Lost Innocence: The Accused. Part One (7 page)

“
Michael, calm
down.”

It was too much; the
bugs, the smells, the people. I needed to get out. The thought of
being trapped in here any longer overwhelmed me.

“
Come back Michael.”
He leant over, took a grip of my shoulder and squeezed it like a
medicine ball.

“
Tell me about your
father.”

“
Why?”

“
Just do it. Trust
me!”

“
He’s very down to
earth; took his law degree in Leeds. He never wanted to be a lawyer
but his father pushed him into it. He scraped through law school,
went on to work for his father’s firm and that's where he met my
mother. She was a legal secretary.”

“
You mentioned your
grandfather was a lawyer. Tell me about him.”

“
He ran a law firm
until he was diagnosed with cancer. My dad took over and it wasn’t
long before they clashed. Nigel retired and beat the
cancer.”

“
How did he beat
it?”

“
After going through
all the chemo, he turned to a spiritual healer; got really into
spiritualism and never looked back.”

“
He left his company
with your dad?”

“
Yes, but I think
he’s regretted it although he isn’t driven by money. He never
was.”

“
That’s great. How
come you call him Nigel?”

“
It’s just something
that stuck over the years. I think it makes him feel
younger.”

“
That’s sweet. You
two close?”

“
We are. He gets me.
He appreciates my art.”

“
You love him more
than your dad?”

“
My grandfather’s
great, but he’s more a mate than a grandfather. We’ve had the best
chats down the pub; he’s told me
some
stories. My dad is a friend, but more of a dad, if you know what I
mean. He doesn’t always make the right choices, but he’ll always
get there in the end.”

John nodded. “You
feeling better, mate?”

“
Yeah, I am thanks
but now I’m tired and thinking about my dad.”

“
Get your head down.
We can talk later.”

TEN

IT WAS
a busy morning at Heathrow Terminal Three. Stan
was wearing a striped blue tie over a stylish white shirt that hid
under a smart blue suit. He was weaving his way through a crowd of
people heading in the opposite direction.

He escaped into the
VIP lounge, poured a neat Scotch, took a bowl of salted nuts and
sank back into a sleek, leather armchair. A few drinks later his
flight came up on the monitor.

He took another
handful of nuts then headed for the gate. On the way to the plane,
he selected some newspapers and boarded the plane into first class.
Flicking through the Financial Times
,
he checked his stocks whilst
ignoring the safety demonstration and as soon as he could, he
ordered a drink.

His Scotch was
delivered by a gorgeous Thai stewardess wearing a traditional silk
sash that stretched diagonally from her neck to her waist. Her
make-up was flawless and her long, thick hair was tied back. She
smiled as she bent over and served him. He caught a whiff of her
perfume; it smelt like an exotic beach. He nodded his thanks and
his mind strayed as he admired her figure and watched her pert
bottom sway as she walked away.

Finishing his drink,
he reached into his carry-on, pulled out a green and white bag and
slipped out the latest crime thriller by James A. Newman. He
reclined his seat, sat back, flicked through the first few pages of
‘The Black Rose’ and began.

Awoken hours later by
a change in the incessant drone of the engines, they had begun
their descent. A look out the window confirmed it was night but
below the clouds, the distant lights of Bangkok sparkled like a
Christmas night.

Flight TGF107 touched
down with a bang, a wobble and a skid. Stan was one of the first
off and after queuing for ages at passport control, he headed to
baggage. Retrieving his Samsonite, he wheeled it
towards the exit and was
greeted by a Thai lady in a beige suit. “You like Limousine
sir?”

Stan shook his head.
He loved a little luxury, but loathed being ripped off. He followed
the exit signs, stepped out of gate five, through some automatic
doors and bam - Bangkok humidity.

He sought refuge in
the first taxi he could find and judging by the shabby state of it,
he wished he’d taken the limo. He sat there for a minute and melted
as he noticed an ornamental Buddha stuck to the dashboard. The
air-conditioning was fine. Stan was tired; if this car could move,
it would do.

“
Where you go?” the
driver asked with a slight smile under his thick lips.

“
You know the
Landmark hotel?”

“
You want take
expressway?”

“
If it’s the quickest
way.”

The driver nodded.
Stan peered out of the window as they drove off into the night.
Cars, buses, motorcycles and trucks were everywhere, overtaking,
undertaking, speeding and rarely indicating. It was a white-knuckle
ride all the way. They eventually arrived at the Landmark and Stan,
still a little shaken, didn’t know whether to tip his driver
or
slap him in the face. Still alive, he
opted for the tip.

He climbed out into
the humidity, left his luggage to be collected by a porter and made
his way up the stairs to the grand entrance. Crossing the gold
marble floor, he stood at reception and was greeted by a lady
dressed in a gold jacket and brown skirt.

“
Welcome to the
Landmark, sir.”

Stan checked in,
followed his frisky porter to
suite 1918
on the nineteenth floor, tipped with a purple five then took a look
around. There was a long black table with black chairs, black sofa,
black plasma -everything was black - even the bed sheets were
black. He stepped into the bathroom expecting black soap - it was
pink. He unpacked then lay on the bed.

He was dozing lightly
when he was woken by loud ringing. He reached for the phone.
“Hello?”

“
Stan?” A familiar
voice asked, from the other side of the world. “Have you seen
Michael?”

“
They don’t allow
visitors over the weekend. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen
him.”

“
Alright. Go back to
sleep.”

“
Thanks, take care,
bye.”

Stan hung up and sat
there. He felt a sudden urge to go out. He sprung from the
bed,
pulled on a pair of brown shorts,
slipped into a crisp white shirt, strapped on his Cartier then
splashed on a little Old Spice. Finally, after applying a little
mousse, he styled his hair and was good to go.

He
was
stepping down the street and into the
oppressive Bangkok heat when a filthy-cute girl smiled as she
passed him by. She was tall, thin and busty with firm thighs and
long legs. She wore the highest of heels and the shortest of pink
dresses. Stan smiled back then noticed more ladies hanging around
and hooking on another corner. They were wearing the most revealing
of outfits and strutted down the streets like they owned
them.

He continued on his
journey and noticed the streets didn’t quite share the beauty of
the girls. He had to tread carefully over crumbling concrete,
side-step around copper piping sticking up from the ground and duck
under thick electrical cables that hung down. He was passed by
motorbike taxis and converted motorcycles with multi-coloured
carriages. The drivers tried to catch his attention by slowing down
and beeping their horns. He ignored them, walked on and passed
several people begging. He sympathized, yet didn’t care to spare
any change.

Feeling beads of
sweat trickling down his back, he was considering an escape, when
he was met by a short
Indian tailor
standing outside his store.

“
I have a wonderful
suit for you, sir, for a good price. Please come in and take a
look.”

Stan needed to pee,
but wouldn’t buy a suit in order to do so. He was about to walk on
when his attention was diverted by a beautiful
girl standing across the street. She was hopping on the spot
and waving at him. He waved back, stepped onto the road, weaved his
way between slow-moving cars and joined her on the other
side.

“
Hi. My name Aey,”
she smiled saucily.

“
I’m Stan. Why were
you waving at me?”

“
I think you want
massage. Take look?”

Disappointed that he
didn’t know her, a massage did seem like a good idea after a long
flight. He peered between a pair of heavy gold curtains and saw
several more attractive ladies standing around. They wore loose
colourful uniforms that showed a little cleavage and had their hair
tied back. They smiled sweetly at Stan as he stared - he was
sold.

Seeing an assortment
of shabby shoes outside on the floor, he slipped off his designer
sandals and tucked them behind a pair of red flip-flops.

“
You want oil
massage?”

Stan stepped in and
looked around. An interesting ambience was created with scented
candles, running waterfalls, Oriental music and prints of temples
on the walls. “Alright,” he agreed.

The sound of running
water heightened his urge to use the restroom. He stepped into the
toilet and found himself leaning and crouching under a sloping
ceiling to pee. He returned to his masseuse and she led him
upstairs to a row of cubicles. Each had a thin mattress, a soft
pillow and a white hand-towel folded as an elephant.

“
You like shower
first?”

He nodded, hung his
clothes on some bendy hangers, took a towel, headed for the
bathroom and showered over a toilet with no seat. Then returning to
his cubicle, he lay face-down on the mattress and loosened the
towel.

It was so
quiet that you could hear a pin drop; that was if
you had a pin and you wanted to drop it. Stan then heard some small
steps creeping towards the door. The sliding doors slid open; Aey
crept in, knelt before him, slipped off the towel and placed it to
the side. He smelt her cheap, tangy perfume. He wouldn’t have
bought that brand for his wife, but he liked it on Aey.

Stan was naked and
suddenly aware of the air conditioning
cooling his buttocks. Aey
placed her
cold fingertips on his legs, glided them up to his thighs then
continued up his back.

She screwed open a
jar of oil. It smelt of lavender. She poured plenty on his body
then rubbed her small, firm hands up and down his legs, back and
buttocks, spreading scented oil. Her nails dug in, her palms
pressed down and her fingertips teased. Stan moaned and rocked his
body gently as she continued to caress him.

About thirty minutes
later she asked him to turn over. She didn’t offer him the towel.
He didn’t want it, didn’t need it. He turned over slowly, held in
his stomach and searched her eyes for any sign of shame. She wasn’t
shy, didn’t seem to care. She sat up and smiled at the excitement
he was showing her - mission accomplished.

As he lay there
naked, aroused and waiting for what or who would come next, guilt
took a grip. He thought of his wife back in England and wondered
how he’d allowed himself to be in this predicament.

His guilt was soon
dispelled when she continued massaging him, caressing him, nudging
his member as he lay there. It pointed to the moon. He moaned then
reached up to brush against her small, soft, cup-cake breasts. She
smiled, pulled up her shirt and bra and allowed him to fondle
her.
He squeezed her young, ripe nipples
gently as she moaned.

A
bandoning any pretence that she was massaging his abdomen,
she gave full attention to his penis, utilising firm, sensual
strokes
. He enjoyed the motions as she
brought him closer to climax with every stroke. His body suddenly
stiffened and his face strained as he came
-
almost in her face. She continued
stroking him with an even firmer grip and faster pace until he
raised his right hand. She stopped and smiled like the cat that’d
caught the cream. Wiping her wet hands on his waist she smiled and
demanded, “Don’t move till I get back.”

Stan nodded. She
stood up and stepped out.

He lay there for a
while catching his breath then reaching for the towel he pulled it
over his loins and wiped himself.

She returned a few
minutes later with a steaming, wet hand-towel, tutted that he’d
taken the main towel, removed it and tossed it to the side. He lay
there naked, suddenly feeling exposed. She dropped the hand towel
onto his crotch. Stan twisted his body like a lizard then realising
it wasn’t that hot, he laughed. She soaked up his sperm like a
horny mistress. She was rough. Stan was aroused. She finished. “How
you feel?”

“
Relaxed.”

“
You take shower then
come down for tea.”

“
Thank
you.”

He watched her leave,
had a shower then made his way downstairs. He drank a cup of warm
tea, paid, left a decent tip, took a card and walked
out.