Lost Innocence: The Accused. Part One

Lost
Innocence

Part
One

‘
The
Accused’

Simon
Palmer

Copyright (c) 2014 by
Spanking Pulp Press

All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part
of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)
without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner
and the publisher of this book.

This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously.

Cover design by James
Hollister at Pixel fox

Photography by Bordin
Vamanond

Models: Chris Wegoda
and Narmfah Fn’z

Edited by Dan O’Shea,
Tracey Hale, John Daysh and Alan Hoff

Content Edit by James
A. Newman

Copy Edit by Richard
Ayres and John Daysh

Final proof read by
Alasdair McLeod

Additional material
and writing assistance from Alasdair McLeod, Conrad Jones, John
Mathews, Stephen Leather, Mitchell Blake, Warren Olson, Greg
Noonan, Barry Palmer, James A. Newman, John Daysh and Alan
Hoff

“
A fast-paced novel based on
events unfolding in Bangkok, has me eagerly looking forward to
Palmer’s next work
.
”

-Warren Olson
Author of Thai Private Eye

“
I
picked up Lost Innocence and read over a hundred pages in one hit.
Intoxicating addictive
writing and just the beginning from this highly talented
writer. Can’t wait for the next one,”

-Conrad Jones Author of Soft
Target

LOST
INNOCENCE
PART
ONE
‘THE
ACCUSED’

ONE

I WAS LAZING
on the golden sands on the south-west coast of
Thailand, the blazing sun beating down on my body. The view as I
gazed out over the vast expanse of the Andaman Sea was
breath-taking. The subtle, salty scent of the sea engrossed me; the
serenity of the still blue waters only broken by the sound of the
waves lapping against the rocks.

I reached for my bag,
searched for my book and was about to begin the latest Conrad
Jones
crime- thriller, when my eyes met
those of a struggling hawker. She was well covered up and wore an
old, straw hat over a tired, bronzed face.

A sharp pang of
sympathy rattled inside of me. I didn’t have the heart to wave her
away and found myself pointing to some fruit that I didn’t really
want. I dug deep for some change, paid and smiled as she handed me
some sliced melon in a bag with a pointed stick. She thanked me,
gathered up her wares then strolled off on her way down the
beach.

I returned to my book
and was
surfing through the pages when it
suddenly felt hot. Can we turn it down to tropical? A bead of sweat
rolled down my nose, stopped then dropped onto a page. I wiped it
away, squinted up at the sun and strained my eyes. A rank stench in
the air then aroused my attention and looking around I couldn’t
tell what
that was or where it was coming
from.

My parched throat and
desert-dried lips cried out for water. I scrambled in the sand for
my bottle, but couldn’t find it. I stretched down for my things -
my bag was gone and so were the melon and my book. I lay back for a
moment when the back of my head brushed up against somebody’s feet.
I turned to apologize, but couldn’t be more shocked; the beach was
now packed. So many dirty, stinking bodies, laying crammed together
within so little space.

I covered my ears as
a cacophony erupted in a language I didn’t understand. Then the
stench struck again. It was stronger than before and this time I
recognized it. It smelt like human waste mixed with stale sweat,
repulsive body odour and cheap cigarettes. I glanced around to see
who was smoking; everybody was.

Something smooth and
oily ran under my right hand. It felt like a cockroach, it was a
cockroach. I shuffled back and watched it scuttling off. I thought
it was gone, but then another appeared and then more. I brushed
them away and what was once golden sand was now a dark, hard,
filthy floor. My body started to tremble - my nerves were on
edge.

I
glanced up at the sky but all I could see now,
was thick black smoke. I coughed uncontrollably until the smog
finally cleared and several stained panels emerged with flickering
strip lights. The sky had transformed into a filthy ceiling, the
beach a neglected cell, crammed
to
complete capacity.

Trauma and terror
possessed me as I realized I had to face this reality and deal with
the torment all over again. My mind had been playing tricks on me,
creating a mirage of a beach, a mirage of freedom. I was in the
worst-place-in-the-world. I was in a Thai prison.

I was in
Hell.

Horrid memories of
this living nightmare began to resurface; that first day when the
cell door swung closed; the complete
helplessness of being locked up. I couldn’t have been more
terrified as three heavily tattooed guards with shaved heads and
beer-breath had taken hold of me, dragged me outside, held me firm
and stripped me. I hadn’t struggled. I’d just stood there naked;
the fear of being raped had restricted any movement. I was bent
over by two guards while the third parted my butt-cheeks, reached
in and shoved his latex covered finger up as far as he could. I
jerked forward, stifling my screams as somebody squeezed my balls,
hard – it hurt. They had supposedly been checking for drugs but
more likely just enjoying the sadistic infliction of
pain.

A coughing fit
brought me back to the present and I glanced up to see a thick
blanket of smoke circling above me. Prisoners were smoking then
dropping their smouldering butts between the cracks in the floor.
They lay, still burning below me, smoke drifting up as I feared
burning alive or suffocating from smoke. My throat felt sore and my
pounding heart continued beating through every inch of my being. I
needed water. I needed to get out.

I was the only
foreigner or
farang
as we were known here and although we were packed in so
tightly, I had never felt so alone. The heat was so oppressive and
the stench was so rank, that I almost threw up - twice. A creaking
noise distracted me and glancing up I saw a worn-out ceiling fan
wobble as it spun round. It was hanging on by two rusty screws and
looked like it could fall at any time. My sweat-dampened clothes
clung to my body and the pain of lying on such a hard, wooden floor
was horrendous. It was thick with dirt, covered in blood stains and
other stains I couldn’t identify and didn’t dare to try. Most of
the others had a bed-roll to sleep on; I only had the
floor.

Bugs continued to
torment me; it seemed they were waiting for me to sleep or die so
they could feast on my body. I fought them off but it was
exhausting and futile. Some sampled my blood while others
defecated, leaving foul traces of their presence. My mind began
playing tricks on me; it was as though even when they weren’t
there, I could still
feel them crawling
all over me.

A man with a faded
tattoo of an eagle on his chest was holding a syringe and sucking
something
into it. He stuck a needle into
his friend’s arm, drew some blood, then combining the two
substances, he inject
ed
the mix back into the emaciated arm; all the
while his friend gazed, sickly into space.

After several long,
drawn-out hours, the yelling subsided and I noticed most of the
others trying to sleep. The thick fog of smog was beginning to
clear and my fear began to yield to fatigue. As I closed my eyes,
images of my family calmed me and for the briefest moment I had
escaped. Amidst all this chaos, the thought of them may have been
the only thing keeping me from going
insane. I fell asleep.

A
wave of guilt crashed down and woke me as I thought about my
mother. It was her rule that this being the first time I was away,
I would ring her every Wednesday. With all that had happened this
week, I had forgotten to phone home.

TWO

LOUISE WAS
SITTING
in her spacious kitchen with her
hands wrapped around a hot mug of caramel coffee. An attractive
woman in her fifties, she had grape-green eyes and sunset-yellow
hair.

Her husband burst in,
eyes darting all over the room. “I’m late and I can’t find my
keys.”

Stan had short,
bear-brown hair, Sinatra-blue eyes and a bent nose. He was of a
similar age to his wife, had taken reasonably good care of himself
and had retained his boyish looks and charm. “Lou darling - have
you seen my keys?”

She rolled her eyes.
“Try the coffee table.”

He rushed out and
returned moments later, jangling his keys triumphantly. He leaned
over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “What ever would I do without
you?”

She didn’t
reply.

“
Is everything okay
dear?”

“
Michael didn’t call
me yesterday.”

“
Should he
have?”

“
Yes, every
Wednesday. I told you that.”

“
He probably just
forgot.”

“
I’m sure you’re
right, it’s just—”

“
What?” Stan asked,
waiting for a chance to sneak a peek at his watch.

“
It’s so unlike him
not to call.”

“
Then call him, dear.
There’s no harm in that.”

“
I did already; no
answer. I hope he’s okay.”

“
Try him again
later….I really must run.”

Stan waited for the
approving nod from his wife then slipped out of the
door.