Hungry Ghosts (2 page)

He waves away a couple of street urchins before going on.

“Bangkok, as you probably know, is one of the hubs of the South East Asian drug trade. But while some of the softer drugs are manufactured in Thailand, a lot of the harder ones come over the border, principally from Myanmar, but also from Cambodia and Laos.”

“So that’s what you’re doing in Cambodia now? Gathering information on the Cambodia
n end of the trade?”

“That’s right.”

“And a sizeable chunk of that is centred on Phnom Penh, I would surmise.”

He nods.

“Most of Cambodia’s gangsters are based in the capital. Many of them have Chinese or Vietnamese connections. Phnom Penh still resembles the Wild West, whatever the tourist brochures might say. Beneath the surface Cambodia is a gangster culture.”

“Sounds like a risky assignment you’ve set yourself,” I observe, and am rewarded by the removal of Anna’s hand from my groin. “How do you get people to talk about it?”

“It’s not easy,” he remarks scratching his chin, “but there are families who have suffered as a result of the trade and the rule of the gangsters. They will sometimes say things that will point me in a particular direction. Each person who talks to me is naturally terrified of what might happen to them, so I have to build trust bit-by-bit and guarantee their anonymity.”

He empties his gin and tonic and indicates to a waiter for another round.

“Of course,” he says ruefully, “the bulk of the production is in Myanmar, but it’s impossible to do a serious investigation there. As well as the Myanmar gangs, the ruling generals are up to their necks in the drug business. It’s too dangerous.”

He studies me for a moment.

“It’s a great pity you’re not based in Bangkok. Aside from the enthusiastic participation of the Thai Police and Army in the trafficking, there are a couple of Thai gangs in the capital that are major players. I’m gradually unearthing details on them, and your presence on the ground could have been very helpful. At some stage, I’ll be spending time in Thailand, but not, I’m afraid on
Koh Samui
. I doubt much happens there to interest me.”

He says
Koh Samui
like it’s something unpleasant he found on the bottom of his shoe.

As for nothing much happening there, I th
ink of the recent ‘burning murders’, the slippery and corrupt Police Chief Charoenkul, the local Godfather Thongchai Rattanakorn, Vlad the huge (and probably criminally-connected) Russian kick-boxer, my teenage weed-supplier Prem, and the gaggle of expats I know in various stages of moral and physical disintegration.

“You’re right,” I say dolefully, “
it’s a pretty quiet island really.”

“Philip, you never did tell me why you are in Siem Reap,” chimes in Anna. “I shouldn’t have thought there was much action for you around here.”

“R&R, my dear,” he smiles. “Even we investigative journalists need a break occasionally. I have a lady friend here.”

“You should have brought her to lunch.”

“She’s busy today, I’m afraid.”

Yeah, right. More like she hasn’t finished school for the day yet
.

There’s a lot of that goes on in Cambodia unfortunately.

Maybe I’m being uncharitable.

Then again, maybe I’m not.

I decide to restrict my comments to an odd ‘ah’ and ‘oh’, and to give the occasional sagacious nod. That way I can think about other things while the big-nosed one burbles on. If I’d left my sunglasses on I wouldn’t even have to make sporadic eye contact.

I should plan ahead more.

I light another cigarette, ignoring the dirty look from the other side of the table. I hear him use the word ‘shibboleth’ and judge I can safely stop paying attention for a while.

I
do
have things to consider other than the slow decline in objective journalism (which I think is his current topic).

Like
me
, for instance. And a nasty personal problem that has been occupying my attention on and off for a number of months.

Poison pen letters
.

Actually, that’s slightly overstating the case.

What I have been receiving are little enigmatic notes printed on A4 paper, folded precisely twice and placed in a standard-issue envelope bearing no fingerprints, but with my name scrawled in a childish hand. At first they had alluded to nothing very much, but later moved on to the subject of my affair with Kat Charoenkul, the wife of the Samui Police Chief. The Chief himself had received a note stating simply
Your Wife Is Unfaithful
, but nothing had come of it and the identity of any supposed lover (i.e. me) had not surfaced.

I had been half-inclined to believe that Kat Charoenkul – a lady who is not averse to some high-stakes poker – was the author of the missives. But then
a few weeks back another envelope had arrived at my house containing a bombshell. And the subject matter of that one was something of which Kat
definitely
had no knowledge.

Since that note in mid-February, there ha
s been silence.

But
I am not optimistic that the game is over.

I am about to light another cigarette when the food arrives. Good. At least Janus will have to shut up for a while.

It is, however, only for a little while. He is soon recounting some anodyne anecdote of when he was in Guatemala. Or was it Mexico?
Who cares?
Anyway, we have finished eating so in the absence of morphine, I have another cigarette in the hope of anesthesia.

“I had been in this one-horse town for a couple of weeks,” he drones. “I was in the country to write this piece on the role of the Catholic Church. On whether it had a positive influence on Central American society, how involved it was in the local politics and whether people – particularly young people – could still associate with its values and its belief system.”

Anna is listening closely, so I feign interest.

He continues.

“Well, one morning I was out walking looking for inspiration, and I came upon some graffiti newly-painted on the wall of the church. It read
Fuck Jesús
.

“As you can imagine, for me this was manna from heaven, if you’ll pardon the pun. I started formulating a
story around it along the lines of the revolt of the young against yet another form of oppression. I waxed lyrical on the Church’s opposition to contraception and abortion, and how these narrow attitudes were abhorrent to the country’s youth.

“
However, the joke was on me. As I later discovered, the painted slogan that I had thought so profound was not profound at all. It turned out that
Jesús
Gomez was some local scumbag who had run off with the graffiti artist’s girlfriend, and the church wall was just a convenient spot on which to vent his feelings on the matter.”

My
companion laughs. I say, “That’s amusing,” and lean forward to make a salient observation.

But Anna is way ahead of me, and her left hand has
quickly found its way back onto my lap. I am beginning to suspect telepathy.

,
Really,” I cough as sincerely as possible to stop the squeezing, “very ironic.”

But Janus isn’t paying any attention to me anyway.
He’s blowing his large, whisky-drinker nose and presumably thinking about his next contribution to the dying art of conversation.

I am reminded of Marlon Brando’s line about an actor being someone who, if you aren’t talking about him, isn’t listening.

I think I hate writers.

When the bill arrives, Janus shows no interest in touching it. After a moment or two I pick it up, to his obvious relief.

I open the flap and scan it.

“OK, Phil,” I say, “
it looks like your share is about twenty-five dollars. Let’s call it thirty to include the tip, shall we?”

“That was a naughty trick of yours with the bill,” says Anna later as we amble through the town in the glow of twilight.

“I paid it all in the end, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you were very good,” she replies, then giggles. “The look on his face was funny, though.”

“You are sure his name really i
s Philip Janus?” I ask her.

“Why?” she responds
with suspicion.

“I just doubt his surname starts with a ‘J’. Now the name ‘Phil Anus’
;
that
would be more appropriate. Although now I come to say it out loud, it sounds like an instruction you’d hear in a porn movie.”

Anna holds up a hand.

“Enough,” she says. “You don’t like him. I think I had already gathered that.”

“Come on,” I say, “
even you must admit he is a bit of a fake. That story he was telling about
Jesús
. He stole that from Bono. If you weren’t about to crush my testicles, I would have told him so too.”

“I fear, my darling, you are confusing his personality with his writing. I can assure you there is nothing phony about his books, and nothing
plagiarised either. So what if he puffs himself up and spins a tale or two over lunch? Some of the best writers have big egos, but it’s no hardship if they have to be stroked a little. It’s his writing I’m interested in, not him. Although,” she adds, “he is nowhere near as bad as you make out.”

“The
two of you were certainly very cosy together,” I mutter. “Are you sure you haven’t slept with him?”

“So far that hasn’t been necessary,” she says
lightly. Then she hugs my arm and puts her face close to mine. She whispers, “Why, David? Are you jealous?”

We spend the evening in Siem Reap’s night market where the stall holders compete for our attention with offerings of jewelry, scarves, table runners, fabric bags, opium pots, Buddha statuary and
mudra
, candles and organic lotions. The prices are somewhat higher than in the old market, but you don’t have to wipe the dust off the stuff here, and there is a more festive atmosphere to the place.

We have a couple of drinks in the bar at the market’s heart – a large circular affair with no walls but a high thatched roof supported by sturdy posts – before making our way into the small, primitive cinema which has a per
petual showing of
Pol Pot’s Cambodian Genocide
. I’ve seen it before, but Anna hasn’t. It’s not the most appropriate aperitif to a night of lovemaking, but on the other hand last night’s pill is still working its rude magic and the way Anna holds her body close to me gives cause for optimism. We must hope for the best.

The flickering
black and white images on the screen unfolding the tale of Khmer Rouge genocide are every bit as depressing as I remember, and a second viewing doesn’t make them any less shocking: the naked face of power, bigotry and abuse learned from the Nazis. Pol Pot and his Maoist henchmen clearly had a profound contempt for humanity to take their logic and ideology to such an extreme. Opinions vary about how many Cambodians died during the Khmer Rouge regime of 1975-9, but the most commonly-quoted number is two million: about a quarter of the population.

Cambodia is a suffering land, and its suffering goes on today.
The country is still littered with land mines and orphans. For me the enduring image of the film is not the jarring militarism or the violence; it is the gangs of emaciated children with plaintive eyes and empty stomachs: the hungry ghosts of Kampuchea.

Perhaps when all is said and done, the world has need of people like Philip Janus
; people with the egotism and self-delusion that they can make a difference. If in some small measure he is responsible for helping to bring even
one
of the Khmer Rouge criminals to justice, then good on him.

I still don’t like Janus, but good on him anyway.

When we come out of the film both Anna and I are in a thoughtful mood. It would be hard not to be affected considering what we’ve just seen. Speaking of
hard
, last night’s pill has most definitely worn off. Just fucking great.

Fortunately
, it is a beautiful evening and the unhurried walk back to our hotel through the low lights of the town has a romantic air to it. We cross the tree-lined river and turn into Street 23. It is deserted apart from a lone
tuk-tuk
driver taking a nap in his cab.

We are staying at a boutique hotel called
Vinot’s. It is a tastefully designed residence with only eight guest rooms, a small swimming pool, and on the roof a bar with an open-air lounge. Ideal for lovers, unsuitable for families. Perfect.

While Anna phones her daughter Jenny to check everything is OK back in England, I jump in the shower. When I emerge, to my surprise Anna flings my clothes at me.

“Go and have a drink at the bar while I get things ready,” she says.

“Get
what things
ready exactly?” I ask.