Escape Read online

  Sharon and I had met at a noisy birthday dinner at a glitzy restaurant. Big, gold-rimmed plates with small, ugly food. The birthday girl was a tall Italian whom my friend Matt hoped to seduce. Matt was trying to go straight, underworking a sooty shop front named Home of Chrome that electroplated chunky car parts for obsessive petrolheads. It hadn’t helped to straighten Matt as he kept the shop running with easy loans from his crooked friends. Already a secretary had intuitively re-named the company Home of Crime. Matt was to have no chance with the tall girl.

  ‘How do you think Matt’s doing with your friend tonight?’ I’d asked Sharon as we were seated together. The girls had long been friends.

  ‘Maybe. It’s a birthday night. He deserves to succeed. He’s been trying long enough.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘It’s her birthday, not Matt’s.’

  Sharon laughed too loud at that and squeezed my arm.

  Over the following weeks Sharon and I spent long nights together. At first on neutral ground in bright hotels, later at country weekend retreats. Sharon dumped her part-time boyfriend; awkward because he was her boss and believed himself a big man in the car trade with a reputation for something. Married, too, and grumpy about losing a mistress. He didn’t like the idea of me when he heard and made noises about it when drinking. That stopped after he gave it some thought. Sharon had decided to put together a band and would find a job teaching afternoons. I introduced her to my tastes. She introduced me to two young children previously kept under wraps. There were fewer hotel nights after that and more nights at Sharon’s house in Melbourne’s outer suburbs. After three months had passed and Christmas approached, I got myself arrested.

  Now, under the sky of Thailand, I stopped flipping through Sharon’s photographs. These included pictures of Sharon singing with her new band, About Time. Weddings, parties; anything. Sharon picnicking with children. Laughing with girlfriends.

  ‘None in here of Matt,’ I stacked the pictures together. ‘Are they still together?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Home of Chrome?’

  ‘Gone bust.’

  I nodded and moved to put the photographs back in their paper wallet. I’d never introduced Sharon to any of my keystone friends although she’d met some since my arrest. As I slid the pictures into the wallet I saw an envelope behind the negatives.

  ‘Oh, that’s for you,’ Sharon said.

  Harvey Oldham, I thought immediately. I hadn’t heard from Harvey for a month and had begun to think he had got cold feet—Thailand being all foreign to him. It would be all right with me if he did no more than slip me a gun in court and leave the briefcase in the stairwell. I’d be happy to work on the rest.

  The letter wasn’t from Harvey. It was from Chas, a mutual friend who kept our little family in touch when misadventures kept us apart. Chas told Harvey’s story as Harvey was no longer in any condition to communicate.

  Ever conservative, Harvey had overestimated the amount of money he might need in Thailand. Proud and fearless he had not asked Chas or me for funds. Instead he called at a bank to steal the cash delivery. Whether careless or unlucky he ran into three armed policemen on his way out. Harvey shot above the officers’ shoulders but one lawman behind his patrol car managed a clear shot at Harvey’s chest. The bullet tore through a can of green paint with which Harvey had just finished decorating the lens of the bank’s security camera. Picking himself up from the footpath Harvey chased the policemen away using the remains of his ammunition. He then drove into the South Australian desert and dug the mangled lead from his sternum before calling friends for help. Harvey was not expected to survive long.

  ‘Bad news?’ asked Sharon for I had become quiet.

  ‘Not good. I think it might be a good idea if you could ask Chas to come and see me when he can.’ I’d had enough of phones.

  ‘Your Chas doesn’t really trust me, does he?’ Sharon was unaccustomed to people who listened more than talked.

  ‘It’s not that, honey. Chas is like an unwilling foreman on a jury who can’t argue culpability but won’t claim virtue. He doesn’t judge.’

  Sharon stared at her fizzy drink. I went on. ‘Listen kiddo, I tried to tell you often enough before we got tangled up. I’m rotten to the core. Okay, there’s some things I won’t do. Kidnapping. I hate to haggle and can’t stand tearful negotiations. Theft? I’m too bigheaded. Armed robbery? I’d only steal if they thanked me for it somehow. Arson? I don’t work nights and you can never get the stink of kerosene out of your clothes.’ I went on like this for some time.

  When I’d run dry Sharon asked, ‘So if you’re so rotten, you wouldn’t tell me this. And if that’s a real warning, then it’s sweet but I’m not taking it. Or it’s a double bluff and you’re saying that really to make me think you’re all right but really to keep me, which is okay because I want to be kept.’

  I think there was more but I was already lost.

  By the time our afternoon ended Sharon had agreed to call Dean Reed and to meet him for a drink somewhere. ‘Perhaps the riverside bar of the Oriental,’ I suggested. ‘Thai royalty sometimes visit and they don’t allow cheap gunzels to sit eyeballing the customers from their pricey sofas.’ Not that I was worried for Sharon’s safety with Dean and I wanted a feminine take on the man who had promised to have me released on bail. Yet it was true that any local surveillance would not get past the Oriental’s discreet security. Ideally I would have liked someone to go to Dean’s house and poke through his sock drawer. Had that been Sharon she would have returned with a sock.

  That evening arriving at our cell #57, I saw that Sten had found a replacement for Swiss Eddie. His name was Theo, another Swiss. English Rick was introducing Theo to his new roommates.

  ‘Sten, you know, of course. There’s our little helper, Jet, so named as he is the seventh child in a large family. Bruce there from Pakistan likes to travel on his own. Has a job with me in the chief’s office, although I still can’t tell what it is he does. And now here’s mister Westlake—not his real name, you’ll find, and David’s found himself in the land of a thousand Westlakes. Little Biplane will unroll your bed next to mine, if that’s okay.’ Jet took Theo’s bedding. ‘Now, Theo, we have a new cook. You can meet him tomorrow and he’ll supply our evening meals that the kids will collect and bring up here. The cook’s name is Bo-Jai. We call him Blow-Job but don’t let that put you off, it’s no reflection on his food. It’s just that he’s half Korean and thinks he knows karate. And you’ll notice that we never call him that to his face. Actually he’s serving about eight thousand years for bogus travellers cheques which may be why he frowns a lot. And we have a cat David seems to encourage but she’s not turned up for dinner the past few nights. Perhaps she’s been eaten by one of the rats. So, welcome.’

  This was a bit much for Theo to take in so he spent some time unpacking his clothes before joining us at dinner and then telling his story.

  While still young the fair-haired Theo had become a cargo manager for Swissair and was later promoted to Bangkok. He was full of energy, more than his job could consume. Swissair Cargo transports most of Thailand’s foreign currency to Zurich for redistribution as well as tonnes of gold in and out. Theo spent fruitless months trying to predict when these shipments would take place, for the cargo manifest often said no more than ‘banking documents’.

  ‘Surely the weights would give you a clue?’ I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Sometimes, but they’d break them up into smaller parcels before being listed,’ Theo explained. ‘And, anyway, I couldn’t think of anyone I’d trust to help me grab it all.’

  To concentrate his mind on these and other problems Theo began taking several Ecstasy tablets each day. Unhappy with the quality of the local pills, Theo began importing his own. His trust in people grew along with his daily doses and his thriving E-tab trade. He was arrested at the Swissair office taking a dozen padded courier bags out of his in-tray. Amounting to 35,000 tablets.

&
nbsp; ‘Is that it?’ Rick had hoped for more complications.

  ‘Well, yes. But I can’t understand why so many Americans were all over my case,’ Theo complained. ‘I never did any business with the US. What business of the DEA is this?’

  We all agreed that America had made everything its business although I suspected that the interest was no more than the effect of having sixty drug-enforcement personnel stationed in Bangkok with little to do.

  As we picked at the remains of our meal there came the sound of many bare feet along the corridor outside our cell. Bruce was quick with his hand mirror to report. He was a dedicated watcher. Outside a trusty was leading a large group of newcomers and had stopped at the cell next to ours. The cell was empty as it was to be leased to a group of trusties unwelcome elsewhere. Most trusties’ cells were two floors below us, near to ground level. This cell, completely stripped of fittings, would serve to introduce newcomers to Klong Prem. Jet began a count.

  The trail seemed endless, a sad parody of phone-booth cramming. Finally there were no more and the trusty eased the door shut.

  ‘Thirty-nine, my teacher!’ Even Jet was astounded.

  The cell next door was the same size as ours and we were six. By any measure, and even accounting for their smaller bones, those prisoners could not have had the space to do more than squat, knees against back, head against head. That night our neighbours were eerily silent. After their exhausting day, new fears and several humiliations, these captives must have been fully spent. Perhaps they would spin emptily into sleep, the sleep of concussion where the numberless torn animals of the mind scurry, huddling in doubtful crevices.

  Toward midnight I felt a flop at the foot of my bed and heard a happy meow. Our cell door was made from steel bars but we’d fitted eighteen small frames of mosquito screens, the lowest of which was left open for the cat.

  Sitting up I saw the young puss had something in her mouth that explained her unusual absence. It was a kitten; a few days old and the lone survivor of her first litter. Mother cat deposited her child between my knees and then curved down onto my bedsheet, rolling on her back and squirming with bright musical yelps. This was not the joy of motherhood. She simply wanted to revel in the splendour of a magic trick astoundingly performed: the production of that little thing. Rick pronounced this as a bad omen.

  ‘You watch, she’ll be a rotten mother.’ No special knowledge there. Rick saw all of God’s creatures damned but he would be right about that cat. ‘Lucky she didn’t take it next door, they would’ve eaten them both.’

  Sharon was already at our table when, one day later, I arrived for our next visit. We canoodled for a few minutes before turning to local news.

  ‘So, were you impressed with my American friend?’ I was asking of Dean Reed.

  ‘He seemed okay. Nice.’ Sharon adjusted her bracelet with one finger.

  ‘Er, is that it? Nice?’ So much for a character analysis of he who was to disperse lumps of cash to have me freed.

  ‘Well, we met, had a drink. Chatted, you know. Then Dean left. He had to go somewhere.’

  I began a gentle cross-examination.

  ‘Uh-huh. A lot of people at the Oriental?’

  ‘No, well. We ended up at a place called The Rembrandt. It was easier for Dean apparently. Though not much, I guess. He was a bit late.’

  ‘So when you called him yesterday, that was the arrangement?’ I had to keep prompting.

  ‘Mm … no, we agreed to meet this morning. And Dean called about nine-something and suggested the Rembrandt at eleven.’ Sharon moved food things around our table as though it were time to move on. I would not.

  ‘Okay, what was he wearing by the way?’

  ‘A suit, tie,’ Sharon made sham crazy-eyes. ‘We met in the lobby if that helps you. I gave him that bag of your clothes, just like you asked.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember if he was wearing a watch?’

  ‘Yes. Gold. Looked new.’

  ‘His phone switched on?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘How’d you pick up on that?’

  Sharon rocked her head from side to side. ‘I wouldn’t have except that when I told Dean I was going to get this man to let me use his phone because he was late—like I said—Dean took out his phone and said the battery was dead anyway. Which is why he had to go early, I suppose, to his next thing.’

  ‘Ah, right. Say, who was the man with the working phone?’ I asked casually.

  ‘He was in the lobby, too. Waiting for someone who didn’t arrive on time as well. Or at all because he left before Dean came.’

  I took up the narrative. ‘And this man got tired of waiting. And you said you were waiting, too. Perfectly natural and his phone never rang. He made some calls to his late friends. Twice. The second time to say he wouldn’t wait any longer. Did this man use the bathroom?’

  ‘No, smarty-pants, he went off to the business centre and how did you know? What is this—the Spanish Inquisition?’

  ‘No, honeybun,’ I held Sharon’s hands. ‘I’m trying to do something about being here. But it’s like playing chess by mail, one long move at a time. I’m just trying to find out if Dean’s the genuine article.’ I took a drink. ‘Well, I know he’s not but he is an oddity and sometimes oddities will do things others won’t or can’t.’

  Sharon relaxed a little. ‘I suppose I should say that the mystery man gave me a lift back to my hotel.’

  ‘Really. And I suppose he had his car and driver panting in the driveway as you walked out of the Rembrandt?’

  ‘He was quite charming,’ Sharon said with assurance. ‘Not a problem at all.’

  ‘Okay. One last thing. Did Dean leave you with a drink or something to keep you seated as he walked away?’

  ‘No. Dean left and I had to use the loo.’

  ‘Good. And Dean wasn’t taking a car because it would be easier to walk, what with the traffic and all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine.’ I’d finished.

  ‘That all?’

  ‘All done, sweetheart.’ And with that I leaned back assuming an expression of thoughtfulness.

  ‘Well?’ Sharon wanted the results.

  ‘Okay,’ I began. ‘It’s not much. The mystery man—in a suit, too, no doubt—was a stiff, all right. Whoever he is he wasn’t working with Dean or he wouldn’t need to give you a lift to find out the name of your hotel. And he wanted to see who you were meeting. By the way Dean keeps his watch in his pocket when he visits me. That just means he’d prefer me not to know how he spends his research-and-development money. I’m not worried about him padding his expenses. To be expected. Dean kept his phone off because he talks a lot of shit to a lot of people and it cramps his style to mix them up if one of them calls. All I can suggest is to keep an eye out for mystery men.’

  Sharon liked the sound of that. After taking a description of her new friend we dropped the subject of Dean Reed. He had promised to call her soon. I didn’t tell her that I thought it likely that the man in the suit had come from Dean’s world without Dean knowing it. That was an unhappy thought and one Sharon need not carry. I would not question her in such depth again. Sharon did not deserve to have the weight of my black creations forced upon her. Besides, she was not made for sleuthing.

  These probable intrigues were disheartening but so far Dean had not proved all mouth and trousers so when next he visited—as expected within a week—I gave him a note for another US$10,000.

  9

  The photographs Sharon had taken of the wall revealed a featureless drop without footholds. The upper rim held a metre of barbed wire threaded with electric cable running between insulators.

  Sten was visiting fellow Swedes in Building Two the morning these photos arrived so I asked him to tell Martyn that I’d meet him at church on Sunday. Martyn would know all about Klong Prem’s wiring by now.

  These thoughts were interrupted by Jet who had just collected the day’s ice from the fish-wagon-cum-ambulance-cum-ic
e-cart. Next to my desk he had the large ice chest open with all our plastic bags of chicken, beef, vegetables and blocks of butter stacked on its upturned lid. For some reason that day Jet was breaking the ice blocks with a pick at a distance from me of less than a foot. I said nothing as my coffee mug and hair filled with shards of flying ice.

  ‘Sorry, my teacher,’ said Jet laughing despite himself and becoming more frenzied with his ice picking.

  ‘All right, Jet. What is it? What do you want?’ I stood up, brushing flecks of ice from my shirt.

  Jet explained that he was so busy supervising our laundrymen each day he would need help with the daily ice grind. He tapped the pick’s handle, toed the ice chest and shook his head at the shattered blocks as though to say, ‘Look what I have to work with!’

  ‘Got anyone in mind?’ I asked with a smile. Not surprisingly he did.

  ‘A good man. Nice boy—he has no family, nothing. Not money. He eats shit.’ Shit was one of Jet’s favourite English words.

  ‘We already have two laundrymen on the payroll, Jet. A food collector plus your own servant—whatever he does—and that idiot who’s supposed to be a carpenter. Plus an ironing man and those two twits you hired last week. Where are they and what do they do?’

  Jet shrugged professionally.

  ‘All right, squirt.’ I gave up. ‘Bring him over this afternoon. We can always use another orphan.’

  Sten returned from Building Two carrying an old video player barely disguised in a sack. Martyn had brought the antique VHS tape machine back to life.

  ‘Any movies?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet.’ Sten slid the sack into a cupboard. ‘Only the one Martyn was using to get it working. Some Hong Kong chop-socky movie starring Fuck-me. He says he’ll be over Building Ten by eleven.’

  Building Ten was the venue for church services, held each Sunday. There was no actual church and the service was conducted in the yard under the short-termers’ block, attracting mostly Africans. The hymn singing must have sounded wild and threatening to Thais, whose meditative chants were directed at a god not so hard of hearing.