Everyone Burns (29 page)

I pay my bill at the coffee bar and proceed up the glamorous main staircase to the first floor
. The corridors are empty, so I go up another flight and I find what I am looking for: a bribable chamber-maid. This one is in her forties, overweight and seems to have an asthmatic condition. After some charming preamble, I tell her if she can find out the name of the man staying in the penthouse I will make it worth her while. I reassure her that I am not a criminal, she will in no way get into trouble and that I will treat the source of my information with the strictest confidence. She remains unconvinced until I mention how much I will give her. Then she is extremely convinced.

She tells me she has a good friend on reception
: she will get the information and meet me at the nearby pier after she finishes work for the day at four o’clock.

I thank her, kiss her podgy hand gallantly and make my way back down into the lobby
, past the bored uniformed flunkeys and out into the stifling air.

One hour later
my chamber-maid waddles into sight. I hand her the Baht and she hands me a slip of paper. I look at the name on the paper. Then I fold the paper, put it in my pocket and go looking for X.

*       *       *       *       *

The sky is already dark when X drops me off in Patpong.

Since my rendezvous with the ample chamber-maid, I’ve had a SMS from Da confirming Wayan’s booking, been back to my claustrophobic hotel room, taken a cold shower (because there was no hot water) and changed into some dry clothing. I’ve also called Wayan to make sure she has checked into the
Lotus Blossom Villas, which she has albeit reluctantly. I suggested she take dinner in the restaurant, a suggestion which I’m sure she will discreetly ignore.

I gave Charoenkul the agreed story on his wife’s movements for the day
and told him that, having seen Mrs. C safely inside her friend’s house, I was knocking off for the day. He didn’t particularly react, even when I advised him he should sit down before opening his next credit card statement. I said I could supply him with more details when I gave him my bill. This at least drew a resigned sigh from the other end of the phone.

I hand X his bounty for the day and tell him he doesn’t need to hang around, since I’ll take a taxi back to my hotel later.

“Why don’t you enjoy yourself while you’re here,” I say. “The night is young.”

“I don’t drink,” he replies stiffly, “
and I have a regular girlfriend, so I don’t mix with these whores.”

“Good for you,” I respond through gritted teeth.

And so the moral tattooed biker rides home to his domestic idyll while the immoral middle-aged businessman makes his way on foot through Patpong’s bright lights, hawkers, pimps and girls. I turn into a rubbish-strewn and evil-smelling side-alley and climb a flight of peeling stairs at the top of which is my destination, Siam Welcomes You.

The interior is darker than the outside alley. The concealed lighting is only just about bright enough to enable you to make your way from the entrance to the bar where an eerie blue glow illumines the face of the resident bartender. To the right and left are large couches with low tables
. A small pole-dancing stage nestles unsubtly, and currently unlit, in one corner. The sound system plays Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’; the irony of the lyrics apparently lost on the room’s occupants. It is still early so there are only two customers on the barstools and two more on the sofas: each has a girl draped over him. Three bored-looking girls are examining their cell phones at the far end of the bar: they haven’t noticed me yet.

The eagle-eyes of the establishment’s owner have, however, clocked my entrance, and she comes over to greet me.

“Mr. David, Mr. David,” she croons. “How wonderful to see you back with us again.”

‘
Mama-san’ is in her sixties, a portly hard-nosed Thai businesswoman who rules her small kingdom with a rod of iron. She operates some very strict policies – no drugs, no violence, no rowdy drunks and no credit. At least both the girls and the clients know where they are, and the girls seem to stick around so I guess she’s doing something right. I gather she was given her title by a Japanese client many years before when she was on the game herself. I have no idea what her real name is. I’m not sure anybody here knows it.

Unusually for this sort of ‘club’,
Siam Welcomes You has a couple of bedrooms upstairs, for the use of Mama-san’s
special
customers. I feature among this august body; and indeed a couple of years ago I found myself holed up in one of those rooms for an entire weekend operating a rota system with five of Mama-san’s girls. I’m not bragging mind you: the girls did most of the work, sometimes two-at-a-time as I recall. To commemorate this expensive and sinful occasion, I painted a sign for them which is still displayed behind the bar:
BAR TABS CAUSE AMNESIA: SORRY NO CREDIT
.

I recognise two of the three girls at the bar, and give them a wave, but I don’t see my favourite one around.

“Mama-san,” I say, “is Pichaya not working today?”

Pichaya is a statuesque, and remarkably pale-skinned beauty from Chiang Mai, who has the most perfect set of white teeth I’ve ever come across. I used to call her ‘Sìp Jèt’ which incidentally has nothing to do with powerful oral suction, but is rather the Thai word for ‘
seventeen’ – a throwback to when I first met her and Mama-san had given each girl a number (a practice I’m happy that she has since dispensed with). Pichaya has a young son back in her village who is looked after by her mother: she’s never even hinted at wanting money for him, unlike many in her situation. Pichaya also doesn’t do the fluttering eyelashes thing which personally I find a bit of a turn-off.

“Pichaya is not available, Mr
. David, it is her time of the month. I am so sorry. But we have many other beautiful girls as you know.”

“I
do
know. But I did want to see Pichaya, even if only for a drink. Is she back in Chiang Mai or is she around?”

Mama-san laughs obscenely and nudges me in the ribs. “Oh, I
see
, Mr. David. I know what you want Pichaya to drink! You want her drink you, yes?”

That wasn’t really what I had in mind, but I can’t be bothered to argue. Mama-san goes off to ring her.

About twenty minutes and a couple of beers and cigarettes later Pichaya arrives and gives me a friendly hug. Mama-san ushers the pair of us upstairs into one of the pink boudoirs with its many mirrors. She winks and leaves.

I explain to Pichaya in Thai (her English being not-so-great)
that, contrary to Mama-san’s assumption, I’d just like to lie in bed with her, look at her butterfly tattoo and cuddle awhile.

We undress and she looks in alarm at all the bruises and scratches on my body.

“I was in a scrap with a large cat,” I explain.

“A cat that had breasts, I think,” she laughs.

“You could be right.”

She snuggles up to me in bed and we clink our beer bottles.

We lie there contentedly listening to the humming of the air conditioner.

I think about the slip of paper the chamber-maid gave
to me and the name she had written on it: Thongchai Rattanakorn. Nittha’s husband.

10

“The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instruments to plague us”

William Shakespeare, King Lear

On my taxi ride to Don Muang Airport I call Da to let her know her I’ll drop by the office later after I’ve checked on Wayan. She tells me she’s spoken to Wayan this morning and she’s already home, preferring to breakfast there rather than at the hotel (“Nice though it is.”).

“There’s no need to rush in,” she says. “There’s nothing in the appointment book for today; or for tomorrow for that matter.”

“How are you?” I ask. “No more twinges?”

“No,” she replies. “I think my baby must be a boy. Only a man could come this late.”

I repress the urge to say something smutty. “Yeah, right.”

“Khun David,” she says rather sternly, “What are you going to do about my replacement when the baby comes? You cannot put off this decision forever. I have told you I will come back to work as soon as I can, but you will need someone to cover for me while I’m off.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“I might be in hospital later. Do you want me to talk to my cousin?”

“Like I say, we’ll talk this afternoon. If the baby starts coming in the meantime, just cross your legs and take a painkiller.”

Da sighs. “You are so irresponsible sometimes,” she says.

“Procrastination,” I reply, “Is a boss’ prerogative.”

“By the way,” she responds ignoring my comment, “you never told me exactly why you are in Bangkok.”

“Didn’t I? That was thoughtless of me. See you later.”

I hang up.

My taxi
is negotiating its way through the overheated streets of the capital slowly. I half-wish I’d used the kamikaze driver who’d brought me from the airport since I feel an urgency to shake the dust and sin of the city from me quickly.

I always behave badly when I come here. There is just too much temptation around for my feeble willpower. It’s like Krung Thep expects its visitors to indulge in dubious antics, and some of us are only too happy to oblige.

If I were a better man I would describe the sensation I’m feeling now as
shame
. But I’m not, so I don’t. I experience more a sense of needing a prolonged shower, as if soapy water alone could wash away all my misdeeds.

I tell my driver to turn up the aircon.

When Kat arrives at the departure gate she is looking more demure than is her custom; more natural, less businesslike. She seems quieter, more reflective. If I didn’t know her better I’d say she was feeling a bit
guilty
. But then I remind myself that Kat is a great actress and finds it easy to conceal herself behind whatever persona she chooses to wear. Today she is the Police Chief’s Wife, while I have on the expression of the Bored Private Investigator.

However, in spite of my external diffidence inside I find myself seething. It is alarming how Kat’s body has taken my mind hostage. I may not be able to experience shame, but the sharp bite of jealousy I feel clamping down in my innards is unmistakeable. My head is flooded with explicit imaginings of Kat’s flesh in intimate congress with the other man. Just as last night
, when I inevitably surrendered to Pichaya putting her lips to my skin, it was Kat’s mouth I felt consuming me.

I am losing control. I sense a massive collision rushing towards me. If there is light at the end of this tunnel, it is almost certainly an oncoming train.

Kat lies to me that she spent an emotional evening with her friend and accordingly feels wrung out. I lie to her that I had dinner at my business partner’s house and we stayed up drinking until late.

Our masks are securely in place, even if the worms are wriggling in the meat beneath.

“I think it would be a good idea if you spent time with your husband for the next few days,” I suggest soberly.

She nods. “You are probably right,” she says quietly.

“Probably better if you don’t call me for a while too. Unless something serious happens.”

Kat looks at me for a time. “Are you angry with me about something, David?” she asks.

I smile convincingly. “Of course not, Kat. Why would I be? I’m just concerned about how all this will turn out. And exactly what I’m going to tell your husband. Also I’m a bit hung over. Ignore me.”

“Everything will be fine,
tirak, don’t worry.”

She squeezes my hand discreetly.

The flight is busy and we are sitting well apart. When we land in Samui I stride straight through Arrivals without a backward glance.

*       *       *       *       *

The thought that something could have happened to Wayan, that she could have been put in peril because of my recklessness gnaws at me on my drive home. It is one thing for me to be careless of my own wellbeing; but putting someone I care about, someone as decent as her in danger is just downright wrong. I drive fast
er than I should because I need to satisfy myself she is safe.

Of course, she is
, thankfully.

When I arrive s
he is doing some tidying in the kitchen, looking serene and unfazed. I want to put my arms around her and apologise for compromising her safety through my thoughtlessness. At the sight of her, the implications of what might have happened – suppressed for the last two days – fester up into my full consciousness. While I was in Bangkok, thinking about getting laid, she could have been attacked or worse. Just the idea turns my insides to ice and I feel sick. Da is right: I am irresponsible.

“Hello, Mr
. David, would you like something to eat?”

The uncomplicated domesticity of this scene
, compared with the lying, cheating and lewdness of the last forty-eight hours, almost brings tears of relief to my eyes. How far my life has strayed from normalcy.

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, really. There was no need for you to put me in a hotel.”

“I was worried.
I had to. I wanted you safe. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you on your own,” I stammer, my face flushing with embarrassment.

Wayan touches my arm
soothingly. “Mr. David,
I’m fine
. You can’t worry about me every time you have to go away on business. Please, I’m OK.”

There are so many things I’d like to say to her. But I don’t want to alarm her or cause any awkwardness between us, so instead I
nod, mutter some platitude and squeeze her shoulder in a non-intimate fashion.

I dump my bag, shower and calm down
.

We lunch together in the garden, in the shade and fan-induced cool of the
sala. I probably look at Wayan too much, like someone who has lost something precious, but then found it again. She doesn’t seem to notice this, or if she does she doesn’t say anything about it.

Wayan recounts that she is still having dreams about flying demons, or to be more accurate, one large flying demon in particular. She urges me to be careful since she fears the evil spirit is pursuing
me
. I don’t tell her I have so many fiends chasing me already that one more won’t make much of a difference.

After lunch I retire to my study
to catch up on my emails and scan the local paper for anything about the burning murders. Yesterday’s edition contains an editorial and interviews with some of the island’s ex pats on whether they feel ‘threatened’. I notice they haven’t spoken to any tourists about
their
feelings on the matter: but then those poor buggers probably don’t have a notion of what has been happening. Katchai must be under increasing pressure to get a result. Charoenkul may be unhappy at the thought of having a wayward wife, but he must be rubbing his hands in glee at the Investigator’s discomfort.

Among my emails is one from Vogel. He will be back in Chaweng for Chinese New Year and wants to come and see me. I reply for him to ring my cell
phone when he arrives since I am minded to close the office for a few days.

I smoke a cigarette and prioritise the rest of my day.
At some stage I also need to prioritise the rest of my life, but I have to start somewhere, so it might as well be with today. Let me see.

Burning murders

Anonymous letters

Claire

Kat/Charoenkul/Rattanakorn

I have to do something about the Kat/
Charoenkul/Rattanakorn thing, and I have to do it soon. This is no time for Hamlet-type self-reflection and dithering. The rest will have to wait.

Duller would I be than the fat weed that rots itself in ease on the Lethe wharf, if I do not stir in this
, as one grounded in Elizabethan tragedy might say.

If I do not begin to take my own self-preservation more seriously,
bad things are going to happen. And not just to me, but potentially also to those closest to me. Wayan, for example, might get sucked down into the sink-hole.

I further reflect that, given the 3D minefield into which I have blundered,
it is debatable which will end first; my sanity or my life. (Mythologically speaking, of course, those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.) The only reason I’m not already bouncing off the walls of some rubber room must be that my mind has such a high tolerance of ambiguity: however there has to be a limit. We can all live with a degree of ambivalence, but I sense the imminent arrival of a time when I won’t be able to cope, and the whole edifice of my life will reach its tipping point.

I don’t want Wayan buried under the rubble.

But – to use another metaphor – before I can start draining the swamp, I have to wade deeper in. Up to my neck, in fact. I have to ring Rattanakorn. And then I have to meet him.

In doing so I will be putting myself between Scylla
and Charybdis: I’m not sure whether the gangster is the cliff and the Police Chief is the whirlpool, or vice versa. It’s comforting to know nonetheless that a classical education can provide solace when one is contemplating one’s position between a rock and a hard place.
Or not
. Let’s be honest, my situation is more Homer Simpson than Homer.

Hum, about my brains.

I look at the two cell
phone numbers I’d lifted from Kat’s phone. Which one to ring first? Eeny meeny miny moe.
Just do it
. I hit the buttons.

A female voice answers: Sumalee, presumably. I apologise and say I’ve called the wrong number.

I dial the second number.

A cautious male voice answers, “Yes?”

“Mr. Rattanakorn?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is David Braddock. I’m calling from Chaweng.”

“How did you get this number?”

“That’s not important right now. I’m a private investigator.” I pause a moment to let this sink in, then say, “I think we should meet.”

“I don’t know you.”

He sounds like he is about to hang up, so I say quickly, “I believe it is in your interests that we meet. You see, you left something behind at the Carlsson Sharifah.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do.”

There is a long silence at the other end of the phone. Then he says, “What do you want?”

“Just to talk. I can’t say what I have to say over the phone. Do you have time to see me today or tomorrow?”

He considers this for a few seconds. I can sense him trying to work out what is going on. He’s probably thinking
blackmail
.

“Not
today or tomorrow, no. What did you say your name was?” He’s buying time to do some research of his own
on me
.

“David Braddock.
Are you already back on the island? Can we meet on Saturday?”

He ignores my first question.
“You can come to my office at one o’clock on Saturday. As you’re a private investigator, you presumably know where that is.”

He cuts the line.

My hands are shaking as I light a cigarette. I may have just made an enemy of a jâo phâw. It’s not a pleasant thought. I can feel the swamp water reaching my bottom lip. I hope Rattanakorn won’t have me bumped off until he’s heard what I have to say, but I can’t be certain.

I set off for my office and put a Meatloaf CD in the jeep’s player.
‘I’d Do Anything for Love’ comes on. It’s not heavy metal enough to drive my jitters away, so I select ‘Bat out of Hell’, a song about someone dying in a road accident. Perfect. I turn the volume up loud.

*       *       *       *       *

An acne-faced yob in a baseball cap is sitting in reception playing with his cell phone when I arrive at the office. His legs are covered in mosquito bites and he is wearing a lime green tee-shirt with a cartoon drawing of a dead cat on a dinner plate. The logo beneath reads
I Eat Pussy
. I take an instant dislike to him even before he’s opened his mouth. Something about him reminds me of Sinclair, and it’s not the BO.