Freedom Angel

by John Burdett

  Angel had no idea how it happened, nor even if it were she or one of the girls who began the seduction. All she knew was that she was suddenly infused with an overpowering need to worship the beauty of the female form. She was on her knees, kissing Nong's thighs, opening them, seeking out the most sensitive and secret part with her tongue, enjoying a feeling of power when she felt the young woman start to melt under her attentions, while Chompoo leaned over her from behind, naked, massaging her back and cupping her hands under her breasts. Then they all three climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.

  Angel knew that the decision regarding Nick had been mysteriously made and to clinch it she found the CD of Stabat Mater and played it while Nong lit the incense and Chompoo closed the curtains. Now it was their turn to serve her, and they were as expert with a woman as with a man. Chompoo especially knew how to trigger female erogenous zones better than any man she had slept with—not that she'd slept with very many. It was odd, too, how now she understood Hank in a different way: how wonderful beyond belief it must be to have these two sensual, gifted, playful young women next to you when you woke every morning. What ecstasy to be quite secure in the knowledge that the cold light of day would not break in upon your cosy oblivion, but, on the contrary, somehow develop and enhance it, make the dreamtime real. What a different mode of consciousness, she found herself thinking while Nong now offered her breasts to nuzzle while she squeezed Angel's own between her thighs and Chompoo hungrily buried her tongue deep into her vagina. Quite simply, now that she'd found it she could no longer live without the intimacy of tan flesh moulded by half-light, the ancient harmonies, the sandalwood, the dope, the heat—and the mysterious dying lord of the manor, who, of course, held it all together. As far as she was concerned, this was the total personal freedom Hank had talked about.

  Afterwards, she returned to the laptop in her room, flashed up her e-mail page with Nick's message, stabbed out fuck you, clicked on send—and that was it. A former lifetime finished, another just started.

  Seven

  Nine months passed during which Angel was drawn further and further into Hank's world. Friday nights were designated Dionysian. She became the master of ceremonies—always with the incense, the Vivaldi, the cannabis. But she expanded the theatre somewhat: they began downstairs with a slow version of a Thai dance, some Thai snacks on the coffee table, the girls in their best sarongs, Hank in his silk dressing gown loving every minute, before mounting the stairs holding candles. She felt no resentment at his possessing three lovers at once; on the contrary, he was the big, necessary male counterweight that somehow made the intimacy between her and the other girls something more than homosexual; there was an inexpressible totality about their orgies, as if a circle was finally closed, a wound healed. After all, every opera needs a tenor, and the better the tenor the more pampering he must have. The best was when, after she had worked on and been worked on by the girls, they insisted that she be first to mount Hank, like making sure an honoured guest had the first slice of the wedding cake. And she had learned to reproduce deliberately that extraordinary moment that had taken her so much by surprise the first time: the exquisite, almost unbearable slow climb to climax without any fear of premature disappointment.

  Little by little he allowed her to acquire more knowledge of his main source of income, for she had been right about one crucial matter: he was fading much too fast to last five years. Perhaps one more year of full mobility—then, knowing him, he would end it all in one glorious personal and private bacchanalia—probably just the four of them. She had no idea what would become of her and the girls after that. She felt a strong need to, as Thais said, take care of them. Hank seemed to agree, but remained reticent about the work itself. Then there came a moment when, it seemed, he could no longer hold out. He announced they were all four to fly to Hong Kong for the South China Sea Race. Angel already knew that he kept a yacht in a harbour in the former British colony, which had deeply impressed Nong and Chompoo, who, however, did not understand why he used it only once a year.

  Angel had never fallen hopelessly in love with an inanimate object before. The first time she saw its seventy feet of classic curve, its aristocratic spareness—for it was a racing yacht—and the masts that seemed, when you stood under them, to rise as high as the sky, her heart skipped several beats. She loved the name, too: Lilith. Dark, mysterious and alluring as the deep blue ocean it effortlessly flew over. At first she hardly paid attention to the two young Thai sailors whom Hank paid to live on it permanently and—that phrase again—generally take care. It was when they went out on a practice run and the boys—everyone called them that even though they were in their mid-twenties—stripped to swimming trunks and she saw the superb mahogany musculature of their arms and upper bodies as they worked the winches, that she realised Thai men, too, could be, well, as irresistible as the girls. And Hank was a fine skipper. After the practice runs, which Hank insisted on every day for two weeks, he took them all for celebratory drinks at the yacht club; everyone seemed to respect and admire him where he stood tall at the bar in blue captain's blazer, gold-and-green silk cravat, fresh-pressed white linen pants, haughty stance.

  ”Best bloody skipper in the fleet,” one old China hand put it, “damned bad luck he never wins. Always one thing or another. Where d'you come last year, Hank?”

  ”Eleventh,” Hank said with a heavy, resigned sigh.

  ”Eleventh!” the red-faced Brit almost spat, “damned respectable place, of course, considering we're talking about over three hundred boats in the fleet, but with a skipper like you and a boat like that...” he swallowed a hot toddy instead of finishing the sentence.

  Angel knew nothing about yachts and sailing, although she was learning fast. She could see the incredible skill and total concentration whenever Hank took the wheel. At such moments he was that other kind of lord, snapping orders in Thai, brooking no delay, treating her as if she were just another deckhand who was to do as she was told and jump to it pronto—and expect a raw army-style tongue lashing if she hesitated for a second. It could be scary in a heavy sea, but generally fun rather than humiliating; and anyway she'd get her revenge back in Bangkok on the next Friday night when she ran the show.

  Then the day of the race to Manila came and there was not a soul in all the yacht clubs in all of Hong Kong who did not experience the thrill of the moment. It was the kind of show the Brits had done so well in the colonial period, and locals had continued the tradition with enthusiasm. Hundreds—it seemed like thousands—of yachts swerving, flying, dodging, ensigns flapping, giant genoas in exotic tropical colors ballooning over the waters, with as many or more motor boats hanging around to accompany the great fleet for the first few miles as far as the open sea, all waiting for the starting gun. Then they were off and there was no time to think, with Hank yelling orders, the half-dozen newly arrived Thais who had been brought over for the event strictly obeying every word from the permanent crew, who in turn obeyed the slave-driving skipper with instant responses, and all the other glorious yachts of every kind, colour and nationality going through exactly the same exercise as they manoeuvred for position. A couple of hours later the fleet had fanned out and they were on a long tack to the east, easily out-pacing all but the best, biggest and fastest of the competition. A moment came late in the afternoon, with the sun blazing as it died in the west, when they heard officially over the radio that they were in the lead. Everyone gave a great whoop of joy, except for Hank and his two trusted professionals who shared a glance.

  Night fell, they changed tack and were flying over black water in a westerly direction. Hank gave orders that only a skeleton crew were needed and everyone else should “punch out a few zzz's down below” while they had the chance. It was at that moment when he caught Angel's eye and seemed to make a decision. “You stay on deck,” he ordered. “Don't do a damn thing, keep out of the way and watch.”

  It was about midnight when Hank and the two trusted ones nodded at each other
and one of the boys spoke on the radio in a rapid, incomprehensible Isaan dialect, then nodded again at the skipper. Hank checked his position on the Satnav, swung the wheel at the same time as one of the Thai men locked the door to the accommodation below. Suddenly the boys were slackening the lines, pulling in the sails. Hank handled the seventy feet of boat so cleverly that it seemed to stop dead in the water, right beside a Thai fishing trawler that had loomed up out of nowhere, no navigation lights to be seen, only a lone flashlight held by a boy. Harsh, urgent whispers as they tied up to the trawler and the dozens of long, fat tubular fenders, which every boat carries to hang over the side to prevent damage, were not hung over the side to prevent damage but exchanged for as many identical fenders from the fishing trawler. Then the door to the bunks below was unlocked, sails hoisted and they were off again, flying through the night. The entire exercise lasted less than ten minutes, but they had diverted from the course by a good few miles.

  When they arrived at Manila the fastest of the fleet were already at the dock. Angel guessed Lilith had come about fifteenth, but Hank and his boys didn't seem too disappointed. There was a long—a very long—line of Philippina girls lining the quay, waving, grinning, shouting in Tagalog, and all the young men on all the boats waved, grinned and shouted back. Time to party, obviously.

  After they returned to Bangkok a couple of days later—Hank trusted his boys to sail Lilith and her precious fenders back to Hong Kong where his Chinese partners would take over—Hank and Angel had a long, rather formal talk downstairs at the condo, while Nong and Chompoo were upstairs catching up on the Korean soap opera. By the time the girls came down to party, Hank and Angel had reached agreement on how to proceed over the next year or so, while Hank was still able-bodied. Angel pointed out that, for the plan to work, she was going to need a lot of practice at the helm of Lilith. Hank was forced to agree. “The boys will help,” he said, “they're as good as me at the helm, probably better. They just don't like to give orders, otherwise I'd let them run the show.”

  Angel saw how it would be after Hank died. She would do all he requested in his will, and especially take care of Nong and Chompoo as if they were her blood sisters. She would have done that anyway, without his prompting. The only difference she envisaged in his modus operandi, once she became, so to speak, lady of the manor, was the amount of time she spent on Lilith—with those beautiful boys who loved to obey a commanding skipper. Maybe she would invite the girls now and then for a Dionysian full moon rite, but she had come round to Hank's point of view in such manners: a well-practiced, well-oiled threesome was hard to beat and, like Nick, she had discovered that she wasn't really gay after all—at least, not wholly so.

  About the Author

  John Burdett was nearly born in New York, but his mother thought better of it and took a boat to Southampton, England, where she gave birth moments after the ship docked. As a consequence he has suffered from wanderlust all this life. He stayed in the U.K. long enough to obtain a legal qualification, whereupon he fled to Hong Kong. After he had made sufficient money there, he saw the opportunity to escape the slavery of work for the duration. He also began to write novels while he lived in Holland, France, Spain, Hong Kong. He now divides his time between Thailand and Southwest France, where he owns a stone cottage on a river. He has published six novels to date, including the Bangkok series Bangkok 8, Bangkok Tattoo, Bangkok Haunts, The Godfather of Kathmandu. The most resent, Vulture Peak, is due to be released in January 2012. Visit his website: www.john-burdett.com

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