Grandad, There's a Head on the Beach

by Colin Cotterill

  “I thought you had a budget for things like this.”

  “We do. But our directive is to maximize these situations. To take an issue and humanize it at an international level. Touch as many hearts as possible. We did a sea rescue once, but it was so isolated and over so quickly that we barely made a ripple in the world press. It was a very expensive failure.”

  I was punched numb for a few seconds. When I came around, I asked, “Do you have a counterpart at the Thai Police Ministry?”

  “Certainly. We fund their Division of International Day Laborers.”

  With all that money you’d think they’d come up with something more catchy than DIDL.

  “And what do they do there?” I asked.

  “They distribute information to the press. Collect relevant reports from the police data bank.”

  “Any of them have guns?”

  “What are you getting at? They’re all qualified police officers.”

  “I mean, do they ever leave the office and go out and shoot people?”

  “Not … no, not shoot. There are officers attached to the unit who are involved in casework.”

  “But they could be called upon if massive public outrage was being waged. They could rush to a scene if it was in the public eye and guaranteed a world audience?”

  “I suppose … yes.”

  “Good. Then this conversation wasn’t a complete waste of time. I’ll get back to you.”

  The trouble with a cell phone was that if you slammed it down, you’d break your own jaw. It seemed the bigger the organization, the less they dealt with actual people. And don’t even get me started on the UN. All I needed was a few thousand dollars for high-powered weaponry, and we could do the rest ourselves. Blow those slavers out of the Gulf. But no, I suppose that would be just too difficult for the silly cow to write up in the annual report.

  I collected my printouts and my family and Captain Waew, abandoned all the street-bound nerds, and returned to the truck. We were on our own, tactically, but I didn’t want to break that news to the task force. It was a desperately lonely feeling. Giving up suddenly felt like such a good idea. While Grandad drove us very slowly home through the drizzle, I looked around at my cohorts. Arny had joined up because he wanted to impress his girlfriend. Grandad and Waew were on board because they wanted to get revenge on a couple of hoods. None of us was particularly fond of the Burmese. Once the Viagra had worn off, I doubted I’d have any personal interest at all. So what was it? Why could I not shake this urge to do something suicidal? The rain smudged my side window, and I looked into its patterns. I saw the posturing of the rat brothers and the homophobic bullying of Lieutenant Egg, and I thought back to why I’d become a crime reporter. If the crooks were crooked and the cops were crooked, who was there left to bring justice to our corrupt world? Who could we respect? Where was the shoulder angel who twanged on the conscience of the undecided youth? Who else might argue that the words graft and dishonesty and selfishness were not necessarily inspirational? Who else but the press? That’s why I’d become a journalist, and that’s why I’d turned to crime writing. To shore up our flimsy status quo. To challenge the view that the bigger the crime the lower the chances of arrest.

  Victims of trafficking and imminent execution shouldn’t be on their own with no hero to fly in and rescue them. But out there on the high sea there were only the seagull and the prawn to witness the crime. It was a vast lawless outback. It was impossible for a criminal not to be overwhelmed by that feeling of invincibility. Who cared what he did?

  Me.

  I’m not sure anybody noticed that explosion of moral dignity inside the cab of the Mighty X. I felt it was time to inspire a team spirit.

  “OK, everyone,” I said. “Let’s get serious. What do we have to go on?”

  I’d forgotten all about the old boys and their afternoon detective work. As they hadn’t mentioned anything I assumed they’d had no success with the Thai boat owners. So I was surprised when, with a twitch, Captain Waew said:

  “Common opinion is that it’s the Bangkok boats doing all the illegal stuff. There were two new concessions added out of the blue last year by senatorial decree, or whatever it’s called. That means that despite long-standing agreements with the Fisheries department limiting the number of contracts, every now and then you get some influential figure handing out deals to this or that nephew or cousin. They’d lease big boats and take them deep into the Gulf. They’d reap as much profit as they could before the next election when the contracts were revoked by the next minister, who’d go on to replace them with his own relatives.”

  “Did you manage to get the names of any of the boats?” I asked.

  “The contact didn’t know any specifics, so I phoned the Department of Fisheries. They’ll fax me a list of all the newly registered boats over the past year. The local trawler owners aren’t at all happy about outsiders coming in, ignoring all the no-fishing zone markers, using dragnets over young coral and just generally making assholes of themselves. The big-boat captains that come from down here in the south, they aren’t averse to bending the odd rule, but they’ve all learned from experience what overfishing has done to their industry.”

  “This might be a stupid question,” I asked, “but isn’t there anyone policing the sea at all?”

  “I found an old seafarer who told me all about the Coastal Patrol,” said Grandad. “Except he called them the Postal Patrol. They have two boats to police an area of two thousand square kilometers. And they don’t have much of a budget for fuel, so they rely on donations.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “From big-boat owners.”

  “That would be correct.”

  “So if they don’t go after the big boats, what do they do?”

  “Splash around in the shallows hassling the small-boat fishermen, from what I can make out. Fine them for minor infringements.”

  “While the big boats break the law with impunity,” said Waew.

  “It all seems … I don’t know … too big for us,” said Arny. Never one to pass up an opportunity for pessimism.

  “I think it’s doable,” I said.

  “How?” asked Grandad, turning to give me a prolonged Grandad Jah glare, even though he was driving.

  The Mighty X really shouldn’t have had a back seat. The expression “4-Seater” was only a selling point. I suppose if you had two mine-victim passengers, it would be the perfect vehicle. But anyone with legs had to wrap them around the seat in front. With Arny taking up half the cab all by himself, we were an intimate foursome in that small space. You could smell the lack of confidence.

  “I don’t know what it is yet,” I said. “But I know there has to be a way.”

  * * *

  When we got back to the resort, the sea had retreated somewhat, but the Neo-Mekhong river out back was wide enough for paddle steamers to ply their trade. Only the side walls of the bridge were visible above the surface. A hundred years ago all this water would have found its way unimpeded to the sea, but idiots like our predecessors had built for sea views and filled the land and limited the run-off from the hills to ninety-centimeter pipe segments that burrowed under driveways and palm plantations and houses. Monsoon water didn’t have that type of patience. If you’ve gotta go …

  We parked the truck on the hump in the road fifty meters from the resort, and I splashed down to the kitchen. I was on dinner duty, of course. With the tide at its lowest, I no longer had to wade from the larder to the stove. The power had been off all day, so the menu was decided on what smelled best in the dark refrigerator. I was just one step ahead of putrefaction. The day’s events had caused me to be absent for the Noys’ return on the postal motorcycle earlier. I’d called Mair from the truck, and she told me the two had eaten sparingly and were sorry they’d tried to escape. So I decided to create an evening meal that was both nutritious and welcoming. Thankfully, gas was not subject to the whims of nature. I was halfway through my famous spicy ginger chicken when
Sissi phoned.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “I’m into the semi-finals of the table tennis tournament. It appears it’s one of those skills you never lose.”

  “I thought all your muscles had atrophied from years seated in front of a computer.”

  “You’re so yesterday. For six months I’ve been seated in front of the computer on a stationary cycle. I’ve probably been to Shanghai and back since May. I had to get in shape for Seoul.”

  “You bored?”

  “It isn’t quite as intense as I’d hoped.”

  “Is your flight canceled?”

  “Everybody’s flight’s canceled.”

  “Are you allowed to leave the airport?”

  “They have a fleet of yellow-shirt shuttle buses. You can go anywhere you choose in Bangkok free of charge.”

  “So, why are you still there?”

  “Where would I go in Bangkok? It’s an awful place.”

  “You’re still banking on having something to tell the grandchildren, aren’t you?”

  “I’m keeping a notebook diary. So far, the only excitement has been the barging and yelling from the disgruntled passengers and my table tennis victories. I might have to embellish.”

  “So, are you free now?”

  “I have another match in twenty minutes. A baggage handler. Strong wrists. Lovely smile.”

  “All right. Never mind the table tennis. You remember the coverage of the Iraq war? A journalist a million miles inside the desert. Not a communication tower in sight. And he charges up his laptop computer and files a live report. And it’s all wobbly and the words don’t all connect up, but there he is, live in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Technology’s come a long way since then.”

  “So, would it work if you were, say, in the middle of the ocean?”

  “Same principle. As long as you’re on the BGAN network with multiple voice and data interfaces, including WLAN connectivity.”

  “All right. I have no idea what you just said. I don’t actually need the serial numbers and stock codes. Where do I get hold of one?”

  “Can’t you just video it?”

  “No. It has to be live.”

  “Then you’d need a multi-user satellite phone with extensive functionality. Thane and Thane do a really top—”

  “All right. Where do I find one?”

  “You don’t just stroll into an appliance store and pick one up. You certainly won’t find one on the shelf at Tesco Lang Suan. They usually have to be ordered. When do you need it?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe sooner.”

  “I sense another menopausal, heterosexual mad rush to the head. Take a deep breath and tell your old sister exactly what you have in mind here.”

  * * *

  Dinner was served with a very fine cardboard cask of Chilean red in the room of our friends from Bangkok. Because I didn’t want to overwhelm them with too many annoying visitors, I told the rest of my family they weren’t invited. This was my game. Beneath the shuddering light of an oil lamp, with the rain still pattering against the glass of the windows, the Noys looked drained of their natural beauty. Since there was no electricity, they hadn’t showered or blow-dried or freshened up from the day’s ordeals. They’d assumed an unmistakably helpless demeanor, like the last two polar bears on the last block of glacier. They didn’t attack their ginger chicken with the enthusiasm I thought it deserved. I felt like I was eating for the three of us.

  Between bites, I asked, “So where did you think you’d go from here?”

  Neither answered.

  “You realize how insulting today’s little drama was, I suppose?” I added. “It was a bit late to stop trusting us. If we’d been likely to turn you in, you’d have been busted long ago.”

  “That wasn’t the reason,” said Noy. “We did. We do trust you. We love you, even. We feel safe here. We didn’t want to leave.”

  “Then … why?”

  “We were afraid for you,” said Mamanoy. “We were afraid they’d find us, and harm would come to you because you’d been sheltering us.”

  I so desperately wanted to know who “they” were, but I was supposed to know the whole story already. If I admitted ignorance now, they’d clam up.

  “They’re not as powerful as you think,” I guessed.

  “How would you know?” asked Mamanoy.

  Good question.

  “Because power is an illusion. Most people who act tough are just … acting.”

  “Not these. They have people looking for us. Professionals.”

  “How could you know that for sure?”

  “It’s the way powerful people work. You lose face, so you have to let your associates know you’ve ‘fixed’ the problem. Not doing so would be a sign of weakness.”

  “So you think running and hiding is the answer? When would it all end?”

  “When somebody’s dead,” said Noy, calmly.

  None of us was eating.

  “You really think…?”

  “Yes. I know what they want me to do. When I refuse, they’ll have no choice.”

  Whatever happened over there in the States had followed them back home and traumatized them.

  “They’ve already sent a message,” said Mamanoy.

  “What sort?”

  “We left two cats behind. Before we fled, we asked the neighbors to take them in. We thought they’d be safe. But som-somebody went to the neighbors’ house and killed our cats.”

  “What? But that could have been some random psychopath,” I said.

  I knew no end of people who would gladly torture cats.

  “The neighbors had three cats of their own. They weren’t touched. The next day some people went to their house claiming to be local police officers investigating the cat killings. But the neighbors hadn’t reported it to anyone. They told the men they didn’t know us. They said they just noticed the cats weren’t being fed and took them in. The officers left a phone number and told them to get in touch if they had any contact from us.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The neighbors are actually close to us. The husband is in e-mail contact with my husband. He writes from his office.”

  “And what machine does your husband write from?”

  “He uses Internet cafés,” said Noy. “We all have notebooks, but we’ve agreed not to use them with cell-phone dongles. Neither do we use our cell phones. Once every two days we call him from a pay phone. Here we used the one at the end of the lane. It’s underwater now. We usually call him at a land number in—”

  “Shh,” said Mamanoy, and blushed immediately.

  I smiled.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “No problem,” I replied.

  Once paranoia sets in, it’s hard to keep it under control.

  “We knew they’d be looking for a mother, father, and daughter, so we went in different directions,” said Noy. “We came down Highway 41. After Hua Hin we started traveling at night on back roads to avoid highway cameras. We’d find small resorts like yours to rest in in the daytime. We’d drive past, remove the plates, then drive back. We didn’t want anyone reporting our registration details. We only stayed at places that didn’t insist on seeing our IDs. On the day we came here, we’d been driving all the previous night. We’d stopped at two resorts where they said they had to write down our citizenship card details. They said it was the local regulation.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” I said. “And I don’t want you pulling any more stunts like today. Now think back. Did you do anything in Pak Nam to draw attention to yourselves?”

  “No,” said Noy.

  “Tell me exactly what you did there.”

  “We waited for the passenger truck and realized we didn’t have money. We’d given your mother the last of our cash for the room here. We hadn’t taken the car because we couldn’t buy petrol.”

  “Where was the last place you used your credit card or ATM?”
<
br />   “Hua Hin.”

  “That’s four hundred kilometers away. Technically they could have traced you to there. All they’d need is someone at the bank to check the records. Either way they’ll probably have assumed you were heading south. So, since Hua Hin?”

  “All cash.”

  “We underestimated the costs of food and petrol,” said Mamanoy. “We should have taken out more. Enough to get us to Malaysia. We hoped we could use the ATM today and be on a bus before they could trace it.”

  “So in Pak Nam, you tried the ATM and it was down. You tried to get money on your credit card, but they needed a guarantor. The bank phoned us. At no stage did anyone note down your card number or ask for personal details?”

  “No,” said Noy.

  “Good.”

  “Not at the bank.”

  I gasped.

  “Somewhere else?”

  “I did send a letter EMS while we were waiting to be delivered back here.”

  “How did you pay for that?”

  “We didn’t. I told the manager I’d left my wallet at your resort. When we arrived, I borrowed the money from your mother. We’ll pay you back.”

  “I hope you didn’t put your actual name in the sender box.”

  “I left it blank on the EMS form.”

  “Good. The post office can track that. That’s why it costs extra. When the power comes back on, they’ll type the details onto the computer.”

  I was getting as paranoid as them. I mean, who was going to hack the post office express delivery details?

  “Tell me you didn’t give this resort as your return address.”

  “Of course not,” said Noy. “I put c/o the post office.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.”

  * * *

  “Mair!” I shouted. I could hardly hear myself. There was a backhoe twenty meters away digging an escape channel for the flooded river. The local administration had decided my vegetable garden would be the perfect spot for it. Mair was on the veranda of her hut surrounded by creatures like some kindly lady in an old Disney animation. The three dogs were wrestling with her. Sticky had taken an immediate liking to little Beer and seemed to be unaware of how diseased she was. Even antisocial Gogo was tag-teaming with Mair. The monkey lounged on the rattan table above them, unpeeling tiny lady finger bananas. A toad hopped unimpeded across the deck. Two daring parakeets sat on the railing opposite, waiting for dropped bananas, and a whole parliament of ceiling lizards hung above, ever hopeful that the electric light might be switched on. The paraffin lamp attracted, then fricasseed any insects that made it through the drizzle.