Everyone Burns (16 page)

“I haven’t been to this hotel with any other woman, Kat, you’re just being paranoid.”

“If I am paranoid, David, I’ve caught it from you.” She tapped her shoulder bag. “Do you know I cleared out my bag this morning to make sure I wasn’t being bugged? This is what comes of finding my lover crawling around on his hands and knees in my sala
looking for microphones. You’ve infected me with your madness.”

I noted the use of the word
lover
, rather than
ex-lover
, then reached over the desk and took her hand.

“I’m sorry I got you into this, Kat,” I said.

She snatched her hand away. “So you should be,” she snapped angrily. Then she relented and took my hand again. “No, no, David it’s all right. I’m a big girl. I knew what I was doing. I knew the risks.” She smiled. “That doesn’t mean you’re not a bastard, though. Are you
sure
I’m the only one you’ve taken to that hotel?”

“Absolutely. All the other policemen’s wives I’ve seduced I’ve had them in here, while Da was on her lunch break.”

“Yes, right.”

“I think we should be talking about your husband, not my non-existent affairs at the
Indo-China International.”

“I’m sure Deng doesn’t know.”

“Not yet maybe. But I doubt the letter-writer is going to stop now. The Chief
will
know; it’s only a matter of time. The next letter may well be sent to him.”

She shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that,” she said evenly.

“Are you going to say anything to him?”

“Why would I? Whoever is writing these letters can’t have any proof. We were very careful, David. If Deng ever confronts me about
it, I shall deny everything. I shall say it is just mischief-making by someone with a grudge against the police or against him. And you mustn’t say anything either. Don’t go soft on me.”

“However much I’m tortured in the cells at Bophut?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.”

I sat back in my chair. “Well, you’re a cool one, Kat, I’ll give you that.”

“There’s nothing to be gained by feeling useless guilt. People get hurt that way.”

“So tell me about your cell
phone.”

She looked puzzled. “My cell
phone?”

“The number you called me from this morning is not your regular number. And it’s not the number of the SIM card you used when we were seeing each other.”

“I damaged that SIM card. It doesn’t work anymore.”

“So why did you feel the need for another number?”

“Perhaps I wanted to be able to ring you without anyone being able to trace that the call was from me. You know, like the old times, before you dumped me?”

“I did not dump you.”

Kat laughed. “You’re
so
serious.”

“I’m
so
stressed. And I don’t need you teasing me. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

She leaned forward in mock concern. “You know, you look like an overworked headmaster sitting behind your desk.” She fluttered her eyelashes theatrically, ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and whispered, “I could help you relax,
tirak. I could pretend to be one of your students and crawl under your desk. If it would help my grades.”

“You’re bad. But what is worse, you’re not serious.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Ah well.” She signalled the end of the conversation by standing and putting her bag over her shoulder. “Perhaps some other time. If you can fit me into your busy schedule, that is. Meantime I’ll call you if I receive any more letters.”

“And I’ll call you on your new number if I receive any.”

We kissed, European-style, and she left. I listened to the
click-clack
of her heels descending the stairs, then the sound of the street door closing behind her.

Her perfume lingered heavily in the room, and the imprint of her presence lingered in my mind.
Why did I find it so hard to think straight when Kat was around?
Something about her voice and the ripeness of her body blocked the rational part of my brain and flooded the rest of me with naked carnality. I’d been kidding myself that I’d got her out of my system. Obviously I hadn’t.

I took the plug out of the chemical bath of lust that my wits were soaking in and waited for it to empty. I smoked a cigarette while I contemplated the return of reason.

There was one person aside from me that had definite knowledge of Kat’s affair with me. That person was Kat herself. I had to consider the possibility that Mrs. K. Charoenkul was the author of the anonymous letters. But if that were true, the only question was why. Could she have felt that I had ‘dumped’ her? She’d inferred it just now, although as far as I was concerned the ending of the affair was a mutual decision. And it was a long time ago: surely she’d have reacted sooner if she really felt that way.

However, the more I thought about it, the less I liked what I was thinking about. Kat knows where I live – she could certainly have dropped off the letters to me. And she could have posted the last one
to herself
.

Alternatively, supposing this were all a ruse to re-establish contact with me. Maybe Kat had suggested to Charoenkul that she translate the police files of the murders, knowing that they were intended for me.

There was something else I wasn’t getting. Kat’s reaction to the whole situation was altogether too calm, too detached. It was almost as if she didn’t care if our affair was discovered. Her behaviour was like that of someone who either had nothing to lose,
or else
had nothing to worry about
. This was in vivid contrast to how careful she had been during the course of the affair to ensure it stayed secret. Kat had changed, somehow.

You’ll work it out. You are a detective
, she’d said to me in her garden.

I also wondered if she knew, despite my protestations of innocence, that there
was
another woman I’d stayed with at the Indo-China International. That woman could not conceivably be the author of the letters: it was impossible. But she could be the cause of jealousy. Maybe Kat felt herself to be the
woman scorned
, to use her words.

As I curled up on one of the East Office chairs to catch some sleep, two things at least were obvious to my fuddled brain. The first was that I needed to get my sexual feelings for Kat under control. The second was that, until I knew more about her present motivations, I shouldn’t trust her. Not one bit.

*       *       *       *       *

The fog lifts and I see myself hosting a TV game show called ‘Whom Do You Trust?’

I am dressed as Sherlock Holmes, and standing on a set whose red walls are festooned with oversized guns, daggers and bludgeons. A backlit screen displays a succession of grainy pictures of notorious gangsters and serial-killers. The show’s panel of contestants – all of whom are attired in black-and-white-striped prison garb – comprises Sinclair, Kat, Vladimir and Charoenkul. A terrified and naked Klaus Vogel is locked in a cage suspended over a huge fire pit.

As the opening music fades and the audience applause dies down, I welcome everyone to the show. “The only place on the planet where you can kill the people you don’t like without guilt or consequences; and still go home with a cash prize,” I announce.

Vogel screams from his swinging cage and the audience laughs.

“So here we go,” I say. I take out a large magnifying glass which I use to read the quiz cards. “Geordie, you first.”

“Right you are, David,” says the Northerner cheerfully.

“Your question. It’s about this job you’ve given me, trying to catch your employee taking out a car. The question is: why have you given it to me?”

“Because you’re a smug, overly-intellectual twat, David, who needs taking down a peg or two.”

“Right answer.”

There is a metallic clang, and one of the chains holding up Vogel’s cage drops away. Vogel cries out and the audience laughs again.

“Now, Kat,” I say, “
your question. Something about you is different. What’s changed?”

“Well, David, since you passed on a sexually transmitted disease to me, I’ve adopted a whole new philosophy of life.”

“Correct.”

Another chain falls; another scream; more applause. There is now only one chain supporting the cage, which begins to rotate.

“Vladimir.”

“Hello, Braddock, I have spare whore for you.”

Guffaws from the crowd.

“Thank you, thank you, Vlad. Your question. What are you really doing here in Samui?”

“I like to fight and to boom-boom many girls.”

A buzzer sounds loudly. There is a disappointed ‘ahhh’ from the audience.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I can’t accept that answer.”

“Is no problem. I kill you later,” smiles Vladimir.

I turn to Charoenkul.

“Chief Charoenkul. Last chance to drop Vogel into the fire pit.”

The spectators are hushed. The caged German is bug-eyed with fear. Papa Doc looks at me intently.

“Your question.” I pause. “Do you know I’ve been sleeping with your wife?”

Charoenkul thinks a moment before responding.

“I do now,” he says.

There is a roar of laughter from the audience, followed by loud enthusiastic applause drowning out Vogel’s screams as the cage falls in slow-motion and vanishes into the flames. Fireworks are let off and sparks shoot everywhere. Papa Doc takes a bow.

As the hubbub quietens, I am about to wrap up the show when the Old Monk puts in an appearance. He is clad in white robes and sports sunglasses.

“Tathagata,” he says, “we have a surprise in store.”

There is a whirring of machinery and a second cage appears over the glowing pit, held by a single chain. In the cage is Claire. She looks at me sadly.

“The audience has a question for you, Mister Braddock,” croaks the Old Monk. He takes out a scroll from his robes. With his other hand he lights a cigarette, taking a couple of drags before continuing.

“Your question.” He pauses. “David Braddock, do you love your wife Claire?”

I look at Claire. I remember the good times and the bad times and the times in between.

“I do,” I say.

“Right answer.”

The chain goes slack, the cage plummets downwards and ...

I wake up.

*       *       *       *       *

I heard Salvadore Dali used to swear by the recuperative powers of the micro-nap. Apparently he would hold a coin in his hand so that when he nodded off the noise of the coin hitting the floor would wake him up again. Yes, I know it’s nuts. But notwithstanding my surreal dream, and the fact that I was only out for about an hour, I felt regenerated.

As I drove home I was marginally less obsessed with my own problems than usual and more aware of what was going on around me. What had crept up and escaped my attention (or at least only registered subliminally) was that the Thailand National Elections were now only eight days away and the Chinese New Year celebrations would follow a couple of days later. It was going to get noisy.

The election poster competition, it seemed to me, had started out modestly enough on the island, but was presently heating up, and the fly-bills were multiplying.

Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra’s
Phak Thai Rak Thai was expected to cling onto power with its coalition partner Phak Chart Thai. In spite of criticism last year of Thaksin’s handling of the bird flu outbreak and the deaths of Muslim protesters in Southern Thailand, the government’s swift reaction to the tsunami of 26th December which swept over Thailand’s Andaman Sea coast, was widely praised, even by some of Thaksin’s opponents.

The tsunami had effectively knocked the election out of the headlines and even currently, a month after the disaster, the reportage was still significant.

I preferred not to think about the tidal wave and its devastation: memories were still too raw. Since there was also little I could do to influence the outcome of the election (even assuming I had an opinion on the subject), my time was better spent thinking about the impending Chinese New Year and making sure we were adequately provisioned. I had no objection to firecrackers going off, just so long as no political hotheads were firing guns at the same time.

I decided on a detour to Mae Nam where some of Samui’s Chinese community lives, and bought some
Ang Pao
– red envelopes to put money in as New Year gifts. On impulse, I also bought some firecrackers and a couple of mega rockets. To give some spiritual balance to my shopping, I purchased some frangipani-scented incense sticks, which might score some brownie points with Wayan.

When I arrived home I was still feeling buoyant. For us marginal manic depressives, good moods are rather like tsunamis – they come in big waves, unexpectedly and rarely. And like a big wave, the mood can recede just as quickly, so I needed to make the most of it.