by M. J. Kelly
Jake moaned. His shirt was covered in blood. “I’m going to die!”
Shiv smirked. “You’ll live. Take my word for it.” He held up a hand, and Dig noticed for the first time that his pinky finger was missing; a web of lumpy scar tissue lay in its place. Shiv nodded to his friends, and they walked out of the room.
Dig reached for the table and pulled himself to his feet, then yanked a tea towel from the sink and threw it to his brother. Jake wrapped it around his hand and it immediately soaked red with blood.
“We better get to the hospital.”
5
“I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW someone just loses a finger!” Dig’s mother stood in the doorway to the hospital room, holding a curled fist to her mouth. A nurse wheeled a bed through the corridor behind her. “I mean, you must have seen where it went.”
Jake lay on the bed with his hand propped up and wrapped in a bandage. His eyes were puffy; he was still groggy from the operation. “Mum I told you,” he croaked. “I was washing out the fermentation tank and the lid dropped down on my hand. By the time I could think straight enough to realise my finger was gone, it had washed down the drain with the rest of the liquid.”
“So what did the doctors do?”
Dig sat beside Jake on a plastic chair. “They cleaned it up and closed the wound with some skin from his thigh. That’s the best they could do in the circumstance.”
Jake cleared his throat. “They should’ve taken the skin from the couple of toes I’ve got webbed together. You know, sort out the Buckley deformity while they were at it.”
Genetic advancement, Dig thought.
“You poor thing.” She stepped forward to brush the hair away from Jake’s eyes. “Well at least you’re still in one piece.” Her cheeks blushed pink. “I mean...that you are okay.” She dropped her head and straightened the sheets of Jake’s bed.
Jake rolled his eyes and stared at the wall.
“You boys have got to be more careful,” she continued. “I don’t want any more surprises right now, or I just might have...a nervous breakdown or something.” She finished rearranging the sheets and looked back to Jake. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Could you ask about some more pain relief?”
“No problem,” she said, patting his free hand. “I’ll get a nurse.” She turned and walked out of the room.
Dig scratched at his ear. “How’re you feeling then?”
“Been better.”
He took a glance out to the corridor. “Should we at least consider getting the cops involved?”
“And hide for the rest of our lives? Not likely. Even if we caught those guys we’d be waiting for more to turn up. And I get the feeling the cops might be interested in those packages Dad gave them over the last few years.”
Dig shook his head. “What about swapping the hops? Or we try to make a better beer?”
“We can't change the recipe. The contracts are for Buckley's Chance, nothing else. And Dad mixed up crap recipes for twenty years before getting it right. We don’t have a hope in trying another one.”
Dig leaned back in his seat and hooked his hands behind his head. “There must be a way to sort this out.”
“There’s no way. We’re screwed, that’s all there is to it. I don’t know what kind of arrangement Dad had with those gangsters, but whatever it was, it’s gone. And as soon as our hop supplies run out, Buckley’s Chance will die as well—and take the whole brewery down with it.” Jake sighed. “I think we need to tell Mum.”
“No.” Dig folded his arms. “Not yet. Just give me a day to think about it.”
When he returned home, Dig headed to the brewery office. He dropped into the revolving metal chair and spun himself around, thinking.
They were stuck between two bad options. If they accepted the current situation and tried to continue on, the brewery faced certain ruin. All their major contracts relied on the imported hops, and if those contracts defaulted, there would be no turning the business around.
Alternatively, they could try to salvage a working relationship with a bunch of people who seemed not only intentionally mysterious, but downright psychotic.
Dig sighed, then turned his attention to the desk in front of him. The dusty desktop computer sat against the wall. A plastic in-tray sat beside it, filled with a messy pile of papers. Dig lifted the top piece of paper from the tray—an invoice for cardboard packaging. He placed it to one side and continued through the pile. He found what he was looking for about halfway through the papers, and held the crumpled page up to the light.
He leaned back in the seat, invoice in hand, and spun around again in a slow revolution while he considered his options. After a few moments, he returned his attention to the paper and studied the details in the top corner.
Phone: (+91) 09 242 641559
Dig glanced to the phone sitting in its cradle, then reached out and picked it up. The hum of a dial tone droned in his ear. He checked the invoice and punched the numbers into the keypad.
After a few clicks and hisses, a muffled ring echoed down the line. It rang a few times before it was answered.
“Hello,” said a voice in an unmistakable Indian accent.
“Oh hello,” Dig said. “I was wondering if I could speak to Max please.”
There was a pause. “Yes, this is Max.”
“Oh hi. My name’s Dig Buckley. I think that you may know...um...may have known my father, Shaun Buckley?”
The hush of static filled the line. “What is the purpose of your call?”
“Well, I’m guessing you already know this, but we had some bad news this week regarding my father. He was involved in an accident and has died.”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Well, my brother and I are trying to pick up the areas of the business my father controlled, including delivery of materials such as your hops. We had a meeting with one of your guys this week, a guy called Shiv. Does that sound right?”
There was no answer.
“Look, I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but unfortunately our meeting with Shiv didn’t go too well. I’m calling to try to put that meeting behind us, and continue our previous hop supply arrangement from your company.”
The static crackled in the line, and ran for an uncomfortably long period of time.
“Max?” Dig said. “You there?”
“Don’t ring here again,” said the voice. The line clicked, and the monotonous pulse of the engaged signal filled his ear.
“Crap!” Dig stared at the phone for a few moments, then checked the invoice and punched the numbers into the keypad again. The phone rang with three long rings, before the line dropped immediately into the engaged tone.
“Crap, Crap, Crap!” Dig slammed the phone back into its cradle. He kicked away from the desk, and the chair rolled across the room.
He tried to ring four more times that day. The first three times the line went dead before he had a chance to say a word. The fourth time he rang as a hidden number on his mobile phone, but when the phone was finally answered, he only got out the word “Hello?” before the line went dead once again.
His mother found him the next morning, sitting back in the office chair, staring at the ceiling. He held the invoice in his hand. The computer screen glowed bright in front of him.
“Here you are.”
Dig took an intake of breath and turned quickly at her voice. Bags hung under his red eyes. “Oh,” he said. “You scared me.”
She folded her arms. “You’ve been in here all night?”
“Something like that.”
She frowned. “Well it’s time you came out. I’m going back to see Jake. You coming?”
Dig stretched and yawned, then nodded.
They didn’t speak on the way into the hospital. His mother drove with her head tilted to one side and a small plastic container balanced on her lap. Dig stared forward at the road.
When they arrived, they found Jake lying flat on his back, his h
ead propped up with two pillows, staring up at a small television bolted to the ceiling. His face was covered in stubble and his hair was greasy. He glanced at them as they entered, then returned his attention to the low hum of the screen.
“Hi Jake. How are you doing?” Dig’s mother said in a soothing tone.
He gave a small shrug.
She pulled a seat to the side of the bed and sat down. Dig stood inside the doorway. “I have a present.” She handed him the plastic container. “I made you some biscuits.”
Jake glanced at the container with a blank look. “Thanks.”
“So how is the...hand?”
“Sore.” He looked back up at the television.
“Oh you poor thing. Don’t worry, we’ll get you home soon, and you can have a solid rest for a few days to recuperate.” She reached out and tried to adjust Jake’s hair, but he ducked away from her reach. “And don’t worry, Dig can run the brewery till you’re back on your feet. I might even get in there and help a bit. What do you think Dig? Want me to haul a few sacks of barley to help get things moving?”
“Humph,” Jake said, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Not likely.”
“Come on. It’s not all that bad.”
Jake raised his eyebrows at Dig, and Dig dropped his gaze to the floor. The voice of the television news anchor-man chattered in the background, discussing the previous night’s cricket score.
“Mum,” Jake said. “We’ve got something important we need to tell you.”
Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked back and forth between her sons. “What?” she said. “What is it?” Her hand grasped tightly at the strap of her purse.
Jake sighed. “Mum, it looks like—”
“That I’m going to India,” Dig interjected.
They turned to stare at him.
Dig stood stiffly. “Yes,” he said as he scratched at his neck. “I’m going to India...to meet up with our hop suppliers. Nothing to worry about, just a face-to-face to maintain the business relationship now Dad isn’t about.”
“Oh,” said Dig’s mother. “That’s...interesting news.”
Jake pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said. “Very interesting.” He pushed himself upright in the bed. “Mum? Would you mind getting me a good coffee from downstairs? The stuff they serve here is shit.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she looked back and forth between her sons. “Everything alright?”
“Of course,” Jake rubbed his ear. “Just need a good caffeine fix, that’s all.”
She sighed and walked out of the room.
Jake waited until the click clack of her heels had receded far enough down the hall before speaking. “You’re kidding right?” he whispered.
“No.”
“But that guy's a lunatic!”
“Yes,” Dig said. “But he isn’t the one who runs the operation—this Max character does. If I can just talk to him, then maybe we can sort this problem out.”
“Not going to happen.”
Dig raised his eyebrows. “Oh okay,” he said, walking forward to the edge of Jake’s bed. “Then let’s just tell Mum that after one week of taking over the brewery that we’ve managed to ground it to a halt and push it into bankruptcy...and oh, by the way Mum, you better start packing up your stuff—as you won’t have the house much longer either!”
Jake’s head dropped. “Well if you're so keen to talk to this Max guy, then why don’t you just ring him?”
Dig swallowed. “I did. And he keeps hanging up on me...but before you say anything, I think that if I can just get a chance to meet him face-to-face, and explain things calmly, then we might just be able to turn things around.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe we don’t want to turn things around? Dad apparently told you the deal is off. Why the hell would he say that? Why would he intentionally destroy the one beer that keeps the brewery ticking?”
Dig pushed his hands into his pockets. “Yes, I was thinking about that last night. And no, I can’t understand it.” He bit at his lip. “But you know, maybe he was delusional and didn’t know what he was saying...”
Jake’s voice raised an octave. “Maybe he was delusional? Now you suddenly doubt your spectacular deathbed confession?”
Dig pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and dumped it on the bed sheet.
“Look.”
Jake glanced at the paper and shrugged. “An invoice. So what?”
Dig leaned forward and pointed to at an item on the list. “Bay-ta Brewing Yeast. It’s on all the Banyan invoices.”
Jake shrugged. “And?”
“Well first, we don't use that type of yeast. We use the local liquid stuff. And second, this yeast was never delivered. Not on any of the deliveries. I know, because I unpacked the Banyan containers myself.” Dig shook his head. “Why would we be charged for something we never received?”
Jake blinked. “Who fucking cares? It’s over. Let it go.”
“Don’t you want to know what it’s all about?”
“Dig, these people are not normal—they chopped my finger off just because I raised my voice.”
“It was a little more than that—”
“I don’t care! You can’t fix this! Once again you think that you can do something better than me. That just because you were Dad’s best mate you can make decisions for us all. But this time you’re just going to get yourself killed.”
Dig glared at his brother. “Bloody hell,” he seethed. “This isn’t about me being better than you. What’s your problem? Don’t you want to sort this out?”
Jake fell back against his pillow and stared at the television. “Whatever,” he said. “Just do what you want. If you want to die, then go right ahead.”
Dig walked to the side of the bed. His hands were shaking and his nerves felt like raw electrical wires; his eyes were red raw from lack of sleep. “We don’t always have to work against each other you know.”
Jake continued to stare at the television.
“What is it Jake? Like, I know you’re an arsehole, but this week you’re off the charts.”
Jake closed his eyes and his forehead creased. For a long time, the voice of the television anchor-man was the only sound that filled the room.
“What is it?” Dig repeated.
Jake blinked and moisture welled in the corner of his eye. “It doesn't matter,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Just tell me!”
Jake pursed his lips and dropped his gaze. After a long moment he spoke in the same dull tone. “I didn’t help him.”
“Who?”
“Dad.” Jake’s bottom lip quivered. “He asked me to help him fix the roof, but I pretended I had to work.” He swallowed and a tear dropped down the side of his face. “But you helped him. And you got to say goodbye.”
“I got him killed you mean.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was angry at myself more than anything, and I took it out on you.”
Dig thought back to the day of the wake, to the crowd staring at him as Jake accused him of being responsible for his father’s death. It was an almost unforgivable act. But, for the good of them both, he had to try.
He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s just forget about it.”
“I’m sorry, if it makes any difference.”
Dig shrugged. His brother seemed deflated, a shell of his normal bolshy self. “We all have stuff that we regret about that day. But we can’t change it. We need to forget about the past for now and just channel our energy into trying to get this brewery moving again.”
Jake hauled himself upright in his bed. “Look,” he said. “If you really want to go to India, then do it. But just don’t get sliced up okay? We can’t afford to lose you too.”
Dig reached out and grabbed Jake’s hand. “I hear you.”
Jake pulled his hand away. “Hey, no need to get all bent on me.” He wiped at his face and threw back the covers. “I think it’s also time I left this
germ farm. Someone’s got to handle the orders while you’re gone.” He dropped his legs over the edge of the bed and winced as the thigh that had been used for the skin graft took some weight. “But for the record, that sham of a gangster already said you’ve got Buckley’s of sorting anything out over there.”
Dig shrugged. “Buckley’s chance is better than no chance at all.”
When they returned home, Dig packed a few clothes and toiletries into a small daypack, and called a taxi for the airport. He didn’t want to waste any more time at home, because he feared if he took another night to think about it, he may lose his courage to leave at all.
He walked out to the front drive, waiting for the taxi to arrive. His brother followed him out and stood beside him, then pointed to Dig’s pack with his bandaged hand. “Packing light?”
“I don’t plan to be there long. You going to be okay back here?”
“There’s enough stock on the shelves for about a week. I’ll fill the outstanding orders with what we have. But after that, all bets are off.”
“I’ll be back in a week.”
“Well...give us a call at some point huh?”
Dig nodded.
The taxi arrived and pulled into the drive. As Dig reached for the door, his mother called from the steps of the house. She strode across the drive, then held out two Epinephrine needles. “I’m sure there are wasps in India too.” She gave him a hug.
Dig hugged her back, then tucked the needles into the side pocket of his pack. He opened the door of the taxi and settled into the back seat. The driver clunked the vehicle into drive, and it pulled out, heading for the airport.
6
IT WAS THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING, and the lights were dim in the cabin of the plane. A man with long curly hair slept beside Dig, his mouth open wide, snoring in his ear. Dig sat under a solitary reading light, flicking restlessly through a copy of the in-flight magazine. He returned to look at the map of India on the inside cover. A small star on the western edge of the country was marked Mumbai: Population 12 million. His stomach felt queasy as he removed the folded invoice from his pocket and studied the address in the top corner:
