CHAPTER 31
I’ve never smoked or taken drugs.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I tried a cigarette once, an oddly shaped cylinder of paper with dried grass protruding from it. However, it had never taken hold, even when things were being passed around and the prevailing noise was loud stupidity.
If I’ve got any vice at all, it’s chewing gum. I used to like the bubble sort. If you want to blow blimps competitively, then you really need to start young, like around eleven. Trouble was, around twelve, Winston whispered to me that it was a girl sport, and if I didn’t quit, I’d become a focus for mockery. So I stopped at the peak of my powers and reverted to ordinary gum. Then I began perfecting the next level in a gum chewer’s portfolio that starts after the flavour’s gone. Long distance, accurate spitting should, I reckon, be an Olympic sport.
Still standing in the shade outside of what James had called the Wat Pra Mahathat something, I watched him roll his next joint, light it, and take the first puff. In the hot air, the smoke wafted through his long hair and disappeared, as if it became stuck on the greasy strands. He seemed deep in thought, and I wondered if he’d forgotten I was there. He hadn’t. “You want another coffee, Kurt?”
“No, thanks.”
“Mind if I do?”
I shrugged. I could, of course, have just said, “Thanks for the ride. I’ll make my own way back,” but I didn’t. The messages from Kevin and Walid disturbed me, and James, despite his appearance and manner, already seemed like a possible solution. So I followed him yet again to a different side street lined with vendors of chilled fruit, barbequed meat and fish, and soup. The smells did something to my stomach. It rumbled, as if to remind me I’d not eaten much for three days.
James suddenly pulled out a chair next to a metal table where a menu was propped against a box of chopsticks. He beckoned me to sit opposite, and a woman with a damp grey cloth arrived and wiped away stray noodles from earlier customers. James ordered. “Nung café. Nung nam. Song quettio moo with egg noodles.” Then he leaned back.
“What do you know about this guy Cass?”
I did my best, but I hadn’t seen Cass for a while. Quiet. Polite. Serious. Good at basketball but not as good as me. Could speak Punjabi.
Meanwhile, water, coffee, and bowls of soup with noodles arrived, and James’s phone rang. It seemed private because he turned sideways, so I started on the soup and listened.
It was the first time I’d seen James look unsettled. There were long silent periods when he fidgeted, and it seemed to me, he was being told things he didn’t already know.
“He’s running with a Turkish passport.” I heard him say, but then there was a string of meaningless words, “Yeh . . . no . . . could do . . . sure.”
While I waited, I tried to work out the tattoos on his arms. Between the swirls and patterns was a human skull wearing a military cap and with a combat knife clutched in its teeth. After my first sight of him sitting cross-legged with his arms raised to the sky, as if in some sort of celestial embrace, these inks didn’t fit with my impression of a man of peace and tranquillity. Perhaps, I thought, it had all been a show to catch my attention—a gut feeling you understand.
When the call finished, my bowl of noodles was gone, but James had not even started on his. He lay his phone on the table, flicked his joint onto the ground, and started on his soup, shovelling noodles into his mouth with fork and spoon.
“So who was that?” I asked.
“A friend of mine from UK,” he replied with a long yellow noodle hanging from his mouth and caught up in the stubble. He released it with his finger, sucked it in, and glanced at me. “Instead of getting lost in trees and getting off at wrong bus stops, you want to do something useful, Kurt?”
“Such as?”
“Help find your buddy Cass.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Then you’ll need to check out of the Happy Life, Kurt. Are you carrying tons of unnecessary stuff?”
I didn’t like the insinuation that I was some sort of upmarket beach poser with stacks of matching luggage. “Just a backpack.”
“Good. We’re all transient visitors to this world, Kurt.”
If that was another attempt at deep philosophy, I hit back. “You seem settled though, James. Plenty of time on your hands. Nice house. Nice bike. Though I think I’d prefer a Honda myself.”
He grinned, so I went on. “You seemed to be waiting for me when we first met. Why?”
“Young black guy from London arrives alone, avoids the playground, and heads south to where trouble often starts. You were red-flagged.”
“What the hell is red-flagged?”
“Immigration department. They’re paranoid. Guilty until proved innocent.”
“Guilty of what?”
“Of arousing suspicions.”
“Can’t a guy go on holiday these days?”
“Sure, but he can’t just wander into another country that’s trying to keep tabs on terrorists and expect not to be red-flagged if some overzealous immigration officer decides he needs to prove his worth. If he makes a mistake, can you imagine who gets the blame?”
“I’m not a criminal or a terrorist.”
“Who knows that? They come in many different sizes, shapes, and colours.”
“Are you working for immigration?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you, or aren’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you were following me?”
“For a while. Then I got ahead of you.”
“Why?”
“Things happen. Like your friend Cass. He got in on a false Turkish passport, looking like a cute version of one of Osama Bin Laden’s young disciples. Fortunately for him, he got a lenient officer at the gate and was let through, but someone’s neck sure is on the line now since a bomb went off in a gas station just after he passed by. Understand?” He paused. “I assume Kurt Learner’s your real name.”
“Of course.”
“But how can anyone be sure, Kurt? You know how many people pass through immigration here claiming they’re on holiday? I’ll tell you. It was thirty-eight million last year. That’s more than half the entire Thai population. You think they’re all good, honest citizens intent on sunbathing or might there be a few amongst them entering on false passports with crime, terrorism, or other trouble on their mind. Quite rightly, this government, just like your own, likes to weed them out before they mingle and get lost in the crowd. You’re an unknown quantity, an alien, and a red light flashed somewhere. You’re lucky you met me.”
I didn’t feel lucky. “We didn’t just meet by accident.”
James shrugged nonchalantly. “True.”
“You’re a foreigner as well, mate,” I said. “If I’d seen you with your looks getting off a plane and lighting a spliff, I’d have red-flagged you. In fact, I’d probably have sent you home again.”
James gave a creasy smile. “It’s my job,” he said, drawing yet another Rizla paper across his tongue and rolling the finished product through his fingers.
“How can an American looking like you get any sort of job that pays money?”
“I help out.”
I shook my head, as if I didn’t believe a word, but it didn’t seem to bother James. He stuck the freshly rolled one between his lips and let it dangle, unlit. “So you want to help, or shall I report you as suspicious and throw you to the wolves?”
That was it. I’d had enough. “Who the hell are you, James?”
James clicked his lighter and let the flame burn without doing anything with it, and I felt he might even toss it in my direction, hoping I’d burst into flames. “Sit down, Kurt. Stay cool. Don’t get so agitated. Listen to me. The guy who phoned me just now is an international crime investigator. Private not public. As a matter of fact, he’s English. We sometimes work together. That’s enough for you?”
It was interesting but not enough. I shook my head.
“I’m private too,” he said.” Freelance.”
“A freelance bullshitter?”
“Only if it helps.”
We were silent for a minute, eyeing each other and me thinking up all sorts of reasons for walking away. James then crossed his legs and shifted on his chair. “You wanna help find Cass or no?”
“What are you saying? That you want help to find Cass to turn him in for some sort of reward? Is that how freelance bullshitters operate?”
“Don’t be so paranoid, Kurt. From what I know, he sounds more like a victim to me.”
I tried to calm myself. “Cass was OK,” I said. “He must have got tricked into something. You saw the message about a piece of shit called Khan.”
“Yep and that’s exactly what I just had confirmed,” James said, getting up. “Let’s go, and I’ll tell you some more as we ride. Call me Jimmy.”