More Short Fuses

by Stephen Leather

  Ricky hadn’t felt so aroused in years but he didn’t feel that he was going to come, despite Cherry’s valiant efforts. But Cherry knew what she was doing and she locked eyes with him as she slipped a finger into his backside. Ricky gasped and exploded like a geyser. “It was the best ten thousand baht I’d ever spent,” he said. ‘The thing is when the doctors used to shove their fingers up my back passage I’d scream like a banshee, but when Cherry did it, it was the most erotic thing I’d ever felt. Really, it was just out of this world.’

  Cherry’s happy endings became a regular feature of Ricky’s life. He paid her for a two hour massage each time, with the first ninety minutes taken up with a traditional Thai massage followed by thirty minutes of her special oil massage culminating in her own special version of the prostate exam.

  After a month of seeing Cherry every day, Ricky noticed that his appetite had improved and he had started to put on weight. And to his surprise, his hair began to grow back. He knew that his condition was terminal, but there was no doubt that he was starting to feel better. He made an appointment with a cancer specialist at the Bumrungrad Hospital, one of the best medical facilities in Asia. They gave him a through investigation and confirmed what he already knew – he had prostate cancer. But according to the Bumrungrad doctors, he was in remission. The cancer was there but it hadn’t spread and it wasn’t life-threatening. Ricky was stunned. But the doctors were adamant. The cancer wasn’t killing him. Or at least it was growing so slowly that it would be decades before it put his life at risk.

  “It’s Cherry,” he told me. “I’m sure of it.” And with that he patted me on the back and went back to his hotel. I watched him go, wondering if it could possibly be true, that Cherry had somehow managed to massage away his cancer.

  I met Ricky for the final time in the Golden Bar, a few weeks later. He was halfway through a bottle of Singha Beer and was as happy as Larry. He had just been to the Bumrungrad Hospital and they’d given him the all clear. Not a cancerous cell in his body, they said. Pretty much six months to the day that the National Health Service had given up on him.

  “Bloody morons,” said Ricky. “They said I wouldn’t last six months and now the docs here say I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

  He looked good, there was no question of that. He’d put on a fair bit of weight and his hair seemed thicker and there was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there the first time I’d met him. I asked him what he planned to do and he grinned, reached into his pocket and took out a small red box. He opened it and proudly showed me the diamond ring inside. “I’m going to ask Cherry to marry me,” he said. “I know she’s not the prettiest but she’s a good sort and she makes me happy.” He put the ring away. “And she’s the one who saved me, I’m sure of that. Her massage, her hands, they healed me. If it wasn’t for her I’d be dead. Soon as I’ve downed this, I’m heading to Soi 23 and going down on one knee. She can stop work and I’ll build us a house up in Korat, where she’s from. Might even start a butcher business. I love this country. ”

  He finished his beer, paid his bill, shook my hand and wandered down the road to get a motorcycle taxi. That was the last time I saw him. From what I heard later he got sideswiped by a truck that ran a red light at Asoke, killed him and the motorcycle taxi driver stone dead. Somewhere along the line someone stole his wallet and the ring. I did go looking for Cherry to tell her what had happened but there are a lot of massage parlours on Soi 23 and I never did find her.

  If you enjoy books set in Thailand, why not read Stephen Leather’s bestselling novel Private Dancer, where a writer meets a go-go girl who steals his heart and much more, or his detective story Bangkok Bob and The Missing Mormon. His novels The Solitary Man, The Tunnel Rats, and Live Fire are also set partly in Thailand.

  Following are the opening chapters of five of Stephen Leather’s best-selling novels: The Stretch, The Tunnel Rats, The Solitary Man, The Eyewitness and Hard Landing. All are available as eBooks or regular paperbacks.

  THE STRETCH

  The gun went off, catching Preston Snow by surprise, and he felt as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach. There was no burning sensation, and surprisingly little pain, just a dull ache and a spreading coldness. His eyes widened as he stared at the face of the man who’d shot him. Unfeeling blue eyes stared back at him.

  Snow clutched a hand to his stomach and staggered backwards, blood pulsing from between his fingers. There seemed to be a lot of blood, but still he was hardly aware of any pain.

  The man with the gun watched dispassionately, the gun now at his side. His face was totally blank as if he had absolutely no interest in whether Snow lived or died.

  Snow felt the strength drain from his legs. He stumbled over a coffee table and fell on his side, barely conscious of where he was. The coldness was spreading from his stomach, up across his chest, a coldness that seemed to be drawing all the strength from his limbs. He tried to speak but no words would come and it was an effort to breathe. He managed to get up on his hands and knees and crawled towards the stairs.

  The man who pulled the trigger stood in the middle of the room, watching Snow with a look of bored disinterest.

  Snow scrambled up the stairs, frantically trying to get away from the man. He had a gun upstairs, somewhere. It was in one of the drawers in the bedroom. If he could get to it, if he could defend himself, then maybe, just maybe, he’d stand a chance.

  His tracksuit top was drenched in blood and it flopped around as he crawled. He heard footsteps behind him but he didn’t look back. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness and shook his head fiercely, trying to clear his thoughts. “Stay focused, man,” he muttered to himself. “Stay fucking focused.”

  He looked down at his stomach as he crawled and saw blood dripping down on to the threadbare stair carpet. He tried to stem the bleeding but as he pressed his hand against his stomach a bolt of pain shot through his midriff. He grunted. It felt as if a hot knife had been twisted inside his stomach.

  “For fuck’s sake, Snow, will you stay still!” shouted the man with the gun.

  Snow took a quick look over his shoulder. The man was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gesticulating with his gun.

  Snow reached the upstairs landing and pushed himself upright. He staggered towards the bedroom, putting his free hand against the wall to maintain his balance, smearing it with blood.

  The man followed him up the stairs. He took his time, with a lengthy pause between each step. It was the precision that Snow found terrifying. The man was taking it slowly, knowing that he had all the time in the world: no one would come to Snow’s aid. If anyone had heard the gunshot, they wouldn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t the sort of area where people telephoned three nines.

  Snow collapsed in front of the dressing table and pulled out one of the drawers. No gun. He cursed. Where’d he put it? Where hell had he put it? He tried to concentrate, tried to remember where he’d last see the weapon. He pulled open a second drawer and rifled through socks and underwear, cursing his stupidity for not having the gun out in the open. No gun. He tore the drawer out of the cupboard and tipped the contents on to the floor and searched frantically. It wasn’t there.

  There were footsteps behind him and Snow twisted around. The man stood in the doorway, the gun at his side, a confident smile on his face. Snow’s head swam and he slumped backwards, sliding down against the dressing table, his head banging against one of the open drawers.

  Snow’s eyes fluttered shut. He could feel consciousness slipping away. The pain was going, replaced by a warm glow. He sighed and his hand slipped away from his stomach, drenched in blood.

  The man walked over and looked down at Snow. He prodded Snow’s leg with his foot, but Snow didn’t react. Snow’s chin was down on his chest and a bloody froth dribbled from between his lips. Blood pooled on the floor around his waist, a thick treacly redness that seemed to sit on the surface of the carpet, refusing to sink into the pile.

&nbs
p; “You dead, Snow?” he sneered. “Don’t tell me you’re dead already.”

  He raised his foot and stamped down on Snow’s hand, crushing his bloody fingers. Snow’s eyes opened wide and he screamed in pain. The man grinned triumphantly and levelled the gun at Snow’s face.

  * * *

  They filed into the jury box one by one, and Sam Greene could tell by the way they avoided looking at her that the news was bad. Her heart sank.

  “It’ll be okay, Mum,” said her son Jamie, giving her hand a small squeeze.

  Sam shook her head. “No, Jamie,” she whispered. “It’s not going to be okay.”

  Sam’s husband looked across at her from the dock. “Chin up, love,” he mouthed. Terry looked tired. There were dark patches under his eyes and when he smiled Sam could see the worry lines etched into his forehead. She was sure there was a touch more grey at his temples but he still looked good for fifty-two though; broad-shouldered and flat-stomached with the confident good looks that turned the heads of women half his age.

  Sam fingered the small crucifix that was hanging around her neck on a thin gold chain. And hadn’t that always been Terry’s problem, she thought. Too handsome for his own good.

  Sam tried to smile back at Terry but she could feel tears welling up in her eyes and she blinked them back. It wasn’t fair. Her husband’s fate lay in the hands of twelve men and women who knew nothing about him, and yet they and they alone had the power to put him behind bars for the rest of his life.

  Sam watched them as they took their seats. Eight women and four men. That was in their favour, Terry’s solicitor had said, because Terry was a good-looking guy and women were less likely to convict a man that they fancied. Three of the jury were black, and even Laurence Patterson had to admit that that wasn’t such good news, because the man Terry had been accused of shooting was black. “When all’s said and done they do stick together, Samantha, but let’s look on the bright side, shall we?” he’d said, and he’d patted her gently on the shoulder the way you’d console someone at a funeral. Everyone dressed in their Sunday best, faces sombre, avoiding eye contact, all gathered together to say a final farewell to Terry Greene.

  A tear ran down Sam’s cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand, determined that no one would see her cry. She knew there’d be photographers outside and they’d like nothing more than a picture of her with tears running down her face. She’d been in court every day, and without fail the tabloids had carried photographs of her arriving or leaving, always mentioning the fact that she was forty-eight years old and that she used to be a singer and dancer. ‘Faded Sixties singer’ one of the Daily Mail’s more acid female feature writers had called her, and Sam had silently seethed at the unfairness of that. Her career had barely started to get off the ground before she’d met and married Terry, and as for ‘faded’, that was just malicious. She was the mother of three grown-up children and under more pressure than she’s ever been in her whole life, how was she supposed to look? Radiant?

  Considering the pressure she was under, Sam figured that she looked damn good. At least one of the prosecution lawyers kept looking at her with more than a professional interest, smiling each time he caught her eye. Every morning she took extra care to get her make-up just right, enough to cover up the effects of not-enough sleep, but not so much that she’d look as if she was trying too hard. And she’d been to the hairdresser to get her hair colour topped up just before the case started. Again, nothing too obvious, but she needed a little help to keep its original dark blonde sheen.

  Patterson twisted around in his seat and gave her a confident smile. She acknowledged him with a nod but couldn’t bring herself to smile back at him.

  “Will your foreman please stand,” said the clerk of the court.

  A middle-aged man got to his feet and self-consciously rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Sam took a deep breath, steeling herself for the worst. Jamie squeezed her hand again and she squeezed back.

  “Have you reached a verdict upon which you have all agreed?”

  “We have. Yes.”

  “On the charge of murder, do you find the defendant Terrence William Greene guilty or not guilty?”

  The foreman rubbed his nose again, then cleared his throat. He was a small, nondescript man in a cheap suit and Sam figured that this was his one moment of glory in a life filled with mediocrity, and that he was determined to make the most of it. “Guilty,” he said, stretching the word out as if relishing the sound of it.

  Sam cursed under her breath.

  Someone cheered behind her and Sam turned around. Two detectives were grinning and slapping their boss on the back. Detective Chief Inspector Frank Welch, the man responsible for putting her husband in the dock. Welch grinned at Sam and she turned away quickly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how upset she was.

  The judge nodded at Terry’s barrister. “Mr Orvice, is there anything you wish to say on behalf of the defendant?”

  The barrister looked across at Terry, who shook his head.

  “No, your honour.”

  The judge fixed Terry with a look of contempt. “Terrence Greene, stand up.”

  Terry got to his feet and adjusted his tie, and straightened his shoulders. He was wearing a dark blue suit, one of his many Armanis, a crisp white shirt and a tie that Sam didn’t recognise. He looked the judge in the eye, his chin raised defiantly.

  “Before I pass sentence, I have a few words to say about the conduct of one of the witnesses in this case,” said the judge. He turned to look at Sam, and she fought the urge to look away. She felt her cheeks redden but she continued to stare at him, concentrating on his thin, humourless lips.

  “Despite the weight of forensic evidence against the defendant, his wife Samantha Greene has insisted that she was with him on the night of the murder. I disbelieve her account of events, as did the jury, and I regard her claims as at best misguided and at worst a deliberate attempt to pervert the course of justice.”

  “You should hang the lying bitch!” A young black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks had got to his feet and was screaming at the judge. A pretty black girl tried to persuade him to sit down. “She knows he killed my brother! Should be in the fucking dock with him!”

  Two uniformed policemen hustled him out of the court. The black girl followed, imploring them to let him go. Luke Snow and his sister Nancy. Brother and sister of the man Terry was accused of killing. A middle-aged black couple shook their heads tearfully but stayed where they were, not wanting to leave until they’d heard the sentence. Preston Snow’s parents.

  As the courtroom doors banged shut, the judge once again fixed Sam with his baleful stare. “I hope the police will take a close look at the evidence given by Mrs Greene, with a view to considering a charge of perjury. The love of a wife for a husband is no excuse for lying to a court of law.”

  Sam stared back at the judge, knowing that there was nothing she could say or do. Her mouth had gone dry and it hurt when she swallowed. It seemed like an eternity before the judge turned away from her and looked back at Terry.

  “Terrence William Greene, you have been found guilty of the murder of Preston Snow. A savage, brutal murder for which you have shown no remorse. The sentence of the court is life imprisonment. Take him down.”

  Two burly custody officers moved either side of Terry. Terry blew a kiss at Sam, winked, then walked down the stairs leading from the dock to the holding cells below the courtroom.

  “Are you going home, Mum?” asked Jamie.

  Sam nodded and got to her feet. “You coming?”

  Jamie looked at his watch. I’ve got to get back to Exeter. Exams tomorrow.”

  “How about a coffee first before you go?”

  Jamie looked suddenly concerned. “Are you okay?”

  Sam screwed up her face. “I feel a bit numb, really. I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

  Jamie nodded. “I know what you mean. I sort of expected the
worst, but life? I can’t imagine Dad behind bars for life, can you? Not Dad.”

  “We’ll get through it, Jamie. So will he.” She gave him a hug. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wasn’t sure if Dad would’ve wanted me here.”

  “Of course he did. Don’t be silly.”

  Jamie nodded towards the doors. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “You will not!” Sam said quickly. “The last thing I want is for you to be photographed with me. You’ve gotten off lightly so far, the last thing we want is for your face to be splashed across the papers with mine. Lawyer-in-the-making in court for drug baron’s murder trial. Just what you need to kick-start your career.”

  “I’m not ashamed of Dad,” he said.

  “I know you’re not. And neither am I. Bet let’s not make things more difficult than they already are, shall we? You sneak out, they’ll be too busy looking for me. I’ll see you at the coffee bar we went to last time, yeah?”

  “Okay, Mum.” Jamie kissed her on the cheek and headed out of the courtroom.

  Sam stood where she was to give him time to leave the building. She desperately wanted a cigarette but smoking was forbidden inside the court building.

  Patterson appeared at her elbow holding a stack of files. “Samantha, I’m gutted. But it’s not over.”

  “Swings and roundabouts, Laurence.”

  “We’ll appeal, of course,” said Patterson.

  “Whatever.”

  Patterson placed a hand on her elbow. “Can you call in at Richard’s office this afternoon? It’s at Terry’s request.” Richard Asher was Terry’s accountant, and Sam didn’t feel ready to start talking money.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  Behind her she heard raucous laughter, then a Geordie voice. “Great job, Frank.” It was Doug Simpson, a detective inspector, the man who’d come around to Sam’s house with a search warrant and who’d spent the best part of four hours looking in every nook and cranny with half a dozen uniformed policemen. Simpson was patting Welch on the back. “The look on his face when the judge said life. Like he expected to be let off with a slap on the wrist.”