by Ian Patrick
“Great choice, for a bag boy. Here’s what I expect out of this deal. I want you here when I need you and not when you see fit to show up. Second. See her? That girl is off limits to your mind and your kind. Touch her and I won’t be responsible for my actions – and third, sort out the bathroom. I took a shit and backed it up. That’s all.”
Hamer turns away and indicates he requires the large Cuban lighting that’s rammed in his fat lips. This is the attitude I referred to earlier.
I pull on some gloves from the cleaning store, which is a hut discreetly hidden amongst trees a good distance from the dwelling. The bathroom is a generous size and decorated luxuriously with Indonesian stone tiles and gold taps on the his and hers sinks. No amount of luxury will solve the drainage and sewerage problem.
I kneel down by the toilet, turn away and stick my gloved hand down into the U-bend. There’s a sound of gurgling as trapped air releases, along with the foul smelling stench of Hamer’s deposit. His roughage is good. I extract a solid stool. I place this in a bucket, wipe up and spray some perfume. Hamer is still where I left him, his cigar dying with his every breath. I go around the back of the villa with my bucket of shit. It would be sanitary to dispose of this in a main bin but they had already been collected.
Under the villa is a crawl space. The design allows for air to circulate and the heat of the sand to provide an ambient floor temperature. You can’t have guests suffering cold feet. I take off my whites, check around, open the hatch and crawl in, taking the bucket. I know where the bedroom is. I’m also aware how the heat of the sand will generate sufficient warmth to remind him of the gift he’d left me.
Operation Filth, done. I crawl back out, dust the sand from my body and put my whites back on. In a day, maybe two, he will bring up the smell and I will contact a non-existent villa engineer. Over the years I’ve found if you treat people with respect you get it back. This applies whatever your line of business or whoever you choose to associate with and call friends. Personally I have no time for friendship. An attachment disorder, a psychologist told me.
Hamer has his eye on the prize and dismisses me, taking Miss Stoner, as I now like to call her, back into the villa. I go to my equipment hut, change into a T-shirt, linen trousers and trainers for the journey home. Nothing better than feeling the earth beneath your feet as you burn off the tension of being treated like a subservient all day by a pompous prick of a Yank. Each step feels good. I exit the hotel, waving to the guard on the gate, and leave opulence for reality.
Bali is Nirvana. It has everything I could want. Indigenous people, who don’t ask personal questions. Beautiful climate. Relaxed attitude to dogs. I would be joined by the odd dog on my walks home and knew they relished the freedom as much as me. Nusa Dua is where I’ve lived for the past two months. I had to fit in and get the hotel job. It was a risk but a calculated one. Having a foreigner is good for business. It’s the rainy season now. The tourists still arrive on cheaper package deals. I take a good lungful of air as I connect to sand and dust. I follow the road that leads up to the monastery and my humble dwelling. There are a hundred monks living in the grounds, worshipping in the temple. You would never know by their absence. That is until a glut of rehab pawns enter the monastery gates.
The West call it rehab, the monks call it awakening. Cleansing the mind and body of all impurities. Back home, people like to partake of these experiences in a setting within a health and safety conscious environment, staffed by trained drug and alcohol counsellors with the visiting alternative therapist thrown in for good measure.
The monks see it differently. They take no prisoners. The druggies are free to leave if they wish but they don’t have the energy to. Forced vomiting to expel the toxins is a favourite. Legal waterboarding. A necessary evil. All walks of life convey on this haven. Each one a train wreck from start to finish. The wailing is the worst as they come off whatever drug of choice they’ve been imbibing. I was used to seeing the prone shaking bodies that couldn’t make it from the floor to their blanket. Walking meditation was a regular sight. A diatribe of abuse would spew forth from the zombie line. The monks just ignored it. Did I feel pity? No. Why should I? We all make choices, I’ve made mine, and they’ve made theirs.
A junior monk bows, opens the wooden doors that lead out onto the main courtyard. I stop, bow, and then enter. I look up at the temple. A number of monks are sweeping the many steps that lead to the entrance. To the left of the courtyard is a path. I walk towards it, sweat pouring off me, and make my way past chickens and goats to my hut. There’s no one to greet me, only the space I had left.
My home is raised five feet from the floor on a wooden frame. This helps when it rains heavily. It also stops snakes and other ground-dwelling creatures from choosing your pad as their home of choice. The roof is made from bamboo, bound together with string to create a watertight environment. It’s small. The entire floor space is ten foot by ten foot. The only contents are my mattress, blanket and a small table for me to read or write at.
I have no power, only candles. I have a window. A wooden frame, no glass with shutters on the outside. When closed they form the Coca Cola logo. My clothing is limited. No wardrobe required.
My only storage is a locked metal box three foot by two foot that I’ve buried under the footings of my hut, the contents of which I don’t require right now.
I go to the communal wash area and clean up before I get dressed. I don’t use the soap here; I use the hotel’s. The water tank is full since the last downpour of rain but I only stay under enough to feel the moisture erode my sweat. I feel like a fraud, residing here. The monks need the wash water more than me. At the stainless steel wash stands I look up into a grimy mirror. I shave my head and face. My skin is sensitive today. My shaved head now used to the sun. As I towel dry the sun fades and bids me goodnight.
I knew Hamer was out this evening as I’d organised his transport. He hadn’t said where he was going but I’d supplied the sat nav and would return the hired Jeep. That would give me all I needed to know. I get out of the monastery and onto the main road, walk to a nearby taxi hut. A cab is available. I get in. I need a break. Reflect and gather my thoughts. Plan my next move.
Indonesian chatter invades the cab’s speaker. My native driver attempts to switch channels on the radio, one eye on the wheel the other on the road. The single track stretches out in front, bathed only in moonlight. The dim headlights fight with the dust and stone for recognition, hunting like a camera lens with no contrast to focus on. It had been an arid day. I ask the driver to turn up the air-con, which he reluctantly does. He’s clearly of the school that cool air wastes fuel. I surmise this from the vast sweat patch that his white cotton shirt has absorbed against the tan leather seat. I settle back and gaze out the window at the passing darkness, trying in vain to dump my thoughts at the roadside.
My mind’s distracted by the intrusion of oncoming headlights. My driver finds a Cuban radio station and taps out a samba rhythm on his steering wheel. The vehicle slows. I move to the middle seat as the cab’s front beam illuminates a cluster of red and yellow lights in the distance. I tell my driver to kill ours and go off road. He does. No cab driver wants to get involved in another motorist’s drama. Time is money. We get close enough not to be noticed, but far enough away for me to use a night sight I’d taken from my buried crate.
I’d recognise a Jeep’s taillights anywhere. I put the scope to my right eye and adjust the focus. The night turns green and the vehicle lights flicker iridescently. It’s not the only thing that’s illuminated. A pool of fluid becomes a sea of dark mass in the lens. I’ve seen this before, it’s blood, lots of it. I can make out a head buried into the road’s surface, an arm outstretched in a vain attempt to clutch at life. The Jeep’s tyres have picked up the blood. The road’s become its canvas ending in a swirling stop. What I assume was a male is clearly dead. I come to this conclusion as the head’s detached from the body, as is the arm.
Hamer is ab
sent. I know it’s their Jeep from the registration. I can make out a cycle at the roadside and also Stoner. She is freaking out, walking in circles, no shoes on. Both front doors to the Jeep are open. Hamer has done a runner. I tell the driver to wait. He agrees and asks no more. He also knows I pay well. I get out and move slowly towards the Jeep, keeping low, using coarse scrub as cover. Another set of headlights approaches. I have to be quick. I run across the road to the rear of the Jeep and set down in a crouch at the back. Stoner can’t see me. I wait until she moves towards the side of the Jeep then grab her by the mouth and drag her into the scrub. The approaching lights slow. The scene turns macabre as the headlights scan it. The pedal bike is a mangled mess. The rider’s head is now an integral part of the road, as is his arm. The rest of his body has been flung on impact and is nowhere obvious.
The car doesn’t stop. The driver has seen enough, wants no involvement. The car’s back wheel reinforces the skull’s burial. I slowly release my hand from her mouth as I whisper in her ear that it’s me and not to shout.
“Fuckin hell, fuckin hell. That Yank cunt just fucked off leaving me here to take the rap.” She’s sobbing now, leaning into me.
“What am I going to do? They’ll hang me here if they think it was me. I ain’t no grass. I can’t tell anyone it was him driving. I told the stupid bastard he was off his head to drive but he just wouldn’t listen. You’ve got to get me out of this.”
She’s looking at me now, I can tell, even in our dark shroud, as her breath is close to my face. I’m not surprised at how the rich desert the poor. Hamer is naive to think the police won’t want to speak to the hirer of the car. Stoner is guilty by association and I need this as leverage.
I work quickly, clearing the car of debris that could contain fingerprints or DNA. I tell her to grab the sat nav. I say I worked quick; she did all the work. I touch nothing. I don’t even go near the Jeep’s interior. She puts the spent bottle of Jack Daniels in her bag and recovers her shoes.
I take her back to the cab. We get in and go back to The Reef hotel. The hotel’s not that busy. It’s around 0100 hours. Staff change over. I take her through the gardens and into her villa. She’s shaking, makeup running down her cheeks. I fix her a drink and tell her to wait and speak to no one.
“Don’t go, please don’t go. He’ll be fucking livid when he gets back. If he gets back.” I sit down on the king-size bed I’d made that morning. She’s sitting alongside me, head in her hands, cleavage showing through the low-cut blue satin dress she is wearing. Her blonde hair over her hands, poker straight despite the night’s trauma. Her nails remain pristine. It would be so easy to take advantage of the situation but I remain professional.
“If he comes back and touches you I’ll deal with it. Wait here. Back in five.” I leave her sitting on the bed. I go to the equipment shed and get a tin marked with the hazardous substance symbol. I open it and take out the mobile phone from inside. I’d made sure it had a full battery before their arrival. I power it up and the SIM shows it’s operative. This is a risk but one I must take. Hamer is not a fan of phones on this trip. I go back into the villa. Miss Stoner is in the shower. Her dress lies on the floor along with her thong. I pick up the hotel phone and dial reception.
It’s answered on the second ring. “It’s Sky, Villa Hamer. Phone the police and report the Hamer rental Jeep stolen. It was taken five hours ago.”
I hang up. The risk is minimal. Vehicles get stolen all the time here, especially rentals. I’d arranged for it to be parked away from the hotel. There will be no CCTV. The way I figured it, they were here for another nine days, the investigation won’t even get off the ground whilst they are here. As for the head in the road, he wouldn’t be the first pissed cyclist to be collected by a drug-fuelled tourist on his way to who knows where. I see the sat nav in her shoulder bag and retrieve it. I open the side window and throw it out onto the garden for collection later.
Enter Hamer. He announces his arrival by hammering on the villa gate. I’d purposefully locked it in the event that my professionalism waned and Stoner succumbed. Stoner has heard his announcement on the door and is now out of the shower wrapped in a towel. I have to be quick. “Here take this phone and keep it out of sight. My number is in it. Just call if you need to.” She nods in recognition of the gesture and the need to keep it discreet. She goes into the kitchen and finds a pan drawer and places it in there. The fat bastard enjoys food but will never cook it.
I compose myself and go out to the garden gate. The banging is now causing residents to wake and security won’t be far off. I open the door just as he’s about to bang his fist again, and catch his ring-bedecked infested hand in mine. I maintain the pressure as he comes through. I let go and lock the door. He’s pissed. He can barely stand, let alone speak. A fortunate state to be in. I help him up into the villa and lay him on the couch. He’s saying nothing coherent. He mutters, letting strings of saliva careen down his chins and settle in his neck creases.
My energy is draining. Mental tension along with the physical exertion of dragging a beached whale to his bed has taken its toll. I throw a blanket over him. He’s out of it. Stoner is now in her nightwear. She comes over and we step out into the garden.
“He’s gone for the foreseeable. The police won’t come tonight; they’ll be here tomorrow. Tell them you went to find the car at eight p.m. and it was gone. The car was meant to be unlocked and the key in the glove box. Tell me you understand what you have to say.”
She repeats it back. “How did you know what to do tonight?”
She’s lit up a fag and offers me one. I take it. I look back at Hamer. No change.
“I used to be into this and that. I’m not proud of my past, but that’s all behind me now. You learn, remember what you need and what you don’t.”
She looks at me and blows a plume of smoke into the pure Bali air.
“I knew you weren’t right for here. What you here for really? Who are you running from?”
I light up my cigarette and take a lungful. “I don’t know what you mean. I found religion and now I’m travelling and teaching English where I can, picking up bits of work every now and then.”
“I don’t know no religion where the God has produced a mobile phone out of nothing.”
She smiles coyly. I don’t answer immediately. I need time to think through my next step. She’s comfortable having me here. That already shows. But it’s not about now; it’s about the future. I don’t need her now. I need her for the next three weeks. I realise this is my only shot. There will be no other moment.
“Ok. As you’re so interested and unlikely to see me again once you leave. I used to drive lorries. I was taken on by a guy, for a special delivery. He needed some tools, you know, guns. I knew an army guy who’d come back from Afghanistan. He had some 9mm Glock pistols he needed to offload. They got together and a deal was struck. I was to take them from a lockup in Kent over to Ireland where money had already been exchanged. There was to be a meet at the lockup by my man and this other guy to make sure the goods got on my wagon. As I turn up, they’re getting the crates out. Next minute the old bill had shooters at their heads and shouting blue murder. I do the honourable thing. Reverse and fuck off.” I stare out beyond the pool and watch a lizard run up the garden wall. Blondie lights up another cigarette. I get up, fix us both a drink. Hamer reminds us of his condition through his open mouth.
“Do you still do that kind of stuff or ’ave you given up?”
“Never asked again, to be honest. I will have to go back soon though. My old man’s on his last legs. I’ve got enough money to get back. There’s not much call for the likes of me back home for work. I mean who wants a bald headed guy who’s found religion?”
I sip Hamer’s Scotch and savour the moment. It’s all we have and I intend to milk this one. I wait. I’ve thrown out the bait. See, Hamer is small fry. Miss Stone is the prize. The one with the links. You don’t get flown out on a jolly. Not in this game. The poli
ce want value for money. Hamer didn’t choose Miss Stoner for company. She attached herself to him. Blondie is Guardino’s star attraction and closest confidante. She will also put out at a cost.
London was too close for this kind of recruitment. It had to work, whatever the cost.
“What’s with the name, Sky? Sounds a bit queer if you ask me.” A plume of smoke fills my face as she asks.
“I was named after the ward I was left on. Apparently my mother presented at the hospital, gave birth to me and fucked off. It was the maternity wing’s opening day. I was the first born on it.” She says nothing. How can you respond other than with trite pacifying noises? It was a lie anyway. There had been a boy by the name of Sky Riley born. He’d died at birth and I’d taken on his identity. It wasn’t common practice anymore to use the identities of dead children but I’d ignored that direction. I wanted to give him a life he’d never had. Doing something worthwhile. I would visit his grave on his birthday but leave nothing. The greatest gift I could give him was my legacy.
I feel a hand on my knee. I don’t turn. Just look ahead. There’s a bond between fostered children. Even if one party is unaware of the other’s history.
“I’ve got your number. I know a man who’s looking for a driver, as it goes. It’ll pay well and if you get on then there’s loads more work.”
“Well, you’ve got my number now, call me.”
She winks at me and I raise my glass. My work here is done.
She’s getting tired and I need to go. I resist asking about her past as I know it from social services records. It would be too easy to slip up with a fact I couldn’t have known. I know I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I’ve sown the seed for my exit strategy and it’s come up early. I’m confident she’ll call. Why? I saved her ass and she owes me and we have similar life experience, so she thinks. I know the police won’t be bothered with the accident. After two months, I’ve learnt how they deal with these things. I also know Miss Stone will call Big H who will call Hamer. Hamer will be told to sort it. Money will be exchanged and the investigation will become an accident with an inconclusive end.
