Bar Girl

by David Thompson

  Even as the hands came together to claw their way through her skin, she ducked beneath them. Moving to the side, she swung the club once more. This time she caught the girl across the ribs. She heard the gasp of air escape the girl’s lungs. Even as she started to turn, Siswan hit her again. This time across her shoulder. The girl was nowhere near as fast as a scorpion. Not so dangerous either. She fought like a girl. Tried again to scratch Siswan. To grab her hair. To slap her. A cat fighter.

  Siswan was no match for her opponent. With ease she twisted away from her clawing hands. Slipped beneath her open handed slaps. She hit her again and again with the coiled shirt until, with a suddenness that matched the beginning, the fight was over.

  The girl slipped to the floor and hung her head in defeat. Siswan had beaten her. She sat down on the edge of her bed and looked at the girl. Waited for the sobs to stop.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked her finally, when the girl was quiet.

  ‘Noy,’ the girl answered, quietly.

  ‘Mine is Bee. Pleased to meet you, Noy,’ Siswan said, with a smile.

  Noy looked up. Her hair covered half her face. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. She sniffed loudly and rubbed the tears away from her eyes. She looked into the smiling face of Siswan and couldn’t help but smile back.

  ‘Pleased to meet you too, Bee,’ she said, and held out her hand.

  They shook hands and laughed. Siswan helped her up. Noy stood only an inch or two taller than her.

  ‘Sorry about the clothes,’ Noy said. ‘I had a bad day yesterday.’ She added, as an excuse.

  ‘Sorry about the bruises,’ Siswan said.

  Noy looked down. The red welts across her shoulder and chest were already beginning to turn blue. The one across her backside was almost black. She twisted as far as she could to see it.

  ‘I won’t be able to sit down for a while, that’s for sure,’ she said, as she craned her neck.

  ‘No. I don’t expect you will,’ Siswan agreed.

  Noy stopped inspecting her body and turned to face Siswan properly.

  ‘How old are you, Bee?’ she asked.

  ‘Sixteen,’ Siswan told her, without hesitation.

  ‘A year younger than me. Where are you from? What are you doing in this dump?’

  Siswan gave her the name of the village she had given to Ma. Told her she was here because of a family dispute. Nothing else.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘I cut it working in the fields.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Noy couldn’t be sure if the girl was telling the truth, or not. It was difficult to tell.

  ‘No. Not really,’ Siswan said, looking Noy in the eyes.

  For the next three weeks Siswan worked in the laundry washing sheets and towels from hotels, tablecloths from restaurants and everyday clothing from farangs. The never ending piles of dirty clothes were brought to the back of the house by trucks, carts and even piled high on the back of motorbikes.

  The back yard contained a large shed made from corrugated steel sheets that, during the height of the day, became unbearably hot. She, and the other ten or so girls, loaded the big copper vats, stirred the clothes by hand with wooden poles whilst the water boiled, lifted the heavy bundles into the concrete trough that ran down one side of the shed, and rinsed it all under the cold water from the continuously running taps.

  Once rinsed, the clothing had to be hung out on the multitude of clothes lines to dry in the sun. If, as it did on many occasions, it rained, the girls all had to stop what they were doing and run to bring in the dry clothing before it was ruined.

  When the clothes were dry they had to be ironed, using old, worn-out electric irons that sometimes got hot, sometimes didn’t. Once ironed, the clothing had to be folded and bagged ready for the return trip to the customers. The hardest part was trying to keep track of what belonged to whom. Customers often complained that some item or another had gone missing.

  It was long, hot and hard work that wore Siswan out each day. Every evening she had just enough energy to wash her own clothing, clean the bandage on her arm, shower and then collapse onto her uncomfortable bed to sleep a dreamless sleep. Her fingernails began to break at the edges and her hands became worn and sore from the caustic washing powders.

  Hardly any of the girls spoke as they worked. They were too tired. Had nothing to say. They just got on with their given work and fell into their beds at night. Ma allowed each girl a small breakfast of rice and, usually, dried fish. Sometimes pork if she could get it cheap enough. Lunch consisted of more rice, some vegetables served with hot spices and, if they were lucky, maybe some chicken or chicken broth. Most of the time Siswan felt hungry.

  She quickly learned that it did no good to complain. Ma wasn’t even the owner of the place. She just worked there for a man who lived further up country. He came down once whilst Siswan was there. A small man, with a small moustache. He looked like a weasel. He didn’t stay long. Just looked into the shed one day and inspected some of the finished laundry. Siswan had heard him tell Ma that he expected her to use less soap. It was expensive, he said. Get the girls to stir more. That was cheaper.

  During those first weeks some girls left and new ones arrived to take their places. There seemed to be a steady stream of girls all willing to work for the price of two meals, a shower and a bed. Siswan found it hard to believe that other girls were in the same position as she was. She thought she was alone. The only one.

  At the end of almost four weeks, Ma informed her that she had earned a day off. Noy had the same day. One day off in almost four weeks. It didn’t seem all that fair to Siswan but she looked forward to the following morning. Nothing to do for a whole day.

  Her and Noy had become friends. Not close friends. Not in the true sense of the word, but close enough to believe that there was a friendship. A common bond perhaps. Noy had taught her to go through the pockets of the clothing just in case a farang had left some money in them.

  ‘Always check, Bee. One girl, last month I think it was, found two thousand. She doesn’t work here anymore.’

  Siswan checked every pocket she came across but never found anything. The fact was that the room cleaners who collected the laundry in the hotels did the same thing. The delivery drivers who collected the bundles from the hotels also checked. The girls who unpacked the trucks and motorbikes had a look. By the time the pockets finally arrived in Siswan’s hands, they had been picked clean. She checked anyway. Someone may have missed something.

  She never truly believed that she would find anything of value. It was a dream the girls shared. Feel inside a pocket. Find a wad of notes. A fortune. Leave the workhouse, find a handsome man. Live happily ever after. A shared fantasy in which they all took part.

  When the work was finished, Siswan and Noy went back to their room to plan for the following day.

  Siswan made straight for the bathroom to wash the stench of laundry from her skin and hair. She removed the plastic bag she wrapped around her arm each day to keep her bandage dry and slowly unwound the bandage itself. During the last few days her arm had started to itch and the redness surrounding the scar had grown more vivid. Small blisters of puss gathered around the stitches themselves.

  ‘This doesn’t look too good,’ she said to Noy, as she walked back into the bedroom.

  The words were wasted. Noy was already fast asleep, having crashed onto her bed the moment they had entered the room. Siswan had never been able to do that. She couldn’t sleep without having first taken the time to clean herself and her clothing. In fact, now that her body was getting used to the laundry work, she found she didn’t need much sleep at all.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed and examined the black stitching more closely. It seemed as though the thread was getting thinner just as it left, or entered, h
er skin. As though it was being eaten away by the puss. When she plucked at the first one, it came apart under her fingers. The skin stretched back to a normal position as it became released from the bonds of the thread. The redness under that part of her arm lessened. The knot still protruded from her skin. She pulled it. The broken end of the thread disappeared into her arm and, as she pulled further, came out on the other side of the scar, leaving her arm bare in that one spot.

  It had stung as she withdrew the thread, but not too much. Her skin looked better. The small blisters didn’t look so swollen. Carefully she pulled and played with all the other stitches until, finally, her arm was bare. The scar ran along the length of her lower arm. It looked a little red and swollen but when she pulled at her skin the wound didn’t open. The small pin prick marks made by the stitches made her arm look as though it had a built in zipper. She smiled at the analogy she made.

  She returned to the bathroom and washed her arm carefully. She rinsed it thoroughly and, using what was left of her fingernails, she cleaned away the small pus-filled scabs that surrounded the holes left by the thread. Inspecting her arm afterwards, she decided that it didn’t look too bad. It gave her a tool in fact. People would take her more seriously when they saw it. It made her appear tougher. Harder. Older. She shook Noy awake to show her.

  Noy was impressed. Not only by the scar but also the fact that Siswan had removed the stitches herself.

  ‘Didn’t it hurt?’ she asked, as she inspected her friend’s arm.

  ‘A little. Not much,’ Siswan told her. ‘What are we going to do tomorrow?’

  ‘Tonight, Bee. You mean what are we going to do tonight!’ Noy laughed.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m tired. I need to sleep.’ Siswan was confused.

  ‘Get a couple of hours sleep now. I’ll wake you up when it’s time,’ Noy said, before rolling over on her bed.

  Siswan did as she was told. She lay down on her bed, tossed around a couple of times to get comfortable, and fell asleep.

  When Noy woke her up she yawned and stretched the ache out of her back and shoulders.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked, sleepily.

  ‘Time to get up, get dressed and head for the beach,’ Noy told her.

  ‘The beach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s a beach?’ Siswan asked.

  ‘You don’t know what a beach is?’ Noy asked, incredulously.

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Where the sea comes in? Sand? People walking, farangs swimming? You don’t know?’

  ‘No. I know about walking, swimming and sand but I don’t know what a beach is, okay?’ Siswan was a little annoyed by her own lack of knowledge.

  ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll show you,’ Noy said, quickly. She didn’t want her friend to get angry. The bruises had faded but the memory hadn’t.

  They both dressed and headed out of the house. Ma was at her usual station behind the old desk as they walked out through the foyer. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even acknowledge them.

  The two girls headed back down the street towards the main road that Siswan had last walked a month before. They both wore shorts and tee shirts. Their rubber sandals made their characteristic flapping sound as they moved along the pavement.

  Siswan became aware of the noise before anything else. The heavy beat of the bass was felt, rather than heard, as they approached the main road. It was dark by the time they arrived and the lights from the bars, restaurants and coffee houses seemed to make everything more real, more alive, than when she had last walked along in the light of day.

  People were everywhere. Farangs dressed in casual attire thronged the pavements as they moved from shop to shop and from bar to bar. The street traders plied their goods, services and everything else they could think of, as the rich westerners strolled by.

  Siswan started to walk along the pavement in a daze. She had never seen so many people. So much traffic. Motorbikes and tuk-tuks roared past her as they searched for customers amongst the thousands of holidaymakers looking for some fun, some action. The music from the various bars filled her head. She found it hard just concentrating on walking without bumping into people.

  ‘No. This way, Bee.’ Noy caught her by the arm and pulled her across the main road.

  They had to dodge their way across. The traffic never slowed. Never paused in its search to earn another few coins.

  Noy half dragged Siswan along the pavement on the other side of the road. She led her down a set of concrete steps and through a maze of palm trees and foliage until they were far enough away from the road to be able to speak without having to shout.

  ‘Take off your flip flops,’ Noy told her, as she bent to pick up her own.

  A few more steps and they were on the beach. Siswan could feel the grating coolness of the sand as it rubbed between her toes and scratched at the soles of her feet. It felt good as she walked, her feet sinking into the soft sand with each step.

  In the light from the road behind her, Siswan could make out the piles of sun beds that were placed at the top of the beach. They were long, white plastic chairs that looked really comfortable. The piles of blue and green foam mattresses looked far more enticing than the one on her bed in the workhouse.

  Noy led her further down towards the inky blackness that lay beyond the sand. Her feet felt the first of the wet sand. She didn’t sink so low into it. Found it easier to walk. A cool breeze blew in off the sea into her face. The smell of salt. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light she saw the white froth of the waves as they fell onto the sand. Stretching away to her left and right she could make out the white waves. The noise as they rushed towards the shore was like nothing she had heard before.

  When the wind had made the high stalks of sugar cane rustle back in her village she had loved the sound they made. The waves were even better than that. Each rhythmic crash was like hearing her own heart beating. She ran the last few paces towards the sea.

  ‘Wait, Bee. Don’t go in!’ Noy called too late.

  Siswan felt the cool water on her feet, ankles and knees when she walked out to meet the waves as they rushed towards her. Soon her shorts were soaked. Her tee shirt drenched. Her hair matted and wet. She didn’t care. She laughed out loud as wave after wave fought to push her back out of the water. To cast her back upon the dry land where she belonged. The power of the waves threatened to knock her off her feet and the roar they made drowned out the music and traffic from the road behind her.

  Finally, when her mouth was filled with the salty taste of the sea and her nose ran from having breathed in too much water, she made for the shore and collapsed onto the sand beside Noy’s feet.

  ‘Oh, that was so good!’ she laughed. ‘I never knew! It’s so big!’

  ‘You’re mad, Bee. You don’t know what’s out there waiting to trap you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She looked up into the face of her friend.

  ‘The sea is full of spirits. Fishermen and sailors who have died out there.’ She gestured with her hand. ‘There’s all sorts of spirits and ghosts.’

  ‘But you said that the farang go swimming,’ Siswan said.

  ‘Yes. But the farang aren’t like us. They don’t know about the spirits. They don’t know what could enter their bodies.’ Noy sounded slightly exasperated.

  Siswan sat on the sand and looked out at the sea. She watched the waves as they came rolling in towards her.

  ‘Maybe they do know,’ she said, quietly. ‘Maybe they do know and, because they know, they aren’t afraid.’

  ‘No, Bee. They can’t know. How could they know about ghosts. No one knows,’ Noy chided her.

  ‘Well, if no one knows, Noy, it could be that there’s nothing to be afraid of?’

  ‘Well. I’ve heard stories. People have b
een taken by the spirits and never seen again,’ Noy said, emphatically.

  ‘Maybe they just drowned?’ Siswan asked, pointedly.

  Noy didn’t say any more on the subject of the sea. Her attention had been drawn towards the lone farang walking along the edge of the water towards them.

  ‘He looks okay.’ She nodded her head for Siswan to follow.

  ‘How do you know? It’s dark.’ Siswan squinted at the lone figure of the man.

  ‘He’s alone and old. That’s good enough. Wait here,’ Noy said, before starting to walk towards the man.

  Siswan watched idly as her friend held a short conversation with the man. After a few moments Noy came trotting back towards her.

  ‘He says yes. You watch out for police or lady boys. If you see anyone coming, whistle or shout, okay?’ Noy told her, before turning and running back to the farang.

  She took him by the hand, led him back up the beach towards the pile of sun beds they had seen earlier, and ducked out of sight.

  Siswan sat on the sand and waited. An awful feeling began to make its way up through her stomach to her brain. She had a feeling she knew what Noy was doing with the farang. She had done it enough times in the sugar cane. She didn’t know what to do. Should she leave? Should she stay? It was wrong. What Noy was doing was wrong. What the farang was doing was wrong. Siswan knew that. She knew that with all her heart. It was wrong. Her mother had told her that it was wrong.

  Minutes went by. Siswan was still undecided. It suddenly dawned on her where Noy had been the first night she had arrived at the workhouse. What had she said in the morning? She’d had a bad day. That was it. A bad day. What had she meant? It had been bad enough for her to have pushed Siswan out of bed and urinate on her clothes. A bad day. Was this a good day then? Did a bad day mean no farangs to pleasure?

  More time went by. Siswan saw another farang walking along the beach in the dim light. A girl walked down from the top of the beach to talk to him. After a few moments they both walked back in the direction she had come. Was this happening everywhere? Were the girls getting paid? Surely this was wrong? Why didn’t someone stop it?