by James Newman
“Dead Man’s Well?” Rang said.
“Yes. Only he knows how deep it really is. We should leave him there for some time for the water to expand the body, about three days.” Shogun said. “Then we drag him out.”
“I have an idea.” Rang said, running a hand through his thinning hair. “An idea about the death certificate. I will summon a doctor. A farang doctor. He has violated immigration and labour laws. He is working illegally. I can put the squeeze on.” Rang polished his aviator sunglasses with a handkerchief. He looked at the lenses through the morning sunlight and then put them back on. He looked like a predatory insect, Shogun thought. A moustached moth with expectant eyes bugging forwards.
“Will this doctor fully cooperate?”
“Sure,” Rang nodded.
“Are you one hundred per cent? I could have Jinx visit him.”
“No not necessary,” Rang snapped. The officer motioned towards the beach. “I’ll have a couple of the photograph boys come and take a few shots when they drag him out”
“Yes. No press. No publicity. Bad for business. The police photographers better not start selling pictures. I’ll buy them if they do want to sell. Fix a price. I don’t want an autopsy. We authorise the certificate. We have the death registered at the district office and at the consulate. We have him burned at the temple.”
“Yes. I will arrange it. It may cost a bit. I see what you mean. How is your wife?”
“She is well. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. No offense meant. My daughter is looking at studying at university abroad. It is expensive.”
“Be patient, brother. When the money comes I will tell you. It may take some time. It will come through one of the major insurance companies in Bangkok, and then back down to here, via perhaps Dubai. Our Arabian friends are exceptional cleaners,” Shogun lied. The money had been paid and he hadn’t considered giving his younger brother a penny. He was bad with money. He drank it or spent it at the karaoke bars. He was better without it. A time would come when he would have to give him something, but that time was neither today nor tomorrow.
“Be sure to let me know as soon as you get it. You know how much a policeman’s salary is?”
“I should do. I pay them. Let’s call it a day. I shouldn’t have to be doing this kind of work. Lucky that I had Jinx here to help me. The boy shows promise. He listens when I speak and follows orders. He will one day be a strong important man. His mind is sharp and sober.”
Rang felt a bolt of jealousy and anger. His brother had openly insulted him in front of what to him amounted to a younger and less important man. He said nothing. He mounted his silver low-rider and revved the engine. A pile of dust rained upwards and then settled down again. His brother’s time would come and he intended to be there to see it happen.
EIGHT
An unsigned death certificate
MARTIN JOHNSON looked at an old photograph of his son. Gregory’s baby-blond hair had probably turned brown like his father’s by now. He would be ten years old. What would he think of his father? What had she told him? What had she manipulated him to think?
Johnson knew the marriage was over long before the day the divorce papers came through the letterbox and landed with a flutter on the doormat. Before that day he was just kidding himself and buying time. Tina’s company was once all that he needed. He admired his wife’s sharp wit and her easy way with words. They were once a team. Then those words became bullets loaded in a sharp-suited divorce solicitor’s gun and fired at the jugular. He gave her everything and in a cruel strange way she had earned it. She had made him what he didn’t want to be. For this he felt no resentment, just a strange hollowness and a sick contempt at his own lack of self-will. If she hadn’t of moulded him the way she had then she would never have won in court. Like a cat toys with a dying bird she had weakened him gradually until the opportune time.
The art of war was a woman’s art.
Johnson often painfully compiled inventories of his failings and came up with nothing apart from a certain oddness of character on his part. This oddness was by no means harmful to anybody, especially his wife and child. It was not a crime. It was simply a symptom of having lost his purpose in life for so long he’d forgotten what that purpose was. He had always wanted to be a doctor and had found himself instead in the position of a male nurse at a busy London hospital.
He was always on the outside looking in.
He had been a functional husband and father at best. There had been no affairs, no drunken incidents, and no violence on his part. He had simply fallen from the ladder and lost a grip on his wife’s ever-rising expectations. He lacked ambition and was scared of heights. He was boring and predictable. Who wouldn’t want a new exciting life, away from the painful drudgery of caring for patients? Patients expected everything and gave nothing in return. His nine-year-old son Gregory, the house and the car had all been conditioned to run according to her new incarnation. He was on his own for the first time in his life; it was both terrifying and liberating. She had a new boyfriend who played badminton and practiced law. Perhaps Johnson could discover something new and exciting too.
“You will never amount to nothing,” she had told him during that vicious row. The rest was a blur. A Clarice Cliff plate smashed against the wall. Doors were slammed and the golden retriever whimpered. Gregory sought sanctuary in the garden. Those words he carried around like a cumbersome backpack for many months before he decided to put the pack down and examine the contents. She was right. He was in a rut. He would never amount to anything. He needed to achieve something that would define him as a man. He was more than a nurse. She had helped him discover that he too held ambition.
Badminton was for suckers.
He searched the internet for a purpose in life and found it in the shape of a country where a man could really be a man. That country was called Thailand and was known as the land of the free. People smiled. The sun shone. The food was fantastic. He bought a round ticket that flew directly and was at once smitten by her irresistible charm. He adored the sunshine, the women, the mai pen rai attitude, the tiny cans of cold coffee, and the fruits that he couldn’t identify. He adored the clouds of diesel fumes in the cities and the rivers of humanity that flowed down Pattaya’s walking street. He loved the mountains of Chang Mai and the beaches of Ko Samui. He learned bits about the culture. One day he got speaking to an unqualified English Teacher in a Sukhumvit bar.
“Don’t worry about certificates mate, the Thais all want us working here,” he said.
The seeds were sown and Johnson decided to make a new life; to reinvent himself in the land of smiles.
But what to do?
It is always best to start with an obsession. Nurture that obsession until it matures into something real. He had always wanted to be somebody. But somebody had always prevented it from happening. People had a habit of throwing obstacles in his path to prevent him from realising his dream. Circumstance had leapt up in front of him and shaken him this one time and he wasn’t in a position to ignore the sign. He grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
Thailand would set him free.
Johnson sat for hours reading medical fiction at the library fuelled by shots of whiskey and corned-beef salad sandwiches. He absorbed medical encyclopaedias along with every bite and swallow of the hard stuff. He was on first name terms with the librarians. They liked him. Occasionally he jumped on the 12.06 to London and sat in on medical lectures at universities making copious notes along with the regular students. He joined internet forums and read expert opinion. He subscribed to New Scientist and Medicine Magazine. He gave up nursing and had nothing but time. Then he had an idea. Rather than take the more orthodox and lengthy route of traditional qualification Johnson decided to leap frog academia and buy his medical degree online. He arrived back in paradise feeling like the prodigal son who had arrived in the land of milk and honey with a new lease of life and a fake qualification.
He put the
photograph of his son back in his desk drawer and thought about the journey that led him here. He had rented a second-floor room in town that overlooked the port. He watched the vessels that steamed their way into harbour while smoking marijuana. He ate banana fritters, cow car moo, and cow man gai and devoured the twenty-three baht hotdogs from seven. He rented a motorbike and took it on the boat and then drove to the labour office in the provincial capital. He spoke with a kind official lady with buck teeth and broken English. To practice his vocation on the island he had to first pass the Thai Medical Board examination, she explained. But first he had to learn the language. Johnson found the vowels and consonants possible using study guides and began to memorise the phonetics. He began to understand the tones and could rise or fall when required. He read kindergarten books, progressed to cartoon books and then bought a popular novel in both Thai and English and read them side by side. He read medical text books in Thai and after a year he was ready. He applied to the MCT. The medical Council of Thailand approved his application, he sat and passed the examination and the department of labour granted a work permit.
They called him: Doctor John-san.
The Thais at first took Johnson’s sloppy approach to work as a cavalier approach to medicine that was practiced throughout Europe. He claimed to specialize in psychiatry on the basis that there was demand for that field. It was a bold move and a good one. He had become a doctor.
That day a motorcycle courier screeched to a stop under the shade of pomegranate tree. A few minutes later a phone-call from reception. The package was addressed to doctor Johnson and was awaiting collection. He stood up and walked across the hospital. The screams of the paediatric ward. The nervous silence of the blood unit. He picked up the package, tipped the courier and ripped it open. A letter requesting that he visit the main land. An unsigned death certificate. The letter was headed with the official police emblem. An officer Rang required his attendance in a matter of delicate importance. He had a free morning.
He walked out to the parking lot. The late morning sun blinded him for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light. His red Honda Wave stood in the shade of the pomegranate tree. He straddled the bike and twisted the key and arrived at the pier in ten minutes. He boarded the ferry and sat top deck. The sky was a clear blue and the sea a beautiful deep turquoise with the smell of salt in the air. He watched the path of a marlin beneath the surface of the water, the jagged fin darting here and there. A flock of white terns followed above the ferry and occasionally the birds dove down and picked up the small fish from a school brought to the surface by the surf. Mountains rose from islets. The locals sat top deck sharing bottles of rice whiskey and cans of Leo beer. Johnson smiled at a farang with his new Thai girlfriend. He was flapping his hands and making exaggerated gestures in an effort to have her understand his message. She nodded and smiled knowingly, wondering what to bill him. All she knew how to say was up to you and money in English, the rest of the language she didn’t need and couldn’t be bothered to learn.
Two hours later Johnson sat down opposite Rang and watched him sharpening a pencil with a Stanley blade before brushing the shavings from the desk into a wastepaper basket. He wore a tight brown uniform and wore an aura of authority like an impenetrable dome. He wore waxed boots and had a Glock clipped to his belt. Aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses. Johnson could see his own nervous reflection looking back at him.
“Puut Thai daai mai Krwap?” Rang said.
“Daai. Khun puut paa-saa-ang-grit dee gwa?” Yes, but you can speak better English than my Thai? Johnson lied.
“Yes. In fact I would prefer to speak English. I like to practice. We are after all in a tourist district and it does me good to speak English when I can.” He smiled across at Johnson while arching his hands over the desk. His English was good. That troubled Johnson. The inspector’s face was broad and his lips thin. A mole played host to a singular strand of hair that curled up and outward from his chin “I am Inspector Rang of the Royal Thai Police force.”
“I am honoured to meet with you. What is it I can do for you inspector Rang?” Johnson said.
“I will come to the point. For you westerners it is the best place to start is it not?”
“You know our culture too well, inspector.”
“And what about our culture? Is it agreeable?”
“Very much so.”
“Good. To business. We have a potentially embarrassing situation. We had a European fatality, a diver, Italian, on Ko Phangnan last week. The problem is that his insurance stipulated that he be air-lifted to Ko Samui as there are no major hospitals on Ko Phangnan.”
“What was the cause of death?” Johnson asked stroking an invisible beard. He sensed vague corruption in the Inspector’s voice. He wondered where it was leading.
“Compression; The Bends I think you call it.”
“And when was the patient admitted to Samui?”
“That is the problem. It seems that the helicopter ambulance did not arrive in time and it would have been too late. The dive crew could not retrieve the body that was stuck between the rocks. When diving resumed it could not be found, possible, it could have been taken by sharks.”
“Well this is difficult. In my experience that is known as drowning or death by misadventure rather than compression. Of course legally he is not dead. He is missing.”
“Well...” The inspector looked over at him boyishly.
“So, you have an open verdict for the time being, with no body of course we can’t...” Johnson continued, sensing where the inspector was going and wondering how much it would cost him for his signature.
“Yes. And that is difficult for us. The family want to claim on the insurance but without a death certificate a claim would not be viable. These people have put a lot of pressure on us and have contacted the Italian newspapers, this sort of thing is bad for tourism, you understand.”
“I see. And you want me to sign a death certificate without first seeing the body. This sort of thing goes beyond everything I have ever stood for. I took an oath. Do you know how long it takes to become a doctor?”
He smiled at Johnson. “Well, Mr John-san, in your case it didn’t take too long, did it now?”
“I don’t understand.” Johnson could feel his body begin to turn rigid. He sat up straight in the chair. He felt a sudden rush of blood. This is fear, he thought, ashamed of himself. This was it. The inspector didn’t speak for some moments and the eerie silence threatened him with arrest, prison, deportation, England. He didn’t know what would be worst. Tina’s words echoed in his mind – he would never amount to nothing.
“Your credentials, Mr John-san, are not entirely in order.” The officer smiled poisonously. He picked a tiny piece of lose thread from his shirt and dropped it into the waste-basket. The inspector looked at Johnson with accusatory eyes.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Johnson stirred uneasily in his chair. Comfort eluded him. He felt trapped. His body was invisible. The inspector could see through him and examine his every flaw. Each of his mistakes were clearly visible. All of his terrible failures were apparent in microscopic detail.
“I think you do, doctor. When you renew your business visa we have to take into account that it would have been extremely difficult for you to have attended an American University while your passport clearly shows that you were, in fact, in the UK for that time period. You are staying here under false pretences, correct?”
“I did much of my studies online.”
“I would go further than that and say that you did all of your so-called studies online.”
“I am helping the Thai people.”
“If you wish to continue helping, doctor, please sign on the dotted line.”
Johnson’s arm felt like a block of wood as he picked up the pen and signed the certificate.
NINE
Do you like writing?
“NAME?”
“Steve.”
“Steve. Do you have a se
cond name?” Shogun bent down to eye level and looked at the prisoner. He was an ugly young American who one of Rang’s men had caught dealing cannabis on the beach.
“Floss. Steve Floss.”
“Okay Steve, I hope you aren’t busy for the next thirty-five years.”
“But...”
“Tell me Steve, do you like writing?”
“Wha...”
“Literature, Steve, do you like it?”
“But...”
“Maybe you could write one of those prison books, Steve.”
“Wha..”
“I’ve read your blog, Steve, take off your pants.”
Steve did as he was asked and gripped either side of the toilet moorings as he listened to the metallic ring of Shogun’s belt buckle hitting the concrete jail floor.
He tensed, then relaxed.
TEN
Two million dollars
GANTIRA LOOKED through Franco’s pitiful stack of papers, his pile of dirty clothes, a neglected postcard, a letter from his parents.
Franco would one day settle down back in Italy and make a living. He could help them in their old age, maybe a family restaurant?
What was he doing the other side of the world? Where was Thailand? Scuba diving?
When would he come home?
The embassy would phone the family. Their world would be shattered for a year or two and then things would carry on as they always did with a new sense of wisdom and a stronger faith in God.
She lit a cigarette and watched a column of ants march along the wall. Surely she deserved a slice of the insurance money? She was used to having money in her pocket. When she first arrived back in Bangkok as a graduate she took the internship at Bluegreen and worked as a hostess at the Poseidon club. Her English skills were something rich foreigners and educated locals would pay a premium for.
Shogun began as a customer.
Many twists and turns later he became so much more. He asked her to marry him.
It seemed the sensible thing to do.
If it didn’t work out she could always get a divorce.