Everyone Burns (2 page)

“Today I met a little
Thai boy whose father was late collecting him from the English School. I stayed with him until his father arrived, so we started talking.
This
is the book he is studying in English class. He said it was good so I bought a copy.”

This is archetypal Wayan as Good Samaritan. “You were lucky to find a copy of this in the local bookshop.”

“They buy for the school. I find it a difficult book. Is it meant to teach children about not taking drugs? Otherwise I cannot understand why they would give this to children to read.”

She finishes her ministrations and peers at her work critically.

“That is the best I can do.”

“Thank you, Wayan.”

She puts a hand on my arm. “Mr. David,” she says, her voice taking on a serious tone, “last night I had one of those dreams I have sometimes. You know about my dreams?” I nod. “I dreamed I could see you but you could not talk to me. I do not think
this
is the meaning of the dream,” she indicates the cut, “but I think that something bad is coming. Perhaps this is the beginning of something bad.”

I take her hand and squeeze it. I am hardly the superstitious type
, but I have learned to take seriously Wayan’s lucid dreaming. My theory is that, being supremely empathetic, she taps into feelings at a subconscious level – usually mine – and reflects back hopes, concerns and fears like a magic mirror. Her explanation is, naturally, quite different, and involves the elemental forces of Balinese gods and demons.

“Wayan,” I say gently, “This dream can have many meanings, not all of them necessarily bad. You mustn’t worry about me, or you will get wrinkles.” Still no smile. “I
am
a fully grown man and I
can
look after myself.” She looks doubtful, but is too polite to say anything.

“Anyway, thanks for waiting up. You get off to bed. I’ll be turning in soon.”

“Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t, mother, I promise.”

Finally Wayan smiles. She picks up her book and goes. I expect the psychedelic nature of her dreams will intensify the deeper she delves into Alice’s adventures.

I
drop my bloody shirt into the laundry basket, change into my dressing-gown and go out onto the upstairs balcony with my saxophone. The night sky being full of stars, my nearest neighbour being sufficiently far away, and my monkey mind being too restless for slumber, I blow some smooth, slow blues out into the still air. By one o’clock I am sufficiently chilled to smoke a final cigarette and turn in. There is still no sign of Claire.

My head hits the pillow and sleep instantly takes me. I dream I have fallen down a rabbit hole where I encounter a pool-playing Red Queen and a bald, grinning Cheshire
-Cat with gold teeth.

2

“Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice.

Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Koh Samui sits in the Gulf of Thailand to the east of the Kra Isthmus. The island is (very) roughly round in shape, though featuring outcrops of land resembling drooping and erect penises enclosing the long, white sand beaches which act as a magnetic pull on the tired working mind. The interior rises as jungle-covered mountains, the highest of which, Khao Pom, reaches six hundred and thirty-five metres. To the north-east is the International Airport, and south of this at a distance of a few kilometres lies Chaweng, which functions as my base.

The heart of Chaweng is a long, narrow one-way street, crowded on both sides by shops, spas, hotels, restaurants and gaudy signage. Along the length of the street leaning electricity poles groan under the weight of rats’ nests of cabl
es hanging like grey/black dreadlocks. All the usual charmless Western suspects are to be found here dispensing junk food, overpriced ice cream and caffeine; along with more cheap tee-shirts, sarongs and general tourist tat than you could wish for. Dust, heat and motorbikes permeate the thoroughfare which rings to the hawkers’ cries of “Taxi!” and (less loud, but more shrill) “Massage!”

To the east, obscured by the high street, but accessible
by a myriad of pathways or via hotel lobbies, is the long beach. By day a baking tray for the sun-seeker, by night Chaweng beach transforms into a low-light stage of romance. On evenings where the breeze allows, paper Chinese fire lanterns float up into the black heavens. Here young couples dream of the years to come and old couples sigh for the years past; while the lapping waters of the Gulf echo an older rhythm than that of the drifting music from the bars and restaurants.

To the west of the main street is
the lake, the far shore of which houses Girly Bar Heaven, the source – along with Lamai’s town centre equivalent – of much of my income.

My office is located in a discreet concrete side road slightly to the north of the one-way system, an area where clients can generally visit undisturbed by the curious eyes of spouses and significant others.

It is already after 11.00am when I pass under the sign proclaiming
the David Braddock Agency, climb the stairs to my first-floor offices, and am greeted by Da, my heavily-pregnant receptionist.

“S
àwàt-dii khâ.”

“S
àwàt-dii khráp.” I throw my straw hat at the hat rack and miss, as usual.

She notices the cut under my left eye. “Bad night?” she asks.

“I’ve had worse.”

She hands me the mail: two bills and a flyer for a new restaurant. “I’m going to catch up on my emails before my appointment with Herr Vogel. No calls,” I tell her.

Da leans forward as far as her bump will allow and says in a low voice, “Your emails may have to wait,
Khun
David. There is a lady here to see you.”

I raise an eyebrow, “A lady?”

“Thai, mid-thirties. Well turned out. Nails immaculate, hair styled this morning. Expensive gold jewellery, authentic designer handbag. Speaks good English. Smokes. Since she wears a wedding ring, my guess would be it is a Matrimonial.” She looks at me expectantly.

“Anything else?” I ask the trainee detective.

“She walks like she has had dance training. Also she is good at colour coordination.” As an afterthought she adds, “And I like her shoes.”

“Did she give a name?”

Da consults her pad, “
Miss Noi
, although I do not think that is her real name. I showed her into the East Office. She has been waiting about fifteen minutes.”

When I open the office door, a lady in an ash-grey dress is sitting with her back to me.

“Sàwàt-dii khráp. Miss Noi, I apologise for keeping you waiting. I am David Braddock.”

My client rises gracefully and we give a respectful
wai to each other. I indicate for her to sit as I take the easy chair opposite her, and find her scrutinising my eyes to see if I have recognised her. Which I have, but I am wearing my poker face. She is Nittha Rattanakorn, the wife of Thongchai Rattanakorn, the biggest gangster on the island. This may spell trouble.

She says, “Do you know who I am, Mr
. Braddock?”

“No.
Miss Noi
will do fine. I find my clients tend to talk more freely if they feel our sessions are anonymous.” I make open eye-contact and she seems satisfied.

“I will need to take you into my confidence as to my identity at some point,” she says.

“Well, let’s make that later, shall we. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“If you feel you would like to have another cigarette, it’s OK.”

“I haven’t been smoking in here. What makes you think I smoke?”

I shrug, “Trick of the trade,” and offer my pack of Marlboros.

“I prefer my own,” she says taking out a gold cigarette-case.

I give her a light and light up one for myself. I fish out an ashtray, put it on the coffee-table between us and wait for her to begin.

“You come very highly recommended, Mr
. Braddock,” she says finally. “I hear that you are discreet and know how to keep matters ... um ... confidential.”

“I have that reputation, I believe.”

There is silence for a few moments as she smokes and composes herself. When she exhales her voice trembles slightly. I notice her shapely breasts and wonder if they are real.

“This is more difficult than I thought it would be. I am so stupid, stupid.”

“Take your time.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I have been married for twelve years. Although my husband has always been good to me, for most of that time he has also not been faithful. I think I have finally had enough.”

This I do not want to hear. I need a job investigating a gangster like I need a hole in the head. In fact if I take this case there is a very good chance I will end up with a hole in the head.

I do not say any of this. Instead, I say gently, “Go on.”

“He is the only man I have ever been with. I knew he had been with many women before me, but that did not matter. He was kind and made me feel special.”
She pauses a moment before continuing. “We have been through good times and bad times together, and while I knew he was looking elsewhere from time to time, I at least believed he would always come back to me.” She trails off.

“You know for sure he has been unfaithful?”

Nittha Rattanakorn smiles sadly, “A wife always knows.”

Not necessarily true,
I think.
And if you already know all you need to know, what are you doing here? Do you need your husband to bump off a farang as proof of his devotion to you?

“What sort of women does he like? Sorry, I need to ask.”

“Married ones usually.”

“Hmmn. So presumably he is either addicted to risk, or chooses his mistresses on the basis of no long term commitment?”

She blinks at me, “I never thought of it that way.”

I assume an earnest expression. “I know of no perfect marriages,
Miss Noi. I know of only two kinds. There are those where the partners stay together because they love each other, whatever else is going on in their lives. Then there are those where the partners stay together for reasons of money, cowardice, laziness and/or family. I’m aware that’s a broad category, but it excludes the
love
reason, which is the key point. Which type is your marriage, do you think? Or perhaps there is a third type which I am missing?”

“I feel like a ridiculous jealous woman.” There are tears in her eyes now and I hand her a tissue.

“Miss Noi –” I begin.

“Please, Mr
. Braddock, at least call me by my real name. I am Nittha –”

I interrupt quickly before she can get to the family name, “All right
Nittha. And in that case, I am David.” I sit back in my seat and do my best to look wise. I study her face for a few moments.

“
Nittha, as you probably know, I run two practices here, and their purposes are very different. In my first practice I conduct investigations, usually into some form of sexual infidelity. In my second practice, which I run from
this
room, I have a more subtle role: to help people find out what it is that they really want. I think you came here today to talk to the investigator, but I wonder instead whether you should be speaking to the counsellor.”

She is looking at me closely, “Why do you say that?”

“Well, let me make some observations. The first thing you tell me is that your husband has always been good to you. This suggests to me that you still have some respect for him, and perhaps affection. Then when you are upset, I see emotion but not bitterness. Your tears are sorrowful, but not angry. In your eyes I see regret and hurt, and maybe therefore, love.”

I have her attention.

“I am guessing that since his infidelity over the years has been with various women, there has been no ‘special’ one. Is that correct?”

She nods, “Yes.”

“Is it still correct? Or is there a ‘special’ someone for him now?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then I ask myself: if this behaviour of his has been going on for some time, and you have, in a sense, anyway, accepted it – then what has changed recently to bring you here? Has something altered for him, or has something changed in
your
life?”

She blinks and runs a pink tongue over her lips. I decide to run with a hunch.

“May I see your cell phone?”

“My cell
phone?”

“Please.”

She takes the cell phone from her handbag and passes it to me. I take it with one hand and catch her hand with the other. She does not struggle. I see avoidance in her eyes, though she tries to hold my gaze. I look at the phone, as if trying to decipher a puzzle, then I look back at her. I am still holding her hand. I am now banking on a little showmanship and Thai superstition to take me forward.

“
Nittha,” I say slowly, “I am sensing there is something here that should not be here.” I pause. The room is silent apart from the soft purr of the aircon.

She looks at me and lets out a long sigh. “Yes,” she says, “there is a number in there that has no place in my phone.”

“A man’s number?”

“Yes. But nothing has happened with him.
I swear.”

I put the phone down and cup her hand between both of mine.

“What is it that you want?” I ask softly.

“I don’t know.”

I release her and sit back. She looks at the phone, and ashamedly puts it back in her handbag.

“You must think me a hypocrite,” she says sadly.

I shake my head, “No, not at all. I think you are a woman who loves her husband. You worry that he does not love you back. And that is all I think. In the meantime, you have felt flattered by someone who is paying you attention. That is just human. But it is also, as I am sure you are aware, dangerous.”

I pour her a glass of water and she takes it thoughtfully. I keep silent and let her think awhile. Eventually she says, “And you worked all that out in
a few minutes and through holding my hand. You are as insightful as they say you are.” She relaxes and folds over a long, shapely leg.

“Perhaps. Although I’m not sure who ‘they’ are.”

She puts a finger to her lips, “I cannot say.”

“By the way,” I tell her, “
that’s a nice leg.”

She giggles, “I’ve got another one just like it.”

“I noticed. Your husband would be a very foolish man to lose a woman with legs like that.”

She puts down the glass of water. “Thank you, David. I need to do some thinking. Can I come and see you again?”

“Of course. It might be better if you made an appointment next time, though.”

“As Miss Noi?”

“As whomever you like. Names are not important when we’re in
this
room. It’s only in the PI room next door that we have to be specific about names.”

“I understand. I’d like to come and see you again in
this
room. Unless of course,” she adds coquettishly, “you’d like to meet me somewhere else.”

I smile.
“Then I’d likely become part of the problem, rather than part of the solution. Don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily. Is my makeup smudged?”

“A little. There’s a washroom through that door you can use.”

“I bet you have lots of women who cry in here.”

“Some. Most women only cry with me in the bedroom. Usually out of disappointment.”

When she emerges, perfect once more, from the washroom, I hand her a card. “If you need me just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you?”