Hungry Ghosts (26 page)

28

David Braddock’s Journal

I am learning a new lexicon.

The morphemes and phonemes of blood – both familial and literal – soak into me as if I were some human sponge.

I am the son of a former drug baron. This much is clear, even if the wellspring of my father’s motivation remains indistinct.

Moreover I can understand why he has never told me anything about this before, although I am not about to make this declaration to
him
. There are things I would never want my child to know about me. To let in the sunlight on magic, is not always palatable; particularly where the magic is stained black.

Sometimes we falter
.

The streets of Bangkok move steadily past the car window. All that dusty, gaudy, dreadful magnificence persists regardless.  It imprints itself on the observer; making him part of the observed; making him complicit. In my present reflective mood the City whispers to me of daily struggles, of invisible karmic arcs, of old
er mysteries. It reveals to me an incessant shambling line of humanity clinging to the remnants of fading dreams. Sadness oozes from its very walls. It is a montage that reeks of futility and death; that speaks of a landscape populated by blind ghosts feeling their way along once-familiar thoroughfares.

The dead are always with us.

And sometimes we falter.

A message from Charlie Rorabaugh tells me he’s spoken to Da, and he’ll be driving Wayan and Jingjai to Bangkok tomorrow after Wayan has been discharged. It was deemed prudent for her to stay in hospital for one more night.

Now all I have to do is ensure Rosie Fletcher is returned safely to England, enlist Nathon Lamphongchat’s aid to deal with Chaldrakun and get myself off the hook with the Sangukhons.
What could be easier?

Oh yes, and I’ll need to buy some lawn seed for my front garden. My commiserations to you, Kenneth Sinclair, wherever and whatever you are now.

Rosie Fletcher’s temporary prison is the same building where I was held.

Everyone has been pre-warned of my arrival, so I am shown immediately to Rosie’s room, a slightly bigger and more comfortable version of my own cell. She looks up from her sitting position on the bed as I enter. I ask the overweight female jailer to give me a few minutes and close the door.

Rosie Fletcher is wearing a stonewashed T-shirt and some jogging bottoms, and her curly brown hair hangs loose around her shoulders. Her face is devoid of makeup and looks a
trifle puffy, but with a little work she could be quite pretty. Her breasts aren’t half bad either.

“Miss Fletcher?”

“Yes. Who are you?” Her eyes anxiously search my face, accompanied by the first faint stirrings of hope.

“My name is David Braddock. I’m a private investigator. Your brother sent me to find you.”

“Simon? You’re working for Simon?”

I nod. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“But how can you? I mean –”

“Don’t worry about that now. Tell me, are you all right? Have you been hurt while you’ve been here?”

She shakes her head.

“No. But I’ve not been told anything. I didn’t know how long they’d keep me here or what they were going to do with me. I’ve been very frightened,” she replies and her voice cracks a little.

I crouch in front of her and take her hands gently.

“Listen, Rosie. This afternoon there is going to be an exchange. You and another courier are going to be handed back to your employers in return for two other couriers being held by a rival smuggling firm. The drugs you were carrying will also be
returned.”

“What happens then? I don’t want to go with those people.”

I drop my voice to make it more difficult for any person listening outside the door. “You’re not going to go with anyone. You’re coming with me and I’m going to get you on a plane to England today.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”
She asks me.

I shrug. “I don’t know,” I say. “I would call your brother and ask him to confirm my identity, but I can’t risk making a call now. I don’t know how those guys outside would react.”

“It’s all right,” she smiles weakly. “I don’t really have a choice, do I? I just thought I’d ask.”

The agreed spot for the meeting is a patch of undeveloped ground southeast of Bangkok in Samut Prakan Province, close to the river. Although there are houses, this is mainly an industrial area, comprising factories and other production and storage units. It is hot and dusty, and there are very few people to be seen in the open air. Not far from where we park rise the red-and-white painted chimneys of the Phra Nakorn Tai Power Station: construction work is in progress to expand the facility. The sky above us is hung with high voltage cables.

Glass Face is handling matters for the Lamphongchat
s. He carries a small parcel to the centre of the plot where he meets with another Thai who has emerged from one of the two cars parked at the other side of the area. The men examine the contents of the packages and nod, satisfied. The drugs have been exchanged.

Glass Face
turns and waves at us. This is the signal for our two couriers – Rosie and a pasty-faced young Australian – to join him. Much to Glass Face’s consternation, I accompany them on the long walk across no man’s land.

The other two
hostages begin their trek to the rendezvous point and we all arrive at the same time. Glass face looks panicky and the Sangukhon man – whom I recognize from the Bump and Grind – blinks at me uncertainly.

“What are you doing?” Glass Face hisses.

“Slight change of plan,” I announce, more for the other man’s benefit. “Miss Fletcher here won’t be going with you. She’s finished with carrying drugs. She’s coming with me and going home.”

The Sangukhon man turns to Glass Face. “What is this?”

I answer for him.

“Miss Fletcher is of no further use to you,” I say. “She’s done. Isn’t that right, Miss Fletcher?”

“That’s right,” states Rosie with a slight wobble in her voice.

“She’s going to leave Thailand and forget any of this ever happened. It’s over. You have your drugs back. Just go.”

The other hostages are staring, wondering whether to make a run for it. I notice one of the Sangukhon men by the cars put his hand into his jacket. One of the Lamphongchat men does the same. This could get ugly quickly.

“Wait a moment,” the man barks at us. “Nobody move.”

He takes a cell phone from his pocket, walks away a few paces and turns his back to us. The sweating begins. After a couple of anxious minutes’ wait, he paces back.

“Very well,” he says and
gives a peremptory nod.

The young Australian ventures that he’d like to come with me too, but I cut him off.

“Sorry pal, we’re short of seats.
That
is your ride.” I point to the Sangukhon cars.

I have only so much capacity for good deeds in a single day. I’m a bit limited so far as that goes.

“I need one of these cars to take Miss Fletcher and me to Suvarnabhumi Airport,” I tell a scowling Glass Face. “You guys can take the other car and do what you like.”

“Including going and fucking yourselves,” says Rosie with feeling.

One and a half hours later Rosie and I are standing at the Thai Airways ticket counter booking a one-way flight to Heathrow.

This follows an emotional phone call between Rosie and her brother in the car on the way here. I am one handkerchief down on the day and my companion’s face looks like she’s just cried me a river. I explained patiently to both siblings the importance of silence on the topic of what has happened over the last two weeks. To emphasise the point I told them that loose talk on their part could get me banged up in a Thai jail or worse.

They are so glad their respective ordeals are almost over I suspect they will agree to anything. Maybe I’ll add a bit on the bill.

“Here,” I say handing Rosie her ticket. “Royal Orchid Class. Don’t get pissed on the complimentary champagne, will you?”

With her current Land Girl appearance and grubby overstuffed backpack, Rosie’s going to be an incongruous sight among the travelling businessmen but at least she’ll be able to get some sleep. As soon as her body stops running on adrenaline she will hit a wall. At least there won’t be some teething baby in Zoo Class screaming in her ear when that happens.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” She looks at the paper in her hand as though it’s the key to the Kingdom of Heaven.

“Just don’t come back to Thailand
ever
,” I reply. “It would be too messy and too dangerous. If you do get the urge to smuggle drugs again, do it in South America, OK?”

As she disappears through Immigration I send Simon Fletcher an SMS with her flight details.

A couple of minutes later he responds.

Thank you

Back at Nathon Lamphongchat’s suburban fortress, I meet some of the members of my hitherto-undreamt-of Thai ‘family’.

Nang’s brother Cheepa, a bald, jolly-looking character with a prosthetic hand has travelled down from Chiang Mai for the meeting. He greets me warmly enough and I shake his good hand. His role in this setup appears to be that of
consigliere
, part-retired. I am given to understand he and his wife helped to raise Sura’s boys after the early death of their mother. In consequence, Uncle Cheepa is a trusted advisor to Nathon.

Nan
g is
very
happy to see him.

Nathon’s wife, Samorn, whom Nang has already informed me is suffering from MS, is a gracious hostess. The thought of her beauty being laid waste by the lesions progressively ravaging her nervous system is a sad one. MS has no cure, of course. It only has an ending.

Nathon’s children Niran, Kanikka and Kanya spend the time fussing around their mother, passing an invisible baton of responsibility between them. Some telepathic principle seems to guide who will do what for her and when.

My father is evidently comfortable with them all and they
in turn are relaxed with him. The conversations are all in Thai. After half a century of living with Nang, Edward Braddock is naturally fluent. He appears less uptight than usual. Less crusty, more tactile. It’s almost as if someone has removed the metal rod from his backside. I don’t remember ever seeing him so, well,
human
I suppose is the word I’m searching for.

I feel an outsider. Which is exactly what I am.

I had expected a famous Edward Braddock tirade for my improvisation at the hostage exchange. The dressing-down was not forthcoming however. Instead I was regaled with a condescending lecture. The reason the Sangukhon man had allowed me to take Rosie so easily was that my dear papa had already spoken to Chumbol Sangukhon and warned that Braddock Junior might behave like an interfering dick.

And thus it came to pass.

“I knew you’d pull some hero-boy stunt, so I thought I’d better forestall any problems. Incidentally, the Sangukhon family had no nefarious plans for the couriers contrary to what your comic-book imagination might suppose. Why would they have? These couriers are all busted flushes now.”

I just
love
to be patronized.

The City has metamorphosed from begrimed urban sprawl to neon-lit sinful metropolis as the two families gather for the pow-wow.

The agreed meeting place is on neutral ground;
the Board Room of the Carlsson Sharifah. I don’t seem to be able to avoid this overblown hotel whenever I come to Bangkok. Some sticky strands of the karmic web must attach me to the damn place. A couple of cosmic jokers are no doubt sniggering at this very moment, nudging each other and saying, “Hey, remember what happened when Braddock was here the last time?”

My father has already flagged to me that the discussion will be held entirely in Thai. I tell him I will do my best to keep up.

Our party is the first to arrive. It comprises Nathon, Cheepa, Nang, my father and me, plus two heavies who stand outside the Boardroom keeping guard.

The other family pitches up shortly afterwards, bringing their own two thugs to keep ours company. Two must be the standard goon-count.

Chumbol Sangukhon is gaunt and tall for a Thai. His hair is white and his skin looks like papyrus. He and my father greet each other initially in a businesslike fashion; but this only lasts a moment or two before they embrace warmly. The two old men’s eyes are wet as their collective past rolls through them like a weather front bringing rain. Cheepa and Nang also pay their respects to the head of the Sangukhon family while everyone else looks on.

Chombol takes the seat at the head of the
Board table and my father sits to his right.

I
examine the motley crew opposite us and I fit them to Nathon’s earlier descriptions.

Mongkut sits with the sour expression of someone with mouth ulcers
sucking a lemon. He frowns and glowers at me, his lips pursed not unlike a hen’s arse. He must be a lousy card-player; his emotions sit too near the surface.