Freedom Angel

by John Burdett

  www.ai-press.net

  Freedom Angel

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Copyright © 2011 John Burdett

  Edited by Allison Jacobson

  Photography and cover art by Les Byerley

  Electronic book Publication Freedom Angel 2011

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ai Press, 10435 Green Trail Drive N, Boynton Beach, FL 33436

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/)

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Freedom Angel

  John Burdett

  Dedication

  For Nit

  One

  Angel—short for Angela—decided that she would not sleep with the man next to her on the business class flight to Bangkok. It's a curious feature of capitalism that had she been travelling economy, the thought would not have entered her head. He was too old. True, he had kept his hair and waistline and most of the rugged good looks he must once have enjoyed; but he was well over forty, perhaps in his early fifties, and she had just turned twenty-nine.

  He was suave, though, and enjoyed the total self-possession of an upper-class Englishman, whereas she was mostly still New York, despite that a long sojourn in the UK had smoothed out a lot of the edges. He was also a great talker, suave and funny at the same time, which was what made her assume that he was in the act of trying to seduce her. Not that you could be sure of such a thing in these strange times when it was not so easy to guess another person's agenda—not even the secret agenda of someone you knew well, Angel thought with bitter reference to her own life. And there was something else about him, something that did make him attractive to her, despite the age—and class—difference. In the midst of his charm—you could say right in the dead center of his personality—there was a vulnerability, something more mysterious—and therefore more alluring—than polish.

  “So what are you up to in Bangkok?” he had asked after the first five-minute chat about what a hassle Heathrow was these days and how dreadful and humiliating the security rituals.

  She'd had the answer ready exactly as if she had prepared for a police interrogation. “Oh, I've always wanted to go to the Far East.”

  It was a lie. No way she was going to admit that her decision to get the hell out of the UK after the humiliating break-up with Nick was verging on—no, actually was—an hysterical reaction and she might just as well have been on a plane to New York, or Tel Aviv, or Johannesburg. After Nick—the Englishman she had moved to London to be with—had returned her her half of the money for the Honda Accord they'd bought together. The shared car had been a first step toward living together full time—instead of Friday night through Monday morning—which itself would have been a first step toward marriage and at least one baby.

  Now it had all gone pear shaped, as the Brits said, and she'd decided she needed a long-haul trip to somewhere—a modern equivalent of a slow boat to China—and had gone online and found that she could get on a flight to Bangkok that weekend, so long as she was prepared go higher than cattle class. She'd liked the idea, both of the exotic Orient and almost as exotic business class, and decided to treat herself as a way of treating the depression that threatened to overwhelm her if she stayed in London, even though the trip would take a big chunk out of the money she had received for the car. And it wasn't just depression that threatened; she was still enough of an American to feel unrestricted rage at the way she had been treated—she wasn't sure she would be able to control herself next time she saw Nick for yet another discussion—read fight—about division of the rest of their meagre communal finances. Best of all, she'd be able to SMS him: Sorry can't make Monday lunch, in Bangkok, tex't you when I get back. A flash of style and spirit to dazzle his British gloom.

  After the first meal, technically dinner according to the menu, she made a point of retreating into her pod, pressed the button that turned the seat into a bed, and discontinued the conversation with the suave Englishman. Next thing she knew there was a blazing day outside the airplane; she saw from the chart on her personal video screen that they were two thirds of the way to Thailand. The man also woke up at the same time and after a second's hesitation said: "The name’s Hank, by the way," and raised his eyebrows.

  She smiled and said, “Angel. Short for Angela.”

  “Ah! Angel returning to the City of Angels.”

  She didn't get it so he said, “Bangkok's name in Thai is Krung Thep, which means City of Angels.”

  She gave a polite laugh. “Really? Well, I can't say I'm returning. This is my first visit.”

  ”In this lifetime,” he said.

  She didn't pursue the conversation because she didn't want to encourage him to think he was going to seduce her. She supposed he was making a reference to Buddhism, about which she knew nothing except that reincarnation was supposed to be a part of it. She wasn't spiritual or religious at all, although she read her horoscope everyday in the online tabloids.

  As the plane grew closer to the destination and therefore their time together grew shorter, she allowed herself to chat a little more, and he chatted back, just as if they were restricting themselves to an equal number of words each. By the time the plane began to circle prior to landing, they had talked superficially for over an hour without giving anything away. She noticed that he offered no clue as to what he did for a living, and therefore she had offered none either. Nor had he given any indication that he might want to see her again. Not even a "Let's have a drink together while you're in town," though she was as sure as sure could be that he was single. Married men and men in relationships didn't move, talk, smile the way Hank did. Everything about him said freedom—which, in spite of all she'd been through, gave her just a tiny frisson of fascination, chagrin, envy, and the impulse to tame.

  Then the captain announced that there was a hold up at Suvarnabhumi airport and the twenty-minute holding position would be extended to forty minutes, perhaps even an hour. Then when they did land they had to wait on the tarmac for another two hours for some reason to do with security and no slot left for the airplane and no buses available either. Then there was a further delay waiting for baggage—it was natural for them to stand together having a good old English moan about the delay while they waited by the carousel. By the time the luggage started to arrive it was quite dark. Maybe it was too late to book a hotel? She decided that if he made the right kind of gesture she would consent to stay the night in his condo—on a sofa if necessary—strictly no sex. The truth was that all of a sudden her nerve failed and she had no doubt that he was a very safe kind of Englishman, even if an unnaturally sensual one for his age.

  She'd never been to an Oriental city before and even from airside it seemed chaotic, dangerous, alien. She'd banked on arriving by late afternoon, which would have left plenty of time to check out hotels and decide exactly where in the city she wanted to stay, but now, in the dark... How secure was Bangkok anyway? She'd come on a whim, had no idea.

  Now her body language changed. She was careful not to be provocative, but she did look up at him with soft eyes and ever so slightly edge toward him at the same time as leaning forward to pick up her bag. But he'd not responded at all. Piqued, she forced the issue by asking, “Where's the best place to stay, you know, where all the action is?”

&nb
sp; He didn't take the bait, simply said, ”Oh, I suppose Sukhumvit would be one place, or by the river—depends how much you want to spend. Don't you have a hotel?”

  At least this was an opening. She explained she'd come all of a sudden and hadn't had time to check out locations, therefore had not booked a hotel. “Basically I thought I'd check out the town then decide where I wanted to stay." She hesitated before blurting, ”You see, I'm not well off. I had to come business class because there were no seats in economy. I'm travelling on a shoe-string.”

  There was no need to go into details. She'd already noted how intelligent he was, and shrewd—maybe a function of being old—and he seemed to register that some kind of emotional issue was behind her flight from London. When he puffed out his cheeks she was sure he was going to offer to put her up, or at the very least invite her to share a cab, but he said, “In that case, you're probably better of in Kaosan Road—it's backpacker territory. If you're willing to put up with no windows, or windows and no air-conditioning, it's dirt cheap.”

  She didn't like the dirt cheap reference. She didn't like the way he obviously had no interest in her body, either, this middle-aged man who came across as a something of a Casanova and who had, perhaps, considered her for a moment and found her below his specifications. She still didn't want him, but felt that he ought to want her. So they split up with smiles—his seemed warm enough, hers was forced—and walked to the taxi rank separately. Except he wasn't waiting for a cab. He waved goodbye when a people mover drew up at the kerb in front of him.

  Suddenly an appalling depression born of a sense of loneliness and isolation overtook her and she could not bring herself to return his wave as he opened the door to the van. Then a still more terrible blackness quite overwhelmed her when a stunningly beautiful young Thai woman, probably younger than her, got out to embrace him before he pulled open the back of the van to throw in his luggage. Then it grew still worse—quite unacceptable on an emotional level—when another young woman emerged from the van and embraced him in an even more sensual way than the first woman.

  She was bordering on one of her paralysing 'black dogs' as she called them when, just before he ducked his head to enter the van, he happened to glance at her and must have seen the terrible desolation in her face, for he stopped, said something to the two women—they were hardly more than girls in her eyes—who both nodded eagerly, then stepped over to her where she stood in the queue. It was clearly out of pure pity, nothing else, that he said, in a very soft voice that she would have found charming if not for the apparent ménage-à-trois, “Can we give you a lift somewhere?”

  She wanted to say no, but she was quite out of emotional resources. In fact, even though nothing at all had happened or been said or even hinted at, she was hopelessly defeated, and she knew he could see it. She simply nodded and allowed him to pick up her suitcase and followed him to the van. She sat in the back while the two Thai girls and Hank sat on the bench seat in the front, one of the women driving, Hank between them, chatting in Thai. She wished from the bottom of her heart she had stayed in London and gone to see a therapist instead of this absurd trip to the back of beyond. It didn't help when the young woman who was not driving but had taken to tickling the back of Hank's neck with her fingers, turned to Angel and said with a cute and very Oriental accent, ”You look broken hearted. You can stay with us tonight if you like.” The she dug Hank in the ribs and said, ”Can't she?”

  Hank turned to look at her and she saw that he understood everything about her state of mind, and even despised her for it. "If she likes," he replied.

  Two

  His condo was huge and magnificent, with a mind-blowing view over the city with its brilliant lights and steel-and-glass towers beetling over wooden hovels and the sense of bustle even in the middle of the night. He said she'd have to sleep on the sofa because even though there were four bedrooms one was used as an office, one was a gym and the other was a jumble of books and suitcases—a store room in other words. That left one bedroom, two Thai women, one man—and a sofa in the downstairs salon. Once again Angel felt as if her stomach had collapsed, but she simply nodded and forced a smile. Then Hank disappeared to shower and when he emerged she understood. He was in a full-length silk dressing gown, not with a dragon motif of course, he was far too sophisticated for that, but nevertheless distinctly Oriental—and he possessed the self-assurance of a prince. What was really annoying—unacceptable to her eyes—was that he was English. Had he been French—or Italian, or even German, or American it would have been easier to handle. But he was a Brit—yet not in the least apologetic, as a Brit should have been in the circumstances. He called out to one of his women and said something in Thai. She called back and came down the stairs with a bath towel over one arm and some shower gel. She put her arm around poor Angel—that was how she felt about herself at that moment poor Angel—and led her to the downstairs bathroom with its hyper-modern, hyper-expensive fittings and black marble and sparkling mirrors and a beautiful, freshly laundered bathrobe which was definitely not man size. Why a female bathrobe in the spare bathroom, in a condo full of bedrooms and bathrooms?

  While she was showering Hank called out that he was bushed from the journey and was going to sleep and he'd see her in the morning before she left and that Nong—one of the women—would show her around the kitchen so she could fix herself something if she felt hungry later and she—feeling some of her courage returning—called out "Great, thanks." Now she felt safe about emerging from the bathroom naked except for the bathrobe where Nong was waiting, lounging on the sofa reading a comic book. Nong gave a brilliant smile when she saw her—and Angel saw something in the young Thai woman that made her reassess the situation. Nong really seemed to feel sorry for her. Angel wondered if she hadn't deliberately hung around downstairs out of compassion. She smiled uncertainly while Nong showed her the kitchen—a high-tech masterpiece in stainless steel—and where bread, rice and some canned food could be found. Then just as Nong said goodnight she reached inside Angel's robe, gave a friendly tug at one of her nipples and said, “Cheer up, you are in the Land of Smiles.”

  No one, man or woman, had ever actually tugged at either of her nipples before, nor had her nipples ever entered into the frame of a platonic friendship. But that appeared to be the way Nong expressed herself, and for some reason she felt a faint, but tangible, leap of joy. Whatever reservations she had about Hank, the polygamous Lord of the Manor, she decided she liked Nong, and would probably like his other girlfriend too.

  That night Angel dreamed of a snake. She had often dreamed of snakes when in a poor psychological condition; real snakes terrified her and when they appeared in her dreams they usually caused her to wake in a cold sweat; sometimes she screamed in her sleep. This snake was quite different, though, compared to the sinister gray eel-like monsters of her nightmares. This snake was green and gold, like the colors of a perfect New England summer, and when it slid slowly but surely up her legs and began to nibble at her vagina, instead of waking up traumatized she woke up horny. Her lust was so great she had to finish what the serpent had started with the aid of her favourite finger.

  Three

  Angel woke and watched Nong with a sarong tied over her breasts watering plants on the extensive balcony, which included a plunge pool. When she turned and saw that Angel was awake, she gave a big wave and a grin and came in still holding the watering can. She explained that Hank was not around. He'd gone off somewhere with the other woman whose name was Chompoo—hard not to call her Shampoo, Angel thought. She would have expected that Hank, the perfect—well, near perfect—gentleman might have left some message, if only goodbye and good luck—but Nong didn't mention anything like that. His behaviour added to the exotic atmosphere of the city, which roared and clanged and buzzed beneath the balcony. It was the heat, though, that was most exotic: the reassuring certainty that it would always be there, that whatever happened in this land it would never be cold. Maybe if she stayed long enough i
t would unfreeze her heart?

  Nong checked Angel's face. Angel saw an intense emotional intelligence behind the child-like smile. ”I'm going shopping. Want to come?”

  A few hours later a certain thing happened between Nong and Angel—nothing sexual, but very much to do with the young Thai woman's restrained, discreet and understated kindness—a form of effortless compassion—that melted Angel from the inside. The event itself was specific enough, though. Nong had taken her shopping to an open-air market in an area called Klong Teoy, and all of a sudden Angel had held Nong's arm very tight, said that she had to sit down. Nong had taken her to an open-air restaurant with tarpaulin to keep the sun off, and Angel had burst into tears and blurted out the reason why she had so stupidly got on that plane, how she was indeed broken hearted, how Nick who had been the very soul of the modern sensitive Englishman of the kind one married as part of the natural progression of being female and wanting to have a family—when he'd confessed that he'd recently discovered he was gay and didn't want a family at all—in fact the idea terrified and appalled him—and what he really wanted to do was to become part of the full-time gay scene with a man he was gaga about in Hampstead, North London—and that was that.

  Nong reacted with pity, but didn't seem to find anything in the least unusual about the story. She didn't really understand why Angel should be so upset. It was the sort of thing that happened all the time in Bangkok. She could think of about twenty examples of young men turning into katoeys overnight. Then, when Angel had recovered somewhat, even managed a smile and an apology for dumping her misery on a total stranger who was also quite the kindest and most charming human being she had ever met, Nong fell into thought for a long moment. Now Angel wondered if there were, indeed, an ulterior motive behind Nong's kindness. It turned out there was.