EXPECTATIONS

By Hugh Allan

Welcome to the selected short stories from one of Australia's newest authors in adventure fiction, written for your indulgence... This collection will first take you on a bizarre global jaunt from England to Hong Kong, Japan and Indonesia during the Great Oil Escapade. Then across the sea, to the Amazon j

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922444356

Hugh Allan

Hugh Allan is a retired scientist. He and his family have travelled extensively around Australia and the world. Hugh is an active member of the Australian Bush Poets Association, the Fellowship of Australian Writers Queensland and the Australian Association of Authors. His first novel, High Latitude for Dying was published in July 2020 by Shawline Publishing Group. Hugh has had over forty poems and articles published in various magazines in Australia.

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EXPECTATIONS

Hugh Allan

EXPECTATIONS Copyright © 2020 Hugh Allan. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Printed in Australia 

First Printing: December 2020

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN- 9781922444349

E-book ISBN- 9781922444356

To my wife, Wendy, for her support and

suggestions relating to some of this work.

CONTENTS

THE GREAT OIL ESCAPADE

WELCOME TO AMERICA

THE CANADIAN

THE RUSSIAN

RUSSIAN ASSIGNMENT

OTTAWA

LONDON

THE RUSSIAN PROBLEM

WALES

CHARLIE WONG AND LO FAT

ANNA

HONG KONG

THE CHINESE SPY LO FAT

THE PSEUDO SPY CHARLIE WONG

JAPAN

LONDON

JAVA

BACK IN LONDON

KISS ME

THE PYRAMID

THE FIRE TRIBE

BANOCK

LONDON AND SCOTLAND

THE KYLES OF BUTE

BERGEN

A DESPERATE SWIM

SKAGERRAK

THE NORTH SEA

SAVED FOR INTERROGATION

A DRIVE AROUND AUSTRALIA—1967

INTRODUCTION

THE OUTBACK SPIRIT

THE BORDER OF INFINITY

THE RED CENTRE

NORTH TO THE TOP END

MOLINE

THE KIMBERLEY

KOOLAN ISLAND

BACK IN DERBY

DERBY TO PERTH

PERTH TO SYDNEY

EPILOGUE

The Great Oil Escapade

A short parody

1  Welcome to America

One of life’s pleasures is the sensation of slipping into a soft, clean bed and drifting off into complete relaxation. I had flown from Sydney, Australia to Washington D.C. and after the long queues at immigration and the struggle to retrieve my baggage off the carousel, then a taxi-ride to my hotel, I had reached the aforementioned phase of relaxation when the anticipated drifting off to dreamland was severely interrupted. I cursed at the rude thumping on the door of my hotel suite and flinging back the bedsheet I strode to the hallway to investigate.

I peered through the spyhole and saw an oriental face doing the same, so I opened the door just enough to see him.

‘Yes?’ I said irritably

My would-be visitor’s eyes widened in dismay.

‘Why you in this room?’ he rasped.

‘Why you out there asking stupid questions?’ I rasped back.

‘Where is Fat?’

‘Fat what?’

‘Lo Fat, my contact.’

‘I think you’ve lost contact.’

‘What you do to him?’ he said, pushing the door open.

‘He’s not bloody here, mate!’

I grabbed the edge of the door to close it, and a fist crashed into my nose.

‘You little bastard!’ I cried as blood dripped down my new blue pyjama top, which made me even angrier. My eyes refused to focus, so I had only a hazy view of a figure escaping down the corridor. I slammed the door shut and heard a loud voice in the corridor calling for someone, presumably my assailant, to stop.

My brain cleared, and I stumbled into the bathroom, shedding a large drop of blood from my nose. It exploded into a pretty flower-pattern on the white floor tiles. I did a neat side-step around it and went to work with some tissues, cleaning up my not too badly damaged nose. Returning to the bedroom, I had barely made myself comfortable in my still-warm bed when there came a second drum serenade on my door, a prelude to a serious deterioration of my evening.

The question that flashed into my mind was, why would a sun-loving Aussie go to America in mid-winter? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, accepting an invitation to present a paper at a Washington conference, but now I was having grave doubts about my so-called good ideas.

A loud voice outside my door yelled, ‘FIFI! Open up!’

‘Wrong number!’ I cried. ‘I didn’t order a Fifi!’

I heard no laughter, just growling noises. The spyhole revealed a non-oriental face, and again I foolishly opened the door. The object that stood before me was far from the Fifi I might have been hoping for: he had a square face with a grim look fixed upon it, and his dull grey suit hung on him like a flag in the doldrums.

‘Federal Investigations and Foreign Intelligence,’ he announced, thrusting a badge at my face. My instincts saw it as an approaching punch and I automatically deflected the hand, knocking his badge into the bathroom where it skidded into the near-dried splash of blood. I followed it and picked it up, glimpsing the name Jeremiah S Hudson upon it.

FIFI snatched it from me and wiped it on his trousers, saying. ‘Call me Jed.’

‘I can think of something better to call you mate!’

His fat hand hit me in the chest and sent me staggering in reverse gear until I ended up in an untidy heap on the couch.

I wiped a dribble of blood from my nose just in time to see a grey suit bearing down on me with hands sticking out of it, clenching as though they wanted to strangle something. My hand instinctively went up to protect my throat and my mind fled to happier times.

I saw myself on the rugby field, tackling my opposite number with a grunt; I saw myself behind the wheel of my beloved customised red Holden convertible, with a horn that played Reveille; I felt the wind in my red hair and the sun on my face; I saw the blue tattoo on my chest, not the usual Mother, just the word Front, the result of a bizarre night of celebrations on my 21st birthday.

FIFI burst my thought-bubble with a roar. ‘They ought to lock you up!’

‘And you, you bloody lunatic! Is this a typical FIFI welcome for visitors to your fabulous land of milk and money? I only hope they’re not all flamin’ idiots.’

This was a regrettable approach given that I was prone, and he was leaning on my chest. His response was to increase the crushing effect on my ribcage until my wriggling made me feel like a lizard in a kookaburra’s beak.

‘Our intelligence tells us you’re a communist!’ Jed said.

‘Intelligence?’ I snorted. ‘Try incompetence.’

‘A communist,’ he repeated.

‘Bullshit!’

‘Chinese communist, in fact!’

‘Chinese bullshit!’

These words came out as a wheeze, for by this time I was labouring for breath under his bulk. I should mention that Jed’s accusation held no truth at all, for my political life to date would have done a vacuum proud.

‘Your earlier visitor is a Chinese communist.’

‘Oh, of course. So, if I had a female visitor, you’d be calling me Marilyn? You great hairy twit.’

Jed continued, ‘And what about Hong Kong?’

‘Why don’t you tell me what about Hong Kong.’

‘We know that you bought a lucky tree in Hong Kong.’

‘I need one now,’ I grunted. ‘For your information you great goose, lucky trees are the domain of the Chinese Triad.’

‘Explain!’

Well, I did not believe this to be any of his business, but as he was now sitting on my chest—not an arrangement I had much choice in nor was in favour of—I resisted the urge to suggest he needed a psychiatrist and told him the story.

’Last year,’ I gasped, ‘I went to HK for the Asian Fire Safety Conference. I was in my hotel room…’ I gave a wheeze and Jed climbed down off my chest and sat beside me. I continued. ‘I was in my hotel room minding my own business when two Chinese gentlemen paid me a visit. And they didn’t burst into my room intent on breaking my face American style; they politely told me that if I didn’t buy a lucky tree for $10,000, they would cut off my little finger. I had been aware of the Triad’s protection racket in the building construction industry, and I had asked him if I could buy a small branch for five dollars. Well, they laughed so much that one of them staggered about and fell off my balcony. His partner was not amused about that and he had said, ‘you are troublemaker!’ I had objected with ‘don’t come the raw prawn with me mate,’ to which he had replied, ‘you mean garlic prawn? You must phone room service for garlic prawn. I am important Triad man, not bruddy waiter. You just behave yourself or I call my sister.’

‘This is going nowhere,’ FIFI growled. ‘I’m going to check up on you, buddy boy.’ At which remark he moved away from me past the telephone table and pulling out a phone from his pocket, he sank into an armchair which gave a fatal gasp. He prodded a few numbers on his phone and began to talk.

In the meantime, I shall tell you how I came to be involved in this American welcoming ceremony. My job as a fire scientist with an Australian Government research division called Fire Engineering Technology for Industrial Development (FETID) required that I should attend a certain number of international conferences to glean knowledge from my foreign counterparts. My present visit resulted from an invitation from the US Department of Fire, Applied Research and Testing (DOFART) to attend their fire convention in Washington DC.

I looked across at FIFI and in spite of the recent rough and tumble; I have to admit he fascinated me. I have had a long-standing interest in the espionage game, a result of diligent and perhaps misguided study of spy stories, which had left me with a hankering to play a part in the business. Here I was now in the presence of someone who, while not entirely filling me with admiration, was nevertheless in that very profession. Being ever the optimist, the thought in my mind was perhaps something beneficial would come out of this bizarre situation, an introduction into the world of spies, perhaps. (One has to think positive, no matter how tender one’s nose is).

FIFI finished his little chat and picked up a note from the telephone table, read it and pocketed it—I had written a message on that slip of paper, a message that had been on my phone on my arrival—but before I could protest at his pilfering, he turned to me with a disappointed look on his face.

‘Look pal…’ (I’m his pal now!) ‘I just spoke to my boss, and he checked up on you. You’re clean for the time being.’

‘Why didn’t you find out about me before coming in here like a raging bull?’

‘Because we saw a spy leaving your room and there wasn’t time.’

‘But there was time for you to catch him in the corridor and beat him up?’

‘FIFI doesn’t indulge in violence.’

‘Hah! So who beat up my visitor if it wasn’t FIFI? Let me guess, MIMI?’

‘Don’t get cute with me, buddy.’ (Back to buddy). ‘For your information, it was POOPR.’

‘Welcome to America! What in God’s name is a pooper?’

‘The Political Office Opposing Peoples’ Republics. Your friend is from Kowloon,’

‘So, because I’d been to Hong Kong, you put two and two together and got a

question mark?’

‘His name’s Charlie Wong,’ Jed said, ignoring my dig.

‘A Hong Kong Wong!’

‘Not quite—Chinese mother and English father. He lives in Hong Kong. More to the point, what was he doing at your door?’

‘Knocking! Stone the crows, mate. Does it matter? He’s probably in hospital right now.’

‘Let’s just say he’s developed an awkward walk. And you, buddy boy, just keep your nose clean.’ He chortled at this reference to my damaged beak and turned to leave.

‘Hoi!’ I said, feeling more confident now he had lost the urge to kill me, ‘That note that you pocketed is about a Javanese oil discovery—what’s that all about? Tell Jed, the message said. So, the spy in my room was looking for you? You’re a Chinese communist?’

The scowl returned to his face, and he poked a warning finger up my nose. ‘Be careful, this is a federal matter.’

‘What is? Charlie Wong or the oil?’

‘Both.’ He turned and left.

‘Good riddance!’ I said to the door as I locked it. Then I headed back to the bedroom. Crawling between the sheets, I reflected on the wonders of God’s own country. I hadn’t got far along that path when the door went off again.

‘Bloody FIFI!’ I said as an apology to the pillow. And I was right.

‘I came to warn you that there’s someone in the hotel asking questions about you.’

‘Yeah, you!’

‘He’s from Hong Kong,’ Jed said. ‘Nasty piece of work.’

‘So are you.’

I braced myself but all he said was, ‘I don’t want you causing more trouble!’

‘It’s you who’s been causing trouble,’ I told him. ‘I’ll see if I can get some sleep now, shall I?’

Jed waved a hand towards my room and said, ‘Be my guest.’ Then he turned and walked away.

‘Thanks for the intelligence,’ I called after him, trying on my newly adopted spy hat. But at the same time, a feeling of unease crept over me, a foreboding that the world of spies, the nasty type of spies, was closing in on me. This thought led me to wonder if any decent spies existed at all.

2  The Canadian

I was just slipping into bed again when the flaming phone rang.

‘Bill McAllyster,’ I announced loudly, hoping to disarm the interfering carbuncle. It turned out to be a Suzie Watson from Canada’s Department of Advanced Fire Technology (DAFT). This was a distinct improvement on Jed. Actually, I had intended contacting Suzie, having made enquiries from Sydney regarding a visit to her organisation’s laboratories. Suzie was phoning from a downstairs lounge, so I got rid of the pyjamas, dressed in something more appropriate and went down to meet her.

Suzie had seated herself in a lounge and I shook her hand and introduced myself.

‘Call me Bluey,’ I said, running my fingers through my hair.

‘Bluey?’ she asked, with a flick of her long auburn hair.

‘My friends in Australia call me that on account of my red hair.’

‘Of course, Australia. I should have known.’

I raised my eyebrows and a warning finger at her, and she went on.

‘You haven’t brought any of your friends with you, I hope.’ She chuckled into her hand. ‘And what happened to your nose? It’s all red, or should I call it blue?’ She chuckled again.

‘You’re not going to chuckle after every sentence, are you?’ She chuckled again.

‘If you like, you can call me Bill.’

‘I’ll call you Bill,’ she said.

She almost did it again.

‘And I’ll call you Chuckles.’

She did it again.

‘Why weren’t you at the pre-conference cocktail party this evening?’ she asked.

‘Too busy getting beaten up,’ I explained, pointing at my nose. ‘And another bloke got beaten up along the corridor from my room. I had two intruders in my room, spies they were.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Suzie said. ‘A truck ran through my room.’

She chuckled.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at her, then told her, ‘One of my visitors was an American guy called Jed, from FIFI.’ Suzie’s eyes widened. ‘He accused me of being a Chinese spy.’ Suzie laughed for a change. In fact, we both had a good laugh.

‘Jed’s a friend of mine,’ Suzie said.

‘Keep him away from me if you don’t mind, he’s a menace.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ she said, so I changed the subject, and we discussed the conference for a few minutes. Then my visit to Ottawa came up.

‘Sure, I’d love to show you around our place,’ she said. ‘I’ll check my diary and let you know what we can arrange.’

We called it a night at that point and went up in the lift. She had a room down the corridor from mine and we parted with an arrangement to meet for breakfast the next morning.

I went back to my suite in high spirits; Jed was no longer an issue, and I was again looking forward to the conference. I slipped between the sheets, relaxed at last after my wacky welcome to America.

If I had known what lay ahead, I might not have slept at all that night. In fact, it seemed I had barely fallen asleep when the phone rang.

‘What now!’ I cried into the wrong end of the instrument. A cheerful wake-up caller told my mouth it was 7am I showered and then turned on the television to see if there was any news about Australians being beaten up in America. On the screen, I read a few words of welcome for a Mr Lo Fat. I made a mental note to complain about this and turned my thoughts to breakfast with Suzie.

A hostess at the entrance to the dining room took a note of my room number and I went in looking for Suzie. A harsh clatter of dishes and chatter of voices rebounded off the red, white and blue-tiled floor. I spotted Suzie seated near a window and as I approached her, I took in her smart blue outfit with a gold maple leaf pinned to her lapel. I was tempted to say something like hello darling as she smiled at me, but I thought she might chuckle at me, so I cancelled that idea.

‘You have to serve yourself,’ she said after I had sat down. ‘Over there.’ She pointed over there, at a buffet. I excused myself and collected a plateful of bacon, eggs and mushrooms, then returned to Suzie and her pile of flapjacks with maple syrup. While she was manipulating her last flapjack, I told her about the oil discovery message on my telephone. She leaned forward with a look of interest on her face, her long hair lapping up the syrup on her plate.

‘My conference paper is about shale oil in northern Canada,’ she said enthusiastically, wiping her hair with a serviette. ‘Where’s this new discovery?’

‘Java.’

‘That’s not in Canada!’

‘You’re wide awake,’ I quipped. ‘Jed was rather interested in it, though. He seemed a bit excitable, as though he doesn’t want anyone to know about the oil.’

Suzie reached for her coffee, and said, ‘He gets involved in matters which, to the outsider, don’t appear to fit in with his work.’

‘He does seem a bit weird,’ I replied. ‘But how do you know so much about him?’

‘We’re friends.’

I didn’t dig any further and offered to buy her a drink after the day’s conference session. Her eyes said yes as they peered over the top of her cup. They were a soft misty brown, like a dog’s eyes when you scratch its chest. I looked at her chest and wondered… her eyes said no.

’I’m meeting a few of my overseas colleagues after the conference,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in the bar. And I’m bringing a friend along too,’ she added.

‘What kind of friend?’ I said a bit too quickly.

A cheeky grin lit up her face.

‘See you at the conference,’ she said with a little wave of her hand. Her chair screeched on the floor as she pushed it back. ‘You’ll like Jo.’ I choked on my toast and waved a threatening finger at her. She chuckled and left. Her hair and skirt waved back at me and her high heels click-clacked on the tiles. Not a bad figure either, I thought to myself as I finished my coffee.

After breakfast I went to Reception and complained about the Lo Fat message on my TV. The young man at the desk apologised profusely, wringing his hands to show his grief.

‘Mr Lo Fat booked into your room yesterday, but he cancelled, so we put you in his room, and …’ His voice dropped and he said with a stupid smile, ‘we forgot to change the welcome message.’ He wrung his hands again.

As I turned away from the counter it occurred to me Charlie Wong must have left the telephone message for Lo Fat. I raced upstairs to my room and replayed the message to find out if Lo Fat’s name had been mentioned. As I went