stove fixed in time."

"But that is not your fault. You were not expecting a tenant so quickly. It is I who have imposed on your kindness..."

This was going nowhere. They'd be apologising to each other till midnight. "Look, you're hungry, I'm hungry, what do you say?"

At the end of the day, Jake knew how to close a deal. She accepted.

He'd wondered whether he was overdoing it a bit. The Cambodian restaurant wasn't cheap, but the food was one of his favourites. They took phone orders, too, and delivered. What pang of responsibility was driving him to do this? Why was it important that she be impressed by his charity? She'd have been satisfied with a feed of fish and chips with a squirt of tomato sauce.