On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  1

  Bannon sat at the bar as a light wind swept beach sand across the floor. He heard a plane fly low over the ocean, its steady hum sounding above the waves. A box TV was showing old fights and he gestured to the set, “You got anything else?”

  The bartender looked up from a stack of glasses and smiled at the familiar figure across from him, “This Hagler, Duran. Very good fight.”

  Bannon squinted at the television, watching as two indistinct figures moved obscurely in the static, “That right?”

  “Yes. Very good fight.”

  “Well then,” said Bannon, lifting his bottle and drinking the last inch of beer, “I suppose I better get another.”

  A half hour passed before a couple more drunks swayed in. Local Thai men, ordering shots of whiskey and shooting pool. They bought Bannon a drink and he sat and watched as outside the noise began to rise. A group of boys came next, each wearing a plastic gorilla mask. The first one tripped as he entered, the mask slipping sideways to reveal a spotty face. His friends laughed wildly as they dragged him to his feet and on toward the bar. Bannon pointed to his bottle, “I’ll take one more, before the monkeys place their order.”

  He finished his beer and ordered another. He bought shots for a pair of girls, Swedish volunteers, their vivid blonde hair and blue eyes brightly contrasted against their sunburned bodies. Their dimpled faces rose into cute smiles as the two of them eyed him with a greedy fascination. Bannon looked back, pushing a hand through his tangle of brown hair. Smooth skin ran across the faint ridges of his cheekbones and a light stubble covered his jaw. A vest hung around his muscular torso, leaving his tanned olive arms completely exposed.

  “So, you’re a diver?” said the first, looking at the dive shop logo on his shirt.

  “Instructor, just down the beach: Koh Lanta Divers,” said Bannon.

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She let out a little giggle, “Ma’am,” she said, “Like ze cowboys.”

  “Yes ma’am, like the cowboys.”

  They laughed again and he took another beer, the rim of the bottle cool in the sticky heat of the room.

  Across the bar a group of miscreants gathered round the TV, the mask-wearing boys scattering as the men guzzled their drinks and leered after the waitresses. The biggest one pointed at the screen, “Shit. It’s fucking Marvellous Marvin. Fuck you, Marvin. Nigger cost me big back in…”

  A black fist came hurtling through the dim light of the bar. It caught the big man high on the cheek. His skin broke and blood spilled down his face. His legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor.

  The rest of the men turned to find the black man with his fists already cocked. He swung again, catching another man and sending him staggering backwards across the room. A bottle sailed through the air, clean past the shoulder of the second Swede. It hit Bannon in the eye and knocked him off his stool, the wind rushing out of him as he hit the ground. He retched, tasting the alcohol in his throat, and through his unswollen eye he watched as the chaos gathered around him.

  The big man lay unconscious with his eyes glassed over, his blood pooling on the floor. Bannon saw stiletto heels tearing sharp tracks across the filth. He tried to call out but he couldn’t find his voice. Steadily he heaved himself up onto an elbow, the fight raging above him, the black man throwing wide swinging hooks into a swarm of white bodies.

  Bannon watched as the girls disappeared into the night and Thai officers in neat gray uniforms rushed into the bar. A nightstick hit the black man square between the shoulders and his arms flung outward. He went down under a volley of clubs, still wrestling against the officers, and Bannon felt his throat lump as he saw another blow crack against the black man’s skull.

  They threw the black man’s unconscious body into the back of the police wagon, his head bouncing against its metal floor. The rest of the men got loaded into an ambulance, the biggest one coming to as the medics dragged him out past Bannon. He asked what happened, blinking groggily as he did. Bannon didn’t answer.

  He spent the next hour sitting at the bar giving statements to the police. He spoke in broken Thai, his head throbbing and his eye completely closed. When the police left he turned to the bartender and laid a handful of crumpled bills on the counter. “To help with the damages.”

  The bartender nodded his thanks and ducked behind the bar, fumbling with the contents of the shelves as he searched for something in the back. He emerged with a quarter-full bottle of whiskey, no label. “Help with your walk.”

  Bannon studied the bottle and smiled, the pain of the movement running sharply through his swollen eye. “That thing got a sell-by date?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Thanks.”

  *

  The alarm rang at six o’clock and Bannon woke with a heavy groan. He wrenched his face free of the pillow, his battered eye leaving a sticky trail of blood on the fabric. The label-less whiskey bottle lay on the nightstand, the dregs of it spilling into a yellowing stain on the carpet below. Bannon rolled back and stared at the ceiling, grimacing as the elevator clunked into gear and the walls began to shake.

  The bathroom felt like an oven as he stood in front of the mirror, his left eye framed with purple bruises. He fumbled at the taps and a thin trickle of water broke from the spout. The cold felt good against his eye and he picked the crusted blood from it, watching as the little red flakes swirled around the drain.

  In the street he hailed a tuk tuk and sat half asleep in the carriage as it navigated the litter-strewn road, its passage kicking up all the night’s debris. A team of street sweepers emerged into the gray dawn of the morning, armed to the teeth with brooms and dustpans, each looking miserably across the refuse. Cigarette butts and burned out roaches lay amongst scattered Styrofoam. Discarded clothing and half-eaten food spilled from the gutters as broken glass shone in the morning light, and Bannon saw a used condom snag in the front wheel.

  He paid the driver with change he found in his jeans and staggered on to the dive center. Seven o’clock—late, but not by much. At the dive center Kathy stood with her arms folded, her auburn hair tied into a neat bob, her toned, tanned body clothed in a sarong and bikini.

  Kathy scowled as she eyed the approaching figure. “Christ, Bannon. What happened to you?”

  Behind her a team of divers tended to their equipment and Bannon looked them over before he edged a little closer. “Is Warner here?”

  “Not yet,” said Kathy, “but when he sees that eye he’s going to assume the worst.”

  “Well he’d be fretting over something or other anyway.”

  “When are you going to take a day off? He is the boss, you know. And he’s really going to be pissed.”

  Bannon shot her a smile and leaned a little closer, “I ain’t one for skipping work and I sure as hell need the money. I’ll keep outta sight.”

  Kathy uncrossed her arms and pushed him playfully away. “And you’re sure you’re alright?”

  “I’ve felt worse.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I’ll be alright.”

  “That eye’s going to hurt when you put the mask on. The mask will probably leak, too.”

  “Let me worry about the mask,” said Bannon.

  Kathy smiled. “Fine, I’ll lead the first one, and—if the customers aren’t too scared of your face—you can lead the second. Just make sure your mask is going to be alright.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  He spent the next hour loading gear into the boats, the sun still rising and doing nothing to appease his hangover. He fastened tanks and rechecked equipment, sucked compressed air through regulators and spares, counted weight belts and fins before he checked the oil and fuel in the boat. As
he worked Kathy briefed the divers, outlining the reef on an aerial map. By eight o’clock the divers were ready to go and Bannon regarded the ocean warily. A wind was picking up and long white breakers were starting to form on its surface. A big jolly Englishman appeared beside him. “Don’t worry, mate. I had a big one too. I’m just hoping I don’t puke into my reg.”

  “It’s alright,” said Bannon, “a reg that expensive should blast the chunks right through.”

  The Englishman laughed, “Don’t worry, folks, we got a good one here. We’ll make it out alive. We’ll make it out alive.”

  They headed out and Bannon watched as Kathy paired the divers, adding a spare diver—a petite Austrian carrying a set of underwater Polaroid cameras—to her own pairing. It took all of the divers to move the boat into the surf, and Bannon was pleased to be standing aboard directing the operation. When all the divers had joined him on the deck, he fired up the engines, lowering the propeller and turning the stern toward the horizon. The wind whipped across his face as he accelerated and the adrenaline started to steady his coordination. He tracked an expert course through the waves, waiting in the troughs of the rising water and gunning the gaps when they appeared. Some of the divers cheered and he turned back to the boat and laughed. “You see, y’all get a roller coaster for the price too.”

  Twenty minutes later he anchored a little ways off the reef, watching carefully for any swells as Kathy briefed the divers again. When she finished he helped the divers suit up, joking with the Englishman before his eyes met with another lady, the wetsuit a tight neoprene outline of her curvature.

  They rolled over the side of the boat, Kathy first, the buoy line running smoothly out behind her, and Bannon watched enviously as the group descended. When the divers disappeared from sight he reached for his mask and slipped it on, wincing as it brushed against his eye. He checked the anchor again before he hopped over the side. Water trickled through the gaps between the seal and his swollen cheek and he quickly blew it clear. From the surface he could see a trail of bubbles rising above the divers and he felt another rush of jealousy before water seeped into the mask again. He hauled himself back into the boat and tossed the mask across the desk.

  He spent the next half hour languishing in the sun as he watched for any sign of the group. Bubbles broke the surface and beneath them he spied a pair of divers. He watched them closely as they ascended. Something seemed wrong, the ascension was gathering speed. The first of the divers shot through the safety stop, breaching the surface in a mad flail of limbs.

  Before the diver could call for help, Bannon was pulling him out of the water. “She’s been stung” said the diver, pointing to a writhing figure on the surface. Bannon recognized the wetsuit immediately. “Fuck,” he said, reaching down and dragging Kathy into the boat. An intense red rash was spreading across her face and froth was spilling from a corner of her mouth. Bannon pulled the mask free to find big panicked eyes staring up at him. “What stung her?”

  The diver’s voice shook as he spoke. “Dunno, something on the ascent.”

  Bannon looked back at the ocean, where more bubbles were appearing on the surface.

  “You want me to get them?” said the diver.

  “No,” said Bannon, “I’ll signal to get them up.” the diver tried to answer but Bannon cut him off, pointing to the storage space beneath the wheel. “There’s a med kit and pipe in there. Bring them both.”

  The diver scurried over to the wheel and returned with the items; Bannon grabbed the med kit and tore it open. He doused a cloth with a bottle of clear vinegar and pressed it against Kathy’s cheek. “Keep that held against the wound,” he said. The diver grabbed the cloth as Bannon picked up the metal pipe and moved to the back of the boat. He lowered the small steel ladder into the water and rapped the pipe against it. A minute later and the other divers emerged. Bannon hauled them back into the boat, their faces falling as they spotted Kathy breathing heavily on the deck. Bannon went for the anchor, pulling it aboard with powerful tugs. “Somebody keep her secure,” said Bannon, looking over the divers and wondering for the first time how many they’d brought. “Shit. Is everyone on?”

  The Englishman took the count. “We are on. Everyone’s on.”

  Bannon scanned the divers again, trying to remember the faces of the group, when Kathy cried loudly and another voice called out, “Come on, man. Everyone’s on.”

  “Alright,” said Bannon, thumbing the ignition and bringing the engine spluttering to life. The stern of the boat lifted as he hammered the throttle. He moved one hand onto the wheel and reached for the radio with his other, passing orders to the dive store as the boat raced back toward the coast. “Ambulance. Call for an ambulance. Sting victim.”

  Behind him Kathy was lying still on the deck and he felt another surge of nausea. “How’s she doing?”

  “Breathing’s steadying,” someone said.

  Bannon nodded. “Everybody brace when we hit the shore, we’ll be coming in fast.”

  He beached the boat hard, lifting the propeller just as the hull hit the sand. The boat lurched violently as it cleared the water and the whole crew flew forward.

  The paramedics were already waiting on the sand and they moved Kathy clear. Bannon followed, relief coming on as he saw her grit her teeth and force a smile in his direction. He turned back to the group and spotted Warner already amongst them, bellowing at the group in his thick Afrikaans accent. “Is everyone alright?” he said, counting heads before a look of horror stretched across his face. “Seven. Bannon, we’re missing one.”

  “What?” said Bannon.

  “We’re fucking one down.”

  Bannon spun back to the Englishman. “You said we were all accounted for.” the Englishman looked back forlornly, cradling a bruised arm. “Who are we missing?” said Bannon, trying to remember the crew. “Shit, the camera lady.”

  He turned back to the divers. “We need to get this boat back in the water.”

  The whole group plunged back into the ocean, Warner too, staring at Bannon as they heaved at the boat. Bannon climbed aboard and started the engine. The boat shot out of the water as it hit the ramp-like swells and the whole craft groaned as it landed. He gunned the engine again, cursing as the boat gripped the surface and slid between a pair of rising waves.

  He rode from the beach to the dive site and on into the open sea, tracking the current as the shoreline disappeared from sight. Carefully he checked the water for any sign of movement. The sun had risen to its zenith and he could feel his skin prickle in the heat of it.

  “Christ,” said Bannon. “Sunburn, dehydration, it’ll all be coming on now.”

  *

  Warner was still there when he landed, barking orders to the gathered crowd. His eyes swiveled in his head as he saw Bannon exit the boat, his skin a strained pinkish color as he started barreling down the beach toward his instructor. “You stupid fucker. We’re right in the kak now.”

  “Warner, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “You double check the count?”

  “No.”

  “You drunk, you fucking draadtrekker,” said Warner, looking directly at Bannon’s battered eye.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Swear you weren’t.”

  Bannon said nothing.

  “I tell you, bru. You better hope they find her, you had better hope.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Etterkop,” said Warner, pointing to the officers in their familiar gray uniforms. “When they see that fucking eye of yours, they’re gonna test your blood and what are they gonna find?”

  “That wasn’t what happened.”

  “They’ll put their two and two together. And if they don’t find her, it’s on your fucking head.”

  Bannon saw the officers look in his direction. “I’ll find her. Just give me a little more time.” And he turned from Warner and raced up the beach for fuel.

  *

  It was almost dark when the last of the boats
returned, Bannon at their rear and leaning against the wheel. A helicopter swept overhead as he anchored the boat, its spotlight whipping over the sea. Bannon stumbled as he stepped ashore, barely finding his footing as he moved across the sand.

  The officers were on him immediately. He’d drunk the last of his water hours ago and he was almost crazy with thirst. “Water,” he said, “please.”

  A young officer leaned forward, “Quick. You go quick.”

  Bannon staggered up to the beach to the dive center, a small concrete building divided into storefront, classroom, storage, kitchen, and locker room. He ducked into the kitchen and went for a glass, filling it and gulping the water. From the kitchen window he peered out at the officers.

  Had he seen them before?

  He thumped his fist against the countertop and a glass jumped and fell to the floor with a crash. He saw the officers turn toward the window. Parked a little ways away was a police wagon and he remembered the black man, his head ricocheting off the floor of the van. He watched as the officers went back to chatting before he rushed back out of the kitchen and into the locker room.

  A little square of light fell through a small rectangular window at the top of the far wall. He forced it open. A rusty mesh covered the exterior and he thumped at it, the metal bending against the blow. He hit it again and a nail sprung from a weathered socket. A few blows later the mesh gave, Bannon’s paranoia building as it crashed to the ground. He clambered up to the window, dragging himself through the gap as his stomach pressed against the ledge and his legs dangled into the room. He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He heard the sound of footsteps outside the door and he clawed at the wall, squeezing through the gap as he heard a shout echo from the kitchen.

  Bannon landed hard on the back side of the building. No cops to be seen. He ran for a cluster of palm trees and sprinted for the road. He hailed another tuk tuk and leaped into the back. The driver turned, staring curiously at his manic-looking passenger: Bannon’s face was sunburned red and a long gash had opened on the front of his shirt. His elbows were covered with dirt, and blood was creeping from his swollen eye. Bannon met the driver’s puzzled gaze, trying to steady his shaking hands. “Where to?” said the driver.