Escape

by David McMillan

  Sten drank from a bottle of iced water and sat by the doorway. ‘We start paying for this tomorrow.’ He held up the plastic bottle of tap water. ‘Water strike. Barely enough to drink. No showers—’

  I sat up, about to protest.

  Sten raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry, Jet’s got a tap opened.’ Sten stood to leave. ‘He’s getting our tanks filled in the room.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I queried.

  ‘Since you ask, the chief wants a new air conditioner and the foreigners have to pay for some new covered kitchen but haven’t any money, of course. Ah, your factory worker’s in the soi and your Chinese friends have been bushwhacked in the coffee shop. The chief sold it out from under them to the son of some rich guy who wanted to give his kid something to do in prison.’

  ‘Okay then.’ I took my keys to lock our cupboards. ‘Another fine day in Klong Prem.’

  ‘Yep. Oh and one other thing. English Martyn was bundled to court this morning. He got fifty years and he’ll be off to Bangkwang tomorrow.’

  Sten took a towel and moved out under the new drops of rain to cool himself. Looking across to the building entrance I saw Jet struggling up the steps with buckets of water. Lifting our food canisters, I thought I must try harder to keep my friends.

  19

  Dean Reed was lying well: offhandedly, casually, from the hip, even warmly—which was how he sounded at his best. The problem was that they weren’t buying his stuff.

  Dean sat in the purposely low chair provided in the shuttered debriefing room of the American Embassy in Kuala Lumpur. A man and a woman stood at the bare table without speaking. They were Dean’s countrymen—officials—impossible to identify and difficult to bullshit.

  ‘I just want a full passport. I’m entitled to that.’ Dean wanted to take off his own jacket to join them with their white shirts but he thought they might suspect nervousness. ‘Every time I renew my Thai visa they ask about that cut corner on the passport. It’s not easy to get the ninety days, you know.’

  The woman interrogator wore her hair pulled back. She said, ‘You weren’t thinking of going home?’

  ‘No! I’ve told you people in Bangkok—I’ve got no reason to go home, my home is in Thailand.’

  ‘And not planning to travel elsewhere? Europe, somewhere outside of Asia perhaps?’ asked the man.

  ‘No!’ Dean whined in exasperation.

  ‘Odd thing that, Dean.’ The man sat on the edge of the table. ‘Just yesterday you were in the Australian Embassy trying to get a visa. They didn’t think much of you either. Mind if we take a look at that Filofax there?’

  Dean had realised that these two were not passport officials and he felt foolish agreeing to this interview. ‘Look at what you want,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see what right you have. I’ve done nothing. Nothing.’ This sounded weak.

  ‘Who were you planning to see in Australia?’ It was the woman’s turn to ask questions. ‘Someone in Melbourne? Yes?’ No answer. ‘The Australians wouldn’t give you a visa, Dean. Not with a full passport, not with any passport—and not with your drug record.’

  ‘Oh that,’ Dean began dismissively. ‘That’s nothing.’

  But the interview would not improve. Eventually Dean gathered his bits, loosened his tie and left the embassy and the town.

  Again he would have to return to Thailand by train. The officials at Padang Besar would allow him only a thirty-day visa. If nothing more he could afford to take a plane from Hat Yai home to Bangkok.

  Dean let himself in to the neglected but palm-shaded house in a watery lane off Soi Ekamai. Fortunately Tara was not at home. Later he would tell Tara a version of his failure when she returned from work. A version that blamed David and his friends. She had accepted his story about Swiss banking and currency manipulations to explain the cash he’d been spending for the last seven months. Yet she’d seen little of that money. And now it was gone. For now Dean would draw the yellow blinds and turn on the television set. Play Natural Born Killers just one more time—

  ‘Natural Born Killers?’ Chas wondered where that came from. ‘I don’t know what Dean did when he got home. And don’t interrupt—who’s telling this story anyway? I though I was!’

  ‘And you are,’ I assured Chas from behind the mesh at Klong Prem. ‘It’s just that I know Dean. That silly fluff was his favourite film. He once told me that he’d played it to death. It was his comfort video, would you believe. He’d be sure to watch it under stress.’ I apologised for interrupting. ‘Anyway go on, Chas.’

  ‘Right. Well, Tara didn’t like being broke. She was packing to go when I called by. She said Dean was on another visa run. Talked of their breaking up. No sign of him, not that I could see.’

  ‘Did you believe her?’ I’d never met Tara, an Amerasian born in Thailand, although she’d been with Dean for five years.

  Chas smiled and held his hands out. ‘Believe? Now, what would that mean?’ Chas had been surrounded by true believers since he’d campaigned against the death penalty in the 1960s. He’d heard so much belief from all sides that he saw no need to add his match to the bonfire. ‘I think she really was going somewhere for a while. Or maybe she doesn’t eat fruit or use toothpaste.’

  Not much of either in the house, I presumed. Chas thought the Swiss banking nonsense was something Tara would repeat, whether she believed it or not. He didn’t see Dean as a smuggler of anything but the cash he might fleece.

  ‘I suppose if he’d made it to Melbourne he’d cook up another backhander-for-bail story,’ Chas speculated. ‘Not that he’d get anything from me. Michael might’ve felt differently.’

  Michael would be new territory for Dean. He’d already taken my old friend Myca for US$48,000 and would get no more. I was sure Dean would try to sink new wells by travelling the world filling a war chest from my friends. Big chest, no war. Chas knew that sometimes my schemes to misdirect the opposition could create too much disturbance and had made his own investigations.

  I said, ‘Michael knows Dean’s no smuggler. It’s sad that Dean thought I would like the sound of that. Him smuggling drugs to raise the necessary funds for bail. Any idea what the spooks in KL got from Dean’s pocketbook?’

  Chas raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s just go out on a limb and assume that they got everything he had to give.’

  This forced me to think of any stray bits of papers, notes, receipts left in Dean’s hands. I’d taken some care that there shouldn’t be much. ‘Well forget him, Chas.’ The time had passed for such digressions. ‘How did Charlie make out with my photo?’

  ‘He’ll be out to see you as soon as I leave. He wanted to show me some passport he seemed proud of. Hidden in a grooming kit. Charlie thought me terribly thick that I couldn’t open the thing.’

  I saluted Chas. ‘And not even willing to try the catch, I’ll bet. So no fingerprints there.’

  Chas was nodding at the ground and paused before speaking. ‘I’m sorry you’re on your own. Here.’ He looked up at the walls. ‘It’s just too much for those of us left. Too old, I guess.’ Chas smiled and I knew he wasn’t speaking for himself.

  Chas left me with a fresh credit card, more cash and best wishes before taking a taxi straight from Klong Prem to the airport. He took the first available flight from Bangkok carrying the same collapsible shoulder bag with which he’d arrived. A Kevlar-fabric bag impossible to line without easy detection. Chas didn’t wish to think the worst of the authorities but neither would he give them a chance.

  A couple of days before the end of the month a parcel arrived for me from Australia. I joined the huddle of foreigners waiting in the courtyard in front of the KP mail office. The Thai parcels would be opened first.

  Between fifty and sixty parcels arrived for prisoners every day. These would be checked by a guard who sat under a tree while the receiving prisoner squatted before his throne hoping for less damage than usual from the guard’s inspection. With effortless mischief the resentful guard would kick the torn boxes in
to position before vandalising the contents using a rusty knife.

  For the Thais their soap bars would be chopped to flakes, their honey left speckled with rust and clothing soaked in dirty water in pursuit of imagined narcotics. By contrast foreigners’ parcels were presumed free of drugs (pointless sending drugs to Thailand) and so ransacked sparingly. To save the Thai prisoners the humiliation of this disparity we foreigners waited for the local carnage to end before presenting our goods for inspection.

  Despite this distinction the passadook guard, Satrakorn, would make a masterful inspection by holding our finery up to the light, maybe tapping our low-pH soap bars to listen for their acoustic properties or scrutinising the labels of our condiments with feigned comprehension. Face was saved.

  All this pretence was particularly good for me that day as I saw that my parcel was from Michael, although he’d used a false name. This meant that almost certainly it contained—somewhere inside—the four tungsten and steel hacksaw blades I’d asked for. Michael had sent parcels before although usually in his own name and always containing money and messages rolled tight and then sealed in small tins. We had a portable canning machine into which, for years, we’d packed our banknotes and frankincense. Applying labels such as Vitapooch and Pusschow, they’d take some spray-on dust before being stored in a deep corner cupboard away from seizing hands.

  The sender’s name on this package was Maurice Binder yet displayed Michael’s distinctive penmanship so I should watch for more than the usual tins with outlandish brands. The hacksaw blades would each be over a foot long. Sten and I had abandoned the cell-door key project. The new-and-improved plan was straightforward in approach: cut through the window after midnight and scale the walls.

  Waiting with the other foreigners beneath the shade of a tree I was pleased to see Calvin amble forward from Building Two.

  ‘Calvin! Good to see you.’ I stepped into the sun. ‘Another passadook from Hawaii?’

  ‘Hiya, Dave. I dunno. A care package from my sister, I think.’ Calvin had never taken to using even the most familiar Thai words. ‘Dave, the chief’s okayed my move this week. I’ve got to get out of Building Two. It’s too much.’

  ‘You’re welcome anytime. Remember, though, I did warn you that there might be some changes coming in Six. No details but you won’t like them.’ I looked at Calvin’s tattered shirt with its rows of holes from cigarettes dropped during great noddings. His face was gaunt and grey, his shorts stained.

  ‘Say, Cal, no need to dress up just to visit the mail office. No formalities here.’

  Calvin lit a cigarette and smiled. ‘Yeah, I know. I haven’t worn my tails since Jack’s inauguration.’

  ‘How’s things in the American hut?’ I was keeping watch on the passadook guard. He was tiring.

  ‘Ah, Dave. It’s all fucked. The stuff’s everywhere, I can’t get away from it. That’s why I’ve got to get over to your place.’

  ‘Where’s your dedication, Calvin?’ I chided absently. ‘The dope’s no fun without a raging habit. Anyway you know it’s to be found in Six.’

  Calvin believed that the healthy atmosphere and calm inclinations of #57 would keep him from poverty and ruin. In the past decade a quarter of the Western prisoners had died from infections contracted through sharing needles. Calvin wasn’t using the needle—well, hardly. Even if I’d told him of our proposed escape Calvin would have moved in anyway. Many foreigners spoke of escape. The image of such a night would never hold reality.

  The Thai prisoners had now left with their goods: new leather sandals, dried fish and banana strips, strings of tamarind and copies of the gorefest police slaughter magazine, 191. The foreigners’ parcels were dragged forward and I stood back from others to let the guard set his pace.

  Calvin squatted before Satrakorn, cloth sack in hand, scooping packets of American Marlboro as they tumbled from their torn cartons. He wadded the cigarettes down with new T-shirts and baggy shorts as the guard flicked them aside. Satrakorn then halted the spill of goods from the ruptured package to spread the pages of a fishing magazine, hoping to find pictures of bikinied women on beaches. Magazines revealing women were banned from entry. Seeing only bass and perch the guard let the magazine drop from his fingers and Kelvin gathered the last of his winnings.

  My large box was pushed forward. It was heavy and the trusty gave a grunt to show irritation. I saw that through mishandling a twelve-centimetre gash was torn from the side. I wondered at any damage inside for I knew not where the hacksaw blades might be hidden.

  ‘That’s a big one.’ Calvin stood looking at the box. ‘Must have cost a packet to send.’

  ‘Mmm. Look’s like it. Over a hundred on the stamps.’ I then knelt and half turned, keeping up a conversation with Calvin, hoping to give the guard a sense of free rein.

  Packed for variety and distraction Michael had spared little that gave colour or novelty. The now sluggish guard squinted at each item before pushing it clear with his short stick. Foods decorated the top layer, caught in glimpses as I looked for the blades. Duck-liver pâté, tinned camembert, bubble-wrapped jars of marmalades, two stollen cakes (too short to hide a file), larks’ tongues in aspic, canned beef and ham, bags of dried fruit; spices: cumin seed, oregano, tannis root, basil and food acid 260 for pickling in a dark bottle. Then three rolls of matt black gaffer tape lay curled among marshmallows, nougat, gummy bears and Callard & Bowser’s liquorice toffee. Bunches of heavy nylon cable ties sprouted from the gaps between vacuum-packed plums and dates. A Rubik’s cube nestled in the confectionary.

  I skimmed a bunch of cable ties with my thumb. ‘Good to keep the food bags fresh,’ I said in Thai to Calvin who had the sense simply to nod.

  The next layer in the parcel revealed boxes of muesli and Honey Smacks covering tubes of epoxy resin and wood fillers nestling against bags of almonds, pecans and macadamia nuts. Underneath sets of socks, jocks, shirts and a silk bathrobe with a red Chinese dragon there fanned a quintet of glossy-but-filthy magazines—guaranteed to be confiscated after a most thorough inspection.

  Calvin gave me an arched what-are-you-up-to look as the guard rose to the task of wide-eyed examination with a leering trusty looped over each of his shoulders.

  ‘No, no—no!’ the guard announced without taking his eyes from the first image of something about which he’d only heard whispers.

  Satrakorn barely glanced at a rolled parchment amid a scattering of toiletries and pushed it aside with some books—an atlas, maps and travel guides. The hand-made scroll was held by gold-lacquered rods tipped by teardrop knobs, one of which had broken in transit. Even though all the remains were safely in my hands I unrolled the poster, for the guard was, by then, sliding some of the pornography under his chair. On the chart I recognised Michael’s fine hand within the calligraphy, scripting a parody of Desiderata. ‘Go silently amid the boys in haste ...’

  As Satrakorn had been tut-tutting with spittled clicks at some obscene act he had not sensed the added weight of the scroll’s supporting rods. He would never know that they contained four hacksaw blades concealed in carefully cut and refilled channels along the wooden staves.

  Waddling away with my treasure in two denim bags I believed then that I could have plucked a grappling hook and a stun gun from that box without discovery while Satrakorn was so diligently applying local standards to the 240gsm four-colour porn.

  The new plan was direct but needed three rather than just the two of us. Sten and I might be able to assemble and carry the twenty-four-foot ladders over five walls but not to keep watch too. Our last best chance for a third man was someone who did not meet Sten’s approval. I thought otherwise so spoke directly to Luke who that afternoon sat alone outside the umbrella factory.

  ‘Luke, want to escape?’ I dropped to my haunches and leaned against the brick wall of the factory, still hot from the afternoon sun.

  ‘Say what?’ Luke continued to roll his cigarette, taking unnecessary pains.

  ‘Let’s ima
gine everything’s just fine,’ I said smiling with enough irony to back the whole thing into a joke. Not that serious caution was needed. Luke spoke to very few people and I’d never heard him drop a name, place or date, even though we’d swapped some droll stories. ‘Let’s imagine we’re all ready to go—the tunnel or the rope or the dynamite at the wall, whatever. All’s ready. Would you want in?’

  Luke lit his cigarette with a match. He was old-fashioned. And he was old; near sixty, I was sure. His hair was a fine, grey fleece and his eyes a hard glass. A black American from Philly, Luke had kept thin in the navy, even though he’d been a cook. He had a second wife in Charleston. They kept in touch although his grown sons never wrote. Luke had trouble holding a name, too. In the Cure, he’d introduced himself as Jake, but was known in Klong Prem now as Yahya. ‘When a black man’s in trouble in a foreign country, he can forget about being an American. He can do worse than take one of those names.’ Luke-Yahya had meant names with an Arabic tone.

  Luke had been raised among crooks and knew their ways so well that they’d accepted him easily. He’d held jobs as a driver, a paint mixer and a cinema usher before working nights as a barman. The world of gamblers and dealers was spread before him, available anytime for they all respected Luke. Yet he never forced himself in; he was too cool for that. He might tip everyone to some thin sounds or some fat weed but he never overstepped. Luke was just too hip to step forward and as flared trousers gave way to long coats he stayed on the fringe. Too laid-back to jump in the car as they waved invitations those friends finally departed, soon to exchange their leather coats for heavy jackets. Luke slipped into the US navy in the coolest way too; hardly a word and acting as a small stabiliser below decks. Still surrounded, though, by light crookery and a sense that everyone was getting away with it. Luke was shocked when the navy brass weren’t cool enough to accept the casual theft of two gross of five-gallon tins of peas. A dishonourable discharge followed and, by then, the brothers from his home town were either dead or inside for life. Luke had been just too cool and had missed it.