by Andrew Grant
This little oasis of British heaven was only 300 yards away from the embassy, up around the corner on Soi Chitlom, right behind the Central Department Store, or CDS as everyone in Bangkok refered to it. I found the annex first try. There was a gate man on the vehicle entrance. He was asleep in his cubbyhole.
There were two basement car parks dedicated to Flat Eleven. One contained a Honda step-through. I pulled into the vacant space at about the same time as two bright young Thai girls emerged from the lift twenty feet away. I cast an appreciative eye on the pair as they came towards me. The girls both showed a lot of skin wearing tiny tank tops and tight jeans. They were giggling and talking in Thai.
I got out of the Nissan and collected my bag from the trunk. I couldn’t help but tune in to the girls’ animated conversation. That they were working girls, to use old-speak, came as no surprise. They were discussing the couple who had hired them for a foursome. ‘She was like a cow, so fat,’ one girl was saying. ‘I was scared she was going to squash me.’
‘And he was so skinny and so white. He never got hard, it was like a soft noodle.’ One of the girls caught sight of me and nudged the other with her elbow. The smiles broadened, the eyes widened and the hips, ensconced in their stretch denim, began to sway with every stride. It was some sort of carnal poetry in motion; a Thai mating dance without the headgear and six-inch fingernails.
‘I think this one would get very hard for you.’ The girl who said this looked at me with the big-eyed innocent smile of a pretty twelve year old. All she needed was the school uniform. It was a wonderful piece of acting. ‘So sorry we are in your car park,’ she said in English.
‘No problem,’ I replied in English. ‘I only have one car,’ I added in Thai.
Both girls looked startled, but only for a second. Then the laughter started. Fingers were pointed accusingly at me and heads nodded, sending waves of dark hair shimmering.
I had always appreciated the fact that most of the Thai women I had met had a very robust and quite crude sense of humour. Being caught out by assuming I was a visiting Englishman not able to speak their language was, to them, a good joke in itself. Knowing I had understood the remarks they had made was another. I joined them in sharing the joke.
‘Maybe you do want me to see if you can be hard,’ the second girl said, giving me the full works in the eyes and teeth department as she pushed her hair back off her face. The same movement projected a pair of pert nipples my way through the thin fabric of her top.
I smiled back and gave her a mock pout. ‘Not tonight,’ I replied in Thai. ‘I have a date with a cow.’ That set them laughing again. It was my cue to head for the lift and navigate my way to the fourth level.
The flat was off a corridor with seven doors. One had an exit sign above it, the others bore fake brass numbers running from seven to twelve. I keyed the lock and went into number eleven.
The place was basically designed to a conventional motel format. There were two bedrooms, each with double beds. One had a view and a balcony, the other stared at a blank wall across a narrow alley. The living room-cum-lounge had a dining nook off it connected to a small kitchen. A door off the kitchen ran into a bathroom with a shower, bath, toilet, washing machine and dryer. A second door gave access to the larger bedroom.
Having done the complete circuit, I took the bedroom with the view. From the tiny balcony with its two plastic chairs and side table, I could look down at the deserted pool with its fringe of potted palms and plastic sun loungers. It was obviously too early for the horde of expats to be out and about. Either that or they had chosen not to swim under the grey–blue haze that filtered the sun down to the sparkling blue waters of this little ersatz nirvana.
I didn’t hang about admiring the view. My hunger was growing hot in the pit of my gut and I didn’t do starvation well, not unless absolutely necessary. I stowed my few clothes and went to check out the kitchen in detail. There was a microwave, gas hob and a small oven. The fridge was empty. Don Don had warned me of that. The food court in CDS would take care of my inner man.
Before I left the apartment I put my passport collection, emergency funds and my Walther P99 in the under-floor safe in the bathroom. Don Don had given me one of the only two keys that existed for it. He assured me the other was in the embassy main safe. I had to trust him. I kept the knife. It was sheathed on the inside of my left boot. The key to the safe went into the pocket in the lining of the right. Okay, so I was a Brit who liked cowboy boots. Not the fancy Rudy-of-Hollywood type, but plain black and solid ones. Apart from being useful for hiding weaponry, keys and cash, they were comfortable. They were also very handy when things got a bit untidy. The square toes had steel under them and the heels were solid. Footwear like that had saved my life in the past, so why spoil a good thing?
I went out on my supply run and shared the apartment lift with a couple riding down. She was a big richly dyed redhead. He was a balding stick insect. They both had the look of being long-time residents. They didn’t speak—not to each other and not to me. I resisted the temptation to mention cows or noodles. They got off at the first level.
I was showered, shaved and the washing machine was on. I’d devoured two sandwiches and was on my third Singha. It was time to call Sami. Sami Somsak was an old friend and associate. We had worked and played together over many years. The last time I had seen him was when he had visited London maybe eighteen months before. Once upon a time we had been joined at the hip as we did all sorts of tricky stuff out in the bush. Since his semi-retirement from Black Ops, where he worked as a freelancer for our side, Sami had been doing things with illicit substances. The Golden Triangle was still very golden for him. I didn’t begrudge him the wealth he’d accumulated from drugs. Personally I hated drugs, but The Firm, the CIA and damned near everyone else I knew had used them for profit over the years. Sami was just getting his share, and if the sick fucks around the world wanted to stew their brains, hell, that was their perogative.
Sami wasn’t home. He had departed the City of Smiles for the City of Angels. We talked for ten minutes. He would be back in Bangkok in a week or so. I’d go do what I had to and we’d catch up. I flicked on my laptop and checked for messages. Nothing of any significance, not even any SPAM! The souped-up agency-supplied Toshiba was equipped with all the filters known to man. I shut down the magic box and sat debating whether to go out on the town or visit the pub-cum-club downstairs and maybe risk an ‘English’ meal in the restaurant. In all my years in Asia, the only time I had ever caught a dreaded stomach bug was in a European-style hotel with European food. I’d never been sick on so-called street, bush or peasant food.
First I had to call Bernard. I fired up the mobile and called home. If the Right Honourable Sir Bernard Sinclair was overjoyed to hear my dulcet tones he didn’t let on. I informed him where I was and of the timetable as I saw it. I didn’t go into detail. I just told him I had a boat set up for Ranong. ‘The weather will be the thing, Bernard,’ I reminded him. We had discussed this before I had left. I wasn’t prepared to risk my life and get taken out by one of the violent storms that the tail end of the monsoon creates. He grudgingly acknowledged the point and I hung up with the promise that I’d update him the next day.
‘Like a fucking maiden aunt,’ I thought as I off-loaded the phone onto one of the pair of bedside tables in the room. Even Bernard had never been this bad before. Once upon a life I wouldn’t have spoken to him twice in a month. Whatever was in that damned box on the bottom of the Andaman was really rattling his cage.
The Coro Street Club was jumping when I strolled in. There were perhaps twenty-five people in it, obvious couples and singles; the assembly spanned all ages. Eyes swept over me then came back for more. Shit, this was like a meat market back home. Being reasonably honest, I wasn’t the worst-looking banana in the bunch. I had a nose that had been broken long ago but still had all my own teeth. A suntan was rapidly re-establishing itself, and I had a moustache and full head of blond–white
hair. Added to those dubious attributes were a pair of blue eyes, a flat gut and enough muscle to make me a nuisance in a scrap. That sort of painted a picture of yours truly. Closer inspection revealed a lot of scars on my body, plus the calluses on the balls of my feet and the knuckles of my thick fingers. A professional, at least, would recognise that I hadn’t led a soft life and I was trained in some of the not-so-fine arts.
I came very close to turning on my heel and leaving the club, but instinct made me stay. I thought I might need someone in this place at some time in the future. I pasted half a smile on my face and went to the bar. A couple of guys in shirtsleeves and low-hung ties moved aside to let me belly up.
‘New to town?’ a walrus-moustached red face asked from behind the bar.
‘Just in,’ I replied, checking out the barman. He was a jovial-looking character in his fifties, a short barrel of a man with the aforementioned moustache and a fringe of white hair around a tanned dome. He wore a blue polo shirt with a logo that featured a foaming beer tankard and the words: CORO STREET CLUB.
‘Just a little housekeeping thing,’ he said, pushing a clipboard across the bar and dropping a pen on it. ‘If you could just fill in the details. In the meantime, what would you like?’ I asked for a pint of Heineken and quickly filled in the blanks. I only lied on occupation and home address, substituting reality with my standard cover. I was a security consultant for Karvonics, a fictitious British alarm and electronics company that existed in all but bricks and mortar. That was close enough to the truth to blur a few lines. The address was somewhere in Surrey, also close enough to smudge the remaining lines. Put it this way, if someone dialled my home phone or my business number, or wrote to my mailing address, they would receive a reply.
The pint was cold and crisp and at thirty-five baht, it was probably the cheapest I’d get anywhere. ‘Out from the old country?’ one of the pair leaning on the bar asked me.
‘Via Hong Kong and Ho Chi Minh,’ I replied. I didn’t want to get the usual bullshit of, ‘You’ll notice a huge difference. Must show you around. Christ, you’ll have to try the women.’ Getting the word around that I was an old hand in these parts would cut a lot of the crap. ‘Dan Swann,’ I said sticking out my hand. ‘Karvonics Security Systems.’ The other pair shook with damp, limp hands. Peter Something, trade development. Graham Something, embassy underling. We talked football and beer for a few minutes before two teenage Thai girls entered the club to be signed in by the Somethings. That was my cue to get a refill and wander out towards the patio and the pool.
I pushed out through the swing doors only to be hit by a blast of stifling, thick crud. ‘Welcome home,’ I muttered as I checked out the surroundings. The patio revealed itself as being quite large. A chest-high green-tiled balustrade separated it from the street below. The pool was a three-quarter-size affair and took up half the space. Loungers, patio chairs and tables scattered amongst the potted palms gave the illusion of a resort setting. Low garden lights were on. It was almost pleasant, but for the lack of clean oxygen. Closer to the bar entrance where I was standing were half a dozen hardwood tables and chairs. Those who had gravitated out from the bar to take in the evening pollution populated several of them.
Four European girls who occupied one of the tables were giving me a very frank assessment.
I gave them a collective smile, turned on my heel and re-entered the air-conditioned comfort of the club. I had no sooner slid into a vacant booth than the patio doors swung open and the four girls trooped in. No, I didn’t mind if they joined me.
6
Christ, what a headache! I crawled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. I didn’t recognise the guy who was blinking back at me from the mirror. I sluiced water over my face and fumbled for the magic hangover tablets I’d picked up down at CDS. They were a uniquely Thai concoction and they worked. I decided I would take a suitcase full of them back to the UK with me. If I ever got back there!
I swallowed two of the capsules then turned to the toilet to empty my tortured bladder. There were what looked suspiciously like teeth marks on my right thigh, and a purplish bruise on my belly. It was about then that my memory started to return. I’d been a lucky bad boy.
When I returned to the bedroom I realised there was a shape under the sheets and a tousled crop of red hair on one of the pillows. There were also two used condoms lying on the tiles by my side of the bed. I bent over to pick them up and almost met the bloody tiles headfirst. I carried the rubbers back to the bathroom and flushed them. At least I’d been careful, even if I didn’t remember much about what had gone on.
I started back for the bedroom as a series of flashbacks hit me. There had been a lot of laughing and drinking, the four girls and I. A meal somewhere, four thinning down to three, then two in a bar somewhere, then there was me and one other stumbling along a street and falling into a lift. The one had been the redhead. All my befuddled memory could throw back at me were flashes of Red and I lost in a jumble of arms, legs, lips, hips and other bits and pieces.
There was clothing all over the floor, both male and female. A sheer, black G-string was hanging from the wall-mounted lamp above the bed. A black bra of the same material had landed on the side table. I let the shape in the bed be and pulled on a pair of boxers. I found my cigarettes and lighter on the table under the bra and stepped out onto the balcony into the Bangkok morning.
It was early, maybe half five. The traffic was light and the pollution level hadn’t climbed past noxious. I realised that this was Sunday. Even Bangkok slowed a little on Sunday morning, but by ten it would be roaring again. I sat on one of the chairs, lit a cigarette and spent the next minute fighting not to cough or vomit. Eventually my system settled down, and the nicotine plus the herbal remedy I had swallowed earlier started to work. After five minutes I was almost feeling human but the sound of retching from the direction of my bathroom told me someone else wasn’t. I decided to leave Red to it and eventually the puking stopped. ‘Oh God,’ a voice said from behind me. I turned and a pale face under a shock of what I knew to be natural red hair shone at me from the slider into the bedroom.
‘Good morning isn’t appropriate at this time?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she replied thickly. ‘Have you got aspirin?’
‘Better than that,’ I replied, flicking away my cigarette butt. I led her back into the bathroom. There I organised a pair of capsules and a glass of water. Then I remembered her name. Red was in fact Barbara, Barbara from Bristol, an embassy clerk. Unsurprisingly her friends had all called her Babs.
Babs had a wonderful pale body with high, red-tipped breasts, long legs that met at a thick dark red thatch that had been carefully sculpted into the shape of a heart. ‘Oh,’ she shuddered as she leaned on the vanity and fought to keep the capsules down. Standing the way she was, propped on her straight arms, legs apart, butt pushed back, I had the impulse to press in behind her and see what came up, as it were. I didn’t. I was going to be a perfect gentleman, for the moment at least.
‘Just keep them down for five minutes and it’ll be okay,’ I said, leaving her and heading for the coffee plunger. When the brew was made I took two strong black ones back to the bathroom. Babs was still standing at the vanity, her head hanging down, when I landed a coffee in front of her.
‘I’m never going to drink again,’ she announced. ‘Never!’ she vowed.
I grinned to myself. How many times had I heard that? I’d never promised me that personally, not since my teens anyway. Alcohol and the conspicuous consumption of it had always been a factor in my lifestyle. I decided that a shower was next on the agenda as the coffee cooled to a drinkable temperature. I dropped my shorts, reached into the cabinet and cranked the control onto full. I’d been in maybe two minutes when the door opened and Babs joined me. I guessed she was feeling a little better. It was soap-and-rinse time with lots of slippery body on body. Nice and sexy, but no sex for the moment. We returned to our coffees and eventually to bed.
&n
bsp; Later, much later, when Babs had gone up to her flat on the fifth floor, I made my call to Bernard then went for a walk. I took to my feet as much to catch up on the vibe of the city as to walk off the exertions of the past few hours. I figured if the present rate of sexual expression carried on, I was going to have to get some Viagra. In my more or less sober state, Babs had proven to be some sort of sexual dynamo. I was not a bloody teenager anymore and keeping up had taken some real effort on my part. It had been fun though.
I walked down to Lumphini Park. Being Sunday it was as near to a local holiday as you could get in Thailand, apart from the birthdays of the Royal Family and Chinese New Year. Anyway, the park was full of families and kids. I got the best bits of a barbecued chicken, a cob of steamed corn and a can of Singha and wandered on, letting the atmosphere flow over me. Kids were kicking balls, racing around and yelling. There were a few kites fluttering in the slight breeze. It was a vibrant place. The hawkers and the beggars were about, selling their wares or calling on the generosity of all and sundry. I was always a sucker for kids and cripples, so my pockets were soon emptied of coins.
From the park I headed down Silom to check out Patpong. I wasn’t going there for the bars. It was too early for much action but I was just curious to see if anything had changed in the years since I’d last been there. It hadn’t, although there was no carnage this time—not that I could see anyway. This was where I’d saved Tuk Tuk’s life all those years before. There were still bullet scars on some of the buildings.
‘Ah, memories,’ I thought as I moved on.
I sat in a little restaurant across from the Ramada and had a delicious early dinner and a couple more beers while the world flowed by outside. I didn’t plan on going to the Coro Club that night, nor of bedding Babs or anyone else for that matter. Even if I was able to rediscover my libido, I doubted my body could take it. I was hoping that with the next day being a workday, Babs would beg off and want to do her hair or something.