The Amber Trail (10 page)

Kumar glanced at the slip. “I
can’t give out the address of the account holder sir. If you want
to transfer money to the account we can process it at the counter,
but an address can’t be given out.”

Dig leaned closer. “Are you sure?
I’m a little desperate here. I’d be very grateful if you
could.”

“
We don’t have that
information sir.” Kumar turned his attention to the computer
screen.  

Dig dropped his voice. “Look,
I’ll be honest with you. I really need to find that address. I’ve
travelled a long way to get here, and if I miss this meeting then
the owner, Max, will be very upset. Can you help me out? You’d be
doing a favour to one of your customers.”

“
I don’t have that
information sir.”

Dig had exhausted all his powers
of friendly persuasion. It was time to get the big guns out. He
glanced back to the entrance; the shadows of the policemen were
still visible at the door.

He extracted the note from his
pocket. “Okay,” he whispered. “I realise that in India sometimes
you have to help
grease the wheels
to make things happen.
I’ve a thousand rupees I might accidentally drop under the desk if
you help me out—know what I mean?” He winked.

The hint of a smile crept into
the corners of Kumar’s eyes, and he nodded. “Yes, I think I
understand.”

“
Excellent.”

“
You’re going to
bribe me.”

Dig leaned in again. “Well, if
you want to put it bluntly, then yes.”

Kumar stood and turned to the
front door. “Officers!”

The customers in the queue
turned. The taller policeman stuck his head through the front door,
gun in hand.

“
Arrest this
man!”

Dig sat up rigid in his seat,
“No!” he whispered, “I didn’t mean...well...I was just joking!” A
teller leant over the counter to stare, his mouth open. The two
policemen pushed through the door.

Kumar stood behind his desk,
hands on his hips. His eyes were wide in a manic grin. He seemed to
have found some job satisfaction at Dig’s expense, standing smug
with the pens lined up on his creased shirt.

Dig caught his breath and blinked
rapidly as a thought dawned on him. He realised he had already seen
Kumar this morning—across the road at
Helpful Hari’s Tourist
Information
, whispering and handing over money.

The rumble of footsteps echoed
across the floor as the policemen rushed through the room. Dig
leaned toward Kumar. “Send them away or I’ll tell them about your
sports gambling.”

A furrow lined Kumar’s brow. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed, feigning an
incredulous look—but Dig saw he’d touched on something.

“
I saw you, this
morning at the tourist office, making a bet. I reckon if the police
emptied your pockets, they’d find a slip for tonight’s cricket
match.”

Kumar frowned as the footfalls
grew closer.

“
Tell me the brewery
address and I’ll keep quiet.” Dig pushed the deposit slip across
the desk, then a grip clutched at his wrist, twisting it roughly
behind his back, tearing a needle of pain through his
shoulder.

“
What’s going on?”
said a voice in Dig’s ear.

Kumar’s eyes narrowed and he
folded his arms.  

“
What is it?” the
policeman repeated. “What did he do?”  

The room stood quiet, save for
the slow revolution of the fan above their heads.

“
Kumar?”

“
Let him go,” Kumar
said. “I made a mistake. I misheard something he said.”
 

“
Are you
sure?”

“
Yes, yes, my fault.”
Kumar turned to the room. “I’m sorry everyone, back to work
please.” He retrieved the deposit slip from the desk, carefully
selected a blue pen from his top pocket, and scrawled onto the
paper.

The policemen frowned, and the
grip on Dig’s arm loosened. Dig rubbed at his elbow.

“
But I’d like this
man to leave. And take his forms away with him.” He jammed the
deposit slip into the front pocket of Dig’s shirt, then refolded
his arms across his chest with eyes like pinpricks.

The policeman pushed Dig
sideways. “Okay, I’m going.” Dig shrugged him away and headed to
the exit; customers frowned as they watched him leave. When he
reached the door someone shoved him between his shoulder
blades.

Dig exited the bank and paced
down the road, ducking through street stalls as he rotated his
shoulder, trying to work away the pain. When he reached the temple
at the end of the street, he sat on the warm gravel of the road
with his back against the wall, and retrieved the crumpled wad of
paper from his pocket.

I got it,
he thought, and
smiled.

He flattened the paper out
between his legs. A message had been scribbled onto it in a messy
blue scrawl:

I told you - there is
no address on file you idiot!

Dig stared at the paper, eyes
wide, then turned it over. He found nothing written on the opposite
side, so he turned it back and reread it.

Dig’s hands fell to his lap, and
his head dropped back to the wall behind him. He stared up at the
sky and sighed.

Now what?

HE SAT AGAINST THE WALL
with the sun
bearing down on him, roasting his arms and legs. Somewhere in the
temple behind him a bell resonated periodically in a deep tone. As
his throat parched with thirst, he threw his pack onto his back,
and trudged back up the road.

When he came upon the doors of
Helpful Hari’s Tourist Information
he paused, then pushed
through the curtain of beads over the doorway. Hari waited inside
with a smile.

“
Mr Australia!” he
said. “Shane Warne! David Warner! What can I help you
with?”

Dig smiled weakly and pointed to
a sign hanging above a bank of dusty desktop computers. A stout boy
wearing headphones sat before one of the screens, playing computer
games. “It says here that you arrange international phone
calls?”

“
Of course. Would you
like to ring Australia?”

“
Yes
please.”

“
Okay, sit down.” He
gestured to a glass booth in the corner of the room with a
telephone bolted to the wall and a green plastic stool in the
centre of the space.

Dig entered the booth and pulled
the sliding glass door behind him with a creak. He sat on the stool
and Hari pointed at the telephone, holding his fist to his ear with
thumb and pinkie finger extended.

Dig gave a thumbs up, then lifted
the telephone and dialled. It rang a few times, before being picked
up with a melody of tones.

“
Buckley’s
Brewery.”

“
Jake, it’s
Dig.”

“
Oh, hey,” Jake said.
“How’s it going? You get there okay?”

“
Yep, I’m here. Just
arrived in Hampi.” The line crackled. “Got a favour to ask
though...I need you to cancel my phone. It got nicked.”

“
How'd you manage
that?”

“
Taxi driver I
think.”

“
You numpty. Yeah
I'll get it stopped.”

“
Thanks.” He swapped
the phone to his other ear.
“
So...how are
things over there?”

“
I’m catching up on
things. I got into Dad’s computer and I’m filling last week’s
orders.”

“
Nice.”

“
Yeah it’s amazing
what I can get through without a hangover.” He snorted. “So when
are you planning on seeing our...friends?”

“
Soon. Once I find
them. I’m having a bit of trouble tracking them down. Either nobody
knows where they are, or nobody wants to tell me. I’m not sure
which it is at the moment.”

“
Bugger.”

“
Can you check
something else for me though? Just before I left I was looking
through Dad’s stuff, and I remember seeing an email between him and
Banyan Breweries, just before he went over to India last
time.”

“
Last
year?”

“
Yeah. There was
something in it about a meeting point.”

“
Hang on, I’ll
check.” The squeal of the office chair echoed in the
background. “Man,” Jake muttered. “I don't think Dad deleted
anything in here his whole life.” There was a long pause. “Hang on,
this might be it. Want me to read it out?”

“
Yeah.”

“
So Dad writes:
Hi
Max, I expect to arrive in Hampi mid-morning Thursday. Are you
going to be around? Shaun.
And then he gets a reply:
I’ll be
here. If you go to the usual spot by the old train line we’ll pick
you up. Max
.”

“
Yeah that’s the
one.”

“
Any use?”

Dig sighed. “Well it’s better
than nothing.” The line crackled and hissed.

“
Look, if things are
too hard over there—”

“
No, it’s fine,” Dig
said in a strained voice.

“
Don’t be afraid to
come home okay?”

“
Yeah, I may have to
at this rate.”

They said goodbye, and Dig
replaced the phone in its cradle. He stared at it for a moment,
then pushed open the door of the booth.

Hari looked up.
“Finished?”

Dig nodded, and walked to the
counter. From across the room, the boy’s computer screen echoed
with the sound of canned gunshot.

Hari nodded toward the boy. “My
nephew,” he said. “All he does is play
Call of Duty
.” He
shook his head. “So how was mummy then?”

Dig smiled. “My brother actually,
and he’s fine.” Below him, a map was spread beneath the glass of
the counter. “What do you know about old railway lines in
Hampi?”

“
As in not
used?”

“
Yeah, I think
so.”

“
Well the old
Anjaneya line closed down years ago. But it’s still in there
somewhere, covered in weeds.”

“
It is close to
here?”

Hari pointed to the map. “It runs
from the back of town and heads north around the heritage area. But
nobody goes there. You’d see better sights on the main trails.
Would you like to rent a trail bike?”

“
I’ve never ridden a
motorbike before.”

“
Don’t worry, it’s
easy to figure out. I’ll show you.”

Dig shrugged. “Okay. And I’ll
take a map.”

“
Excellent.”

Hari ducked into a doorway and
reappeared with a dusty yellow trail bike. He pushed it through the
shop and out into the street. Dig followed him.

They stood together on the road
shoulder, behind the line of street stalls. Dig shielded his eyes
from the sun as Hari gestured to the bike. “Okay,” he said. “Sit
down.”

Dig swung his leg over the
machine and balanced stiffly on the seat.

“
Right,” Hari said.
“Left hand lever’s the clutch, right hand grip’s the throttle,
right hand lever is front brake, right foot is the rear brake and
left foot is to change gears. Understand?”

Dig frowned and looked at the
controls. “I think so.”

“
Oh, and as you move
up through the gears it goes gear one, then neutral, then two,
three and four.”

“
Why does it do
that?”

Hari looked at him blankly. “I
don’t know. I’m a travel agent, not a mechanic! Now put the clutch
in and start it up.”

Dig squeezed the lever on his
left hand and turned a key on the dash. The motor roared into life,
vibrating between Dig’s legs.

“
Now let out the
clutch and give it some throttle!”

Dig frowned, then winced as he
twisted back the throttle on his right hand and let out the clutch
on his left. The engine whined and jerked forward, then puttered
out to a stall.

Hari shook his head. “Try again.
But slower.”

Dig pursed his lips, then
squeezed the clutch and started the machine back up. He took a
breath, eased on the throttle, and slowly let out the clutch. The
bike jumped forward and cruised along the dirt.

“
Good!” Hari shouted.
“Now change gears!”

Dig glanced backwards, eyes wide.
“How do I do that again?”

“
Your
feet!”

Dig studied his feet as he
wavered along the road. He spotted a lever by his toes and pushed
it down
;
the engine screamed while the
bike lost power. He pressed it again and the bike shot forward,
rocking Dig’s head back, the front wheel lifting off the
ground.

As the wheel returned to the dirt
the bike jerked to the right, directly at a market stall full of
clothes. Dig tried to wrestle the handlebars straight again, but it
was too late, and he punched into the rear of the stall. The
hanging shirts wrapped around his head, tipping the bike backwards.
He hit the ground heavily, and the handlebars bounced off his chest
before clattering to the ground beside him. A muffled gaggle of
voices
approached
, and the shirts were
pulled from his face to reveal Hari standing over him.