Death Trip

by Lee Weeks

  Then Mann leaned forward across the table, rested his elbows and stared into Sue’s face. She stared back, unflinching.

  ‘Guessed it yet?’

  ‘The foreign kids…that’s what you’re here about, isn’t it?’

  ‘Right third time.’

  ‘What are you—a policeman?’ Sue asked incredulously. ‘Don’t think I have ever seen one in these parts. Not a foreign one.’

  ‘I am helping the Dutch parents of the five missing volunteers, but I need help. You obviously care about these kids.’ Mann nodded in the direction of the backpacker sipping his beer and looking happy. Eric appeared with a curry for Sue.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I think I had what you’re having.’

  She laughed. ‘There is only one meal. It’s curry and rice or curry and noodles.’ She had a strange hint of South African in her voice, a soft roundness that gave it a melodic lilt. She held his gaze. She pushed the wispy curls at the side of her face back. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the bar, her eyes were shining.

  ‘So, an international detective, how exciting.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Like James Bond.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mann winked.

  She gave a small, throaty giggle. ‘Show me your gadgets then.’

  Mann reached into his pocket and produced a small red-enamelled pocket knife.

  ‘A Swiss army knife,’ said Sue. ‘Very impressive!’

  ‘And it’s the one with the hoofpick.’ He grinned.

  ‘They must have a lot of horses in Switzerland.’

  ‘I’ve gone there many times looking for a horse,’ said Mann. ‘When I eventually found one, it was just my luck—someone had just done their hooves.’

  Sue gave a deep laugh, slightly late, as if she’d got the punchline.

  ‘What about you?’ Mann asked. ‘Do I detect a hint of Afrikaans?’

  ‘You do. I spent my first ten years in Cape Town. My parents were South African but we moved around a lot after that.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Over five years now. My main job is as a medic working in the hospital here. I work alongside the foreign medics who come and help. Like the two South Americans that I came in with. I am also a backpack medic.’

  ‘I met one of those—a guy called Louis?’

  ‘Louis’s a good friend. We go out into the hills, usually about eight of us. We take medical supplies to the remote villagers. We help wherever we can. Most of the injuries they suffer are from landmines, it’s the most heavily mined area in the world, after Cambodia. If the malaria doesn’t kill them, then landmines do. Our main job is to train them to treat their own. We have such a battle stopping them putting cow shit on open wounds or ripping out the placenta so they can take it to the woods to bury before it brings evil spirits to the house.’

  ‘Animists?’

  ‘You’ve done your homework. They will always cling to their ancient beliefs, which is fine, except when it’s killing them, and the Burmese don’t need any help doing that. Whenever another village is attacked across in Burma some of the villagers escape and the lucky ones find themselves here.’

  ‘How often does that happen?’

  ‘Weekly usually. It’s daily persecution at the moment.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the Shwit.’

  ‘Yes, they are merciless. It’s a grinding away of hope, a slow genocide. They just carry on doing what the Burmese junta do best. The ones who are determined to stay in their own land are the bravest but they’re slowly being wiped out. We do what we can. The backpack medic team are vital to the villagers.’

  ‘That must be dangerous, crossing into Burma? What about the Burmese military?’

  ‘The KNLA help us.’

  ‘Which ones?’ asked Mann. ‘I heard that some of the Karen are divided by religion. Buddhist against Christian, even within the army itself. Religion and killing, the two go together.’

  ‘Yes, exactly, we see it all the time…even the crucifix kills. No one knows what goes on here. Even the journalists who care, who live here, who write about it, can’t make sense of it and cannot offer a clear solution to the world. Have you been out to the Mae Klaw refugee camp yet?’

  ‘I intend to go tomorrow. I want to meet with Riley.’

  ‘Ah, Riley…’ She gave her rasping giggle again. ‘I know him very well. Come with me, I’ll pick you up. I work there once a week. I hold a clinic for the new mothers. Then you’ll see what the attack left behind. Of course, you won’t see the men’s decapitated heads and you won’t see the raped and murdered women, the butchered children; they are buried already. Let’s hope we will get in and get out safely. It’s guarded by the same guards who took the blood money six weeks ago.’

  The door opened again and a new group of volunteers breezed in, dressed in baggy shirts and original seventies high-waisted jeans. Sue looked at them, smiled and waved as she said under her breath:

  ‘Here they come—the saviours of the human race. Their mission is to go anywhere in the world, to solve a given problem and to get out feeling much better about themselves. They don’t really care about the culture of the place, the cause, or the people.’ The group were talking noisily, oblivious to the rest of the people in the bar. ‘The NGOs play games with the refugees like they were children. They have the money allocated but they give it with so many conditions—they have to fulfil this and that criteria. The main one is that they can’t use it to fund the war. But it’s impossible when their brothers, fathers, husbands and even mothers are in the fight and the only thing they have in life is to struggle. Of course they are going to—fighting is the only job most of them have. Do the NGOs seriously think they are not going to take every last penny to continue the fight? The NGOs just play God—it’s part of the thrill for them.’

  Mann studied her curiously.

  ‘But weren’t you all NGOs in the beginning?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, of course. We are a necessary evil.’ She grinned. ‘But some of us care more than that. For me, this is an obsession, it’s my reason for living. I found such kindness here—I’d never seen that before. I would die for these people. They have endured hell and worse.’

  ‘You support the KNLA?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You know that the world is blaming the KNLA for the kidnap of the five?’

  She stared at him, amazed.

  ‘How can that possibly be?’

  ‘The Thai government has issued a statement supporting the Burmese junta’s accusations that a group of renegade KNLA is responsible.’

  ‘Why would the Karen want to risk losing the only help they get—the NGOs?’

  ‘They are saying that it is a way of drawing attention to the conflict and getting funding. They are claiming that ransom demands have been made by a group claiming to be supported by the KNLA.’

  She shook her head, despondent. ‘Sometimes I think everyone is against us and what we are trying to do here.’

  ‘A commander called Alak was mentioned. You know him?’ Sue nodded. ‘Could he have gone bad?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She looked pensive. ‘In a world like this one, everyone has a price.’

  45

  The young porter girl was frantically trying to find her clothes and cover herself. Her back was bleeding, her body shaking so violently that her hands could not tie her sarong. Saw’s men were banging their fists on the platform and shouting for Saw to rape the woman. Saw pulled Anna up by her arm. There was no stopping him now. He had reached the point of no return. He was like a wounded animal and wanted to hurt others.

  ‘NO!’ Jake kicked out at Saw as he dragged Anna up to her feet. ‘Let her GO!’

  Jake’s voice came out so deep that it sounded strange to his own ears and Saw turned to look at him, almost as if he had never seen him before. Then he turned back to Anna. Anna looked him in the eye and spat. Saw closed his eyes and, when he reopened them, Jake thought that
he would kill her—but instead he smiled and savoured her phlegm as if it were a flurry of snow on his face on a hot summer’s day. Laughing, he pushed her to the floor and walked back across to the young porter who was sobbing as she saw him coming. She had nowhere left to run. Saw held her down and ripped her sarong away. He held her face to the ground as he pressed his weight on her and raped her. The girl’s screams turned to deep guttural sobs as she endured the agony of her first sexual encounter and her last. After Saw was finished she lay where she was, her body shaking from the attack, her face still squashed into the ground, her legs open. Blood seeped into the floor beneath her narrow hips. He looked at his men and nodded towards the other female porters and the fight for them began.

  But Saw’s disappointment and his anger were unappeased. The porter girl had been just an appetiser for him and now his eyes and his thoughts turned back to Anna and Silke. Saw looked over and Jake could see his eyes searching and finding what he wanted as he pushed his way through his men. He strode over to the five and stood panting, his eyes rabid, his body sweating. He looked first at Anna, grinned and then he reached down and cut Silke’s bonds and dragged her out from where she hid behind Thomas. He pulled her, screaming, across to where the men were fighting over the porters as if they were scraps of meat. He threw her down with the other women. The men ceased their squabbling for a few seconds as they twisted their heads this way and that and watched who would claim Silke—the best prize. Handsome stepped forward and the rest of the men stepped back. Handsome ran his hand over Silke’s blonde hair and then he twisted his fingers in it and dragged her to her feet. Saw moved to stand beside him. His eyes were alight with madness. Handsome waited for Saw’s decision. Would he be allowed to claim the prize? Would he be shown the favour he craved?

  Saw laughed. A grin spread across Handsome’s face, but not for long.

  ‘Tie her up,’ Saw ordered and Silke was dragged away to the far end of the platform where she was stripped and tied to one of the roof struts. She stood naked, her head bowed, shaking with the fear as she pleaded for her life. Across from her, Thomas screamed and frantic ally tried to untie his bonds but his wrists and ankles were bleeding and all he could do was sink to his knees and scream at the men to stop. All he could do was cry for his sister. He could not help her, none of them could. Silke looked over to him.

  ‘Be brave, Thomas,’ she mouthed. ‘I love you, little brother.’

  46

  By the time Shrimp came back the next afternoon, there was nothing left of Summer’s bar: bottles, mirrorballs and plastic palms lay broken in piles on the pavement. Summer was sweeping up the worst of the mess.

  ‘Summer?’ Shrimp stood at the entrance.

  ‘Yes, honey?’ Summer stopped and looked up.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Two men from the Thai boxing stadium showed up after you left. Big ugly types, one was the main fighter down there, the other is his coach. They trashed my bar and said I shouldn’t be mixing with trouble makers.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Summer.’

  Summer shrugged and smiled kindly at him as she resumed her sweeping.

  ‘You didn’t do it, honey. It was those two animals.’

  ‘Yes, but I should have known they’d be watching. Did they hurt you?’

  ‘Just a little.’ She turned her face to one side and Shrimp could see that, underneath all the makeup, her face was swollen. ‘It’s the end for me now, honey.’ She stopped and looked around at the remnants of her bar and then she looked at the pile of debris. ‘I have no money and no way of doing it all over again. Those thugs have finished me this time. They won, I lost.’

  ‘You haven’t lost yet, Summer. Get around all those who have been cheated out of their livelihood. One of them must have some record of it all. I need to know who is behind this and who was responsible for swindling you and the others out of your businesses. It isn’t right. When people give to charities they expect it to go to the people who need it, not to local bullies and corrupt police.’

  Shrimp was mad angry when he left Summer and headed down towards Patong Beach. People all over the world had given money towards the tsunami relief—the last thing they wanted was for it to end up destroying lives rather than rebuilding them. The beach was straight ahead, at the end of the road. For a few seconds Shrimp’s anger vanished as he spied the rectangle of heaven: white sand, blue sky and turquoise sea, sandwiched between the buildings. He pushed his sporty Ray Bans up on top of his head where they rested on the stiff peaks of hair gel. The beach was just beginning to empty a little. The sun loungers were being dusted off and moved back into orderly rows.

  He was about to cross Thaweewong Road, the main road that ran alongside Patong Beach, when he was almost trampled by the entourage of promoters and trainers who were handing out leaflets advertising an upcoming Thai boxing bout. On the top of the brightly decorated van that was accompanying them down the road was a tough-looking boxer sparring with an imaginary opponent, ‘El Supremo’ written on his bright blue shiny shirt. A man whose T-shirt proclaimed him to be the coach and who was holding a loudhailer was announcing, in his none too perfect English, ‘Thursday, six o’clock, ten thousand dollars to win. Anyone win. Come, be lucky…’

  Shrimp stared hard at them. From Summer’s description of them, these looked to be the men who had beaten her up and trashed the bar. Shrimp followed the van for a bit as it carried on towards a brand new Thai boxing stadium that he could see at the end of the beach. Once he was certain it was the right people, he turned right and walked along past a salsa bar where a few lads were enjoying a hair of the dog, and past the police immigration department. It seemed to have been made of sterner stuff than anything else along the beach, and had needed very little repair after the tsunami. He came to Patong Beach Road and followed it up and off to the left where it branched out. He’d already passed two Indian tailors, who seemed to be able to survive any world disaster. Shrimp had already spent all his money with them, buying a bespoke suit in three different styles. The only bar on the lane that he could see had an open front and heavy wooden stools. An old wooden carved Cherokee Indian stood outside.

  A young Thai waitress in a very short version of the traditional leather-beaded dress, a string of white shells around her neck, stepped out and greeted him with an open arm and a bow. He looked at the name above the door. Wampums.

  ‘Sawat di kha.’ She bowed. ‘Please come inside, sir.’

  Shrimp looked at his guide book. ‘I was looking for a bar named Summer’s. It was supposed to be up here.’

  The girl looked like she either hadn’t heard or hadn’t understood—he didn’t know which.

  ‘Summer’s,’ Shrimp repeated, taking a step closer inside the entrance to the bar.

  ‘Sorry, not here now.’

  ‘But this used to be Summer’s bar before the tsunami?’

  The girl looked nervous and gave another plastic laugh, but she didn’t answer.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll come in anyway,’ said Shrimp.

  The waitress stood back to allow him to enter, bowing as he passed. Ahead was a carved bar with totem poles as struts. The barman was a young Thai. He was in the process of trying to grow a moustache but it just wasn’t happening. He had an explosion of acne over his forehead that had formed into crop circles.

  Shrimp sat at the wooden bar and read the barman’s name badge.

  ‘Hi…Lamon. How ya doin’?’ Lamon didn’t answer. ‘Diet Coke please.’

  Whilst the barman fixed Shrimp’s drink, Shrimp picked up a pen from the other side of the bar and wrote ‘SUMMERS?’ in large letters on a barmat. Lamon walked over, Coke in hand, and went to put the glass down on the mat. Then he read what Shrimp had written. Lamon scrutinised the mat and quickly pushed it back across the bar towards Shrimp. ‘This bar is Wampums.’

  ‘This…’ Shrimp tapped his finger on the bar. ‘This used to be Summer’s bar?’

  The barman shrugged. Shrimp was feeling i
rritated now. ‘Seems to be a problem with getting information here,’ he said. As he did so, he saw Lamon’s eyes focus on something behind Shrimp’s shoulder. Shrimp realised he wasn’t alone. A voice came from behind.

  ‘What information you need?’

  Shrimp turned to see two men stood close behind him. He recognised them from the Thai boxing van. One was the boxer, El Supremo, the other was the man with the loudhailer. El Supremo had obviously taken a few less blows to the head than the other man, but he’d evidently not worn a mouthguard and had had to have most of his teeth replaced with gold ones. Coach clearly hadn’t been able to afford it, so he tried not to smile. Shrimp swivelled around to face them.

  ‘I am on holiday here. I was told to look up Summer’s bar. I was told it was a great place to hang out, meet nice people—like you guys.’ Shrimp smiled his most pleasant grin. It worked on Coach—he smiled back enthusiastically whilst trying to keep his top lip down to hide his lack of teeth. El Supremo didn’t look like he knew how to smile. He also looked like he had once failed to notice a particularly nasty right hook coming at him; it had all but collapsed his eye socket and meant that he had to turn his head just slightly to the right to get Shrimp in focus.

  ‘No more questions. You have finished your drink. Time to go.’ El Supremo took a step closer towards Shrimp.

  Shrimp looked at his half-drunk Coke and shrugged. He looked over at Lamon who was smudging the glasses with a cloth rather than cleaning them.

  ‘It isn’t Diet you know. You’ve given me regular.’

  ‘Finish?’ Coach asked.

  ‘Sure. No lemon, no ice, regular Coke—not much of a first impression. And the girl’s outfit? Yuk!’ Shrimp hopped off the stool.

  He walked back along the beach and into the police station. A couple of roughed-up-looking Thai lads were sitting in the corner, staring at the floor. The officer behind the desk looked up at Shrimp, puzzled.

  ‘I want to report an assault.’