Pluto Belt

December, 2014

On December 21, it was a typical Sydney morning. Bleary-eyed commuters boarded trains and buses headed for the CBD; intercity motorways pulsed sluggishly towards the static skyline, and the harbor bridge's curving half-ring gleamed beneath the sun. In their cars, the city's diurnal inhabitants might have tapped their steering wheels to music, smirked or grimaced at the talkback chatter, many nursing half-full cups of coffee as their minds sought longingly for the same trip in reverse.

For everyone it was just another day of mundane errands, dull routines either comfortably predictable or maddeningly tedious. The irregularly frantic battle for gaps in the faster lanes of traffic, the ordered push-and-shove of passengers in the shunting bellies of Tanagra trains – these small moments of jostling tension were no less a part of the city's daily routine. Indeed, like all normal days that suddenly go to hell, many would look back in wonder at the seeming normalcy of it all this morning. The way the sunlight sparkled through the chittering Jacarandas; how strangers exchanged accidental glances of neutral understanding as they watched the passing signs of stations.

Only one man knew that this façade of peace and sameness was about to be torn down.

Dulwich Hill ... weedy embankments ... backlots of apartment buildings ...

The man soon to hurt the city perhaps more than anyone before sat stiffly at the rear end a T-set carriage.

Marrickville ... a station he knew well; a long-time friend owned a Persian sweet shop round the corner. Khodahafez: farewell my friend. For now.

The yellow-faced carriage doors groaned shut against the platform. A trio of teenage boys in school attire, obnoxiously loud for the morning, made for the upper deck – a mild relief. Aside from this lone, bearded gentleman, there was thankfully few others in the downstairs compartment. Three seats down, an Asian man - probably in his early twenties – gazed down at his phone, his neck on its way to a permanently unbecoming posture. A balding Indian and a pot-bellied white man – both in trim but generic suits - shared muted conversation, neither seeming much committed to continuing or willing to end the incidental trivial talk.

Earlier, a young woman of tied-back hair and motherly suppleness had moved past, taking a seat facing backwards, towards the man. Her cream-brown shorts rode up her thighs to a scandalous yet tantalizing degree; he found it difficult to tear his eyes away from the sight.

Eventually the woman stood and silently moved to the upstairs section.

Redfern - and the man got up, hoisting his new backpack. He knew there was little reason for him to draw attention – rarely it was more than the occasional, curious glance – but he didn't want to take his chances this time lugging the shotgun through Central. Too likely to be cops there, and to them his passing face would be familiar. Much more sensible to change at Redfern.

He stepped off the train and made for the stairs. The hissing departure of the train accompanied him along the platform. Up the steps into the concourse, he quickly scanned both ends for the easily spottable police colours.

For a second, his heart skipped. His eyes met with those of a frowning station guard. He was middle-aged and leant beside the staffroom door. Arms folded.

Forcing himself to breathe normally, the Persian man with the heavy backpack casually strode past, hyper-conscious of the guard's eyes burning into his back. He stopped before the departure screens. Made a conscious effort to scan slowly – all these stations he would likely never see again – then he found the T4 line. Bondi Junction: Central, Town Hall, Wynyard, Martin Place. Platform 4.

Slowly, he shifted his backpack to his other shoulder. The downstairs platform was already full again since the last train, only minutes earlier. It was easy enough to sink into the crowd. The train arrived in less than two minutes, although to the man it felt like seconds as his stomach churned and random shards of grief pricked in his throat.

It wasn't too late. He could still turn back.

Go home – Don't do it this way –

Your attendance at court on the day of something-something – Mandatory –

Noleen, dokhtar-e-mahvareh. If he'd known how she would haunt him from beyond her grave.

The train pulled into the station, and he stepped inside. Enclosed within the narrow cabin, rocking to the thump of metal, the Persian thought for a moment whether he should do it now. Loudly inform the other passengers they were now hostages and if anyone so much as moved –

But no – of course! – the train wouldn't do. The doors, the stations. Two passages going opposite ways. And all the windows. No – what a damned foolish idea!

He coughed. He cleared his throat. Tamarkoz. Snap out of it, brother.

He couldn't help feeling nervous. He had known he'd start to doubt himself the closer he got to his destination. It's just that now it was all starting to seem absurd. Not in the sense that it was not possible, but rather that it just seemed silly.

He had scouted the café in Martin Place twice before. He thought it could work there. Very hard for anyone outside to have a clear idea what was happening. It would be next to impossible for any sniper to get a clear, well-timed shot at him. Difficult for Sydney's finest to orchestrate – let alone carry out – an ambush without dire consequences.

But a little chocolate café? Somehow the idea lacked the gravitas of something like a government building, or a school, or a nightclub. Yet ...

In khāvast-e khodās. So his instinct had led him, so would he fulfill his plan.

And so, as the train rolled into Martin Place's underground station, carrying the man who would steal the innocence of Australia's first great city, a whispered prayer from trembling lips went unheard by all but the speaker. If the God to whom the prayer was spoken heard, He chose, for His own reasons, not to intervene.