The Defector
Mark Chisnell
Published by Mark Chisnell at Smashwords
Originally published as The Delivery by:
Century Books Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
Copyright © Mark Chisnell 1996
Mark Chisnell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
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Reviews of The Defector
‘An excellent drug-smuggling thriller.’
The Bookseller
‘This is a remarkable thriller – chillingly violent, full of tension and with a very original ending.’
Publishing News
‘New British fiction writer Mark Chisnell will have to go a long way to top his debut.’
Bristol Observer
‘A fabulous and brilliantly written story.’
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
‘What an impressive debut it makes … Compelling, hard to put down.’
City Mix Auckland
‘A taut thriller… The Defector allowed Chisnell to create Janac, a truly memorable anti-hero.’
The Press, Christchurch
‘An evil storyline, with little relief and with great tension created.’
Hawke’s Bay Today
‘This thriller has pace and immediacy.’
Wairarapa Times-Age
‘Throw in a love triangle, the microcosm of a boat at sea and some good sailing and you’ve got a fine yarn… Chisnell has managed to create a smart and articulate villain, always the best kind.’
Sailing Magazine, USA
‘The culmination of the game will astound you.’
Trade-a-Boat, NZ
‘Never, never, never would I read a psychological thriller … Just as well, then, that I didn’t read the description on the back cover until after I’d finished the book, and by then was too breathless, terrified and awed to care…. The book’s strength is the author’s confident, original, at times tawdry, writing style.’
Boating New Zealand
Janac returns in The Wrecking Crew – also by Mark Chisnell
Reviews of The Wrecking Crew
‘It’s a great escapist yarn with Janac a really nasty villain who gives Hamnet untold grief. I enjoyed this one.’
Hawkes Bay Today
‘I found it impossible to put down.’
Boating New Zealand
‘A real ripping yarn, hard to take seriously but begging to be made into an all-action film.’
Qantas in-flight magazine
‘Perfect for summer reading.’
CityMix Auckland
Foreword
The Prisoner's Dilemma - n. A philosophical conundrum enacted through a game with two participants which gives an insight into the behaviour of the individual in society
The Prisoner's Dilemma was ‘discovered’ by Merrill Flood and Melvin Dresher, two scientists at the American RAND Corporation think-tank, back in 1950. It got its name from the story told by one of their colleagues, Albert W Tucker, to illustrate the ‘game’.
Two prisoners are held in solitary confinement, both accused of collusion in the same crime. They are each given the chance to turn State's evidence to assist in the conviction of the other. If they both choose to remain silent, they will each be convicted for one year. If they both choose to turn in the other, they will be convicted for three years each. However, should one of them remain silent and the other turn State's evidence, the squealer will go free and the other will do five years.
In Prisoner's Dilemma terminology squealing to the authorities (hoping to leave your fellow prisoner to his fate while you escape scot-free) is known as defecting. To remain silent, (hoping for the shortest combined prison term for the two of you) is known as cooperating. We can use these terms to write the Prisoner's Dilemma down in short-hand.
Two Co-operators: Both receive one year in jail
Two Defectors: Both receive three years in jail
One Defect and One Cooperate: The Defector goes free and the Co-operator gets five years.
The problem for each player is whether or not they can trust their fellow prisoner to remain silent. If they can, both of them get off lightly. But of course if one player, with both their interests at heart, decides to cooperate and remains silent whilst the other defects and squeals, then the co-operator ends up in jail for five years whilst the defector gets away completely. That would seem a pretty bad deal if you were the co-operator. So, the thinking goes, wouldn't it be better to squeal - just in case? But if both prisoners are thinking the same thing they both end up in jail for three years instead of one - if only they could have kept quiet.
Such is the train of thought which takes us to the most frequent result of a Prisoner's Dilemma in modern western society - mutual defection. But the Prisoner's Dilemma is not just a mind game, it appears everywhere, everyday of our lives - it is the central metaphor for our interpersonal behaviour. Take the case of an unmanned barrier on a railway system that has no ticket inspectors. Hop over the barrier and you get a personal gain - you save the fare. But if enough people do it, eventually the rail company has to put the fares up - and everyone who pays will suffer for the free ride the barrier hoppers are getting. In Prisoner's Dilemma terms the freeloader is defecting - putting his personal welfare ahead of the group interest. Whilst the ticket buyer is cooperating, hoping that everyone else will do the same and prices will stay down.
The Prisoner's Dilemma can be found residing just as clearly in insurance cheats, tax dodges and traffic queue jumpers - all relatively innocuous examples. But what if the Prisoner's Dilemma were taken to the other extreme? What if the choices involved were life and death? And what if the lives belonged to people you knew and someone you loved? This book is about just such a Dilemma.
Prologue – June 1992
It was Friday, and Fridays were always bad. This particular Friday was worse because of the rain. I love the place. Always have, and probably always will. Good old England. But I hate the rain, boy, do I hate the rain. And more than anything I hate driving in the rain. That day was typical, it was June and barely drizzling hard enough to get the wipers out of intermittent and into first gear, but there was a cloud of spray on the road so bad I could barely see the end of the bonnet on the BMW. And I was late. I was always late, I guess it was just a part of the lifestyle.
I saw the lorry a little late too, coming out from the slip road on my left. These guys, they think they own the road. And this one was typical, indicator on and just shove it out. I was doing nearly twice his speed and he only had to wait a few seconds and I'd be past him. But oh no, he wanted me to move over. But I didn't, I flashed the lights onto full beam, thumbed the horn and floored it. I'd just burst through the curtain of solid spray kicked up by the front wheels as they moved to avoid me. He over-reacted a little, I must have surprised him. I felt it more than saw it. The cab rocking and the squwoosh noise as the tyres let go on the wet road.
It was when I saw the trailer fill my rear view mirror that I knew it was going to be bad. Then there were the horns, the almost human wail of anguish as the inevitable slowly, hopelessly, became fact. The gate closed, the trailer just shut down the motorway behind me. I heard one crash, a high pitched screech that lowered into a grinding, ripping tenor howl before exhausting itself in a dull whumf. But by then I was gone, mist and drizzle and spray swallowed up the scene behind me. There was nothing, no one in the rear-view mirror. I watched a rain drop slide down the back window. I was the last one that made it through. I drove on, there was nothing else to do. You have to carry on, don't you?
Chapter 1
Seven months later: Ko Samui, an 'emerald island jewel set in the sapphire sea of the Gulf of Thailand' - or so the brochures would have you believe. But I knew it was costume jewellery, superficial glamour that barely hid a cheating heart. A heart I should avoid, but there I was, back on the dusty strip of bars and clubs where Ko Samui slinkily slipped out of its formal white sand and blue water into something more comfortable.
Chaweng Beach. The main drag. Midnight. Purple Haze pounded the air from a couple of bars down, the lights flared and the darkness turned into day-glo orange, then red, then green. The bar-girls shrieked at the conveyor belt of passing humanity. The women tourists looked away as their men leered. I picked up the glass of Mekong and coke and unsteadily raised it to my lips, ice was only a ghostly memory in the warm sugary fluid. I'd lost count of the evening's tally a while back. I gazed over the rim at the girl beside me. The beauty of Thai women is only matched by the country's reputation for selling it cheap: jet black hair, sultry eyes, the slim figure tucked neatly into the short, silk and very red dress. The brazen come-on was offset by a startling, almost luminous naiveté in her face. But it was the come-on quality I was interested in. The eyes said she was available - they all are, at a price.
The jet black curtain of hair shrouded her face as she bent to light a cigarette, a match flared in the gloom, dangerously close to it. This was the moment I'd been waiting for, I lifted my hand to brush it to safety.
‘No touch girl.’ said the voice.
I looked round, a little surprised, my hand frozen a couple of inches from her. It was the barman - he'd been watching our slow conversation for the last hour, why the problem now? My nostrils wrinkled involuntarily at the pungent cloud of smoke in my face. I turned back to the girl. She exhaled towards me, the red lips kissing the air then spreading into a smirk. A twinge of alarm forced its way through the alcohol. The barman took off his apron and stepped forward from behind the bar. The T-shirt underneath was not much cleaner than the apron had been, and it was stretched tight round a substantial frame. He looked like he had muscles in his shit.
‘No touch.’ he repeated.
‘Who says?’ I replied, almost before I'd thought about it.
‘I do.’ He answered, simply. The face was expressionless, the eyes impassive. I could have walked away from it - if I'd been smart. But my mouth was quicker.
‘And just who the hell are you?’ I said.
The eyes flickered, off to his right. I followed his gaze, another Thai had appeared behind the bar. The expensively tailored, white button-down shirt at odds with the thick, tattooed forearms, it had to be the manager. But it was the iron bar he put on the wooden counter between us that got my attention.
‘The boss don't like you touching girlfriend.’ said the barman.
Ah. The manager's girlfriend.
‘You been hittin' on her all night, and he just about had enough.’
It was that moment in all conflicts, potential and resolved, when your deepest instincts either get you out of the mess or cast you hopelessly adrift in it. This time, the booze had the final word.
‘Well, he shouldn't let her sit up here, dressed like a tart, along with the rest of the merchandise.’ I slurred out.
I heard the whistle and saw five other Thais separate out from the isolated groups of drinkers. Lots of gold jewellery clashed with the understated Brooks Brothers shirts. Chairs screeched on the wooden floor as the rest of the clientele turned to watch the show. The five approached casually from my left. They didn't seem to think I was going to give them much trouble. I guess I didn't think so either. I could feel the swoosh of alcohol around my brain, thoughts were slow and movements slower. I couldn't deal with this. I saw the tyre lever hefted off the counter by the boss. He moved slowly to his right, trying to pin me between him and the barman. I backed off the stool, getting some distance, closing the angle between the groups. My eyes flicking between them. The girl had disappeared.
Primitive survival instincts clicked into gear. Blood was pumping, my head clearing. The Thais came in a rush, like the adrenaline that suddenly coursed through my body. I dived in under the swinging tyre lever and my kick caught the manager off balance. He doubled up at the stomach. The tyre lever spun free. I lunged after it. I got half way to it before a chair slammed into the back of my knees. I went down hard, thinking that was it, they'd kill me now. I squirmed round, struggling to keep moving, lashing out at nothing and everything. Backing off, trying to stop them closing the circle. Aware only of the coming blow, the anticipated flash of pain. But it didn't happen to me.
They say in those books that glory in this kind of detail, that to win bar fights you have to be prepared to go straight to total violence. No pussy footing around with any of this wrestling stuff you see in the movies. Just hit the sucker as hard as you can in the softest spot you can reach with the hardest object you can lay your hands on. The head butt to the unprotected, fleshy nose, the knee to the groin and the finger in the eyeball are all good, solid, bar fight moves. But this guy, he must have written the manual.
He appeared behind the ring of encircling Thais. I hadn't noticed him before and he certainly didn't look like some kind of all action hero; lightly built, five eleven tops and dressed in chinos and an open collared shirt. The ginger hair was close-cropped, military style. No rippling muscles or martial arts stance. But he was fit, and the face was as lean and hard as the body, creased and freckled by too much sun. His expression had an almost surreal calm, no grimace as his left hand chopped down into the neck of one of my attackers. The man dropped heavily; heaving, retching, struggling to suck air through a traumatised wind pipe. His nearest companion turned, but too slow, something metallic flashed as the newcomer's right hand drove in a straight arm punch. The Thai spun away clutching at a bloodied face.
Then everything was still. Smart move I thought, if I was them I wouldn't be in any hurry to shift either. The newcomer quickly took the opportunity and stepped in between me and the Thais, ‘You ok?’ he asked over his shoulder. American.
‘Sure, thanks....’ I eased myself gently to my feet, brushing away the dust, taking some much needed deep breaths.
He didn't take his eyes off the five still standing as he slid the heavy steel watch back from his knuckles onto his wrist. In the silence I heard the catch on the strap close. ‘We're leaving now.’ he said to them. No one moved. ‘We'll just move off nice and easy,’ he went on in a lower voice. ‘You go first, watch the back, I'll keep an eye on these boys.’ I shuffled to the door, the stranger backing up, until he joined me on the street. We set off together, walking rapidly. He glanced over his shoulder once or twice, but no one was following. After about a hundred metres there was still no sign of pursuit from the bar. I started to slow and then stopped. I must have been a good couple of inches taller and several stone heavier than this guy, but I held my place against the flow of people around us with a difficulty he didn't appear to be having.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ I said, ‘You saved my hide back there.’
‘No problem, those guys are pricks.’ he finished with a grimace that might have been a smile, revealing some unamerican yellow teeth. ‘But I'll take the drink anyway. I know a place just down by the beach. The owner's an acquaintance - no one'll bother us there.’
I followed him down the hill towards the ocean, visible only by the line of white surf on the beach. We turned west along the sand and ducked through a t-shirt stand. I clattered against a bench of trinkets. Christ, how much had I had to drink already? The sobering effect of the adrenaline rush was beginning to slip away. We emerged in a back alley of wooden shacks, crackling fires and silent stares, walking another fifty metres to a bar well hidden from the tourist strip. The kind of local bar where the clientele have to be friends of the owner or they don't get in. There were some bamboo chairs and tables scattered around a hard earth floor. Otherwise the place was empty. I sank gratefully into a chair and sucked at a split knuckle.
A waiter stepped out of the gloom like a ghost. The American spoke rapidly in Thai and the man returned with a bottle.
‘What are we drinking?’ I asked.
‘Local stuff, but it's ok.’ he said. The glasses clattered onto the table top and the amber liquid rolled into them. The waiter had started to move away when the stranger's hand flashed out, grabbing him by the wrist, ‘We'll keep it.’ he said.
The barman looked at him and then down at the hand imprisoning his arm. He quickly let the bottle go. In the silence I dropped a fistful of notes on the table. The waiter snatched them up, revealing the ugly red welt left on his wrist.
I picked up the glass gratefully, it slipped down easily. So did the second and the third. It wasn't until they had stopped that I realised how badly my hands had been shaking, ‘Thanks for your help.’ I said.
‘It was nothing.’ he replied.
I shrugged, swallowed the drink. The glow was spreading outwards. I gazed hazily at the roof. A spider crawled erratically down a bamboo pole, the single bare bulb throwing its shadow into gargantuan relief. I hauled in a deep breath, and slumped forward onto the support of my elbows.
‘Better?’
I nodded, and held out my hand, there was only the slightest tremor, ‘See? No problem.’ I said.
He nodded solemnly, but didn't shift his gaze from the rest of the room, ‘It's scary that stuff, if you aren't used to it.’
‘You look like you are.’ I made the statement flat, no rising inflection, no question asked. His cold grey eyes swivelled slowly towards me. The memory of the sudden violence of only minutes before came back sharply. Two guys hospitalised with startling speed and precision. And complete indifference. You wouldn't mistake this guy for someone who gave a fuck. I sat, frozen in that frigid gaze for a full half minute. Until he picked up the bottle and the chuckle of alcohol into my glass broke the uneven silence. I heard my heart beating in time to the tick, tick of the ceiling fan. I wanted to leave, but that gaze had immobilised with its spell.
‘So what brings you to Ko Samui?’ his eyes swept across the room again as he spoke. Then settled on the open door. The door. How to get through it? I began to frame some excuses for leaving in my head, but first, his question.
‘I just needed to get away for a while.’ It sounded lame as soon as I'd said it.
‘You in trouble?’
And suddenly we weren't small talking any more. How to get through that door?
‘Not exactly.’ I said, stalling, gazing down at the patterns of dirt at my feet. But 'No' was the right answer. I might have escaped all that followed if I'd just said 'no' right then. Made up some bullshit story about a holiday and got the hell out of there.
Instead, I glanced up and once more I was fixed in the glare of those penetrating grey eyes. I could feel them sucking it out of me. I'd not talked to anyone else, not since the accident. So why now? And to this stranger, who was already on the way to freaking me out? I still wonder about that. But the answer was right there in those eyes.
‘It's a long story.’ I said, throwing back the contents of the glass.
He smiled again, yellow teeth and gaunt face skull-like in the gloom, ‘We got plenty of time.’ he said, reaching forward and refilling the glass again.
I slumped back in the chair. The spider had gone. The bulb was swinging lightly under a puff of wind. My mind started to follow it, dizzily beginning to spin. I leaned forward again quickly, gazing ahead until the giddiness had gone. A puddle of beer was slowly working its way down a crack in the table. ‘I guess it started about six months ago. There was a motorway accident, although I wasn't involved in the crash itself...’ I stopped, thinking about the trailer filling my rear view mirror, the horns, the rising alarm. And then that gentle wumph. That must have been the explosion that started the fire. ‘It wasn't my fault... I mean, the other guy definitely screwed up. And no one even knows I was there... you certainly couldn't prove it was my fault. I cut the guy up and he lost control, over-reacted to the situation...’ I stopped and took a deep breath, looked up again, but the grey eyes were cold, ‘Eighteen people died. Several of them burned to death, trapped inside a minibus. I read about it in the papers the day after.’
The beer had made it to the edge of the table and was slowly dripping onto my leg. I watched another drop fall. The brown stain crept slowly across the faded denim. Somewhere I found it in me to care enough about it to move. I shifted and looked up.
‘So?’ he said.
‘So...?’ I choked, ‘So eighteen people died and...’ the words tumbled out, then evaporated. I tried again, ‘I don't... I mean... fuck it.’ I shook my head. I hadn't got the words. I stared at him, but there was nothing in those grey eyes, no blame, no sympathy. Perhaps, and only perhaps, a little curiosity.
I snorted back a deep breath through my nose and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. Why was I doing this? But having started, it seemed I couldn't stop. ‘For weeks afterwards I caught myself doing the same sort of thing, cutting people up, not letting them into queues, driving like a real arsehole. It was like...am I always like this? Or did I want to get caught, get it out in the open. Almost like it was guilt. Shit, I mean, I knew it wasn't my fault but...’ I lifted the glass and stared at the glowing amber light. I poured it back. ‘I started drinking, a lot. Started to lose it at work. I was a currency dealer in a big London bank. And I was good, made a lot of money. But it started to slip and then there was a deal...’
I shuddered slightly as that day came back at me. The row with Jo that night, rolling in to the office at nearly ten the next morning looking like shit. Then the 'this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you' speech from the boss. I could still smell the power and money that hung in the air in that office, oozing out of the wood, the leather, the wool. It could have been mine. My secretary had brought me a coffee afterwards, no one else came near. The word had gone round. I was history. Bad news. A loser. Last seen leaving.
I slugged back the whole of the drink. I was numb now and the liquid no longer had its fiery effect, but I didn't have much more to say. I went on in a hollow, distant voice, slurring the words, ‘I lost the job, then the girlfriend.’ I smiled weakly. ‘The money went, she went. Fuck her, I don't miss her. I packed a bag and took a plane out here. Bangkok blew my brains out, someone told me about the islands, I got on a bus and've been drifting around down here ever since.’
I looked at him, there was no expression, no response. I stared back into the glass and watched a final trickle of alcohol slip back down to the bottom. But looking down was a big mistake. My head started to spin, there was the hot rush of nausea. I bit back hard, struggled to my feet, stumbling backwards. I think I made it to the veranda before I threw up.
Chapter 2
I must have slept a while. But consciousness came like a painfully piercing light. The sun finally emerging through heavy, grey clouds in the aftermath of a wicked storm. I twitched my eyes open a crack and stared upwards. Gradually a little light started to filter through the matted roof. It must be morning. My head was pounding. Slowly I levered myself upwards. At this point my stomach registered a severe protest. I flinched quietly and rolled over onto my side, pushing my legs out and slowly easing off the edge of the bed. I was starting to sweat and my legs were shaking.
I staggered the few steps over towards the bathroom. Such as it was. Basically a bowl, toilet and a shower head in a screened off corner. I groped around in the half light until I found the bottle of water. I slugged it back. Slowly I became conscious of my mouth. I felt round my teeth with my tongue, gently dislodging pieces of food. Probably vomit. Foul. I found a toothbrush and gingerly prodded around in my mouth with the help of lots more water. When I finally sat back on the edge of the bed I was feeling quite a bit better. I let myself drop back, landing heavily as my stomach muscles weren't quite up to the task.
The second time I saw the roof, daylight was streaming in. And it was hot. I was hot. I was soaked in sweat. I glanced at my watch, two pm. I tried the sitting upright business again and this time it hardly hurt at all. I stretched gently and eased myself off the bed. The sordid clothes from the night before were swopped for a clean pair of shorts and I staggered out into the too bright daylight. I had to close my eyes completely whilst my iris's, which not unreasonably had assumed they'd got the day off, were summoned back from wherever they had gone and put to work.
The scene, when finally it revealed itself, was the same one that had greeted me each morning for the past couple of weeks. A few rather shabby bamboo beach huts scattered around a central covered area that passed as restaurant and bar. A couple of figures were dotted around the shaded tables and beyond them others were stretched out on the beach to fry in the afternoon sun. Dumb cancer-heads. But it was a stunning beach, the kind they make chocolate bar ads on, with white, white sand sliding gently under the ridiculously azure water. I took a deep breath, then turned back inside to find a beach mat, book and the water bottle.
‘Martin!’
I turned, still moving smoothly so as not to disturb the delicately balanced equilibrium of my health, to see a small figure running down the beach towards me. It was Prachit, at least I think that was her name, the young daughter of the manager. She worked in the restaurant and bar and we'd struck up quite a friendship in the past couple of weeks. Strictly platonic, I hasten to add. She bounced up, panting anxiously, and said, ‘You ok Martin?’
‘I think so.’ I replied in a hoarse croak. She looked dubious so I carried on before she could find the words to express it, ‘How did I get back here last night?’
‘We find you in road with other man and bring you back on motorbike.’
‘That's very kind of you, I was in a bad way. What did the other man look like?’
‘Like you, Farang, but not so fat,’ she paused and made a height motion with her hand, ‘not so...,’
‘Tall?’
‘Yes, not so tall, funny red hair.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Ask where you from, I tell him here.’ the pretty features were breaking into a frown, so I smiled to reassure her.
‘That's great, thank you. You know what I'd like? One of those special fruit shakes you do for me, could I have one please?’
She beamed, revealing a row of shining white teeth, ‘No worries,’ she said.
I did wonder whether the varied English influences in the little resort were having a positive impact on her grasp of the language. I smiled again and turned back to go inside the hut.
‘Martin,’ and I looked over my shoulder, ‘you very funny last night.’ she said, giggling, and ran off. The other question, it then occurred to me, was whether I was having a good influence on her. I retrieved my beach mat and book and settled under the shade of a palm tree to wait for Prachit to return with my drink. I flicked through the book to find the crease that marked my place. But my eyes refused to hold the focus and the page blurred out. I closed them ready to settle for more sleep and immediately a new image exploded on my consciousness.
Kate.
Of course, Kate. The drink had done the trick for a while, and I'd forgotten everything. I'd spotted her in the market yesterday afternoon. At first I hadn't been completely sure that it was her. There was nothing to connect her to this place, no reason why she should turn up here. She belonged three years and thousands of miles away. Maybe my mind was playing tricks. But even with all that time and distance the half glance I had caught of her was enough. The way she tilted her head, moved her body, there had been no doubt. The final, concrete flash of recognition had brought an almost physical pain, as past events crowded in, shrieking for attention. All so immediate it was overwhelming.
I stood, giddily, watching. It was then that I noticed the man beside her. She had turned to him and laughed, one hand flicking an insect off his shoulder. He had frowned at her, at the contact, and as he glanced up he caught my eye as I stared at them. I had dived away, pushed deep into the crowd. There had been no shout, no cry of recognition. I didn't know him either, but I could guess who he was.
I forced my eyes to focus in the present and down at the book. Struggling to shut out the image. But the words were no competition for the slight, blonde figure and the memories it brought. The one, single thing that I'd ever truly loved. And she had turned up here.
I could remember every detail about the night we had met. It'd been the autumn of 1986 and I had been dragged up to Oxford to go to a party by an acquaintance from the bank. I hadn't been too keen on the idea, but I'd been persuaded. Kate had been there, a vision of disillusioned, radical chic in torn jeans and oversized woolen jumper. But she could have worn a coal sack and looked good as far as I was concerned. We had argued intensely for hours, mostly about Thatcher's vision of the Britain we were going to live in, and then had crazy, passionate sex till the sun came up.
I'd been hooked from then on. She was a first year politics student and made Lenin look like Genghis Khan. The daughter of a wealthy businessman she had the financial stability to be able to afford such radical principles. Or so I used to like to tell her - the true working class were busting their butts for a middle class income, if not the social mores, and couldn't afford the luxury of principles. I had the advantage of my own background and could infuriate her in seconds - by asking how the hell she could know what the working class was about when the only one she'd ever met was me.
And that's how it had been. Discussions that became arguments that became rows. Conducted with a passion and intelligence that surprised us both. I suppose that's part of what the attraction was, we brought out the best and the worst in each other. There were times when we were so in tune, I'd been thinking maybe we could go and see that new movie tonight and she'd already have bought the tickets and booked a table as a surprise. Then there'd be those slow, sexy, Sunday mornings in bed, a walk in the park all bundled up against the cold, and coming home to a big roast dinner just as it started to get dark. We'd light the fire and settle down with the papers. And then she'd see some article, and get all outraged about the latest privatisation sell-off, and of course I'd know the guys dealing with the issue or have the prospectus and that would fire us off. We wouldn't talk for a week. Or two. Three was the record, I think.
Considering how good the reconciliation was it still struck me as amazing that we managed three weeks. Stubborn? Pig-headed would be closer. And those principles of hers? Contrasted with the oh, so comfortable background, they always used to wind me up. But of course, in the end such people can only prove themselves by taking the final step and disavowing their inheritance. And the very passion that had so attracted me to her took her away. As the 'eighties' got cranked up to its full clichéd frenzy even Gordon Gecko might have had a few principled shudders if he'd seen what I was up to. We had argued more, but with real venom. Finally she had dropped out of Oxford a few weeks before her finals, throwing away what her tutors regarded as a near-certain first class honours degree, told her father where he could shove her allowance and climbed on a plane to Australia. Which ticket, of course, he'd paid for.
It'd been perfect until then, hot-shot city boy with the BMW, gold card and fabulous looking girl on his arm. And not just fabulous looking either; smart, passionate, caring... But I could go on listing adjectives indefinitely and still not pin down what it was about her. She just had it, and I had never recovered. She left me to travel, and ended up with another guy. I shuddered a little, a cold shiver in the sweaty humidity at the thought of that final phone call. Scott, that was his name. A professional racing sailor. And that was him yesterday. I was sure of it. He would have been with her as long as I had, longer, just over three years. And they were still together.
I had skirted around and moved in closer to them from the other direction, but still keeping my distance. They were easy to follow, moving slowly through the throng of stalls and people. I tagged along, gazing blankly at a hundred sarongs and a thousand postcards. I bumped gently into ten thousand people and uttered a million 'sorrys'. But my thoughts and my eyes never strayed from her. I couldn't figure it out. Why was she here, crashing back into my life when I was least able to deal with it? No job, not much money and precious little purpose. It wasn't exactly the kind of situation that gave you confidence was it? I must have followed them for hours, unable to decide what to do, unable to approach her, but equally unable to tear myself away. I should have got out, there and then, I could feel the old feelings growing even as I watched her. She was dangerous for me. I didn't know if I was strong enough to deal with her now. But I couldn't stop watching her, alone and, with him. Thinking, thinking it should be me.
They'd ended up on the courtesy bus to the Emperor's Hotel. I had drifted into the nearest bar and a substantial amount of Mekong and coke.
A puff of wind stirred the pages of the book. I let them blow across, closing my eyes and trying to forget.
‘Martin.’
The voice came through sharply, and I started awake.
‘Damn.’ the pain shooting through my neck made it clear I had not fallen asleep in an orderly fashion. It was stiff and sore where it had been propped up against the tree trunk. I rubbed it gingerly as I looked around for the source of the voice. The book still lay on my lap, the untouched glass was all but hidden in a buzz of insect life and beyond it the sun was plummeting towards the horizon in a red ball. Highlighted against it was a dark but recognizable figure. The last person I wanted to see: my saviour from the night before. I started to pick myself up from the sand, trying to think of something to say.
‘I brought you this.’ he said, proffering a drink.
I looked at it a little hesitantly, then back at him, ‘Thanks.’ I said, taking it slowly.
‘I'm Janac.’ he replied, stretching out a hand.
‘Martin.’ I said. He nodded. Of course, he already knew. I shook his hand. He looked one of those types who goes for the immediate psychological advantage by breaking your fingers, but I was pleased to find the grasp almost gentle. Of course I thought, he already has the advantage, he saved my butt from a beating.
‘Thanks, for last night.’ I said.
He shrugged, ‘You already did that.’
I rubbed my forehead, ‘Did I?’ I nodded, as though remembering. ‘So you found me.’ I added, non-committally.
‘Uhuh, pretty little thing that took you home last night told me where you were.’
I nodded.
‘You don't mind.’ It wasn't a question, I didn't have a choice. But the tone said he could care less anyway.
‘No, no, of course not.’ I went through the motions. After all, I'd be in some hospital right now if it wasn't for him. I took a sip of the drink and tried to relax a little.
‘You want to take a seat?’ I asked, indicating the bar.
‘Sure. That'd be nice.’ I led the way over and we sat down, one either side of a small glass-topped wooden table. I gently put my drink down and massaged my temples.
‘So how are you today?’ he asked.
I glanced at him, ‘Better than I was earlier.’ I said.
‘Yeah, you didn't seem too good last night. I was quite happy when that young girl turned up, I had no idea what to do with you.’
‘She works here, she's a good kid.’
Janac grunted and shifted in his chair. I watched the cool, grey eyes sweep the bar and then the beach. I could remember those eyes well enough. And the purposeful stillness. He was here for a reason. I waited, silently, to find out what it was.
Finally he said, ‘My car's parked out the back. You up for some dinner?’
Again it didn't seem so much a question as an order. I twirled my finger through the ice in the glass. Watching the cubes tumble over each other. I didn't want to do this. But he'd saved me from a beating and I owed him one. I couldn't say no. I took another sip of my drink.
‘I really feel pretty damn rough...’ I started. I let the silence roll for a couple of seconds, then I leaned forward, and picked up one of the loose coins someone had left as change on the table. ‘Tell you what, heads I go with you, tails I stay here, take three aspirin and crash out. Agreed?’
It was the first time I'd seen him smile properly. It almost reached his eyes. I'd hit the right note. He nodded, ‘Ok.’
I flipped the coin and missed the catch. It bounced and span on the glass table top. It seemed to take an eternity to settle.
‘Heads.’ said Janac, starting out of his chair, ‘Let's go.’
Chapter 3
‘Martin?’
‘Uhuh?’ I murmured, without moving.
‘Martin!’ the tone was much sharper. I looked round at Janac quickly. He held out something, a rolled up bill. My heart jumped, I looked down at the table between us. Two neat lines of white powder on a shiny mirror. I'd been so absorbed in watching the two girls shooting up a couple of tables away I hadn't even noticed. I glanced around, no one seemed to be watching, never mind caring.
‘There's no problem in here,’ the tone was insistent, the hand extended a half inch further with the bill.
I scratched at the corner of my eye. Looked at Janac, the bill, the coke. I needed something, I felt like death. I took the bill.
The meal arrived, the smell was stunning. I had no idea I was this hungry. But then I hadn't eaten all day, and I must have thrown up most of yesterday's. I grabbed a fork. It was good, very good, brilliant. So was I. I glanced around the club. Lit by flickering candles that created motion where there was none, and disguised it where there was. Only a few people dotted around in the shadows, despite the queue outside. The two girls with the needles had joined us. Janac had snapped his fingers and it had been so. It seemed everything had been like that. We had cruised in here past three sets of doormen and a fifty yard queue as though Janac owned the place. He probably did. And I was feeling pretty damn cool in the reflection of that presence now. Empowered rather than uneasy. The coke had breezed away the tiredness, the night was young, and we were in for a seriously good time.
I felt a light touch on my leg, it crept slowly upwards. I glanced at the two girls. One was now beside Janac and I had the undivided attention of the other. A pink tongue crept out and slid across the blood red lips. I smiled and inclined my head. She moved round the table and slid astride my thigh. She weighed nothing. I put my arm round her tiny waist and felt the hot skin under the filmy, almost intangible dress.
‘How's the food?’ said Janac.
‘Excellent.’ I said, shifting slightly so I could still get at the meal. He was picking desultorily at his with a fork, the same hand holding a cigarette. The smoke drifted upwards to join the chemical cocktail in the atmosphere - an air sample would probably have been enough to get you busted for possession.
He nodded thoughtfully, ‘Tell me how you lost your job.’
Some of my euphoria evaporated. I stared at the food for a second, ‘I need another drink.’ I pushed forward my empty glass. I'd been converting chemicals faster than ICI and didn't want to slow down.
His fingers snapped again, then he turned back to me interrogatively.
I rubbed my nose with a blunt forefinger. ‘Middle of summer last year, just before the car crash. The European Union had signed the Maastricht treaty. The coming of a single currency required the exchange rates to be held for two years prior to the event. Failing to do so meant dropping out and being consigned to second string in a two-tier Europe - highly embarrassing for the Government of the country concerned. This meant a lot of political credibility was invested in holding the rate parities, which in turn made the risks of currency devaluation very low. So, everyone was buying in the normally weaker, high risk currencies, which had some very attractive interest rates compared to the Deutschmark. A high yield and low risk. All good news.’
I shrugged, adjusting the table mat as the waiter arrived with my drink. ‘But along came the Danish referendum with a 'No' vote on the treaty. And all of a sudden the political certainties were no longer certain. Some big players started to bail, getting back into the Deutschmark. It was about then that the accident happened. I was ok for a while, but I got on this guilt trip and somehow the deal got all mixed up in it. I wanted to believe in the single currency, that it was right for business, you know.’ I looked up to find the usual dispassionate gaze from Janac, ‘No, you wouldn't know. But fixed rates make it easy for people to do business. I thought we should support that. We spent so much time screwing with the market for our own profit that I wanted to see those rates held for once.’
I reached out for the drink and a thin arm slipped round my neck, her body was warm and relaxed against mine. ‘But I was hopelessly wrong. The fundamental reality was that the pound went into the ERM too high, it had to realign downwards. All the research said so. It was inevitable and everyone could see it. Except the politicians and me. But there was all this rhetoric from the press, painting the traders as profiteering bad guys. I didn't want to be a bad guy anymore. Too much guilt. So I stuck with pounds. On a day when the Quantum Fund made a billion dollars, I lost big.’ I shook my head bitterly, skin still crawling at the memory, the buzz in the office, the humiliation of being a loser. ‘While Norman Lamont was singing in the bath I was pissing in the wind.’
I took another redeeming slug of the drink before I went on. ‘I really fucked up, for the first time I confused right and wrong with profit and loss. They reckon the Central Banks spent fifteen billion quid trying to support sterling that one day alone. Whose money do you think that was? The taxpayers. But it just got washed away. On average the London currency market deals with three hundred billion dollars a day. The fifteen billion was nothing. The markets just pummelled them.’ I shook my head ruefully, ‘When you've seen that kind of power, you want to be a part of it. I'll go back, got six months to sort myself out. You should have seen it that final day, god the market was just running with cash.’
Janac was eyeing me carefully, ‘The currency markets aren't the only place you can make big money.’ he said.
I watched him flick the ash off his cigarette. It was clear where this was going. It was in the air, literally. I should at least have tried to make a break then, but the coke was still pumping through my body.
‘You're a player Martin.’ he said, ‘you could be a player here.’
I nodded, letting him reel me in, god help me. I forked in another mouthful of rice, but it was starting to get cold. I pushed the plate away. Janac had fallen silent, sipping at his drink. The girl fidgeted restlessly under his arm. She was obviously getting bored.
‘So, if I told you we had a little action out here would you be interested?’ he said, after a pause.
‘What kind?’
He nodded down at the table, sticking his finger in the tiniest trace of white powder. I felt the girl tense under my arm, she was watching him hungrily. He saw the desire and slowly reached out and placed the finger on her lips. Her tongue slipped out and licked it lovingly. Janac shifted his gaze back to me and his eyebrows arched enquiringly.
I glanced away over his shoulder, trying to think of a response, wondering in a corner of my mind if he ever did that shit himself. The girl had followed my gaze, then quickly shifted, putting her arms around me, nuzzling her face in the nape of my neck. I ran my finger gently down her spine. Behind Janac a curtain had shifted to reveal a stage. I watched as a slight Thai girl crawled into the spotlight. She was shaking, crying. The distant professionalism of the sex shows was absent. Also missing was the cheap glamour, she was wearing a stylish silk dress.
An answer came to me, which had the dual benefits of being both a refusal and an early negotiating stance, ‘I earned over two hundred thousand in bonus the year before last,’ I said, ‘and that was on top of my hundred grand salary. And no personal risk. Whereas drugs are high risk, low return, unless you're close to the top.’
There was a long silence. I felt rather than saw Janac take a drag of his cigarette, as I watched the stage show develop. Five men surrounded the girl. Dressed all in black, bizarre, brightly coloured masks hid their faces. A strobe light came on as they started to push her around, casting the scene in a harsh monochrome flicker. Now with jerky, brutal movements they tore at the dress. She twisted and turned, already half-naked, she fought to cover herself. Someone slapped her, another kicked her legs out from behind. She fell badly and strong arms grabbed her, pinning her down. It was a choreographed rape scene. I wanted to look away. But I was gripped by the anguish, the pain in the girl's face and in every torrid, freeze-frame movement.
‘Jesus.’ I breathed out. If pornography could be art, this was. ‘What an actress.’ I said, finally glancing away long enough to reach for my drink.
Janac glanced over his shoulder, ‘It helps when it's real.’ he replied, bluntly.
I heard him, but couldn't register the meaning, ‘I'm sorry?’ I whispered, glass half-way to my mouth.
‘It's for real, they pull a kid off the street, run her up a dress, then throw her on the stage and rape her.’ There was the cynical, yellow toothed smile, ‘It's a competitive market, there's only so much you can do with ping pong balls, razor blades and snakes.’
His hand came up with the cigarette. I watched the tip flare and die.
Back on stage she had almost stopped struggling, the remaining resistance seemed focused in her left hand, caught in a streak of light. It twitched, half unclenched, but she was desperately trying to hold on to something. Then with a sudden spasm her hand was flung open and a small, shiny object spun out and rolled across the stage. It seemed to have an energy of its own as it careered towards me, fleeing the nightmare behind. My eyes, and a single spotlight, followed it magnetically. What was so important to her? Slowly it looped into a spiral, tracing a series of ever smaller circles until it sank to rest only yards away. A button. A gold button.
I tried to wet dry lips, gaze hopelessly drawn back to the girl. Just her head was moving, almost imperceptibly, tiny flicks back and forth, shaking, no, no, no. I looked at her tear stained, bloodied face, looked into her eyes. Stop them, she was pleading. I started to rise. There was a fevered grasp round my neck, as the girl on my lap began to slip off. And then Janac's hand was firmly planted on my wrist.
‘No.’ he said.
‘But the girl...’ I choked.
Janac shrugged, ‘From one of the villages up north, an orphan. Nobody knows or cares about her. If she makes it through tonight and cooperates they'll put her to work on the streets, if she's good, she'll maybe even make it in here.’ he nodded at our companions. ‘These girls are the best.’
I slumped back. Washes of emotion crashed over me; nausea, revulsion, disgust, fear, anger - and shame. I looked back at Janac, he was still picking at his food. Watching me, with that half-smile, eyes glittering with a bitter amusement, ‘What were you going to do?’
‘Stop them.’
‘You want to be next?’ He was suddenly very still.
‘God no.’
‘I won't protect you in here.’
I stared at him through a long silence, the grey eyes never left my face. Finally I pulled some bills out of my pocket. ‘How much would she cost, for the rest of the night?’
The gaze flickered down at the pile of notes on the table, ‘That should do it.’
I pushed it all forward, ‘Tell them.’
Janac shrugged, disbelief in the eyes and the motion, ‘Where do you want her?’
‘I don't want her, tell them to get her a hotel room, some good food, tell them to be fucking nice to her!’ I was shouting the last words out.
Janac waved over a waiter, and spoke some words, in Thai. Handing over the wad of cash, he pointed to the stage, where the girl was lying alone in the spotlight. A crumpled, quivering heap of blood, shredded clothes and shattered humanity. The girl on my lap was listening, she shifted, staring at me. It was a confused expression. I stared back blankly. She started to move away, I let her go.
‘I thought you were a player Martin.’
I shook my head. ‘I think I should leave.’
Janac nodded slowly, then turned and waved over another waiter, who started towards us. He turned back to me, ‘See that guy over there?’ he said.
I followed his gaze.
‘Blond hair, denim shirt, a couple of tables down.’
I nodded.
‘Australian narc, why don't you go tell him all about it?’
‘What?’
‘He's an Australian narcotics cop, go tell him, maybe he'll arrest somebody.’
‘Christ! He could do something?’
‘Like bust you for shooting those lines?’
I could feel myself redden hotly, anger and shame.
‘Don't worry, he can't touch us, no jurisdiction, and the locals won't cooperate.’
The waiter was beside Janac, a few words in Thai and then, ‘The bill please and a drink for my friend.’ he pointed to the cop, speaking in English now for my benefit.
I watched the waiter go to the bar, lurid Hawaiian shirt clashing with the blackness, and then on to the cop. He put down the drink and indicated in our direction. The cop turned, surprised and concerned, staring straight at us. He hesitated, then rose, picked up the drink and headed over towards us. The waiter trailed anxiously in his wake, another joined him. Alarmed, I was half-way out of my seat when the Australian got to us. He was tall, over six foot, bleached blond hair and a deep tan. Rugged features and an arrogantly jutting jaw. Janac remained seated, one leg still nonchalantly crossed over the other. Arm still round the girl. But the grey eyes were watchful. I sat back down.
Without a word the Australian tipped the glass and the dark liquid splashed onto the floor. There was a light tinkling sound as the ice cubes followed. My heart had stopped. I didn't seem to need to breath any more either. This guy was dead.
Janac sucked his teeth and blew out a shred of tobacco. Eventually the eyebrows flicked up and that distorted smile returned to his lips. ‘Get him another drink.’ he said tersely, to the hovering waiter.
The waiter started to turn, but the Australian grabbed his jacket roughly, ‘Don't bother, I don't want it.’
Janac looked unfazed, the smile still there. He reached into his jacket with a movement that was as casual as it was fast. It looked like he was going for his wallet. His hand emerged with a gun. An old-fashioned six shooter revolver now levelled between the cop's eyes.
Time had stopped; all other sounds in the room had receded. The girls scurried away. All I could hear was the buzzing in my ears. The Australian's hand dropped off the waiter.
‘If you don't want another, you'd better have the one on the floor.’ said Janac. ‘Lick it up.’
‘Fuck you.’ said the cop, but his words were undermined by the tremor in his voice.
The hammer clicked back, the cylinder sliding noiselessly round. Janac rose from his seat. The gun steadily advancing until it was between the Australian's lips, ‘Lick it up.’ he repeated.
In the silence I could hear the Australian's teeth click on the steel, he was visibly paling underneath the tan. He stood his ground for a couple more seconds, then slowly dropped to his knees. The gun backed off and followed him down. All four of us watched its progress.
‘Lick it up.’ the words were slow, heavy with menace. The cop bent, eyes finally lowered. Instantly Janac's boot slammed down on his neck, pressing his face hard into the floor. He snorted and struggled, bubbling the liquid, ‘Suck, you arsehole.’
There was a gurgling, gasping, pain filled suck.