Bangkok Filth Page 4

  “Right, well, enjoy yourselves then,” I said, and walked toward the main building. As long as they stayed quiet, I didn’t really care why they were staying here. I heard their guffaws recede into the distance.

  I walked onto the cool cement floor of the building and sat down at one of the tables that was arranged near the opening that led into the kitchen. You could see the kitchen staff preparing food through the opening. They would set the orders on the ledge for someone to pick up and bring to the tables.

  I noticed a sullen, overweight individual sitting at another table. I looked at him for a few moments, waiting for him to look up and give me that look two foreigners often exchange as an invitation to start talking in a new place. But he didn’t look up.

  I got up and walked over to his table. “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  He glanced up bleary-eyed. It was like he was homing in on the distant sound that was my voice but couldn’t quite get there. I recognized that look; despair. It can hit with surprising ferocity when you live in a foreign country, especially if you are a moody bastard to begin with.

  I didn’t wait for a response. I sat down and started looking at the menu on the table. I looked up without being too obvious about it, trying to get a sense of the person in front of me. Someone who just might be in need of a friend at the moment. He was large—big boned large, with that oafish, lumbering demeanor. He was somewhere else, obsessing over something that was probably not as serious as he thought it was.

  “How long have you been here? I just got here a few hours ago myself,” I said.

  He looked at me now for the first time. An intense, serious look. Troubled eyes, as if things could never be the same way again.

  He exhaled. “I’m in trouble,” he said. “I must have arrived just before you did,” he continued. “I arrived with my Thai girlfriend. Those British guys came in about the same time as I did. I got a bad feeling from them right away. I checked into the bungalow with my girlfriend. And then we sat out front on the little veranda. That’s when those Brits started. They came over and stood in front of our veranda. Started talking to us polite at first. Asked us where we were from, all the usual stuff you ask when you meet someone. They thought it was pretty funny that we were here to meditate. I thought that was funny. After all, it is a meditation retreat, right?”

  He settled back in his chair and took a breath. It was a relief for him that he had started to speak to someone. He breathed deeply. His despair now had a touch of anger to it. I looked into the dimly lit kitchen, hoping that someone would arrive and take my order. I had no idea what time it was.

  “Then they started asking where we met each other. Made some really repellent insinuations. I finally told them to leave. The one with the shaved head, that’s when he said it. Said he would pay me to be with my girlfriend. I’m usually pretty calm, but that set me right off. I told them to get the hell away from us.”

  I looked around for any sign of his girlfriend. He saw me looking and knew what I was thinking. The despair returned and he put a hand on the table as if to steady himself.

  “But they had worked their nastiness. My girlfriend was very upset after the confrontation and she wanted to leave. She wanted to get out of here even after we had set aside the time and talked for weeks about coming here. Just like that. And she wanted to give up because these...Brit pieces of shit pushed my buttons!” He slammed his fist on the table. Tears of rage were in his eyes.

  “She started packing her things, and she began walking back to the town to take the next bus back to Bangkok. I followed her out. I was pleading with her not to let them get to her. We would concentrate on the mediating. We would have a good, peaceful getaway. But she would have none of it. It was if she were ashamed of having anything to do with any foreigner. She kept going. I came back to the bungalow to get my things. I had no choice but to go with her. When I got back here all my money was gone.”

  It was the Brits, of course. “Have you confronted them about it? It was definitely them? No other possibility?” I asked.

  “No, not yet. This all just happened a few hours ago, just before it got dark. I’ve been sitting here ever since. I’ve been in a daze really. And no, no other possibilities. I’ve seen no one else here. I...I thought I was going to...”

  “Don’t. Don’t even say it. We’ll get your money back. I’ll help you.”

  He let out a deep sigh.

  “My name’s Rackford. You can call me Rack for short,” he said as he thrust a meaty mitt out at me. “Amazing how the simple act of someone listening can make all the difference in the world. A few moments ago...nothing. I felt nothing. No, that’s not right. I felt the deepest sense of hopelessness I have ever felt in my life. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I still don’t completely. I have no idea where my girlfriend is. My phone is gone too. So I can’t contact her.”

  “Let’s get something to eat first. It’s on me,” I said.

  I managed to get the attention of someone working in the kitchen and they whipped together a good feed for us. I hadn’t eaten for hours and Rack was likely a healthy eater at the best of times.

  We ate silently. Strange as it may sound, I liked the way Rack ate, especially for a big man. He didn’t lunge at the final scraps on the table. Perhaps it was because I was paying and had offered my help, but my sense was that it was genuine.

  We hadn’t seen anyone else during the time that we were eating. The kitchen staff had silently cleaned up and left. Did they live in one of the bungalows? The man in the robe who greeted me when I arrived was also nowhere to be seen. And the Brits also were not around.

  A few bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling of the roof cast a dim glow through the enclosure.

  “What do you think we should do?” Rack asked me. “I guess the best thing is to go up to them and just ask them to give back my money. Appeal to their sense of decency.”

  “No. Not with them. It won’t work. It would only give them a feeling of victory. I remember a few years ago, I had a problem in an apartment I was living in. Noise from the tenant above me. I also thought I would try the rational and straightforward approach. Looking back I can’t believe that I thought that. First, someone like that is the least likely to give a damn; proven by the fact that they demonstrated their self-serving behaviour in the first place. You give them a second chance and they laugh in your face. Or, more likely, they string you along and are laughing the whole time.” I picked up my empty water glass from the table and rolled it in my hands.

  “Anyway, we’ve got to do something fast before these creeps leave,” I said.

  The Brit who resembled a heroin addict strolled out of the night and into our line of vision. He was coming toward us. But alone. And he hadn’t yet seen us. He was looking down, lost in his thoughts, smirking to himself.

  I was sitting in a chair with my back to the approaching Brit, but I was turned to watch him. Rack was sitting opposite me and looking straight at one of his tormentors as he approached. I moved my chair back slightly and the sound of scraping on the cement snapped Heroin Addict out of his reverie.

  He stopped within seven feet of us and stared. The sneer had been wiped off his face. The thought hit me that they might have rifled my bungalow already.

  “Hello lads,” Heroin Addict said. A semblance of the sneer was back. But he wasn’t in his element and he must have seen our recognition of this fact.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked. I was abrupt. I thought of the arrogance of this little sycophant as he had urged on his leader back at the bungalow.

  “Just looking for a bite to eat. Is it too late I suppose?” He was trying to act deferential now.

  “Have a seat,” I said. I pushed out the other seat that was at the table. Heroin Addict cast a glance backward, and then looked back at us.

  “Sit down,” I said with more conviction this time.

  Heroin Addict licked his lips and tucked in his weak chin so tightly it was if his lips
were on his neck.

  “I think I might head back to my bungalow instead, but thanks for the...”

  I bolted out of my chair. “Sit the fuck down!” I was pointing at the chair and hyperventilating.

  Heroin Addict had a screwed-up, highly concerned look on his face. He slowly eased himself into the chair.

  Rack and I stared at him as his eyes were pointed straight ahead without looking directly at either one of us. Looking at him closely, I understood why the he allied himself with Shaved Head. Heroin Addict was an emaciated wretch. His t-shirt hung on him loosely, his bony shoulders protruded and his cheeks were gaunt and drawn. Maybe he really was a heroin addict. He was making an effort to appear casual, but it wasn’t working. His hands were under the table and his arms were twitching.

  I glanced under the table and saw him working the buttons on his mobile phone. I grabbed his bony wrist and pulled his arm up with the phone in his hand. I took the phone out of his hand and turned it off.

  “He was calling for back-up,” I said. I put his phone in my pocket.

  “Look, you went through my friend’s bungalow and took his money. Now, how are we going to get it back?” I asked Heroin Addict. I had posed the question to him, but I was also wondering myself exactly how we were going to pull this off. Though Rack was large, I had no idea if he could handle himself if things turned violent. But with Heroin Addict incapacitated, the odds would be a lot better for us.

  Heroin Addict turned to look at me. “Listen, me and my mates may act like cunts on occasion. I know we do, but we didn’t go into your friend’s bungalow and take anything.”

  “Don’t fuck with us,” I said. I took out his phone and slammed it onto the table. Then I picked it up, stood up and threw the phone onto the concrete floor. “Geez, ain’t that fun to fuck with someone’s belongings and cut them off from their friends and family. You took his phone too, fuckface. Now you don’t have a phone. So you insulted his girlfriend and watched with glee as she left and he followed, but it just so happens that you didn’t happen to go into his bungalow and take his money. Is that what you want us to believe, hey?”

  Heroin Addict was looking away from me and working his closed mouth. He only had few options now. He could start shrieking and hope his mates came running. Or he could try to make a run for it.

  “We’re going to go into the kitchen now,” I said. I stood up and put my hand on Heroin Addict’s pointed little shoulder. “Come on.” Rack rose. He had a set look on his face. He was up for whatever was to come. Heroin Addict didn’t move. “I said, ‘Come on.’”

  He glanced to his side, as if he thought his friends would be there, ready to rescue him. The night was black and silent. I felt him tense under my hand. He let loose with a yell and started coming out of his seat. I wound up and drove my fist downward into his approaching chin. My punch glanced off what was a very small target but it was enough to send Heroin Addict to the ground. I looked around to see if anyone had heard the outburst.

  Only silence, except for Rack’s exhalations. He was looking down at Heroin Addict passed out cold on the concrete floor. I could tell that he wanted to stomp the life out of him. I picked the limp Brit up by his hair and dragged him behind the kitchen. Rack followed. I looked for a door in the dark and found it, fumbled with the latch and got it open.

  Rack turned on one of the lights and I looked around for something to gag the little freak with. A dirty apron lay on one of the counters. I wound it into a coil and tied it around Heroin Addict’s head so that the bulk of the smeared section was shoved in his mouth. Some lengths of twine had been tied into make-shift hooks for cooking utensils and hung from nails hammered into the walls. I took the twine down and used it to bind Heroin Addict’s hands behind his back. He convulsed slightly and pulled himself away from me just as I secured the knots.

  I flipped him over so that he was on his back. Some semblance of consciousness was flickering into his eyes. He had a red mark on his chin where I had hit him. As he came to his senses, the confused look in his eyes turned to fear. I scanned the kitchen and located a large mortar and pestle. I picked up the pestle—it was large, must have been 10, 11 inches long with a solid heft. It was made out of burnished concrete.

  I bent down and with my free hand lifted Heroin Addict’s right foot up as far in the air as it would go and then dropped it, winding up and bashing his ankle with the pestle as his foot dropped. A distinctive splintering sound cut through the humid kitchen air. A muffled shriek rose from Heroin Addict through the gag. He writhed in pain for a few minutes and then went silent.

  “We can safely count him out of taking part in any violence that his mates will try when they find out what’s going on.”

  I dragged Heroin Addict by his shattered ankle and put him against a wall and then covered him with some empty rice sacks that were lying nearby. I made sure that his face wasn’t covered so that he could still breathe.

  “We can’t waste any time. His two friends will be wondering where he is.”

  Rack hadn’t spoken since we disabled Heroin Addict. He was alert, doing what I asked of him and taking the initiative when necessary. He was tuned in to what we were doing. The pieces of shit who had stitched him up would pay severely for what they had done. One of the lessons that I had learned early in life was that people often go around fucking with complete strangers. With no regard for who they may be dealing with or what their victims may be capable of doing in response. If you fuck with someone, eventually they will fuck you back. And they will usually fuck you harder than you fucked them to begin with.

  We turned off the light in the kitchen and went back out into the central enclosure. It would now be two on two when Rack and I confronted the remaining Brits, and we had the element of surprise. But I wanted to ensure that the destruction of the two pieces of filth would be even more lopsided. We walked slowly around the enclosure looking for makeshift weapons. The silence and lack of any security, even a sleeping fool kitted out in some kind of rent-a-cop uniform, was a bit strange. At the back of the enclosure, we found a shovel and a pick-axe. We took both of them. The shovel will do nicely I thought as I lifted it and tested the weight in a few slow-motion, half swings.

  We skirted the perimeter of the compound until we came to the bungalow occupied by the Brits. Rack was still silent and focused on the task at hand. I moved to the back wall of the bungalow, which looked back into a field with high grass and trees. Because the bungalows were on stilts, our eyes were close to the level of where the feet of anyone inside would be. A few cracks in between the planks that made up the side of the little hut were big enough to look through. We placed the shovel and pickaxe under the bungalow and I took up a position and started to strain to see if anything was going on inside.

  I couldn’t see any movement. I motioned Rack to stand next to me and look through the slats so that we could survey a larger section of the interior. I could smell the wood as I pressed my face up against the planks. It was silent and dark as death inside the bungalow. No one was inside or if there was, they were out cold on their beds.

  I looked at Rack and waved my hand, indicating that he should follow me. I moved slowly around to the front of the bungalow and crept up the wooden stairs. I kept to the side of the stairs—something from some far off memory told me that stairs were less likely to creak if you kept to the sides. Rack followed behind me and his heft shattered my half-baked theory.

  I cringed at the sound of the creaking stairs and stopped in front of the door. I turned and saw a silhouette of Shaved Head holding a length of pipe in his hand at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Rack!” I shouted as the Brit wound up and swung at Rack who was still at the bottom of the steps. Like many large people, Rack could move deceptively fast. Rack had turned to see the lunging Brit and shot up the remaining three stairs so that he was next to me in front of the door to the bungalow. I grabbed the door knob and pushed inside the bungalow. Rack followed me in like a crazed ox.
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br />   “I’ll have you fucking cunts!” screamed the Brit. He surged towards the open door, ready to start swinging. I looked around for something to inflict some damage before he started bashing us. I picked up a small wooden stool. Holding it by the legs, I moved to the side of the door, pivoted and drove every ounce of power I had into swinging the flat surface of the stool seat directly into the Brit’s face as he barged into the bungalow. The sick sound of crushed bone and gristle momentarily cut through the night air as the Brit crumpled to the floor. I was horrified at the thought that I might have killed the piece of garbage. And where was the third Brit—the doughy oaf?

  The Brit with the shaved head lay on the floor of the bungalow barely writhing. It was a good sign. He would live. Hopefully permanently damaged and scarred but still alive. Rack looked down on the destroyed face of his tormentor. He lifted up one of his mammoth legs and placed his foot onto the shattered face that was slick with blood. He slowly brought the full weight of his body down and at the same time reached up and put his hands on the low ceiling, using it as leverage to push down. The Brit started to flail and he emitted a horrible half shriek that was clotted and stifled by blood. This was too much. It was bordering on torture.

  “Rack, you’ve got to let up,” I said. Through all the commotion and blood curdling shrieks, I was still conscious of the fact that there must be other people staying at the retreat. The longer we left the heroin addict in the kitchen, the more likely it was that someone would find him. Rack was still applying pressure and nearly shaking with rage and exertion as the horrid display from the Brit became more tortured.

  “Rack! Rack!”

  I grabbed the front of his shirt and pushed him away from the Brit.

  “We’ve still got to clean up the mess that we’ve made,” I said.

  Rack was hyperventilating and looking down at the Brit. The look on Rack’s face said that he wanted to finish the job.