“Ah, good,” he said. “A fellow Luddite.”
I didn’t know the word. I could have smiled and let it go, but it might have been rude.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A Luddite is a person who shuns technology,” he said.
I felt insulted on behalf of my recorder.
“This is technology,” I told him.
“So was the wooden club.”
I liked him.
“I have a smartphone my sister left for me when she was here,” I said. “It records, takes photographs, fries eggs, and overrides bad instructions from its owner. I still haven’t worked out how to turn it on. It looked so easy when Sissi used it. My recorder here has buttons with the words ‘On,’ ‘Off,’ ‘Forward,’ ‘Rewind,’ ‘Record’ and ‘Play’ written on them. There’s a picture of a battery at the back so I know which way round to insert my double A. That’s as technical as I want to get.”
“Then I’m surprised you don’t use a pencil and notepad,” he said.
I produced the pencil and notepad from my bag, and he let me have another of his laughs. The maid put the glasses on the table between us and loomed nearby like an undertaker. Her body language was rude. Conrad pushed one glass of benzene toward me.
“I suppose we’d better get started,” he said.
I pressed “Record.”
“Then I’ll begin with the obvious question,” I said.
“Where do I get my ideas from?”
“What have you got against watermelons?”
“Ah. It’s research. Not the kind of information I’d find online. The effectiveness of an axe as a battlefield weapon.”
“For a book?”
“Yup. After years of begging, my publisher has finally agreed for me to step out of the series and do a one-off. Historical fiction. I haven’t got a sexy title for it yet, but it’s coming.”
“And it’s about axes?”
“And swords and daggers. I have quite a collection. Would you like to see it?”
The oldest trick in the book. “Come upstairs and see my axe collection.”
“Do you mind if we get the interview out of the way first?” I asked.
“No problem.”
“Where are your dogs?”
“My dogs?”
“The two Rottweilers on your Web site.”
“That was a creation of the Webmaster,” he said. “He Photoshopped them on to a beach shot I sent him. He says being a dog lover helps sales. I’m not really that fond of them.”
My questions were all standard after that: what he did before becoming a writer (he taught English in universities); why he started to write books (he’d read so much rubbish he decided he could most certainly do better); what his big break was (winning the Edgar Award for his fourth novel); why he moved to Thailand (cost of living, nice people, beautiful women). He answered in good humor, and I was fascinated by his stories. But, to be honest, I couldn’t imagine readers of the Chumphon News getting past the first paragraph. Not enough sex or football for most of them.
His last answer had given me an in to a subject I was particularly interested in.
“Does your wife contribute to the editing process?”
“Not anymore.”
“She got bored?”
“Yes, of me. She doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Do you have certain hours when you— What?”
“You asked about my wife. I said she’s gone.”
“When?”
“About two months ago.”
“Why?”
It wasn’t my business, and it had nothing to do with the interview.
“A combination of not being able to take the city out of the girl, combined with her need for a younger man,” he said. He spoke remarkably calmly.
“So you’re…?”
“All on my lonesome. I’ve filed for divorce.”
I took a sip of the benzene. It tasted vaguely metallic. I wondered whether the maid had slipped something in it. He noticed me gurning and laughed.
“It takes some getting used to,” he said. “Some berry-leaf combination I get sent down from Laos. A shaman I know makes tonics. He says it’s an aphrodisiac.”
“And you give a love potion to all your guests?”
“I think it only works on old men.” He laughed. “For women it’s supposed to beautify the skin and increase bust size.”
I took a long swig before completing my list of mundane questions, but the fact that the author’s pretty wife was no longer around weighed heavily on my frontal lobe. I’m a divorcee, you see. Since being classified as an old maid, I’d become aware of my failings. Even in my twenties when I was at my most voluptuous and fascinating, there had been no queue of suitors. Thai boys hoped my weirdness—my choice of clothing based entirely on what other girls my age wouldn’t be seen dead in, my noir makeup, my penchant for dropping English words into the mix—would include my being an easy lay. Once they found out I was saving myself for a Westerner five times my age—Clint was at his hunkiest in 1978. He was acting alongside an orang-utan back then—they moved on. I had sexual experiences, but they were of my own design. I was the predator. My husband was disappointed when marriage didn’t tame me. During these years all I’ve ever wanted was to be desired, just once, without having to curl-tong my hair or slather on blood-red lipstick. So you can probably guess where my imagination took me when my author said, “I’ve noticed you around, of course.”
“Around what?”
“Around your mother’s shop. In Pak Nam. At the Saturday market.”
I think I trembled a little at that moment.
“Should I take out a restraining order?”
That produced a full-body chuckle. I was so happy I could make him laugh. I wished I’d memorized all the Note Udom stand-up routines like I’d planned. Unscripted, I didn’t see myself as particularly funny or vibrant, but here I was watching my brilliance sparkle in Conrad Coralbank’s eyes. Everything I said seemed to fascinate him. His fondness for me was addictive.
“I haven’t seen you at all,” I told him. “How can that be?”
“I blend in.”
“Right. All those European tour groups hanging around in the village.”
“Perhaps it helps to be in an SUV with tinted windows. I can sit and observe life and take notes and nobody feels self-conscious. In that way I see it all the way it really is. But when I saw you, there was something different about you. Are you completely Thai?”
“No, my left leg is Latvian.”
He roared at that. The maid cleared her throat in the background.
“Of course I meant whether there was any foreign blood in you,” he said. “There’s something exotic about you. Something different. I was surprised when you turned out to be who you are,” he said.
“Who I are? Who are I … am I?”
“A journalist. I was really pleased. When I saw you before, I’d … and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’d imagined you to be someone’s mistress.”
I almost bit the eraser off my pencil.
“You thought I was a slut?”
“No. Not at all. You stand out down here because you’re a beautiful woman. You have class. Nobody here walks like you, carries themselves like you.”
The back door slammed, and that’s when I noticed that the maid had left the building.
“You have a confidence that’s hard to find in other women,” he continued. “That’s—”
“And you assumed I’d be the type of woman who’d take that walk and confidence and carry-ance and jump into bed with some rich asshole a couple of nights a week when his wife was off playing mah-jong, just so I could make myself a few thousand baht extra? I can see where your mind is, Mr. Coralbank. Thank you for that. The interview’s over, so I believe it’s time I left. I’ve learned more than enough.”
I stood and held my chin at an indignant angle. I swept my equipment into my bag and headed for the
door. I thought he might blurt out an apology, at least stand up and ask me why I was so angry. But as I leaned against the door frame putting on my shoes, I could see his reflection in the glass. He was leaning back on his chair with his tumbler in his hand. He might have even been laughing. I was rather proud of my exit. I walked around the building, expecting to have to search for my Honda Dream, but there it was in the car park, washed and polished. The powdered maid was holding on to the throttle. I took hold of the other side of the handlebar, kicked up the parking stand, and said thank you. I attempted to walk the motorbike up to the gate, but the maid didn’t let go. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, the powder cracked around her frown like a Maori Ta-moko tattoo.
“Not him,” she said, in Thai.
“What?”
“You keep away from him.”
I raised her grimace a Thai smile and wrestled the bike from her. I started to push it uphill. The driveway was a lot steeper than it looked, but I’d have sooner given myself a hernia than ask her for help. She stood with her hands on her waist.
“You listen to me,” she said. “Or you will be sorry.”
After some six meters I stopped to get my breath, put the key in the ignition, and threw myself onto the seat. If you’ve ever had to start a motorcycle on a sixty-degree incline without making a fool of yourself, you’ll know how important it was to get the timing right. I did kick up gravel and wobble a little, but I made a good account of myself. I passed the deep-voiced child who was at the open gate smiling. How did they know when I’d be leaving?
Once I hit the dirt road outside, I felt a little flutter of relief. But it was soon overtaken by a flap-flap of what could only be called elation. The Burmese maid was most definitely being seduced by the suave author. He said I was beautiful. Loudly. She obviously considered me to be a threat. I bet that was why the pretty Thai wife had left home. I liked it. It was like making a guest appearance in a daytime soap for international audiences. I was the dark stranger. It didn’t matter. I had my interview. I wouldn’t be pas de deuxing in their ménage à trois. No sir. Not me.
4.
We Won’t Let You Down
(diving company)
“So tell me why you didn’t allow yourself to be seduced. He knew he had an appointment with you, but he was in the garden, shirtless and sweating and showing off with his axe. What does that all subliminally tell me? It was obviously a male courtship ritual. He’d seen you around. He liked the way you looked. He’d become bored with the maid. He wanted you. You should have gone and had a look at his collection of shafts.”
“And confirmed I was of easy virtue?”
“You’d be easy, given the chance. Tell me you weren’t excited by it all.”
“Don’t be … not excited exactly.”
“When was your last time?”
“You always ask me that. You know the answer. July the 4th, 2004. Another disappointment.”
“So don’t you think it’s time to get back on the bicycle before everything rusts and seizes up?”
It was remarkable how many of my phone conversations with Sissi got around to sex.
“Good advice coming from you,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“When was your last bicycle ride?”
“That’s irrelevant. My sexual organs, and I include my breasts in that category, are not given to the ravages of old age. They’re still as pristine as the day they rolled off the production line. You, on the other hand, need a man every now and then so you don’t become a North Pacific sponge lumpsucker fish.”
“I’m supposed to ask, right?”
“The vagina of the North Pacific sponge lumpsucker closes up once she’s had her sperm intake. Sealed up for eternity. Impassable.”
“Great.”
“Tell me you aren’t attracted to him.”
“It’s hard not to be.”
“So, use him. Let him believe he’s seducing you, whereas, in reality, you’ll be taking advantage of him.”
“What about my reputation?”
“Oh, Jimm.”
“I have one.”
“You’re a city girl in the country. The locals all assume you’re promiscuous. So you might as well get some real loving.”
“I’m not contacting him.”
“He’ll be in touch.”
“How do you know?”
“You walked out on him. You’ve made yourself even more desirable in his eyes. His hunter mode would have kicked in. He’ll pursue you. Trust me.”
“What about the maid?”
“Now, her, you might have to keep an eye on.”
* * *
I turned up for my second rabies shot, and Dr. Somluk still wasn’t there. Nurse Da’s right hand, worryingly, the one that held the syringe, was shaking.
“Do you want to do this yourself?” she asked. “I’ve got a horrible hangover. Very full-on date last night. Gogo takes his drinking very seriously.”
It concerned me that her new boyfriend had the same name as my dog.
“I thought you didn’t accept anything orally,” I said.
“Liquids are fine. And whiskey’s an all-round meal: barley, yeast, water, sugar. That’s the four food groups right there.”
“You did have to sit the exams to be a nurse, right? I mean, you didn’t get a relative to take your place?”
“Jimm, I’m really worried.”
“All right. I’ll come back when you get over the shakes.”
“No, I mean, I’m worried about Dr. Somluk. She should have been here four days ago. She sent a message yesterday saying everything was fine but she wouldn’t be back. Then she turned her phone off.”
“I expect she just got bored and moved on. Did you talk to whoever it is that hires doctors to crumble away to nothing out here at the end of the planet?”
“The Provincial Medical Placement Center. Yeah, I called.”
“What did they say?”
“They said it was nothing to worry about. They’d find me another one. They said rural doctors quit all the time. Old Dr. Prem only survived a week here.”
“There you go, then.”
“But I don’t believe it. Dr. Somluk isn’t like that. She’s dedicated. She left all her stuff here.”
Da was still leaning over me looking for a place to bury the vibrating needle.
“Hold off there, sister. You got a coffee machine here?”
“Only Medcafé.”
“In this case, that might not be such a bad thing. Let’s have a couple of mugs to help us calm our nerves.”
We sat on the balcony with a steaming mug apiece and watched the pick-up trucks drift past. Like my grandad, I’d started to take notice of the details of passing vehicles. The excitement of the out-of-province plate had started to get to me. This was what living in the depths of Hades did to a girl.
“So,” I said, “have you ever considered why your conscientious Dr. Somluk is dug in at the Maprao Medical Clinic when she could have been making ten times more in a private clinic?”
“She … she wants to help the poor people.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Reality check time. She’s sixty. Is she married?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Kids?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So, here’s my unbiased assessment of events. I only met her once. She seemed distractedly pleasant enough. No great beauty. Would never have attracted a man with her looks alone, so she would have needed an adorable personality. Especially intimidating as she’s a doctor. Too smart. Thai men don’t want the Dennis Thatcher role.”
“Who…?”
“Doesn’t matter. So, she was bitter. In this country, the majority of regional administrators she’d have to work for would be male. She was probably smarter than the lot of them. She gets more and more frustrated. Despite her great doctor–patien
t skills she gets a reputation as ‘a bad team player.’ Gets jogged down the ranks until she finds herself in a rural clinic. Bee stings and diarrhea and cat scratches. Anything more serious she has to refer to the hospital in Pak Nam. And she snaps. Decides she’s taken enough crap and can make a better living working in telesales. No need to clear it with the idiot male administrator at the Provincial Medical Placement Center because she has no intention of working as a doctor ever again.”
Da’s mug had been getting heavier as it hovered in front of her pouty lips.
“Wow,” she said. “That was insightful.”
“Thank you.”
“It was about you, wasn’t it?”
“Me? Don’t be … I’m talking about your boss.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then prove it. You’re a journalist. Finding a lost doctor should be a piece of durian pie for you.”
“Why on earth should I?”
“I’ve worked with her for six months. If she’d had a bitter past, I didn’t see it. All I know is she’s a sweet lady. And she has manners. If she was planning to flee, she would have phoned me and told me. Not sent me a message. I think she’s hiding out. She knows there’s somebody after her.”
“Oh, right. ‘Them.’ You do remember the last time we talked you thought she was going nuts? There never is a ‘Them.’ We create our own bogeymen because life’s so boring. We need antagonists to give us a point. There’s nobody after her.”
“I can pay you.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can. I have money.”
“I mean, you can’t because I’m not a private investigator. If that’s what you want, you can hire a pro like Nit the plastic-awnings dealer and part-time PI. He does missing persons.”
“I get the feeling it’s more than a missing person, Jimm.”
“You watch too much TV.”
“Perhaps I do, but if you were a sixty-year-old woman alone in the world, in trouble, wouldn’t you like to think there was somebody concerned about you? Concerned enough to go looking for you?”
She’d hit a nerve, damn it. I’d often visualized that future world with Grandad dead, Mair in an institution, Arny domesticated, and Sissi in jail. Me, alone, wheeling a Macro Supercenter trolley around the streets, wearing stockings and flip-flops, yelling at young people holding hands in the park, “Keep your filthy habits to yourselves.”
The Axe Factor: A Jimm Juree Mystery (Jimm Juree Mysteries) Page 4