The Timor Man. Kerry B Collison

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      Chapter 5

      Jakarta — 1966

      Somewhere in the back of his head Stephen Coleman could hear the noises. They sounded like people moaning but amplified as if sent to torment him. He believed he was dreaming but on carefully rolling over, knew he wasn’t. The waves of nausea struck, making him instantly aware that he was in danger of throwing up. The wailing continued and he slowly came to the realization that it would not go away, even if he phoned downstairs to the reception and asked them politely to turn whatever it was, off.

      The nausea prevailed.

      He rolled back hoping to compensate for the bilious effect of whatever he’d done the evening before. This obnoxious feeling in his head, stomach and somewhere in the lower reaches of his body, was all too familiar. The bile made an attempt to rise but he fought it back. He had been poisoned, he thought wildly but knew, in reality, that he had overindulged the night before, and was now paying the penalty for his indiscretions. Ill as he now felt, recollections of the previous night’s activities flashed through his thoughts.

      He could remember being met at the Kemayoran Airport. It was a relatively cool reception which developed into a one night indoctrination attempt by the man who would soon be referred to as his predecessor. Alan someone or another. Alex, that was it! Alex Crockwell. What a nice piece of work he turned out to be.

      As dead memory cells were replaced by more active and not so alcoholically influenced ones, pieces of the previous evening’s activities began to filter through to his brain and then, with a rush, everything flooded back to him.

      He turned around quickly looking for the girl, and seeing no apparent sign of her, attempted to recall his last movements before returning to the Hotel Indonesia. He tried but could not remember.

      Sitting on the double bed with its hand-woven embroidered bedcover still not turned down he leaned forward and placed his hands so that they would support his head. He really felt terribly sick.

      The basket of welcome fruit, still wrapped in a cellophane cover, sat on the coffee table directly in front of the bed. The card stated something to the effect that the management welcomed him to the hotel and trusted that his stay would be memorable.

      The phone rang shrilly, the sharp tones piercing his throbbing head.

      “Selamat pagi, sir, this is your wake up call,” the tinny voice announced.

      He raised his arm and peering through one bloodshot eye checked his watch. It read six-thirty. He dimly recollected booking the call for an hour earlier! Again he checked his watch, thanked the operator and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

      He got up and the room swam before him. He knew he must get to the bathroom quickly, not through commitment to attend the office on time, on his first day, but more to avoid the inevitable disaster that would occur if he didn’t, as he felt that the queasiness surging through his stomach could no longer be ignored.

      Coleman headed for the bathroom knowing what was to follow.

      He retched.

      The heaving convulsions forcing him to his knees as he clung to the chrome grip alongside the bathtub, his head cradled by one arm over the toilet bowl. Minutes passed slowly and Stephen dragged himself upright and stepped into the bathtub, turning the cold faucet on to maximum. Leaning with one arm against the ceramic wall he steadied himself.

      He remained in this position, the tropical cold water stinging his body, assisting with the slow recovery process. He then altered the water flow and filled the huge American Standard bath to its brim. He lay still in the bathtub contemplating what would lie ahead on his first full working day in the capital.

      He had arrived over the weekend, much to the disgust of the staff delegated to meet and escort him to his hotel. He had completed his customs and immigration checks and identified the embassy official. He was obvious. Alex Crockwell stood alone with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently oblivious to the surrounds.

      “Coleman?” he called out, raising one hand, finger pointed in the air as if he was about to hail a taxi.

      “Stephen,” Coleman answered, lowering both cases and extending his hand.

      “Leave those there, the boy will carry them for you,” he said and turned, leaving Stephen with no other choice but to follow.

      “You couldn’t have picked a more difficult time to arrive.”

      “Sorry?” Coleman called to the disappearing figure, not entirely certain that he was following the right person. The young and pretentious man had not even bothered to introduce himself. Moments later he caught up as the embassy officer had stopped and turned, almost impatiently.

      “Put those in the back,” Crockwell ordered the driver who had jumped from the Holden and raced around to open the door for the embassy official. Coleman watched without saying anything.

      “Thanks for the reception,” Stephen offered as they drove away from the dilapidated terminal.

      “My turn on duty roster, I’m afraid,” Crockwell replied. He then went on to explain that he had missed a wonderful opportunity to spend the weekend away in the mountains but, as Coleman’s arrival coincided with these plans, he had to cancel. Stephen was surprised that the embassy officer actually raised the point that personnel movements always seemed to take place on weekends, apparently spoiling some event or other; Canberra really should be more considerate and realize that Indonesia was a difficult post, and should not expect the limited resources of the Embassy staff to sacrifice their own time to meet and escort others, when they should be recharging their batteries.

      “I suppose you will want to have a look around later after you’ve freshened up?” Crockwell asked. The tone of his voice implied that Coleman should refuse the halfhearted invitation and, having enjoyed a few drinks during the eight hour flight, he was tempted to tell the escort officer to get lost and leave him to his own devices. But he didn’t.

      “Yes,” Coleman replied, “it’s СКАЧАТЬ