‘It’d make sense if we left together,’ he told her.
‘Of course.’ She abandoned most of her coke. ‘Look, if there’s anything else I can do … You’ve got my numbers. Just ring and say where you want to meet.’
As they moved towards the door, she gave a wave to the woman behind the bar.
Outside, Philomena guided him to the right.
‘You probably won’t be watched while you’re here unless you do something that catches the attention of MIS, the Military Intelligence Service, but it’d be worth keeping an eye open. They’re sometimes obvious, sometimes not. Rickshaw drivers are quite often informers for the Tatmadaw. Beware the ones who speak English well.’
‘I will.’
‘To find a taxi you’ll do best in Strand Road. That’s where our embassy is. Don’t pay more than 600 kyat to get to the Inya Lodge and make sure you fix a price first.’
‘Thanks. Can I drop you anywhere?’
‘That’s kind, but I have a car and driver waiting for me.’ She smiled grimly. ‘And there’s a cook/housekeeper and a gardener back at the place where I live. When I was at Cambridge I never dreamt my first job would come with three servants.’
*
Twenty minutes later the battered taxi dropped Sam at the Inya Lodge. Lights were on but the place seemed deserted. He opened the glass-panelled door to the lobby. Behind the desk a young man woke from a doze and leapt to his feet, staring at Sam expectantly.
‘I’m looking for a friend. I think he’s staying here.’
The boy stared uncomprehendingly.
‘Mister Wetherby?’
Mention of the name propelled the youth into a back room. He reappeared a few seconds later with an older man who spoke English.
‘You look for Mister Wetherby?’
‘Yes. I believe he was staying here.’
‘He gone sir. Day before yesterday.’
‘D’you know where he went?’
‘He say he go to Bagan, but I think maybe he gone back to England. Mister Wetherby very sick. Another English person ask for him today.’
Sam tensed. ‘You know his name?’ His first thought was that this was the mysterious ‘Rip’ whom Harrison had hoped to meet in Bangkok.
‘A lady, sir. She arrive from England this afternoon. Very unhappy that Mister Wetherby not here.’
‘A lady?’ Could Rip be a woman? ‘What’s her name?’
The man scrabbled amongst the papers behind the counter.
‘Miss Dennis, sir. Her name is Miss Dennis.’
Sam gaped in disbelief. Melissa was here.
‘You know her, sir?’
‘Met her a couple of times.’ And on the last of which she’d claimed not to know where Perry had gone. ‘Is she here in the hotel?’
‘No, sir. Gone to restaurant.’ He pointed towards the main road.
‘What’s the place called?’
‘Music Café. Very nice. I tell her, because a lot of young people go. She can talk with them. Make her feel less lonely.’
‘She’s by herself?’
‘Yes. So, so unhappy.’ He shuttled his head with the misery of it.
Sam thought of asking whether she’d been clutching a duty-free gin bottle when she set off, but restrained himself.
‘You need room tonight sir?’
‘Already have one, thanks.’
He saw the man’s disappointment and felt sorry for him.
‘How do I get to this restaurant?’
The man explained. Sam thanked him and left.
The thought of another misleading conversation with Melissa filled him with dread, but there were questions he needed answers to. The fact that Perry had moved on the day before Melissa turned up here suggested she hadn’t told him she was coming. Unless she had and the old man had done a bunk to get away from her. Whatever, if she’d ventured all the way out here to be by Perry’s side, she had to have good reasons and he needed to know what they were.
The main road was unlit. He’d had the foresight to bring a small torch. Traffic was light and he crossed to the other side where there was some sort of pavement. Using the flashlight to pick his way over broken stones and drainage gullies, he passed bungalows set back from the road, heading for a cluster of neon lights. As he got nearer he heard the thump of a woofer and a high female voice.
Twenty paces from the café, he stopped to rally his thoughts. He wasn’t ready for this. And neither would she be.
Melissa sat alone at a corner table. She’d finished eating but was delaying her return to the hotel room because she knew its smell of stale insecticide would remind her how alone she was.
The band had been playing familiar tunes from the seventies, which had had a soothing effect on her – a lifeline from home in a place that felt incredibly alien. Dark faces, dark eyes staring all the time.
She’d arrived at the hotel that afternoon full of anticipation and in a high state of anxiety after having her bag taken at the airport by some native insisting she use his taxi rather than anyone else’s. The price to the hotel had been much more than that quoted in the guidebook but she hadn’t had the nerve to argue with him. The Inya Lodge had seemed an oasis of calm when she’d arrived. But when they’d told her ‘Mister Wetherby’ had gone, she’d wanted the ground to open up. Things worsened when they took her to her room. There’d been a lizard on the ceiling.
For an hour she’d sat on the bed and cried. If someone had offered to take her straight home she’d have leapt at the chance.
Then, gradually, she’d pulled herself together. She was an author after all. And a writer’s lot was to face obstacles and surmount them, time and time again, until the finishing line was reached. She liked the image of creator as long-distance runner.
Bagan, she’d decided, must be where the Japanese war memorial was which she’d seen in that cutting – she could think of no other reason why Perry would have gone there. But before following him north she would have to make sure. After a good night’s sleep she would find a library, show them the magazine clipping and see if they could pinpoint the obelisk for her. Then she would employ an English-speaking guide, preferably one who was young, male and good-looking, to take her there.
When she’d stepped inside the café, it had reminded her of night spots in small English market towns. Trying to be with-it, but without knowing how. The place was very dark with candles flickering on the tables. She’d hovered on the threshold afraid to go further in. Three young males whom she took to be waiters had stared at her from the bar area, as if they too were unable to bridge the cultural divide. Eventually, two older boys had nudged a younger one into action. He’d approached with a bemused grin, touching his hands together in greeting.
‘I’d like to eat,’ she’d told him.
‘Yes.’ He hadn’t moved.
‘Where shall I sit?’
‘Yes.’
It had dawned on her that ‘yes’ was the only word of English he knew or understood.
‘Food,’ she’d repeated, miming action with a knife and fork.
For some reason her play-acting had galvanised the youths. All three had clustered round and ushered her to a small table by a wall, incongruously adorned with Manchester United tee-shirts and scarves. They’d vied to be the one to pull the chair out and present her with a menu, but all the time she’d felt they were laughing at her.
The menu was mostly incomprehensible, particularly the cranky English translations stuck next to the Burmese text. Seeing her struggling, one of the youths had pointed to a photo on the menu’s cover.
‘Yes,’ she’d said. ‘Rice.’ Couldn’t go wrong with that.
‘Chicken?’
‘No. Vegetables.’ She hadn’t touched meat for years.
Having come straight from an English winter she was finding the heat oppressive, so she’d asked for a cold beer which tasted all right and was refreshing. Then she’d waited for her food to come, aware all the while of the giggling in the corner wh
ere the three waiters had gone to linger. Surely they’d seen lone females before? The guidebook had a section giving advice to such travellers.
One of the young men had a face that wasn’t quite so foreign as the others, with eyes like plump, plain chocolates. She’d wondered, as she often did with nice-looking males of almost any age, what it would be like to be deflowered by him. Would he be gentle and knowing? Or all thumbs – a creature as inexperienced as her?
Deflowered. She always used that word when thinking about the act, because it sounded earthy. And literary too.
She’d read in the guidebook about the shyness of the Burmese. How a young man wasn’t allowed to spend time alone with a young woman unless already betrothed to her. From that she’d deduced there’d be a high frustration level amongst the young men here, and had toyed with the idea that her own readiness for intimacy might be quite an asset.
Having her first experience of intercourse had become a matter of great importance to her. She’d decided that in her biography on Perry Harrison, she ought to describe her relationship with him as a sexual one. It’d be more interesting for the reader, and once Perry was dead there’d be no one around to deny it. Apart from Ingrid. And she wouldn’t talk for fear of revealing that the upright moralistic character she projected was only a mask. But to write about such a thing without actual personal knowledge of what sex with a man felt like, might risk giving herself away.
She’d thought about the matter a great deal before setting off for Burma. The whole adventure of coming out here was clearly going to be packed with life-changing experiences. So, she’d decided, there was no better time or place to have her first fuck – that was the cruder, more basic word she also used when describing it in her thoughts.
The choice of man for the event wasn’t particularly critical, so long as she fancied him of course. She glanced at the corner again. The boy with the beautiful eyes was smiling at her. She smiled back, but rather uncertainly, realising that however attractive he was, his foreignness might be a problem for her.
Sam stepped onto the terrace in front of the café. Three sprawling youths and three cross-legged girls sat at plastic tables drinking cokes together. One of the young men was jangling keys and keeping half an eye on a black 4-wheel drive parked ostentatiously at the side of the road. Sons and daughters of the military, Sam suspected.
Through the plate glass window he saw a small combo playing, illuminated by a dim spotlight which picked out the girl singer. She was pretty and young, with short black hair and an intelligent face. The song was by Eric Clapton.
Inside he didn’t see Melissa at first because the room was quite dark. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he spotted her on the far sidé, hunching forward with her head in her hands. Her hair spilled over her fingers in a shaggy mane. In front of her was a half-empty glass.
Sam planned to keep his encounter with her as short as possible. As soon as he’d discovered whether she knew something he didn’t, he would be off. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to her table, pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.
It was a few moments before Melissa realised she was no longer alone. She gasped when she saw who it was.
‘You. I don’t believe it! What … what on earth are you doing here?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
She sat up dead straight, laying her hands flat on the table as if to steady herself. Sam guessed she couldn’t remember his name.
‘Geoff,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes. And Ginny.’ She glanced past him for some sign of his partner. ‘What on earth …?’
‘Charles asked me to come,’ Sam declared, brazenly. ‘You remember I told you I’d met him?’
‘Ye-es …’
‘Well, he and I had a drink the other day and I mentioned I had some leave owing and wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then out of the blue he said, did I fancy a trip to Myanmar? He’d had a tip-off his father had come out here. Desperately worried about him, but he was in the middle of a huge case at the Bailey and couldn’t get away. Well, to cut a long story short, I said I’d have a go at finding his father if he paid my fare. And he agreed. So here I am.’ He grinned broadly, watching to see if she believed him.
‘But how did Charles know Perry had come to Myanmar?’ Her eyes brimmed with suspicion.
‘I think Robert Wetherby told him.’
She gaped. ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘It wasn’t in so many words, apparently. But enough of a clue to justify the expense of the air ticket.’ He smiled again, working hard on his charm. ‘Can I say how glad I am to see you?’
‘God, me too.’ She grinned back, wondering if he realised how glad. ‘Welcome to Myanmar.’ She stretched out a hand and he shook it.
‘Infuriating to find that Perry checked out yesterday,’ he prodded.
‘Ghastly.’
‘You hadn’t arranged to meet him here.’
‘Not at all. My arrival was not something he was expecting.’
‘Where d’you think he’s gone?’
‘Well, they said Bagan.’
‘Why would he go there?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Tomorrow I’m going to …’ She was on the point of telling him about the cutting, then realised that if he was a journalist after all, she would be handing him an exclusive on a plate.
‘You’re going to what?’ he prompted.
She shook her head. The music had got louder, giving her a convenient excuse for not continuing. Her mind was running out of control, suddenly imagining him on top of her, kissing and thrusting. ‘Are you staying at the Inya Lodge too?’ she shouted above the din.
‘No. At some dump in the town centre with sloping floors.’
‘Sounds lethal. Ginny with you?’
‘No. She couldn’t get time off work.’
‘Poor you. All alone. Just like me.’
She quickly stared down at her half-empty glass. She hadn’t meant to say those last three words. A case of brain engaging mouth before going through the filtering process of judgement. Yes, of course it was fate his turning up like this without his partner. And he was obviously a far more suitable candidate for her to lose her innocence with than some native boy with dubious hygiene routines. But if it was to happen, she’d have to catch him first. Which would require subtlety rather than blundering about like a pubertal teenager.
She looked up again, shook her mane of hair and eyed him coquettishly from between its strands. ‘You know, I’m finding it terribly hard to believe any of this.’
Sam feigned surprise. ‘What exactly are you finding hard to believe?’
‘Your being here now. I mean, talk about coincidences. You sure you’re not following me?’
He peered through her straggly mane, trying to decide if she was winking at him or merely blinking hair from her eyes.
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘I mean there was the pub in Sidgefield. Then that rally in London on Monday. And now here. Extraordinary.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘I bet you are a reporter …’
‘I can assure you I’m not.’ He adopted what he hoped was a modest and slightly affronted smile. ‘Good at stringing figures together but lousy with words.’
Her manner was beginning to alarm him. The teasing looks, the nervous fluttering of her hands – he could imagine the fantasies sprouting in her mind. Two lone travellers meeting in romantic Rangoon …
Deciding to play on it, he narrowed his eyes to suggest she’d been a bit naughty with him. ‘You’re the one who’s been telling porkies, pretending you didn’t know Perry was coming here.’
‘He wanted it kept a secret,’ she protested. ‘No one was to know.’
‘He tell you what he planned to do here?’
Melissa’s head spun as she wrestled with what was safe to tell him and what wasn’t. The dark-eyed waiter was hovering a few feet away, his white shirt glowing in the UV lighting and a menu clutched in his hands like it was a hol
y scripture.
‘I think he wants to take an order,’ she said, glad of the distraction while she got her thoughts together.
‘I’m going to have a beer. Like another one?’
‘Why not?’ Melissa drained her glass. She’d have preferred a G and T, but at least it was alcohol. ‘A drink to celebrate this extraordinary twist of fate.’
Sam didn’t like the sound of that. ‘You’ve eaten already I take it.’
‘Yes. And the rice and veg wasn’t bad.’
He browsed the menu and chose the same but with the addition of chicken. The boy took his order and hurried away, grinning like he’d just caught a fish.
‘So …’ Sam persisted, determined to get something from her, ‘what did Perry tell you about his plans, exactly?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It was all an accident my finding out he was coming here. You see, a few weeks ago I lent him some Internet printouts – stuff about Nike clothing workers in third-world countries. And when he returned them I saw he’d jotted notes on the back. Flight numbers and quotes for air tickets. And then there was the name Inya Lodge with a phone number and the word Yangon.’
‘Did you ask him what it meant?’
‘Certainly not. If he’d wanted me to know he’d have told me.’
‘You knew he’d got a passport in the name of Robert Wetherby?’
‘Well …’ This was an issue Melissa felt a little foolish about. ‘I did and I didn’t. Quite by chance I saw a passport application in Robert’s name on Perry’s desk a few weeks ago. Assumed he was witnessing it for him. It was only when I rang the Inya Lodge from London before setting off – to check he was staying there – that they told me the only elderly Englishman on their books was called Wetherby. Then it all sank in. I was quite shocked. I mean, that’s illegal.’
‘Why are you here, Melissa?’ It was time to cut to the chase.
‘Because I felt he needed me. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him dying alone out here.’ Her eyes began to glisten.
Sam blinked. If that simple, self-indulgent motive really was the reason, he could keep this meeting blissfully short. ‘He didn’t tell you his plans? Where he was going? Who he was seeing?’
The Burma Legacy Page 22
