by Barry Heard
Eventually, they found the conductor. Diyab had tears streaming down his cheeks as he exchanged notes with the man. The courier laughed and moved off towards first class. As Diyab turned to rejoin Leon, Azka noticed the hotel logo on his shirt. Guessing this man was a victim, too, he reached out and placed a hand on Diyab’s shoulder. Diyab looked back and frowned, confused. Nothing was said.
Chapter 11
Leon believed in efficiency. The courier dispatched, he leant back, half closed his eyes, and lit up a cigarette.
Then, that moment … that unexpected crunch …
It began as the wheels of the train screeched over a junction controlled by a lever operated by an outside worker. The worker, unprepared, moved too late. C and D carriages bumped violently as the train jolted.
While Diyab and the courier fell to the floor in C, Wally and Leon thumped heavily into each other and the wall in D. On the rack above Wally’s head, the box once held by that young boy jerked sharply and burst open. It contained twenty-seven discarded motorcycle batteries, several of which were flung out. One hit Wally on the point of his shoulder — now that hurt a lot. Another hit Leon on the crown of his skull, its casing cracking open and battery acid spilling on Leon’s neck — he blacked out immediately. Altogether, eight batteries fell. Some hit other passengers. Three more hit Leon on the back of his head and neck, the last causing a deep cut. A nearby passenger snatched up the cigarette that had fallen from Leon’s mouth.
The drug administered to Wally couldn’t shield his body from such a thump. He struggled with reality but was wide awake. The shouts and screams frightened him. Danger? What was going on?
The people in Wally’s carriage, who had been hurriedly rearranging themselves, suddenly stopped when someone squealed, ‘The drug lord!’ Awake, staring, frowning, even angry? They moved back. The man who had snatched Leon’s cigarette quickly stubbed it out.
Wally merely rubbed his eyes and scratched his head, attempting to decipher his whereabouts.
‘Bloody dick — hit the grog — no, no!’
Wally, his judgement clouded by the drugs, assumed he was in that swamp of alcohol commonly called a hangover. The smell of stale food or something foul hung around him like a thick fog. His brain offered no insight, so he smiled, guessing he’d had a good time, but he couldn’t keep it up.
Where were his glasses? Something was wrong. He never drank to excess, hadn’t for three decades. This wasn’t a V/Line train from Melbourne to Stratford. The air was humid. Hang on, this wasn’t Victoria, wasn’t Australia. The passengers were all Asian. What was the time? He tried to pull up the coat- and shirtsleeve of his left arm. The shirtsleeve almost covered his hand. Wally hated sleeves touching the back of his hand. Finally, he succeeded in looking at his watch, but the face and hands were a blur. Hell, where were his glasses? Lifting the watch to within an inch of his nose, he thought it read 7.50 a.m. He wasn’t certain. Perhaps all these people were off to work?
The carriage was really packed, a mess. Bags, belongings, fruit, vegetables, boxes, and buckets. People scrambling, grabbing at boxes, talking in subdued voices, glancing continually at Wally, pointing to the racks above, pushing others aside. Nothing was making sense. His right shoulder throbbed with pain. In the entire carriage, his was the only window with a clear view. All the other windows were blocked by passengers, some of them outside the train. The carriage smelt of urine and curry and cigarettes. Wally soon realised that people were talking in a language he didn’t recognise. Or maybe he did. A tiny bell began to ring inside his head.
‘I’m away on a visit?’
He looked around again. Not one face was familiar. The man nearest to him was collapsed back on the seat. Wally could see bleeding from the side of his neck and a huge lump. Drunk, Wally guessed. Maybe a fight? He didn’t know him. Well dressed. Hang on — Wally looked at his own attire — was he well dressed? No one else was well dressed. Where the hell had he got these clothes?
A man with a small monkey on his shoulder stood looking back at Wally. Another, on one leg, was smoking.
‘Am I hallucinating or in a nightmare? This is so weird.’
Leaning back, his head and shoulder aching, Wally went to close his eyes when he noticed that hanging around his neck was a grey travel bag, a man bag. He frowned and looked up. On the rack overhead was a large, out-of-place suitcase. The only one on the rack, and it was tied on. Was that his suitcase? He grimaced, then stared in bewilderment as he recognised the sticker on the label. A yellow pig. It was his suitcase. Beside it was a huge cardboard carton, its sides split.
‘Butteries on the train,’ he slurred.
He was drifting again into la-la land, when suddenly he jerked back into this world. He patted his pockets — nothing. For most of his life, whenever he travelled, he patted his pockets, particularly his wallet pocket, even though most of his life had been spent in Australia, where not once had he felt threatened by a pickpocket.
There was a time, a long time ago, when he was in a country where pickpockets thrived. For many in that country, it was their only means of income.
He remembered the man bag. He was clumsy, but with some effort he managed to inspect the bag. There was a trick to opening it, which he knew, apparently. The bag was full, full of stuff and … money, rolls of American dollars? Unable to concentrate, he shut the bag again, his mind spinning.
Opposite was an elderly man. Wally smiled with the stupid stare of someone in a hypnotised state. He asked for help, answers, what had happened recently, and so on. A blur of words. The man stared ahead, zilch, no hint of recognition or welcome.
Wally gently tapped the well-dressed man on the seat beside him. Nothing. Wally frowned, hoping the man was okay.
He examined the man bag again. It contained his passport. He closed the bag and drifted off.
He woke as a young boy fell into his lap due to the train lurching yet again. The boy was trying to retrieve the batteries beside Wally’s legs. Wally closed his eyes and the boy was gone. He remembered screaming, shouting, the boy waving his arms as if pleading forgiveness.
12.10. Was that a.m. or p.m.? He had no idea other than it was still daytime.
‘Shit.’
Wally didn’t normally swear in public. His brow bent into its deepest frown. The watch on his wrist was big and expensive. Had there been money in the bag?
He turned and looked out the window. At last, he could see — a little. His vision was sharper when looking into the distance. Outside, in the background, there were mountains, some very steep, covered in banana plantations and busy roads. In the foreground, people were riding motorbikes, scooters, and rickshaws. No helmets. Chaos. This scene wasn’t new to Wally.
He shook his head. This was mad, a time warp to his youth. Rice paddies, hamlets, and jungle had occupied almost a year of his life. Then again, was he certain this wasn’t that country? But here the mountains were steep, high, with volcanic peaks.
He shook his head violently, took a deep breath, and reminded himself — do not panic.
He removed his coat, though it took ages. With huge effort, he undid the buttons on the front of his shirt and, very slowly, slid his hand around his shoulder. He found a large lump.
Just below the shoulder, he felt something rough. Moving his hand up and down, he soon determined that it was a large adhesive patch. It felt hot. Gritting his teeth, he removed it. His movements were sluggish, and the hairs on his arm screamed agony. The patch was about half the size of a playing card. His eyes moved in and out of focus. With determination, he read the label on the patch: Norspan. It meant nothing to him. Or maybe it didn’t. He hesitated. He sometimes wore a patch, but not this big, never. He gave up.
He tried to put the coat back on. Gingerly, the old man opposite him helped. Wally thanked him in a slurred voice. He placed the patch from his shoulder in the coat pocket.
‘I
just put on a coat,’ he groaned. ‘Why, when it’s so bloody humid?’
Seconds later, he went back to sleep. Now that certainly relieved the old man, who was having thoughts about getting up and finding the conductor, when Wally woke again after another jolt to his shoulder.
The murkiness started to clear, just a little. Pain activated so many things in a body.
Wally spoke to the old man. ‘Dose you spork English?’
The response was a confusing babble. Then the man began to panic. Wally looked elsewhere and tried to wave for help, but his arm didn’t work properly. He tried to stand, wobbled, and fell back into his seat. In desperation, he called out. The carriage went quiet. Wally slurred his words and dribbled. No response. He made another attempt. This time he shouted as loud as he could.
‘I yam Wallace Flani-gun. A dairy firma marred an kids, a dorg Hamash, and moites. I naid holp …’
Then, from what seemed out of nowhere, a voice spoke.
Chapter 12
‘Excuse me, sir.’
The interruption startled him. A young man had appeared, looking puzzled and shaking his head.
Diyab stared at Leon. Realising that although this thug was seemingly unconscious, his associates still represented great danger, Diyab decided he had to complete his mission, no matter how great the risk of addressing the white-suited drug lord directly. He proffered the card that the conductor had given him, but Wally only stared at it.
Diyab knelt and tapped Leon, hoping he had simply nodded off. He saw the dark pool of blood on Leon’s neck, his shirt collar, and lap. A lot of blood. He stood and again held out the card to Wally. Wally frowned, half smiled, then took the card, as he believed this person had come to help him. He was also curious as to why the young man appeared so distressed.
‘Do yar spook Anguish?’
Diyab froze. Wally coughed and repeated the question. Diyab understood this time.
‘Yes, sir, I speak English.’
Wally looked all around, at a loss, obviously confused.
‘Hello, sir, my name is Diyab. Can I help?’
‘Your spork English, whau your name? Sorry, I am drunks. Wore the hell awe we?’
‘Between Sukabumi and Cianjur, sir.’
Wally attempted to comprehend this information. More importantly, he was determined to speak clearly. After a long pause, he managed, ‘What country?’
‘Indonesia, sir.’
Now that made sense, but it didn’t.
‘Where orm I heading?’
Diyab, frightened, wanted to go. He very politely asked if he could have his things back from inside the bag under the seat and then leave.
‘Joist, sorry, just a minute.’
Guessing this was a volatile situation, Diyab offered a pathetic smile and said, ‘I am sorry, sir, I will not say that again. How can I help?’
Wally tried to console him with a smile in return. ‘Don’t leaf, I need somme help. I jost need some time to sorta thing, sorry, think, okay?’
Wally could feel himself slipping into a dream.
‘Keep my awake. Shook me if you av to.’
‘But sir, that could put me in great danger. One of your gunmen …’
That statement struck Wally like an uppercut to the jaw.
‘Son, I jost need some dutails, where I am exactly and, wow, sorry, haw I can make same phone calls and the like. Do you have the tame to help me?’
‘For you, sir, yes, but I have no phone.’
There was a long pause.
‘How lung have I been on ther train?’
Diyab hesitated, turned to the old man sitting opposite Wally, and asked in Indonesian, ‘How long has this gentleman been on the train?’
The man panicked, got up to leave, then sat as Wally grabbed his shoulder and demanded of Diyab, ‘What did you osk him, sorry I forgetter your name?’
Diyab stated his name again and was about to say more when the old man, shaking with fear, blurted out in Indonesian, ‘The gentleman got on to the train at an earlier station, I was half asleep. Your sir, very tired, had two big, strong men help him on. But they said he was in charge. That man there,’ he pointed to Leon, ‘got on at the next station with a boy. That man, he was the White Suit’s bodyguard, has a gun, was very angry, very.’
Diyab explained the old man’s comments to Wally. He also said he believed that Leon had only got on at the last station, or the one before.
By now, Wally’s mind had sharpened. He understood Diyab’s words, but little made sense. When Wally gave no response, panic welled up in Diyab, and, hoping to please, he pointed to the leather bag under Wally’s seat.
‘Would sir like a drink?’
Wally frowned, astounded by the change of subject.
Diyab continued, offering a broad fake smile, ‘Sorry, sir, you have a bottle between your legs in your bag under your seat.’
Wally slumped, spotted the bag and bottles, and tried to locate them in his memory. He hadn’t been on the train long. How could he be so drunk?
He asked Diyab to pull out the bag. It contained three bottles of whisky, Johnnie Walker Black Label. Two were empty and one was only half full. In addition, there was a container full of sandwiches, fruit, a box of orange juice, and some napkins. The only other item in the leather satchel was the small plastic bag that held Diyab’s possessions.
With a jolt, Wally realised he was in danger. This was a set-up. He not only hated whisky, any whisky, but even one mouthful made him shudder. The idea that he’d drunk two-and-a-half bottles beggared belief.
Diyab asked if he could have back his personal belongings from the leather satchel. Wally nodded. Diyab reached into the satchel, thanked him, and went to leave, but Wally held him.
‘Who do you thank I yam?’
Diyab began sobbing. He was ready to run, regardless of the risk. Yet Wally had a tight grip on him.
‘A lord,’ Diyab cried, ‘a man of great wealth and power, a leader. I know there are lots of men protecting you, disguised, and hiding in this carriage.’
Wally took in those words carefully, and then asked, ‘Why?’
Diyab shook his head. ‘The way you dress. Only a crime lord can dress like that, unless you are in a city or tourist hotel or the like. You, sir, are in the countryside, semirural country. Then, the gold on your wrists, and your watch, it’s like a signature, it scares people away, no one would dare touch you. And that man asleep on the seat next to you, his name is Leon, he is armed, supposed to be your bodyguard.’
Slowly, clearly, Wally asked, ‘How long to a next station?’
‘Maybe half an hour, sir, maybe even longer, you never can tell.’
‘Tell me about yourself, Diyab, everything.’
Wally needed to keep talking to stay alert, but this was the last order Diyab had expected. Baffled by the strange request, he decided he needed a plan to escape. First, he would comply, sit, and talk. Until an opportunity came about.
He spoke carefully and explained briefly his job, home, family, and career hopes. Diyab had recently returned home after a time spent in Australia, as a student. In Melbourne, he had worked in a hotel while studying hospitality. He’d been away from Indonesia for three years.
Time passed. Diyab hardly drew a breath. He felt that by talking he remained safe. When Wally requested more information, Diyab continued with an unexpected passion. Because of his command of English and experience in Australia, he held down a good job at a tourist hotel in Cimahi, a mid-sized city next to Bandung. He pointed to the shirt he wore and the hotel logo on its pocket. He didn’t mention the fact that his wage was just above the poverty line. So much for his hospitality degree.
Wally learnt that Diyab had just worked for three days in a hotel in Bogor, several hours away from his normal employment. He was now returning home, tired, hungry, and sick
of standing on the train. He couldn’t afford a better ticket. And he hoped that Wally would doze off, which would give him a chance …
‘What’s the name of the next station?’
‘Just a quick stop, the station is Cianjur, not a regular stop, but the timetable said Cianjur.’
‘And where do you get off?’
‘I will get off at Bandung.’
Wally opened his man bag and searched for a ticket. It took ages, until there it was. He handed it to Diyab.
‘And where am I supposed to get off?’
‘Big city, Jakarta, many hours away.’
‘Tell me what all these papers mean.’
A hotel booking, a taxi voucher, and a return-leg flight to Melbourne. Wally asked for more explanation, but Diyab could offer little.
Could Wally trust this man? If nothing else, he could see Diyab was fearful of him. Time for some big decisions.
‘Are you on your own?’
‘Well, yes, although I am travelling with a workmate.’
‘Can I stay with you tonight?’
With him? Surely he meant the hotel. Diyab felt the possible threat, but this man couldn’t stay at the hotel; Diyab would lose his job. Instead of a direct reply, he pleaded to return to his standing place further along the train.
Wally chose his next words carefully.
‘I am the one targeted. I don’t believe I am drunk. Maybe drugged, I think, not sure, I have just removed a patch. I think that maybe it contained drugs or shielded my pain? My head is clearing, I am very tired, in great pain, and returning to my senses. That’s all I know. If there were minders protecting me in the carriage, they would have showed by now. I have no idea who this man Leon is, never met him. I am not even aware of where I am, why I am here, and what to do. I am not a crime lord, and I do not own a bloody white suit. My only luggage is my suitcase, up there — and this travel bag or man bag could be mine, now I think about it. I just remembered that I came to this country to go on a holiday. I don’t think that leather bag under the seat is mine. It must be planted.’