Diptera Downs, and Other Stories

excerpt from: ‘Diptera Downs, and other stories’ - from the story: ‘An Old Digger’ by: Fairbanks He had pre-booked a room for two nights, using the computer at the Library in Wilson a few weeks previously. It was a modest-looking motel, very much like the online photo, and its location was even more perfect than he had anticipated. Directly across the road were the playing fields he would need for locating his quarry, and it was but a short walk to Melbourne Uni where the young fella attended if he missed him at the soccer ground. By mid-morning he was checked in and he treated himself to a hot shower and short nap. He left the curtains open, though no sun was shining (Melbourne!). Outside was an almost-pleasant view of trees and the green parkway across busy Royal Parade. He coughed and wheezed himself to sleep in usual fashion, tired to the bone. Nigel woke after midday. A few thin rays of sunlight flicked across the room, and a willy-wagtail chattered ominously through the window at him: ‘Wrong-way, wrong-way’. “It’s not wrong-way, little messenger. It’s business, and none of your business either. Off you go.” He dressed carefully, securing his sharpened hunting knife in its leather carrying strap under a loose-fitting and untucked shirt, placing the small vial of chloroform and a small leather zipped case in his jacket pocket; a sketch pad and small box of half-used pastels he put into a cloth shoulder bag, all retrieved from the backpack. He had purposely travelled by bus instead of by plane to avoid metal detectors and security - a successful ploy. He swapped his favourite grey fedora for a dusty red beret, tilted at just the right angle. He winked at his reflection in the large motel-room mirror, fingered the compass hanging around his neck for luck, and set off to investigate the university campus. If the internet information was correct, the young fella’s team would be having practice at the soccer ground in the park from 4 – 6 pm. He had plenty of time. Despite the number of mostly young students everywhere and the nearby busy city streets, the campus was quite an attractive setting - green, spacious, inviting. Clusters and various single individuals sat on the lawns or benches, some reading or attentive to laptop devices, some chatting – perhaps discussing a recent inspiring lecture, perhaps discussing youthful social events past or planned. The spring sun even managed to break through the cloud cover at times, creating pools of warmth and peace. Nigel fondly remembered his own university days. ‘They don’t realise these are possibly the best days of their lives,’ he thought. He found a space to himself and got out his sketch materials. The old university buildings and wide range of faces were perfect subjects for his creative urge, and he lost the rest of the afternoon pleasantly engaged. At one stage a trio of lanky youths sat near him on a grassy knoll whom he sketched. One of the youths noticed him looking at them and the old man held up the sketch pad, wordlessly inquiring if it was alright for him to continue. The handsome young man smiled broadly and nodded assent. As they got up to leave later they came over to Nigel to look at his drawing and were quite pleased with his complimentary portrayal of them. “Good-on-ya, old man. Well done. Thanks. Good luck to ya.” And they wandered off joking and cheerful. ‘I wonder how I’m going to go with this,’ he mused. ‘I mean, I know the fella’s name and a few of his habits, but this may be harder than I’d thought. There’s so many of them, and they all look so much alike – young, attractive, so full of life, virile. I’m an old man, and a sick old man at that; and I am way outside my comfort zone, outside my known world; and they are so secure and easy in this, their world. How will I be sure to pick the right one? How will I be able to gain his trust and engage him in conversation enough to implement my plan? I wonder…’ As the sun began to fade and grey re-enveloped the now noticeably noisier city, Nigel walked back to his room to change into warmer clothing for the evening. He replaced the artist’s beret with his fedora friend but still carried the sketch materials with him as he meandered into the park across the boulevard. Walkers and cyclists and joggers were busily engaged in their fitness regimes and in caring for their housebound canines and toddlers. It wasn’t hard to locate the squad of young men he was looking for. They had taken over one of the soccer fields and were in the middle of a training session. He found a discrete vantage point and got out his sketch pad – a useful cover which enabled him to ‘legitimately’ study the youths. ‘Now, according to the internet, he should be the goalie. But that fella doesn’t look right somehow. Pity I couldn’t find a photo of him, not even on that Facebook thing; but perhaps I never figured it out properly.’ The old man continued sketching and watching the young boy-man flesh before him. ‘Aha,’ he nearly said out loud. ‘That looks more promising. Let’s get a closer look at you, young fella. Turn this way.’ A group of four young men had been on a training run or something and joined the scratch match in progress. A curly-headed redhead jogged up to the goalie, touched fists in the way young people do these days, and took over the position in the nets. The old man readjusted his position to be facing head-on to the curly-haired new goalie, and opened to a new page in his sketch book.