by M. J. Kelly
Dig wiped his forehead with the back of a shaking hand, and nodded. “I’m taking Chook and Jules with me.”
Shiv paused. “Okay. But you say nothing about this place. You say she was attacked by a swarm somewhere back in the hills.”
“Fine. And we go home, and you leave us be. Forever.”
“But you get no hops from us. The business is over for you, and you tell no one about our production.”
Dig took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Girish watched from the floor with narrow eyes. “No Shiv, Max wouldn’t let that happen.”
“We aren’t doing things Max’s way anymore.” Shiv tapped the bar against the stone kitchen bench and glared at Dig. “Seriously. Not a word. Or I personally come back for you, your family, and Chook’s family, one by one.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Shiv stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Take our truck to town, but leave it at the tracks.”
The thick-jawed thug removed his knee from Chook’s back. Chook crawled across the floor to his sister’s body. He leaned in to see her swollen and battered face, and his face contorted in a grimace.
Dig turned to Chook. “You hear that?” Chook raised an eyebrow and nodded, then wrapped the tarpaulin carefully around Jules like a blanket. He lifted her over his shoulder, straightened, and shuffled out of the building toward the truck.
Dig rubbed at the back of his neck, then turned to the men in the room and nodded. He took two steps toward the door, then stopped and turned back. He glanced around the room and pursed his lips. “I’m...sorry,” he said. “For everything.” He gave a small shrug. “For...Dad I mean.”
Shiv’s eyes dropped to the floor before he looked up again. “Was he...a good guy?” he said. “You know...as a dad.”
Dig gave a weak smile. “Yeah. He was.”
Shiv’s forehead creased.
Dig watched him for a moment. “You already knew about Dad, right? Before today.”
Shiv folded his arms. “Why would you say that?”
“Back at our house in Sydney, when you broke in. You smashed our family picture in the dryer. That always seemed weird, but I think I understand why now.”
Shiv’s eyes flared and he glanced back at Raj and Girish. A flush crept across his cheeks. “I had guessed,” he said. “But I still wanted to hear her say it.”
Dig nodded slowly. “Look, if you ever want to come and visit, and see some photos or something—”
“No,” Shiv said. “No thanks.”
“Okay.”
The half-brothers stood in an awkward silence. From the carpark, a car door thudded shut. The wind whispered through the overhanging roots of the banyan trees beside the deck. Raj and Girish kneeled together on the floor of the room, and watched Dig with narrowed eyes.
“I’m sorry it ended up this way guys,” Dig said, and hoisted his pack over his shoulder.
There was no answer. He turned for the door.
He stepped out into the sunlight. Chook sat in the passenger seat of the hi-rail truck with his eyes closed. The tarpaulin was wedged on the back tray, up against the cab. Dig eased into the driver’s seat.
He adjusted the rear view mirror and caught sight of himself. Dirt was caked through his greasy hair. A red triangle was sliced out of his cheek, matted with dried blood.
But he didn’t care. He was going home.
He fired the machine into life and pushed it into gear. They rumbled out of the carpark and followed the dirt road that led up to the railway tracks. As they reached the rails, Dig eased the machine to a stop. “Know how to work the track wheels on this thing?”
Chook shook his head.
Dig prodded at the switches on the dash. The wipers squealed across a dry windscreen, before a whir emanated from below as the rail wheels dropped and slotted into position. The truck lurched forward on the tracks.
As they moved up the rise, Dig glanced at the field of hops spread out below them, and sighed.
The tunnel opening neared, and Dig dropped the truck out of gear and eased it to a stop outside the entrance.
Chook opened his eyes. “What?”
“Just give me a sec. I’ll be back.” Dig stepped out of the truck. Chook frowned.
A few minutes later Dig returned, and they were on their way again.
As the truck entered the tunnel, they wound the windows tightly shut. He was in no mood to deal with hornets inside the cab.
But his fears were unfounded. As the truck passed through the heart of the tunnel the headlights illuminated the smoking frame of the cabinet. Dig brought the machine to a stop and leaned forward over the dash.
On the ballast floor lay the hulking skeleton of the nest—black, smouldering, and split in two. Scattered around it were piles of blackened hornet carcasses, twisted and fried. Dig nodded to himself.
To one side of the nest, against the tunnel wall, Dig’s eyes caught on a second crumpled lump of fabric. He squinted at it, then sat back in his seat. He turned to Chook, but his eyes were closed.
Dig took hold of the door handle. He stepped out to the ground and skirted through the headlight beams at the front of the truck, then lifted the lump of fabric.
It was Jules’ backpack. As he returned to the cab he slammed the door behind him.
He threw the bag into Chook’s lap. Chook opened his eyes, startled.
“That was Jules’ bag,” Dig said.
Chook looked down at his lap.
“I think there's a chunk of cash in there. Something like sixty thousand. It’s yours now.”
Chook raised an eyebrow.
Dig crunched the truck into gear again, heading toward Hampi.
Sometime later, they stopped at a building entrance of white concrete columns and faded glass.
“Hospital,” Dig said.
Chook blinked and stretched. “Okay.”
“You want some help?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve got her.”
“Going to get your hand sorted?”
“Yep.”
Dig bit at his lip. “Look—”
“Don’t worry,” Chook interrupted. “I won’t say anything. Just like your arsehole brother wanted.”
Dig nodded, and they turned and gave each other a stiff embrace. Chook stepped out of the car, lifted his sister out of the back tray, and carried her into the front entrance of the hospital.
Dig watched them go, then drove back into the street.
A few minutes later he parked the truck beside the old railway line. He wedged the keys above the sun visor and stepped out onto the dirt.
He hiked back to the main street of Hampi bazaar. It was early afternoon and crowded. Heat rose from the dirt and clouded his vision to the end of the street. Dust tickled his nose.
As he reached the bus terminal he stopped, checked the timetable, and continued past it until he stood outside the shopfront of Helpful Hari’s Tourist Information. He pushed through the door.
Hari’s face was unshaven and his hair tousled. He raised his eyebrows as Dig entered, and Dig frowned.
“You lost another one?” Hari said. “The motorbike?”
Dig nodded.
Hari shook his head. “Well this one’s going to cost you. Two thousand American.”
Dig extracted his wallet and sifted through it. There were only a few dirty rupee notes remaining. “What if I don’t have that much?”
“Then I call my friends at the police station.”
“No. We don’t need to do that.” He scratched at his face, then after a moment he pulled his backpack to his chest and searched inside. He glanced through the front window, then leaned in close to Hari, whispering. “Look. I know you deal in some pretty unorthodox stuff, right?”
Hari also leaned in close. “It depends.”
“Would you take some drugs as payment?”
Hari blinked, then turned to his nephew. “Troy!” he shouted. “Cameras!”
The computer sc
reen blinked off, then lit up a bank of grainy CCTV images. Dig recognised the front door of the shop amongst them. The boy studied the feed for a moment, then nodded to Hari.
Hari straightened his tie and turned to Dig. “What have you got?”
Dig took a second glance at the front window, then reached into his bag. Down at the base, still nestled in the hidden compartment, was the brown brick that Jules had concealed inside. Dig tugged at it until it pulled free, and handed it to Hari.
Hari stiffened, then dropped the brick to the desk behind the counter. He leant down and gave a long sniff, then looked back up at Dig with wide eyes and wobbled his head. “Yes,” he said. “This can work. Where did you get it from?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is this all you have?”
“I think so,” Dig said. “Let me check.” He reached into the bag again, pushing below the false bottom. His fingers came upon a second package, and he pulled it out. It was white, and had the consistency of powder.
Hari’s mouth dropped open and he grabbed it quickly to conceal it behind the counter. A rustling of packaging could be heard, and then another long sniff. Moments later, Hari’s head shot back up. His pupils were large and his shoulders stiff. He fumbled with his shirt cuffs. “Er, I could be interested in this too,” he said. “How much do you want?”
Dig shrugged. “How much you offering?”
“For the two packages? Hmmm, say...three hundred thousand American?”
Dig stared at Hari. “Are you kidding?”
Hari frowned. “Okay!” he said. “You can also waive the lost motorbike...but that’s my final offer.” He tilted his head. “Deal?”
Dig blinked rapidly. “Sure.”
“Good, good. Now just let me get rid of this.” He shouted across the room. “Troy! Watch the desk.” The boy pushed to his feet and walked over to stand beside Dig. He produced a small handgun from his back pocket and held it loosely at his waist, watching Dig from the corner of his eye, blank-faced.
Hari slunk out to the back room. There was a fiddling of keys, and a loud creak. He returned moments later with a wad of notes, and held it out low at the side of the counter. “Three hundred K,” Hari whispered. “I promise.”
Dig took the wad of notes and pushed it into his bag, deep into the bottom compartment. Butterflies danced in his stomach. “Okay then.”
“Good to do business with you.” They both stood stiffly with their hands in their pockets.
“Well, I’ll be going then.”
“Will you be back with more?”
“No,” Dig said. “I don’t plan to ever come back to Hampi. But no offence or anything. It’s a nice town and all that.”
Hari wobbled his head and cocked his eyebrows. “You need a bus ticket?”
“Yes,” Dig said, smiling. “I’ll take a bus ticket.”
19
A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, Dig’s taxi pulled up outside the family home back in Sydney. He paid the driver, stepped out of the car, and watched the brewery while the taxi reversed out of the driveway.
He walked down the drive and entered through the side door. Jake drove the forklift through the building, transporting a pallet of beer to the delivery truck. He wore blue overalls, and the shelves around him were all but bare. The forklift drifted to a stop. He stepped out, smiling, and embraced Dig with his good arm. “You made it.”
Dig nodded. “How’s the hand?”
Jake shrugged and held up the bandage. “Getting better.”
“Got things under control?”
“Yeah I think so.” He pointed at the shelves around him. “Apart from the fact that we’re nearly out of stock. How’d things finish up?”
“It was mental.”
“Dig!” said his mother, standing in the door. “I saw your taxi pull up.” She gave him a solid hug. “How was your business meeting?”
Dig’s forehead creased and he shoved a hand into his pocket. “To be honest,” he said. “It didn’t go that well. Our supplier can’t supply us with hops anymore, meaning we can’t produce Buckley’s Chance.”
Dig’s mother put her hand to her mouth. Jake dropped his head and cursed under his breath. “So that’s it then,” he said. “We just lost the house.” He turned away and laced his hands in his hair.
Dig’s mother looked from Jake to Dig with wide eyes. “Is that true?”
Dig paused. “Not necessarily.”
Jake frowned. “And how do you figure that?”
“The supplier offered us some compensation for our losses.”
“Huh?”
Dig reached into his backpack, dug around at the base, then threw the wad of notes to his brother. “Three hundred thousand. In cash.”
Jake examined the money. “How the hell did you manage that?”
“I’ll tell you later. But, by my calcs, that gives us a couple of years where we can keep the mortgage paid off, and in the meantime we can work on getting the production of Buckley’s Chance going again.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. “Sure,” he said. “But aren’t you missing one important fact here? We still don’t have the hops.”
Dig smiled. “I think we can do it.” He reached deep into his pack again, down inside the hidden compartment, and held up some wiry brown roots.
“Just before I left the brewery,” he said. “I took the liberty of grabbing a handful of rhizomes.”
“What’s a rhizome?” said his mother.
“The roots of the hop vine. They’re still alive, and ready to be planted.”
Jake smiled. “You cheeky bastard!”
Dig’s mother frowned. “But, can a few vines produce enough hops?”
“Not straight away,” Dig said. “But I’ve been studying up on cutting and transplanting, and by the time we’re a couple of years down the track, we should have a reasonable crop developed—enough to get a few solid batches going.”
“And no reliance on suppliers,” Jake said, smiling broadly.
“Exactly.”
“Well that’s good...isn’t it?” said Dig’s mum.
“Very good,” Jake said, and put an arm around Dig’s shoulder, shaking him side-to-side. “Well played bro, well played.”
Dig’s mother planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’m going to make some hamburgers to celebrate,” she said, and turned back to the house. As she passed through the doorway, she stopped and turned back around. “And you know you two, I just want to say that it’s good to see you actually getting on. Can we try to keep that going?”
They shrugged.
His mother smiled and left the room.
Jake turned to Dig. “Was that bullshit?”
“Nope,” Dig said. “All true—except the part about compensation.” He followed his mother out the door.
Jake followed close behind. “So where’d you get the cash from?”
Dig stopped at the patch of grass beside the house, and looked up at the roof. The sky was clear and blue and the sun was warm. “It’s a long story,” he said. “How about we grab some beanbags and beers and sit up on the roof? It’s an awesome view up there, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Now you’re starting to sound like Dad.” Jake shook his head and sighed. “The ladder’s down the side. I’ll get the beers.”
Dig watched him go, then crouched to claw at the dirt near the base of the chimney until he had an elbow deep hole. He retrieved the rhizomes and placed them vertically in the hole before filling it back up with dirt.
“Already starting your crop?” Jake held out a bottle of Buckley’s Chance.
“No point waiting,” Dig took the beer. “Just needs a bit of moisture.” He poured a third of it into the ground around the rhizome.
Jake poured out some of his own bottle. “Start of a new era.”
Dig glanced up to the roof of the house. Against the blue sky, the shape of a small bird floated down from the trees and landed on the top of the chimney. Its feathers were green and blue, and its neck
a pale yellow. It lifted its head and chirped out a melodic tune.
Dig smiled. It was good to be home.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story is for my father, PK, who passed away suddenly during its writing. I wish he could have read it. Huge thanks also go to my wife, Angela, who supported me throughout the writing process.
I’m grateful that two people who didn’t know me agreed to be beta readers-–and ended up acting more like structural editors. The time, effort and brutal honesty they dished out helped me more than I could imagine. Jason Noble and Alice Miller are both great writers, look out for their work.
Thanks also go to the copy editor, Sophie Dougall; the cover artist, Derek Murphy; Owie for his modeling work on the front cover; and my friends who helped me choose the title and cover design.
And finally thanks to you, the reader, for taking the time to read it. Maybe we can meet here again one day.
MJK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
M. J. Kelly lives in Sydney, Australia with his wife and three children.
News on his future books can be found at mjkellybooks.com
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