Thai Girl (22 page)

That evening, anyone sitting inside the hotel lobby at six would hardly have noticed a young European woman as she came in from the street and stood waiting at the reception desk. When she reached the receptionist, she made her enquiry, looked puzzled for a moment, then left the hotel. She came back some hours later and again went to the desk. The receptionist was attentive and repeatedly checked the computer screen, but this time the girl became agitated; she had evidently not been told what she wanted to hear. Slowly and indecisively she went back to the lobby doors and hesitated at the top of the marble steps. She stood framed in the doorway for a moment or two as if unsure what to do.

She was an attractive girl with dark brown hair and a healthy tan, wearing ethnic jewellery, a fresh white tee shirt and blue cotton harem pants. Hovering briefly by the door, the breeze ruffling her loose-fitting clothes, she looked out at a world which was ignoring her. There were signs of distress on her face as she went down the steps and turned right towards Khao San Road.

Up in his room Ben was getting distinctly pissed off and increasingly anxious. He was frustrated that if Emma did not show up that night, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had no idea where she was and had no immediate way of contacting her; their overdrafts did not stretch to mobile phones. The only thing he could do was wait. By eight o'clock he was getting hungry so he decided to slip out for some food.

As Khao San Road was only ten minutes walk away, he headed in that direction, taking a perilous short cut across the four lane highway. He then realised he should have left a message at reception in case Emma arrived while he was out, so he stopped at the first place he came to, had a quick bowl of noodles and headed back to the hotel. Shortly before nine he sat around in the lobby for a few minutes but hating the package tourists, went up to his room.

As he waited in the room he became more and more agitated. He had a strong sense of déja vu, that it was his role to be kept dangling by women who had too much hold over him. Emma was his lover, sister and best mate all rolled into one and he still needed her; they had come for a holiday in Thailand together and now he felt very alone. Perhaps by not turning up she was giving him a final message.

In desperation he decided to raid the mini-bar. As he downed the bottles of chilled beer, he became maudlin and morose, thinking back to the good times with her. But when Fon began to dominate his thoughts again, he felt thoroughly confused and distressed. Sick with longing, he began to realise that if Emma had finally walked out on him, his way was now clear with Fon.

It was past midnight when he fell unconscious across the bed, fully clothed and with the light on. Sometime in the night he woke up, his bladder bursting and staggered to the bathroom, then undressed and got into bed. In his dreams, Emma and Fon ran rings around him, disturbing what little remained of his night's sleep.

17

The following morning Ben slept through to nine o'clock. When he woke, the luxury of his room at the Regal came as a surprise, but cold reality and the trauma of Emma's no-show quickly came back to him. His penalty for drinking the contents of the mini-bar was a thumping headache and a serious case of Sahara tongue. Throwing on his clothes, he went downstairs and asked at reception if there were any messages for room 127 before finding the hotel coffee shop; he would spoil himself for once with a full hotel breakfast as a consolation for the disasters of the previous day.

Waiting for a menu, he spotted a sign on the table: ‘General election today. It is illegal to serve alcoholic beverages on election days.' The very thought of beer was stomach-turning.

Realising that the lavish buffet breakfast cost only marginally more than ordering from the menu, he helped himself to a coffee and orange juice and sat down and admired his surroundings. The place was an extravaganza of polished marble and teak, more a palace than a coffee shop. The ceiling was at least two storeys high, there were potted palms everywhere and a fountain was spouting water in front of a photo montage of a tropical seascape. At the entrance to this earthly paradise stood an angel in a pink jacket whose job it was to open the door to each guest and to smile sweetly. If she got pregnant, fat or reached twenty five she would, he guessed, be instantly redeployed to the kitchens.

To the sounds of piped music and falling water, he then started on a marathon relay of muesli and yoghurt, bacon and eggs and a cornucopia of fruit. As he ate he looked around at the princes and the paupers in the restaurant. The Thai staff were as handsome as princes and princesses, the waiters in black trousers, waistcoat and a bow tie, the waitresses in neat white blouse and long black skirt. Yet these were the paupers, beholden to the every need of their wealthy paymasters, the package tourists.

He watched the holiday-makers drifting into the coffee shop for their buffet breakfast blow-out. Unlike the smart uniformity of the Thai hotel staff, they came in all shapes and sizes. Many seemed middle-aged with rotund middles, some were grey and balding, the women with hair tortured into tight curls. Styleless in baggy shorts, garish shirt or singlet, they were loud and gauche, their legs fat or spindly, and wearing brand new trainers that were far too big for them. Ben decided he did not much like them.

They struck him as being the uncultured masses of the package tour tribe, Mondeo men, promoted beyond their own mediocrity to be royally treated in the top hotels of Thailand. In front of the fountain, she in long tee shirt with pudgy white legs and no apparent shorts was being photographed with a smiling Thai waiter. He at the next table could be heard complaining that the butter was too hard and the toast had gone soggy. ‘Do better than this in Brenda's Butty Bar on the bypass,' Ben heard him say.

Ben was nauseated, a mixture of disgust at what he saw around him, at his own capitulation to the deadly sin of gluttony and by his anxiety about the day ahead.

As he began to think about Emma again, his anger alternated with concern and he felt lonely and lost. Emma was unpredictable at times but it was not like her to fail to show up; she was not totally thoughtless. The murder of a Welsh girl in Chiang Mai had been in the news and they had not yet caught the killer. Could something awful have happened to her there?

It then crossed his mind that he had not read his email since agreeing to meet up with her at the Royal; the previous night he had been far too drunk to think of anything as sensible. So when he had finished breakfast, he headed out towards Khao San Road and stopped at the first internet café he found. Hot and bothered, he opened his in-box. There was a message from Emma sent the previous night.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Expletives Not Deleted

Bloody Ben flipping Farnsworth. I came to the Regal several times and asked for you, but were you there? Oh no!And did you bother to email? Chiang

Mai was brilliant, great crowd of people and I could be myself for once without you getting on top of me. They've all come back to Bangkok and are going to Angkor Wat in Cambodia at the end of the week. I couldn't go because of meeting you here, but now I'm damn well going too. I'd rather be with them anyway and after all your insults I just can't take any more.

Yours never again,

Emma

Ben gazed at the computer screen in shock. He was overwhelmed by a succession of responses; disbelief, jealousy, frustration, fury. He had to restrain himself from smashing his fist into the screen.

‘She demands an expensive hotel room and doesn't show up, then heaps shit on me!' he raged silently in the calm of the cyber café. ‘Maybe she's still in Chiang Mai getting screwed senseless and not in Bangkok at all.'

Then he began to get a grip on himself and to think more rationally. Perhaps she had got the wrong day or time, or even the wrong hotel, though none of these things rang true. Then an idea suddenly struck him. He closed his email and ran back to the Regal. Streaming with sweat, he went to the reception desk. On being given the answers he expected, he counted to ten, stayed calm and went up to his room. He took off his tee shirt and dried himself with a towel, the air conditioning a glorious relief. Picking up his Lonely Planet guide, he opened it at the section headed, ‘Bangkok - Places to Stay - Budget - Sukhumvit'. After making a note of the first hotel listed, he ran downstairs, plunged out into the heat again and legged it back to the cyber café on Khao San Road. He felt thoroughly vindicated as he hit the ‘Compose' button, but hot and very far from composed.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Told You So

Emma you prat, it's your fault. I was at the Regal all the time. I've just asked them if they had a Mr Farnsworth staying in the hotel and they said no. Is that who you asked for? Then I asked if they had a Mr Ben. ‘Yes, Mr Ben come yesterday, stay room 127.' Bloody brilliant. Couldn't you have sussed that one out? Was the torrent of abuse really necessary?

So first of all, tell me where you are. It's nearly time for me to check out of the Regal and I'm not footing the bill for another night on the off chance you'll turn up. But I'd still like to see you, so I'm moving to the Georgia off Sukhumvit Road on Soi Seven. Phone 02-373-8763. Budget place, old-style, and handy for the Eastern Bus Terminus. I've chosen it because you hate Khao San and I'm hoping you'll come and see me there. I'll wait for you at the Georgia for at least two nights.

Please contact me asap. Go to Cambodia if you have to, but just get this. Waiting for you not to show up last night was horrible. And I wouldn't be running around in the heat and sitting in this cyber café in a pool of sweat asking to see you if I didn't think a lot of you.

Love, Ben.

PS Anyway Angkor's only a heap of old rocks.

He re-read the message and sent it off and walked slowly back to the Regal. Checkout was at twelve so he decided to make the most of his last hour of luxury. He changed out of his clothes, stuffing the sodden tee shirt into the air conditioning vent to dry. After showering, he slowly began to pack, using the nasal test to decide which clothes were dirty and which very dirty. This time his tube of toothpaste had burst open and half the contents were smeared around the inside of his spongebag, mingling with the medicines and plasters. He longed to stay in the comfort of the Regal and to get himself properly cleaned up, but no, he was committed to a cheaper place where he would wait for Emma.

Closing the door and with his rucksack feeling exceptionally heavy, he took the lift down to the reception desk.

‘Bill for room 127, please.'

The girl printed off the bill.

‘Here we are, Mr Ben,' she said.

He glanced at the total and again regretted raiding the mini-bar. Somewhat poorer he shouldered his pack, descended the marble steps of the Regal and was back on the road again.

Maca had told him that a cool way to cross town was by boat on a
klong,
one of the old canals that were the main thoroughfares before most of them were filled in and Bangkok became overwhelmed by the motor vehicle. And so, city map in hand, he headed for the canal near Wat Saket. He had seen photos of this golden temple and recognised it sitting high on its artificial hill as he approached from the Democracy Monument. Following the walls of an old fort, he found his way down to the
klong.
The water in the canal was dark and murky. A boat about the dimensions of a large bus was moored alongside and was filling up with passengers. He climbed aboard, scrambling through the narrow gap between the awning and the gunwale and sat down on one of the highly-polished wooden seats.

Soon the boat was packed with people, ordinary workers on their daily treadmill. The big diesel roared into life and the boat moved off at speed along the canal. Despite the blue and white striped side-screens, flecks of spray found their way through the gaps and onto his face and lips. Peering out, he could see the wooden houses on either side, tightly packed together, a reminder of old Bangkok. Many of them were rickety and roofed in corrugated iron, their verandas packed with pot plants and washing and all the clutter of a crowded life. Several times they passed shiny brown children swimming in the filthy water.

The boat came to a landing stage and the boatboy flicked a rope over a bollard before passengers leaped out and the boat pulled away again. Climbing precariously along the gunwale, he collected the fare from Ben; it was all of seven baht. Avoiding the roads, the boat trip had taken less than half the time by taxi and traffic jam.

Out in the street he hailed a motorcycle taxi and asked for the Georgia Hotel on Soi Seven. Riding pillion with a heavy rucksack was not going to be easy and he began to think he had made a fatal mistake. The bike took off at speed, weaving in and out of the traffic, then cut through the central road divider, apparently to do a U-turn. But to his horror it accelerated the wrong way down the opposite side of the dual carriageway; they were now closing at speed head-on with a large beige Mercedes bus. Like a gunsight aimed at his heart, the Mercedes star became indelibly etched into the part of his brain that stores recurrent nightmares. Then, at the last possible moment, when he could see the whites of the bus driver's eyes, the bike swerved sharp right, shooting across the path of the bus into the safety of a side street.