by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 3
The strong coffee Jim Smith made himself every morning had helped to quell his throbbing headache, but he still wasn't feeling particularly sprightly. He wobbled, unsteadily down the four wooden steps that led from the ramshackle hut on stilts that he called home, to the ground. Shading his sore eyes from the hot, early morning sun, he struggled to pull his motorcycle out from where, during the night, it had toppled and come to rest against one of the worm-infested stilts that supported the house.
As it often did during the ride into the local town, the feeling of exhaustion slowly evaporated - that was until, after parking the motorcycle amongst an untidy group of others in the main street, he caught a glimpse of his own, sun-lit reflection in the shaded window of the farmer's hardware shop. Jim Smith did not like what he saw.
"Dear God. You look like a seriously malnourished refugee, my boy." He stuck a finger into his mouth, stretched his cheek to try to see the back teeth. "And you need a dentist - and how about a decent pair of shorts? Look at you. Your mother would be shocked."
Staring back at him was a scrawny looking stranger carrying a dusty duffel bag and dressed in cheap, rubber flip flops, a pair of sun-bleached shorts and what was once a white tee shirt. He saw a gaunt man who, when he had finished growing as a teenager fifty years ago, had stood six feet tall but now looked smaller and shorter. Thankfully, the deeply lined face was somewhat obscured by the grey beard and the straggle of long, untidy and thinning hair of the same colour. The prominent bony knees, the bare legs and veined arms were the colour and texture of brown shoe leather, the inevitable result of living under the tropical sun with little more than that pair of shorts and tee shirt as clothing and the flip flops or nothing on his feet. The reflection, he decided, looked underfed and older than sixty six years.
The mumbling to himself, lips visibly moving, was something else he no longer liked about himself, and it had been getting noticeably worse. "Reflecting on a reflection," he muttered, "Must remember not to do that too often. Could at least buy yourself some decent flip flops."
Still pondering on the disturbing image of himself, he wandered into Lek's "internet cafe" feeling downhearted and desperate for some good news. He greeted Lek with a grunt, went to his usual far corner table, opened the old duffel bag and pulled out his dusty laptop. There was no need for him to order for Lek brought him his usual refreshment - a bottle of Singha beer and a glass of nam manow - fresh lime juice with ice, sugar and just a pinch of salt.
As a rundown construction of wood and concrete with a part straw, part rusty corrugated roof, Lek's enterprise in the small town in rural Thailand had once only catered for the dry throats of locals and stray dogs looking for shade. But after Jim's visionary suggestion that Lek might also like to add an internet facility it had become a more profitable business for Lek and, more importantly, the centre of Jim's links with the outside world. It was his communications centre, his source of all information whether good, bad or merely interesting. And the information as he logged onto his email that morning was further confirmation that undying patience coupled with long term strategy was, at long last, paying off.
He leaned back in the hard, plastic chair, stroked his beard, leaned forward again, adjusted his glasses and re-read the email message. With one finger, he typed a simple reply: "Hello Jan: As suspected, but that Italian link is new. Go very carefully now. I assume you've told Jonathan but we need to meet up again. Email me some dates." Then he pressed send, logged off, closed the laptop and sat back in the hard chair to finish his drinks. Lek would not have seen it but a smile was growing behind the beard.
Jim Smith's obstinacy and determination to continue where he left off was alive and well.
