Kiss The Candle Goodnight 1

Chapter 1
Gregg
Gregg ran faster than ever before. His back pack thumped and pummelled him with every step. Still he did not stop. Breathless, mouth open, nostrils flaring. He could go no further and bent over, panting for air. His hands grabbed his knees and his back arched upwards to keep him on his feet. Everybody was staring. In the distance he heard police sirens and looking up, found himself outside another bank. If only he didn’t have to go in. Legs like jelly, he walked through the revolving door, drew in a deep breath, and queued in front of the bank teller.

He was ready with passport in one hand and US dollar travellers’ cheque in the other. He had spent the last of his rupiahs on weed, how he wished he had used US dollars. How he wished the people in front would hurry up. Fidgeting from one foot to the other, he kept swivelling around, looking at the door.

In the other bank, he had been opening his daypack, getting ready, when a group of men flew in, wearing crash helmets and carrying AK-47s. Faster than he ever saw in movies, there was no time to take it all in before the sound of a semi-automatic rang out. He threw himself to the floor and as he went down, saw blood pumping out of a policeman’s chest wound. It was gushing on the floor. There was no-one to help that bloke, no-one to hold his hand. Gregg wiped away tears as he stood in line and thought back again to when he threw himself on the floor. There was another uniformed man, reflected back in the highly polished glass. He too was lying in a puddle of blood. Oh God, he looked in pain. Ashen, eyes closed, lips drawn tight, like a gruesome mask that had been stretched to fit. The clock on the wall showed it was all over in ten minutes. Smoke, screams, tears.

All over. Except that every muscle in Gregg’s body was twitching. He looked down at his arm that held his passport, his vein near the wrist was bulging up and down, making his childhood tattoo look like it was breathing in and out.
The bank teller motioned Gregg towards him and Gregg sighed in relief as he connected with the present. Memories are for old men. He forced a smile as he spoke to the man in the crisp white shirt. The man whose nicely manicured nails held so much.

Even before the bank robbery, Gregg thought Medan was a shit hole. Muggy, dusty and full of people hustling tourists, so he had scored that bit of weed then gone to the bank before working out where to go next. Now with money in his pocket, he jumped on a blue mini bus: “Destination Sanctorang.” It was an Orangutan Rehabilitation Sanctuary whose name filled him with images of hugs and warm fuzzy nature. Safe colours of orange and green.

The bus was filling up fast with sweating, red-faced Westerners all fiddling with the broken air conditioning. Smells of dankness and body odour crept up Gregg's nostrils as he sat with knees wedged between the seat in front of him and touching his chin. Clutching his Survival Indonesian book and thinking back, he kept a nervous eye on the locals, who were busy loading back-packs onto the roof. They tied them down with belts and rope.

He was shaking from adrenaline and rubbing his face with both hands. The Thai gangster movies he watched as a kid were nowhere near the real thing. Skin colour was the same though, like his. Part of the reason he watched them, to connect to the place he was born.

Gregg heard a couple sitting in front whisper. He hoped it wasn’t about him and forced himself to appear normal, the last thing he wanted was to stay in Medan as a witness. Anyway, all he had seen were the victims. He had been that frightened once before, as a little boy, in a time that left no memory, the time his mother died. He controlled his breathing and closed his eyes. Within seconds they were open again, crowded out by the powerful images that had scared him so. He stared out of the window. And then they were off.

Dust kicked up on the dirt track road, peppering the small settlements of bamboo homes, surrounded by banana and papaya trees. Locals wore colourful sarongs, purples, greens and reds. The road was filled with life, people on bikes, on foot and hanging out of, or on top of, overcrowded buses.

His mind was still buzzing. He rummaged through his day pack, felt for and pulled at his sunglasses and taking them out, cleaned them on his t-shirt. As he put them on he brushed away a solitary tear and flicked through his Survival Indonesian book, elbowing fellow travellers with every movement. He searched for a name he had heard again and again, ‘Terry McCassy’, the driver had used it too. Gregg concentrated on the letters, they jumped around less when he wore sunglasses. ‘Terima Kasih’ 'Thank you.' Well what do you know, Joe? It wasn’t some bloke everyone was talking about! 'Sorry', was ‘Maaf,’ so he said it to his neighbours whom he had dug in the ribs.

It was a bumpy ride. Yesterday’s rain-water filled deep holes in the road, making it hard for the driver to know the best potholes to aim for. Sometimes the bus veered and tilted and all the passengers rubbed against each other as if they were lovers. Gregg laughed as his thigh touched that of his male neighbour once more. ‘Maaf. Don’t worry mate, I’m very metrosexual.’ As he said that he watched his neighbour throw back his head and flick his hair like a thirteen year old girl.

The guy struck up a conversation with him, saying the boxing-day tsunami wasn’t as bad around here but that the roads were still in a mess from a flash flood eight years ago that killed most of the villagers. Gregg nodded politely, before turning back to the window. He saw a food stall by the side of the road that used plastic water bottles, tied together and filled with sand for people to sit on, it did the job and looked stylish too.

The driver stopped to buy a single cigarette from the tobacco man. Next to him stood an old lady selling sweets wrapped in purple cellophane they looked like one of Gregg’s childhood favourites. She wore an old cream sarong with two purple and green peacocks with batik feathers that puffed out. She chatted away to Gregg until she realised he couldn’t understand a word. He smiled. His Mum was Thai and he was used to people thinking he was a local.

Gregg stuck both hands out, fingers separated to buy some sweets from the old woman, she put her hand in the half-full jar, counted ten and handed them over. He unwrapped one and flicked it into his mouth, it really was blackcurrant and liquorice. ‘Terimah Kasih,’ he shouted, waving with the others as the driver lit up his cigarette and the bus sped off.

Gregg was relieved when they hit a fairly straight part of road, dry from the morning sun. He’d bumped up once too many times with that guy, and his smile was beginning to make him nervous, especially when he felt duty bound to smile back. He hoped he wouldn’t be expected to hang out with him.

By the time Gregg arrived at the sanctuary, his body ached and he had an unbearably stiff neck, but he was in good spirits. He jogged over to the information centre to create a bit of distance and pick up some blurb about the place. There were a couple of rangers, a man and a woman. Beautiful white teeth. Her name tag said Jana, his, Darwan.

‘Hi, is there a good place to stay around here?’

Darwan spoke, ‘You could try some huts along by the river.’

As he spoke, Jana left the office and Gregg’s eyes were as wide as his smile as she made her way to the door. Then he saw the guy waving his left hand at him from behind the counter. Yep the wedding band was clearly visible.

Gregg laughed, introduced himself and held out his hand. Darwan stayed where he was but smiled to reassure Gregg before saying,

‘Trek prices are in those pamphlets. Enjoy your stay.’

Gregg found the perfect place, near the river, with en-suite shower and a balcony. It overlooked the water and some big grey boulders where a troupe of monkeys was playing. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with his new world; greenery, wild life, the sound of running water. Then he skinned up a spliff, ignoring his foster Dad’s words as they echoed in his memory,

‘Son, that's the thief of ambition.’

I'll knock it on the head once I've smoked this last lot. It’s not every day you see someone die…