CHAPTER 3
The morning sun woke Simon early.
At dawn, it stared across from the far horizon and into his sleeping face. His eyes registered the bright light through closed eyelids and opened, before quickly closing again to the glare of the huge golden eye, which rested upon the windowsill.
He awoke slowly.
Starting a day was something he believed should be done slowly and cautiously. There would be plenty of time to speed up as the day progressed. This idea was reinforced by the stories he’d heard of people waking up on their boats, sleepily walking out on deck and stepping straight over the side. If not a good reason to Simon, then at least it was a good excuse to lie in for those extra few moments.
There was an extraordinary feeling he’d dreamt of an African country and its intrigue. As he swung his legs from bed, he glanced at the letter on the bedside table and allowed its existence to introduce that feeling to reality.
Simon showered under water still warm from the previous night’s fire, and considered the day ahead over a cup of hot sweet tea.
After the last nights rain the roads would be soaked and impassable. It would be necessary to use the small outboard motor boat to get to town, and once there access a facsimile machine. An electrician friend had one, and Simon believed he knew the man well enough to ask for the use of it.
If it came down to it, there was always the fax service at the local post office, or just go and buy one of the things. They’d become a lot cheaper over the years as far as he knew.
To do this he would need international direct dialling.
His didn’t have this function. He considered the different facets of telecommunications, and he couldn’t help but wonder why this Abu fellow didn’t just use E-mail. Surely the internet would be the most efficient method for direct and secretive affairs.
Simon couldn’t figure that one, and decided he would have to follow the African’s lead. The first card had been played and Simon was obliged to follow suit. He picked up his phone hand piece and dialed enquiries, and after wasting some minutes of his time following various prompts he was finally answered.
“Good morning, telephone and information services, Kerry speaking. How may I help you?”
Simon liked the voice. An easy one to listen to this early in the day, and he wondered whether the same could be said of his voice.
“Hello. I wondered if you might tell me about International Direct Dialling please, and if this phone I’m using is capable of using it?”
Simon wasn’t sure if his question would be understood. He sometimes felt uneasy when trying to find the words to describe something he knew nothing about.
“If you give me your number I can find out for you, Sir.”
He told her his number, and then waited for some moments before she replied.
“My screen reads that your line is not linked to the I.D.D system, Sir.”
Simon thought a moment.
“I see. Could you tell me the waiting time between application and connection? That is, if it’s possible to apply through you now?”
“Yes it is, and the waiting time is four days.”
Too long, Simon thought.
He thanked her for her help and she wished him a nice day before he put down the phone.
Simon rolled another cigarette and decided the electrician’s fax was his best bet, although more to the point, his only option.
He’d ruled the Post Office out because of the lack of confidentiality. It was a small town and who knows who might read his message. Besides, he had to expect a return facsimile. If he was going to carry this thing through, then he had to act quickly.
Up until now he’d not made the commitment, but once he had sent a fax to the African he was on the roller coaster, which may be hard to stop. It may be that the whole idea might prove to be incredibly easy. There was always the possibility of danger of course.
And as far as the law was concerned? He questioned quietly.
He didn’t know, and as he had no way of finding out it was a waste of time thinking about it.
The African was obviously thieving from his government. Was there a law against thieving from a thief? Whose law? African? Australian? In his case the African was hardly going to go to the police to report a theft.
He picked up the phone and dialled the electrician’s mobile phone number.
“Gidday mate.”
“How’re you going Simon? Good rain, eh?”
Simon agreed and they spoke of happenings around town for a few moments until he felt the bush had been well beaten,
“I wondered if I might be able to use your fax machine.”
“Can’t see any reason why not Simon, it’s right to go whenever you want to use it.”
“Does it have International Direct Dialling, do you know?”
“I’m not sure, it may have. The wife ordered the machine, so she probably bought every attachment and connection known to mankind.” The electrician suddenly threw a surprise question that for a moment caught Simon off guard. “Why do you need International dialling?”
“I’ve decided to write a book and I need to do a bit of research, so some of the information for it will have to be gained from overseas sources,” Simon added weakly.
“Half your luck, I wish I had the time just to sit down somewhere quiet to read one.”
“Yeah I know what you mean; life can get to be a bit hectic at times.”
“You know Simon, you’d have to be the only bloke I know who can get away with working part of the time, living an easy lifestyle while still paying your own way. Don’t ever get married mate.”
“I don’t think I’d be able to live that way, married I mean, although I am kind of married anyway. My boat can be a bit demanding now and then.”
“Speaking of demanding, I’d better be getting back to work.”
“Would it be alright to use the fax today sometime?”
The electrician told Simon he would find the key to his office under a house brick at the corner of the building nearest to the door. They spoke a little longer and decided that a beer at the Oxford Hotel would be in order at about five o’clock that afternoon.
Simon put his phone down and looked out the window. There were a lot of birds out this morning. Some performed aerial ballet to catch flying insects while others pecked and scratched the soft moist ground. The parrots walked pigeon toed through dead but damp grasses in search of seed.
Their bright green feathers stood out on a background of burnt brown and golden yellow. Birdcalls and high-pitched whistles came to him from rough barked branches, where leaves shone bright now that the dust of years of yesterdays had been washed away.
Simon loved this country. It was a land of great extremes which balanced like a see saw. On one end the torrid tyrant who burned and scorched the earth from horizon to horizon. While on the seesaws other end, the tyrant torrent that drowned and flooded all that stood before it from billabong to open plain.
Simon remembered the lines he’d heard delivered by a local bush poet, and as he looked out to the far horizon he spoke the words loudly. They echoed through the rooms of the old homestead.
From rain and plains of green
to floods, no banks between
Then dry and hot extreme
or fire, blazing queen
Simon’s mood was good, as would be everyone’s in the district he expected, rain usually brought out the best in all people. Except for those who are bogged, he chuckled. Particularly as it was only fifteen hours ago that rain had seemed to be so far away.
Like Africa.
The thought was a jolt back to reality, and he trod through the house for the few items he needed to take with him to the small outback town.
The sky was blue and the air smelt fresh in his nostrils, complimented by a light cool breeze, which carried a butterfly across the unkempt garden.
He walked the four hundred metres t
o the river in short time, even though the black soil clung to his boots. It forced him to pull up at times to scrape his heels across a log or tree root to remove the claggy mess.
The riverbank was slippery as he made his way down to a small aluminum boat whose motor started easily. He pushed its nose towards the main channel, away from the potential propeller damaging submerged logs in close to the riverbank.
The surface of the river itself was a mess of small twigs, leaf litter and old gum nuts that had been washed off the riverbanks by the storm. It formed floating islands that water striders zipped around.
He was rewarded with pleasant thoughts of his sailboat as the gentle waves pummeled the bow of the small aluminum boat. Those thoughts began to pale as they were overtaken, and replaced by the sight of the natural colour and beauty of the river.
It amazed him sometimes.
The ride lasted twenty minutes, and ten minutes after that he had the key inserted into the office doors lock. He let himself in, and in a short while had the fax machine uncovered. Its single green eye stared out at him, suggesting it was available to his every command.
He eyed the typewriter on the desk and wondered if the African was familiar with Garry Sudovich’s handwriting. The letter he’d opened the night before and now held in his hand didn’t suggest so.
A piece of paper rolled into the typewriter easily and he typed slowly with one finger, Abu. Below that he typed in the International access code for Australia, the Australian country code, the area code and then the electricians fax number. He signed it with a simple capital G, thinking that if the African was jumpy about security, then maybe he would expect some kind of code.
It was the best he could do under the circumstances he decided, as he placed the typed paper into the facsimile machine.
He pressed the touchpad numbers with the index finger of his right hand. The fingers of his left hand followed across the top of the Africans letter, as he double-checked the number and then pressed ‘start.’
Simon looked at the machine and wondered at its age. He didn’t see himself as an authority on facsimiles, but this one appeared to him just by its design to be an early model.
“I suppose that in the world of electronics you are probably comparatively about my age,” he told it almost apologetically. The machine made some electronic noises, then a few more strange sounds before a short delay.
Simon watched as nothing happened, and waited as his heart pounded. It seemed to work overtime in his chest, until finally it felt as if it skipped a beat as the paper began to move through the machine.
He knew then, that whatever it was he was starting had begun, when he looked out of the office window, uneasy with the thought that he now had reason to look over his shoulder.
End It With A Lie Page 4