Not for Publication. William John Stapleton
Not for Publication
by
William John Stapleton
Copyright by A Sense of Place Publishing 2013
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1952-7
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review
This is the final volume in The Twilight Soi series, pulling together the themes in the preceding volumes and putting a full stop to the string of novellas which outraged Thailand and provoked numerous death threats.
Not For Publication is designed so it can be read independently.
Others in the series include The Twilight Soi, The Heart Into Darkness, Bangkok Busted: You Die For Sure, The Chiang Mai Interlude and Bangkok Busted: You Go To Jail For Sure.
KILLING A BANGKOK STORY
The best way to kill off a story is to starve it of oxygen. Michael did his best. He failed.
And then he did his worst.
You had to be strung out on a thin strip of ice while lingering long in the Land of Hungry Ghosts to get a glimpse of anything beyond the rising howls of derision.
A desperately frightened intelligence crawling on a liquid surface of molten mirrors, Michael had been slow to understand the forces he had stirred.
You had to be there; in the dense, fervent ignominy, the dark malignant streets, to even glimpse the dour places where he had briefly, uncomfortably dwelled.
Some 100 Australians had died in Thailand during the previous 12 months. For citizens of the Great Southern Land, the so-called Land of Smiles was the most dangerous destination on Earth.
Many of the deaths were purportedly the result of accidents.
Sure, Michael thought wryly.
Drowned accidently after being tossed from a speeding boat. Died accidently after being thrown off the balcony of a high rise. Killed accidently while being robbed.
Or bled to death accidentally after becoming the subject of an assassination order from the Thai mafia.
That year some of the Thais would have dearly liked to see him become Australian death number 101.
The Buddha’s proscription against killing any living being did not extend to him.
Nor, on the other side of the ledger, had Michael paid much attention to the admonition: “Be heedful among the heedless, awake among the sleeping, as a swift steed overtaking a sullen nag.”
He had been none of those things.
Instead he was tired, depressed, erratic and barely “mindful”. His pursuers had simply been remorseless.
A CLAP OF LAUGHTER
A month after his escape from Bangkok Michael found himself one evening by Fewa Lake, a world famously picturesque stretch of water curtained during the day by a backdrop of blue-hazed mountains and the permanently snow capped crags of Nepal’s Annapurna Range. Beyond the tourist area known as Lakeside spread Nepal’s second largest city, Pokhara.
The tranquility of the lake and the quietness of the overshadowing peaks accentuated their movements. Amidst the frantic buckling and unbuckling it was impossible to tell if anyone had achieved anything.
There was a clap of laughter from one of the more up-market restaurants on the main street several hundred meters from where he and one of the local waiters were rearranging their clothes.
Nothing stood still.
“Call that a date?” came the guffaw from the restaurant. So far away, from so far away; and yet they were already here.
Michael had promised to stay sober for his assignation with the waiter.
They arranged to meet at 10 pm at the corner restaurant where the man worked. The arrangement, or so Michael thought, was for him to be shown around the late night spots in Pokhara, to have unveiled a world few if any of the city’s unending stream of international tourists ever saw.
The only late night spot turned out to be a dark nook by “Lakeside”.
No, he hadn’t stayed sober for the waiter. Instead he had gotten drunk in, amongst other places, the Busy Bee, a large, well appointed establishment popular with the glam packers since it was praised by Lonely Planet.
Michael had convinced the bar tender to make an exception and include Baileys Blue, a mixture of Baileys and Vodka, in Busy Bee’s menu of Happy Hour drinks.
If only they really had been happy hours.
Four Blues in rapid succession stopped chattering in his head for the first time that day. He could barely wait to get them down his throat.
The waiter roused on Michael for being inebriated.
The simpering little man had no idea what he was talking about.
With events in Thailand still coursing through his brain, he couldn’t have cared less what anyone thought. There was better looking eye candy inside the militarised zone. And much to be disturbed about – such as the simple question: ”How could anyone have survived that?”
CONCERN FOR WELFARE
In The City of Black-Eyed Angels aka Bangkok the countdown had begun months before.
Behind the scenes a “Concern for Welfare” notice had been issued.
In a rare spasm of self-preservation, Michael had reported the constant threats he was receiving to the International Federation of Journalists and the Australian Embassy.
But there were days when he thought they might as well include him on Thailand’s annual roll call of dead tourists, he cared so little.
“Do you think they will kill him?” one of the voices floating up to the 31st floor of the ITF Tower asked.
“If they get the chance,” the reply came.
Michael had been living in the ITF Tower for five months. He had no desire to make it six. One of Bangkok’s original high rises, full of Indian gem traders and strategically located in one of the city’s business districts, living there had once seemed like a good idea. Now none of the voices drifting to him from different observer posts carried anything but regret or threat; perhaps a wan hope that either he might get himself together, or on the other hand that he might die of natural causes and save them all a lot of money, effort, risk and embarrassment.
The story he had inadvertently become involved in ran up and down the Thai channels of power, from the dilapidated mafia run go-go bars of Bangkok’s red light districts through to their cohorts in the local Bangkok police and the Royal Thai Tourist Police, on to government officials and the upper echelons of political power.
The reason for their involvement was simple: any go-go bar operating in Bangkok could only do so by paying substantial bribes to the police; a river of money creamed from foreign tourists. Don’t pay, you don’t play. In return for the bundles of cash they handed over on a monthly basis the bar and nightclub operators expected and got the poorly paid Thai Police to act as their private enforcers.
No matter what level of acceptance and forgiveness he achieved from within, in the external world nothing could change what had happened or how the consequences continued to play out.
“Any good boys?” Michael asked as he passed yet again the door of one of the infamous go-go bars on Soi Twilight, catching a glimpse of the scantily clad men parading their wares up on stage.
“No good boys