“Oh, come on, sibling,” said Sissi. “Enough’s enough. You’re sounding like Miss World.”
“Shh!” came a chorus from the Internet Tweeters.
“You said she can’t see how many people are watching this,” said Mair.
“She can’t, not on her machine. But she must sense it. You can’t have two million eyes on you and not feel the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.”
“It’s too much,” said Mair. “We had a TV, you know.”
“Will you two keep it down,” said the mustache guy.
“You ever attempted to have a webcam removed from your nostril?” said Sissi. “Mair? What’s this about the TV?”
“Just that we had one. Me and Jarooat.”
“Who the…? Who’s Jarooat?”
“You don’t remember your own father’s name?”
“My…? Why should I? I was only, what … four or five … when he left us? You never talked about him. I barely remember his face.”
“We’d sit together, hand in hand, watching exciting programs like this.”
“This isn’t a program, Mair. It’s—”
“And we’d try not to get upset by them. I’d try not to cry. Because we knew they were sponsored by the Suzuki motorcycle company and Tonaf anti-foot-rot cream and the like. And we knew everything would work out fine in the end because sponsors didn’t want death. They wanted happy endings. That’s what sells foot-rot cream. And we were never disappointed. Who did we finally get to sponsor our show, Margaret?”
“It’s…” Sissi smiled at her mother. “You know? I do think we had somebody down from Coca-Cola in the end.”
“Oh, well. There’s nothing to worry about then.”
“Where’s the logo then?” asked blue skin. Sissi ignored her.
“We should be getting back, I suppose,” said Mair. “There’s nobody feeding the dogs.”
“You asked someone from the co-op to do it,” said Sissi.
“Are you sure? Good for me. At least I’ve been good for something. I wasn’t worth a shaved-ice sundae as a mother, if you ask me.”
“Mair, you—”
“Will somebody shut the old woman up?” said some lanky chopstick of a teenager.
Sissi scraped back her chair, grabbed the youth by the neck, frog-marched him out the door and locked it. There was no more backchat from the Tweeters.
“I put my only two children up for adoption, you know?” said Mair.
“Mair, stop talking now.”
“Yes, I should. The show’s on.”
JIMM: 3 … 2 … 1 … Here goes.
(THE CAMERA IS EXPOSED TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS FROM THE SQUID BOATS, AND THE SCREEN IS TEMPORARILY BLINDING. WHEN WE REFOCUS, WE SEE THE SURPRISED FACES OF THE GUARDS. THE FOLLOWING SECTION HAS NO ENGLISH TRANSLATION.)
JIMM: Smile everyone. You’re on the Internet—live. Shown worldwide in approximately a billion homes.
BOSS: Who the bloody hell’s that?
(CAMERA PANS UP TO THE DECK OF THE LARGEST BOAT AND ZOOMS TO THE FACE OF A SEMI-HANDSOME SOUTHERN MAN WITH A SCAR DOWN ONE CHEEK. IT’S UNEVEN, AS IF THE TWO SIDES WEREN’T MATCHED UP BEFORE THEY WERE SEWN TOGETHER. A NUMBER OF BURMESE HEADS ARE PEERING OVER THE EDGE OF THE BOAT.)
CREW 2: (OFF-CAMERA) She’s got a gun.
(MISCELLANIOUS SCREAMS)
JIMM: It’s not. It’s not a gun. Don’t shoot. It’s a computer.
(JIMM DOES A SLOW PIROUETTE, TAKING IN ALL THREE BOATS AND THREE CREWS OF HALF-STARVED BURMESE. THE GUARDS ARE HOLDING RIFLES. ONLY THE BOSS HAS AN AUTOMATIC WEAPON. EVERYONE SEEMS TO BE FROZEN TO THE SPOT AS THEY WATCH JIMM.)
BOSS: Don’t just stand there. Grab the little bitch and get that thing off her.
JIMM: (OFF-CAMERA IN ENGLISH) That was perfect. A close-up of the gang leader. Get to work now, you computer wizards and come up with a record for him.
(A CREW MEMBER MARCHES DIRECTLY TOWARD THE CAMERA)
JIMM: OK. OK. I’ll put it down. Look. It’s a very expensive com—
(BUT THE CAMERA ISN’T PUT DOWN. IT DROPS TO THE DECK ON ITS SIDE. A LOT OF PIXELS GET REARRANGED, BUT THE PICTURE RIGHTS ITSELF IN TIME TO SEE THE BOTTOM HALF OF JIMM BEING DRAGGED ALONG THE DECK TO A POINT BELOW THE BOSS.)
JIMM: (SHOUTED) Now would be a very good time for back-up. Hello!
BOSS: (OFF-CAMERA) What are you going on about? Who are you?
JIMM: I am Jimm Juree, a world-famous crime reporter. And this entire operation has been captured digitally and distributed to the World Wide Web—live.
BOSS: We’re in the middle of the sea.
JIMM: So?
BOSS: There’s no phone towers out here. How stupid do you think I am?
JIMM: Obviously not nearly as stupid as you actually are.
(THERE IS A PAUSE, THEN THE SOUND OF A THUD, AND JIMM FALLS INTO FRAME ON THE DECK. THERE’S THE SOUND OF A SCUFFLE OFF-CAMERA.)
ARNY: Jimm!
BOSS: Keep hold of them two.
(JIMM COMES AROUND SLOWLY AND TURNS TO FACE THE CAMERA—SPITS)
JIMM: (IN ENGLISH) I have just been hit with the barrel of an AK47. I might have lost a tooth. This is—
BOSS: Enough with the foreign crap. Someone bring me that computer.
(SKINNY LEGS IN SHORTS APPROACH THE CAMERA, AND WHEN THE PICURE IS RIGHTED, WE HAVE AN EXTREME CLOSE-UP OF A PARTICULARLY UGLY SEAMAN. HE’S FASCINATED TO SEE HIS OWN FACE ON THE SCREEN. WE CHANGE THE POINT OF VIEW TO THE HANDSOME BUT DISFIGURED BOSS. HE SMILES.)
JIMM: Wait! What do you think you’re—
(THE CAMERA SAILS THROUGH THE AIR, AND THERE’S A MOMENT THAT WOULD LATER LOOK SPECTACULAR IN A SLOW-MOTION REPLAY, WITH THE LAPTOP BREAKING THE SURFACE OF THE WATER, FLIPPING AROUND IN THE SURF, THEN BREAKING BACK INTO THE AIR LIKE A RUBBER RAFT. AS IT BOBS THERE, THE REAR END OF THE SLAVER BOAT IS IN CLEAR VIEW.)
“Now that is why the Navy Seals use the XR2,” said Sissi. “Waterproof. Shock proof. Missile proof. Sends out e-mails at the speed of light. I love that baby.”
“It’s away from the ship now,” someone shouted. “Is there some way to make it louder?”
“Yes, genius,” said Sissi. “It’s a new invention called the volume control. You’ve all got one on your computers. Voilà.”
“He hit her,” said Mair, shocked, stressed, distraught.
“Only with the barrel, Mair. It would have been a lot worse if he’d used the stock.”
“So, where’s her back-up?” asked the shop owner.
“Yeah,” they all echoed. “Where’s her back-up?”
Live Internet feed. 10:02 P.M. Gulf of Thailand
(CAMERA ROCKING AND ROLLING ON THE WAVES. HARD TO WATCH. BOATS PASSING IN AND OUT OF SHOT. BUT THE SOUND QUALITY IS GOOD. ALL OFF-CAMERA)
BOSS: There goes your evidence. Now all we gotta do is get rid of you and your journo pals and maybe we’ll finally get a bit of work done around here.
JIMM: We aren’t alone out here, you know?
BOSS: Oh, right. It’s the “look behind you” routine. Nice. Kill ’er.
(SOUNDS OF STRUGGLING)
ARNY: You leave her alone or there’ll be trouble.
BOSS: I see your Thai’s not bad for a Burmese. All right. They all go. This is how we do it. We shoot ’em. All of ’em. The uncle and the nephew too. Tie the bodies to their boat and sink it. We’ll be long gone by the time they find it. You know? You newspaper people think you can stick your noses anywhere. Who do you think you are, darling? And look where you are. This is my kingdom out here and I’m God. I give and I take away. But mostly I take away. Here, I’ll do the girl.
(ON ONE OF ITS CIRCUITS THE CAMERA SHOWS THE SILHOUETTE OF THE BOSS WALKING THE LENGTH OF THE FERRY BOAT WITH HIS WEAPON RAISED.)
CREW 2: Boss, look.
BOSS: What?
CREW 2: It’s a light.
CREW 1: There’s another one over there.
(SILENCE)
BOSS: What? That’s it? That’s your back-up? (HE LAUGHS UNTIL HE SPITS UP PHLEGM.) Two bitty
little boats? Two little mackerels that we can outrun and outshoot and sink without even breaking a sweat? Don’t make me laugh. You know? I hate women like you. Arrogant, the word is. I’m doing the world a favor here.
JIMM: I bet you couldn’t do it without a gun.
BOSS: What?
JIMM: I bet you couldn’t kill me with your bare hands, like a real man.
CREW 2: Listen. Can you hear that?
BOSS: Shut up.
JIMM: Little men like you are all talk.
CREW 1: It’s music.
BOSS: Here. Take this gun. The lady wants a beating.
CREW 2: It is music.
BOSS: What the…? Who gives a shit? One of those little boats has got its transistor on. They’re trying to soften us up with music. Can I just get this over with?
CREW 1: No, boss. It ain’t coming from them two boats. It’s like it’s … it’s all round us.
BOSS: What is it about today? Has everyone gone nuts?
CREW 2: He’s right, boss. It is coming from all round.
CREW 1: And it’s getting louder.
SONG: Friday nigh and de ligh are low.
BOSS: Don’t be stupid. It’s just the radio waves bouncing off the sea. It’s a trick of the water.
SONG: Lookin ow for a play to go.
CREW 2: No. It ain’t a trick, boss.
CREW 1: And it ain’t a radio. It’s live.
CREW 2: And it’s more than one voice.
SONG: Where dey play the righ music, gettin in de swing.
You cummin to loo for king.
BOSS: Who is it?
CREW 2: It’s Abba, boss.
BOSS: No, I mean, where’s it coming from?
CREW 2: Sweden.
BOSS: Look, idiot. I–
SONG: Anybody cou be dat guy
Nigh is young and de music high
CREW 1: Look, boss. There’s another light over there.
BOSS: So? Three boats. No big deal.
CREW 2: Make that four. Look.
SONG: Wiv a bidda rock music, everytin is fai
You in de moo for dan
CREW 2: They’re really terrible.
CREW 1: More lights, boss.
BOSS: My God. They’re everywhere.
SONG: And when you get de chan
CREW 1: There must be twenty … thirty of “em. We’re surrounded.
BOSS: Stuff it. All right. Put down your weapons, boys. We’ll sort this out tomorrow. Couple of phone calls and we’ll be back out here on the next tide.
SONG: You are de dancin quee
Young an swee, only sewentee
Dancin quee, feel de bea
From de tambolee
BOSS: Nothing to worry about.
SONG: Oh yeah
16.
Start Spreading Manures
(from “New York, New York” — JOHN KANDER, FRED EBB)
“But they were arrested?”
“Every last one of them. The ministry police task force was there waiting for them at the dock in Pak Nam. TV crews. Interviews. Helicopter. Media frenzy. They were whisked off to Bangkok.”
“And you think, in spite of all that, they’ll get off?”
“I don’t want them to, of course. But as hot news, it’s relegated to page three by the airport takeover. And public memories are short. In a week it’ll all be forgotten.”
I was sitting with Noy and Mamanoy in their simple but comfortable granny flat at the back of Somjit’s house. They’d been well looked after, and nobody had seen a sign of the Special Branch people since Mair sent them on a wild goose chase. Elain seemed to have taken a shine to the Noys. She was hiding shyly behind Noy’s legs.
“Plus the fact they knew some important figures,” said Mamanoy.
“Well, at this point it’s looking like we might have got them too,” I said.
“How?”
“We had the link to the Rescue Foundation, evidence, sound recordings. There was a raid, and they found documents that tied them to the slavery. Or, at least, to the slave ships. The foundation godfather is the older brother of the current shadow minister of education. A lifetime Democrat from an old southern family. He’s registered as the owner of the slaver boats. Our present prime minister and his cabinet would be only too delighted to make all this public and put pressure on the police ministry to rush the case through the courts. That reduces the time our southern MP has to bribe witnesses and make the Burmese slaves go away. But you know how these things work. A change of government tomorrow and suddenly there was never a charge to answer. On the positive side, all the foreign attention might make a difference. There’s pressure on the police to get convictions on this case. And as all the work was done for them … by us … the Royal Thai Police force could look good on the world stage without having to do very much. At the very least they’ll get convictions against the villains that don’t have family connections: the slave boss and his crew, all the people involved on dry land.”
“Your Lieutenant Egg?” asked Mamanoy.
“Facing charges. The rat brothers are prepared to give evidence against him. Say they were just hired help. Everything was his idea. And there was the cloned truck in his garage. His physical attack on Chompu. I think this might be one police case that doesn’t get lost in the system.”
“Did it really make any difference?” Noy asked.
“What?”
“The coverage. The Internet. Isn’t it temporary entertainment? A fad? Then tomorrow the cyber world moves on to the next burst of excitement.”
Our Noy was short on optimism. It was time to reveal my secret identity.
“The Internet isn’t all Tweeters and mindless surfers and Facebookers,” I said, even though it pretty much was. “What happened out there in the Gulf has been picked up by a lot of international press. I was the deputy head of the crime desk at the Chiang Mai Mail before I moved down here.” All I picked up was a look of disbelief. “I was online as often as I could be, looking for stories to follow up on. The newspapers get a lot of their content from the Web. You wouldn’t know where to start if it was just you and the Internet. The newspapers are like your dinner ladies. They give you your lunchbox all packaged, apple and all. You can get through the content in your canteen break.”
“And be as knowledgeable as the newspaper allows you to be,” said Mamanoy.
“You can choose your newspaper,” I said. “Find one you trust.”
“I’m not sure I trust any of them,” she said.
“Then you’ll have an opportunity to discuss your fears with The New York Times,” I told her.
“The New York Times?”
“They’re coming for an interview this afternoon … with you. Just a Bangkok-based journalist and his photographer. I imagine they’re getting bored with strolling around the airport asking people their feelings. As we still haven’t completely rid the Lovely Resort of its Special Branch threat, Somjit has kindly agreed for us to conduct the interview in her garden gazebo.”
The Noys exchanged a glance, then laughed. This was all some fantasy. Their lack of faith was starting to annoy me.
“Listen,” I said, “I’ve lost half a tooth, which won’t do my modeling career much good. I’ve thrown up a dozen times … which might. I haven’t slept for forty-eight hours and my nervous system is ragged. I would have had a very successful day today if only I could find the energy to type up this whole trafficking drama and send it off to the newspapers. I’ve had every daily in Thailand contact me. I could be the flavor of the week. All I need to do is put in the time … type, type, type. My career is standing on the runway waiting for permission to take off. And where am I? I’m here with you. And why am I here? Because you aren’t concluded.”
“I don’t understand,” said Noy.
“I have to put your story to bed before I can get some rest myself. I could have had a few hours’ sleep when I got back from the media circus at five this morning, but I lay on my lumpy mattress and all I could think a
bout was you two.”
“I’m sorry we gave you insomnia,” said Noy. “But this is one story that won’t be put to sleep.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry too. But it’s what I do. I can’t stop until I get you two off the hook.”
I’d been trying to keep the bed/sleeping analogy going, but it was exhausting.
“You know, I think it might be a good idea for us to move out before the reporter gets here,” said Noy.
“Well, that would be a terrible shame,” I told her, “considering the guy didn’t drive all this way just to photograph me. He’s got an even better story. An exclusive, in fact. I’ve told him all about you and what happened in America.”
Both Noys stood as if they’d heard a silent rendition of the national anthem.
“You’ve what?” said Mamanoy. Her face was flushed with anger.
“They think it’s a great story,” I went on. “You’re going to tell your story to The New York Times.”
Noy’s jaw dropped and almost banged the monkey on the head.
“You are out of your mind, you know?” said Noy.
“Some people tell me that. But why? What’s wrong?”
“What’s…? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Apart from the fact there’s no way on the planet Earth I’d do it, you’re mad if you think a newspaper with an office in Bangkok would even think about running it. There would be implications far beyond the political.”
“I suppose that depends how you tell it,” I said.
“There are options?”
Grandad, There's a Head on the Beach Page 23