by Barry Heard
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Five Years Later
THE OPERATORS
Barry Heard was conscripted in Australia’s first national-service ballot, and served in Vietnam as an infantryman and radio operator. After completing his national service, he returned home, where he found himself unable to settle down. He had ten different jobs in his first ten years back, worked as a teacher for a further ten years, and then held several mid-managerial posts before succumbing to a devastating breakdown due to severe post-traumatic stress disorder.
Since recovering, Barry has decided to concentrate on his writing. His short stories have received several prizes, including the Sir Edmund Herring Memorial Award and the Sir Weary Dunlop Prize. Barry’s books include the bestselling memoir Well Done, Those Men, its prequel, The View from Connor’s Hill, and a World War I novel, Tag. He lives with his family in rural Victoria.
Scribe Publications
18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia
2 John Street, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom
First published by Scribe 2019
Copyright © Barry Heard 2019
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, locations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9781925849202 (Australian edition)
9781925938050 (e-book)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
scribepublications.com.au
scribepublications.co.uk
Prologue
Lunch break, day four. John, still in shock, picked up his phone and rang Adam, his workmate.
Laughing, Adam answered, ‘Better be important, mate, I have higher priorities.’
John, with a broken voice, began to explain what had happened to his dad, Wally, when Adam interrupted:
‘I’ll email Hoppy. Call the number, be about thirty minutes. Hang up now.’
John sat bewildered. What a strange response. Almost uncaring? Of all the people he knew, John thought, Adam could and would help, surely? Several times in the past, John had sat in admiration watching his dad and Adam talk. Adam relating to Wally in a way John understood. Well, sort of …
When John returned to his desk, Geoff Hopkins came over.
‘Got the weirdest email, Johnno, from Adam. Come and check it out, mate.’
John followed Hoppy to his computer. Both stared at the email:
For Johnno, Hoppy. The depth of the initial mineral find is 9.66 metres, the grid reference 65483301, Reply asap, mob, Adam.
The language in the email was quite familiar to John and those in the office. But the message — weird.
John Flannagan worked as a robotic engineer for a major company. His main occupation: fine-tuning and tweaking new programs for the robotic rock crusher used worldwide and particularly in northern Western Australia by the mining industry. Adam was on leave in Port Hedland, about to go on a fishing trip.
John returned to his desk with a printout of the deleted email. Neither John nor Hoppy thought it made sense, with Hoppy suggesting Adam might have had a few too many — but that wasn’t like him.
As John opened the app containing the data census of grid locations for the latest rock crusher, he hesitated, picked up the email, and nodded. It reminded him of his dad and the times when he’d spoken about codes, urgent messages, and secrecy. He put the computer to sleep, picked up his mobile, and rang the numbers in the email Adam had sent. Not expecting it to work, because there were too many numbers — 96665483301.
Adam answered, ‘Toyota service centre. Your model and numberplate, please.’
John couldn’t believe this voice was Adam’s. He went to say something, then remembered his dad, those codes.
‘Corolla hybrid, GWG 454.’
Adam said, ‘Get a new SIM card, use it to call. I will give you more information. Questions?’
‘No,’ John replied.
Adam hung up.
John rang his boss, asking for an hour off.
The boss laughed. ‘When did you ever take a full lunch hour, Johnno? Take whatever time you need.’
John told Hoppy he’d be out for a bit, grabbed his phone and wallet, and headed for the Telstra shop, some twenty minutes away. Before returning to work, he rang Adam. The instructions and information John received were stunning, unbelievable. Like Howard Carter almost a hundred years ago, John thought he had entered another world.
An update on current fashion trends for today’s man
In Australia, and many modern countries, getting up and going to work or study requires more than toiletries, clothes, a meal, and transport. There are many other ‘things’ that are part of our everyday life. These ‘things’ remain at our side, or ‘handy’, until we go to bed later that night. A mobile phone, laptop, iPad, iPod, USB drive, set of earphones, stylus, bottle of water — the list is long. I am pleased I didn’t have to write down cigarettes, tobacco, or a pipe. Nowadays, society looks down on your average smoker.
This book is the story of an old man named Wally Flannagan, who grew up on a farm in the 1950s and 1960s, when almost everyone over the age of sixteen smoked. Men carried little in their pants pockets apart from matches, rollie papers, tobacco, and a hanky. The last considered by some to be superfluous because a thumb jammed against one’s nostril cleared excess snot more effectively than a snotrag. As for the electronic gadgets mentioned in the preceding paragraph — unheard of.
Logic tells us that when travelling, going to work or wherever, today, with so much ‘stuff’ to carry around, one should get a small bag, a case, or something similar.
This is where we humans differ — a lot. Women, they, for as long as I can remember, have never hesitated to overcome the problem of ‘Where do I put everything?’ Quite simply: a handbag. The bigger, the better: it means more stuff. They love delving into, rattling through, and thumping that handbag in frustration.
Men, not so. Now this is a delicate issue. For the last twenty years, men had computer bags and the like hanging off their shoulders because earlier laptop computers were large. As these things have become smaller, lighter, one would assume a handbag would become the logical answer. Sorry, the majority of educated, well-dressed men have proud traditions dating back to the cave. They don’t sling bloody handbags around their necks — no way.
Over time, several ideas have popped up. One, a most uncomfortable gadget that had a small wa
ist bag combined with a man’s belt. This was unpopular to say the least, particularly with those sporting that large bulge called a pot gut, though it had some success with male tourists.
The backpack makes no sense at all. You have to take it off to sit in a tram or remove the smallest necessity.
So what solutions or creations did our advertising gurus come up with? Silkily, the men’s fashion world offered new names, like man bag, carry bag, work bag, and man purse. Forget the names — these so-called ‘classy’ satchels were an affront to the modern male, for it was asking men to change or dehormonise. To accept a sacred feminine fashion accessory atop a masculine appearance approved and entrenched over a thousand years or so. Yes, how dare those fashion experts expect today’s Orstralian man to just nod and say, ‘No probs, bloody oath, great idea!’
Admittedly, many young men born in the twenty-first century and onwards accept the concept and use the man bag. The remainder, the majority, particularly sixty-plus-aged Aussie men, pooh-pooh the idea.
Our old man, named Wally Flannagan, just past retirement age, is a good example. His handbag or man-bag story is both excruciating and embarrassing. Furthermore, it includes the exasperating, dumbfounding moment when this unfortunate man, after struggling to open his (secure) man-bag zip, finally managed to delve inside — to discover the bag contained a fortune in rolled notes, mainly Yankee dollars; and it was his?
Read on …
Chapter 1
After signing him in at the hotel reception, the senior staff member named Diyab escorted Wally Flannagan into a very cheap, very small room. Diyab grunted as he heaved Wally’s luggage onto the bed. There was no suitcase stand, no wardrobe, no bench. The room, smelling of sweat, cigarettes, and suspicious fumes, rarely housed white Australian tourists. The occasional backpacker, yes. However, this ‘one-and-a-half star’ room suited Wally — the small room, that is; not the smell. He wanted anonymity, and this hotel, located down a narrow road and not on the wide, busy main street, offered such safe obscurity.
Through another door was a tiny room with no carpet. There was a bucket, and an old newspaper folded beside it. The air in the room was humid, without a fan or cooler to freshen it. There was no toilet, no shower, yet in one corner sat an unusual fixture: a tiled slab on which was mounted a large wooden vessel or barrel, a small towel hanging on the side. Was this the bathroom? Correct — in this hotel, that was how one washed or cleaned up, explained the smiling Diyab. ‘Fill the tub with water from the tap and bucket, sorry about the soap. Then the bucket can be your toilet.’
Exhausted and stressed from an hour-long scooter ride, Wally needed a rest. At the beginning of the trip, there had been three on the scooter: Diyab, driving; Wally, sitting behind Diyab; and Diyab’s sister, standing on rear foot pegs. Wally had shut his eyes and clung on for dear life. It had been a daring trip for Wally, but, even so, he was so grateful. Where would he be without Diyab?
Satisfied Wally was settled, Diyab returned to reception.
Alone, Wally desperately wanted a full body wash. Slowly, he turned on the nearby tap and filled the small bucket. Next, he poured the water into the wooden tub. Many a bucketful later, he was ready. He checked the window was locked and closed the blind. After removing his damp, smelly clothes, he stood in the tub and ladled warm water over himself with a large wooden scoop — the ‘shower’. There were no hair-care products or other necessities in his hotel room, apart from the smallest, thinnest towel he’d ever seen. Fortunately, his toilet bag held some shaving soap — better than nothing. For all its crudity, the washing arrangement was pure bliss.
Within minutes of drying himself, he was wet once more, with sweat. He took a warm swig from the plastic water bottle he carried, and tried to concentrate. Suffering worse than humidity, he was swamped with the problems overriding his life. Somehow, he had to get help from home, both medical and …
His family and mates were thousands of kilometres away, but he had a mobile phone and access to the computer in the lobby. Money wasn’t a problem — just a mystery. Somehow, he had a fortune in his man bag. He could buy three new BMWs with some leftover change.
Decision time. His mobile was flat, needing at least an hour to charge. The computer, then.
Cleaned up and dressed back into his stinking clothes, with the man bag hanging over his belly, Wally locked the door to his room and headed for the hotel lobby, where he paid for thirty minutes’ use of the internet. He logged in to Facebook and went to locate his page when suddenly — he sat motionless, staring at the keyboard. Some intuition locked his hands and fingers, stopping him from tapping the keys. He lowered his head in thought, but nothing became clear or apparent. After some time, slowly, he flexed his fingers and opened his Facebook profile page, then his special ‘mates page’, Wally’s Bucket. There were two posts: one, a simple question; the other, a curious comment that initially appeared trivial. Both messages from mates in Australia.
The first:
All OK mate?
The second:
Going to my grandson’s christening, have to dust-off the suit jacket.
That last message from his mate Basil, Basil Hester. It rang a bell. He stared, frowning, then lifted his hands away from the keyboard for some reason. What the … ? This computer alarmed him. Inside his brain, away in a background of distant memories, he detected a warning signal — but what? Leaning back, he rubbed his nose, scratched his head, and tried to think. It felt like he was in a time warp, thrown back to an era when a message like that indicated trouble. At this moment, somehow, Wally was acting on instincts gained decades earlier. The memories were powerful, garrisoned in a dark part of his soul or spirit that he avoided if possible. Those days of mud and noise and hand signals and deep concentration and tension. Precise messages and clear responses. Daily life had been exactly that, a period of day-to-day existence amid appalling scenes and mayhem … He stood up, turned away from the desk, and coughed.
Basil knows? That’s impossible, who would have contacted him? Maybe those lowlife thieving bastards? Could be those criminals know quite a bit about me, my mates, and how to contact them? Wait a minute. My passport, travel arrangements. Somehow, they obtained all these particulars. How?
He made the connection, like a flashing blue light; or worse, thumbs down. He froze. Listen, look …
He muttered to himself, ‘If I continue to use my details on any computer, perhaps they will find me, yes, here in this bloody hotel. Those slimy creeps have got it all worked out. Or am I going mad — paranoid? But Basil would never use that word, unless … ?’
Wally’s knowledge of computer hacking was very limited. His oldest son, John, was an expert, but should he contact him? He checked the clock on the screen; he needed to calculate the time in Victoria, Australia. Home was about four hours ahead of Cimahi, the city in Indonesia where Wally now stood. That made it afternoon in Melbourne.
He turned off the computer and returned to his room. He needed to think, decide carefully his next move.
Forty-five minutes later, he headed back to reception and approached a staff member about hiring a phone. Within minutes, he had a borrowed mobile phone in his hands. He passed over ten dollars, promising more to come.
International dialling codes aside, the number he rang was one he knew by heart. Tom Grinter, a truck driver — his regular fuel-delivery man. He lived near Warragul, a large country town about an hour from Melbourne.
Tom answered the phone. Wally frowned as he heard the humming of a large engine and a voice sounding like it was in a long tunnel. Then he recalled, Of course, Tom’s on the road.
‘Can you talk, Tom? It’s Wally Flannagan.’
‘Sure, mate. This is a surprise, you’re on a holiday or something? You okay for diesel, I was at your joint only four weeks ago, remember?’
Wally faltered for a moment.
‘Not diesel, Tom. Sorry, mate, I
’ve lost Basil Hester’s number, phone’s nearly flat, and I need someone to contact him. Knew you’d be on the road or yakking to someone. Can’t contact Meredith, would you mind, just a short message to Basil, okay?’
Tom agreed, and Wally relayed the message: ‘Cut the holiday short, home soon, leave me a message on Facebook about that christening. Not too much, Tom?’
The truck driver laughed, repeated the message, then said, ‘Sure, no problem, mate. He’ll have it by 5.30 p.m. I thought those bloody days were over — you know, that christening stuff. I’ll ring Basil at my next stop, Thorpdale, need to get his number.’
No more chatter. Both hung up.
Wally breathed a sigh of relief — problem solved. Yes, he knew he could rely on Tom; Basil would get the message. Tom had known them both for decades, topping up their farm diesel storage tanks every three or four months. More importantly — those people Wally suspected of doing the scanning or bugging, they wouldn’t have Tom Grinter in their sights, and the information Basil was about to receive would seem to be of no consequence to them.
Wally returned the phone to the smiling staff member, who received a tip of twenty dollars, American, for handing over his own phone.
Australia.
Tom linked the large hose to the top of the tank on the stand, turned on the pump, then took out his phone and found Basil Hester’s number.
Basil answered.
Tom began, ‘Just spoke to Wally Flannagan, mate. Cut his holiday short, coming home, wants you to send him the date of the christening on your Facebook thing or doover, you know what I mean.’
Tom ended up staring at his phone, believing it had gone dead. The screen indicated Basil was still connected …
Finally, Basil spoke. ‘Thanks, Tom. That’s it?’
‘Sure, mate.’ Tom pushed the end button, frowned, and wondered what was going on.
Indonesia.
Sometime later, Wally returned to the hotel computer. He logged in to Facebook, then navigated to Wally’s Bucket. Sure enough, there was a message from Basil.