The Amber Trail (8 page)

Dig pulled a piece of paper from
his pocket and dumped it on the bed sheet.

“
Look.”

Jake glanced at the paper and
shrugged. “An invoice. So what?”

Dig leaned forward and pointed to
at an item on the list. “Bay-ta Brewing Yeast. It’s on all the
Banyan invoices.”

Jake shrugged. “And?”

“
Well first, we don't
use that type of yeast. We use the local liquid stuff. And second,
this yeast was never delivered. Not on
any
of the
deliveries. I know, because I unpacked the Banyan containers
myself.” Dig shook his head. “Why would we be charged for something
we never received?”

Jake blinked. “Who fucking cares?
It’s over. Let it go.”

“
Don’t you want to
know what it’s all about?”

“
Dig, these people
are
not normal
—they chopped my finger off just because I
raised my voice.”

“
It was a little more
than that—”

“
I don’t care! You
can’t fix this! Once again you think that you can do something
better
than me. That just because you were Dad’s best mate
you can make decisions for us all. But this time you’re just going
to get yourself killed.”

Dig glared at his brother.
“Bloody hell,” he seethed. “This isn’t about me being better than
you. What’s your problem? Don’t you want to sort this
out?”

Jake fell back against his pillow
and stared at the television. “Whatever,” he said. “Just do what
you want. If you want to die, then go right ahead.”

Dig walked to the side of the
bed. His hands were shaking and his nerves felt like raw electrical
wires; his eyes were red raw from lack of sleep. “We don’t always
have to work against each other you know.”

Jake continued to stare at the
television.

“
What is it Jake?
Like, I know you’re an arsehole, but this week you’re off the
charts.”

Jake closed his eyes and his
forehead creased. For a long time, the voice of the television
anchor-man was the only sound that filled the room.

“
What is it?” Dig
repeated.

Jake blinked and moisture welled
in the corner of his eye. “It doesn't matter,” he said in a quiet
voice.

“
Just tell
me!”

Jake pursed his lips and dropped
his gaze. After a long moment he spoke in the same dull tone.
 “I didn’t help him.”

“
Who?”
                                          

“
Dad.” Jake’s bottom
lip quivered. “He asked me to help him fix the roof, but I
pretended I had to work.” He swallowed and a tear dropped down the
side of his face. “But
you
helped him. And
you
got to
say goodbye.”

“
I got him killed you
mean.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “I
shouldn’t have said that. I was angry at myself more than anything,
and I took it out on you.”

Dig thought back to the day of
the wake, to the crowd staring at him as Jake accused him of being
responsible for his father’s death. It was an almost unforgivable
act. But, for the good of them both, he had to try.

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he
said. “Let’s just forget about it.”

“
I’m sorry, if it
makes any difference.”

Dig shrugged. His brother seemed
deflated, a shell of his normal bolshy self. “We all have stuff
that we regret about that day. But we can’t change it. We need to
forget about the past for now and just channel our energy into
trying to get this brewery moving again.”

Jake hauled himself upright in
his bed. “Look,” he said. “If you really want to go to India, then
do it. But just don’t get sliced up okay? We can’t afford to lose
you too.”

Dig reached out and grabbed
Jake’s hand. “I hear you.”

Jake pulled his hand away. “Hey,
no need to get all bent on me.” He wiped at his face and threw back
the covers. “I think it’s also time I left this germ farm.
Someone’s got to handle the orders while you’re gone.” He dropped
his legs over the edge of the bed and winced as the thigh that had
been used for the skin graft took some weight. “But for the record,
that sham of a gangster already said you’ve got Buckley’s of
sorting anything out over there.”

Dig shrugged. “Buckley’s chance
is better than no chance at all.”

When they returned home, Dig
packed a few clothes and toiletries into a small daypack, and
called a taxi for the airport. He didn’t want to waste any more
time at home, because he feared if he took another night to think
about it, he may lose his courage to leave at all.

He walked out to the front drive,
waiting for the taxi to arrive. His brother followed him out and
stood beside him, then pointed to Dig’s pack with his bandaged
hand. “Packing light?”

“
I don’t plan to be
there long. You going to be okay back here?”

“
There’s enough stock
on the shelves for about a week. I’ll fill the outstanding orders
with what we have. But after that, all bets are off.”

“
I’ll be back in a
week.”

“
Well...give us a
call at some point huh?”

Dig nodded.

The taxi arrived and pulled into
the drive. As Dig reached for the door, his mother called from the
steps of the house. She strode across the drive, then held out two
Epinephrine needles. “I’m sure there are wasps in India too.” She
gave him a hug.

Dig hugged her back, then tucked
the needles into the side pocket of his pack. He opened the door of
the taxi and settled into the back seat. The driver clunked the
vehicle into drive, and it pulled out, heading for the
airport.

IT WAS THE EARLY HOURS OF THE
MORNING
,
and the lights were dim in
the cabin of the plane. A man with long curly hair slept beside
Dig, his mouth open wide, snoring in his ear. Dig sat under a
solitary reading light, flicking restlessly through a copy of the
in-flight magazine. He returned to look at the map of India on the
inside cover. A small star on the western edge of the country was
marked
Mumbai: Population 12 million
. His stomach felt
queasy as he removed the folded invoice from his pocket and studied
the address in the top corner:

Banyan Brewery

Hampi 583227

PO Box 5089

It showed a postal box in the
town of Hampi, which according to the internet, was eight hundred
kilometres inland from Mumbai. After the fourteen-hour flight, he
needed to find a bus to take him overland.

The cabin lights flickered and
the engine changed pitch, adjusting into a descent. Dig bit his lip
and replaced the paper into his pocket.

The plane touched down at Mumbai
airport at 7:15 a
.
m. A bleary-eyed group
of passengers queued through the visa counters and collected their
luggage from the carousels. Two armed guards flanked the doors that
separated the air conditioned airport lobby from the outside world.
Dig threw his pack over his shoulder and nodded to the men as he
passed through.

When he stepped outside, a haze
of humidity overwhelmed him—infused with car exhaust and stagnant
stormwater. His arms quickly lined with sweat.  

A line of taxis with yellow roofs
queued on a potholed road. On the kerb, men in dark pants and
collared shirts held up signs: Mr Stoddart, Mr Andrade, and Mr
Hangapasharang.

“
Taxi sir?” A man
stood at his shoulder in a faded blue uniform.

“
I'm trying to get to
Hampi,” Dig said. “Can you take me to the bus terminal?”

“
Of
course.”

Dig dropped into the rear seat. A
vent in the dash blew a stream of warm air into his face. The
vehicle pulled away from the kerb and jerked up through the gears.
As they joined the freeway traffic, Dig pulled his pack to his
chest and watched the scenery flash past the window: boys cycling
rickety bikes down the pavement; men crouched on street corners
selling newspapers; children sifting through piles of rubbish
beside an active food stall; a man sleeping in a rickshaw with a
mangy dog on his lap. Dig took in the images with his eyes wide and
a flutter in his stomach.

A large advertising billboard
stood high on the side of the road. It depicted a group of friends
sitting around a table with drinks in their hands, laughing. An
image of a green labelled beer bottle featured prominently beside
the picture with the words
Banyan Bitter
emblazoned across
it in yellow. A slogan ran across the base of the
advertisement
:

Banyan
Bitter—Bringing Friends Together

Dig sat up straight, then leaned
forward to the driver. “Excuse me,” he said, pointing up at the
sign. “Is that beer popular? Banyan Bitter?”

The driver wobbled his head.
“Yes, it’s sold right down the coast.”

Dig nodded and retrieved his
phone from the front pocket of his backpack. He fired off a quick
picture from the camera before returning it to the bag. The driver
watched him from the rear view mirror.

The taxi turned off the freeway
into a hazy concrete courtyard crowded with
buses and
people. The driver pointed to a dusty bus
with faded panelling parked at the far end of the clearing. “Bus to
Hampi.”

“
Thanks.” Dig removed
a note from his wallet. “Are you okay with a thousand rupee note?
It’s all I could get from the airport machine.”

“
Yes, I have change.”
The driver took the money and counted some bills into his hand,
then exited the cab to scoot around and open Dig's door. Dig
stepped onto the pavement while shielding his eyes from the sun.
The crowd jostled past his shoulder, heading into the
terminal.

“
Enjoy your
trip,
”
the driver shouted.

“
Thanks.
”
Dig joined the crowd.

Restaurants lined the perimeter
of the courtyard, where men sat at low tables and ate lumpy yellow
rice with their hands. A cow with a rack of protruding ribs walked
casually past the diners and emptied its bowels. The men seemed
unconcerned as the shop owner retrieved a broom and swept the
deposit out into the pavement.

An elderly man appeared at Dig’s
elbow, hobbling, and tugged at his shirt sleeve. His left eye was a
sunken hole; the other eye was clouded in cataract. The man
clutched fingers to his mouth, demonstrating his hunger.
 

Dig fished in his pockets and
found a solitary ten rupee coin, which he handed over. But the man
didn't leave. Instead he walked with extra vitality, tugging harder
at his sleeve as Dig continued across the terminal. Dig increased
his stride, but the man matched his speed in a looping, unbalanced
gait.

At his other elbow, two children
in faded clothes now kept pace and held their hands outstretched.
Dig turned his pockets inside out, but they continued to tug at his
shirt until he reached the bus.

Passengers crowded against the
vehicle, their possessions wrapped in balls of fabric or stacked in
cardboard boxes. Dig joined the moshpit, and hands in his back
shoved him forward through the door opening.

Inside, the ceiling was low, and
Dig ducked as he moved down the aisle. A stink of motor oil and
body odour hung in the air. He was lucky to snag a berth on a flat
steel bench at the rear of the bus.  

An elderly woman wrapped in a
brown sari pressed against his left shoulder. The baby on her lap
watched him with large eyes. A middle aged man smelling of tobacco
pressed against his right, a forest of grey hairs growing from his
ear. The seat in front of Dig felt impossibly close, and he propped
one leg up against it. As the bus pulled away from the kerb a
numbing tingle started in his rear and worked its way up his
hamstring.

The bus stopped often on the way
out of town, and with each stop, more passengers squashed into the
aisle. A young conductor sidled up to them and took notes from them
in a silent understanding. When he reached Dig he looked him up and
down. “Where you going?”