Dragon Breath

by Valerie Goldsilk

  “Well, it proves how worried they are.”

  “It’s their job to get the information, not to worry about it. Let us do that. We’ve had the education for worrying. They’re supposed to bash bottles over people’s heads and fire their sten guns at the Arabs and the Irish.”

  She could hear that he was in one of his moods. He got that way when the modern world encroached on his old habits and opinions. “It’s the right advice, I suppose,” he finally said after having vented himself sufficiently.

  “We should brief the PM at the earliest possible opportunity,” Margaret suggested.

  “Not so fast young lady. We don’t want to panic the politicians. Your namesake could deal with this kind of crisis but this young fellow: there’s no knowing what he might do. We’ll have to meet with The Joint Committee before anything too dramatic can be done.”

  “Nuclear bombs have probably been shipped into Britain and are being stored in warehouses around the country as we speak, sir.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. She realised that she might have overstepped the mark with her strident tone.

  LeBailly said, “Young lady, you don’t remember the Cuban missile crisis do you? Leaping around wildly won’t solve anything. Calm, rational thought. Many problems have been resolved by simply waiting. Cunctando regitur mundis.”

  * * * *

  The leader of the gang lay strapped with plastic handcuffs binding his wrists to his ankles. The position must have been wickedly painful as was the bruise on the side of his head where one of the SDU men had struck him with a rifle butt, before or after resisting arrest.

  “Ambulance on the way, sir,” somebody said. One of the Triad boys had taken a bullet in the leg and there was blood all over the filthy floor but the bleeding had been staunched with great wadges of pink field dressings, which were piled on top of each other and then strapped down tight. A needle with morphine had been stabbed roughly into his upper arm and his eyes were starting to glaze over.

  “He’ll live,” Freddie said to Foxcroft who was standing in the centre of the room surveying the aftermath of the forced entry. The door hung off its hinges and a smell of cordite wafted around his nostrils, mixing with the more putrid scent of a flat and toilet that nobody had cleaned for weeks.

  “Dirty bastards, aren’t they?”

  “Didn’t put up much of a fight,” the SDU boss said, bending forward lighting a Benson & Hedges with a Zippo. His Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun dangled from a shoulder and Foxcroft got the impression that the smoke was rising from the end of the barrel and Freddie was just about to lean over and blow it away like a gunman in a black and white Western.

  Altogether there had been seven men and one teenage girl in the flat. They’d been lounging around watching television and eating noodles and weren’t prepared for the police invasion. Only two had been armed and in fine movie fashion—life imitating art—had tried to reach for their guns. But the assault had come too hard and been too quick so now they all lay trussed like chickens waiting for the transport.

  Foxcroft gave his orders to the Sergeant. The injured would be taken up to Queen Mary Hospital and guarded while the remainder were to be brought down to PHQ and placed in separate interrogation rooms. Then the real work would begin.

  “What’s this beauty’s name?” he asked pointing with his moccasined toe at the man they’d identified as the boss. Topgun shuffled through the pack of plastic ID cards that had been retrieved from the wallets of the prisoners and came up with a Chinese name.

  “They call him Siu Lung, like the actor.”

  “Little Dragon? That’s a big name for such a shitty-looking little squit,” the Chief Inspector said, glancing down at his prisoner to see if the man understood English. He did, judging by the flicker of anger that passed over his face.

  An hour later the policemen had completed all the preliminary paperwork and they could get stuck in. Foxcroft was called on his mobile and came down from the officers mess where he’d microwaved a 7-11 sandwich and swigged down a coke while watching the TVB news.

  When he strode into the interrogation room Siu Lung was handcuffed to a wooden chair. Topgun and another Detective-Constable stood against the wall looking mean and angry. The rectangular table had been pushed up against the far wall and on it rested a stack of yellow telephone books and what appeared to be a purple rubber dildo—the type mostly seen in Lesbian porno videos, about ten inches long with two phallic crowns to it.

  Foxcroft smiled affably and placed his Nokia down on the formica. There was also a clipboard with relevant statement forms and a print-out of the man’s criminal record. There was no tape recorder visible. Not yet.

  Unhurriedly he studied the form. “Criminal Intimidation, nice. Blackmail, of course. Fighting in a Public Place, three times?” Foxcroft seemed to be talking to himself. “What a fine character we have here. All that before the age of seventeen. Clockwork Orange stuff.” He carried on reading, flicking through the pages. There was an ominous silence in the room.

  “We’d better start at the beginning,” the Chief Inspector said. He pulled up another wooden chair and placed it directly in front of the prisoner, then sat down comfortably, resting his right ankle on top of his left knee.

  “My name is Simon Foxcroft and I’m here to find out some information. I’m sure you can understand me but just to make sure there is no miscommunication I’ll ask Detective Sergeant Topgun here to do the translating. Are we clear on this?”

  He smiled affably at the handcuffed man who merely curled his lip in an attempt at showing his disdain. The Sergeant spoke in Cantonese, in a low, threatening and guttural voice but was interrupted by the prisoner’s terse: “Fuck you gwailo!”

  “Ah, good that you are familiar with the Anglo-Saxon idiom,” Foxcroft said, still overly friendly. He paused and smiled for a moment at the man they were interrogating. It was best to start slowly and wind up the tension. Siu Lung had long hair that curled slightly at the ends, which nearly touched his shoulders. Tattoos intertwined up and down his arms and across his chest, most of which were hidden by the black singlet that he’d worn when they pulled him from his den. He had handsome regular features and could have been a minor movie star. Chances were he’d probably been an extra in local Kung Fu movies. Many Triads were. He looked fit, as if he trained his body on a regular basis.

  Foxcroft knew that this would take some time. He had no way of knowing how fanatical the prisoner was. Perhaps it was just about money and the sting of continuous pain would prise the secrets from his obscene lips. Or perhaps it was something more, a commitment to a cause, political, criminal or a mixture of both with no clear logic. The policeman had come across all sorts in his time and knew there were never certainties during interviews such as these. Patience and cold-hearted application was required. Sergeant Topgun had buckets more of these than Foxcroft would ever have. Foxcroft was glad that the onus was not all on his shoulders. Sometimes he believed the swarthy Chinese policeman had been Chief Torturer at some Emperor’s court in a previous life.

  “I want to know about the Indian man and why you are using him to kill people?”

  Again: “Fuck you, gwailo.”

  “This is not going to be a very constructive meeting if you keep insisting on using racist abuse,” Foxcroft admonished gently.

  “You. Gwailo. Fuck you smelly mother cunt. All you race will die. Okay. Fuck.” The last expletive was a punctuation and delivered in a tone verging on the biblical.

  The Western policeman smiled and nodded. “Good stuff, I know how frustrating it is to be strapped to a chair and not know why you’re here and you’re innocent and you will get vengeance on me and all the rest. Anyway, here are the facts. I’m going to keep you in this room until you tell me what I want to hear. Myself and these gentlemen will go off, have some noodles, take a pee, smoke a few cigarettes, maybe go home and get a good night’s sleep then come back and keep on asking the same questions until the smell of
your own vomit and urine makes you ready to talk with us. I know you’ve seen all the movies and you think you’re a hard bastard and will be able to stand up to it but let me remind you that we do this for a living and you are just here, an amateur on the wrong side of the law. Whatever experience you’ve had with other police stations is totally irrelevant. This is OSCB and we take our investigations seriously. Sergeant, could you translate?”

  “No need, Ah-sir. He unnerstand. Ming m’ming baak, sei jai?”

  Siu Lung retched loudly and spat a globule of saliva as far as he could. It landed half a yard away from Foxcroft’s shoes. Topgun moved towards the table and picked up the purple dildo. The prisoner smirked at him. The tool’s colour made it appear deceptively harmless.

  For a full minute Topgun belaboured the back of the prisoners head with the rubber length, leaving no visible mark but much unexpected discomfort.

  Foxcroft checked his watch. Siu Lung had damp eyes and had bitten down on his lip. A small dribble of blood ran down his chin. “I’ve got a few files to catch up on so I’ll be back in a while. None of us believe this will be easy. You’re a tough-looking guy. I’m sure. But we’ve got lots of time. Maybe your little girlfriend will crack and tell us something she shouldn’t.” He winked as he opened the interrogation room door.

  “Fuck you, gwailo, Chinese people will make you eat your penis. You have no respect. We show you res—” His words were cut off as the purple truncheon whipped at him again, catching his nose every third or fourth blow, forcing more tears into his eyes.

  The Chief Inspector shrugged at Topgun and left the room, returning a second later to retrieve the mobile phone he’d forgotten.

  “Try to expand your vocabulary beyond insults by the time I come back, young man,” he requested.

  * * * *

  The streets of Pattaya had been paved with cobblestones since Scrimple had last stayed and played there. He was amazed at how the town appeared cleaner, although the nightlife was still as torrid as it had been since the days when the Vietnam War gave birth to the wicked, red-tinged seaside resort. In the old days it had taken two to three hours to get down from Bangkok but now, with the Expressway, it was a swift one and a half-hour journey. Tourists didn’t come for the beach. They were here for the raunchy atmosphere and for a respite from the more intense pollution of the capital.

  They’d driven up from Rayong in one of McAlistair’s Mercs and he’d let his driver take it away somewhere until they were ready to go back home.

  “Where you staying?” Bill Jedburgh asked Scrimple.

  “The Julie, down on Walking Street.”

  “I stayed there once about ten years ago. I had a great room that faced out to the sea with big panoramic windows and the girls loved watching the view while I shagged them doggie-style.” He punctuated the sentence with a rude grunt and a movement of both elbows that added to the image of wild copulation.

  “Ah, Jedburgh shagging stories,” said McAlistair stifling an artificial yawn.

  “I’ve just got one of the regular rooms,” Scrimple said. “It’s good value at eight hundred Baht.”

  “You’ve got to watch the lady-boys from the Bar Linda, they tend to cluster close to the Julie Hotel,” Jedburgh commented. They were walking down the Soi, the side street, which was lined with parked vehicles, motorbikes, pimps and miscellaneous bars fronting cheap hotels or hostels. A big sign greeted them with the information that they were now in “Boystown.”

  Scrimple had never been here before. He used to drink in the open bars on Soi 8 and then, grabbing a seat on a Baht bus would find his way to the Marine Disco which only got going at two in the morning and attracted all of the town’s flotsam with its loud techno music. When it closed at six the dregs were swilled out and formed a tepid drug and drink-induced puddle further down the road in Marine II which closed when the last punter had collapsed with exhaustion.

  They managed to reach the restaurant without being accosted by any of the placard-waving touts from the Boy Go-Go bars. Through half open doors, Scrimple caught occasional glimpses of young men in white underpants dancing on podiums or bending their backs and undulating their stomachs against silver poles. He’d never seen this side before but it was identical to the standard girlie bars. It made him shudder to think of men doing that kind of work. He blocked his imagination from creating any further images of what else might be happening in upstairs rooms in this pink part of town.

  “There’s Larry Lim,” Bill said as they stepped into the New Orleans and found their table.

  Scrimple shook hands with the broad-shouldered Chinese Singaporean whom he’d never met before and they got settled in. McAlistair ordered two bottles of the most expensive American Cabernet Sauvignon, then the pretty Filipina waitress—transported from the sister restaurant in Manila—took their orders and within a short time the tender ribs arrived.

  “It’s worth running the poofter gauntlet,” Jedburgh explained to Larry Lim who still had an uncomfortable expression on his face half an hour and four beers later.

  “If you say so, Bill.”

  “You homophobic Chinaman. Stay in Thailand for a while and you get used to all sorts of stuff,” McAlistair said, wiping his hands on the streaked napkin that was tied around his neck. “Tolerance. Very important Buddhist concept. Aren’t you a Buddhist, Larry? Being Chinese?”

  “I’m a Catholic.”

  “And a good one as well. I can vouch for that,” Jedburgh interjected. “Whenever he does something bad, like stare at a girl who’s got her tits hanging out, he looks guilty as hell.”

  “Which brings us to a very important matter. When are we going to look at girls with their tits and other bits hanging out? And where are we going to start?” McAlistair demanded.

  “I need to talk with you in private, Bill,” Larry Lim said quietly. Scrimple noticed Bill’s face which, although red from the drinking, was serious as he acknowledged the Singaporean’s request. Scrimple wondered what business they had together, assuming it was something to do with the Singapore-based company for which Jedburgh did security consulting. Larry might be one of Jedburgh’s colleagues although his demeanour was more intense, earnest and military than one might expect from a commercial security man. Scrimple suspected that Jedburgh might be doing some work for the Singaporean government which made sense. He didn’t dwell on the thought. It wasn’t important.

  After desserts they walked down the main Beach Road and popped into various Go-Go Bars on the way until they reached Walking Street which was closed to vehicles after dark. Scrimple remembered it as a sea of mud a few years back. Now it was an easy road to stroll down. They had a number of beers in Soi Diamond and a quick look in a place called Tony’s where a decent Filipino band played standard rock songs. Jedburgh and Larry Lim excused themselves and, after they’d left, Scrimple joined McAlistair in buying drinks for a trio of girls who could not have been older than sixteen but who had already learnt that the primary function of men was to pay for food, drink and if possible everything else in life.

  Scrimple wondered, through the haze of intoxication that had snuck up on him by now, if they would be willing to open their legs as rapidly as he was opening his wallet.

  * * * *

  Whatever frustrations the day was going to bring, Jim had woken up with a gleam in his eye because there’d been a warm body in the crock of his arm.

  He’d had no idea how soft and perfumed the skin of an Asian girl could be. No idea how sensuous a feeling to run his tongue up her alabaster thigh and then find his nose slipping into a cleft that was only scarcely protected by several long, raven-black strands. Somehow it tasted of strawberries and cream and he couldn’t help but let his tongue probe further and lap it up until she began making cooing noises of appreciation which broke all his good intentions to move slowly. After all the time he’d been waiting for Doris Chan his patience and planned reticence deserted him and he gave in to the crashing demands of his desire and the commands of her ch
oked voice that urged him on. He plunged headlong into her. He felt at his most male with this woman and the intensity of his emotions—while wrapped in her arms—both frightened and pleased him. For a few moments he slipped into another universe, a place he’d never visited before.

  A knock on the office door brought him sharply out of his reverie. He sat at the big desk that had belonged to Bob Chen, his feet on the table, his lips seemingly formed in a vacant smile as he gazed sightlessly at a bunch of faxes. He looked up and found Madeleine, the Merchandising Manager standing in the corridor.

  “Are you busy?” she asked.

  “Not for you, my dear,” he said cheerily. The warmth of his words brought an expression of puzzlement to her face. She advanced slowly into the big room and slid down into one of the black leather guest chairs.

  “It is still strange to think that Mr. Chen and Louise will not be coming back here.” Her eyes remained red from weeping and it seemed as if she had not brushed her short, spiky hair after her morning shower—a quiff was poking up over her right ear.

  Jim smiled and hoped she had something interesting and helpful to tell him. So far nobody had cooperated much but neither had anyone been noticeably obstructive. It was just a polite, alien way of ignoring him. He’d asked Doris’s advice on how to penetrate their wall of silence and motivate them to look forward to a different way of working, but she’d only shrugged enigmatically and said, “They are waiting to see how the wind will blow. Who will be the new boss, how it will work and what compromises they will have to make. You’re just an interim person to them. They cannot trust you, they don’t know you, so they are waiting.”

  “Why can’t they trust me? I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Probably they do, or think they do. You’re an outsider and you might not understand how things have been done in the past.”

  “Damn right I don’t. There’s no honest logic to it.”

  “Not gwailo logic anyway, eh?”

  “My God, you people are the most infuriating, racist bastards on the planet.”