by M. J. Kelly
Dig glanced toward Raj. “My father was a business associate of Max. But things have changed, and I need to discuss something with him.”
Girish’s face blotched red and sweat beaded across his forehead. “Max isn’t here, and won’t be for days.” He turned to Raj. “Did you bring him in here?”
Raj stood stiffly. “He said he had a meeting.”
“And so you just drove him in here?”
Raj’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Oh my...” Girish pulled at his ear and paced in front of the vat. “Max is going to...well...be upset.”
Dig eyed the path back toward the door. “Is there anyone else I can talk to?”
“No!” Girish said. “There is nobody to talk to. You shouldn’t be here. You’re a very silly boy.”
Dig glanced around at the room. “Well maybe if you can tell me where Max is, I’ll head over there instead.”
“Ha!” Girish snorted. “Oh no. You won’t be leaving now. You’ve dug your own grave in that regard.”
An emptiness balled in the pit of Dig’s stomach. “Hang on,” he said. “There’s no need for that.” He took a step backward, and the two men beside Girish dropped their sacks of grain to the ground.
Girish paced again and shook his head. He turned to Raj. “You see what you did? If you drop your guard you create needless suffering.”
Dig took another step backward, and Raj appeared at his shoulder to grab his arm. Dig tried to pull it away, but Raj held tight.
“Hey Raj,” Dig said. “Let go mate.”
Raj lifted his chin. “You lied to me.”
“I had to bud.” Dig lifted his foot. “And sorry, but I also have to do this.” He brought his foot down hard on Raj’s toes. Raj grunted and Dig pulled his arm free, then turned and ran for the exit.
“Get him,” Girish shouted in a high pitched squeal. A scurry of feet followed him toward the door.
Dig pumped his arms and ran as fast as he could, skidding around the corner of the office, before he straightened and headed for the opening. Voices shouted behind him.
He burst into the sunlight and skidded to a stop in the dirt. To his left, the path led away up the ridge. To his right, the cluster of motorbikes sat together beside the banyan trees.
Dig swore, then darted across the patch of dirt toward the trees. He found Raj’s motorbike in the collection of machines and sat down.
He stared at the controls for a moment before he depressed the clutch and turned a small key on the instrument panel. The bike hummed into life. He frantically turned the bike around and faced it into the carpark. To his left, Raj and the two men ran through the door of the brewery, shouting.
Dig took a breath, then revved the engine and dropped the clutch. The bike jerked forward, fishtailing wide arcs left and right in the dirt. He struggled to control it.
One of the men ran ahead of him and tried to block his path out of the carpark. Dig wrenched the handlebars to the right, but the man lunged and hooked a handful of his backpack. The motorbike veered sideways, and Dig fought to keep it upright before the man’s grip broke. The bike shot forward, wavering between potholes in the dirt.
The engine roared, and Dig began stamping at the gear lever. The bike jerked and spluttered, but he held tightly to the handlebars and kept it pointed forward.
He dared a glance behind him: the group of men gesticulated as they dragged a second motorbike into the middle of the car park. Dig ducked into the headwind and pulled the throttle back as far as it would allow, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
He followed the rutted dirt track past the house, and then up the small rise to the old railway line. He directed the front wheel between the tracks and bounced through tufts of grass as the bike climbed the ridge.
The wind bit at his eyes and whistled in his ears as he sped up the track. He concentrated on the four foot of space between the two lengths of rusted steel below him, the looming wall of rock ahead, and the black crescent of tunnel that approached. He hunched his shoulders, ducked his head and pointed the handlebars into the shadows.
The darkness enveloped him; he frantically pawed at the dashboard and flicked random levers, searching for a headlight. The flickering strobe of an indicator blinked twice before the headlights burst to life, illuminating a tight passage of water soaked stone. The echo of the engine reverberated off the walls.
Ahead, he could see the first signs of the hornets circulating in the air, and he glanced down at his exposed arms and hands. His grip on the throttle loosened; the engine dropped in revs as he considered stopping. But instead, he ducked low in his seat, tipped his forehead down, gritted his teeth, and whipped the throttle back to full.
The first hornet bounced off the top of his ear with a buzzing hum, and he flinched away. The second hit him in the bridge of the nose and exploded—splatting liquid internals into his eye. The third disintegrated high on his forehead, and he felt juice track down his temple and over his cheekbone.
Soon after, the air morphed into a writhing body of insects. He ducked his head further and closed his eyes to slits. The hornets were everywhere at once, pounding into his knuckles, across his forehead, and into his elbows and legs, a fluttering, buzzing wall of fury, breaking apart and splattering through his hair and ears, innards dripping down his nose and off the end of his chin.
Dig pressed his lips together and held his breath, blinking rapidly, trying to maintain sight of the rails ahead of him.
Then, as quick as the insects appeared, they were behind him. Dig straightened and wiped at his face, then spat—trying to rid himself of the sour taste on his lips.
The rail line swung to the left and the doorway of light appeared ahead. He gripped the throttle with a renewed sense of determination as the bike broke out into sunlight on the opposite side of the hill.
The rocky cutting dropped away, and Dig spotted his pushbike still propped neatly against the wall. He continued past it.
The ground between the tracks was bumpier here, and he dropped his speed down a couple of notches. He took a quick glance behind him, but saw no signs of his pursuers. He nodded to himself and kept his concentration on the track ahead. The rail dropped down and approached the river.
A vibration buzzed in his armpit, and his heart raced. With wide eyes, he lifted his arm to examine the loose fold of fabric hanging at his shirt sleeve. Inside the shirt sat an unwelcome passenger—a fat, writhing, hairy hornet of brown and yellow, with stinger extended.
Dig grimaced, then struck at the fabric of his shirt, trying to force the creature out. But the furry mass remained intact—now shimmering with a new intensity. It stood with its abdomen curled up, trying to sting anything it could get a purchase on.
Dig pressed his index finger behind his thumb and gave the insect a solid flick through the fabric. It shot out the sleeve opening and flew away.
Dig breathed rapidly as he turned his attention back to the track, only to see the front wheel impact hard against the rusted rail. He overcorrected and the tyre bounced up and over the opposite side.
The bike trundled down the side of the embankment, headed for a tangle of shrubbery on the edge of the river. He pulled on the brakes and the wheel slid away in the ballast before smashing hard into a bulbous rock. Dig catapulted forward over the handlebars, arms splayed.
He crashed into a tangle of spiky branches that tore at his arms and face. Something solid caught him around the waist, rotating him sideways as the air rushed out of his lungs. His shoulder slammed into the ground.
The bike fell beside him with a whining clatter. The engine spluttered and cut out, and the air filled with a sudden quiet, save for the ticking metronome of the front wheel as it spun revolutions beside his head.
Dig tried to regain his breath, but his lungs were frozen. For a terrifying moment he thought he would suffocate, but then he managed a wheezing intake, followed by a rapid series of short breaths. He could taste blood in his mouth, and rolle
d to his elbows and spat into the earth. His ribs screamed at him; his head rang with adrenaline; he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to subside.
He heard the whine of a motorbike, and turned to see a screen of broken shrubbery standing between him and the railway embankment. He tried to crawl away but his ribs protested.
The rev of the distant motorbike increased—and through the screen of branches he recognised the silhouette of Raj as he motored the machine along the track. Dig ducked, but the boy passed by without a glance.
The engine rumbled as it crossed the river bridge and then rose up the far bank, heading for Hampi. Eventually, the sound petered out until Dig was left with only the birds chirping in the branches above his head. He stared at the sky, taking deep breaths.
He lay there until the sun dropped low on the horizon. The clouds floated past while the frogs croaked from the river bank. He considered walking the rail line back to town, but didn’t want to risk meeting Raj on a return trip. Instead, he wrapped an arm across his sore ribs, and thought about his visit to the Banyan Brewery.
He considered Raj and his father, the botanist—the man responsible for cultivating the high quality hops. He thought about the remote position of the brewery and the effort they made to export their goods.
How had his father developed a relationship with these people?
And what about Max?
Raj’s father, Girish, had said Max was at the docks, organising a delivery. As they were eight hundred kilometres from the coast, the docks were a long way away.
And what about Girish’s other words: Oh no, you aren’t leaving now!
All he had seen was a normally functioning brewery, with no major difference to his family setup at home—barring the fact that it was near impossible to find.
Even worse, by turning up at the brewery unannounced, and then making an escape, had he soured any chance of salvaging the business relationship?
And was going home an option now? They knew where Dig and his family lived. Had Dig’s visit triggered some new repercussion?
He didn’t know, and his head ached as he thought about it. Either way, he was likely now in worse trouble than when he arrived in India.
He closed his eyes and tried to block it all out.
Sometime later, he was woken by the distant whine of a motorbike as it approached from the river. The space around him had filled with shadows—the last remnants of a sunset burned behind the hills.
The motorbike dropped down a couple of gears as it crossed the bridge, then powered up again as it climbed the bank. Dig lay down amongst the shrubs and waited for it to pass.
The bright headlight drove past him, heading for the tunnel. Dig lifted his head and again recognised the silhouette of Raj in the seat.
The whine of the engine took on a hollow quality as it entered the tunnel. Then all was silent again, save for the static of the river as it pushed past the columns of the bridge.
Dig pulled his backpack to him and gave the contents a quick check. He was surprised there seemed to be little damage. He retrieved his water bottle and took a sip, swishing it around in his mouth before he spat it out into the dirt, then took a few long drafts.
He crawled across the undergrowth to examine the motorbike. It lay on its side, twisted and broken, with the front forks bent. The seat had popped open, and the storage section had spilled out a worn pair of overalls and a cracked bike helmet. Oil dripped from the engine, covering the leaves in a thick ooze.
Dig gingerly pushed himself to his feet, favouring his injured side, and took a few steps forward. His calves were caked in dirt.
He pushed his way through the underbrush and climbed the embankment. As he stood between the tracks he studied the rails as they dropped down over the bridge, heading for Hampi.
Dig wanted to begin the walk back, to reach Hampi, find a bus back to Mumbai, and a plane back to Australia. He was already battered and bruised, and fatigue was setting in hard.
But he didn’t. He had come this far, and there was too much at stake to stop now.
He examined the base of the embankment where he had crashed into the bushes. A gnarled branch lay on the ground—as thick as his arm and a few metres long. One end was freshly splintered, snapped from a nearby tree. Dig guessed it had been ripped off by the motorbike during his crash.
He shuffled down the embankment to the branch, placed a foot on each side of it, then squatted and lifted one end. It was heavy and awkward, but he managed to drag it up the side of the embankment. When he reached the crest he laid it out perpendicular to the tracks.
As he surveyed his work, he thought back to the words of Raj and Girish:
—Max is out at the docks today, in the Goa office.
—deliveries leave most nights.
He rubbed at his temples, then stepped down the embankment and pushed back into the greenery until he found the base of a solid tree. He stamped the ground down around it, creating a flat area of broken ferns and moss. He then sat down, placed his back against the tree, closed his eyes, and waited.
A loud rumble and a squeal of brakes ripped him back into consciousness. The air felt murky and cold and his arms and legs itched. He waved at a cloud of feasting bugs.
Ahead of him through the branches, two cones of light penetrated the gloom. Dig lifted himself to his feet, pulled on his pack, and crept closer to the embankment.
The hi-rail truck was parked a few metres short of the branch that blocked the tracks; its headlights threw a bright spotlight over its length. The hiss of air brakes filled the air, and a door clicked open on the far side of the cabin. The driver stepped down to the ground, his form illuminated in the headlights. He was short and stocky, with a thick beard. Dig recognised him as the forklift driver from the brewery.
The driver studied the branch, then blocked the glare of the headlight with one hand and studied the surrounding bushes. Dig ducked away amongst the foliage.
The driver scratched his face, then squatted and took hold of the branch. He dragged it roughly to the edge of the embankment and threw it over the side, shaking his head and mumbling to himself as he climbed the steps to the cabin.
Dig eased out of the bushes and scampered up the embankment, then ducked into the shadows behind the truck. The rail wheels had been lowered in the hybrid machine; the truck was balanced directly on the tracks.
The flatbed of the truck carried a large steel shipping container on the rear of the tray. A rectangle of space existed between the container and the driver’s cabin—where a tangle of tarpaulin sheeting was roughly tied with flexible straps. Dig scurried along the side of the truck and hoisted himself up onto the bed, then crawled onto the tarpaulin sheeting and sat with his back against the container.
The driver pulled the door closed, and with a hiss of air the engine rumbled forward with a squeal of steel on steel. Dig braced himself against the container and held on. The hi-rail followed the tracks down over the rail bridge, then climbed the opposite side of the hill before settling into a steady pace as it drove toward Hampi.
As they neared town, the truck slowed and stopped. A whirring vibration emanated from below the truck tray, and the machine wobbled and settled into a new position before lurching sideways off the tracks. Dig recognised the familiar bounce of rubber wheels as they left the rail and rolled along the dirt road toward Hampi.
Soon after the truck turned onto a flat expanse of asphalt road. As it picked up speed the static roar of tyres on pavement filled the air. Streetlights flashed past like strobe lights.
If the truck was heading to the docks, then Dig planned to stay on the vehicle until it arrived. And if his bus journey over to Hampi was any indication, he guessed he would be on the truck until morning.
His eyes were sore, his head throbbed, he needed to sleep. But in front of him, between the cabin and the flatbed, was an open gap where the asphalt road raced below. If he fell forward while the truck was in motion he’d become roadkill.
; He examined the tied tarpaulin sheeting below his rear, then pulled a frayed edge to reveal a dark sliver of space between the material and the metal truck bed. After considering for a moment, he lowered himself face down and pushed his way under the cloth.
Beneath the tarpaulin the air was oily and stale, and the hard metal flatbed was cold and pressed into his hips—but the straps over the sheeting held him in place and offered him a chance to sleep.
Dig hugged his pack to his chest and closed his eyes.
11
THE TRUCK LURCHED AND DIG shot upwards, then fell back to the metal of the truck bed with a jolt through his side. After a moment of disorientation between a fading dream and an unfamiliar reality—he pushed out from beneath the tarpaulin and stretched his neck.
His lower back was cramped and his lungs full of dust. He tried to clear his throat and fell into a coughing fit. When it relented, he sat up and rubbed his hip, willing the circulation back into his muscle.
The truck travelled down an asphalt road, flanked on both sides by a dense mass of palm trees and tropical shrubbery. The first light of the morning splintered through the branches. Water lay beside the roadway in open ditches, and the air was sticky and warm. He found his water and took a long drink.
The truck slowed and began to crunch back through the gears before veering into the dirt shoulder, where it came to a hissing stop. A tall advertising billboard faced the truck, partly concealed behind the palms.
A caption below the picture stated Banyan Bitter – It’s My Beer. It depicted a slick-haired man holding a bottle. A pair of aviator sunglasses hung from his wide-collared shirt.
The driver opened his door and Dig heard the strains of bongos and a sitar. He scrambled under the tarpaulin before the man stepped down to the ground.
“Tanhai mein dil yaadein sanjota hai...” The driver placed one hand on the side of the cabin, unzipped his fly, and released a torrent of urine against the front wheel.
