by Barry Heard
When the fury had seemingly passed, a man stepped up, only for Bagus to round on him, ready to smash him in the face. Cowering, the man explained that most passengers had just got onto the train at Bandung. Bagus wanted information, not excuses. The man apologised, and Bagus slung him to the ground.
Another man strode up. Yes, he’d seen the man in the white suit. However, the answer required a bribe. Bagus reached for his pistol. The man went to leave, but Bagus smiled and called for calm. Several hundred thousand rupiah were passed over.
This white-suited man, he had stepped off the train at Lampegan Station, alone, where the tunnel is.
Bagus reached for his mobile. He tried calling, tap, tap, tap, thump, until he screamed at the phone. Nothing. He almost smashed it. No reception. He would text, a brief message. Bagus thumped the send button with anger. Still no signal!
He took three long strides, heading for the door, his way suddenly clear. He was getting off at the next station. Hang on. He turned and strode back to Leon, opened Leon’s coat, and fished through the pockets until he found a phone — destroyed. There was nothing in the pants pockets. Now that frightened Bagus even more. He shoved the broken mobile into his pocket, thinking, Leon had no wallet, no gun …
He got off the train. Obsessed by his need for a signal, he moved around the platform until his phone indicated good reception. He dialled again. The line was ringing. He breathed a sigh of relief, looked up, noticed the train moving, and ran. The phone reception dropped. He stopped. The train disappeared into the haze of the city.
Rio answered.
Rio listened, told Bagus he would ring back, and hung up.
Bagus waited, a very long wait, eleven minutes.
When the phone rang, he tried not to panic. Rio explained that the train they’d caught with Wally Flannagan didn’t stop at Lampegan. The train staff had all changed at Bandung — including the conductor they had bribed. Rio needed Bagus to get to Bandung and contact the station manager and then the conductor. Then get himself to Jakarta. (In fact, Rio had no idea what to do.)
Bagus didn’t mention Leon’s health. Rio didn’t ask about it.
Chapter 15
It was dusk, the sunset a milky brown and grey. Diyab turned and informed Wally that home was only five minutes away. Wally had spent most of the journey with his head pressed in the hollow between Diyab’s shoulders. On the odd occasion when something brushed his body, he looked about — good God, it frightened him how close they passed by other scooters, pedestrians, and larger road users. Such as that truck, its wheels almost at head height, its rear mudguard actually touching his foot …
The traffic in Diyab’s village was calmer. They ventured down a dirt track, a narrow lane where Diyab pulled over at a small terracotta-roofed house. Diyab kicked down the bike stand, slid the suitcase off Wally’s back, and assisted a very stiff Wally off the scooter. No sooner had they dusted themselves down than an old man, Diyab’s father, greeted them with a frown. Diyab spoke rapidly in the local dialect. His father, bewildered, asked for more information. Who was this large man? What was he doing on a scooter with Diyab? Who did the scooter belong to? Why was Diyab late? Where were the melons he was supposed to pick up? There was too much to explain, but Diyab would never interrupt his father. When the old man allowed his son to speak, the answer comprised few words. Slowly, the old man’s jaw lifted to display a wide smile. He invited Wally to come into the house by waving his hand in a circle and bowing graciously.
Inside, Diyab’s family stared. They were Diyab’s mother, his two sisters, a cousin, and a baby. Who was this old white man, so tall he towered over them, dressed up like a poor Indonesian villager?
Diyab’s father identified himself as Badal. His hands in a prayer-like clasp of deep respect, he introduced Wally to his family with the reverence befitting a royal visitor. Wally was dumbfounded as the family clapped shyly and smiled at him.
This was weird, thought Wally. Had Diyab mistaken him for someone else? Or was the money in his bag the reason for the smiling and bowing? No, impossible.
Wally glanced around to escape their admiration. The house had three rooms, a small verandah, and a large garden. The windows held no glass. Out the back, across a narrow path, a steep incline was covered in what Wally thought was a series of huge long hedges (a tea plantation, he would eventually hear). Inside the house, there were no chairs, just narrow shelves and mats, no electricity, just a small open fire with a wok on top. It all looked neat, clean, and practical. No vases, paintings, fancy furniture, televisions, or computers.
Diyab’s sister Aulia asked, ‘Are you well, Mr Flannagan?’
He sighed with some relief. ‘I hoped someone else spoke English.’
‘Oh, my sister and cousin and I do. Diyab helped us learn.’
The family banter continued. For the moment, all conversation remained in their local language. Diyab dominated the first few minutes of exchange. Wally’s eyes followed the chitchat. Several times, he sensed tension, unanswered questions, frustration. Perhaps it had been the wrong decision to come to this young man’s family home. He started rubbing his eyes and nose with one hand and scratched his head with the other. By the time Diyab stopped talking, Wally’s eyes were red raw and oozing tears, his hair was a knotted mess, and his right arm was shaking again. It was an awkward moment.
‘I am sorry,’ said Diyab. ‘I just had to explain who you are, the story. All wanted too many answers, but I must respect my parents’ questions. Are you okay?’
‘Sort of, just buggered. I am struggling with all of this. It’s just all too much, Diyab, everything is too much.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Ring home, talk, and find out what’s going on?’
‘I am sorry. I am the only one in this house with a phone, and that bad man, Leon, on the train, he crushed it with his foot. I can organise one at my work, or my sister can charge yours at a local shop. Maybe use the gunman’s phone, get a new SIM card?’ Diyab reached out and put his hand on Wally’s shoulder.
‘Sorry, I was worried you were after the money — stupid I now realise, sorry. I don’t really need a phone. Best we don’t use the one we took for the moment. I just need to have a rest, a sleep, a moment alone. I don’t even want to think.’
Diyab explained all of this to the family. Within no time, Wally found himself dressed in a T-shirt and undies and lying down on a straw mat in a quiet room. Diyab bid him goodnight. It was almost dark. Looking around the room, Wally saw six other mats and a tiny hammock — for the baby, thought Wally.
He closed his eyes. He was close to tears. He felt so alone and confused. He missed his Meredith, his family, and his mates. It was going to be difficult to sleep — an active mind versus a tired body. He lay quietly, trying not to stress out. Slowly, he started to think more clearly. The thought-destroying hours of mental fog were lifting, clearing … clarity slowly crept in … it was very scary.
The meditation that allowed him to sleep was rendered irrelevant as he rolled on his right shoulder for the first time. He had been asleep for under two hours. The entire family were sleeping in the room. He tried to get up, but his aching back answered with a vengeance.
How dare you go to sleep on a hard floor, you stupid fool of a man!
He began to groan softly. Diyab woke — what was going on? Between gasping breaths and jerks of deep pain, Wally explained. By now, everyone had woken up. Candles were lit and questions came from everywhere. Badal assumed control. What happened next took a long, long time …
It was almost dawn when Wally at last drifted off. He’d been given a long massage and a warm herbal drink, and helped carefully into a low-slung hammock on the verandah. A net kept out mosquitos and a curtain would keep out the early-morning sun. There was no traffic noise in the village, only whispers inside the house.
The night almost gone, the family s
tayed up — there was no point in returning to bed. Only Diyab’s cousin and her baby had enjoyed the privilege of a full night’s sleep. It didn’t matter. The family was pleased. Yes, their Pig was okay now. That meant everything to this family.
Many a time, Wally had heard the praise showered on the people of Indonesia, and of Asia more generally. They were honest, hardworking, and hospitable, full of warmth and ready with a smile. All of that was true. But the family’s interest in Wally transcended their usual kindness and concern. Diyab’s father would have done anything for Wally. For this family, a Pig was like a hero of legend.
Curled up in the hammock like a well-fed baby, Wally slept through the day. He was more than ready for this long, uninterrupted slumber. Dusk and the buzzing of insects greeted him when he woke. He put his hands behind his head and was reminded that his shoulder was still sore. The suitcase was tied to the end of the hammock. Of course, all my gear — that’s right. All that bloody money and stuff.
‘I am fine,’ he said to himself. ‘This family, Diyab — I am so lucky. I am safe.’
He was grateful for the hammock. The last time he’d slept in one must have been outside his tent in Base Camp, fifty years ago. He jiggled in happiness.
Light chatter could be heard inside. He coughed, hoping to attract some attention. Aulia was there in a moment.
‘You have slept for so long. We hope you are feeling much better?’
‘Am I ever, I feel twenty years younger.’
‘Would you like some food?’
‘For the moment, I just want a hand to get out of this hammock. And then have a wash.’
Aulia summoned her sister, Roma, and, between them, they aided Wally as he grunted and stood. Aulia went back inside and returned with a bowl of water, a washer, and a small towel. He could wash on the verandah, behind that vine. The women left. Wally was dressed in a long gown, beautifully decorated. He removed it and enjoyed the pleasure of the damp washer against his skin. Everything was so fresh, so clean, and so simple. He towelled himself off and dressed in the magnificent old Indonesian gown again. He called the girls, and they came out smiling. Aulia led Wally inside. A warm greeting and a chair awaited him — a chair! Wally was astonished. Why the chair? Badal and the others sat on mats on the floor.
‘You are our special guest. Soon, our father will explain through one of us. Let’s just say that, my father and all of us, we are honoured to be in the presence of one of you. He says there is an enormous debt that this family owes the Pigs.’
Confounded by this answer, Wally said, ‘Thank you, and where is Diyab?’
‘He will be home shortly. He will bring some fish and we will have dinner.’
He frowned and looked outside. ‘I thought it was dawn. Have I been asleep all day?’
That got a few laughs.
‘You slept and slept. You must have been so tired. Would you mind — our father would like to speak to you. I will interpret. He has so many questions to ask you. For one, why you helped those young students — and how can he help you now?’
Wally nearly said ‘Shit’. Instead, he just nodded. ‘I would like some help. Only I would sooner sit on a pillow or small cushion. The chair is great, but I would like to be at your level.’
The women giggled. It was exactly what Diyab had said would happen; he knew Wally well enough already to predict this request. Out came several large cushions, the best. The chair, borrowed from a neighbour, was put outside next to the hammock.
Cups of herbal tea were handed to Wally and Badal. The father quizzed Wally on his life. Wally spoke of his youth on the dairy farm. He spoke of himself as an adult, a soldier. This was hard. He hated admitting he had been to Vietnam, participated in that charade called a war. Hated the aftermath of returning home. He said as much to Diyab’s father. He attempted to explain the significance of the Pig.
But it wasn’t all he was. He was a happy husband, a gratified grandfather. He was content — or had been, until his kidnapping. Now that sounded almost hilarious.
Badal, still confused by Wally’s description of the Pig, asked yet again: ‘A Pig, what did that actually mean?’
Wally laughed. How long since he had laughed like that? In fact, it had only been a week.
The Pig was an emblem, the mascot, of an infantry battalion — 7th Battalion. To his audience, it didn’t make a lot of sense. Badal kept enquiring, shaking his head, and attempting to understand this other world, other culture, and other way of living.
After forty minutes, Diyab arrived. When the chatter stopped, he realised he had interrupted something special, so his first words were, ‘I am sorry.’
Badal smiled.
‘More importantly,’ said Aulia, ‘where’s the food?’
The family meeting turned into a celebration, full of smiles, warmth, and bliss. Briefly, Wally put aside the need to seek help, to ask for advice about what do, to figure out where to go from here. When the evening finished, and he snuggled down in the hammock, he knew he would sleep.
Diyab remained by his side for a moment, sitting on the chair. He wanted a private moment to make sure Wally was okay.
‘Anything you need, Wally?’ he asked.
‘I am fine, but I need you to take all this money and gear in the man bag, and hide it somewhere.’
‘I will put the lot into a couple of plastic bags and then a pillowcase with some rags. You can sleep on it.’
They laughed together.
‘Sure, put it in the bags,’ said Wally, ‘but how about we hide it?’
He pointed at a pile of chopped wood stacked neatly on the verandah. Problem solved. But there were so many problems … no phone, no computer, no way of contacting anyone at home. He shrugged.
‘Just need to get my head around everything. But that can wait until tomorrow. But now, tell me, Diyab, why this fascination about 7RAR, the Pigs?’
Diyab chuckled, leant back on the chair, crossed his legs, and began.
The story goes back to when I was in Melbourne, Australia, as a student. I loved your country, Melbourne, the footy, everything. The people, the lack of chaos, the space, even in Melbourne, so much space, yet your politicians say it is overcrowded. Certainly, we faced a few hurdles. But the good outweighed them about 100 to one. The biggest one, your language — so bloody complicated! However, I am rambling. I will start again.
Wally laughed. ‘Bloody oath, mate, you’re dribbling at the mouth!’
Diyab frowned, smiled, and continued.
There was this one night, some years back, I was on a Metro Melbourne train, around 10.00 p.m., heading for home. I had been working late, at the hotel. I was tired, hungry, and keen to get to our flat. The carriage was almost empty. Near me, just this older bloke, sitting on his own across the aisle from me. He was looking out of the window.
When the train stopped at this station, a bunch of tough-looking blokes got on, and sat a couple of rows away and continued drinking cans. They looked like a rough gang or something. They were drunk, anyhow. I put my head down. I had learnt from experience to look the other way, avoid eye contact. Then it happened. One of them came up and sat near me. He made a snide remark about my hair, asked if I was a Muslim. Don’t know how he guessed this, and I said I was. Well, that started the insults, the gibes, and I just kept my head down. Then he said he was speaking to me, asked me to look at him. And when I did, he asked, ‘You looking at me, raghead?’
Wally contemplated Diyab’s head, bearing not a keffiyeh, of course, but a rampuri cap. Couldn’t expect drunken drongos to make sense, but fire was stirring in his belly.
I was very frightened, didn’t answer. He stood, rolled up his sleeves, muttering words I know you shouldn’t say in public. He beckoned me to stand. I was about to rise when, suddenly, this old bloke got up. Remember, he was seated just across the carriage. He spoke out in a strong, commanding voice.
He had a mobile phone to his ear, lowered it, and said something like,
‘Listen carefully, you fellas. I am a plain-clothes detective. I have just turned on all the video cameras in this carriage and taken your photos. I have also texted operations, saying you might mess everything up. You see, I am on this train waiting for a very nasty criminal to get on. We have cops hidden in every carriage, waiting for my message. Did you hear me? Now walk away, go into another carriage, and sit very quietly. Any trouble and you will spend several nights behind bars for drinking on the train if nothing else. Now go!’
The gang jumped up, quickly left, stood near the doorway, and got off at the next stop. I was so relieved. I wanted to go over and thank the detective, but, boy was I startled by what he’d said, he meant every word. So, when I caught his eye, I just nodded and smiled a thank-you. He smiled back. I was thinking, I should get off the train. But you know something, Wally, he’d worked that out. When I went to get up, he spoke.
‘I’m not a cop. Retired years ago. I don’t bloody believe I actually did that just then. Even frightened myself. Main thing is, all’s well, mate.’
It sounded so weird, I was taken aback by this comment. Surely, he was a copper. He was so cool when he spoke to those drunks that even I believed him. He just laughed, and I thanked him and added how grateful I was. He just smiled. Quietly, I then asked the man where he was going. He said Glen Huntly, which meant another train change at Flinders Street. So we chatted a little, I explained I was a student. He was so polite and asked many questions.
Then, as we got near Flinders Street Station, I asked him, ‘Would you have any part-time work, gardening, washing windows, or anything? I’m struggling to pay my way.’
He didn’t straight-out say yes, but he asked for my phone number, and he gave me his, believing something might be arranged. We shook hands, and then I noticed his maroon tie — it had a pig on it, like an emblem. Not a fashion statement, but looked, just different. I politely asked what it meant, and he said, ‘Just some army thing, my battalion emblem.’