The Saudi spread honey across his toast and took a bite. The use of shahids served two functions. It meant that there were no perpetrators to put on trial, and it brought home to the world that the fighters for the Muslim cause were prepared to die for their beliefs. It was easy for Western soldiers to go into battle with their weapons, armour and mobile hospitals: they were better-armed and equipped than their adversaries, and rarely went into battle without being sure that they would win. But at heart they were cowards, hiding behind walls as they fired their high-powered weapons, dropping bombs from planes high above the clouds and shooting artillery shells from afar, going in with tanks and armoured cars, only ever fighting from a position of strength. But the shahids fought alone: they went into battle knowing they would die, and died happily, knowing their death would serve the greater good. It was impossible to defeat such men and women. Nothing could be said or done to sway them from carrying out their mission. They were true heroes, but the Western media would never describe them as such.
The Saudi took another sip of tea. Already there were calls for the Australian government to pull their troops out of Iraq. The same thing had happened after the Madrid bombings: the Spanish had obeyed the calls and brought their soldiers home. The Saudi doubted that the Australians would pull out as easily. Not that he cared what happened in Iraq. This wasn’t about the occupation of Iraq, who controlled the oil or decided who should or shouldn’t hold elections. It was about the struggle between Islam and Christianity, between Allah and the infidels, and it was a struggle that could end with only one victor.
Liam kicked the ball hard and low, and Shepherd had to stretch to stop it going into the net. ‘Nice shot,’ he called, and threw the ball back. Liam caught it on his chest and let it drop to his feet. ‘You’re getting good at this,’ said Shepherd.
‘I scored two goals last week,’ said Liam. He kicked the ball and this time it went straight past Shepherd into the back of the net.
‘You play at school, yeah?’
‘Every Thursday.’
‘Is there a school team?’
‘Yeah, but Mr Williams says I’m too small to play for it. I have to wait until next year.’
Shepherd retrieved the ball and tossed it to Liam. Liam headed it back.
‘Are you going to get married again, Dad?’ he asked.
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘Pete’s dad’s getting married next week and Pete says his new mum’s really cool,’ said Liam.
‘What happened to Pete’s old mum?’
‘She and his dad got divorced. She went to live in America with her new husband and Pete got to live with his dad.’
Shepherd tried to spin the football on his right index finger but it fell to the ground. He trapped it with his foot. ‘And you want a new mum, is that it?’
Liam shrugged awkwardly. ‘It might be fun.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
Liam’s cheeks reddened. ‘Katra, maybe.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Katra? She’s not much older than you.’
‘She’s twenty-three,’ said Liam.
‘And I’m thirty-five. I’m almost old enough to be her dad, too.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Liam. ‘You’d have been twelve when she was born and you can’t be a dad when you’re twelve.’
‘The way things are going, these days, you can,’ said Shepherd.
‘I like Katra,’ said Liam.
‘You marry her,’ said Shepherd.
Liam pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to marry her,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want a wife. I want a mum.’
‘I miss your mum, too,’ said Shepherd.
‘All the time?’
‘Of course.’
‘I dream about her.’
‘Me too,’ said Shepherd.
‘Sometimes I dream that she comes back. She says she’s been away on holiday and now she’s going to live with us again.’
Shepherd picked up the ball and tossed it back to his son. He had the same dreams, less often now, but they still came every few weeks. She’d be back with him and Liam, back in the house, back in his bed.
‘When I dream about Mum, is it really her?’ asked Liam. He sat on the ball, his hands on the ground to steady himself.
‘It’s just a dream,’ said Shepherd.
‘But it feels so real. Like it’s really her.’
‘I know, but it’s not. It’s just your subconscious trying to make you feel better.’
Liam frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Shepherd went and sat on the grass next to his son. ‘First, there’s the thinking bit of your brain, the bit you use to solve problems, the bit you use when you’re talking, or when you just sit and think. But then there’s another part that does its thinking in the background. Like your imagination.’
Liam’s frown deepened and Shepherd realised he wasn’t doing a good job of explaining himself. If he’d known in advance that he’d be going over the finer points of psychology with his son he’d have phoned Kathy Gift for a briefing.
‘The subconscious does things without you thinking about it,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes you might feel sad but you don’t know why, and that’s because you’re thinking about something subconsciously.’
‘Thinking without thinking?’ said Liam. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘Sort of,’ said Shepherd. His lecture was going from bad to worse he thought. ‘It’s, like, we know Mum’s dead, and that she’s not coming back. But part of us wants to believe she will come back. And that part of us is what makes the dreams.’
‘But when I talk to her in the dreams, it’s like I’m really talking to her.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Shepherd had conversations with Sue in his dreams. And more. They kissed and touched, and sometimes he entered her – and then he’d wake with a hard-on and his stomach would lurch when he remembered he’d never make love to her again. Sue was dead and she’d stay that way for all eternity. Shepherd didn’t believe in God or in heaven, so he knew he’d never see her again. Ever. ‘You’re talking to her memory, Liam,’ he went on. ‘And you’ll always have that. She’ll always be in your heart and your head.’
Liam’s lips quivered. ‘Sometimes I forget what she looks like,’ he said.
‘That’s not true,’ said Shepherd.
‘When I think about her, I can’t remember her face. I look at the photographs and I know it’s her and I can remember the photographs, but when I try to remember the things we did and the places we went sometimes I can’t see her face. But when I dream it’s like she’s really there and I can see her and everything.’
‘Hey, that’s okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘You remember her and that’s what matters. And you know how much she loved you. Your mum loved you more than anything.’
‘More than you?’ Liam wiped a tear from his cheek.
‘You’re her son. Her boy. You were the most important thing in her life.’
‘So why am I forgetting her?’
‘You’re not,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s okay for you. You can remember everything,’ said Liam bitterly.
Shepherd pulled the boy close to him. ‘Not everything,’ he said. But his photographic memory was virtually infallible and Shepherd could remember almost everything he’d ever done with Sue. Every conversation they’d had. Every place they’d been. Every argument they’d had. Liam wanted a new mother. Shepherd understood that. Every child needed a mother. But Shepherd didn’t need or want another wife when his memories of Sue were as fresh as they had ever been. He could remember the glint in her eye when she wanted to make love, the tightening of her mouth when she was preparing for an argument, the way she bit her lower lip just before she laughed. Sue was a hard act to follow. In a way, fading memories could be a blessing: as they receded so did the pain. That was what Liam was going through. Every day the pain of losing his mother would get a little less. His heart wouldn’t ache quite as much and one day the pain would have gone and he’d be able to think about her without crying. It seemed to Shepherd that, for most people, dealing with grief meant forgetting the pain, rather than coming to terms with it. And he knew that his pain would never go away. ‘Sometimes forgetting can be a good thing,’ Shepherd whispered. ‘Like when you hurt yourself. You can remember that you were hurting, but you can’t remember how much.’