Necropath (25 page)

She ran from the bar, feeling a sudden flutter of excitement in her belly—and at the same time apprehension. She tried to push from her mind what Fat Cheng had said about the Paradise Bar and concentrate on this job. Never before had she gone out to a smart hotel to see a customer—that privilege was left to the beautiful girls, who were always going out to expensive hotels and clubs, balls and parties. Now,
she
was going to see a rich customer in the Astoria.

She arrived at the taxi rank. A dozen sleek, jet-black fliers waited on the ramp like hungry, carnivorous fish. She climbed the steps, feeling as if she were trespassing, that at any second a cop would grab her by her T-shirt and haul her away. She leaned in through the open window of the first flier. “Astoria hotel, Silom Road.”

The pilot hardly glanced at her. She climbed into the back seat, sinking into the plush upholstery. She had to sit up to peer out through the window as the flier climbed. Inside, the noise of the jet engine was muffled. She watched the street, the flashing lights, and the crowds of people fall and tilt away beneath her as the cab banked. And then, so suddenly that Sukara was forced back into her seat, breathless, the flier accelerated. Buildings flickered by, then disappeared as the flier gained cruising altitude. Below, Bangkok was spread out for her inspection, a stretch of individual lights fusing into a continuous, hazy glow on the horizon. The Chao Phraya lay to her left, a dark swathe winding its way through the illumination. She sat back in the seat, bouncing once or twice and caressing the soft leather, her worries forgotten for now.

She wondered who had summoned her. She could think of two or three regular customers she thought it might be. Always, though, they had come to the bar. She wondered why tonight was different. Could it be that it was an Ee-tee, which had only a short time in Bangkok before taking off again for the stars?

A towering, light-spangled building came into view and the flier slowed. They landed in the forecourt and a footman in an ancient Thai costume ran up and opened the rear door. “Chintara Sukarapatam?”

She could only stare out at him, nod wordlessly.

“Room twenty-five, tenth floor.” He assisted Sukara from the flier, then leaned inside to pay the driver.

Sukara crossed the forecourt and entered through sliding glass doors that ran with liquid like a waterfall made rigid. In the foyer, rich citizens stood about in groups of two or three, chatting casually. Conscious of her inappropriate dress, her sweat-soaked T-shirt, shorts and scuffed sandals, she hurried across to the elevator, staring straight down at the crimson carpet. A young uniformed boy opened the door for her and operated the controls once they were inside. “Floor ten!” he repeated, glancing from her scarred face to her bare legs, seemingly fascinated by both.

The elevator rose quickly, stopped with a sedate bounce that made her stomach flip. The doors swished open. Sukara stepped out, surprised to find the long, thickly carpeted corridor eerily empty. The doors of the elevator closed and she was suddenly alone.

She walked down the corridor, reading off the room numbers, then realised she was moving in the wrong direction. She turned and hurried the other way, blushing even though there was no one around to see her mistake. She passed room thirty, increased her pace, then slowed as she passed room twenty-eight. She stopped and stared at the door bearing the number twenty-five, as if it might give some clue as to the identity of its occupant.

Her legs wobbly with apprehension, her mouth dry, she reached up and knocked on the door. She realised what a feeble tap she’d given, then knocked with more force. The door opened before she had finished, leaving her with her fist in the air. Her arm fell to her side as she stared.

“Mister Osborne?”

He smiled. “Su, it’s nice to see you again. Come inside. Would you care for a drink?”

He was gallant enough to pretend not to notice her nervousness as he ushered Sukara into the spacious lounge. He was dressed in a slick black suit, high-collared, cut away at the front to reveal a brilliant white shirt. His smile, even more devastating than she recalled, was enough to melt her insides.

“Can I get you a drink, Su?”

“Ah... beer? You got beer?”

He opened a wooden cabinet, which turned out to be a cooler, pulled out a Singha and unscrewed the lid. He poured the beer into a glass, passed it to Sukara.

She stood in the middle of the room, sipping quickly and nervously, while Osborne poured himself a brown drink in a big, round glass. She hugged herself, shivering despite the warmth of the room. She asked herself, over and over, what he might want with her.

He turned and raised his glass. “It really is nice to see you again, Su. I enjoyed our conversation the other night.”

She smiled and wiped her sweat-soaked palms down the front of her T-shirt. She recalled that, on their first meeting, Osborne had said that he did not want to go with her. She wondered if he’d changed his mind.

“Nice see you, Mister Osborne,” Sukara blurted. “Big surprise. Never thought I see you again. I put the two hundred baht in savings account, for rainy day.” She kicked off her sandals, sat on the arm of a big sofa, and scrunched her toes into the lush crimson velvet.

“That’s a good girl. I’m glad you’re careful with your money.”

“Working girl, Mr. Osborne. Must be careful.”

He crossed the room, glass in hand, and sat on the sofa. He turned sideways, staring at her. His eyes seemed to lose themselves in her face.

She wondered if she should reach out, touch his dark, strong jaw, or leave him to make the first move. She wanted to touch him, but could not bring herself to move. She wondered why she trusted this man, this stranger.

“I confused,” she found herself saying. “Why me? I not beautiful, not like—”

“You’re beautiful to me. Su. No, you’re not like the other girls.”

“Other girls, they beautiful. They have light skin, long legs, perfect faces. Just what men want.”

“In here,” Osborne said, reaching out and cupping her head in his big hand, his thumb caressing her temple. “In here, you’re what I’ve been looking for, for a long, long time.”

That smile again, that lopsided, easy grin which reassured her despite the obsessive quality of his words.

She avoided his eyes. “You like me, Mr. Osborne?”

He took her hand, drew her gently towards him. She arranged herself on his lap and pressed her head to his chest as he held her. She closed her eyes and wished the moment would go on forever, the pure physical pleasure without thought of motives or consequences. She realised that this was what she had been missing for so many years, for as long as she could recall, an embrace that wanted nothing other than to communicate affection without demanding sexual gratification. She would not let herself look further than this moment, to the time when he would leave her, the moment over, and she would be alone again.

She said, in a whisper, “Okay like this? We not go to bed?”

“No,” he whispered in return. “No, Sukara. It’s fine like this.”

She felt the moist heat of his lips on the top of her head. She closed her eyes, and the movement of her lids squeezed hot tears down her cheeks.

They remained like this for an hour, though it seemed to her a matter of minutes. She wondered if this was what love felt like. She had never allowed herself to believe in love before, never expected anyone to show her love or to feel it herself.

She told herself not to be so ridiculous. She hardly knew the man called Osborne, and how could he really know her? But whatever it was, she told herself, she would enjoy it while it lasted.

At last he positioned her on his lap so that he could look into her face. He thumbed the tears from her cheeks, caressed the line of her jaw with his knuckles. Sukara responded by pushing against his hand like a cat, laughing tearfully at his affection. The golden pendant he wore around his neck nestled against her cheek, warm on her skin.

He pulled her to him, running his hands through her hair, kissing the top of her head. “Oh, sweet Jesus Christ,” she heard him whisper.

She reached out, linked her arms around his neck. She stopped when she felt something cold, metallic, at the base of his skull.

He looked into her eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I had an operation a long time ago. It’s nothing, Sukara.”

He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, burying his face in her hair. She caught brief glimpses of his face, as he pulled away, a swimmer coming up for air, and she realised that he too was in tears.

He held her face in his hands, his fingers spanning her temples. “Tomorrow I leave Bangkok,” he told her.

A wild, pounding panic seized her heart. She wanted to scream that it wasn’t true, that the pleasure she had experienced with him so briefly could not be over so soon.

He said, “I can’t let you go to the Paradise Bar, get beaten up by drunken Indians.”

She stared at him. “How you know?”

He ignored her, went on, “I couldn’t let you work there—”

“But where...” she began desperately.

Osborne said, “I want you to come with me.”

Her heart missed a beat. “You do? I go with you?”

“You will come, won’t you?”

“I will,” she stammered. “I come. Of course I come.” She shook her head, the movement restricted by the vice of his fingers. “How long? How long you want me stay with you?”

He smiled. She reached out, touched the silver rears on his cheeks with her fingertips.

“I want you to stay with me forever, Su.”

They held each for a long time. It seemed so right, she told herself. It seemed that she had waited all her life for just this moment. She looked into the future—and told herself that the events of the past, the beatings and the taunts, she could finally put behind her.

He perched her on the summit of his knees. “Tomorrow, we leave Bangkok,” he told her. “We’ll live together. During the day I’ll do the work I must do, and at night we will be together.”

“What work, Osborne?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m looking for someone. A man I worked with a long time ago.”

She nodded. “We go tomorrow,” she whispered, “but where we go?”

He looked into her eyes, into her head.

“Bengal Station,” he said.

* * * *

IN THE PIT

They set off for the mountains just after sunset. Vaughan drove throughout the seven hours of darkness, Chandra sleeping beside him in the passenger seat.

It was a novel experience to be heading into such a vast and depopulated wilderness. Gradually the low mind-hum from Vanderlaan, the only concentrated noise for kilometres, receded into the distance. Vaughan had purposefully held off the chora so as to be fully alert during what lay ahead, and he had expected the noise to follow him for a long time. After two hundred kilometres, however, he experienced the blessed balm of total mind-silence. He leaned back in the seat and drove with his arms outstretched, gripping the apex of the wheel, staring straight ahead at the unwinding road, silver with frost, in the glare of the headlights