Crossroad – 2

Part two of our gripping serial. As you recall our anti-hero Ian was hitchiking somewhere in the lower part of the North Island. He’s on a journey to find himself. Now read on . . .

Ian walked along the side of the road for an hour or so, but nobody stopped to offer a lift. He came across a roadside café and decided to go in for a coffee and a muffin. He found a corner table. There was a newspaper on the next seat and he placed it in front of him, pretending to read while keeping an eye open for a potential ride.

Two men in checked shirts and jeans came in. Both had ruddy complexions. One over six foot tall with thick black hair. The other was about Ian’s height, balding and with a pot belly. They looked a few years older than him.

They look the type who would stop for a hitchhiker, Ian thought.

The two men bought some sandwiches and cake to take away. Ian stood up and walked to the exit just in front of them. He held the door open and let them leave first.

“Thanks,” the tall one said.

“Cheers,” replied Ian.

Ian walked casually back to the road as they went to a big four-wheel RV. He heard them drive up behind him. He didn’t turn round but put an arm out with thumb up.

They accelerated past then braked suddenly about 80 metres ahead. Ian trotted up to the front passenger door.

“Where are you guys going?” Ian got in first.

“Where’ya headed?” the shorter guy said.

Ian was about to say “North” when he spotted fishing rods in the back.

“Taupo.”

“Hop in. We can take you as far as Turangi,” came the reply.

“Thanks.”

He threw the backpack on the back seat and followed it in.

“Nice wheels,” he said once settled and the car had picked up speed.

No response from the two in front. Ian read somewhere that people who pick up hitchhikers either want someone to talk to, or they just want you to sit there quietly.

I’ll give it one more shot, he thought, and if they don’t say anything I’ll sit back and enjoy the ride.

“You guys off to do a bit of trout fishing?”

Nothing. It was as if he wasn’t there. So Ian sat back and looked at the scenery.

After about 10 minutes, the shorter guy in the front passenger seat turned round, held out his hand and said “Steve Coyne, the big drip driving is my brother Joe.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Ian said, “Thanks for stopping and the ride.”

“You’re not Ian Wright by any chance, are you?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“We played for Marist St Pats years ago. I was a centre. Joe was lock. I marked you a couple of times. Your face looked familiar when we saw you at the café. The penny’s just dropped.”

“You guys have great memories. It’s been 20-odd years since I last played rugby. You were a pretty good outfit in those days. Beat us in the club finals if I remember.”

“Yeah, well, we were at the end of our playing days then and you were someone special. We put two men on to you. They said you were going to be the next All Black centre. What happened? You disappeared off the scene suddenly.”

“Knee problems. Some great lumbering forward took exception to my ego and flattened me at training.”

“They’re like that, forwards are. All brawn and no brains,” Steve said looking at his brother.

“I resent that remark,” Joe smiled in the mirror at Ian.

“Well, that’s the breaks. You can’t dwell on what might have been. Tell you what though, watching rugby nowadays, the players are so huge. I wouldn’t want to playing today,” Ian said to Steve.

“Well the game’s certainly changed since our days. It’s so fast now. We used to be able to have a breather while the forwards strolled up to a lineout or scrum,” Steve replied.

“I suppose it was inevitable now that it’s professional. So, what do you guys do now. Farming, is it?”

“Ha! What made you say that?” said Joe.

“Just a guess. You look like you spend a lot of time outdoors,” Ian said.

“Nah, we’re panelbeaters. We took over our old man’s place in the Hutt when he retired. We go fishing most weekends.”

“That’s what gives you the outdoor look,” Ian said. “Trout fishing mainly?”

“No,” Steve said. “We’ve got a little runabout and go out in the harbour when the weather’s fine. This is our annual one week trip to Turangi to fish for trout. Our wives go off to Melbourne or Sydney for shopping once a year. We used to go with them but once you’ve seen one shopping mall you’ve seen them all. So we decided we’d rather go fishing, and I think our wives decided they’d rather we did too.”

“Sounds like you’ve worked out the ideal arrangement.”

“Well, we think so. And what about you? What type of business are you in?”

“Cars. Selling of. Sick of it to tell the truth. My wife and I are having problems. I just upped and left. Don’t know where I’m going. Don’t know what I want to do. Having an early mid-life crisis.”

That put a stop to the conversation. Joe put the car radio on and they had easy-listening music instead.

They drove on through the central plateau region. Couldn’t see the top of the mountains for the clouds. Eventually Lake Taupo came into view as they drove down towards Turangi.

Joe pulled the car over at the turnoff. Ian picked up his backpack and was about to open the car door to get out when Steve turned round.

“It’s going to be dark soon. If you don’t get a ride quickly you could be stranded. Do you really need to get to Taupo tonight?”

“No, not really.”

“We stay at the same motel each time we come here. I’m sure they’ll have a spare room. What do you think?”

“Yeah, why not. Thanks.”

So they drove on into Turangi and stopped near the lake by the Flyfishers Paradise Motel. An older-style but clean and well looked-after establishment.

They did have a room. Ian thanked the brothers for the lift and signed in. The owner showed him to his room and he threw his backpack on the bed and switched the electric jug on to make a coffee.

While he waited for the jug to boil he pulled his gear out of the backpack and spread it over the bed. His cellphone was in there. He’d forgotten about it. Ian switched it on and he had three voice messages and two text messages. All from Samantha.

He decided to drink his coffee first before doing anything about the cellphone messages.

As he sat on the bed with his coffee, reading the guest guide to Turangi, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in. It’s not locked,” Ian shouted.

It was Steve and Joe.

“Just come to see how you’re settled,” said Joe.

“Fine,” he said, “It’s a nice room. Thanks for recommending it.”

“We’re going to have a bit of a rest, then freshen up with a shower and go into town for a couple of beers and a meal. Care to join us?”

“That sounds like a great idea. I’d love to,” Ian replied.

“See you in about an hour then,” Steve this time.

Ian finished his coffee, hung his clothes up in the wardrobe to give them a bit of air, then had a shower. Watched a bit of the news on TV. There were still 20 minutes or so to kill before he’d arranged to meet the Coynes. Ian decided to check Samantha’s messages.

“Where R U? Ring me” was the first text message.

“Where the hell R U? For God’s sake, get in touch” was the second.

The three voice mail messages where the same theme, only longer.

He texted her back, “Going out for a meal. Will ring you in a couple of hours.”

Then he switched off the phone.