Escape (25 page)

‘Can you speak, Theo?’ one of us asked.

Theo could not. Nor could he move one arm which had begun to curl into a rigid spiral, the fingers of his hand gnarled. Using what control remained of his good arm, Theo swung it over his head, slapping his hand against his ear in a desperate flutter. His one eye blinked furiously.

After fifteen minutes making a lot of noise we managed to wake a guard. He was not happy, even after we gave him two cartons of cigarettes. Reluctantly, though THB1,000 richer, this night guard woke a key boy to keep watch and then shuffled to the KP hospital.

‘Don’t worry, Theo, we’ll get a doctor,’ I lied.

Sten added, ‘We’ll get onto the embassy tomorrow if they don’t do anything.’

Jet made coffee. We ate biscuits and then Sten pretended to read his book while I read a mail-order catalogue from Alamogordo, New Mexico. Jet stared at the ceiling. A long hour passed. Sten wondered, ‘Can we give him anything?’ I shook my head.

The guard from Building Six returned with another from the hospital. Perhaps an orderly. They did not want to take Theo from the cell. Too much trouble. We said we could help. I provided the overtime payments but only one of us would be allowed to help the key boy carry Theo. The orderly guard called the front-gate staff on his radio; told them he had one for the hospital.

The door to #57 was then unlocked. Sten and the key boy kept Theo upon his mattress and carried him to the corridor. The guard assisted the key boy only by turning the key to secure Jet and me inside the cell. My last sight of Theo was of his bare feet as he was carried along the corridor and then his thin mattress being squeezed a little at each end by Sten and the key boy so he would not fall as he was angled down the stairway.

Jet cleaned Theo’s corner while we waited for Sten to return. When he did Sten waited for the key boy to leave before speaking.

‘You know, even if he lives, he’ll be a vegetable.’

Theo died from the unhurried internal bleeding of his brain in a KP hospital corridor seven hours later. Miraj, the Indian people smuggler, moved in the following day.

I found Martyn at a table littered with the skeletons of a dozen VHS video recorders. He had been scavenging for parts to create a living machine. I was visiting Building Two and Martyn to collect some gizmo he’d made for me. We spoke first of the changes to the KP social register.

‘I heard you had a suicide,’ I opened. ‘Someone from this hut?’

‘Yes. Well, Maurice was British but it wasn’t suicide.’ Martyn dropped a small screwdriver into a plastic cup. ‘Not unless he was some kind of Houdini. Tied head to toe.’

‘Business?’ I’d heard that there were many disputes over food, drugs and space in Building Two.

Martyn shrugged. ‘Everyone’s content to blame trusties working for guards. And drugs, of course. Makes me suspicious of my countrymen but I’d rather not think about that. And in your building, Theo? A fellow here says his mother came over.’

The Swiss Embassy had made a very small fuss for a few days after Theo’s death. A consul visited some of us at the prison. Theo’s mother flew from St Gallen to collect the body and took the trouble to thank those who had helped at the end, not that any of us had. She’d heard bad things of Thai prisons and had said, ‘At least they won’t be able to hurt him anymore.’

I’d finished my recollections and was boiling water for some tea I’d brought when Martyn asked, ‘You really thought they’d do something for Theo in that hospital, David?’

I lowered the purple tin and looked at Martyn. ‘You’re a hard man, you know that? Why is it that scientists are so charming when they strip away someone’s convenient delusions? Like holding a martini and smiling over some suburban fence as his neighbour pointlessly digs another foot of bomb shelter.’

Martyn pretended to be mystified so I got to the point.

‘Sure, I wanted Theo out of the cell that night. I knew he was a dead man and didn’t want to explain a stiff in my cell come morning. What would you have done? Started tapping a blood vessel?’

‘Sorry, David. I didn’t for one minute mean to imply—’ Martyn stood to attend the boiling kettle. Few foreigners in Building Two had servants. ‘Now take a look at this. I’ve a pen for you. You’ll see it has some LEDs.’

I picked up the black pen with three tiny lenses set in its shaft. ‘Do I have to turn it on?’

‘No, just touch it on the wire, holding the top insulated part. That wire around the wall—I’m betting the middle light there will glow yellow. That’s 250 volts so use caution—especially so high up—and the white one just means ten volts from some three-phase source.’

‘I suppose the top one’s red. And if so?’

‘Uh, be careful. Or take some marshmallows. How’s it going anyway?’

‘Not good. Just Sten and me. No real plan. Are you sure there’s no one here in Two who’s up to no good? I mean—150 Westerners, I’d have thought this place a hotbed of intrigue.’

‘There’s talk of things but they’re no threat to the prison. A hotbed? Building Two is “fraught with no danger”.’ Martyn was quoting the broadcast from Radio Moscow’s English language service a year after the Chernobyl meltdown in which officials claimed the area safe. Improbably it was. For some reason almost a decade after the phrase was first transmitted, it had become popular just that month among the foreigner’s of Klong Prem.

Martyn and I then batted around and then finally dropped another plan in which I’d be called as a witness in someone’s case in Songkla. The idea was that I would get lost in transit. I had no faith in the friends of inmates and wanted no talk of escapes beyond the few. I returned to Building Six with my new toy, alarmed that I seemed to be running on ten volts.

Miraj, the Indian travel facilitator, might have been an admirer of the great Gandhi for he brought to #57 no more than two thin blankets and three
shalwar khameez
cotton suits, all of which he wore at once. Perhaps the chief had drained Miraj of all funds, although that seemed unlikely. More probable that Miraj had paid his rent with promises, for he was said to be very rich. Miraj operated what may have been a faultless profession, depending on the level of service. He guided freemen and slaves alike; he mocked our imposing crested and marbled passports, erasing our arrogant borderlines from our bogus charts. He rendered our visas blind. Public-spirited work indeed and at no more than market prices. Despite his worthy endeavours, every moment in Miraj’s company demanded the strength to resist strangling him for no clear cause. Unfair, really. Yet everyone felt the same.

When I advised him that our chief would not easily be put off without cost, old Miraj produced a borrowed smile that suggested he could outwait the devil’s eternity without raising a sweat.

‘I’ve met many chiefs.’ Miraj set out his tins of food for his evening meal. ‘And they are all hungry.’

Sten peered down as Miraj opened his tins. One tin held a lettuce leaf. Inside the other seventeen beans, sliced lengthwise, it seemed. I sensed that Sten had taken an immediate shine to our new roommate.

‘Miraj, you old trooper! What have you got there?’ Sten suddenly dropped to his haunches, his knees centimetres from the polished nut of Miraj’s head. ‘No need to spend all day over a hot stove. We’ve got a top cook serving up for us. Our Blow-Job will fix you up with something to get your gums around. You can eat with us.’

‘Thank you, but I’m a vegetarian.’ Miraj half shielded his meal as though it might be vaporised into the pores of this massive Viking.

Sten stood upright just as suddenly as he’d dropped. ‘Won’t cost you much, Miraj.’

‘Most kind but I don’t eat more than I need.’

Sten turned and, to me, nodded assent. We had earlier agreed to accept Miraj into our room. Others could be worse; they might have friends, have ideas—and, for now, the chief would leave us alone as he tugged hopefully at Miraj’s steel purse strings.

Monsoonal rains had continued into October with no cleansing effect, just hastening the decay. Under the downpour thatched roofs disintegrated above our huts, vegetables soured quickly, and the filth surfed rather than flowed.

An old friend would soon visit and it was unlikely he’d be stopped by rain.

Charles Stanford had elected to put himself among the wounded. Not at the time of relative safety after each battle had moved on but while the dogs of war still tore at the bodies of the fallen. Following a brief civilised pause, Western law again encourages the arrest of its quarry’s family, supporters and even well-wishers. So when Chas arrives to help, he takes a risk.

With my vocation in mid-level druggery I’d brought enough trouble upon myself to scare away many friends, stun family into paralysis and cause once-firm lawyers to stumble and retreat. Through this immobility Chas would walk. The feature of his interest that most infuriated authorities was that he wasn’t a crook, received no financial rewards and could not be persuaded that he was aiding the wrong side. Few things more enrage those who believe themselves to be on the side of God and rightness than the sight of one who should be a knight in their chosen colours giving aid and comfort to an enemy. Even a small enemy, quite vanquished.

A modest businessman, Chas has a wife and grown children who respect his valour enough that their sensible protests become subdued as he again answers the call. I’m sure he would take this praise as nonsense for Chas no more hesitates to respond to the distress of friends than he might delay answering a doorbell. Long enough only to lift the curtain.

The visit pens were quiet that Monday morning when I stood at the empty benches waiting for Chas to appear. Beyond the wire, far away by a guard post, I could see his tall figure talking to the guard. He was not alone. Some civilian helper was at his side, settling something with a guard. Chas turned, as though instructed, and set off looking for me. Soon he was plainly lost as I was invisible in the gloom of the barred pens. I intercepted him after fifty metres of backtracking.

‘Chas. Here!’

‘Ah, there you are. Hiding as usual.’ Chas peered through his substantial glasses to see that I was upright—walking, breathing, alive. ‘Well, very fashionable, I see.’

‘Everyone wears shorts here, Chas. It’s their way of distinguishing the Ins from the Outs. Well, you found the place. And got through. Good to see you.’

‘I had some professional help.’ Chas turned to see his helper approaching fast. It was Charlie Lao. ‘We met up in Sydney and Charlie flew ahead by a day.’

I hadn’t heard from Charlie since he’d returned to Australia, yet here he stood.

Charlie skipped the formalities. ‘David, I tried to get the embassy room but the guard today is the wrong one.’ Charlie was animated and flustered that he had not done better. ‘Is this okay? We can go to the lawyer’s section.’

‘No, Charlie, this is fine. Thank you. There’s no one here today, anyway. It’s not the foreigners’ day.’ I wanted Charlie to calm down.

‘Okay, good, good. I’ll go and fix everything. You talk to your friend. I’ll make sure you get your clothes and food. I’ll come back soon.’ Charlie scooted away to do more business.

Chas smiled. ‘He’s been worried since I got here that I’m paying too much for everything.’

I then gave Chas an account of my time in Klong Prem, ending with the uncertainties of my arrest and the certainty of a bleak future. Chas knew some of that having kept in contact with my lawyer, Montree.

‘What do you think of him?’ I asked. ‘I think it helps that Montree is a little bit mad.’

‘Well, eccentric perhaps,’ Chas corrected. ‘He means no harm and we’re to have lunch tomorrow.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Tommy? I haven’t.’ I’d written to Tommy-of-the-Triangle yet had received no reply.

‘Yes, we keep in touch.’ Chas had helped during Tommy’s troubles in Australia during the 1980s. ‘I’m flying up to Chiang Mai tomorrow night.’

There would be some official interest in that, I thought. ‘Any signs of the forces of darkness?’

Chas shrugged. ‘They know I’m here. I flew with hand luggage. Clothes only in a collapsible canvas bag. If I need another shirt I’ll buy one as I move along.’

Chas told me of one development in Tommy’s world. Tommy’s Uncle Lou, number four in the triangle, was dead. Not so long ago, during a quiet Saturday morning, Tommy’s uncle had set out on a country journey in his Mercedes. The car had then stopped on the highway from Chiang Mai because of tyre trouble. The driver climbed out by the side of the road to fit the spare. Uncle Lou got out to observe. A massive truck flew over the rise and ploughed into Lou. He was dead before the truck stopped. An accident, everyone in the north agreed.

‘Is that what Tommy thinks?’ I asked.

‘The driver was questioned. Uncle’s second-in-command made his own enquiries after the police had finished.’ Chas assumed the deadpan tone of an old-fashioned reporter. ‘That part of the road is notorious for accidents. The investigation is closed.’

‘I’d like to see Tommy,’ I said.

‘He’d like to see you. Really.’

Charlie then returned and told me of his arrangements for Chas’s further visits and some for himself.

‘How long will you be staying in Bangkok?’ I asked Charlie.

He seemed surprised. ‘I’ve got a small apartment not far from the prison. Only fifteen, twenty-minutes away. I’ll stay as long as you want. I’m here to help you.’

This was too embarrassing for modest Charlie and he strode off to make sure the guards had done whatever they’d been paid to do. Chas outlined his own fortnight in Thailand.

‘I’m spending a few days here and there. Seeing some friends of my jeweller mate who’s always over here. A couple of days in Trat, walking on Ko Chang. Then over to Kanchanaburi and more trails up to Nam Tok. I expect to do a lot of walking. Even in Bangkok.’ Chas’s preferred response to being followed was to set out on foot early, dressed as though for the corner shop and then to walk for hours over difficult terrain.

Without urgency I detailed the pathos of Dean Reed who’d set out to make his mark as a smuggler, the promises of Rick who’d absconded with my credit card and the appearance of Sharon’s mystery gent at a Bangkok hotel.