Daughter of the Snake
by
Leslie Cameron
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Leslie Cameron on Smashwords
Daughter of the Snake
Copyright © 2007 by Leslie Cameron Peck
ISBN 978-1-60145-207-8
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
Introduction
* * * * *
According to the Chinese zodiac, those born under the sign of the Snake are way above the average when it comes to intelligence. They are smart and score points through wit and stealth. Slow moving, perhaps – but they can strike without warning and catch their prey off guard.
Never upset a Snake; they can hold grudges for a lifetime - and will wait for the ideal moment to even the score.
And if I’d known this when I first met Kodi…
Part I : Land of Smiles
*****
1Tsunami
*****
When sex became a problem, I went to see the delightful Dr. Karen Gillespie at our local Health Centre.
“It still works,” I complained, “but not on demand.” We were in her surgery, a small square room with shelves of medical books and half-a-dozen wall charts of the human body in all its stripped-down, Technicolor glory.
“Sometimes, life’s a bitch,” said Karen as she searched her PC for my file.
“And then you try to shag one,” I finished.
Karen clicked her mouse a couple of times and my medical records came up on her screen. “Know what’s wrong?” she asked.
“Too much golf or not enough bowling?”
“Neither,” she smiled. “It’s what we doctors call middle age.”
Since when did the big five-zero count as middle anything? “Which is?”
Karen looked me straight in the eye. “When a man gets more fun from a warm dry puppy,” she smiled, “than he could expect from a warm wet pussy.”
She made it sound depressingly familiar. “Is it curable?”
“Usually,” she smiled as she reached for her pad. “Shall we try Viagra?” And when she signed that prescription for the magic buttons, the lovely Karen gave me back my wings (as they put it in the Red Bull advert).
So, after we’d celebrated Boxing Day with a triple-orbit of the mattress and a pin-point splashdown, Victoria rolled out of my bed and slipped on the West Bromwich Albion football shirt I’d given her for Christmas.
It was our joke. To us, WBA meant We’ll Bonk Again. She’d explained it to her husband, but he’d refused to believe her - his problem, not mine.
Victoria is a tall and slim woman with a come-&-ask-me smile and ash-blonde hair. I’ve no idea how old she is, but as she’s a double for Twiggy in the M & S advert, does it really matter?
Don’t get me wrong: we weren’t exactly having an affair. It was more of a whenever-you-fancy-it kind of relationship that suited us both. Back at Halloween, there’d been this fancy dress party – she as a witch, me as a wizard (complete with a broomstick). Round about midnight, we’d found each other in an empty bedroom. “Enchant me!” she had smiled – and we were up, up and over the moon.
“The goose should be ready by now,” she said, finding her shoes.
“And where is Frank?” I thought it only fair to ask.
“Up at the golf club, getting pissed.” Victoria was combing her hair into order.
“Does he know about the meal?”
“I warned him: half-past three. If he’s late, it’s not my problem.” As she was telling me all this, my Christmas Surprise was using lipstick and a dab of powder to repair the scorch marks of our forty-minute romp.
“Does he still ask questions?”
“He knows it isn’t you, Billy Ash,” she smiled.
“Why am I above suspicion?”
“Far too old!” she laughed.
“We can’t stay a secret forever.” So far, we’d managed to avoid suspicion by being totally open. We could meet at the dog club, walk our little buddies in the park, go for coffee in each other’s houses and have a chat by the Tesco butter counter. By being mates in everyday life, no-one seemed to notice what we did in private. “Either way, it doesn’t bother me.”
“But what about your Aileen?”
Good question: what about Aileen? “Over the hills and far away.”
Victoria thought about if a moment. “No,” she finally decided. “It’s too soon to go public,” and she smoothed the creases out of her jeans as if clearing the idea out of her mind. “Anyway, what time’s your Sara coming?”
My daughter was due at five for tea, biscuits and only a tiny slice of cake, Dad - thank you while on her way to collect her current boyfriend for a cinema visit.
“Don’t worry about Sara,” I said. “She won’t tell anyone, either.”
Sara’s in her early twenties. She prefers the single life and lives in a flat about three miles along the road towards Stirling. She’s not exactly fussy, but I still had to make my flat look more or less presentable. While ordinary visitors are far too polite to comment, daughters (like Sara) are another game of soldiers.
Not that the clearing-up process would take all that long. As it’s only a four-room, ground floor flat, I can whip the Dyson round in less than three minutes - and provided there isn’t any baked-in grease to contend with (which, with beans-on-toast, there rarely is), I can produce a fairly effective miracle in just on half-an-hour. What’s more, I don’t even have to tidy the garden – because there isn’t one.
To begin the clean-up, I cleared away our whisky glasses from the coffee table and gave the surface a quick once-over with a damp cloth. Attention to detail: Sara will always notice. While I was sorting out the cushions on the sofa, I came across the half-eaten remains of a dead mince pie that Mighty-Mouse had tried to hide for a late-night snack: another lucky break.
Mighty-Mouse (or Mikki to his chase-mates in our local park) is my best-ever little buddy. His mother was a Jack Russell but who his father was, is anybody’s guess. I found him in the local dog’s home. A total terrier, mainly white with two brown ears and a chestnut-coloured Mask of Zorro patch round his eyes. Just pent-up attitude with a fuck the lot of you look on his face.
That was it: my kind of little guy; cheeky, full of fun and always ready for a challenge. “OK, sport,” I said, “you’ve got the job.” He even took me along to Victoria’s doggie class.
Last job of all, I gathered up his toys and dropped them in his big green play bucket.
While doing all this, I half-heard this report on my radio about a tsunami somewhere close to SE Asia. A tsunami - what was that all about? True enough, a recent e-mail from dear little Danni had mentioned being on tsunami-watch during a holiday in the Philippines - but as she had never told me what she was watching for, I never really understood. However, the radio reported that someone had been killed – but before I could really get a grip of the details, Mikki trotted through with that my turn look on his face.
“Fancy a walk?” and as I turned off the radio, Mr Never-Say-No bounced up and down with hysterical impatience while I found his lead.
Sara arrived on time, accepted mince pies and a glass or two of sherry, played with Mikki - but passed no comment on the state of the flat. Even the muddy paw mark on the new brown leather sofa (delivered by Argos only a week before) had failed to produce a critical response. Happy Christmas, Billy, enjoy it while it lasts!
Then she asked the inevitable question: “Do you miss her?”
Of course I missed her - but I wish she wouldn’t keep on asking. “I’ll survive,” I said. “It’s only been a couple of months.”
“You need to look around,” my darling daughter told me. “You were not designed for the solitary life.”
“One of these days…” How was I supposed to replace the woman who had left me after some thirty years of marriage to help her toy-boy run a paella bar in Valencia?
Sara shook her head. “She isn’t coming back,” she said. “You’re in full working order and can’t live on your own forever.”
“I have my moments,” I told her.
“Like Victoria?”
“Like Victoria,” I conceded.
“It’ll never work - you need a wider horizon.”
“I’ll buy a map,” I promised.
“You do that,” and she picked up her coat to go. Then she stopped and looked at me as if remembering something. “Did you hear about that tidal wave?”
For a moment, I didn’t connect her comment to the earlier news report. “Remind me,” I tried. It’s quite OK – parents are expected to be absent-minded, especially when they get past fifty.
“Happened today,” she said with that are you for real look on her face. “A giant tidal wave has washed away a large part of Thailand.”
“Oh that,” I said without thinking. “Yes – it was on the radio this afternoon.”
“Well,” she added, “make sure you watch the news – it’s really quite dreadful. Lots of holiday-makers drowned.”
“I will, right after Mikki’s had his evening walk.” (But I didn’t say it out loud.)
As usual, Sara was right. As the story unfolded, so did the horror - first with reports of damage; then with a steadily-mounting death toll. My eye ran down the line of cards and found the one from Danielle. It had arrived on Christmas Eve and carried the cheery message: This Year – we’re off to Bangkok - Love Danni.
Years ago, Danielle – “Please call me Danni” – had been the editor of a magazine that I’d written for. Nothing in the Pulitzer class, you understand – just 1000-word pieces on the everlasting joy of self-employment (plus a little humour).
At the time, she had lived in Camberwell with a friend and two goldfish. She had never told me the whole story, but at some point towards the end of 2001, it seems that she fell out with her live-in lover and shot off to Australia to teach graphic art for an adult education program.
I looked at Danni’s card again. It was different. In fact, it was highly-original. It showed a pair of dancing girls in flimsy costumes performing in front of a gilded pagoda. It certainly looked like genuine SE Asia.
Although I’d never actually met Danni, we’d phoned or written from time to time. After she’d gone to Australia, we’d kept in touch by e-mail. We had common interests: she liked golf, Newcastle United, English cricket and had a soft spot for domestic animals. We had even exchanged photographs: hers was of a happy little blonde, dancing with joy on a golf course. Mine (as you could well imagine), showed me and Mikki at the dog club.
So I went into my spare-room office, powered up the PC and logged into the internet. As Danni was still involved with magazines, she had probably taken her laptop. If I sent an e-mail, there was every chance that it would reach her. Danni - I wrote – Saw it on the BBC News – hope you’re OK - and included my telephone number.
Two hours later, my phone rang. It was Danni – and she sounded full of life.
“Billy – you’re a doll!” she trilled. “Thanks for your e-mail.”
“You OK?” was all I could think of.
“We’re fine!” she yelled from the other side of the world. “Lennie had the flu – we couldn’t go.”
“Poor Len!” It wasn’t the time to ask about Lennie. We could save that for later. This was Danni’s call. Let Lennie go and sniffle somewhere else. “Just glad to know you’re safe,” I said.
“We’ve only postponed it till the spring,” she said. Then she hit me with her bouncer. “Why not join us?”
Excuse me? “You want me to visit you and Len in Bangkok?” Better safe than wrong.
“Why not?” she yelled. “We’ll use a cheap hotel and teach you how to fuck, Aussie style.”
It should have been my red-light warning. “What’s Aussie style?”
“Fuck early and fuck often!” she laughed.
At that moment, common sense went out the window and my brain went into melt-down as a green light flashed a GO – GO - GO! “Great idea!” I shouted back. “When will it be?”
“Keep in touch by e-mail,” Danni ordered, “and we’ll go for March.”
“You’ve got yourself a date,” I said.
“You’re doing what?” asked Sara when I told her.
“Danni has invited me to go on holiday – in Bangkok,” I explained. Then before she could ask too many questions, I gave her a brief account of the tsunami, the e-mail and the phone call - but to stop her worrying unduly, I left out the bit about the cheap hotel and the sex lessons.
“Something going on?” She knew about Danni. After all, it was only those magazine cheques that had kept the ship afloat during the 90s recession. But Sara wasn’t scolding: only winding me up.
“We’re sort of business friends,” I said in a miserable attempt at self-defence.
“Of course you are,” Sara agreed - then threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. “Good for you! But just remember - what happens in Bangkok…”
“…. stays in Bangkok!” I finished.
*****
2Fly Me to the Moon
*****
Through February, I kept in touch with Danni and we settled on Sunday 27th as the travelling date. This gave me ample time to book my tickets, draw local currency from the bank and organise suitable kennelling. For this, I turned to the dog club.
I found Victoria with Coriander (her cute little beagle) watching the class from a flanking position by the tea table. From there, she could monitor the progress of her pupils and still make sure that no-one took too many of her choccie biccies with their refreshing cuppas. On several occasions, she had been obliged to point out that the chocolate digestives were only intended for the handlers.
“Mr Secretary!” she called. As I crossed the floor, her bright blue eyes flashed the kind of come-and-get-me smile that some of the gossips believed had saved the dog club from total extinction. “Need to see you later,” she added. “Cock-up in the last set of minutes.”
“You’re in trouble!” Sylvia grinned. She was feeding choccie biscuits to her chunky little boxer, Chico, and not really listening.
“Seems that way,” I agreed.
Madam President hadn’t finished. “How’s Mikki?” and she bent down low enough to let him snuggle his nose in her chunky black sweater. Oh you lucky, lucky Mikki!
“Looking for a reliable kennel,” I said.
Victoria pointed to a grey-haired woman in a dark green fleece. “Isobel,” she told me. “Best boarding in the county.”
Back home, I gave Mikki his evening ration of treats, turned on the television and was just about to get stuck into the BBC News when my doorbell rang.
“This could be fun,” I told my little friend.
I got up, opened the door: Victoria! Not a total surprise by any means. As ‘minutes’ and ‘cock-up’ (in either order) are her code for late-night batting practice, I was ready for action.
“What’s the problem?” As if I couldn’t guess.
She was raging, almost incandescent. “Need a fuck,” she ordered, mouthing the words in a hissing whisper.
“When?” I asked.
“Right this very minute” and she pushed her way past me into the living room. “Hello, Mikki,” she added as my little buddy came rushing up to greet her. “Can I borrow your daddy for a minute?”
“More trouble with Frank?” I asked. In more intimate moments, she had called him a Control Freak - but tonight, she was too angry even to curse him.
“You could bet your bollocks!” She was raging, fuming, almost on fire. “Half-past ten he wants me home! - I am NOT his daughter! And he doesn’t own me!”
“Paranoia mode again?” I wasn’t sure if that was a medically-correct expression, but it sounded fairly close to the truth.
According to gossip, Victoria had saved the dog club from the curse of Health & Safety. The story goes that when the Glen Rowan & District Council tried to stop us from using the village hall, she surrendered her body to the man from the Health Department for the rights to run her K9 Education System dog club as part of a Community Education program. It isn’t true, not by any means.
Frank believed it. He was totally convinced.
“He’s still banging on about the man from the council – he’s concerned for my reputation.”
“Has he been drinking with Sylvia again?”
“Forget that pair of fishwives,” she sneered. “I’m short on time - can we get on with it, please, Mr Secretary?”
“Lucky I’ve taken my Viagra,” and I lead her through to the bedroom.
Travel day – and time for one last walk with Barbara.
“Come on, Mikki – Jason time!”
We have plenty of walks to choose from: woodland, field, river and pavement, as you prefer. To Mikki, woodland, field and river walks are fun. Pavement walks are a total waste of time because we only do them to wear down his nails.
However, Saturdays and Sundays are different: these are Jason days!
Jason is a border collie. We’d met him and his nearest-&-dearest (Barbara) a few months back at a training class. At the time, we were cut-throat rivals in the Beginners Class. Now our dogs were romp-me-in-the-hedgerow buddies, in the nicest possible way, of course. On Saturdays and Sundays, we timed our walks to meet each other on the chestnut footpath by the sports ground at 08:15.
Conversations with Barbara can cover anything and everything, but are mostly to do with dogs (what else?).
Barbara is younger than me. She is also shorter and considerably slimmer - lucky woman! Today, she was dressed in a dark green chunky sweater and matching ski pants. And with her large round glasses and that cheeky grin, she could have played the part of the mischievous elf in any pantomime. All she needed was the little scarlet bell-cap.
“Ready for the off?” she asked as our dogs met each other with a sniff and a bark.
“Just a bag to pack, get Mikki into kennels and I’ll be on my way.”
“Lucky you – but rough on you, old son!” At which, she dropped to her knees and gave his ears a reassuring ruffle. “Can we go and see him?”
“Would you like that, Mikki?” but he was far too busy helping Jason to snuffle for field mice in the depths of the hedgerow.
“I’ll look in about Wednesday,” Barbara promised. “Can I text you?”
“Please do,” I replied.
“What’s the time difference?” she asked.
“Seven hours,” I told her. “When you get home from work, I’ll be in bed.”
“Promises, promises!” she laughed.
Mikki watched me pack. To him, it meant a holiday - but was he on the guest list?
“Sorry, Mikki.” This was becoming a guilt trip. So to ease my conscience, I collected half-a-dozen of his toys and packed them in a Tesco bag. At least he’d have something to chew in those quiet moments when he wasn’t giving merry hell at storm-force twelve to his kennel mates.
At about one o’clock, I packed Mikki and the suitcase (and a packet of his favourite doggie-chews) into the car and set off for the kennels.
Isobel was waiting for us. “Come along, Mikki, your room’s all ready.”
Mikki let himself be taken to his holiday accommodation. I followed. The kennels were luxurious – spacious and airy, concrete floored and easy to clean. Everywhere had been freshly painted in a sunny primrose. (Always good to see - some we’ve been to haven’t seen a lick of paint for generations.) Even better: his reservation had a comfortable basket with a snug-looking duvet. A sliding door opened on to his private exercise area, from where he could talk to the other inmates.
Isobel eased him into the kennel and clipped his lead to the wire grill. His name was already been written on the chalkboard. Mighty Mouse was now in residence.
“Lucky little sod!” I told him. “I’ll stay here and you can take the bus to Thailand.”
“He’ll be fine,” and Isobel shook the doggie toys into his bed.
“He may have one or two visitors through the week,” I said.
“No problem,” Isobel smiled, locking his kennel door. “Everybody welcome!”
“Be good,” I told my little friend – but he was far too busy with his toys to pay me any more attention. From this point on, he was on his own – and he was telling me he could handle it.
From the offsite parking facility known as Park & Away, it only took us ten minutes to reach the Edinburgh terminal. The BA check-in desk was quiet and we were soon into the inevitable formalities. Today, the small, cute, golden-haired Janine in her dark blue battledress was my inquisitor. Having checked my e-ticket, she turned on my suitcase.
“Did you pack it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Has it been left unattended?”
“No.”
“Has anyone asked you to carry anything?”
“No,” I replied.
Satisfied, Janine tagged the case and printed my boarding cards.
“That’s you booked through to Bangkok,” she said.
“No Heathrow hassle – none at all?”
“Not this time,” Janine promised. “Gate D10 by five-fifteen – but you’ll have to make your way across to Terminal 4.”
“Any clues?”
“Just follow the signs,” Janine smiled. “Most people make it.”
Upstairs on the concourse, I found the usual array of airport shops. Not like the virtual High Street at Heathrow’s Terminal One - but here in Edinburgh, they had enough bookshops, gift shops and restaurants to keep most people happy. I would have liked a pint, but as the bar was over-loaded with kilt-waving Scotsmen all cheering like crazy at the Ireland v England rugby game on the television, I decided to have a wander round the gift shop - and there it was, the perfect gift for Danni: a Celtic-style pendant of a thistle made from amethysts.
In time, our flight was called. I strolled along to the appropriate gate, handed over my boarding pass, followed the other passengers, found my seat, strapped myself in and let BA fly me down the well-used avenue to London. There was hardly time eat the in-flight bun and drink the coffee. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of an information board and working out the quickest route from You Are Here to where I should be.
To be truthful, it wasn’t all that difficult. As Janine had told me, I just followed the signs through endless look-alike corridors until I found an airport bus that gave me a thoroughly entertaining tour of the airport.
That was the easy part. By the time I’d sat in Terminal 4 for half an hour, my head was aching, my eyes were hurting and my ears were ringing from the constant noise of hooting baggage carts, screechy Tannoy voices and the general drone that people make when they have nothing else to do but sit around in heaps and wait until they’re called. If there was a café, then I couldn’t find it or I didn’t see it. Nor could I summon the enthusiasm to hunt it down. My only thought was for a Bangkok flight that BA had promised me would leave at 21.25pm - and I didn’t want to miss it.
In the end, I abandoned the chaos of the assembly area and made my way towards the wonderfully peaceful atmosphere around the gate reserved for BA9/Qantas QF302.
Long-haul flying in Economy Class is only meant for those who can’t afford a better seat. For a start, the rows are spaced so close together that anyone over five feet tall just can’t get comfortable. No matter how much we wriggle our bodies and shuffle our legs, it is impossible to find a position that will make any kind of a difference. I’ve seen people on their knees, head on seat, desperately trying to overcome the physical problems of the spacing. Any which-way round you try, it’s going to hurt – eventually.
Except for Lottie and Mark in the seats beside me, that is. Totally in love, they just wrapped their arms around each other and let the night go by without them. Oh, the happiness of being young…
At some point along the route, I began to ask myself if it was really worth the effort. By now, the filtered air was biting at my throat and stinging my eyes. In that state of half-awake and half in turmoil, my mind began to question the wisdom of this exercise.
I mean, at my time of life, did I really need to know the ins and outs of Aussie-style sex? “If you could put me off at the next corner, I’ll get a taxi home…”
Several dozes later, I felt the urge to hunt for a toilet. As an overhead display told me that one was now available, I untangled my poor dishevelled body from its blanket and the yards of headphone cable and staggered down the aisle in search of physical relief. In the rows around me, bodies sagged and lolled in every possible shape and distortion. It was like a zombie movie, just before they all wake up.
By the time I made it to the toilets, the lights had changed to Occupied. One or two people were lounging around, trying to encourage their bodies back to life.
“When’s breakfast?” someone asked a fellow passenger.
“When we get to effin’ China,” came a very tired answer.
Nearby, one of the window blinds was slightly up. Some 35,000 feet below my feet, I saw a sunlit world of brown stretched out as far as the window would let me. My God! Could that be India down there?
Suddenly, it all came into focus. Now I knew why I had agreed to come - to see it while I still had legs. At my age, how many more free drops would I get in the bunker of life?
Not that many – so get a grip, hack it close and sink the putt, I told myself. After which, I felt decidedly better. According to the video map, we only had to cross the Bay of Bengal.
Little Lottie was now awake. She smiled and stretched like the Dormouse rising from the Mad Hatter’s teapot. “Are we nearly there yet?” she asked.
“Not long now,” I replied. “Once we’ve cleared Burma,” and I pointed to the video map. “It’s hardly more than a couple of inches.”
More food – more drink – then the plane began to descend. Mark raised his window blind and Lottie leaned across him, looking for the Promised Land. Over her shoulder, I could see a stretch of fresh green fields with mountains in the distance. It looked idyllic.
“Are you disembarking, sir?” A cabin girl was handing out the Nice-to-See-You cards. “Fill it out and give it to Immigration,” she told me.
The questions were easy enough:
(a) Name?
(b) Where staying?
(c) When leaving? - most important for the 30-day entry visa.
The answer-boxes were small and without my reading glasses, I didn’t do too well. Let’s hope they didn’t deduct points for bad handwriting.
“That’s the entrance exam,” I said to Lottie. “How did it go?”
“Got them mostly right,” she replied.
“Eighty-five percent will get you in,” I promised. After which, we drifted into a concentrated silence as the plane continued its gradual descent and the fields, roads and houses of Thailand began to fill Mark’s window.
Within a minute, we had passed a golf course, slid across a line of palm trees, dropped our flaps and lowered the undercarriage. The night was over: we were there, rolling over the Don Muang tarmac for the last few hundred yards of our journey.
Touch-down triggered an explosive change of mood. As the cabin lights came on, our private world came back to life. Once, the living dead were all around me. Now they were wide awake, talking to anyone and everyone, wishing all and sundry a wonderful holiday; hustling here and there to find their shoes, personal bits and pieces and whatever was left of their cabin baggage. Belongings were dragged from overhead lockers and pillows and blankets were stuffed out of sight wherever there was room. Now we were moving down the aisle to the door – and into real air!
At which point, I learned a lesson: at this time of year, the air in Thailand is hot and damp and difficult to breathe. As I made my way along the concourse in the company of several hundred of my fellow passengers, the air-conditioning took over and my lungs began to work again. In the distance, I could see the big red neon sign: Immigration.
Just keep going – worth it when we get there – Danni will be waiting.
As with everywhere else, Passport Control was divided into lines for home and away and we visitors gradually inched our way towards the foreign-imports desk.
While we waited, we were reading great big poster notices - in a variety of European languages - that were asking the friends and relatives of tsunami victims to report to the officials. Not everyone would be in holiday mood.
Eventually, it was my turn. I gave the man my passport and my little white card, waited while he tried to read my writing and inwardly cheered as he stamped my passport with my 30-day pass. Then he smiled, nodded briefly. “You have happy holiday!”
From there, an escalator took me to the luggage carousel – where my suitcase was waiting to be dragged through Customs to the world beyond the International Airport.
*****
3Midtown Apartments
*****
At the exit gate, an excited crowd of at least two hundred bodies were jostling around, all impatient to catch sight of some friend, relative or business colleague. Faces bobbed and bounced as people pushed and shoved each other in the hope of getting a better view. Some were holding flowers; others were carrying big white cards with names spelt in English, Thai or Chinese letters.
Then I saw her. After all these years, the delightful Danielle was waiting for me at a Bangkok airport. If I had tried to work that kind of a story into one of her magazines, she would have sent it back with a Give me strength! in large blue letters.
She was really there - a bouncing little five-foot-something blonde, deliciously brown and sweet enough to kiss all over, wearing a well-filled Magpie shirt and sunburst-yellow shorts. To make absolutely sure I didn’t miss her in the crush, she was holding a blown-up copy of my picture with BILLY! – BILLY!! – BILLY!!! in large red hand-painted letters.
“Danni – you look great!”
“Not so bad yourself, old man!”
“At last – we meet!”
“Should have done it years ago!” and she threw her arms round my neck and gave me a smacking great kiss of welcome. “Say hello to Lennie,” and she stepped aside to introduce her friend.
When you least expect it, life can go from 0 to 60 in half a second. Your brain goes dead, locks in neutral and refuses to function. I was looking for a backpacker with corks around his baseball cap. Instead, this stunning vision in a turquoise shirt materialised from the depths of the crowd.
Believe me: I really couldn’t make this up. Her long red wavy hair was like they use in adverts for the best shampoos. Red? Not really - it was the colour of burnished bronze and in the afternoon sunlight, it glowed like fire. She had flashing green eyes, a sun-tanned face and breasts that made me think of Julia Roberts. I don’t use gorgeous lightly – but that’s how I will always remember her.
“Hi, Billy – I’m Selena.” Pure Australian, tall, beautiful and ultra-confident; social kisses were exchanged. “Enjoy your flight?” she asked.
“If I’d known that you were waiting…,” I grinned.
“OK,” said Danni, “when you’ve finished fuckin’ my woman, let’s go find a taxi.”
“You lead – I’ll be right behind you,” and I dragged my suitcase through the animated crowd and followed them into the taxi zone.
Danni chose a green and yellow cab and told the driver where she wanted to go. They argued for a moment - then settled on a deal. “He thinks he knows where it is,” she told Selena. The she turned to me. “It’s not such a bad little place,” she told me. “Found it on the internet.”
I noticed that her accent has developed a slight Australian sound. “So long as the beds are comfortable, it’s fine by me,” I said.
“Don’t worry about the beds,” Danni laughed. “You’re not here to sleep!”
“What about my bedtime cocoa?” I asked.
“What about your bedtime condom?” Selena chipped in.
“My pacemaker’s due for a service,” I warned her, “but it should be OK for a couple of holes.”
Victoria I can handle. I know how far to go and when to stop. But here, with two-thirds of Atomic Kitten, it was a voyage of discovery.
“That’s the spirit, Zebedee,” came Selena’s answer. “We’ll keep you out of the rough.”
One by one, we climbed into the taxi – me in front, Danni and Selena in the back while the driver put my suitcase in the boot. As the car set off, my first impression of Thailand was the blinding glare of tropical sunlight bouncing off so many light-coloured buildings. I began to wish I’d brought my shades. My second impression was of big wide tree-lined streets with temples on every other corner.
“No tsunami damage?” I asked.
“Not up here, Danni told me - and that was the last time we even mentioned it.
The temples were impossible to miss. They came in all shapes and sizes - mostly red and gold with reddish-tiled A-shaped roofs. Some were decorated with dragons while others used tooth-like ornaments that pointed upwards into the sky. I asked Danni what they were called.
“Zongs!” A physical description or a swear word?
“So many temples,” I said, trying to sound observant.
“Oh yes,” Danni agreed “they like to pray a lot.”
Fair enough, I thought. As far as I’m concerned, a man can worship where and what he chooses - just so long as I’m not involved. Maybe I should have told her. Because over the course of the next five days, I would be entering more places of worship than I ever dreamed possible.
By now, we were on the raised expressway, with its six lanes of steadily-moving traffic. Although the billboards were mostly in Thai, it wasn’t difficult to follow their meanings - like the housing adverts for expensive-looking apartments that either came in parkland or climbed tens of storeys into the sky.
“They look good,” I said to Danni. “What do they cost?”
“More than you and I can afford,” she smiled back, “and that’s the problem - they’re more than anyone can afford!”
“So what happens?”
“They stand empty,” Danni replied. “Just like that one,” and she pointed to a smart-looking copper-toned tower block some thirty storeys tall about half a mile away on our right.
“You wouldn’t want to live there?”
“I’d love to live there,” laughed Danni, “but not on my salary!”
The expressway went through two toll gates before a slipway lead us off the raised expressway and back down to ground level. At a junction, the taxi turned right into a tree-lined four lane road that seemed to be full of jewellery shops. A street sign said Bangruk. I made a note of that, just in case I ever got lost.
There were brightly-coloured advertising boards on almost every shop front: hotels, shops, businesses, American Express. On either side of the road, great swathes of electrical cable hung from square telegraph poles. It all looked rather untidy – but if that’s the way they want to do it, who was I to argue? At least they weren’t digging up the road every fifteen minutes.
Ahead, I saw this blue and red sign for the Midtown Apartments. “What’s it like?” I asked Danni.
“Cheap, cheerful and very friendly,” Danni replied. “It also has very good security. As far as we know, it’s never been robbed.”
Was that a part of their advertising?
Danni pulled a bank note from her pocket and gave it to the driver. “As we agreed,” she said. He didn’t argue.
“This way,” said Danni. “Come and enjoy the Midtown Apartments.” While she removed my suitcase from the taxi’s boot, Selena opened the hotel door and ushered me inside. After the heat of the afternoon sun, the Reception area seemed refreshingly cool and the air just held the hint of noodles from an earlier meal.
Danni led me up to the Reception desk. It was shaped like a hockey stick - with a PC and a slim young girl in a grey at the business end.
“This is Mr Billy Ash – our very special guest,” Danni told her.
The receptionist was maybe five feet tall, neatly built with long dark hair - and very, very pretty. I couldn’t even guess how old she was – but with Danni and Selena fluttering around like birds of paradise, I had enough keep me busy and I wasn’t able to concentrate.
She checked me over with her jet-black eyes. “I see passport, Mr Billy?” Even her gentle voice was warm and encouraging.
“And what may I call you?” I asked.
“I am Kodi,” she replied and gave me a delicate little nod. “I hope you have nice holiday,” and she handed me the key to Room 406.
“Absolutely sure I will, thank you, Kodi,” I said.
We used the lift to reach the long dark corridor of the 4th floor. There were doors on either side – even numbers on the right, odds on the left. When we opened its door, Room 406 smelled warm and clean.
In general terms, it had two twin beds, a wardrobe, a dressing table and a bathroom. A television set was sitting on an MFI-type bedside unit that housed a mini fridge, two packets of crisps and two very hygienically-wrapped drinking glasses. “Looks good,” I told Danni.
“We always use this hotel,” she said. “Nobody ever asks questions.”
It seemed a strange remark. “Then I won’t either,” I agreed.
I tried one of the beds. It was harder than a Test Match wicket in Jamaica – but as I wasn’t planning to bowl on it, I could probably get by for a night or two. Jesus! In my army days, I’d slept on beds that were far worse than this one. However, if either of these two ever won the toss and put me into bat, I might just welcome a touch of resistance on the mattress front. Thanks to Dr Karen, I could afford to be optimistic.
I put that thought to the back of my mind and checked the fridge instead. Two cans of Coca-Cola, an orange Fanta, two Heineken and a can of Singha.
“We can re-stock it from the 7-11,” Danni said. “We’ll take you over.”
Although I’d no idea what she meant, I nodded in agreement and continued checking the facilities. Room 406’s bathroom had a washstand, a shower and a European-style toilet. None of the rope-and-a-hole nonsense that the Greeks seem to like, thank God. “Looks very functional.”
“If you ever want to dance again, use these,” and Selena handed me this pair of plastic flip-flops that she’d found in the wardrobe. “For the shower,” she added, just in case that level of civilisation had yet to reach the shores of Britain. “Now get your head down, sunshine – we’ll be back at six.”
“I’ll be fit by then,” I promised.
Once they’d gone, I helped myself to the can of Singha, hauled my suitcase on to one of the beds and began to unpack. I’m not particularly good in hotel rooms. I always start out with good intentions – underwear in drawers, shirts on hangers, shoes in tidy rows along a wall. However, by the second day, my housekeeping system has usually collapsed into a confusion of mess that spreads around the room like a plague.
First job – send text messages to Sara and Victoria: Safe arrival – very hot. Not very original, but at least they’d know I’d got here.
Next, I checked the windows. But when I pulled the curtain back, it only revealed the wall of the building across the alley. So I closed it again – and that’s how it stayed for the rest of the week.
After that, I tried the air conditioning unit. It rattled with a dull, monotonous groan – but the cold air it delivered would probably be worth the irritation.
So I emptied my suitcase into the drawers and wardrobe, made use of the bathroom facilities (including the plastic flip-flops), set my alarm for six, tossed a coin for beds - and crashed out on the one furthest from the window. No particular reason - just too tired to argue with the coin. I was even too tired to dream about the sex-goddess from down-under.
At exactly six o’clock, my clock went off. Half a second later, my telephone rang. It was Kodi. “Mrs Danni here,” she told me.
“I’m coming down,” I told her. “See you in a minute.” But by the time I’d selected a shirt for the evening and skipped down the stairs to Reception, the raven-haired beauty had gone.
“Lookin’ for Kodi?” Selena asked me. She’d changed from turquoise into a shade of lilac that only made her tan look even darker. “Clocked-off at six.”
“If you want to chat her up, be down for breakfast,” Danni suggested. She had changed her Newcastle shirt for something white with Bangkok Bouncers in large gold letters across her magnificent boobs.
“Not right now,” I thanked them. “It’s quite enough with you two.”
“Wow-ee!” Danni laughed to Selena. “Someone fancies their chances!”
“How about a test run?” Selena offered. “Check his oil pressure?”
Danni looked me up and down. “Needs to get his strength back first,” she said. “Mustn’t risk his bearings.”
This was office banter. No offence intended; no point in taking any. If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the sunshine. “Anyone for dinner?” I asked.
“How’s about it, Lennie?”
“Good idea,” Selena agreed and we all trooped out through the main door and into the sultry heat of a Bangkok evening.
Noise – it never stopped! In amongst the never-ending roar of buses, cars and taxis you could clearly hear the sharp staccato rattle of the tuk-tuk, a three-wheeled two-stroke with a canopied seat for its fare-paying passengers. At the junction, we turned left and walked past a line of market stalls that were selling T-shirts, dresses and kimono-type wraps. A possible bedroom offering for Victoria?
A few yards further on, we passed a woman who was sitting by the kerbside with her sewing machine.
“She does everyday repairs,” Danni told me.
“If you split your trousers,” Selena explained, “she can stitch you up.”
Nice idea - enterprise at work. Back home, Health & Safety would have to risk-assess her to be sure she wouldn’t stab herself (or anybody) with a needle.
“She’s not the only stitch-up merchant around this city,” smiled Danni.
Next, we came to a massage parlour. Four young girls in scarlet shirts and shorts were sitting in front of the shop, waiting for business. A price list in the window told me that for 300 baht, someone would massage my feet. Maybe they could massage the rest of me at the same time?
Danni read my thoughts. “For a price, they will.” Then she pointed at me and said something to the massage girls. They waved back at me and said: “Hello!”
I thanked them politely in the approved manner: palms together in a prayer-like gesture, fingers touching lips and just the hint of a bow. (They call it ‘wai’. I know because I read about it in a guidebook that I found in our local library.) It seemed to be appreciated.
“This is cheap and cheerful,” said Danni and lead the way into this neat little café called the Food Bank. She chose a table away from the television and called: “Evening, Jo-Jo…” to this woman behind the counter.
The tall, slim Jo-Jo came over to our table. She was wearing a white blouse and a long black skirt. Her long black hair was tied back in a pony tail. She seemed to use a lot of make-up. Maybe she was older than she should have been.
Danni asked me: “Let’s start with coffee – how d’you like it?”
“White – no sugar, thanks,” I said.
“Lennie?”
“Hot, black and strong – need triple caffeine,” Selena replied.
Danni repeated our orders to Jo-Jo who made brief notes on her pad. “And this is our friend, Billy – he’s on holiday from Scotland.”
Jo-Jo’s large brown eyes widened into circles. “Scotland -” she breathed in awe. “Where Scotland?” She spoke softly with a husky voice. Perhaps she smoked.
“A very long way from here - he just wanted to meet you.”
“Is good,” Jo-Jo replied and offered me her hand.
I stood up and shook it. “Very pleased to meet you,” I said in my very best possible accent. No social kiss-kissing obligations here, thank goodness.
Half a minute later, she was back with three bottles of ice-cold water.
“Drink plenty,” Selena told me. “White guys dehydrate.”
I sipped the water. “She’s very pretty,” I said in a low voice, nodding in the general direction of Jo-Jo.
Danni smiled. “Don’t get carried away,” she warned me. “Jo-Jo is a lady-boy.”
Now I remembered seeing something about the sex-change trade on a Channel 4 documentary. “So would she be a Joseph or Josephine?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Danni laughed. “I only come here for the coffee!”
A lady-boy? I shook my head. “Never would have guessed.”
“You’d have found out soon enough!” Selena grinned.
“She used to be a boy but didn’t like it,” Danni confided. “Now she calls herself a girl and lives with some guy over by the Klongsam Market.”
“Where’s that?” I asked. A little local knowledge never goes astray.
“Hey - he wants to try one for himself!” Danni laughed at Selena.
“Typical Brit – shag anything in knickers,” Selena agreed.
“Even if they’re breathing,” Danni added.
“Please forgive me, ladies – I was only asking.”
“Careful what you ask for,” Danni teased. “You just might get it.”
“And then again, he might be disappointed,” Selena said to Danni.
“Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it…” Then Danni turned to me, all straight-faced and serious. “It’s across the river – maybe we’ll take you tomorrow.”
“Or the day after…” Selena chipped in.
“Or when you’re so bloody desperate, you’d fuck-a-duck for a dollar,” Danni finished.
“Aussie style?” I had to ask.
Selena laughed and tossed her long wavy auburn hair. “All the way to Alice Springs and back,” the sex-goddess promised.
The coffee arrived. It was excellent. I nodded my thanks to Jo-Jo and she returned my smile. I was glad that Danni had let me into the secret. Without that inside information (if you’ll pardon the pun), who knows where my thirst for all things Asian could have lead me? Up a creek without a condom, very likely.
We drank in silence for a moment. Then Selena pointed through the window at a shop on the other side of the road. “7-11” she said. “Got ‘em in Scotland?”
It was something like a corner grocery store. “Similar – but not under that name,” I replied.
“Stay open all night? Serve coffee and doughnuts?”
“No, ours shut at ten,” I said, “but you might find one in a city.”
“Where’s your nearest?” Selena wanted to know.
“Stirling,” I told her. Accurate on both counts. The only corner shop in Glen Rowan didn’t stay open much after half-past five. Service to the public? Kiss my Shop Closed sign.
“And what goes on in Stirling?”
“Not too much to fire your enthusiasm,” I replied.
Selena thought for a moment. “What about the local talent?” she asked, leaning over the table towards me. “Don’t they all dress in kilts?”
“Only in the summer,” I told her. “Too damned draughty in winter.”
“No Excuse me, Cyril in the cock-up stakes?” Selena looked extremely disappointed.
“A ball in the hand is worth two up a kilt,” I said.
When we’d finished our coffees, Danni called Jo-Jo over, gave her a couple of bank notes and said something to her in Thai. Then she turned to me. “If you ever come in by yourself, Jo-Jo will take care of you.”
“I just bet she would,” I said politely - then thanked her in the traditional way. “I will see you again,” I smiled as I gave my little bow.
We left Jo-Jo’s café and Danni and Selena lead me down the street. There were any number of fast-food stalls on the corner and the charcoal smoke that filled the street was thick with smells of chicken, crispy duck and noodle soup.
Then I saw the shrine; it was white, stood in its own little ornamental garden and was decorated with saffron garlands. Not that far away, the Auto Bank; it had a cash machine - and as the Royal Bank had promised that my Visa card would work in Thailand, this little corner of the city could satisfy most of my daily needs.
My guiding angels lead the way across a courtyard towards the very inviting entrance to River City. At first, the illuminated trees, the potted plants and the neon signs made me think hotel – but once we were inside, I realised it was a shopping centre - a very high class shopping centre. None of your everyday market-stall tat in here, thank you. Only the very best – and at the very best prices. I tell you, I was almost afraid to look in the windows.
Even the escalator was upper-class. In the evenings, it used a power-saving system. It sat at rest until someone stood on it – either end, it didn’t matter. And once it sensed a presence, it knew which way to go and took you UP or DOWN.
The restaurant had chosen purple as its primary colour. Crisp white covers, cutlery and wine glasses lay waiting for action – with purple napkins folded into fan-tails. We chose a window setting with a view of the Chao Phraya river and watched the illuminated floating-restaurants roll up to the pier below, collect their diners and cruise up river, into the darkness.
“Nice if you don’t get sea-sick!” Danni smiled.
“But if your date gets mad, you can’t piss off and leave her,” Selena added.
“Which is why we’re here,” Danni grinned. “Thai or European?” She was holding a menu and checking through the dishes.
“Thai, please,” I replied. “European I can get at home.”
“Then we dine in style,” Selena promised and called one of the waiters to our table. I’ve no idea what she asked for, but it sounded complicated. “You like Thai beer?”
I remembered the can of Singha from my mini bar. “I could take another.”
“Good – make it three.”
First the beer, then the dishes: a steaming bowl of seaweed soup, large domes of boiled rice, steamed mushrooms and a fluffy yellow omelette. “And this is the sea bass,” Danni told me as the waiter removed the cover from an oval dish. “Eat in any order,” she said. “Call it pick-&-mix.”
“It looks sensational,” was all I could say. It looked good, it smelled delicious and it tasted absolutely wonderful. “Needs a photograph,” and extracted my neat little Canon IXUS from my trouser pocket.
“How sweet!” said Danni.
“What a cute little flasher,” came the Aussie from across the table.
“Ladies – please,” I begged. “Just a quickie before we eat.”
“Either/or – or both together?” Danni wanted to know.
“In the river if you don’t behave,” I said and clicked the button.
Once we had finished all that we could manage of the meal, we headed back towards the hotel. At the 7-11, Danni lead the way inside. “Can’t have you going hungry,” she said.
Inside, the 7-11 was just like any other corner Co-op: milk, bread, soft drinks, packets of crisps – nothing out of the ordinary, except that most had local packaging.
I needed a bar of soap. On the wash-or-wipe-it shelf, I found this bright green wrapper with flowers and three parrots. They’d called it Parrot Botanicals. It smelled delightful – but you could have sniffed all night and never thought of anything botanical. “Soap?” I asked.
Danni nodded, dropped it in our basket and then added half-a-dozen cans of fizzy drinks and three packets of sliced bread in plastic wrappers. She showed me the label: “Government Certified,” she said. “Safe to eat.”
“Comforting,” said and pulled out my wallet.
Danni waved it away. “No, no, no,” she said. “All in the same bed here – you can buy the lunch tomorrow.” With that, she gave the checkout girl two hundred baht and put our picnic in a plastic 7-11 bag for me to carry back to my room. Together, we walked back to the hotel, collected our keys and used the lift.
The Australian contingent was in 410 - two rooms further down the corridor. “Breakfast – 9am, no later – right?” Danni called from her doorway.
“Right,” I agreed.
“Sleep well,” Danni smiled.
“Close your eyes and dream of England!” cried an Aussie voice.
“Close your eyes and dream of Kodi,” called Danni as she closed their door.
*****
4A Reclining Buddha
*****
Sleep? First night in Thailand; seven hours behind the clock? Whatever made me think I even had a chance?
My television had thirty channels. These included BBC World News, an Australian station, something in German, good old EuroSport, a variety of quiz shows and soaps in any number of South-East Asian languages. I tried them all, one by one – but none could generate enough of a yawn-count to shut me down.
However, on the positive side, the Government Certified sandwiches were an entertainment in themselves. One (in bright yellow cellophane), was buttered bread with sugar: well worth a second go. Another had a picture of a happy little prawn on its wrapper and as the bread inside was spread with something pink, the cute little logo was probably a clue to its content.
Question: which process had been Government Certified - the smiling prawn or the tasty pink spread? I wasn’t really concerned. At 3am, anything is welcome with an ice-cold Singha.
The air-conditioner didn’t help. ON - I couldn’t stand the noise; OFF - the room became so steamy-hot that any degree of rest was totally out of the question. And as it only took three twist-&-turn manoeuvres on that rock-hard bed to make the sheet into the perfect knotted rope, I made a mental note of the process, just in case there was a fire and I had to escape.
My mind began to make a list of all the things I had to do – like sending postcards, buying souvenirs and coming-home presents. Then it moved along to requesting help from someone who could speak the language. Now, although Danni seemed to have a handle on the basics, the fantasies that flutter like demented budgies in the minds of those (like me) who’ve been denied their proper sleep since the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, began to involve the delightful Kodi. In this one, she was wearing a lime-green dress. Her long dark hair fell on her shoulders; she was smiling, happy to be with me. We were in a market; she was showing me an emerald ring…
As I fumbled in my pocket for the money, so my bedside phone went off and woke me up. It was half-past nine on Tuesday morning.
“You want breakfast, Mr Billy?” It was Kodi.
“Sounds like fun,” I said, trying to engage my brain.
“Stop at ten,” she warned - and that was it: final offer.
According to the Tourist Information notice behind my bedroom door, breakfast would be served in the coffee shop between the hours of 7am and 10am. My fault – I should have read it sooner. As I stepped out of the lift, my late-for-breakfast error produced an accusing stare from a portrait of Napoleon on his prancing horse.
“British breakfast-eater!” the Emperor glared. One could only wonder how he’d got to Thailand, who had hung him by the lift - and why?
It was 09:55 when I arrived at the Reception desk. “Good morning, Kodi,” I said politely as I passed her.
She looked up. “You sleep well?” she asked.
“Wonderful dreams!” I told her - but as she didn’t ask me, I didn’t go into detail. “Have my friends come down?”
“You mean Mrs Danni and the tall one?”
“That’s them,” I confirmed.