Everyone Burns (11 page)

He pauses and looks down at his hands awhile before continuing.

“Some years ago when my building company was taking off, I took my brother into the business. At first Nikom was hopeless, undisciplined and sloppy, but he gradually started to settle down and after a while I put him in charge of dealing with suppliers. However, even then he was more concerned with making money quickly. He got to know a local businessman who was fronting a property development for some Western investors. Against my better judgement, Nikom persuaded me to take on the building work on terms that were unusual. As you know, we builders normally expect to be put in funds by our customer for materials and labour, but with this deal I was outlaying
my own money first and being reimbursed later. You can guess what happened. The businessman went bankrupt, the project was never completed, and I lost the money. It wasn’t enough to drive my business under, but it was a big setback. Naturally my brother and I quarrelled bitterly about it, even to the point where punches were thrown.”

He looks at me and manages a small smile. “This was some time before I came to see you. My self-control was not so good back then, as you know.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, we had a major falling-out, and he left for Bangkok.”

“I take it your brother has a temper problem too.”

He nods. “What a family, mmnnn?”

“Go on.”

“Well, after a couple of years in Bangkok Nikom was in a mess. He’d got himself involved with a very bad crowd – I still don’t really know what he was doing there, but I doubt it was legal. He owed money: mainly gambling debts. What could I do? He was still my brother. I paid off his debts and brought him back to Samui, to his old job in my office. We had an emotional reunion and he promised not to let me down again.”

“And he has?”

Prasert lets out a deep sigh, and then becomes agitated. “I have learned recently that Nikom is taking bribes from some of our suppliers.
My business of course ends up paying for this ultimately, since the suppliers charge higher prices to cover the payments to Nikom. Not only that, but my personal reputation suffers. How is anyone to know I am not pocketing some of this money; that I am not the one behind it?”

I can feel his rising frustration and see the tightening in his lips and throat. He clenches and unclenches his hands, and finally grabs the glass of water in front of him and drains it.

I wait a moment before asking him, “Are you sure your brother is taking kickbacks? Do you have any proof?”

“I am sure.” He sounds bitter. “Many of my suppliers are old friends. We talk.” He looks at me. “I am sure,” he says definitively.

“And Nikom is still gambling?”

“Cock fighting. It is always his passion.”

“Does your brother know that you know?”

Prasert gives a
who knows?
shrug.

“So you haven’t tackled him about it?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

My client rubs his eyes and I see the anger leave him, to be replaced with a sad helplessness.

“I am the only family my brother has. He has no wife, not even a regular girlfriend. Aside from my own children, he is my only living blood. Nikom may be deceitful and rash, but he is also a generous man. He loves and indulges my children like they are his own, and they love him.”

“Forgive me, Prasert, but that hardly entitles him to rob you and to ruin your good name.”

“I know this.”

“What does your wife think about it?”

“She loves Nikom, but is also angry with him. Of course she does not know the whole story; but she knows most of it.
”

“Your wife is a very understanding lady.”

“She has been with
me
for all this time, so that goes without saying.”

I take a sip of water and consider his situation. He wants me to give him advice, but I cannot. All I can do is to help him to come to his own decision; one in accordance with his own needs and his own conscience.

“What options are you considering?” I ask.

Prasert chuckles suddenly and some of his anxiety falls away. “I knew you would not tell me what to do,” he says.

I smile.
You know my methods, Watson
, I think.

“Prasert,” I say, “My job is to assist you in finding the answer that is right for you. Not the answer that would be right for me.”

He is silent. I think a little provocative behaviour on my part might be appropriate now.

“OK, I’ll start,” I say. “Option One: go to the police.”

Prasert looks aghast. “I couldn’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“He is my brother, Khun David.”

“So?”

“The shame would be more than I can bear.”

“I don’t see why. Any shame is his, not yours.”

“Absolutely not,” he exclaims emphatically.

I sniff. “All right then. Option Two: kick him out of your business. That way he can’t do any more damage. You’ll stop feeling stressed and your business will be the better for it.”

“I have already done that once. Look at how badly that ended.”

“Prasert, your brother is a grown man. At some point he has to take responsibility for his own behaviour. As long as you keep parenting him he will never grow up.”

He shakes his head. “I do not want to lose my brother again. When that happened before I was miserable.”

“Which brings us to Option Three: do nothing.”

“But how can I do nothing? I can’t trust him. Lately I have even been thinking that perhaps this stealing from me started long ago. Perhaps he made money from the building project that collapsed and cost me so much. I have no peace in my mind about him.” Prasert shakes his head dispiritedly. “I have considered all three of these options, Khun David,” he says, “and none of them is acceptable to me. I do not know what to do.”

“There is a saying about having the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

“I have neither serenity nor courage right now,” he murmurs, “and we builders are not famous for our wisdom.”

I lean forward and touch him gently on the knee. “There is an Option Four,” I say.

He looks up abruptly. “An Option Four? What is that?”

“Talk to him.”

“
Talk to him?
I can’t.”

“You can. In fact you have no choice but to do so. Tell him what you know, what you suspect. But above all, tell him how you
feel
. Perhaps the decision of what happens next should not be your decision alone. Maybe it should be a decision for both of you to make.”

“What happens if I become angry?”

“Only a saint never experiences some form of anger,” I tell him. “However, we can work on that now while you’re here, and reinforce the techniques you already know. But when you speak to your brother, focus your thoughts on your sadness and disappointment. Be honest with him. If he really is a good man at heart and has real feelings for you, you will know from the openness of his response. If not, then you will know what to do, and you won’t need me to advise you.”

I know he wants to say
BUT
and to raise a thousand objections. But instead he sits silent and mulls over my words. After a while he assents and we spend the next hour or so working on emotional triggers, anchoring, and some neuro-linguistic programming exercises.

At the end of the session Prasert taps his head, smiles, and tells me he feels like his brain has just had an upgrade. However, I have not finished with him just yet.

“So when will you talk to your brother?” I ask.

“Very soon,” he says.

“Not good enough,” I reply. “I need to know when exactly.”

Prasert puffs his cheeks. “Is this what you
farangs call ‘tough love’?”

“This is what I call ‘follow through’, Prasert. You came here to fix a problem. I want to make sure it gets fixed.”

“Very well,” he says with resolve, “I will speak to him this weekend.”

“Good. Call me on Monday to tell me how it went.”

He laughs. “And if I don’t call you, you will call me, is that right?”

“That’s how it works.”

“You are a hard taskmaster, Khun David. But Buddha was right to tell me to come and see you.”

*       *       *       *       *

It’s heartening to know I’m getting personal recommendations from Lord Buddha these days, but I’m not about to get too carried away. Nonetheless, enjoying my lunchtime Thai green curry on Chaweng beach, my mind is free of burned corpses and unfaithful bargirls. In a funny kind of way, it feels like I’m the one who has had the therapy session this morning. But then it’s quite often like that. I have my own homespun hypothesis that the path to contentment may be through immersing yourself in the problems of others: for while you do this, your own problems don’t exist. Some philosopher has no doubt already said this more eloquently. Pity I can’t consistently put this into practice for myself. Maybe I should write a book,
Braddock’s Enlightenment
.

On my walk back to the office I don’t find the persistent calls of ‘Taxi! Taxi!’ quite so annoying as usual.

I see the tramp again in the same doorway, but this time a policeman is telling him none-too-kindly to move on. I hang around until the policeman has gone and give the guy some Baht notes. He gives me a high wai before shuffling off down the street, his scruffy baggage hung over his black undernourished shoulders.

*       *       *       *       *

Da is pleased with me. She says Mr. Prasert Promsai left much happier than when he arrived. After this she tells me I should be doing more counselling work and less hanging around in bars with a camera. I’m inclined to agree, were it not for the fact that sexual jealousy is what pays most of the bills. My therapist’s halo, however, is already starting to fade as thoughts of self-preservation reassert themselves.

Yai’s grand-daughter has not called, although I realise the blind man may not yet have passed on my message.

Da has just made me another coffee when the police files arrive in a large manila envelope. To my disappointment the person delivering them is not Kat Charoenkul but the unsmiling and nervous DTs. I presume his crime-fighting partner is outside in the car either reading the
Bangkok Post
or sulking.

The twitching one leaves and I try to put Kat out of my head, although that’s difficult knowing the translation on my desk is her work. A handwritten note from her is pinned inside apologising for not delivering the files personally, but explaining that she has
errands to run and that I should call her if I have any questions or if there is anything else I should like her to do. I re-read this last bit. I can think of several things I would like her to do, most of which involve exchanging bodily fluids. I go to the bathroom, wash my face in cold water, readjust my package and sit down again with Kat’s package.

Inside the envelope there are two files labelled with the names of the dead men. I open the one titled
ANTHONY ASHLEY
, put to one side the photocopied Thai documents and photographs, and start reading the transcript.

Ashley was English, and forty years old when he died. He was the owner of an insulation business and was married with two step-children. This was not his first trip to Thailand, or even his first visit to Samui; although on previous occasions his wife had been with him. This time, however, Ashley was accompanied by his younger brother, Peter. The two were on holiday to mark Peter’s leaving the British Army after twenty years of service. The transcript doesn’t record how happy Mrs
. Ashley was with the prospect of her husband flitting off to Thailand for a couple of weeks with his ex-squaddie sibling.

The two men had been staying at
Lotus Blossom Villas, a three-star hotel on Chaweng beach; and according to the younger brother’s statement hadn’t ventured far. They’d hired a couple of motorbikes for the duration, but apart from an evening sortie into Lamai to watch the
Muay Thai
(Thai kick-boxing), one trip up to Big Buddha, and a boozy picnic at the Namvang Waterfall, the rest of their time had been spent around the restaurants, massage establishments and bars of Chaweng. So far, typical unattached European male behaviour.

The younger Ashley was quite candid about his own experiences and pick-ups in the watering-holes of Girly Bar Heaven, but rather more coy about this brother’s adventures. He insisted (somewhat improbably) that Anthony had done his drinking in the reputable bars of Chaweng – although there was a passing reference to his striking up a ‘friendship’ with an unnamed Thai girl. I’m guessing this was in deference to the feelings of Anthony’s wife, not wishing her last memories of him to be of a whoremongering husband.

After nine nights on the island, Anthony Ashley had vanished. When Peter knocked on his door in the late morning of their tenth day on Samui there was no response. By mid-afternoon his brother had still not returned, and repeated calls to his cell phone were answered with the same message: cell phone switched off. Anthony’s hired motorbike was in the hotel car park, and his passport, air ticket and traveller’s cheques were still in the hotel safe. But of Anthony himself there was no sign. The police had been contacted and the usual bureaucratic nonsense followed.