Grandad, There's a Head on the Beach

by Colin Cotterill

  “The latrines?”

  I hadn’t told Mair the details of Noy’s peculiar education in D.C.

  “They don’t trust us,” I said.

  “To be frank, I don’t blame them,” she said. “I don’t trust us either.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? They’ll be long gone.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “I refused to vouch for them.”

  “You did?”

  She grinned as if she’d done something spectacularly naughty.

  “Mair, why?”

  “They’re obviously in some sort of trouble. They’re so desperate they ditched a perfectly good car and fled in the rain wedged between plastic bottles. They were so unworldly they thought the local passenger truck to Lang Suan would accept a credit card. Ha! I can see Visit’s face now.”

  “The driver?”

  “Could I really launch such a sweet couple into a world that had painted them into a corner like this? With black paint. Emulsion. Matt. No. It’s apparent they need allies more than exits. I got Boung to pass the phone to the mother, and we had a little chat.”

  “So, where are they now?”

  “They’re on their way back here. I asked Nat at the post office to bring them with the mail.”

  “Do you know the names of everyone in Pak Nam?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Do you honestly expect them to come quietly?”

  “The world can be a daunting place when you have no money. You ask all those poor people in Bangladesh. Especially when it’s raining.”

  “Does Nat have a car?”

  “Motorcycle with a sidecar. One of the Noys will have to sit at the rear with the mail pack on her shoulders.”

  I was desperately sad the Noys had chosen to run away from us. I thought we’d established some sort of trust.

  “They’ll be wet to the bone,” said Mair. “Why don’t you go and make them something nice and hot for their lunch? They probably haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

  There she was. My mother. Her mind seemed to be leaking directly into her heart. As the former shrank, the latter swelled. Or perhaps she’d always been this way and I’d been too self-absorbed to notice. She seemed quite surprised when I threw my arms around her neck and sniffed the sweet perfume of her cheek. The animal in her arms growled.

  “I named it Beer, by the way,” I said. “The dog.”

  “What a lovely name.” She smiled. “So bubbly.”

  * * *

  I was in the kitchen putting together something hot and welcoming and trying to call Sissi back on my hands-free. Multitasking had always brought out the Mr. Bean in me. In fact, doing just two things at the same time invariably led to accidental crossover from one to the other. The phone rang before I was able to get my call through, and I didn’t bother to look at the screen.

  “Easy on the MSG,” I said.

  “Solid advice.”

  “Chompu?”

  “Surprised I’m not dead?”

  “I’m delighted, Chom. What happened?”

  “You scarpered, is what happened.”

  “A controlled retreat. At the spur of the moment that was the course of action I decided would benefit us both. It was instinct. Come on. I know you came up with some wonderful story to explain away how you got your jacket stuck in the cabinet drawer. You’re brilliant like that.”

  “It wasn’t my jacket.”

  “See? Who’d have thought of that?”

  “No. I mean it wasn’t my jacket. You and Egg had been gone barely a minute. I broke into the cabinet quite brilliantly, and there I was on my knees ferreting through drawers when I heard the door handle squeak behind me. I turned in fright, trembling, expecting to see Egg’s pistol aimed at my head. Instead, there was Sergeant Major Tort, who handles all the accounts for the police stations in the region. The sergeant major is generally on a tight schedule because he also has a catfish farm that takes up a lot of his time. He can’t wait for this or that officer to get back from the field to hand over his expenses sheet, so he has access to all the locked cabinets. The desk sergeant gives him a bunch of keys when he arrives. Egg’s time sheets were in his files. I took the papers I thought would be relevant down to the copy room and returned to find the major still at it. I put back the original files and secreted the copies in my Nok Airways baby-blue backpack. Subterfuge successful! I even allowed a smug expression to creep onto my boyish face.

  “That’s when the sergeant major got his jacket stuck in the drawer. He’d put back the budget file and slammed the drawer shut and the jacket zipper got itself wedged in there somehow. He hadn’t even locked the thing. He heaved and he hoed and tugged for all his worth and could not get that jacket out. The scene was playing beautifully for me. If only he’d stayed there tugging away. But, to my horror, he deserted the jacket, calling it ‘the type of cheap flashy crap the police were so fond of handing around’ and he left. A minute later Egg arrived and you ran away.”

  “I assumed…”

  “That I was Inspector Clouseau?”

  “So you have them?”

  “The files? But, of course, ma chérie.”

  “And Egg bought the whole stuck zipper story?”

  “Unequivocally. Haven’t you?”

  “Of course I … Wait! Is it true?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “That is exactly why I love you so dearly, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah, if only you were a New Zealand rugby player. Do you want me to bring you the files?”

  “No. I’d like you to read through them first. If there’s anything suspicious in there, you’re the man to spot it.”

  “Very well.”

  “Chom. You were sensational.”

  “I know.”

  I had another call waiting. It was Sissi telling me she had the class lists and was sending them to my e-mail. The flight to Seoul had been delayed an hour. The yellow-shirt spokesman had announced that this would be a temporary measure while their own people took control of the airport.

  “I’m not sure how much faith I have in a traffic control tower manned by clothing retailers,” she said.

  I could see her point, and I’d run out of “everything will be fine” comments.

  “Can’t you kick up a stink?” I asked.

  “No need for that, little sister,” she said. “The rebels didn’t face fire from the police, but you should see the flak flying from all the disgruntled passengers. There’s nothing like an airport full of stroppy foreigners to test the unity of an insurgent army. It’s a joy. I’m watching a group of British darts players poking some poor baroness in the bosom with their fingers.”

  “You’re taking it all very calmly,” I remarked.

  “Can’t fight fate, Jimm. When the ides are against you, there’s nothing you can do but sit back and enjoy the show.”

  “Look, Sissi. I can’t get to my e-mail right now. As you have a little while before your flight, perhaps you could…”

  “Already started. I see eight Thai names on the lists. It looks like it might have been a scholarship program or something. Only one name so far that I’ve found on all the lists. It’s someone called Chaturaporn—male. But these are early days. And I have a feeling I’ll have endless free hours for research. There’s just been a delivery of table tennis tables. They seem ominously well prepared.”

  “You know? If all else fails, you could always come down here for a bit of a holiday.”

  “Wade knee-deep in stinky beach garbage and trip over body parts? That would be something of an itinerary. I’m surprised Club Med hasn’t picked up on it.”

  “‘No’ would have been fine.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I don’t think I’ll make it. Besides, I seem to be caught up in a little ruck of Thai history, here. I can tell my grandchildren all about it.”

  “Well, you stay out of trouble.”

  “Not on your life. I’ve just eme
rged from solitary confinement. I’m planning to get into as much trouble as I possibly can. I read there were couples who met during the occupation of Government House and fell in love and got married there. Just think. I have all these men around me who can’t get away. After a few weeks I might even start to look attractive to them.”

  “It sounds to me like you don’t really care about Korea.”

  “Care? Certainly I care. But this might even work out better. The gala’s foreign guest of honor held captive by desperate terrorists in an airport siege. They’ll be burning candles for me. I’ll be a martyr to the cause of self-deception. They’ll name a brand of kimchee after me. I’ll end up with the key to the city of Seoul.”

  “If you don’t get killed.”

  “The only way I can see getting killed here is in the rush for the Ladies’.”

  “In that case, I hope your flight gets canceled.”

  “Thanks. Gotta go.”

  For the first time since we’d arrived in Maprao, I had back-to-back call-waiting. It was just like the good old days. Aung was hanging on. I wondered if he’d decided for us to get together before the effects of the antidepressant wore off.

  “Aung?”

  “You really want to help?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Shwe. They’ve taken him.”

  * * *

  I sat in Aung’s little living room with Grandad Jah, Arny, and Ex-Police Captain Waew. Aung seemed uncomfortable to have so many Thais in his house. He’d almost fled through the back door when he saw us arrive en masse at the front.

  “Aung, it’s me,” I’d called out. “This is my family. We’re here to help.”

  Once we were all seated on mats on the floor and had been served lukewarm water in six different drinking vessels, Aung’s wife, Oh, left us to it. I don’t think it was a matter of this not being a woman’s business. Even without the benefit of understanding their language, I could tell she was distressed. I got the feeling she’d attack her husband with a wok as soon as we left. She was a mother of five children, and her husband’s decision to bring in the Siamese was inviting danger.

  “So, what happened?” I asked Aung.

  Once more the Burmese looked nervously at Grandad, who’d not opened his mouth since our arrival. I hadn’t introduced him as ex-police, so there had to be some scent about him.

  “At about one o’clock,” Aung began, “Shwe was on his way back to his lodgings. The rain hadn’t let up, so there was nothing they could do at the fish-drying plant. Shwe was walking alone along the road by the fruit orchard when a police truck pulled up. Shwe was used to this. He stopped, wai’d—the police like it when we wai—and reached for his ID card. One of the policemen pulled out a gun, so Shwe dropped to his knees and put his hands on his head. We learn…”

  He looked at Grandad Jah.

  “We learn all the hoops to jump through for the police. Usually, it’s just a game that we’re encouraged to lose. But this time they bundled Shwe into the back seat of the truck and didn’t even look at his ID. And they drove, not west to Ranong immigration, but north along the coast road to Sawee. There, they dragged him out of the truck, searched him, and locked him in a concrete shed with six other Burmese. None of them could speak Thai, so they had no idea what they’d been arrested for. Five of them had legitimate work permits and sponsors. Like Shwe, they’d been picked up off the street in broad daylight. Shwe knew in his bones that this was connected to the slavery rumors.”

  “How could you possibly know all this?” I asked.

  “Shwe kept his cell phone taped to his lower leg,” said Aung. “He was sick of getting his phones permanently confiscated by the local cops. Body searches generally miss the back of the leg. So he had his phone with him. He called me and told me what had happened.”

  “And he’s still in Sawee now?” Captain Waew asked.

  “Yes,” said Aung.

  “Do we have enough information to pinpoint the place they’re being held?”

  “No. One of the detainees knew the district they were in because she’d been there before. But not the exact location.”

  “They have women there?” I asked.

  “Two in that group.”

  I wanted to ask why, but I feared what the reply might be.

  “Are you still in contact?” I asked.

  Aung shook his head.

  “Here’s the problem,” he said. “Shwe’s phone battery is really low. With all the power outages, he hasn’t had a chance to charge it. He’s got … I don’t know … a few minutes left at the most. I told him to turn it off and only get back to me if he finds out their exact location.”

  “That was smart, lad,” said Grandad, much to everyone’s surprise.

  “But it means that all we can do is sit around and wait,” said Waew.

  “Right,” Grandad agreed. “And what then? Even if we know where they’re being held, are we expected to go and raid the place? Us?”

  Aung’s face seemed to confirm the hopelessness of it all. He’d feared as much. What the hell could we do about it? Who was there to report to? I felt I was letting him down.

  “Shwe said there were two policemen in the truck?” I asked Aung.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he describe them?”

  “That wasn’t so important. He had a few minutes on his phone.”

  “Of course.”

  But it did mean there were other police officers involved. Egg wasn’t alone in all this. If the kidnapping took place at one, it meant Egg wasn’t in that truck. He was in the interview room with me. I started to wonder whether the whole station was involved. I also wondered whether anyone would bother mentioning seeing a police truck passing through Maprao a few seconds before our shop was bombed. Was it us against the police force?

  Aung promised to phone me the moment he heard from Shwe. We secretly hoped that wouldn’t be too soon because we weren’t prepared to deal with such an eventuality.

  10.

  Something in the Way She Moos

  (from “Something” — GEORGE HARRISON)

  As we were already in Pak Nam, I diverted us via the Internet shop. It was the worst possible time to be there. The place was crammed with Zelda warriors and online car-jackers and big-eyed Japanese searchers. We needed subterfuge, and my task force hounds needed exercise. Grandad Jah walked in first, like the head reservoir dog, and flashed his ID, putting it back in his pocket before anyone had a chance to notice it was his Lotus supermarket discount card. Arny and Waew fanned out behind him to make it look like a raid.

  “All right. Everyone away from the computers,” said Grandad.

  Chair legs scraped and teenage arms rose.

  “Who are—” began the owner.

  “Haven’t you been warned, son?” Grandad asked, looking rudely through the documents on the young man’s desk. Waew began facing all the kids against the wall. Arny … looked menacingly uncomfortable.

  “You think we don’t monitor what goes on in places like this?” Grandad asked. “You want to see a list of all the illicit Web sites accessed from right here? Don’t you know there are laws in place to prevent minors looking at filth and radical rantings?”

  “I don’t—” began the owner.

  “No, you don’t. But ignorance doesn’t keep you out of prison, boy. Come on. Outside, the lot of you.”

  You’ll notice Grandad hadn’t actually claimed to represent any official body, but he had that presence. While everyone was marching out, I snuck inside and hijacked a computer that was already online.

  Alb, I wrote. I desperately need an NGO working with Burmese that has some political and financial clout. Funding from overseas preferred. Urgent.

  While I waited, I printed out Sissi’s class lists on the communal printer. As I looked casually through them I noticed something odd about the names. Most of them were followed by an “m” or an “f” to denote gender. In the first semester, the Chaturaporn that Sissi had spotted on all Noy�
��s lists was tagged as male. But in the second and subsequent semester, that had been changed to female. Given my own family history, it wasn’t unthinkable that Mr. Chaturaporn had opted for gender reassignment, but I doubted anyone would leave a country with the best sex-change clinics in the world and go to Washington for a snip. It could have been a mere clerical error, but I’d get Sissi to follow up on it later. I was checking the weather forecast for the Gulf when Alb’s reply arrived.

  Contact Piper Porterfield at Hope for Myanmar, he wrote. I hear she’s been sleeping with George Soros, the philanthropist. Lot of aid money to spread around for the Burmese cause. She’s got nice tits too.

  Men. Was there any hope for them? Fortunately, rather than a bra cup size, he’d added her phone number. I called. She picked up almost immediately.

  “Piper.”

  I told her who I was, where I was, and what was happening. I didn’t know whether she could speak Thai, so I did this in my pronunciation-challenged English. All the time she kept quiet, and I wondered whether she’d put the phone on her desk and gone out for dinner. But I kept going all the way to Sawee and the seven incarcerated Burmese.

  “Can you hear me OK?” I asked.

  There was a pause and a sound like the tap of a keyboard.

  “Just the seven?” she asked.

  I think I preferred her when she was quiet.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just that that is rather small fry.”

  She had a Lady Di accent.

  “Just how many people need to be kidnapped and killed before we can increase the size of the fry?” I asked.

  “Thousands disappear every year,” she said. “Refugees wiped out by the junta on their way to Thai camps. Children nabbed from construction site slums. And lots of et ceteras. I get reports such as yours every day. Your situation is every bit as tragic, of course, but the resources needed to resolve the matter would far exceed the benefits.”

  I didn’t know whether I admired her honesty or hated her for it.

  “Benefits obviously meaning something more important than keeping people alive,” I presumed.

  “Yes, look, I’m sorry. In my line of work I tend to trivialize death. It helps. The benefits I’m referring to are the factors which help to change world opinion. Burma has no natural oil to rescue from tyranny, so we have to rely on slowly creating a mood of outrage at the social level before we can hope for international intervention. Once we have political support, we may be able to save more lives than we can with a small police action in the forgettable south.”