by M. J. Kelly
Kumar glanced at the slip. “I can’t give out the address of the account holder sir. If you want to transfer money to the account we can process it at the counter, but an address can’t be given out.”
Dig leaned closer. “Are you sure? I’m a little desperate here. I’d be very grateful if you could.”
“We don’t have that information sir.” Kumar turned his attention to the computer screen.
Dig dropped his voice. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. I really need to find that address. I’ve travelled a long way to get here, and if I miss this meeting then the owner, Max, will be very upset. Can you help me out? You’d be doing a favour to one of your customers.”
“I don’t have that information sir.”
Dig had exhausted all his powers of friendly persuasion. It was time to get the big guns out. He glanced back to the entrance; the shadows of the policemen were still visible at the door.
He extracted the note from his pocket. “Okay,” he whispered. “I realise that in India sometimes you have to help grease the wheels to make things happen. I’ve a thousand rupees I might accidentally drop under the desk if you help me out—know what I mean?” He winked.
The hint of a smile crept into the corners of Kumar’s eyes, and he nodded. “Yes, I think I understand.”
“Excellent.”
“You’re going to bribe me.”
Dig leaned in again. “Well, if you want to put it bluntly, then yes.”
Kumar stood and turned to the front door. “Officers!”
The customers in the queue turned. The taller policeman stuck his head through the front door, gun in hand.
“Arrest this man!”
Dig sat up rigid in his seat, “No!” he whispered, “I didn’t mean...well...I was just joking!” A teller leant over the counter to stare, his mouth open. The two policemen pushed through the door.
Kumar stood behind his desk, hands on his hips. His eyes were wide in a manic grin. He seemed to have found some job satisfaction at Dig’s expense, standing smug with the pens lined up on his creased shirt.
Dig caught his breath and blinked rapidly as a thought dawned on him. He realised he had already seen Kumar this morning—across the road at Helpful Hari’s Tourist Information, whispering and handing over money.
The rumble of footsteps echoed across the floor as the policemen rushed through the room. Dig leaned toward Kumar. “Send them away or I’ll tell them about your sports gambling.”
A furrow lined Kumar’s brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed, feigning an incredulous look—but Dig saw he’d touched on something.
“I saw you, this morning at the tourist office, making a bet. I reckon if the police emptied your pockets, they’d find a slip for tonight’s cricket match.”
Kumar frowned as the footfalls grew closer.
“Tell me the brewery address and I’ll keep quiet.” Dig pushed the deposit slip across the desk, then a grip clutched at his wrist, twisting it roughly behind his back, tearing a needle of pain through his shoulder.
“What’s going on?” said a voice in Dig’s ear.
Kumar’s eyes narrowed and he folded his arms.
“What is it?” the policeman repeated. “What did he do?”
The room stood quiet, save for the slow revolution of the fan above their heads.
“Kumar?”
“Let him go,” Kumar said. “I made a mistake. I misheard something he said.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, my fault.” Kumar turned to the room. “I’m sorry everyone, back to work please.” He retrieved the deposit slip from the desk, carefully selected a blue pen from his top pocket, and scrawled onto the paper.
The policemen frowned, and the grip on Dig’s arm loosened. Dig rubbed at his elbow.
“But I’d like this man to leave. And take his forms away with him.” He jammed the deposit slip into the front pocket of Dig’s shirt, then refolded his arms across his chest with eyes like pinpricks.
The policeman pushed Dig sideways. “Okay, I’m going.” Dig shrugged him away and headed to the exit; customers frowned as they watched him leave. When he reached the door someone shoved him between his shoulder blades.
Dig exited the bank and paced down the road, ducking through street stalls as he rotated his shoulder, trying to work away the pain. When he reached the temple at the end of the street, he sat on the warm gravel of the road with his back against the wall, and retrieved the crumpled wad of paper from his pocket.
I got it, he thought, and smiled.
He flattened the paper out between his legs. A message had been scribbled onto it in a messy blue scrawl:
I told you - there is no address on file you idiot!
Dig stared at the paper, eyes wide, then turned it over. He found nothing written on the opposite side, so he turned it back and reread it.
Dig’s hands fell to his lap, and his head dropped back to the wall behind him. He stared up at the sky and sighed.
Now what?
8
HE SAT AGAINST THE WALL with the sun bearing down on him, roasting his arms and legs. Somewhere in the temple behind him a bell resonated periodically in a deep tone. As his throat parched with thirst, he threw his pack onto his back, and trudged back up the road.
When he came upon the doors of Helpful Hari’s Tourist Information he paused, then pushed through the curtain of beads over the doorway. Hari waited inside with a smile.
“Mr Australia!” he said. “Shane Warne! David Warner! What can I help you with?”
Dig smiled weakly and pointed to a sign hanging above a bank of dusty desktop computers. A stout boy wearing headphones sat before one of the screens, playing computer games. “It says here that you arrange international phone calls?”
“Of course. Would you like to ring Australia?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay, sit down.” He gestured to a glass booth in the corner of the room with a telephone bolted to the wall and a green plastic stool in the centre of the space.
Dig entered the booth and pulled the sliding glass door behind him with a creak. He sat on the stool and Hari pointed at the telephone, holding his fist to his ear with thumb and pinkie finger extended.
Dig gave a thumbs up, then lifted the telephone and dialled. It rang a few times, before being picked up with a melody of tones.
“Buckley’s Brewery.”
“Jake, it’s Dig.”
“Oh, hey,” Jake said. “How’s it going? You get there okay?”
“Yep, I’m here. Just arrived in Hampi.” The line crackled. “Got a favour to ask though...I need you to cancel my phone. It got nicked.”
“How'd you manage that?”
“Taxi driver I think.”
“You numpty. Yeah I'll get it stopped.”
“Thanks.” He swapped the phone to his other ear. “So...how are things over there?”
“I’m catching up on things. I got into Dad’s computer and I’m filling last week’s orders.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah it’s amazing what I can get through without a hangover.” He snorted. “So when are you planning on seeing our...friends?”
“Soon. Once I find them. I’m having a bit of trouble tracking them down. Either nobody knows where they are, or nobody wants to tell me. I’m not sure which it is at the moment.”
“Bugger.”
“Can you check something else for me though? Just before I left I was looking through Dad’s stuff, and I remember seeing an email between him and Banyan Breweries, just before he went over to India last time.”
“Last year?”
“Yeah. There was something in it about a meeting point.”
“Hang on, I’ll check.” The squeal of the office chair echoed in the background. “Man,” Jake muttered. “I don't think Dad deleted anything in here his whole life.” There was a long pause. “Hang on, this might be it. Want me to read it out?”
“Ye
ah.”
“So Dad writes: Hi Max, I expect to arrive in Hampi mid-morning Thursday. Are you going to be around? Shaun. And then he gets a reply: I’ll be here. If you go to the usual spot by the old train line we’ll pick you up. Max.”
“Yeah that’s the one.”
“Any use?”
Dig sighed. “Well it’s better than nothing.” The line crackled and hissed.
“Look, if things are too hard over there—”
“No, it’s fine,” Dig said in a strained voice.
“Don’t be afraid to come home okay?”
“Yeah, I may have to at this rate.”
They said goodbye, and Dig replaced the phone in its cradle. He stared at it for a moment, then pushed open the door of the booth.
Hari looked up. “Finished?”
Dig nodded, and walked to the counter. From across the room, the boy’s computer screen echoed with the sound of canned gunshot.
Hari nodded toward the boy. “My nephew,” he said. “All he does is play Call of Duty.” He shook his head. “So how was mummy then?”
Dig smiled. “My brother actually, and he’s fine.” Below him, a map was spread beneath the glass of the counter. “What do you know about old railway lines in Hampi?”
“As in not used?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well the old Anjaneya line closed down years ago. But it’s still in there somewhere, covered in weeds.”
“It is close to here?”
Hari pointed to the map. “It runs from the back of town and heads north around the heritage area. But nobody goes there. You’d see better sights on the main trails. Would you like to rent a trail bike?”
“I’ve never ridden a motorbike before.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easy to figure out. I’ll show you.”
Dig shrugged. “Okay. And I’ll take a map.”
“Excellent.”
Hari ducked into a doorway and reappeared with a dusty yellow trail bike. He pushed it through the shop and out into the street. Dig followed him.
They stood together on the road shoulder, behind the line of street stalls. Dig shielded his eyes from the sun as Hari gestured to the bike. “Okay,” he said. “Sit down.”
Dig swung his leg over the machine and balanced stiffly on the seat.
“Right,” Hari said. “Left hand lever’s the clutch, right hand grip’s the throttle, right hand lever is front brake, right foot is the rear brake and left foot is to change gears. Understand?”
Dig frowned and looked at the controls. “I think so.”
“Oh, and as you move up through the gears it goes gear one, then neutral, then two, three and four.”
“Why does it do that?”
Hari looked at him blankly. “I don’t know. I’m a travel agent, not a mechanic! Now put the clutch in and start it up.”
Dig squeezed the lever on his left hand and turned a key on the dash. The motor roared into life, vibrating between Dig’s legs.
“Now let out the clutch and give it some throttle!”
Dig frowned, then winced as he twisted back the throttle on his right hand and let out the clutch on his left. The engine whined and jerked forward, then puttered out to a stall.
Hari shook his head. “Try again. But slower.”
Dig pursed his lips, then squeezed the clutch and started the machine back up. He took a breath, eased on the throttle, and slowly let out the clutch. The bike jumped forward and cruised along the dirt.
“Good!” Hari shouted. “Now change gears!”
Dig glanced backwards, eyes wide. “How do I do that again?”
“Your feet!”
Dig studied his feet as he wavered along the road. He spotted a lever by his toes and pushed it down; the engine screamed while the bike lost power. He pressed it again and the bike shot forward, rocking Dig’s head back, the front wheel lifting off the ground.
As the wheel returned to the dirt the bike jerked to the right, directly at a market stall full of clothes. Dig tried to wrestle the handlebars straight again, but it was too late, and he punched into the rear of the stall. The hanging shirts wrapped around his head, tipping the bike backwards. He hit the ground heavily, and the handlebars bounced off his chest before clattering to the ground beside him. A muffled gaggle of voices approached, and the shirts were pulled from his face to reveal Hari standing over him.
“Are you okay?”
Dig clutched at his chest and grimaced. “I think so,” he said. “Just fell pretty hard.”
“Up then.” Hari held out a hand. Dig grasped it and was pulled to his feet.
“He’s very sorry,” Hari said to the shopkeeper and placed his palms together at his chest. He pulled the bike upright and wheeled it back toward his shop, gesturing for Dig to follow.
“Sorry,” Dig repeated to the stall owner, and hobbled after him.
Hari leaned the motorbike against the shopfront. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ve just the thing.” He disappeared through the doorway.
Dig knelt forward on the dirt, panting and rubbing at his chest. Hari reappeared through the curtain of beads, pushing a rusted pink pushbike. It had curved handlebars, yellow streamers dangling from the handles, and a bent wicker basket hanging from the front. The wheels were large and the tyres thin.
“Your new ride!” Hari said.
Dig frowned.
9
A HOT WIND BLEW THROUGH Dig’s hair as he weaved his new pushbike between pedestrians on the Hampi bazaar. His daypack was hooked across his shoulders and a one page tourist map jammed into his back pocket. Dogs barked at his ankles as he pedalled.
He followed the road until the street stalls and restaurants dropped away, leaving a wide dirt path that thinned out and tracked past a sign that announced the start of the natural heritage area. Dig eased the bike to a halt beside the sign.
Ahead, a wide expanse of triangular hills stood before a hazy blue sky. Piles of beige, sun bleached boulders were spread across the hills with small stone buildings nestled amongst them. A carpet of tropical green palms circled their base. It was an imposing landscape that seemed like a sandpit for the children of giants.
The dirt road continued past the sign and snaked into the distance between the hills. Dig checked his map, then pushed his bike into motion and pedalled away down the road.
He followed the path across a rocky field before Dig spotted what he was looking for—twin sections of rusted steel running perpendicular to the path, nearly buried in the ground. It was a crossing over the old railway line.
Dig parked his bike and surveyed the horizon. Birds chirped in the distance and a light breeze blew clouds of dust up at his feet, but otherwise all was still. No modern buildings could be seen, and certainly nothing that resembled a brewery.
What am I doing? he thought. This can’t be the right place. Why would Dad ever come out here?
On each side of the crossing, the path of the old rail line carved a cutting through the rocky landscape. Dark timber sleepers were partially visible below the tracks, amongst an overgrowth of pointed brown grass and spiky weeds.
Dig glanced toward Hampi, then rolled the front wheel of the bike to sit between the parallel railway tracks heading north. He placed his foot on the pedal and pushed the bike forward.
The bike had no shocks and the padding on the seat was sparse. As the wheels rumbled along the timber sleepers Dig felt every bump and groove reverberate through the frame. He sat forward and concentrated on the ground ahead as he dodged the weeds between the tracks. Periodically the rims would bottom out, sending a shockwave through the bicycle frame and directly into his rear end.
He followed the rails around the base of a wide hill where tall grass whipped at his shins. The track veered downhill into a cluster of dense tropical palms crowding tightly on both sides of the track. Overhanging vines pulled at his face.
The palms opened out to reveal a wide river, and he followed the tracks over a weathered timber bridge
. The water below the bridge was dark, and flowed slowly, with large leaves travelling on the surface. Long reeds grew on the banks.
The track then began to rise, and Dig stood up to pump the pedals harder. His thighs burned as his breathing increased.
A large hill crested the horizon. The landscape around him became rockier, and piles of boulders rose up beside the rails. The track curved around a bend and headed directly toward the dark semi-circle of a tunnel; the rails disappeared into the hole.
Dig let the bike cruise to a standstill at the opening. He was breathing heavily, and he fished his water bottle from his pack to gulp down a few mouthfuls.
Cylindrical rock columns flanked either side of the tunnel, and a stone arch spanned across the top with a series of unfamiliar characters carved into it. A small bird with blue and green feathers was perched on top of the arch. Its head was buried under one wing, preening itself.
He stepped off the bike and propped it against the rocky cutting beside the track, then approached the darkness. He moved cautiously, feeling like an unwelcome visitor to an ancient home. As he reached the opening, he eased his head inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
It was damp and cool, and the hairs on the back of Dig’s neck crept to attention. The rail line continued on, curving slowly into the depths of the hill. Black streaks of ash ran down the walls. Water dripped from the ceiling and formed stagnant pools beside the rails.
Dig stepped into the tunnel. His foot sunk into a fine, mushy silt between the tracks; it smelled dank and peaty, of damp earth and stale smoke. Claustrophobia crept up on him, but his curiosity compelled him forward.
As he stepped further inside he became increasingly aware of a deep resonant hum, like an electrical substation. He froze and listened, trying to fathom what kind of thing could create such a sound.
He stared into the darkness, and thought he saw something moving at the edge of his vision, like a dark swirling mass. A flutter danced in his chest and he rubbed at his eyes. Something wasn’t right about this place. It was time to leave.
