The rhythmic jostling of the train was soothing, hypnotising Jackson in his seat. He stared without seeing from the window at the rushing scenery, his face a mask of calmness, hiding bubbling agitation.

Four weeks had passed since his mother's funeral. He had used that period to attend to his mother's affairs; tidying up her meager estate, as well as his own affairs. He knew that it was time to say good bye to Helton and the few friends he had there, as Jackson believed he would never return to the town that had raised him. He had an entirely new role.

In his mind, Jackson rehearsed the scene in which he was reunited with his father. In none of them could he actually picture his father's face, for his memories of Lloyd were distant enough to cloud the details.

Lloyd had been a handsome man and probably remained so, with eyes like thunder and a seductive grin. In all the confrontations he envisioned Jackson was the sole victor, and in one particularly enjoyable fantasy, he suddenly and conveniently pulled out a gun and shot his father twice in the blank, hazy area that should have been his face.

His body tingled with confidence and enthusiasm. Lloyd Crane would never expect a visit from his son after so many years of silence between them, with the only memories they shared being filled with violence and bitterness.

Jackson wondered if his father suspected just how much he knew about his father's sins?

Jackson once more pictured his father sitting behind a large, expensive desk, in the office where he ran the large company he'd started with his boyhood friend many years previously. In his mind’s eye, when Jackson entered the room, his father's skin visibly turned to the colour of curdled milk, growing slick with a sticky sweat.

He could imagine a visible tremor in Lloyd's hands; perhaps a twitch in the corner of his mouth, or may be a nervous stammer as he went to speak, to plead for understanding. Lloyd would pule witlessly, begging forgiveness. But Jackson would hold true to himself and the vivid memories he carried of his mother on the eve of her death.

Grace had been so pitifully thin, her once full flesh slack and scarred by her war with cancer, laying on her bed in their home, smeared with liver spots, shriveling up before his eyes; her once bright and glowing eyes numbed by pain and dazed with drugs.

In those last days, Grace had scarcely been capable of speaking. The cancer had spread to her throat; her tongue had been spotted with tumors, one the size of a golf ball.

He would never forget her suffering. And nor could he consider forgiving his father.

It was at this point in his musings that he saw his purpose in life: revenge. Simple and short, and it would be oh so sweet.

The train arrived in Melbourne at Spencer Street Station shortly before 9:00am. When it had come to a complete stand still, Jackson grabbed his solitary bag of belongings and disembarked along with the other passengers.

He hadn't been to Melbourne before and subsequently didn't know the layout of the station, so he followed the bulk of the people who'd shared the train with him, in the hope they would lead him out into the main street where he could get his bearings.

Almost directly outside Spencer Street Station, he found Bourke Street and a tram stop. He took a north bound tram along Bourke Street, riding it the brief distance to the Bourke Street Mall where he decided to alight and take a look around.

He had on him about two thousand dollars in cash. It was all that remained of his mother's estate once the house had been sold and all the fees to hospitals, doctors, lawyers and so forth had been taken care off. Two thousand dollars wasn't much, he supposed. But it was a start of a new life for him, a life that he had dedicated to getting back at his father.

He would use the money wisely and resolved to open a bank account that very day. But for the moment, he felt entitled to treating himself to viewing a few of the sights of the city.

He found himself in Myers, the large department store on Bourke Street and a veritable Melburnian institution. Jackson lost himself amongst the latest in CD players, music, cosmetics, accessories and fashion, overwhelmed by the variety and desirability of everything he saw.

He couldn't afford to be spending his money on luxuries, but while he was in the men's clothing department, he found himself examining a pair of jeans, debating the cost against his need, recognising that the jeans he had were old and stained.

He wasn't aware, as he pulled out his wallet, flipping through the wad of bills, that he'd fallen under the scrutiny of a gang of youths who were hovering nearby, ostensibly looking through a display of T-shirts.

The apparent leader of the street wise looking group was tall with dark, curly hair and glassy green eyes, like those of a feral cat. His thin lips were stretched out in an anxious grin as he stared at Jackson Crane.

Without looking to his comrades, he gave an almost imperceptible nod, signaling them. No one spoke, but they hazard a glance or two amongst themselves, all of them understanding what was expected.

Jackson closed his wallet and returned it to his back pocket. New clothing would have to wait, he decided. There were far more important things to consider: somewhere to live, to begin with, and then he’d have to think about finding a job.

Leaving that department, he took a scenic tour of the store until he came to the cafeteria, never suspecting that he was being trailed by the gang of four youths. He was too immersed in his own thoughts to notice them.

After purchasing a salad roll and a cold drink, he found a vacant table and took a seat. The gang of youths took a table nearby.

Just across the way from Jackson's table, a young couple sat together, complete with their infant son who couldn't have been much older than five years. The child's parents sat opposite each other, the child seated on a third chair placed between them.

The small boy had riveting eyes, Jackson observed; large, round and the colour of tea, they shone with rising tears of fear and confusion as above him, his mother and father tossed heated remarks across the table at each other.

Jackson felt for the child, who appeared like a spectator in some ugly, verbal tennis match, and he recognised the pain in those beautiful eyes.

He'd witnessed so many arguments between his parents in the relatively brief time that they had been together. Always they had startled him with their suddenness and subsequent brutality.

The arguing couple had left the table separately, amongst a barrage of curses and tears from the mother, who had seized her son's hand and run off from the man.

The commotion had attracted a few stares around the cafeteria, but people soon resumed their own interests. The man, looking red faced and harried, stumbled off in the general direction that the woman had taken. Jackson wondered if the man would catch her up, and what would happen next.

He stood up and re-shouldered his bag, leaving the cafeteria still troubled by the image of the feuding couple and their child. He also remained unaware of the gang of youths that were following him.

A short time later, he found himself out in the Bourke Street Mall He looked about with mild interest at the windows of several stores, his mind only half conscious of the displays.

He was concentrating on thoughts of his father, and revenge. But a deeper, hidden and more primeval part of his brain was attempting to make him aware of something else. A shiver ran up his back, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck quiver. He could feel someone watching him, their eyes shooting through him like bullets.

He glanced over his left shoulder, seeing the gang of youths staring at him. There was no friendliness in their expressions, but he had no reason to believe that they had any interest in him… and yet…

Jackson walked on. The pack followed. He peered anxiously over his shoulder periodically to keep an eye on them, and they continued to follow.

His brow was creased and became dotted with perspiration. They were after him, of that he was certain. He didn't know why, but they were. Or was he just being plain paranoid? Another quick glance over his shoulder dispelled that thought, for they were still following him.

Jackson's pace picked up a little. He broke into a light jog, pushing against the eternal throng of people who seemed to be determined to sweep him along on their path. Now revenge didn't seem so important. He was scared and wishing that he'd never left the security of his hometown.

He ducked into a shop at random. It was a video arcade. It echoed and flashed with three dozen electronic video game machines, attended to by a racial melting pot of youngsters and youths in ragged dress, and some in the more fashionable attire. In any case, they didn't notice Jackson's arrival for they were too engrossed in their own battles. He turned around, ready to walk out, but the doorway was blocked by four figures.

He took several steps backwards, into the smoky, dark arcade that seemed more like a torture chamber ringing with the electronic tones of suffering souls which drowned out the small groan and soft curse that escaped from Jackson's parted lips.

He looked about him to the other youths for support or help. Most of them were more concerned with their games, but some of the spectators had turned to watch the gang of four as they encircled their prey.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

The gang of youths herded him into a darkened corner between a couple of video machines, their grim smiles were piggish and triumphant. Jackson tried to keep his own expression blank so as not to betray himself and reveal his fear. He looked from one acne pitted, motley whiskered face to the next and met blood shot, hungry eyes and stained teeth.

The leader of the grimy troupe stepped up to Jackson.

"O.K., pretty boy ...your wallet..." he demanded.

He glared at the hoodlum incredulously. "My wallet...? That’s not going to happen," he cried and tried to push passed the youth, adding a warning; "All I have to do is call out for the cops and..." But suddenly Jackson was shoved back into the corner. There was a metallic click and he caught the glint of steel and saw it plunge towards his groin, and there the butterfly knife hovered.

"Do that," hissed the leader as he held the knife to Jackson's crotch, "and all I gotta' do is cut your balls off ...that's if you got any..." he said with a wicked leer, and his minions broke into crude laughter. "Now, if you wanna' keep what you got, hand over that nice leather wallet of yours ...and don't forget all that nice money in it."

Jackson's mind went into a nosedive, plummeting into the nauseated pit of his stomach. The money was all he had! He now remembered seeing the gang in the menswear section. He realised that they must have seen the wad of bills in his wallet and had picked him as an easy mark. As things currently stood, Jackson didn't see that he had much choice but to hand the money over. It was clear no one was going to lend him assistance.

He reached for his back pocket and took out his wallet and handed it over to the youth with the knife who accepted his bounty with a grin.

"Good. You just bought back your balls. A good deal, I reckon," he mused.

Jackson snapped. "You've got it all, so now just piss off, O.K.?"

Obviously the youth didn't appreciate Jackson's remarks for he roughly snatched the bag off Jackson's shoulder and passed it to one of his cohorts.

"Now I got everything. See you round, pretty boy," he chuckled as he and his companions disappeared out of the arcade amongst crows of victory and the almost obligatory exchange of ‘high-fives’.

He watched them go in impotent despair. He was aware of the amused, cynical stares he was attracting from the other youths and the arcade attendant, but he didn't care.

He'd lost it all and had no one to blame but himself. Silently he cursed himself for his stupidity and naivete, and vowed that nothing like it would ever happen to him again. It had been an expensive lesson. But if there was one thing that Jackson had, it was his ability to learn quickly. And, he reasoned to himself, he hadn't lost everything.

He still had some thing; the thing that had inspired the original step outside of his hometown; the same thing that would see him overcome his present circumstances: revenge.