Chapter 1

Day 1, Monday

He was waiting for me as I climbed down off the bus but he had to check the photo a couple of times before he approached me as I waited for the driver to open the luggage bays.

"Roger?" He tapped me on the shoulder and when I turned and lifted the headphone from my ear he asked again, "Roger Torrent?"

"Yeah." I reached beneath my jacket and paused the music. I wasn't about to appear rebellious, a troublemaker -- just a kid, left for the state to look after.

He introduced himself, showing matching credentials that I could have run up in less than an hour myself with little more than general office equipment and a passport photo booth.

Al was sincere enough, even helping me with the two cases; one old, one brand new containing my supposed worldly possessions.

I didn't ignore him -- you never ignored people in my profession -- but the signs were comforting rather than alarming so I concentrated more on where we were going and those outside us. I had memorised the route, travelling over it two days earlier myself and there was only one detour due to traffic to pique my interest.

Had we headed elsewhere the conversation about the nice family who were going to foster, the Jamiesons, me would have come to an abrupt end.

Once again I didn't ignore the story. I had my own brief on the family and was sure I could have told them things they didn't know, let alone Al.

Actually, I couldn't have unless it was really necessary; the briefing process included some rather effective blocking techniques to stop me accidentally revealing things I "didn't" know.

That doesn't sound like a typical orphaned kid? Too right. Oh, I was an orphan but that was because I made plans for revenge on my deadbeat Dad while Mom lay dying in a hospital at his hand. I guess I'm where I am now because I didn't just find a gun or a knife or an axe and try to surprise him.

(Sometime in the Past)

Instead I fitted a cut-off switch in his car together with a microphone and speaker, all radio-controlled. I knew how he spoke, and how he could be expected to react; I had ridden with him often enough; too often for my liking.

About three times a week my father had to travel between his office in the poorer end of the business district to the sweat shop factories he ran in the even poorer end of the town. That meant passing through the gang populated streets where he stood out and where he covered his fear with bravado; so long as the doors were locked and they couldn't hear.

Dressed more like one of father's employees, I found a vacant apartment in a building that was ready to be torn down and paid first, last and promise of next month within a week with an ineffective complaint. I didn't expect to be there long enough to get the benefit of the money I forked out but I didn't have anywhere much else to stay anyway. I couldn't stay where Mom and I had lived and I wouldn't live with him -- not that he had offered. Still, if I had needed to, I would have found more money to give me more time there.

The first trip he made through the neighbourhood was wasted. The transmitter in his car alerted me of his approach but there were no suitable people around. I spent over three hours waiting for the telltale beeps to catch his return.

There were a couple of gang members lounging around with some attentive girls. Dad must have seen them as well since he made a comment about how he would like to get into their pants. When the four of them turned to look at him he made another remark about the 'greasy losers' they were with. He had driven on without seeing the outrage on their faces. If it was one thing that upset them more than a slight on their women (by anyone excepting themselves that is) it was to have someone slight them; to "disrespect" them -- an awkward transformation of noun to verb that had caught on amongst people who lacked self-respect.

Much the same thing happened as his car passed through on Wednesday and on Friday morning I made sure his car was noticed even if the people sitting along the side of the street hadn't been set there to pick up his passage.

One of them got on a motorbike and carefully followed my father; the other got on his phone and passed some message on. I wasn't too concerned, I was sure -- quite sure -- that they were capable.

While they were getting organised I was already heading out the back door and running on as short a cut as I could manage. I would get there maybe twenty minutes after my father arrived but well before he would leave. The others might beat me there as well but they would still be appraising the situation and I would expect that they might hold off taking any action until I was there.

I had my own spot to watch and made my way through a gap in a link fence around a closed factory just down the street from where my father's car was parked. I climbed through a high window before moving where I could see out over the roadway. One car was suspiciously parked down a side street; suspicious in that it seemed full of able-bodied youths. If anyone other than me was aware that the car was there though, they were probably busy making sure their own doors and windows were secure. Over the next five minutes three more cars pulled up around the nearby streets.

We had a long wait, though it was kept interesting by the creative way the gangs scoped out the area. One actually entered the factory; whether to "apply for a job" or with some other reason I will probably never know.

What I do know is that they were waiting for my father when he came out and when the first car blocked the road ahead of him he complained viperously -- over the speaker.

Aware there was a problem brewing in front of him, he put the car in reverse -- and the engine died. More swearing and he failed to notice the road behind him similarly blocked or the young men approaching to see if he needed assistance.

Locked in, he wasn't really any safer than if the car had been a convertible with the top down. Still it made him feel safe enough to say some more things that served only to inflame hot spirits.

That was when he finally noticed his words coming back to him; now there was no engine noise to mask them.

"What the fuck?!" came clearly across to where I waited for a result.

The menace seemed to be coming from the front of the car and approached the driver's door. They seemed happy to stand back however and my father was equally eager for them to keep that distance. He kept trying to get a response from the engine while he watched -- finally in silence.

What he didn't see was the three youths who approached from a blind spot on the passenger side. Fuel spilled from the cans they carried, under the car and out the other side where they spread a couple of yards past my father's door.

Dad was still watching when those in front of him turned and began to walk away. He could see them laughing as they got back into their cars but couldn't understand what the point of it all had been. He heard a car revving behind his and it appeared briefly in the mirror before driving slowly past. The driver flipped him and so did the passenger sitting behind.

No. The passenger didn't. He flipped a cigarette instead as the car suddenly accelerated.

Poor old Dad. I felt sorry for him. Sorry he wouldn't know what it would be like to spend months in hospital before finally getting out and having something else happen to put him back. I'd expected a beating; I got a barbecue instead.

(The Present)

We pulled over to the curb outside a two-storey house in a suburb that indicated a level of managerial-class affluence rather than outright wealth. The sort of place the owners had worked their way up to rather than had inherited. The sort of person who remembered their roots and who were willing to return some of their good fortune to society by caring for the orphans around them rather than merely making an annual donation to a photograph and a letter from overseas.

They weren't totally altruistic and I could respect them more for their careful self-interest. They didn't want to commit to years of bringing up toddlers who might easily find a home elsewhere. Much better was to be assigned one of the older ones -- recently orphaned like me rather than someone who had been trouble for other fosterers -- someone who would be making their own way in the world after a couple of years schooling.

If they got lucky then they would be able to speak with pride of the engineer or accountant or lawyer or perhaps even doctor who had been able to achieve his or her dream through the stable home provided by the Jamiesons. If, instead, they ended up with some psycho or pot head then there were ways to have foster care converted to juvenile detention. Problem solved!

The house was fashionable but was old enough for the trees in the garden to have a "been there forever" look about them. The garden itself was, like all the others around, open to the street but divided from the neighbours with hedges towards the front and privacy fences around the rear.

"Call me 'Ma'" Jamieson opened the door with a beaming smile for both Al and myself in that order. I liked her; the smile included her eyes and didn't seem pasted on. It would make my job both easier and harder for different reasons; easier to stay here, harder to leave. It was a hardship I was used to and perhaps in a month's time I'd have found enough sour notes to make leaving easier as well. That was the time I'd estimated I'd need for the job and then, hard or easy, I'd be going.

There was little paperwork involved; it was more a case of Al repeating for Mrs Jamieson's ears his admonition to me to keep out of trouble and apply myself at school; to heed what the Jamiesons told me; and then to subtly warn me that he would be keeping an eye out as well.

I behaved as expected. Wary; uncertain of what I was being let in for; somewhat rebellious at some strangers being put in charge of me -- but not a trouble-maker; someone in fact who was willing to wait and see before complaining about matters that might prove pointless or wasting my time fighting battles I could not yet win.

It was mid-afternoon when "Ma" left me to settle into my room before inviting me back to the kitchen where we could get to know each other over a coffee and home-made cake.

She must have already had the rundown on my background through Al but drew it out of me anyway. We traded facts, or what passed for them.

• I was just 17. [I wasn't. Actually a youthful looking 19, I could pass for anything from probably 16 to 26 with only a little effort. Clothes really did make more of the man than suspected.]

• Elsie and Doug had two children -- both still at home -- Brent, 22 and Anna, 16. Elsie's "While you are here I'll expect you to behave like a gentleman" talk was repeated more forcefully later by Doug when we had our man-to-man.

• My father had been an only child, he had his own company -- a lumber yard -- that had been sold by the bank that had accepted it as security. That had left me with a small trust that covered me for college and a reasonable allowance but I couldn't get the rest until I was 25. [My actual father hadn't recognised my existence legally though that hadn't stopped him whomping me from time to time or worse.]

• Doug had a coffee shop franchise with two stores in different shopping centres. One bonus was that Elsie provided some of the nicest coffee I had had for a while.

• My mother had lost her only sister in a car crash some years earlier; we had lost track of the sister's ex-husband -- the closest I had to living kin. [My real aunts hadn't been all that close when Mom had been alive, I certainly hadn't bothered tracing them afterwards.]

• Anna went to the same High School that I would be attending; Brent was at College and hoped to become a CPA.

• I confessed to an interest in electronics, especially Remote Control models. [Always handy for explaining various bits and pieces and an interest I had had even "before".]

• Anna was good at Math, weaker at History and Chemistry. [I did actually read quite a bit of history -- I often had to wait and found it was the program that helped to tell the players. It also demonstrated the truth of the saying that those who fail to learn from the past are committed to repeating it. I did also have some practical Chemistry though toxins, incendiaries and explosives were not likely to be on Anna's syllabus. Still, the suggestion that we might be able to tutor each other on our weaker subjects did not go astray.]

Brent turned up shortly after, shook my hand and then effectively ignored me when he found I wasn't at all knowledgeable about the sports he favoured. So long as we didn't clash over wanting the TV during a game, I figured Brent and I would coast along.

It was the tack I decided upon when I realised Brent was of no use to me in my forthcoming project. His age was against him and his circle of friends didn't mesh with the people I needed to meet. Anna was another matter -- hence my brushing up on just those subjects she was weakest in. It just helped that I did enjoy those particular areas of study though it wouldn't have mattered if I had loathed them.

Anna turned up about an hour after her brother. She had to wait for the end of a high school day rather than dealing with his more flexible hours. She came in with a clatter then stopped and blushed heavily as she saw me. She was quite charming to watch and I had some difficulty not smiling. She must have been dreading having her home invaded by some jerk and I could see she was suddenly aware that the jerk might be just a bit more attractive than she had anticipated.

I've heard that a woman makes up her mind how she rates a man within 30 seconds of meeting him. Perhaps that's why they put up with real jerks like my unlamented Dad; he only had to turn on the charm for half a minute.

At least my charm was relatively sincere. I could, would, and did do whatever it took to achieve my goals but Anna wasn't one of them. I was simply able to be me for a change -- or at least as I am beneath an ever-changing façade.

"Ma" watched carefully as she introduced me. I suspected Anna would be getting some sort of "behave like a lady" talk later but Ma must have at least provisionally decided I could safely be left to talk with her daughter -- in public spaces, where we might find ourselves interrupted at any time, and could be overheard.

"What's the school like?" I asked.

"It's school. Not too bad but..."

I nodded. A teenager didn't express a positive interest in a school even if it brought joy during every moment they were there.

"Teachers okay?"

Anna found I would be a year ahead of her and I could see the wheels turning. It would be socially advantageous for her to move in the circles I would frequent rather than being confined to her own year. I wasn't sure why none of my soon-to-be classmates hadn't taken her on already. Perhaps it was still too early in the social year and they were all trying for the remaining "older" girls who were in turn longing for the even older boys.

"Most of the teachers you'll have are okay. One or two are creepy but you're not a girl so you'll be safe. You'll be able to tell who they are though."

"No-one does anything about them?"

"They don't actually do or say anything. Just act creepy; looking all the time."

"Maybe they just have good taste."

I had to formally enrol though Al had seen that I had a place already. My subjects were chosen to maximise my useful contact with certain people; not all of them my immediate "interests" but people who would bring me into contact with them if I failed to build a relationship with them directly.

And that was where Anna could help too. She could link me to yet others who would proved a third avenue that seemed less likely to succeed on the surface but, with my background information, could speed things up considerably.

Anna had homework to get out of the way and apologised as she took over the kitchen table. I sat down and asked if I could look at the History text she had placed with her other things.

"Go for it." She was surprised anybody would actually want to look at it.

I skimmed the table of contents, already aware of what the book contained, then opened it to a chapter and quietly read a few pages. "Not too bad. It's light on in some areas but that's to be expected at this level." I tried not to sound pretentious.

"What do you mean?"

"Well here for instance. It talks of the move west across America and the conflict with the tribes already occupying the land but it makes no mention of the cases where initial contact was quite peaceful and how later settlers spoilt it all; how the government representatives were at times even worse and how disease and famine wiped out vast numbers of people. Does it cover the forced resettlements in any detail later?" I flipped over a few more pages.

"I don't think so, there was just something about Reservations. Do you know anything about the Philippines?"

"Magellan, War with Spain, General McArthur or Imelda's shoes? What's your question and we'll see?"

By the time dinner was ready Anna had the outline of an essay plotted out and plenty of notes to add flesh to the bones. It would be her own work. I had merely guided her to research material and given her a productive direction. She would need an hour or two to finish it but then she could expect to get a grade or two higher than she normally did as well.