The Defector Read online

  I picked up the glass gratefully, it slipped down easily. So did the second and the third. It wasn't until they had stopped that I realised how badly my hands had been shaking, ‘Thanks for your help.’ I said.

  ‘It was nothing.’ he replied.

  I shrugged, swallowed the drink. The glow was spreading outwards. I gazed hazily at the roof. A spider crawled erratically down a bamboo pole, the single bare bulb throwing its shadow into gargantuan relief. I hauled in a deep breath, and slumped forward onto the support of my elbows.

  ‘Better?’

  I nodded, and held out my hand, there was only the slightest tremor, ‘See? No problem.’ I said.

  He nodded solemnly, but didn't shift his gaze from the rest of the room, ‘It's scary that stuff, if you aren't used to it.’

  ‘You look like you are.’ I made the statement flat, no rising inflection, no question asked. His cold grey eyes swivelled slowly towards me. The memory of the sudden violence of only minutes before came back sharply. Two guys hospitalised with startling speed and precision. And complete indifference. You wouldn't mistake this guy for someone who gave a fuck. I sat, frozen in that frigid gaze for a full half minute. Until he picked up the bottle and the chuckle of alcohol into my glass broke the uneven silence. I heard my heart beating in time to the tick, tick of the ceiling fan. I wanted to leave, but that gaze had immobilised with its spell.

  ‘So what brings you to Ko Samui?’ his eyes swept across the room again as he spoke. Then settled on the open door. The door. How to get through it? I began to frame some excuses for leaving in my head, but first, his question.

  ‘I just needed to get away for a while.’ It sounded lame as soon as I'd said it.

  ‘You in trouble?’

  And suddenly we weren't small talking any more. How to get through that door?

  ‘Not exactly.’ I said, stalling, gazing down at the patterns of dirt at my feet. But 'No' was the right answer. I might have escaped all that followed if I'd just said 'no' right then. Made up some bullshit story about a holiday and got the hell out of there.

  Instead, I glanced up and once more I was fixed in the glare of those penetrating grey eyes. I could feel them sucking it out of me. I'd not talked to anyone else, not since the accident. So why now? And to this stranger, who was already on the way to freaking me out? I still wonder about that. But the answer was right there in those eyes.

  ‘It's a long story.’ I said, throwing back the contents of the glass.

  He smiled again, yellow teeth and gaunt face skull-like in the gloom, ‘We got plenty of time.’ he said, reaching forward and refilling the glass again.

  I slumped back in the chair. The spider had gone. The bulb was swinging lightly under a puff of wind. My mind started to follow it, dizzily beginning to spin. I leaned forward again quickly, gazing ahead until the giddiness had gone. A puddle of beer was slowly working its way down a crack in the table. ‘I guess it started about six months ago. There was a motorway accident, although I wasn't involved in the crash itself...’ I stopped, thinking about the trailer filling my rear view mirror, the horns, the rising alarm. And then that gentle wumph. That must have been the explosion that started the fire. ‘It wasn't my fault... I mean, the other guy definitely screwed up. And no one even knows I was there... you certainly couldn't prove it was my fault. I cut the guy up and he lost control, over-reacted to the situation...’ I stopped and took a deep breath, looked up again, but the grey eyes were cold, ‘Eighteen people died. Several of them burned to death, trapped inside a minibus. I read about it in the papers the day after.’

  The beer had made it to the edge of the table and was slowly dripping onto my leg. I watched another drop fall. The brown stain crept slowly across the faded denim. Somewhere I found it in me to care enough about it to move. I shifted and looked up.

  ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘So...?’ I choked, ‘So eighteen people died and...’ the words tumbled out, then evaporated. I tried again, ‘I don't... I mean... fuck it.’ I shook my head. I hadn't got the words. I stared at him, but there was nothing in those grey eyes, no blame, no sympathy. Perhaps, and only perhaps, a little curiosity.

  I snorted back a deep breath through my nose and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. Why was I doing this? But having started, it seemed I couldn't stop. ‘For weeks afterwards I caught myself doing the same sort of thing, cutting people up, not letting them into queues, driving like a real arsehole. It was like...am I always like this? Or did I want to get caught, get it out in the open. Almost like it was guilt. Shit, I mean, I knew it wasn't my fault but...’ I lifted the glass and stared at the glowing amber light. I poured it back. ‘I started drinking, a lot. Started to lose it at work. I was a currency dealer in a big London bank. And I was good, made a lot of money. But it started to slip and then there was a deal...’

  I shuddered slightly as that day came back at me. The row with Jo that night, rolling in to the office at nearly ten the next morning looking like shit. Then the 'this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you' speech from the boss. I could still smell the power and money that hung in the air in that office, oozing out of the wood, the leather, the wool. It could have been mine. My secretary had brought me a coffee afterwards, no one else came near. The word had gone round. I was history. Bad news. A loser. Last seen leaving.

  I slugged back the whole of the drink. I was numb now and the liquid no longer had its fiery effect, but I didn't have much more to say. I went on in a hollow, distant voice, slurring the words, ‘I lost the job, then the girlfriend.’ I smiled weakly. ‘The money went, she went. Fuck her, I don't miss her. I packed a bag and took a plane out here. Bangkok blew my brains out, someone told me about the islands, I got on a bus and've been drifting around down here ever since.’

  I looked at him, there was no expression, no response. I stared back into the glass and watched a final trickle of alcohol slip back down to the bottom. But looking down was a big mistake. My head started to spin, there was the hot rush of nausea. I bit back hard, struggled to my feet, stumbling backwards. I think I made it to the veranda before I threw up.

  Chapter 2

  I must have slept a while. But consciousness came like a painfully piercing light. The sun finally emerging through heavy, grey clouds in the aftermath of a wicked storm. I twitched my eyes open a crack and stared upwards. Gradually a little light started to filter through the matted roof. It must be morning. My head was pounding. Slowly I levered myself upwards. At this point my stomach registered a severe protest. I flinched quietly and rolled over onto my side, pushing my legs out and slowly easing off the edge of the bed. I was starting to sweat and my legs were shaking.

  I staggered the few steps over towards the bathroom. Such as it was. Basically a bowl, toilet and a shower head in a screened off corner. I groped around in the half light until I found the bottle of water. I slugged it back. Slowly I became conscious of my mouth. I felt round my teeth with my tongue, gently dislodging pieces of food. Probably vomit. Foul. I found a toothbrush and gingerly prodded around in my mouth with the help of lots more water. When I finally sat back on the edge of the bed I was feeling quite a bit better. I let myself drop back, landing heavily as my stomach muscles weren't quite up to the task.

  The second time I saw the roof, daylight was streaming in. And it was hot. I was hot. I was soaked in sweat. I glanced at my watch, two pm. I tried the sitting upright business again and this time it hardly hurt at all. I stretched gently and eased myself off the bed. The sordid clothes from the night before were swopped for a clean pair of shorts and I staggered out into the too bright daylight. I had to close my eyes completely whilst my iris's, which not unreasonably had assumed they'd got the day off, were summoned back from wherever they had gone and put to work.

  The scene, when finally it revealed itself, was the same one that had greeted me each morning for the past couple of weeks. A few rather shabby bamboo beach huts scattered around a central covered area that passed as rest
aurant and bar. A couple of figures were dotted around the shaded tables and beyond them others were stretched out on the beach to fry in the afternoon sun. Dumb cancer-heads. But it was a stunning beach, the kind they make chocolate bar ads on, with white, white sand sliding gently under the ridiculously azure water. I took a deep breath, then turned back inside to find a beach mat, book and the water bottle.

  ‘Martin!’

  I turned, still moving smoothly so as not to disturb the delicately balanced equilibrium of my health, to see a small figure running down the beach towards me. It was Prachit, at least I think that was her name, the young daughter of the manager. She worked in the restaurant and bar and we'd struck up quite a friendship in the past couple of weeks. Strictly platonic, I hasten to add. She bounced up, panting anxiously, and said, ‘You ok Martin?’

  ‘I think so.’ I replied in a hoarse croak. She looked dubious so I carried on before she could find the words to express it, ‘How did I get back here last night?’

  ‘We find you in road with other man and bring you back on motorbike.’

  ‘That's very kind of you, I was in a bad way. What did the other man look like?’

  ‘Like you, Farang, but not so fat,’ she paused and made a height motion with her hand, ‘not so...,’

  ‘Tall?’

  ‘Yes, not so tall, funny red hair.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Ask where you from, I tell him here.’ the pretty features were breaking into a frown, so I smiled to reassure her.

  ‘That's great, thank you. You know what I'd like? One of those special fruit shakes you do for me, could I have one please?’

  She beamed, revealing a row of shining white teeth, ‘No worries,’ she said.

  I did wonder whether the varied English influences in the little resort were having a positive impact on her grasp of the language. I smiled again and turned back to go inside the hut.

  ‘Martin,’ and I looked over my shoulder, ‘you very funny last night.’ she said, giggling, and ran off. The other question, it then occurred to me, was whether I was having a good influence on her. I retrieved my beach mat and book and settled under the shade of a palm tree to wait for Prachit to return with my drink. I flicked through the book to find the crease that marked my place. But my eyes refused to hold the focus and the page blurred out. I closed them ready to settle for more sleep and immediately a new image exploded on my consciousness.

  Kate.

  Of course, Kate. The drink had done the trick for a while, and I'd forgotten everything. I'd spotted her in the market yesterday afternoon. At first I hadn't been completely sure that it was her. There was nothing to connect her to this place, no reason why she should turn up here. She belonged three years and thousands of miles away. Maybe my mind was playing tricks. But even with all that time and distance the half glance I had caught of her was enough. The way she tilted her head, moved her body, there had been no doubt. The final, concrete flash of recognition had brought an almost physical pain, as past events crowded in, shrieking for attention. All so immediate it was overwhelming.

  I stood, giddily, watching. It was then that I noticed the man beside her. She had turned to him and laughed, one hand flicking an insect off his shoulder. He had frowned at her, at the contact, and as he glanced up he caught my eye as I stared at them. I had dived away, pushed deep into the crowd. There had been no shout, no cry of recognition. I didn't know him either, but I could guess who he was.

  I forced my eyes to focus in the present and down at the book. Struggling to shut out the image. But the words were no competition for the slight, blonde figure and the memories it brought. The one, single thing that I'd ever truly loved. And she had turned up here.

  I could remember every detail about the night we had met. It'd been the autumn of 1986 and I had been dragged up to Oxford to go to a party by an acquaintance from the bank. I hadn't been too keen on the idea, but I'd been persuaded. Kate had been there, a vision of disillusioned, radical chic in torn jeans and oversized woolen jumper. But she could have worn a coal sack and looked good as far as I was concerned. We had argued intensely for hours, mostly about Thatcher's vision of the Britain we were going to live in, and then had crazy, passionate sex till the sun came up.

  I'd been hooked from then on. She was a first year politics student and made Lenin look like Genghis Khan. The daughter of a wealthy businessman she had the financial stability to be able to afford such radical principles. Or so I used to like to tell her - the true working class were busting their butts for a middle class income, if not the social mores, and couldn't afford the luxury of principles. I had the advantage of my own background and could infuriate her in seconds - by asking how the hell she could know what the working class was about when the only one she'd ever met was me.

  And that's how it had been. Discussions that became arguments that became rows. Conducted with a passion and intelligence that surprised us both. I suppose that's part of what the attraction was, we brought out the best and the worst in each other. There were times when we were so in tune, I'd been thinking maybe we could go and see that new movie tonight and she'd already have bought the tickets and booked a table as a surprise. Then there'd be those slow, sexy, Sunday mornings in bed, a walk in the park all bundled up against the cold, and coming home to a big roast dinner just as it started to get dark. We'd light the fire and settle down with the papers. And then she'd see some article, and get all outraged about the latest privatisation sell-off, and of course I'd know the guys dealing with the issue or have the prospectus and that would fire us off. We wouldn't talk for a week. Or two. Three was the record, I think.

  Considering how good the reconciliation was it still struck me as amazing that we managed three weeks. Stubborn? Pig-headed would be closer. And those principles of hers? Contrasted with the oh, so comfortable background, they always used to wind me up. But of course, in the end such people can only prove themselves by taking the final step and disavowing their inheritance. And the very passion that had so attracted me to her took her away. As the 'eighties' got cranked up to its full clichéd frenzy even Gordon Gecko might have had a few principled shudders if he'd seen what I was up to. We had argued more, but with real venom. Finally she had dropped out of Oxford a few weeks before her finals, throwing away what her tutors regarded as a near-certain first class honours degree, told her father where he could shove her allowance and climbed on a plane to Australia. Which ticket, of course, he'd paid for.

  It'd been perfect until then, hot-shot city boy with the BMW, gold card and fabulous looking girl on his arm. And not just fabulous looking either; smart, passionate, caring... But I could go on listing adjectives indefinitely and still not pin down what it was about her. She just had it, and I had never recovered. She left me to travel, and ended up with another guy. I shuddered a little, a cold shiver in the sweaty humidity at the thought of that final phone call. Scott, that was his name. A professional racing sailor. And that was him yesterday. I was sure of it. He would have been with her as long as I had, longer, just over three years. And they were still together.

  I had skirted around and moved in closer to them from the other direction, but still keeping my distance. They were easy to follow, moving slowly through the throng of stalls and people. I tagged along, gazing blankly at a hundred sarongs and a thousand postcards. I bumped gently into ten thousand people and uttered a million 'sorrys'. But my thoughts and my eyes never strayed from her. I couldn't figure it out. Why was she here, crashing back into my life when I was least able to deal with it? No job, not much money and precious little purpose. It wasn't exactly the kind of situation that gave you confidence was it? I must have followed them for hours, unable to decide what to do, unable to approach her, but equally unable to tear myself away. I should have got out, there and then, I could feel the old feelings growing even as I watched her. She was dangerous for me. I didn't know if I was strong enough to deal with her now. But I couldn't stop watching her, alone and,
with him. Thinking, thinking it should be me.

  They'd ended up on the courtesy bus to the Emperor's Hotel. I had drifted into the nearest bar and a substantial amount of Mekong and coke.

  A puff of wind stirred the pages of the book. I let them blow across, closing my eyes and trying to forget.

  ‘Martin.’

  The voice came through sharply, and I started awake.

  ‘Damn.’ the pain shooting through my neck made it clear I had not fallen asleep in an orderly fashion. It was stiff and sore where it had been propped up against the tree trunk. I rubbed it gingerly as I looked around for the source of the voice. The book still lay on my lap, the untouched glass was all but hidden in a buzz of insect life and beyond it the sun was plummeting towards the horizon in a red ball. Highlighted against it was a dark but recognizable figure. The last person I wanted to see: my saviour from the night before. I started to pick myself up from the sand, trying to think of something to say.

  ‘I brought you this.’ he said, proffering a drink.

  I looked at it a little hesitantly, then back at him, ‘Thanks.’ I said, taking it slowly.

  ‘I'm Janac.’ he replied, stretching out a hand.

  ‘Martin.’ I said. He nodded. Of course, he already knew. I shook his hand. He looked one of those types who goes for the immediate psychological advantage by breaking your fingers, but I was pleased to find the grasp almost gentle. Of course I thought, he already has the advantage, he saved my butt from a beating.

  ‘Thanks, for last night.’ I said.

  He shrugged, ‘You already did that.’

  I rubbed my forehead, ‘Did I?’ I nodded, as though remembering. ‘So you found me.’ I added, non-committally.

  ‘Uhuh, pretty little thing that took you home last night told me where you were.’