Everyone Burns
Authors: John Dolan
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #International Mystery & Crime, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Crime Fiction
EVERYONE BURNS
by
John Dolan
___________
TENTION BOOKS
This book is intended entirely as a work of fiction. Although it contains incidental references to real people, this is solely to provide a relevant historical and geographical context. All other characters, names and events are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All quoted words in this book are believed to fall under the category of fair use. However the publisher is sensitive to the rights of copyright owners and should any such copyright owners have cause for concern please contact the publisher.
EVERYONE BURNS published by Tention Publishing Limited
Kindle
Edition
C
opyright John David Dolan 2012
John David Dolan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including, but not restricted to, Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, scanning or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
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The events in this book take place on the island of Samui and in Bangkok over seventeen days from 25th January to 10th February 2005.
At this time, Thailand was still in a state of shock following the tsunami of 26th December 2004 which caused so much damage and loss of life on the country’s Andaman Coast. Against this backdrop, the National Elections were held on 6th February and the eve of the Chinese New Year fell on 8th February.
From 10th January until 11th February, less than 4mm of rain fell on Samui, temperatures averaged in the high twenties and the mean humidity hovered around eighty percent. Bangkok fared similarly.
The picture of Koh Samui that is painted here is partly accurate, and partly the product of my over-active imagination. Wat Son does not exist and neither do the specific bars and restaurants to which I make reference. Bophut Police Station is located where mentioned, but it is not the architectural eyesore that I describe. I have taken some liberties with the organization of the Royal Thai Police, and the activities of the fictitious police officers in this entertainment should not be taken as representative of reality.
None of the characters herein are real people.
“How
can there be laughter, how can there be pleasure,
when the whole world is burning?
When you are in deep darkness, will you not ask for a lamp?”
Lord Buddha, The Dhammapada
“One must imagine Sisyphus happy
.”
Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
Oh, bugger
. I had been hoping for a quiet evening.
As the broken cue spins up off the pool table, the jagged end just misses my left eye, cutting a gash in the skin below. I duck as a ferrety-looking drunk in an
I Love Thailand
tee-shirt takes a clumsy swing at my head. Swivelling to the side I bring my right fist in hard towards his stomach, but my timing is off and I hit his lower ribs.
All hell is now breaking loose.
On Koh Samui, bar fights are pretty rare. They are usually sparked by jealousy, a racist remark, or some sexual insult. Fists, bottles and bar furniture then start to fly, fuelled by cheap alcohol. Tonight is typical. Some overly-lubricated European had mistaken one of the pool-playing
katoeys
for a bona fide female, and had reacted violently when he realised his error. In fairness May, the katoey in question,
is
rather gorgeous, especially tonight in her red figure-hugging dress. However, when bad-mouthed by an inebriated
farang
, she is not averse to striking out with pool cues, glasses, bottles or any other suitable object that presents itself to her beautifully-manicured hand. So it had proved this evening, and with a shower of glass and loud oaths, the more macho patrons of the bar began wading into each other. The less oiled customers and the (inevitably more sensible) females meantime disappeared quicker than a Scotsman’s generosity.
How do
people pick which individual they are going to punch at such times? Interesting question. Maybe a Chaos Theory specialist could explain it. Something to do with the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings perhaps, or maybe in this case the fluttering of false eyelashes. Suffice to say, however, that as I bring my elbow in hard contact with the side of the ferrety-one’s jaw and he goes crashing off over a table, this action is not going to endear me to his drinking companions.
Two of the more overweight of them rush at me, although one is slowed down
momentarily by an airborne bar stool. The first one – whose face bears an uncanny resemblance to the actor Geoffrey Rush (and in fact he swears at me in an Australian accent) – manages to pin me against the wall, dislodging a framed portrait of King Rama IX of Thailand, which promptly shatters on the tiled floor. Out of the corner of my eye I see the second charmer – a bearded, Jerry-Garcia-Grateful-Dead-type – break the neck off a bottle as he works his way through the flailing bodies towards me.
“You’re
screwed, mate,” says Geoffrey Rush.
But
apparently I am not. For at that moment help arrives in the unlikely form of a gigantic shaven-headed Russian, who flattens Jerry Garcia with a single punch to the jaw, before grinning widely at me. I notice two other pulped guys at the Russian’s feet. My Australian assailant gulps and his face turns a fetching shade of corpse.
“Need some help?” asks the jolly giant.
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” I reply, freeing myself with a sneaky knee to Geoffrey Rush’s privates, and a rabbit-punch to the nose.
Surveying the
human and non-human debris, I see the bar fight is effectively over. It’s ended as quickly as it began. Clearly, the bruising and bone-cracking having ceased, it is now the appropriate time for the local police to arrive.
The Thai Boys in B
lue are represented on this occasion by ‘PC’ and his sidekick ‘DTs’. PC (real name: Preechap Chaldrakun) has the build of a Maori rugby player – his neck being the thickness of a local girl’s waist – and the humanitarian features of a Japanese prison guard. His nickname is somewhat ironic since he is about as un-PC as anyone I’ve ever met, and he views every
farang
with suspicion. On the other hand, I suppose ‘PC’ has a certain ring to it as a policeman’s moniker.
His partner, DTs (real name: Daeng Tathip) is a snake of a man with darting eyes, bad skin and a serious drink problem. PC does the physical stuff and I imagine DTs does the paperwork, assuming he can keep his shaking hand still long enough to wield the pen.
PC looks at me sullenly. He would probably like to arrest me, but he knows I’m friendly with his boss. Then his shark’s eyes fix on the shattered picture of His Majesty Bhumibol Adulyadej.
“Who did this?” he demands.
The big Russian waggles a thumb in the direction of the Australian who is still lying on the floor with his hands to his crotch and a pained expression on his sweaty features. My earlier dancing partner, ferret-face, has vanished, so I point to the ex Grateful Dead member propped against a wall and spitting out what looks like a tooth.
“These two,” I say.
This decides PC. For him, busting up a bar is one thing, but disrespecting the Thai Royal Family is on an altogether different scale. He uses his cuffs on the temporary eunuch and snatches DT’s cuffs for use on Jerry Garcia. Then with hands like bunches of bananas he hauls the miscreants up and out of the bar.
I light the Russian and myself a cigarette
, and we follow the circus outside to the waiting police car. While DTs stands twitching, PC bundles the two protesting farangs into the back of the vehicle. With a final glowering look at me, PC barks “Get in!” to DTs and his partner hastily complies. The car speeds off, rather faster than this crowded street of Chaweng warrants.
I turn to the Russian. “The name’s Braddock, by the way,” I say proffering my hand.
“Vladimir. Vlad,” he answers, grasping my hand with a tattooed bear’s paw.
“Our police friends will now play with the rubber hoses, yes?”
“They don’t use rubber hoses here.”
“What do they use?”
“You don’t want to know.”
We wander back into the much quieter Mosquito Bar, where the barman is already clearing up. He shrugs, indicates his despoiled kingdom with a weary gesture, and offers us beers on the house. We gracefully accept. May and a couple of other katoeys, are attending to their makeup, but their faces radiate happiness at the sight of Vlad and myself. There is much
wai
-ing, smiling, hugging and general congratulatory behaviour, along with offers of obscene acts of gratitude. My companion takes this in good part. The cheerleaders dispersing, we find a couple of undamaged stools and sit at the bar.
“I saw you kick-boxing in Lamai last week,” I venture to the behemoth sitting beside me. “You kicked the crap out of some local guy.”
Vlad laughs and claps me on the shoulder, rather harder than necessary. “What can I say? Everyone needs a hobby, yes?” His smile, which includes two gold teeth, is slightly insane, and I notice the dilation of his pupils which suggests a recent acquaintance with some illegal substance.
I sip my beer
. “Thanks for the intervention.”
“Is no problem
, my friend. I am Russian. When there is a fight I always choose side of right,” he says, rather morally. “Those other men disrespect May. May is a friend of some of my girls here, so whether he is man or woman, it makes no difference to me. I do not like disrespect.” He spits. “So I join you.” He laughs again.
“
That’s a very, um, refreshing attitude,” I say, wondering how many girls he has here, and whether his relationship with them is of a social or a business nature.
“Incidentally,” whispers the Russian stubbing out his cigarette, “You might want to know that your face is bleeding.”
* * * * *
Such is the reality, and now for the idealising and philosophising.
Some stock-taking would appear to be in order.
David Braddock.
A fortysomething educated Englishman. Well-built (allegedly), with a full head of dark, flecked-grey hair (certainly), and a slightly crooked nose from a rugby-playing youth. Hiding out, if you will, on a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. Living off the proceeds of earlier capitalist days and inherited money. Vacillating between poetry and profanity. Running a barely-viable Agency whose dual nature is difficult to describe. In short, me.
To some – mainly local Thais – I am perceived as a
n advisor and solver of personal problems. To others – mainly Europeans and North Americans – I am a private investigator primarily employed in the tracking of possibly-unfaithful girlfriends.
In my first capacity, I am usually to be found in a comfortable consulting room dispensing empathy and the occasional tissue to an emotionally-affected client. In my second capacity, I either sit in an adjacent office taking businesslike notes and making pithy remarks to my predominantly white clientele; or else I hang around in bars and alleys observing the antics of young Thai women.
Hence my recent presence in the Mosquito Bar and accidental participation in tonight’s fracas.
To summarise, my life is one of split personality. I am in two minds about it myself.
Nevertheless, down these narrow streets a man must walk, even if it is in flip-flops. But I am no Philip Marlowe, and Koh Samui is not film-noir USA. There is nothing of Hollywood’s black and white morality on this most colourful of Thailand’s islands. And long overcoats just make you sweat in the sun. Here the Postman Never Rings Twice, simply because he never rings at all. He has better things to do. Lamai’s and Chaweng’s adventurers generally pack a condom, not a gun.
Some of the
streets are, however, genuinely narrow. These same streets may not be filled with machine-gun fire and the dramatic screech of violins, but they overflow with the invisible and innumerable longings of the human heart. Love continues to minister here, but betrayal still wears its perfidious face, hatred hollows out the weak man’s breast, revenge pursues its self-defeating course; and the unfulfilled dreams of the multitude haunt the island like so many hungry ghosts.
Accordingly there is work to be done: often trivial and meaningless, sometimes absurd, but
on occasion a difference can be made.
Occasionally
Sisyphus can push the rock to the top of the hill without its rolling back down.
Meantime, my bleeding cheek is throbbing, my shirt is ruined, and I must
repair home to be myself repaired.
* * * * *
My weatherworn house is just outside Chaweng, at a sufficient distance from the tourist madness, towards the hills. It used to be in a cul-de-sac but developers eager to offer affordable chunks of the island dream extended and improved the route so that it now loops back on itself to Samui’s Ring Road. It is still quiet however, and most of the surrounding coconut groves survive intact. Fortunately most of my immediate neighbours are Thai.
When my battered jeep pulls onto the drive around midnight, my wife, Claire, is nowhere to be found. Wayan however has been waiting up for me, and her brown Balinese eyes react with horror at the sight of my damaged face.
“Mr. David, what happened to you?”
“I had a disagreement with the wrong end of a pool cue. I’m OK.”
She rushes off to the kitchen, returns with our medical kit and promptly sets about cleaning up my cheek.
Wayan’s role in our household fits the broad category of
’housekeeper’, but she is much more than that. Claire and I first met her over fifteen years ago during one of our regular holidays to Ubud in Bali, where she was working in a spa. We became friends and stayed in touch. Wayan had never married in spite of being very pretty and kind almost to the point of saintliness. I gathered there had been a romance with a Westerner at some stage in her life which had ended. She has never discussed the details, and I have found it prudent never to ask. She believes her
karma
is to be alone. Periodically I have tried reasoning with her on this point but she remains firm. Now in her early forties, aside from the slightly fuller waist, she still looks to me the same young woman I met in Bali.
Her mother – her only family – died a few years ago, around the time I was decamping to Samui. I asked her to run the house here and she accepted. Getting her
Thai paperwork sorted out was not easy, but I have some influence, a greedy friend in immigration, and cash in my wallet. Generally speaking, I find in South East Asia most bureaucratic problems have a monetary solution.
She looks concerned. “You should have stitches in this,” she says.
“No way. The doctor would laugh at me and tell me I was being a baby. Besides,
Scarface Braddock
is a great name for a private detective.”
She does not find this funny.
I notice the book she has been reading before I arrived. It is
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
“Why are you reading this?” I ask.
“I need to improve my English.”
This is nonsense, of course, as her English is very good
, albeit with intermittent confusion of past and present tenses. I may not be able to converse with her on the more abstruse aspects of Quantum Mechanics, but then again why would I want to?