by Barry Heard
He stopped, took a breath, and pointed to his case up on the rack.
‘Can you get down my suitcase, please? I have the padlock key, I think.’
Diyab looked up. He stood briefly and checked the tag on the handle a second time to ensure he wasn’t mistaken. Then he frowned, stared directly into Wally’s eyes, and gasped —
‘You’re a Pig?’
Chapter 13
‘Yes, I am a Pig. So what? Please, I need you to get me out of here. Trust me — once I’m okay, I won’t involve you.’
Diyab leant over, rose slightly, reached out to Wally, placed a hand on his knee, and smiled. Wally didn’t really understand the reason for this sudden change, but Diyab had taken control.
‘You will sit. I know several Pigs, maybe friends of yours. I will be back in a moment. I must tell a work colleague I am not coming with him. You, sir, a Pig, I will do anything for you. But first — that man there, your guard or whatever, I remind you, he is armed.’
Leon hadn’t moved, yet both could see he was still breathing.
‘Sir, a Pig helped me one night, on a train in Melbourne. He was such a good man. He was wearing a tie with a pig on it, like that one up there, on your suitcase. It’s a long story.’
Wally put out his hand to affirm this strange connection with a warm handshake, after which Diyab pushed his way out of the carriage to speak to his colleague. Meanwhile, Wally stood, clasping at the windowsill and then the rack. All of this was done very carefully, his balance only slightly better. He wanted to check he had the ability to walk — he could, phew. Next, he simply fell back into his seat.
Diyab returned, and, for the next ten minutes, the two men spoke quietly. Briefly, Diyab explained his involvement with Leon. A plan developed. All Wally could fathom was that this young man was his only hope.
The train horn blasted. It was time to make a move.
Diyab, who had already collected his personal belongings from the leather bag, now removed Wally’s name tag and handed it over. Wally took the keys from around his neck and passed them to Diyab. With difficulty, Diyab reached up to the overhead rack, unlocked the cable, and pulled down Wally’s suitcase. Wally carefully removed Leon’s pistol fom his person, snapped on the safety catch, and put it in his own suit pocket. He then took Leon’s wallet and phone. As if by a miracle, he found his glasses inside a pocket in Leon’s coat. He put them on with relief.
He said, ‘Your phone’s in that plastic bag, is that right?’
Diyab nodded. He retrieved the shattered phone and gave it to Wally. No question, it was unusable. Wally asked Diyab to take out the SIM card. He then slid the broken, anonymous phone into Leon’s pocket.
‘Now that will confuse him, for a while anyhow.’
Both men smiled. They were ready.
As the train slowed towards Cianjur Station, Diyab quickly got up and disappeared into the crowded carriage. He wanted to check the conductor wasn’t nearby. Thirty seconds later, he returned.
As they started to leave together, Diyab picked up the leather satchel and placed it between Leon’s legs. He then led the way through the crush, the suitcase balanced on his head. Wally held Diyab’s shoulder. His walking skills were returning, but he certainly needed assistance. People, on seeing Wally, quickly dispersed and called out to others, which allowed the pair to move a little faster. They jostled down the aisle, well out of sight of Leon. Diyab stopped near the exit doorway and lowered the suitcase. He patted Wally on the shoulder and was about to speak when suddenly his eyes bulged and his mouth fell open. He put his hand over his mouth and screamed silently. Wally pulled the hand away.
‘What?’
‘Leon has all of my information written down, on a notepad, in his coat pocket. He knows where I live …’
Wally, realising he hadn’t checked all of Leon’s pockets, looked him straight in the eye.
‘Go.’
Diyab bolted, pushing, twisting, and screaming aloud. It made no difference: the carriage was too crowded. He needed a man in a white suit to force people to move. Rapidly, he became the target of abuse, anger, and, worse, attention. He wasn’t halfway there when a blaring siren indicated they were about to stop at the station. He hesitated for a moment, then turned and headed back to the exit.
Wally stood on his toes, his suitcase between his legs, straining to see Diyab. As the train grunted to a halt, he decided to step off, wait, and get back on if Diyab didn’t make it.
No one near him moved or tried to exit ‘his’ doorway. Looking out, he could see his carriage had stopped short of the station platform, but this seemed to have been expected, as, on a dirt mound in a wire-fenced yard, hundreds stood waiting to board the overcrowded train. He opened the door. As if taking a command from on high, people looked up, stared in fear, and backed away. He flung the suitcase towards the hard dirt mound and a space that was suddenly clear, then turned and let his foot reach down, searching for a step. His back objected violently, and he shrieked in agony as he fell on top of the case.
The crowd edged around Wally and proceeded to climb into the train, pushing, shouting, demanding room — no way could Diyab get off. Worse, Wally couldn’t get back on the train; even getting to his feet would be a major problem. His back was in charge, his right shoulder throbbing — demanding, Sit still, old fool.
With a blast from its horn, and several jerks and squeals as its wheels ground into motion, the train began to move off. People still grasped at the outside handrail while others attempted to pull them in. Even more extraordinarily, a couple were hauled onto the roof of the train by several people with arms interlocked. Then it was all over. No Diyab. Dozens had been unable to board, yet calm quickly descended as the disappointed wandered away. No sign of Diyab. Wally lowered his head into his open palms.
He started to think. There were still many people around. He needed help — someone to pull him to his feet, carry the suitcase, and …
A cough alerted him: there stood Diyab. Wally, frightened but relieved, reached out, shaking his head in an apologetic way. He held Diyab’s arm and very carefully pulled himself to his knees, and they hugged for a long time. Both wept tears of joy and despair, such contrasts in a moment in time.
Nothing needed to be said. Diyab took the case, held it in his other hand, and lifted Wally to his feet. They blended into the leaving throng. Wally held onto Diyab’s belt. But the effort was too much. He told Diyab he needed to sit, very soon; he was exhausted. At the sound of the English language, people turned and saw the white suit. They parted as if Moses had spoken, and, moments later, Diyab found a place to sit.
‘We have to disappear,’ said Wally. ‘I need to lie down and rest, get these clothes changed or something.’
Diyab nodded, and together they walked out of the fenced area and down a narrow street. Suddenly, Wally stopped, pulling Diyab backwards. He was coughing and catching his breath, but that wasn’t the problem.
‘Diyab, take off that shirt. I assume it’s a work shirt. Best no one identify you. Just turn it inside out maybe?’
In fifteen minutes, good fortune had them beside a hotel that looked decent enough. Wally suggested they check in. Diyab explained the protocol.
Diyab went in first, made enquiries, and then came back out. The staff bowed as Wally walked inside, leaning on Diyab’s shoulder. It was a three-star hotel. The staff spoke some English, and Wally requested a room, for three nights, for a Mr Flannagan. He then handed over enough money for four nights. Ushered in like royalty, Wally tipped the terrified young hotel assistant who escorted them to his room. Wally then told both Diyab and the assistant to leave. As they turned to walk out, Wally shouted at Diyab, abusing him and ordering him to come back and to put the case on the bed. Diyab looked stunned, but obeyed.
Inside the room, Wally apologised to Diyab. He hadn’t enjoyed berating him, even as a ruse. He sat on the bed,
shaking, sweating, and starting to take deep breaths. These deep breaths were deliberate, a form of meditation. He continued in this way for ten minutes. Diyab sat close, concerned for Wally’s health and mental state. Hesitantly, he struck up a conversation.
‘What should I call you, sir?’
‘Wally.’
‘Wally, when you asked me if you could stay with me, I thought you meant at my hotel. Now I realise you meant in my home. I really want to help you, to take you home, but only when you are ready. I won’t rush you home, which will take hours. Time is not a problem. But I will take you home. My family will attend to your health. My mother is good at that.’
Wally gave a weak thumbs up. He was too exhausted to talk anymore.
Half an hour passed. Wally sat up. He felt better, calmer, clear-headed. Diyab watched, not interfering, hoping for an improvement. Wally rubbed his shoulder, which still ached. After taking off his shirt and inspecting the shoulder in the mirror, he guessed the wound was only superficial. The shoulder shone with a large black bruise. Gradually, he lifted his arm above his head. Yes, it was okay.
Then reality snapped back into focus.
‘Jesus, mate, I forgot. Did you get that notebook with your details?’
‘No.’
‘How did you get off the train?’
‘I jumped out of the nearest window, out the other side, you wouldn’t have seen me.’
‘You okay?’
‘Yes, would you believe I fell on someone? Yes, they broke my fall. I reckon I would have snapped my ankle or something otherwise. But no, I didn’t even make it to Leon.’
‘No matter, we’ll work something out.’
Wally went into organisational mode. He shuffled through his pockets and handed over Leon’s phone and some money.
‘Diyab, can you turn off this mobile phone and take out the SIM card? Then I need some local clothes, cheap, and a large floppy hat or straw, a local one, and some thongs — know what I mean? And sneak out if you can, best the staff don’t see you.’
Diyab did as Wally said, leaving via a poorly lit passage.
Wally sat quietly. Breathe in, breathe out, and think of something special — his wife, Meredith; their children; their grandchildren.
Diyab arrived wearing a dirty shirt and holding an armful of scruffy garments, far too big for Wally. Perfect.
‘Why a scarf, Diyab?’
‘This is volcano country, ash and dust very common. Many old people and even some tourists wear a scarf, or a cloth mask like painters do. More importantly, it will cover most of your face.’
Wally changed into the local clothes. With his face covered, he could have been an old Indonesian man. He stuffed the white suit, the shirt, and his shoes into a plastic bag he had found lining the rubbish bin. With a shoelace, he tied it shut; he planned to bring the bag with him. The jewellery and other effects he put into the man bag, which bulged.
They decided to look through Leon’s wallet. In it was a large amount of money, several cards, ID, and …
There it was. A small notebook.
Diyab opened it and — yes! — his name, phone number, everything was there in the crude, shaky writing you would expect from someone making notes on a train. He kissed the notebook and almost burst into tears.
Grinning with relief, Wally said, ‘Okay, better get a few things straight. You still okay with me coming to your place?’
Diyab didn’t hesitate. The idea of Wally being a Pig still astonished him, but he had genuinely warmed to the Australian. He trusted him. In turn, for the first time since this nightmare began, Wally felt safe.
‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 14
After Wally and Diyab had got off the train, it continued on to Bandung. The seat beside Leon remained vacant. Many a warning or pointed finger cautioned any new arrivals to stay clear of the man.
Bandung Station was a major stop, where, all being well, Azka hoped to end his shift. He wanted to get home, away from the train and that terrible incident involving the White Suit. He recalled vividly the frightened young man handing over the note from Leon — as planned.
At Bandung, the platform was long, packed, and busy. A steel fence separated the first-class area, where Rio and Bagus got off the train. Special steps were quickly put in place to allow these privileged travellers to exit with ease. After a brief chat to Bagus, Rio rang his IT man, Joko, who confirmed he not only had the memory card, but would have finished editing the video in maybe twenty minutes. Rio moved to another platform, where he would catch a more comfortable service, an express train heading to Jakarta via Cikampek. He sat on a bench reserved for ‘special passengers’ and lit a cigarette. According to their plan, he would rejoin Bagus and the first train later.
Bagus had twelve minutes at Bandung Station. His first task was to deliver the money for Azka to the station manager’s office.
Leon’s cousin, the courier, remained in first class. He held Bagus’s carry bag, awaiting his return. He could have got off, even briefly, as long as he kept the bag with him, as seating wasn’t an issue in first class, but fear saw him glued to his seat. It was unlikely anything would go wrong, but it was always possible that Leon would send Diyab with some message.
Following the briefest of meetings with Mr Gupta, Bagus strode across the station to the same magazine vendor he visited every time, and bought cigarettes, a magazine, and a soft drink.
Azka worked frantically to finish his duties aboard the train. He never seemed to have enough time. Coupled with that, he had to avoid D carriage, where Leon and the White Suit sat — those were his orders. Thank heavens this horrible saga was ending. Soon he would report to his manager, his final movement in this well-oiled clockwork.
Mr Gupta was enjoying a coffee and chocolate when Azka arrived. Intimidated by his boss’s authority, Azka spoke of his duties in a stumbling fashion. To his surprise, the station manager butted in, thanked him, and handed over an envelope of money. He told Azka to leave and return home. Azka was only too happy to comply.
Come time for the train to leave, Bagus reboarded the first-class carriage. He greeted the courier boy with a grunt and handed him the soft drink. As the train gained speed, he strolled up the carpeted aisle to visit the carriage cafeteria. Such a poser, Bagus continually patted the holster beneath his coat. He considered it a subtle hint to bystanders that he was … well, many a word would fit here. If nothing else, this action gave him a little space, a luxury in a busy place like this.
Soon enough, Rio would be back. Then they would make that long, tight squeeze of a walk to the crowded third-class carriage to relieve Leon. Leon and his courier would get off the train, both paid handsomely. Rio would administer Wally with another injection and apply another patch if required. He would return to first class, while Bagus would put up with the inconvenience of accompanying Wally on the last leg to Jakarta. There, a pre-organised taxi would escort the three of them back to Bagus’s house, where this job had begun.
Once the drugs wore off, the length of Wally’s stay would be determined by his family and friends in Australia, though the videos of Wally the ‘drunken drug baron’ were sure to make this period brief. No one wanted to see Wally handed over to the police. Rio’s scheme was perfect …
Rio and Bagus liked that final stage — the video and demands for money. Rio always arranged a lavish celebration afterwards.
Bagus’s phone buzzed in receipt of a text message: the video perfect. Such is the speed of digital technology. Mind you, phone calls rarely worked on these trains once they had passed out of city centres. Even text messages were delayed. He didn’t respond to the message, just replaced the phone in his pocket, leant back, and drifted into sleep.
On awakening, he grew fidgety. The train was again delayed on a sideline. He decided, as the train remained stationary, that he might as well move down and see Leon, have
a chat. He told the courier he would be back shortly.
The train might have stopped, and the swaying ceased, but moving through the carriages remained difficult. Pushing, shouting, waving his arms, and occasionally hitting passengers, particularly women and children, Bagus shoved his way along the train. As he entered the fourth carriage, he was puffing, agitated, and over these second-rate peasants. At one point, he almost pulled out his pistol to gain a clear passage.
When he arrived at the entrance door to Leon’s carriage, he reached for — a cigarette. He enjoyed that moment, leaning out of the nearest window, relishing the nicotine. Ten paces further on — or, more accurately, forty people further on — he would surprise Leon. The train started moving again, and so did he.
Did he have the right spot? It took several moments to sink in. That person was actually Leon. Asleep? Turned away, facing a window, in the corner, sprawled over two seats. He looked like a tramp, his holey coat adding to the picture.
‘What the hell!’ He bellowed with the anger of a madman.
Leon didn’t move. The bystanders did.
Where was the Australian?
Panicked, Bagus kicked Leon and slapped the side of his head, the ring on Bagus’s finger leaving a gouge in Leon’s ear.
Leon responded — his mouth propelled a foul gush of vomit. It was then that Bagus noticed the burns and blisters and the dried blood. Leon, despite the reflex, was not awake.
Bagus lost his nerve. In a high-pitched squeak, he demanded of those nearby if they had seen a man in a white suit. No one responded. He hollered out several times. No one answered, and so he screeched, out of control, locked in a fit of insanity and rage.