The Dying Beach (31 page)

She raised her bottle in the direction of Paul's bungalow. ‘I live in Thailand because I fucking want to,' she said aloud.

How long would she stay? What were her long-term prospects? Did she and Rajiv have a future together here, or anywhere else for that matter? Would she ever return to Melbourne?

These were the kinds of questions that would keep her awake at night if she let them. But Jayne intended, on this occasion, to let sleeping dogs lie. She raised the bottle again to Paul, this time in a silent toast of thanks for having bestowed upon her the means to tranquillise those dogs.

52

On the road by sunrise, they reached Krabi at lunchtime. Paul had given himself a killer headache by squeezing his eyes shut for the duration of the journey, unlike Jayne, who appeared to have actually slept. While he swallowed painkillers in the tuktuk en route to the Apex Enterprises office, she briefed him on the controversial golf driving range and her interaction with the villagers opposed to the project.

‘I figure Samyan, the driver at Apex, will put us in touch with Choom'—she shouted to be heard over the tuktuk engine—‘particularly if you agree to look into the project on the villagers' behalf. What do you say?'

It sounded so convoluted, all Paul could do was nod and wait for the painkillers to kick in.

Paul figured luck was on their side when the Apex office turned out not only to be open for business on a Saturday, but also closed for a two-hour lunch break when they arrived. They found the company Landcruiser parked in the shade nearby, Samyan asleep in the front with the windows down. He was surprised to see Jayne and a little wary when she invited him to have a cold drink with them out of sight of the office.

Over iced coffee and Red Bull, Jayne introduced the two men, encouraging Samyan to tell Paul his story. Jayne translated and Paul took notes as Samyan described how communal land tended by villagers for generations was appropriated, sold and razed to make way for a project local people didn't want.

‘And he's sure no EIA took place?' Paul asked.

‘I'm not sure he knows what an EIA is,' Jayne said.

‘Was he or anyone else asked for their opinions about the project?'

Samyan shook his head in response to Jayne's translation.

‘Are you aware of any experts coming to visit the area, someone from Forestry and Wildlife, for example?' Paul asked.

Again Samyan shook his head. He said something to Jayne in Thai, got up from the table and flicked through the newspaper stand at the front of the coffee shop.

‘He says someone from Bangkok came for the ground-breaking ceremony,' Jayne said. ‘He thinks there might a photo.'

Samyan returned with a paper. The cheap newsprint smudged as he pointed to a photo of a Thai man and a foreign woman cutting a ribbon over what looked like a dirt track.

‘That's Apex CEO Pamela Schwartz,' Jayne said. ‘The man next to her is an official from the Ministry of Tourism.' She transliterated the name for Paul's notes.

‘Tell Samyan I'll follow it up when I get back to Bangkok. I'm not sure if the project is on a large enough scale to require an EIA by law. But if nothing else I should be able to get the foreign media interested and put some heat on the Ministry of Tourism.'

Jayne relayed this to Samyan, who shrugged as though sceptical about their chances.

‘I'll do my best to raise awareness of your case,' Paul found himself saying, surprising himself as much as Samyan with the conviction in his tone. He'd come to Thailand in search of a cause, and it seemed one had finally found him. He got up to pay for their drinks and give Jayne the opportunity to speak with Samyan about Choom. He returned to find them in an animated discussion.

‘
Hua chohn
,' Samyan was saying. He balled both hands into fists and knocked the knuckles against each other.

‘
Mai khao jai
.'

A phrase Paul understood all too well, though it was the first time he'd heard it from Jayne's lips: ‘I don't understand.'

‘
Hua chohn
,' Samyan said again. He picked up the bottle of Red Bull and pointed to the label. Two red bulls, horns lowered, going head to head against a yellow sun.

‘
Hua chonh
means heads crashing together,' Jayne said for Paul's benefit. ‘At least I think so…'

She conferred again with Samyan, both taking turns to use the Red Bull bottle as a prop. When she met Paul's gaze, she looked as excited as she had at the temple fair. ‘How do you fancy going to a bullfight?'

Paul's horror at the prospect must have shown in his face.

‘It's nothing like Spanish bullfighting,' she added quickly. ‘No animals are killed. In the Thai version, two bulls fight each other, head to head, until one of them backs off. Like on the Red Bull label. Much fairer, don't you think?'

‘I don't like the idea of any animal being forced to fight for sport,' he said.

‘Fair enough. Look, I can drop you at the guesthouse if you want and we can meet up later.'

‘I thought you needed a bodyguard.'

‘I said I needed you to watch my back. You make me sound like Whitney Houston.'

‘Huh?'

‘
The Bodyguard
. The movie with Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner? Screened in Bangkok for months? Soundtrack beloved by Thai drag queens?'

Paul shook his head.

She sang a few bars of ‘I Will Always Love You'.

He made a face. ‘Think I'd rather watch a bullfight.'

‘As luck would have it, the fights are on today. The stadium's in a village in Neua Khlong district. We can hire a motorbike from here and drop our bags off at the guesthouse on the way.'

‘Only one motorbike?'

‘It's cheaper. We're both working as volunteers, remember?'

‘So who's driving?'

Jayne gave him a withering look. ‘Seriously?'

‘Worth a try.' Paul shrugged.

53

Jayne found it so distracting to have Paul's body pressed against hers, she wondered if they should have hired two motorbikes after all. She was also overdue for another dose of paracetamol and could feel a rice whisky headache coming on. Preoccupied, she almost missed the turn-off to Ban Nah Ok, where the fights were staged. But the unexpected sight of a pick-up truck with a bull standing upright in the tray brought Jayne's mind sharply back into focus.

As they got closer, Jayne saw the bull was tethered by the nose to the roof-rack. She tailed the pick-up to a dusty compound crowded with motorbikes and more pick-up trucks. Eight Brahmin bulls stood around a belt of grassy land that bordered the parking area. The bulls looked alert and expectant, heavyweights in the locker room waiting to be called into the ring. Several wore red collars with brass bells around their necks, another was draped in floral garlands like a temple effigy. One beast was being hosed down by three men in matching blue polo shirts. Another was having its face smeared with banana.

The tin sheds around the perimeter showed signs of human occupation—clothes hung out to dry, sarongs strung up as shadecloths—suggesting makeshift dormitories. The ticket booth was a smaller shed, like a herding pen. Two hundred baht bought a ticket to the entrance on the left, one hundred baht paid for entry on the right, though the ticket seller was so baffled by the appearance of two foreigners he simply waved them through.

The stadium was a sandy ring with a muddy puddle at the centre. Of the three surrounding pavilions, two had rough wooden bench seats. The premium seats were in a concrete grandstand. Bulls waited under the watchful gaze of their owners on opposite sides of the ring. In one such group was the only woman in the place other than Jayne.

She and Paul hovered on the spot as two bulls were led into the ring. The first—brown with the tips of its horns painted white—was guided by a man wearing long pants, long-sleeved shirt, rubber gumboots and a straw hat. The second bull was black, its handler in shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops and a green plastic sunhat.

As the bulls circled the ring, Jayne scanned the crowd for Choom. They'd met at night and she wasn't sure she'd recognise him. But a flash of recognition on his face gave him away. She made a beeline for the grandstand. Paul, wearing dark glasses and playing the part of her bodyguard, followed close behind.

The crowd parted as she ascended the concrete steps to where Choom sat. In the full light of day, he looked like Charles Bronson with his wispy moustache, thick fringe and deep frown. He wore a gold Buddha on a chain around his neck. A box of 555 cigarettes protruded from his shirt pocket.

‘
Sawadee ka
, younger brother. Remember me?'

He stared straight ahead.

‘It's Jayne,' she said. ‘May I join you?'

Choom gave the barest of nods, his frown staying put. The men nearest him moved to make space for her. Jayne sat down on Choom's right. The man on his left moved back in again. Paul stood to the side.

‘I've never been to the
hua chohn
before,' Jayne said. ‘I hear you're a regular.'

Choom shrugged and stared at the ring where the handlers were leading the bulls towards each other.

‘So how does it work?'

‘The bulls lock horns in the ring. The winner is the one that forces the other to back off.'

As he spoke, the bulls connected like magnets, heads lowered, horns locked. The handlers stepped away but remained in the ring, together with a smattering of men who may have been the beasts' owners or trainers. For a brief moment it was quiet enough to hear the bulls snorting, before the stadium erupted into a frenzy of yelling and gesticulating. The crowds in the pavilions leaned forward, small boys climbing the fence around the ring for a closer look.

Jayne glanced at Paul, whose expression was inscrutable behind his dark glasses. In the ring the brown bull shook its head to try to dislodge his opponent. Around half the men in the stadium rose to their feet and cheered. Jayne caught sight of notes changing hands—the pink one hundred and purple five hundred baht—as the bulls continued to headbutt each other.

She took the photo of Pla that Paul had given her and placed it on the concrete step between Choom and her.

‘Younger brother.' She had to raise her voice to be heard above the crowd. ‘Why didn't you say you knew this woman when I showed you her photo a few nights ago?'

‘Who says I know her, Khun Jayne?' Choom's eyes remained fixed on the bullfight.

‘Pla kept notes. Detailed notes about her work. Who she talked to. Her concerns.'

‘She had notes about me?' His frown deepened.

‘The last notes she wrote before she died were about you. She was very concerned about your plans to set up shrimp farms in the mangroves.'

Choom grunted, a sound like the snorting of the bulls. ‘My plans were none of her business, any more than they are of yours, older sister.'

His blunt tone gave her a jolt. Few Thais could show such disrespect with impunity. Only the powerful, or those under the protection of the powerful.

Jayne observed Choom from behind her sunglasses. His gaze never left the ring, his breath in sharp intakes every time one of the bulls—Jayne thought it was the black—seemed to be gaining the upper hand. The Thais were notorious gamblers but there were plenty of cheaper options. Cockfights, Siamese fighting fish, even duelling stag-beetles. Betting on bullfights was an expensive hobby. The 555 cigarettes were an expensive choice, too, and judging by the pile of butts at his feet, Choom didn't ration them. Could the diesel generator business be so lucrative?

‘You want to tell me how Pla died?' Her question was drowned out in another roar as the crowd surged to its feet. Jayne looked to the ring where the black bull had edged the brown out of the mud puddle towards the fence. But their horns remained locked and the brown pushed back seconds later, generating a new round of yelling.

The two bulls remained head to head, noses in the mud, two forces so well matched they barely moved. One by one people sat down again as the deadlock continued, glassy-eyed men transfixed by the sparring bulls, many clutching baht notes in tense fists.

Jayne looked at Choom, whose brow glistened with sweat.

‘I don't know why Pla was killed,' he said. ‘But she had a history of poking her nose into other people's business. And anyone foolish enough to come between a man and his money is asking for trouble.'

The stadium had become so quiet the snorting of the bulls was audible again. Rivulets of dark sweat streaked the animals' hides. Damp patches spread down the backs of the handlers' shirts like spilt ink. Hoofs pounded the dirt, eyes rolled, nostrils flared. But neither bull seemed able to shake off his opponent.

Just as Jayne wondered how much more tension Choom could stand, the men in the ring used ropes to separate the bulls and draw the bout to a close. The black bull was led out of the ring to mild applause, the brown at a safe distance behind him.

‘Who won?'

‘There was no winner,' Choom said. ‘The bulls were evenly matched.'

He let the butt between his fingers fall to the ground and slumped forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Jayne got the distinct impression he hadn't bet on a tie. He said something in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

‘Excuse me?'

‘
Phii sam dam ploey
.'

Hit by one ghost then another
. The Thai equivalent of ‘when it rains, it pours'.

‘Perhaps it is Pla's ghost that hits you,' Jayne said in an attempt to rattle him.

Choom's hand went to the amulet around his neck. ‘Why would Pla's ghost want to haunt me?'

Jayne took off her sunglasses so she could look him in the eye. ‘I asked how Pla died. I never said anything about her being killed.'

She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around. Paul cleared his throat and nodded towards the pavilion. In the lull between fights, her exchange with Choom had attracted attention. Many of the faces staring at them from the crowd were flushed with alcohol. There was no telling how many of these rough, excited, drunken men Choom might call on for help if she pushed him too far.