The photograph at the top of the article is a pixelated, black-and-white image of the two people who carried out Australia’s first Christian fundamentalist terror attack.

The woman who will never hold her child. The child who will never know her mother. The nurses and doctors that will never again bring life.

Each time, one of the few to survive – he starts again in a new land. He becomes another foreigner, not accepted. At worst, he’s despised. The best welcome he can hope for is suspicion and contempt.

You have to listen, he was not spreading immorality, son, he was keeping you alive.

Today the targets run in small and smaller. They're locked out, told to snatch some air, move those legs and arms, wage your playground wars; just don't jump that ditch, don't cavort with that crazy kid Kyle from that house in the trees.

The words play across memory again and again, always so clear that he finds it hard to believe he does not hear them spoken aloud, although he tries to hold onto this knowledge – it is the least he can do. So little of the here-and-now remains steady, these days.