The Amber Trail (12 page)

“
Are you
Australian?”

“
Yep.”

“
Aah. Shane Warne and
Michael Clarke. Good cricketers.”

“
They are,” Dig said
with a weak smile.

“
Now, tuck in any
loose folds of clothing—like your shorts. You don’t want to pick up
any hitchhikers on the way through. And keep your head down.
Right?” Dig nodded and took hold of the frame of the bike behind
his rear.

Raj revved the engine twice
before kicking it into gear with a lurch. The wheel skidded and
threw up mud behind them, before finding purchase and setting
off.

They followed the rails into the
tunnel at a pace that felt like it was two gears faster than was
required. The cool air whipped at Dig’s eyes and made them
water
;
he gripped the frame of the bike
so tightly his knuckles ached. He peeked over the top of Raj’s
shoulder.

The headlight threw out a wall of
light that travelled a short space ahead of them. The rail
continued to bend away into the hill, flanked on either side by
ragged walls hammered directly through the bedrock. Light reflected
off rivulets that tracked down the stone. The engine echoed
loudly.

The path of the tunnel
straightened, and Dig ducked away from a few solitary hornets that
zipped toward him.

The track swung to the left and
the bike rumbled below Dig’s rear. The density of hornets increased
until they filled the path of the headlight like a thick, swirling
sandstorm. Dig’s shoulders tensed and his heart raced.

A rectangular timber box hung in
the top corner of the tunnel, housing a dusty signal light. Nestled
beside it was a fibrous, multi-layered chandelier. It was the wasp
nest, and a mass of hornets buzzed around it in a dense
fog.

The bike raced toward the cloud
of insects and Raj leaned forward and dropped his head. Dig did the
same, tucking his chin into his chest and bracing for
impact.

As they plunged into the swarm,
wasps hammered into their heads and shoulders with a sickening
patter. The bodies of the creatures burst apart under the impact,
spewing a shower of liquid hornet internals across Dig’s face. Tiny
wings fluttered past his ears. He wanted to scream but he dared not
open his mouth, so the sound caught in his throat in a guttural
moan.

Eventually, the splattering gave
way to the reverberation of the engine around the walls—then they
burst into fresh air. Sunlight warmed the back of Dig’s neck. They
were outside again, and he allowed himself to breathe, before
wiping madly at his face and hair with one hand as they bounced
along the tracks. He opened his eyes to see the ground rushing past
below them. Then as he lifted his gaze, he broke into a
grin.

The rail line had exited the
tunnel along a ridge that tracked down a steep valley. In the base
of the valley was a long, flat meadow. Spread across the meadow, in
an area that covered more than ten football fields, were rows upon
rows of leafy green vines that climbed two stories into the air,
growing up an ordered grid of timber poles and interconnecting
wires.

Dig shook his head slowly. He
leant forward to Raj and shouted. “Those are hop vines?”

Raj nodded, the wind blowing the
hair back from his face. “The brewery’s down by the river,” he
said. “I’ll take you there.”

Dig looked over Raj’s
shoulder
;
his gaze followed the path of
the rail as it cut a straight line down the ridge toward a wide,
brown river. As the tracks reached the shore, the rail rose up into
the air and stopped abruptly at the naked timber pylons of a washed
out bridge.

Two buildings stood on the river
bank: a tall building with a corrugated roof and white smoke
wafting out of a chimney
,
and a small
residential shack, nestled amongst the trees.

Dig took a deep breath and nodded
to himself as the wind whistled in his ears. He had finally found
the Banyan Brewery. How many times had his father ridden down this
same path during his life?

But, now he was here, he needed
to concentrate on what lay ahead. He’d arrived unannounced into one
of the most remote areas of India, and was about to meet a group
who had demonstrated a troubling level of casual brutality. His
stomach churned as he recalled Jake’s hand, and the ripping tear as
the knife carved through the finger. He remembered Jake screaming.
The fear. The panic. And Shiv’s words:

I'm looking at two
hopheads who seem incapable of taking care of themselves, let alone
become competent business partners.

He glanced at his clothes. His
shorts and shirt were covered in mud. His body was sweat soaked and
greasy. His face was covered in insect internals. He didn’t want to
ruin a first impression for the second time.

Dig bit his lip, then leaned
forward to Raj, shouting over the noise of the engine. “Is there
somewhere I can quickly wash up and change my clothes before I go
into the brewery?”

Raj’s brow furrowed. “There’s a
shower in the house. Want me to take you there first?”

“
Yeah, that would be
good.”  

Raj nodded, and steered the bike
down the ridge. At the bottom, he turned it off the
tracks
and flanked the edge of the hop fields
toward
the house. Dig recognised the
familiar orange tinge on the flowers as they passed.

The house was constructed of pale
yellow brick and brown tile, and surrounded by a wide concrete
veranda before a patch of brown, untended grass. A thicket of squat
brown trees crowded behind the house, and a flock of chirping white
birds flew out from them as they arrived. The front door stood
open.

Raj rolled the bike to a stop
outside, then switched off the engine. “Come on.” He walked
inside.

Dig followed, ducking through a
low doorway into an open-plan kitchen and lounge. Stools were set
up by a granite kitchen bench, and a spicy, milky fragrance filled
the air. On the far wall, a sliding glass door opened onto a deck
that flanked the shoulder of the river—a wide brown expanse of slow
moving water.  

Raj squatted by a cupboard in the
corner of the room, then held a towel out to Dig. “Here,” he said.
“The shower’s through that door.” He pointed to a bi-fold door
beside the deck.

“
Thanks.” Dig took
the towel through to a small room of rendered cement. He washed
himself down, changed into a new T-shirt and shorts, and surveyed
himself. While he didn’t feel like a high-powered executive, he
certainly felt more equipped to handle a business negotiation that
had the prosperity of his family riding on it.

He returned to the main room with
the wet towel hanging limply in his hand. Raj sat at a chair by the
kitchen counter, nursing a glass cup. A jug of milky liquid sat on
the counter beside him.

“
Chai?” Raj
said.

Dig looked at him
blankly.

“
Chai,” Raj repeated.
“Tea.”

“
Oh right,
sure.”

Raj poured a second helping from
the jug and placed the cup on the table before Dig. He held up his
own glass and beckoned for Dig to do the same. Dig lifted the cup
to his lips and took a sip. It was milky, sweet and tasted of
cinnamon. “Wow.”

“
You like
it?”

“
Yeah, it’s great.”
Dig’s attention caught on a framed picture on the wall beside him.
It depicted three people in a family pose: a middle-aged man with a
thick beard and a confused expression; a short, stocky woman with
hair tied back in a bun; and Raj sitting between them, hands folded
on his lap.

“
Your
parents?”

Raj nodded.

On the wall beside it was a
second framed picture, showing two men standing formally on a
stage. Dig recognised Raj’s father. He wore an academic robe, and
stood stiffly with startled eyes and a pasted-on smile as he was
handed a decorative piece of paper. A heading inscribed below the
picture read:
Girish Survana – Doctorate in Botany – Delhi
University.

“
A botanist
huh?”

Raj glanced at the picture. “Yes,
Dad and I manage the crops around here.”

“
Impressive. Our
company uses your hops to make our beer. We think they could be the
best in the world.”

Raj lowered his glass to the
table and studied Dig, his eyebrows furrowed. “You‘re lucky,” he
said. “We don’t export many hops. Most are kept for our own
production.”

“
But how do you get
the hops out of here?”

“
Same way you came
in.”

“
What, by
motorbike?”

“
By rail. Deliveries
leave most evenings.”

“
But—I didn’t see any
trains?”

“
Don’t need them,”
said Raj, smiling. “Now stop asking questions and I’ll drop you
over for your meeting.” He beckoned Dig to the door.

They remounted the motorbike, and
Raj steered it through a pair of deep wheel ruts that traced the
edge of the river. They bounced through potholes as the imposing
frame of the brewery grew closer. Dig clenched his teeth and held
tightly to the frame of the bike.

RAJ EASED THE BIKE TO A STOP
in a
dirt car park outside the rusted, corrugated building. A cluster of
motorbikes were lined up on one side of the clearing; a long
container truck was parked opposite.
Flank
ing the edge of the river were a
cluster
of squat trees with branches that stretched
wide over the dirt, and roots that hung down in curtains. Dig
recognised the banyan trees from the invoice in his
pocket.

He followed Raj toward a wide,
open roller door that revealed the shadowy interior of the brewery.
As he passed the container truck he spotted a set of circular steel
railway wheels on the machine that were set forward of the normal
rubber tyres.  

“
The truck also has
rail wheels?”

“
It’s a hi-rail,” Raj
said. “It travels on both.”

Dig raised his eyebrows and
nodded.

A dented orange forklift drove
out of the building, supporting a pallet of green boxes with
Banyan Bitter
marked on the side, and headed to the rear of
the container truck. As the machine lowered the pallet into the
container, the thick-bearded driver watched Dig with narrowed eyes.
Dig took a deep breath and followed Raj through the
door.

The inside of the building opened
out to a high ceiling of exposed steel rafters. A pair of pigeons
took flight above them; the flapping of their wings echoed around
the space.

At ground level, a boxy office
building of peeling green paint was set against the near wall.
Further inside, hissing pieces of rusted brewing equipment were
clustered together in groups. A sulphuric odour hung in the
air.

Dig followed Raj around the
corner of the office to see a group of three men standing over a
weathered steel vat. One was elderly with hunched shoulders, wild
grey hair and a thick beard. He wore only a length of fabric tied
around his waist. The other men poured bags of grain into the vat,
their hair spotted with barley husk. Raj walked past the
m
and headed toward the office, with Dig behind
him.

“
Hey!” said a high
pitched voice. Dig turned to see the elderly man staring at him as
he scratched his face. “Who...is this?” Dig recognised him as Raj’s
father, Girish, from the pictures inside the house.

“
His name’s Dig,” Raj
said. “I’m taking him in for a meeting with Max.”

Girish blinked rapidly. “What?
Um...no Raj! Max is out at the docks today, in the Goa office.” He
continued to scratch at his face. “But, who
is
this?”

An awkward silence filled the
room. Nausea churned in Dig’s stomach as he stepped forward and
extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Dig.”

“
Stop.” Girish folded
his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“
Please. I apologise
for turning up unannounced, but I need to have a quick talk to Max.
Or if he isn’t here, then maybe
we
can have a quick
chat.”

Girish’s brow furrowed. “No, no.
I don’t do...
chats
. I don’t think you understand what you
have...” His voice trailed away. “How did you find this
place?”

Dig glanced toward Raj. “My
father was a business associate of Max. But things have changed,
and I need to discuss something with him.”

Girish’s face blotched red and
sweat beaded across his forehead. “Max isn’t here, and won’t be for
days.” He turned to Raj. “Did you bring him in here?”

Raj stood stiffly. “He said he
had a meeting.”

“
And so you just
drove him in here?”

Raj’s gaze dropped to the
floor.

“
Oh my...” Girish
pulled at his ear and paced in front of the vat. “Max is going
to...well...be upset.”

Dig eyed the path back toward the
door. “Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“
No!” Girish said.
“There is
nobody
to talk to. You shouldn’t be here. You’re a
very silly boy.”