Choom shrugged and stared at the ring where the handlers were leading the bulls towards each other.
‘So how does it work?’
‘The bulls lock horns in the ring. The winner is the one that forces the other to back off.’
As he spoke, the bulls connected like magnets, heads lowered, horns locked. The handlers stepped away but remained in the ring, together with a smattering of men who may have been the beasts’ owners or trainers. For a brief moment it was quiet enough to hear the bulls snorting, before the stadium erupted into a frenzy of yelling and gesticulating. The crowds in the pavilions leaned forward, small boys climbing the fence around the ring for a closer look.
Jayne glanced at Paul, whose expression was inscrutable behind his dark glasses. In the ring the brown bull shook its head to try to dislodge his opponent. Around half the men in the stadium rose to their feet and cheered. Jayne caught sight of notes changing hands—the pink one hundred and purple five hundred baht—as the bulls continued to headbutt each other.
She took the photo of Pla that Paul had given her and placed it on the concrete step between Choom and her.
‘Younger brother.’ She had to raise her voice to be heard above the crowd. ‘Why didn’t you say you knew this woman when I showed you her photo a few nights ago?’
‘Who says I know her, Khun Jayne?’ Choom’s eyes remained fixed on the bullfight.
‘Pla kept notes. Detailed notes about her work. Who she talked to. Her concerns.’
‘She had notes about me?’ His frown deepened.
‘The last notes she wrote before she died were about you. She was very concerned about your plans to set up shrimp farms in the mangroves.’
Choom grunted, a sound like the snorting of the bulls. ‘My plans were none of her business, any more than they are of yours, older sister.’
His blunt tone gave her a jolt. Few Thais could show such disrespect with impunity. Only the powerful, or those under the protection of the powerful.
Jayne observed Choom from behind her sunglasses. His gaze never left the ring, his breath in sharp intakes every time one of the bulls—Jayne thought it was the black—seemed to be gaining the upper hand. The Thais were notorious gamblers but there were plenty of cheaper options. Cockfights, Siamese fighting fish, even duelling stag-beetles. Betting on bullfights was an expensive hobby. The 555 cigarettes were an expensive choice, too, and judging by the pile of butts at his feet, Choom didn’t ration them. Could the diesel generator business be so lucrative?
‘You want to tell me how Pla died?’ Her question was drowned out in another roar as the crowd surged to its feet. Jayne looked to the ring where the black bull had edged the brown out of the mud puddle towards the fence. But their horns remained locked and the brown pushed back seconds later, generating a new round of yelling.
The two bulls remained head to head, noses in the mud, two forces so well matched they barely moved. One by one people sat down again as the deadlock continued, glassy-eyed men transfixed by the sparring bulls, many clutching baht notes in tense fists.
Jayne looked at Choom, whose brow glistened with sweat.
‘I don’t know why Pla was killed,’ he said. ‘But she had a history of poking her nose into other people’s business. And anyone foolish enough to come between a man and his money is asking for trouble.’
The stadium had become so quiet the snorting of the bulls was audible again. Rivulets of dark sweat streaked the animals’ hides. Damp patches spread down the backs of the handlers’ shirts like spilt ink. Hoofs pounded the dirt, eyes rolled, nostrils flared. But neither bull seemed able to shake off his opponent.
Just as Jayne wondered how much more tension Choom could stand, the men in the ring used ropes to separate the bulls and draw the bout to a close. The black bull was led out of the ring to mild applause, the brown at a safe distance behind him.
‘Who won?’
‘There was no winner,’ Choom said. ‘The bulls were evenly matched.’
He let the butt between his fingers fall to the ground and slumped forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Jayne got the distinct impression he hadn’t bet on a tie. He said something in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Phii sam dam ploey.’
Hit by one ghost then another. The Thai equivalent of ‘when it rains, it pours’.
‘Perhaps it is Pla’s ghost that hits you,’ Jayne said in an attempt to rattle him.
Choom’s hand went to the amulet around his neck. ‘Why would Pla’s ghost want to haunt me?’
Jayne took off her sunglasses so she could look him in the eye. ‘I asked how Pla died. I never said anything about her being killed.’
She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around. Paul cleared his throat and nodded towards the pavilion. In the lull between fights, her exchange with Choom had attracted attention. Many of the faces staring at them from the crowd were flushed with alcohol. There was no telling how many of these rough, excited, drunken men Choom might call on for help if she pushed him too far.
‘Drink, brother?’ The man to Choom’s left tapped him on the upper arm with a small bottle of whisky. Jayne took it as a sign.
‘I won’t keep you any longer from your friends,’ she said, giving him a perfunctory wai.
As Paul ushered her out, she glanced over her shoulder to see Choom rise to his feet. The man beside him stood, too, said something and nodded in Jayne’s direction. Their eyes met for a heartbeat before Choom turned to his companion and shook his head.
Jayne and Paul headed out towards the car park, pausing to allow the sweaty, exhausted bulls to pass. Behind them the stadium buzzed with a new round of fighting and betting.
54
Was Pla’s ghost haunting him? The farang woman’s suggestion gave Choom chills despite the heat.
Then again, what grounds did Pla’s ghost have for causing him grief? Their meeting had been her idea.
‘Come to the Khlong Haeng jetty,’ she’d said. ‘I should be finished tidying the boat by sunset and you can walk me home through the park while we talk.’
Choom had jumped at the proposal, assuming she was going to help him seek compensation from the power company for the loss of his diesel generator business. As she’d proved to be such an effective advocate for the villagers, the idea of having Pla champion his cause lifted Choom’s spirits for the first time in as long as he could remember.
But his hopes were dashed when it seemed all she intended was to attack his shrimp-farming plans.
‘Brother, there must be an alternative,’ she said, leading him into the sparse forest where the mouth of the khlong met the sea. ‘Shrimp farming might bring you money in the short term, but it’s not sustainable.’
‘Short-term money suits my needs just fine,’ he said, thinking of the mounting impatience of his creditors. ‘My cousins in Nakhon Si Thammarat province made a small fortune farming shrimp for export. Mangroves are public land. I have friends who’ll supply the labour. Start-up costs are minimal.’
‘No, the costs are far too high.’ Pla shook her head. ‘You’re not thinking straight, older brother. Ask your cousins in Nakhon Si Thammarat what happened after they made that small fortune. Go and visit the dead forests and beaches of their homeland and then ask yourself, is that really what you want for Krabi?’
You’re not thinking straight. It was the same phrase the loan shark had used when Choom begged for more time to make the repayments. ‘Krabi can take care of itself,’ he said through gritted teeth, anxious to bring the exchange to a close. ‘And I advise you, little sister, to stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’
‘But the environment belongs to us all,’ she said, clearly not getting the message. ‘I’ve witnessed firsthand the destruction in Nakhon Si Thammarat and I can’t let that happen in Krabi. I think you’ll find the local village chiefs will agree that the mangrove forests should be protected for future generations
.’
If she’d threatened Choom with government authorities, or even the cops, he wouldn’t have cared. But the village chiefs in Krabi were strong and virtually incorruptible.
‘Just stop talking,’ he muttered.
She remained oblivious to his growing agitation. ‘I have links with environmental groups in Bangkok and I’m sure they’ll support the village chiefs’ efforts to strengthen protections, too.’
Why couldn’t she shut up? On her own, the girl was nothing. But her combination of incorruptible village chiefs and organised environmental zealots posed a genuine threat to Choom’s plans.
‘Older brother,’ she persisted. ‘If you could see what once rich mangrove forests have been reduced to today, I feel sure you’d change your mind—’
Choom seized her by the throat. He needed to stop her talking long enough to figure out a way to get her off his back. He pushed her to the ground as though an unobstructed view of the sea through the pine trees might help clear his mind, and tightened his grip around her neck.
He didn’t make a conscious decision to kill her. He simply held her until there was silence. When he released his hands, Pla’s body slumped to the ground.
Relief quickly gave way to horror as Choom realised what he had done. He shook the girl, willing her to breathe. When that didn’t work, he tried lifting her to her feet. But she seemed to grow heavier in his arms by the moment, as though possessed by a demon. Panicked, Choom acted on impulse, dragging her body back to the canal and rolling it into the water.
He never dreamed she would turn up the following morning in a cave on Princess Beach.
He contemplated fleeing the province at that point, but as news filtered through that the cops were treating Pla’s death as an accident, he decided it was best to get back to work. Going about his business as usual was much less suspicious than going into hiding. Besides, while the girl might be out of the picture, he still had his creditors breathing down his neck.
Choom had gone to Laem Kaeng village to talk about his shrimp-farming plans with Pu and Tao the night the farang, Jayne, and her Indian friend turned up. When she started showing Pla’s photo around, Choom feared she would expose him. But when that threat passed him by, too, Choom started to believe his luck was changing. He’d even driven Jayne and her friend back to their guesthouse to make sure they weren’t planning to lie in wait for him elsewhere. He was reassured by the time he dropped them off that they suspected nothing.
But here Jayne was, back in his face again only five days later, and this time Choom was scared. She was onto him. He knew it. But how could she have traced him to Pla’s death? And how could she prove…
Ah, that was it. Choom took a deep breath.
She couldn’t prove anything. Otherwise it would’ve been the police, not a lone farang coming for him. She’d tried to trick him and turn his words into a confession because she had no proof.
A plan started to hatch in his mind, a plan so clever it took the sting out of the loss he’d suffered on the last fight. The farang’s guesthouse was close to his friend Charlie’s place and Charlie owed him a favour.
But first he’d stay for one more fight. This time, he was certain his luck was about to change.
55
Paul didn’t argue when Jayne wanted to put distance between them and the bullfights. Though keen to get the lowdown on her exchange with Choom, he preferred her idea of heading back to the guesthouse to freshen up, then reconvening over cold beers at a beachfront bar. He showered, shaved, splashed on some aftershave, dressed in his last clean change of clothes, had second thoughts about the aftershave and tried to wash it off. By the time he reached the open-sided Paradise Bar, the setting sun had tinted the beach pink. Jayne had a table by the railing overlooking the sand. She wore the same little black dress she had at Pla’s funeral but without the shawl. Paul’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord.
Jayne pulled a face and coaxed at the hem. ‘It’s the cleanest thing I have.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Paul said. ‘For a minute there I thought I was underdressed.’
She laughed. ‘Mate, you’ve been in Thailand too long.’
Jayne summoned a waitress, who on closer inspection turned out to be a ladyboy. Kratoey, as they were called in Thai. They were still such a novelty to Paul; he felt baffled by them. Jayne, however, was unfazed by the sight of a young man wearing lipstick and high heels, and placed their order without batting an eyelid.
After the kratoey teetered to the bar, Jayne briefed Paul on her conversation at the bullfight.
‘So you’re convinced this guy Choom had something to do with Pla’s death,’ Paul said when she finished.
‘Yes, but I can’t prove it.’ She lit a cigarette and stared out over the beach. Longtail boats lined the water’s edge, prows rearing like cobras in the purple dusk.
‘Do you think he’s violent?’ Paul said.
‘I don’t know. It’s hard to get a handle on him. He has a big car, mobile phone, smokes expensive cigarettes and bets on bullfights. But he’s worried about money.’
‘Champagne tastes on a beer income?’
‘Exactly what I’m thinking.’ Jayne smiled. ‘There’s a similar expression in Thai. Rotniyom sung rai dai tam. Taste is high, income is low.’
The kratoey reappeared with their drinks, reeking of talcum powder and attitude. He set the beers down, letting his hand brush against Paul’s. Paul flinched. Jayne grinned as the kratoey slunk off.
‘It’s all right for you,’ Paul muttered, raising his bottle to hers.
Jayne sipped her beer, tapped her cigarette on the side of the ashtray. ‘He’s not stupid.’
‘Who, the kratoey?’ Paul thought she was giving him a backhanded compliment.
‘No, Choom. It was clever of him to drop me and Rajiv back at the guesthouse that night.’
‘Shit, that means he knows where you’re staying. Shouldn’t you—that is, we—be worried?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve got Pla’s notebook with me’—she patted her handbag—‘and what our guesthouse lacks in seaside ambience it makes up for in security. I’d hate to get stuck there in a fire.’
‘Then maybe you shouldn’t smoke,’ Paul said.
She responded by drawing back on her cigarette with exaggerated pleasure. ‘Thing is, I’ve got nothing to go on but a gut feeling. Not enough for our friend Sergeant Yongyuth.’
Paul thought for a moment. ‘The cops mightn’t be interested, but I know some environmental NGOs who would be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are a couple of organisations that specialise in protecting mangrove forests. I came across them when I was doing the research. If you’re okay with it, I could ask one of them to look into it.’
‘Absolutely. That’s a great idea.’ A genuine compliment this time. ‘If we can’t bring Pla’s killer to justice, we can still try to protect what she loved.’
Jayne raised her bottle to his. ‘I want to do both,’ she said.
56
Choom met Charlie in the lull between shows. He told him over the phone that he had a problem with rats menacing the fingerlings he was trying to raise. Charlie tried to talk him into taking a relatively harmless mangrove snake or a rat snake, but Choom said he wanted a cobra so the local kids wouldn’t be tempted to try to snare it for food.
‘Give me a hungry one,’ he said. ‘I want him ready to start work.’
Charlie again tried to talk him out of it, but Choom reminded him that he knew how to handle snakes. He’d worked with Charlie at the Krabi Snake Farm compound as a teenager, learning to milk the snakes in order to sell their venom to make antivenene. In a roundabout way, he attributed his business career to his exposure to the entrepreneurial spirit of the Krabi Snake Farm.
Charlie met him at a side entrance, away from the show ring. The drawstring bag writhed as he handed it over. Choom placed the bag in the front basket of his motorbike, gave Charlie a mock salute and spe
d to the Sea View Guesthouse. He’d phoned earlier to get the farang woman’s room number and was told she and her friend had left for dinner. He figured he had a window of about an hour before they returned.
The guesthouse was quiet apart from the restaurant, where a small crowd of staff and villagers were gathered around a television watching the latest episode of Pob Pii Fah, the popular soap opera about a princess possessed by a ghost. Choom crept through the shadows of the garden to bungalow number twelve. He tried the door and windows but they were all locked, with not a single gap for a snake to squeeze through.
He made his way around the back, where blue plastic PVC pipes protruded from beneath the floor. Several disappeared into the dirt, but others were cut off above ground to allow water to run off into the garden beds. Choom found a stick and poked it inside one of the pipes. He struck something, poked harder and the obstacle gave way with the clatter of metal against tiles. A drain cover, most likely in the shower recess or the middle of the bathroom floor.
He squatted down in the mud and loosened the string at the opening of the sack just enough to slip it over the mouth of the pipe. Holding it firmly in place with one hand, he tipped the sack with the other, gently urging the snake towards the pipe. It wasn’t uncommon for black cobras to crawl up through the plumbing in search of cool, dark places to rest, especially at this time of year. But you couldn’t rush a snake, not without tipping it out of the sack, grasping it at the base of the head and shoving it into the pipe—not manoeuvres Choom was willing to risk in near darkness. Instead, he kept nudging the snake forward, muttering encouragement under his breath, until he finally felt the sack go limp in his hands.
He wedged the fabric into the pipe to prevent the snake from escaping, and crept back out of the compound.
This worked better, this forward planning. Not like what happened with the girl. It had been a mistake, strangling her like that. She’d caught him on a bad day. He was already strung out from taking yah bah to keep him alert, and Pla’s threats had tipped him over the edge.
The Dying Beach Page 24
