Lost Innocence: The Accused. Part One

by Simon Palmer

EIGHT

  STAN WAS returning to his car when he heard the sound of gravel flicking up from behind. He turned to see his father standing before him.

  “What’s the plan, Stan?”

  “We go there and pay Mike’s way out.”

  “What if that doesn’t work? What then?”

  “It’s a rape charge in Thailand, the sex capital of the world. They don’t go to trial there, they settle.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That’s the word on the street.”

  “Which street is that, Sesame Street?”

  “I spoke to a guy on the way over.”

  “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously.”

  “Of course I’m taking it seriously. Why do you think I came to you?”

  “Your mum won’t let me go.”

  “When did you start taking orders from her?”

  Nigel took Stan by the arm. “My grandson’s been charged with rape; he’s alone in a Thai prison. Do you have any idea how bad they are?”

  “I had a look on YouTube.”

  “He’ll be scared. You need to get him out.”

  “Will you come?”

  “Not with these meds I’m on, but keep me posted and make sure you have a back-up plan in case you can’t just buy your way out. And there’s no way Mike would have beaten and raped some girl.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, he’s going to need you to tell him that.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Then go and get our boy back.”

  NINE

  A GUARD with a Scorpion tattoo called my name. I stepped over some motionless bodies and followed him to a small room which was divided into two by a bent wire mesh that hung from the ceiling. Both sides had a wooden table, two chairs and an old fashioned phone taped to the mesh.

  I sat and waited until the door to the other side burst open and I came face to face with the man who had put me here - Nincotte. He took a seat and picked up his phone. “Thai prison is not so nice like in your country. You had enough?”

  I wanted out, but couldn’t let him beat me.

  “It will cost you a hundred and fifty thousand.”

  He reached into his pocket and produced a credit card - my credit card. He taunted me with it for a moment then tucked it away.

  “Give me the pin number, or we’ll see you in Court next week. A date will be set for a further hearing and that could take a while.”

  “I know you only have twelve days to charge me.”

  “You’ll be charged with rape.”

  “…With what evidence?”

  “We have the semen, the photographs and the witness statement from Mia.”

  “How did you know it was my semen?”

  “We matched it with your DNA.”

  “That was quick.”

  “We’re quite efficient over here.”

  “Was there anything else in the doctor’s analysis, perhaps a drug that put me to sleep?”

  “You were shown the report.”

  “It was in Thai.”

  “We are in Thailand.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You beat and raped an underage girl.”

  “We both know that isn’t true.”

  “I have the evidence right here.”

  “Do you know my father’s a lawyer? He’s flying over right now. My time here is almost up then you’ll have to let me go.”

  “Who told you about the twelve days?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Did he tell you that they can be extended several times before we even charge you?”

  My balls dropped. I looked away. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me scared.

  “I didn’t think so and your father may be a lawyer in his country, but this is not his country. You’ve survived so far, but things could get worse.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to wait and find out. A hundred and fifty thousand, Michael, and you walk away this week. Do we have a deal?”

  I shook my head.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  He sat and stared for a minute without saying a word, then rose up and walked out.

  My thoughts caught up with me. The twelve days could be extended? John hadn’t mentioned that. I sat for a few minutes in a cold sweat until he returned. “Last chance, Mr Walker.”

  My mind drifted over to John and how he was offered a similar way out and hadn’t taken it. He was stronger than me. I wasn’t sure I could do this, go on, but then I’d already come this far.

  “Well?” Nincotte pressed.

  I looked at him with purpose. “No deal.”

  His jaw dropped. “You are willing to stay here?”

  I shook my head and nodded nervously at the same time. I didn’t know what I was agreeing to, but I stood my ground determined to beat this man.

  “I may not be able to release you in the future. Every day you're in here the paperwork increases.”

  I didn’t look at him. He waited for a while then eventually stood up and stepped out. A few minutes later, ‘Scorpion Guard’ arrived, pulled me off my chair and returned me to my cell.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I just had a visit from Nincotte. You didn’t mention that the twelve days can be extended.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. What happened?”

  “He offered me a deal.”

  “That’s great….but you didn’t take it.”

  “I thought I could do the time and beat him.”

  “You fool. You had a way out and now you’re stuck in here, for who knows how long.”

  It suddenly hit me what was happening. My heart started racing and my body started rocking.

  “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.

  Abandoning 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.

  Back on the street and feeling the heat, he escaped into a pink Toyota disguised as a taxi. A young man with an Afro smiled through the rear-view. “You want see beautiful lady?”

  “Where? How much?”

  “Not far. Not much”

  “Let’s go.”

  After a slow-moving journey along Sukhumvit Road, they arrived at a street of bars lit up by bright neon signs. Sexy, young ladies lingered outside in short skirts, shorter shorts, swim-wear, night dresses, sexy dresses, lacy lingerie and whatever else would catch the eye. Stan had never seen so many beautiful girls in one place and smiled at them all.

  He stopped at a food stall serving fried crickets and wondered how drunk he’d have to be to try one of those. Then passing a bar with a wooden door, he noticed a couple of ladies sat at a table in lingerie. The one on the right was the prettiest, thought Stan but she hadn’t seen him. The one on the left did. She rose from her stool, glided over, reached for his hand and led him inside.

  Stan stepped into a small, smoky room with a long bar to the right, leather booths to the left and a stage area just large enough for a couple of girls to perform - and they did.

  ‘Hotel California’, played loudly around the room, but Stan wasn’t listening. He was too busy ogling the girls on the stage. Two, probably a little south of seventeen stood naked, danced erotically and stared at themselves in mirrors on the walls. They seemed perfectly natural sporting their stuff for all to see. Stan felt a little sorry for them, but that thought was soon lost to lust.

  He was shown to a booth and smiled at by a farang sitting opposite. He looked around fifty, had thick, brown hair and wore a pair of cream Chinos under a chequered shirt.

  “What you drink?” a pretty waitress asked. She had her hair tied back and her teeth behind braces.

  “I’ll take a Heineken.”

  ‘Bony Nose’ peered over. “Ze name is Helmut.”

  “Stan. It’s my first time here.”

  “You want zome company?”

  “Sure, it’s always nice to meet new people.”

  “I was talking about za girl,” Helmut laughed.

  “Oh. Then why not.”

  As the music changed to another eighties’ track, Helmut waved over an older lady. She wasn’t as slim or as sexy as the other girls, had heavy makeup and bushy hair. She strutted over, blocked Stan’s view of the stage and spoke Thai with Helmut.

  “Who’s that?” Stan asked as she walked away.

  “The mamasan. She’s in charge of the girls.”

  A few minutes and a new track later, two attractive ladies in silk robes appeared and slid in next to the boys. Helmut opened his girl’s robe to reveal a lovely little figure wrapped in purple lingerie and half covering a perky pair of fake breasts.

  “We buy them a drink then we can play.”

  Stan agreed, ordered two shots of Tequila and turned to his girl. Her smile was encouraging; she had a pretty face framed with brown hair and busy eyes that kept flicking between Helmut and Stan.

  “What you name? Where you from?”

  “I’m Nigel,” Stan lied.

  “My name Pancake.”

  Two shots of Tequila soon arrived on a silver tray with a sprinkle of salt and two wedges of lime. Stan watched the girls as they downed them, licked the salt and sucked the lime.

  Helmut, noticing Stan was a little shy, leant over, opened Pancake’s robe and copped a feel of her breasts. “At least get zee money’s worth.”

  Stan looked down at the red lingerie embracing Pancake’s slender body, but didn’t touch. Helmut fondled his girl’s breasts, right in front of Stan then reached down to stroke his fingers between her legs.

  “You can take any of zese girls upstairs to a private room and have ze wicked way.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Maybe after a few more drinks.”

  “I don’t think so. I feel a little bad for the girls. I couldn’t take advantage of them.”

  Several drinks later, Helmut was looking at his watch. He turned to Stan. “I have work tomorrow.”

  “That’s a shame. What do you do?”

  “I own ze travel agency. Perhaps ve can do zis again, anuzzer time?”

  Helmut reached for the bill. Stan pulled it away and paid. Helmut handed Stan his card.

  “Thank you Stan. It’s nice to have met you. Call me if you want annuzer night out.”

  “….Definitely.” Stan nodded.

  Stan tucked away Helmut’s card, followed him out of the bar and said goodbye. He continued his stroll down Cowboy, reached the end, then turned onto another road. It had several scruffy taxi drivers standing around, waiting for their prey.

  “Taxi sah?” A cabbie asked with dry lips.

  Stan waved a dismissive wave - he wasn’t done yet. He continued on and was walking down a quieter road when he was accosted by three girls sitting outside the small entrance to a bar.

  “You want drink, handsome man?” a tall, feminine lady offered. “You look like Tom Cruise.”

  “I’m heading home,” Stan replied.

  “I go with you?” She asked with hopeful eyes.

  She was sexy in a sleazy way with thick black hair and long legs. Her make-up was heavy and her thick eyelashes fluttered sensually at Stan. His eyes fixated on her black high-heeled boots that stretched half way up her legs.

  “One for the road?” she smiled.

  He nodded and followed her into a small, dimly-lit room where several black-leather barstools were lined up against the bar. It smelt of stale spunk. He ordered a whisky soda as she slid in next to him and started rubbing his leg.

  “You buy drink for me?” she asked.

  Stan nodded to the bar-maid. A whisky Cola arrived and Stan and ‘Black Boots’ clinked glasses.

  “What your name?”

  “Nigel,” Stan lied again.

  She pressed her hand firmly against his crotch and began to caress him. He opened his legs a little and glanced down to see
she now had a firm grip on his member, through his shorts. He contentedly sipped his whisky while she slowly opened the buttons to his shorts, snaked her hand in and found her way to the fly in his boxers. Stan sat back, allowing her to search; he wasn’t shy, he was too excited and too drunk to care.

  She was quick to find his member and it was already giving her a standing ovation. She pulled it out right there in the bar and patted it like a pet. Stan blushed, but didn’t stop her and watched as she took his balls in her hands and squeezed them.

  There was nobody else, save a chubby, bar-maid wearing a denim skirt over a pair of pink stockings. She had placed some tissues and a small bottle of Johnson’s baby oil on the bar counter. As Stan enjoyed another first-time experience in the ‘Land of Smiles,’ ‘Black Boots’ took a little oil on her hand, applied it to Stan’s manhood and started to stroke him. He was shocked. The barmaid didn’t look, didn’t care and continued drying glasses. Stan sat back with one eye on ‘Black Boots’ hand and the other on the door.

  He was reaching the point of no-return, when she slowed down then stopped. “You want more?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “Have private room.”

  Guilt had lost out to lust, again. Stan finished his drink, pulled up his shorts and followed her up a flight of broken stairs. They arrived at a room that smelt of smoke and sex. It had an old pool table with a torn cloth and a small, empty bar.

  She locked the door behind them, leaned him up against the pool table and rammed her tongue down his throat. After several seconds of a sloppy snog, she broke away. “You want fuck me?”

  Stan nodded.

  She unbuttoned Stan’s shorts and slipped them down to his ankles. She stepped over to the bar, rummaged around and found a dusty bottle of Thai whisky and some mixers, hidden in a cupboard underneath. “What you drink?”

  “Whisky soda.” Stan replied.

  He started to shuffle over like a penguin to take his drink, his shorts still around his ankles.

  “Stay there,” she laughed. “I bring to you.”

  He shuffled back feeling foolish and waited. His heart thumped as she glided over, placed the drinks on the side then fell to her knees. She pulled down his boxers, took his manhood in her hands and tickled the tip with her nails. She took him deeply in her mouth and caressed him with her long, strong tongue. He glanced down; her eyes met his as she started to suck him fast and furiously. He could feel himself coming, again, and reached down to take her firm, left breast in his hand.

  She continued, careful not to finish him, her musky perfume tickling his nostrils. He reached down, slipped his hand through her dress and ventured down her legs. He was about to reach her opening, when she stopped him. He paused for a Mississippi count of three, then tried again – this time she allowed him safe passage.

  He reached down, grazed her thigh and then continued further on his voyage until finally arriving between her legs. Expecting a shaved, smooth moist opening, he was more than gob-smacked when he felt a long, hard bulge, taped up and strapped firmly to her inside leg. He felt it again - to be sure – it was still there - fuck!

  A tsunami of aversion, revulsion, repulsion horror, disgust and despair swept over him, amongst other emotions that had all arrived simultaneously. He almost threw up. He lifted her(?) him(?) it from him and pushed her(?) him(?) it away. He stumbled into his clothes and dashed for the door.

  “I thought you knew,” the lady-boy cried out as she stood back scratching her head.

  He struggled with the lock, opened the door, legged it down the stairs and rushed out of the bar. Then bolting blindly across the road, he side-stepped a taxi-tout to be hit head-on by a Tuk Tuk.

  ELEVEN

  RAIN WAS splashing off the window panes and the wind howled like an angry child: it was a cold, wet morning in England. Doris was in the bedroom and had just finished on the phone, when Nigel drifted in from the bathroom.

  “Who was that?” he asked, drying his hair.

  “Lou. Stan was hit by a Tic Tac.”

  “A what?”

  “I’m sure she said Tic Tac.”

  “The mint?”

  “She said it’s some sort of a motorbike with a carriage attached. Stan was hit by one of them while crossing the street. He’ll be in hospital for a while.”

  Nigel stood shaking his head. “Idiot.”

  “So what now?” Doris asked.

  “What do you mean? I have to go.”

  “You can’t go. You’re not well enough. You will have to send another partner!”

  “I should have gone in the first place.”

  “But it’s so hot and humid over there.”

  “Then I’ll walk slowly, drink lots of water and avoid bloody Tic Tacs.”

  She stormed off down to the kitchen while he followed, strolled into the living room, picked up the Thai phrase book, then entered the study.

  The aroma of fine Italian leather lingered in the air and every photo frame, organizer and business necessity lay neatly in its place. A luxurious black leather chair stood behind a grand desk and shelves were loaded with legal books. A Picasso graced the main wall and a framed Michael Walker hung proudly alongside.

  Using his thumb print and a six digit PIN, he opened his safe, withdrew his passport, credit cards and a jiffy bag stuffed with fifties.

  Doris followed him back up the stairs.

  “What do you know about Thai law?”

  “I’ll find a guy out there.”

  “This is insane. You’re not strong enough.”

  “I’ve never been in better shape.”

  This was a blatant lie. He used to play squash every Tuesday, go fencing on Fridays and spend Sundays at the golf club. Nowadays, he would take it easy with a little gardening on a fine day.

  “I don’t think you’re thinking straight.”

  “Do you want to help me pack or are you just going to stand there whinging?”

  She could feel she was losing this battle. Her eyes filled with frustration and fury.

  “I think you’re a stupid, selfish old man!”

  He lunged forward, took her by the throat and pinned her up against the wall.

  “Perhaps, but this is my decision, not yours.”

  “You’re hurting me,” she wheezed, the colour of her cheeks fading from her face.

  He released his grip. She fell to her knees. Gasping for air, she picked herself up, stumbled out of the bedroom and struggled down the stairs.

  “I’m sorry.” Nigel screamed. He stood at the top of the stairs waiting for a response. She didn’t reply. He turned back to the bedroom, threw some clothes into a Burberry bag then picked out a suit.

  Back in the study and dressed, he flicked through an app. on his iPhone and checked for the next flight to Bangkok. Then flicking onto Amazon, he searched for a book and downloaded the latest John Daysh, ‘Cut Out the Middle Man,’ for the flight. He turned to his bookshelf, slipped out ‘A Course in Miracles’ and packed it. He left his bag by the front door and strolled back to the kitchen to find his wife. He leaned over to kiss her, but she turned away.

  “I’m sorry for hurting you. It must be these new meds. I really don’t know what came over me.”

  Her top lip raised, yet she didn’t say a word.

  “I guess we’ll talk later then,” he frowned.

  He stepped over to the counter, poured himself a half cup of coffee and after a few sips, he was ready to leave. He picked up his things at the door, stepped outside to the garage and glancing up at the grey sky, he opted for the Jag.

  En-route to the airport, he pulled over to the side of the road and called his daughter-in-law on the hands-free, “Hi Lou.”

  “Hi Nigel. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “I’m heading to the airport now.”

 
“Thank you.”

  “Tell me everything Mike told you.”

  “Alright, where do I begin?”

  “From the beginning. I need every detail.”

  Nigel listened and took notes on a pad attached to the dash. Once the call ended, he checked the rear-view, pulled out and pushed the pedal to the metal. He inserted a Sinatra CD into the player, nudged up the volume, broke the speed limit and tapped on the wheel as Ol’ blue eyes flew him to the moon.

  Nigel’s flight landed early. He struggled through immigration, picked up his luggage and headed over to the nearest Bureau-de-Change. After exchanging a stash of cash with a sexy cashier with dyed hair, he avoided the taxi touts and headed for the exit.

  “What the hell,” he cursed at the humidity. He dived into a green and yellow Toyota, wiped the sweat from his brow then noticed a middle-aged, wrinkle-faced man glancing back at him.

  “Hot?” he laughed.

  Nigel nodded, unfolded a piece of paper and handed it over. ‘Wrinkle-face’ held it up to eye level, nodded, handed it back, switched on the meter and drove away. Nigel sat up, opened his journal and peered out of the window.

  It seemed the whole population of Bangkok was on its way to work. People were crammed into open buses and hanging on the outsides, young girls in short skirts and tight shirts were riding side-saddle on motorcycles driven by men in bright orange vests and battered trucks emitting thick, black, toxic substances into the atmosphere were driven as if their drivers were drunk. Nigel thought the traffic in London was bad - welcome to Bangkok.

  After a while, they finally arrived at a run-down apartment building. It was crumbling on the outside and the neighbourhood looked rough.

  Nigel turned to his driver. “Can you wait? Can I leave my bag?”

  “Okay,” the Thai nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name Pang.”

  “Thank you, Pang. I’m Nigel. I won’t be long. You can leave the meter on if you like.”

  Nigel climbed out of the car with his Thai phrase book in hand. He stepped over to the entrance, rang the main buzzer - nothing. He pressed again and waited. He glanced back at Pang who was out of the car and leaning on the boot. He was a short, skinny man with a kind, trusting face, wore tight, shabby clothes and his shoes were literally on their last legs.

  Nigel was about to press again when the door swung open and a lady in tight, striped leggings appeared. She was holding a steaming bowl of soup and eating something spicy.

  “Can you speak English?”

  She stood there with a blank expression. He repeated his words slowly - she didn’t reply. Sweat was beginning to ooze from his body.

  “What you want to know?” Pang asked. He had stepped over from the car.

  “I need to see the studio rented by my grandson. Can you tell her that in Thai?”

  Pang nodded. A long conversation ensued. Finally Pang turned back to Nigel.

  “Your son with Police, not come back yet.”

  “Yes, I know. I want to see the apartment.”

  Pang turned to the lady; another conversation began and ended with her putting down her bowl.

  “Can you join us?” Nigel asked Pang.

  Pang nodded, locked the car and followed Nigel and the lady inside. She led them through a dim hallway and up a wooden staircase. There was a smell of vomit in the air. Nigel, feeling the heat, turned back to Pang. “No air-conditioning in here?”

  “Not have, but in room may have.”

  After climbing the staircase, Nigel and Pang were led into Michael’s studio. Nigel caught his breath, flicked on the air-con and took a look around. It was a fair-sized studio with a low ceiling but could have used a little more light.

  There were sketches of several girls pinned to the walls. Nigel stood back and admired them. Then spotting a sketch on an easel he took out his mobile and photographed it. “Excuse me, Pang.”

  Pang stepped over and stood at his side.

  “Can you find any other drawings of this girl?”

  Pang studied the sketch, checked the others and returned a few minutes later with another two. He held them up for Nigel to photograph them.

  “You want to work for me?”

  “How much you pay?”

  “How’s five thousand a day?”

  “What you want I do?”

  “Drive me around and translate a bit.”

  “…Can."

  “Good, then let’s go.”

  They left the studio. Nigel thanked the landlady with a thousand on the way out. She was shocked.

  Pang rushed ahead down the stairs, opened the back door of the car and then helped Nigel climb into the back. He got into the front and waited.

  Nigel fumbled around in his trouser pocket, pulled out another piece of paper and handed it over. Pang’s smile turned upside down as he read it.

  “You know the place?”

  Pang nodded then drove away like a chauffeur.