Behind the Night Bazaar

by Angela Savage

  ‘I knew you were cross with me!’

  Didier stood in the doorway, towel in hand, smiling sheepishly. He’d removed his glasses and his wet shirt was unbuttoned.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,’ Jayne blushed. With the drumming rain on the tin roof, she hadn’t heard him come in. ‘I thought I’d dry off before I leave.’

  ‘I came back to apologise, and because I do need to see you. There’s still so much we need to talk about and—’

  ‘What about Nou?’ she interrupted him.

  Didier shrugged and gave the half-sigh, half-scoff unique to francophones. ‘It’s the same problem we’ve always had. One more night’s not going to make any difference.’

  He handed her the towel and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I really am sorry,’ he said, staring at her half-packed backpack.

  ‘For what?’ Jayne said, wringing out her hair.

  ‘For dragging you out tonight, for losing my temper, for not being a better friend.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, nervous that he’d overheard her mouthing off about being taken for granted. She put the towel around her neck and wondered if she should keep packing.

  ‘I mean it, Jayne,’ Didier said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He held out his arms. ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘You know I do.’ She sat down next to him.

  He put his arm around her and she rested her head against his damp chest. They held each other without speaking, Didier rubbing the top of her arm. Soothed by his touch, Jayne closed her eyes.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  Jayne recoiled, covering the still-fresh scar with her hand. ‘It’s nothing, an accident.’

  ‘What happened, Jayne?’ Didier removed the towel from around her neck and gently lifted her hand away. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I-I got stabbed—’

  Stabbed. It was the first time she’d said it out loud. And for the first time she realised the danger she’d been in. She burst into tears.

  ‘My dear Jayne, ma chérie.’ Didier took her in his arms again, holding her tighter than before. ‘My precious friend, are you OK?’ He rubbed her back. ‘Je suis desolé, mon trésor. I’m so sorry.’

  Pressed uncomfortably against the glasses in his clammy shirt pocket, Jayne moved her head against his skin. She closed her eyes and sniffed, shock subsiding as she became more aware of Didier’s hands on her bare back. Without thinking, she wiped her eyes and slipped her hands beneath his shirt, putting her arms around his torso. He shivered and moved one hand to the back of her neck.

  Jayne raised her face and he kissed her lips, lightly at first, then with hunger. They opened their mouths wide, kisses growing deeper. She tilted her head back as Didier moved his mouth to her throat. He bit the skin between her neck and shoulder, making her body quiver. This loosened her sarong which fell open to her waist. She slid her hands under his wet shirt and helped him shrug it off so they were skin on skin. They lay down on the bed between the pillows and her backpack.

  It was not her desire that surprised her but his. Didier kissed her mouth again, drawing her closer to him. His hand was on her breast, playing with her nipple. He hooked one of her legs over his hip so their crotches were pressed together and she felt his erection through his damp jeans. He traced the length of her spine, his fingers gently stroking the crack in her arse.

  Ever since they’d first met, Jayne had fantasised about having sex with Didier. Now that it was actually happening, she should’ve felt ecstatic. Instead, doubt snapped at her heels like a puppy that refused to be sent outside. Didier was gay—she was under no illusions about that—and no matter how good it felt to kiss him, to touch him, to feel his skin on hers, Jayne couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t in his nature to want her like this. Was he simply curious, or did he think he was doing her a favour? Was she too drunk to figure it out, or too sober not to care less?

  ‘Didier?’

  ‘Mmm?’ he murmured from between her breasts.

  She took his face in her hands to stop him kissing her. ‘Sweetheart?’

  ‘What?’ He raised his head so they were eye to eye.

  ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ He sounded offended.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just…to be honest, this is fucking with my head.’

  ‘Well, it’s not your head I want to fuck with.’ He squeezed a nipple between his fingers, a spasm of pleasure ricocheting to her groin.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ she said, flustered. ‘I mean it, Didi. I’m not comfortable with this.’

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry.’ Didier rolled over and propped himself up on one arm. ‘What is it? What’s wrong, Jayne?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, searching for her clothes. ‘This just doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted it,’ Didier said, watching as she retrieved her underwear.

  ‘I do!’ she said. ‘At least, I thought I did. I don’t know! Don’t take it the wrong way,’ she added, seeing the hurt on his face. ‘I just don’t know where it would leave us. I mean, sex is the perfect way to ruin a friendship.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he shrugged. ‘Or maybe it could be the start of something else.’

  Jayne frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, but I’d be very careful about making promises you can’t keep.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, let’s not talk now.’ Jayne zipped up her jeans and sat down beside him. ‘I’m going to stay in a hotel—’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘No, I will. I mean, you’ve still got things to sort out with Nou, remember?’

  Didier groaned. ‘Merde! Jayne, I’m sorry. What can I say? My life’s a mess at the moment.’ He took her hand. ‘Just tell me I haven’t damaged our relationship.’

  She shook her head and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s OK. And I’m sorry, too. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

  Didier kissed her palm, reaching up with his free hand to trace the scar above her elbow.

  ‘You still haven’t told me how it happened,’ he said softly.

  ‘It was an error of judgment,’ she said.

  The body in the bar was mutilated beyond recognition, but the wallet identifying him had been left on a nearby table as if out of courtesy to the police. For Officer Komet Plungkham it was a relief to examine its contents, even though it was a job for a rookie cop. The lieutenant colonel’s condescending smile implied as much as he issued the order. Komet didn’t care.

  He chalked around the black leather wallet so forensics could place it, and extracted an identification card with latex-clad fingers. He stared at a head-and-shoulders photo of a boyish-looking young man, as if he might transpose the image onto the body. Instead, the photograph mutated before him, triangular gashes appearing on the broad forehead and each of the smooth cheeks. But that was not the worst of it. At first, Komet thought what lay beside the bloodied corpse was a rat and took a closer look. Clutching his stomach and retching, he staggered over to an open drain to vomit. The young man had been castrated.

  By the time his colleagues had responded to his radio call, Komet had cleaned himself up, tightening his belt one notch to keep his shirt tucked in and restoring his hat, pressing it down hard over his thick mane of hair.

  ‘He was Sanga Siamprakorn,’ Komet said now, making an effort to keep his voice steady. ‘Age twenty-four. Born in Ayuthaya. Lives in the Hang Dong district.’

  ‘I believe he hangs out more often round Loh Kroh,’ offered Sergeant Pornsak.

  Pornsak Boonyavivat had the swagger of a man who believed himself irresistible to women. And it was true he turned a few heads, having inherited his Chinese father’s fair skin and bone structure, and his Thai mother’s generous lips and lean physique. But on closer inspection, something made women inclined to walk on. Pornsak had joined the force a year before Komet and acted
ten years his senior, though at twenty-five—both born in the Year of the Pig— they were the same age. It was typical of him to mention a choice piece of information—prior knowledge of the victim and his habits, no less—to highlight Komet’s inexperience.

  ‘And what would lead you to believe that?’ A steely-eyed look from the lieutenant colonel and Pornsak’s smirk faded.

  ‘Encountered the victim in an official capacity, Sir.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘Interviewed him on suspicion of soliciting. No arrest made at the time, Sir.’

  Lieutenant Colonel Ratratarn nodded. ‘Anyone else care to share something they might know about Khun Sanga?’

  ‘Ah, Sir, I h-heard he has a farang b-boyfriend.’

  It was Officer Tanin’s turn to impress the commander. Tanin had been in the same intake of recruits as Komet. A native of Chiang Rai province, he was a short, stocky man, the buttons of his chocolate-brown uniform straining over his barrel chest. His bug-eyes gave him a look of continual astonishment, and his grey teeth indicated he’d been overdosed with anti-malarial medicine as a child. Unlike Komet, he looked up to Pornsak. But lacking his arrogance and having a tendency to stutter, Tanin came across more as a parody than protégé of the sergeant.

  ‘Really?’ Ratratarn said, turning to him with exaggerated interest. ‘And just how did you hear that?’

  ‘Ah, ah…’ Tanin frantically scanned the scene. ‘H-he— sh-he—he told me.’ He gestured towards the small crowd in an adjacent bar.

  Among the gawping collection of scruffy street kids, bleary-eyed young men and a couple of bargirls Komet recognised from his beat, he spotted Tanin’s target: a striking figure in full make-up and blond wig, pantyhose shimmering beneath the split of a pearl-grey evening gown and feet squeezed into silver stilettos. If not for the pronounced Adam’s apple, which the kratoey instinctively covered with one hand, Komet could have sworn he was a woman.

  ‘Over here,’ Ratratarn barked.

  Panic flashed across the kratoey’s face.

  ‘I said come here!’

  He shuffled forward, a handkerchief held to his mouth.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘My professional name is Marilyn—aie!’

  The honeyed tones evaporated in a cry as Ratratarn grabbed him roughly by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back.

  ‘I don’t give a shit about your professional name, arse-hole!’

  The kratoey’s body went limp for a moment, then Ratratarn yanked him back upright, eliciting another cry.

  ‘I-it’s P-Pairoj,’ he whimpered, ‘Pairoj Ni-Nilmongkol.’

  ‘That’s better. Man’s body, man’s name. Or are you one of those sick bastards who’s had the operation?’

  He put his hand between the man’s legs and squeezed. Pairoj yelped, and his free hand fluttered from his face to his crotch.

  ‘Obviously not,’ Ratratarn sniggered, swinging Pairoj around so he faced the corpse. ‘The thing is, someone has given our friend Khun Sanga here the operation. But I don’t think they used any anaesthetic, do you?’

  The groin of the corpse was black with semi-congealed blood. And blood lay in the palm of the outstretched right hand where Komet had found the severed penis. The kratoey turned his face away, tears making his mascara run.

  ‘I-I don’t know what happened,’ he sobbed. ‘I was doing a show at the Lotus. I was on my way home and saw the p-police car…’ ‘You told Officer Tanin here the deceased had a foreign boyfriend.’

  ‘N-no, I—aie!’

  Ratratarn twisted the man’s arm further.

  ‘You told Officer Tanin the deceased had a foreign boyfriend.’

  ‘Th-that’s right,’ Pairoj whimpered.

  ‘Good boy,’ Ratratarn said. ‘Now go and give your contact details to Officer Tanin so we can keep in touch, OK?’

  Ratratarn released his grip. Pairoj lost his balance and reeled forward, almost falling on the corpse. With a choked scream he backed into Komet who gently steered him over to Tanin. He felt sympathy for the transvestite: at least he’d shown some emotion, whereas there was no sign of his colleagues being affected by the grisly murder. Komet was grateful no one had witnessed his own reaction.

  The Scientific Crime Detection Division team arrived. With a glance from Ratratarn, Komet took the remaining papers from the wallet and carefully replaced it on the table. He shuffled through the items—motorbike licence, ATM card, a couple of withdrawal receipts, student ID—before coming across a business card, printed in English on one side, Thai on the other.

  ‘Di Di Yah Der Mon Pahs,’ he transliterated aloud.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ratratarn materialised in front of him.

  ‘Name card, Sir. It was in the deceased’s wallet. Looks like it belongs to a foreigner.’

  The lieutenant colonel snatched the card from Komet’s fingers. ‘“Didier de Montpasse,”’ he read in English. ‘“Research consultant, Rural Development and HIV/ AIDS.” There’s an address here…Komet, you’re coming with me to check it out. Could be the farang boyfriend. Pornsak!’

  His call interrupted the sergeant’s interrogation of a young man in the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘You and Tanin stay here until the SCDD boys are done.’

  ‘Ah, Sir, here’s something that might interest you. This guy—what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Mana.’

  The young man wore jeans torn at the knees and a pale blue T-shirt, a thick fringe of hair shaded his eyes like a visor.

  ‘Khun Mana was here a few hours ago, around ten,’ Pornsak said. ‘Says he witnessed an argument between the deceased and a foreigner.’

  ‘The farang was very angry, Sir,’ Mana piped up, licking his lips as he spoke. ‘I’m not sure why. I think it had something to do with money.’

  ‘Would you know this foreigner if you saw him again?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Sir. We all know him.’ He indicated the other young men in the group. ‘He comes around here a lot. He helps us…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Helps you what?’ Pornsak said, grabbing Mana by his T-shirt and eyeballing him.

  Komet recognised the homage to their chief in the sergeant’s action, but the gesture merely made Pornsak look like a thug.

  ‘He helps us look after ourselves,’ Mana said, more annoyed than frightened. ‘You know, to look after our health, protect ourselves from getting AIDS—’

  At the word AIDS, Pornsak let go of the young man as if he’d been stung.

  ‘What’s this foreigner’s name?’ Ratratarn said, toying with the business card.

  Mana licked his lips again. ‘We call him Khun Di, Sir.’

  ‘Cheu Khun Di proh wah pen kon dee, chai mai?’

  The young man nodded. ‘We call him Mister Di because he’s a good person. I think his real name is Didi, Didiyer—something like that.’

  Ratratarn glanced at the card and smiled—or was it, Komet wondered, a grimace? His chief’s smile was a lifeless tightening of the lips. Ratratarn was in his fifties, but his face was smooth, apart from two thin, crescent-shaped scars which enclosed his left eye like parentheses. Beneath his close-fitting uniform, his body had the strength of a much younger man.

  The lieutenant colonel looked up sharply and Komet, fearing Ratratarn could read his thoughts, studied the serial number on the licence he’d taken from Sanga’s wallet.

  ‘Tanin, get a signed statement from this kid. Pornsak, interview everyone here and see if anyone else witnessed the argument between the victim and the foreigner. Komet, you come with me. We’re going to pay a visit to this Mister Good.’

  Didier was no stranger to insomnia, considering it an occupational hazard. But it wasn’t his usual mantra of ‘what more could I be doing?’ that had him watching the luminous digits of his bedside clock change from 3:09 to 3:10. He looked at the empty space in the bed beside him, thinking about Jayne.

  Had he damaged their relationship? The heat of the moment gave him an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Before tha
t night, he wasn’t even sure he could initiate sex with a woman—even one he loved as much as Jayne. But he had, and he felt proud. Part of him really wanted to fuck her.

  But he shouldn’t have come on so strong; he felt like he’d scared her off. Still, she’d agreed to come back in the morning to talk things through. Nou was usually at the gym by ten on a Saturday, and they’d have the house to themselves.

  At the thought of Nou, Didier sighed. What would’ve happened if he’d walked in on him and Jayne? He suspected Nou wouldn’t have been surprised, and doubted he’d even care. Didier couldn’t say if it was a credit to their relationship or a sign of it failing.

  He must have dozed off, because he dreamt that someone was pounding on his door in urgent need of his help. But he couldn’t move—it was as if his limbs were made of lead. He could only lie there, listening to the sound, overcome with a terrible sense of failure and sadness. Then he realised someone was pounding on the front door. He looked at the clock: 3:45. He’d barely slept at all. Dragging himself up and pulling on a T-shirt over his shorts, he stumbled to the door, flicking a switch on the way. Blinded by the sudden light, it took him a moment to make out the figures standing on the balcony. Didier had the door open before he realised, with a wave of panic, that they were police.

  ‘Sawadee krup,’ he said. ‘How can I help you, officers?’

  ‘Sawadee—’ a man whose nametag identified him as Officer Komet began, but the older of the two cut him off.

  ‘Are you Didier de Montpasse?’ There was steel in his voice.

  Didier swallowed and glanced at the man’s badge. ‘Yes, Lieutenant Colonel.’

  Ratratarn showed no surprise at Didier’s ability to speak the language. ‘Where were you between one and two this morning?’

  ‘Excuse me, Lieutenant Colonel, what’s this in regard to?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’ A muscle twitched in his forehead. To Didier, he looked like the sort of man who had control over every muscle in his body.