by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 28
Jim usually left his motorcycle amongst an untidy row of others near the shops and market where a minibus of tourists sometimes stopped on its way to some poorly maintained archaeological remains - some stone buildings, a crumbling temple and a few skeletons - the town’s only tourist attraction. They never stayed long and usually left, looking disappointed, to head back towards Kanchanaburi and the river Kwai. The archaeological site was another of Jim's ideas: "Tidy it up, make people feel as if the visit was worth it," he had told Lek.
There was no bus today but the small market was where he occasionally saw backpackers and might reluctantly engage in short conversations - usually directions to somewhere. He never understood why they sometimes asked more personal questions but he thought it was probably his appearance and voice.
It had been a young, bronzed American girl in shorts and her red haired Irish friend who had, some months before, convinced him of his appeal to that generation. He had been talking Thai to a man off-loading pineapples from the back of a truck and, as the Irish girl stood shyly in the background, the American asked for directions to a local guesthouse that was mentioned in her travel guide.
"Yes," he told her, "The Pong Phen Guest House. It is located over the bridge, on the left. You can't miss it."
His further explanation had been pure, clear and precise Queen’s English and he knew she hadn't been listening, just staring at him - an aging, long haired, hippy-like Englishman hiding behind a beard and heavily tanned and wrinkled skin. She had asked him where he lived, how long he had lived there and what he did. Jim reluctantly gave his usual short explanations, but watched the much shyer Irish girl as she tried to pull her friend away.
Jim, too, had edged away with his plastic bags, a live fish and some vegetables, but the American girl followed and strung together more questions spoken in enthusiastic wonderment as though it was so much better to be living like he was.
"Say, I wish I lived like that. I'm Karen from Boston and this is my friend Katherine. She's from Dublin - Ireland, you know? Boston is so cosmopolitan. You really live in the jungle? What sort of art? Do you exhibit anywhere? Ever get back to England? Did you know the Beatles when you were young? You look real cool. You ever get to bathe out there?"
And, all the time, the attractive Irish girl with the red hair had watched and listened but said nothing.
Jim, remembering this encounter for no good reason but more concerned with the weakness in his legs, propped the motorcycle and walked shakily to an ATM, withdrew some money, stuffed the few notes into the back pocket of his shorts and walked slowly towards Lek's internet cafe carrying his duffle bag with the laptop over his shoulder. When he got there, it was unusually busy. Lek's wife's speciality of boiled chicken with rice, a thick and spicy ginger sauce and clear chicken soup - kamun gai - was becoming very popular. It was another of Jim's suggestions because he himself liked it, but today, even his corner table was taken. Lek apologised, beckoned to a front table nearer the road and went to get his beer and lime juice.
Jim didn't like this table. He didn't even take out the laptop. Instead he sat resting his head in his hands and muttering to himself. "I won't stay long - try again tomorrow. Such a waste of time carrying the computer. I can't use it here.......far too exposed. I'll go back home, finish the painting.... try again tomorrow........still feeling dizzy."
Lek brought his drinks. "You say something, Jim?"
Jim looked up, "Only to myself."
And then he saw the thick set man with white skin, wearing white shorts, white tee shirt, white socks and white trainers. It was as if he had arrived straight from a northern European winter. He walked past Lek's cafe, a few yards from Jim, looking around as if unsure where he was going. Then he turned, his uncertainty evaporated. He brushed past Jim's elbow into the cafe but then returned, pulled up a red plastic stool that was too small for his rump and sat at the next table to Jim, just two yards away.
Jim's feeling of over-exposure soared. "Bloody hell." He looked out of the corner of his eye at the man and, as bad luck would have it, the man saw him. He nodded. Jim ignored him. Lek brought a beer for the stranger and stopped to ask Jim if he'd like another beer and lime juice. Jim said yes and waited, staring into the street with the unopened duffel bag between his legs.
The fresh drinks arrived, but because of the unwelcome arrival of the stranger and a sudden desire to go home, Jim swallowed half the bottle in one go feeling the gas rising into his throat. He couldn't help it and his mother would have been disgusted, but he burped. Tears came to his eyes and a mouthful of beer rose in his throat, but he swallowed it again. He remembered that. He also remembered wiping a few drops of beer from his beard, but after that, things were far from clear.
He put the bottle down, checked in his back pocket for some change to pay, slid his chair back and got up. Then the dizziness hit him again - and the pain in his chest. He sat down again, heavily, jarring his spine. He remembered glancing towards the white stranger and their eyes met. He remembered light brown eyes, close together, deeply set and peering sharply at him from beneath a receding line of auburn hair. And he remembered a freckled face with a touch of fresh sunburn on the nose. But then Jim slid from the chair and collapsed for the second time that day. Everything went black.