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  ‘Son, Milo may come across as a fool, but I can assure you the person he works for is not.’ Tavener swirled the remaining golden liquid around in his glass, peered into it as if examining the fluid for some portent.

  ‘Something tells me you know more than you’re letting on,’ said Chance.

  ‘Issarapong is what is colloquially known in these parts as ‘a person of influence.’ My Thai is shit, but I believe the exact term the locals use is jao pho, or godfather, a particularly aggressive species of local entrepreneur, major police and military connections, operates totally above the law.

  ‘Issarapong’s had the business handed to him by his father, Kriansak Boonchu. Kriansak got his start in the late sixties working as an enforcer for the local jao pho at the time, a guy called Dang. Story goes, Dang passed him over for promotion in favour of someone else, so Kriansak took matters into his own hands, killed Dang, took out his car with a rocket-propelled grenade as it was travelling down a rural road, assumed control of the entire operation. Prostitution, narcotics, illegal timber, you name it, he was involved. Kriansak owned this town. Shit, he owned most of Chonburi province. Now it all belongs to his only son, Issarapong.

  ‘That’s a long-winded way of saying Issarapong is not a dude whose cage you want to rattle. He wants you to go alone, go alone. He ain’t going to hurt you. He’s had plenty of opportunities to do that already, if he wanted to. Believe me, no one around here would’ve stood in his way.

  ‘Eat, drink and be merry, son, for tomorrow we die.’ Tavener patted Chance on the shoulder, drained his glass and motioned to one of the women opposite him for a refill. ‘I got to take a leak.’

  The woman sitting next to Chance made to top off his soda water.

  Chance put his hand over the top of the glass, left it there. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Whisky.’

  She paused, soda bottle mid-air, smiled with renewed interest.

  TWO

  The woman lying on the mattress next to him was older than she’d appeared last night. Faint lines emanated from the corners of her eyes, stretch marks, and a pink Caesarean scar ran across her lower belly.

  Chance sat on the edge of the bed, his feet splayed on the worn wooden floorboards, stared at his shortened mutilated toe, one deformity swapped for another.

  His room was one of a warren of ramshackle wooden apartments, the timber faded by years of sun, that sat on barnacle-encrusted wooden pylons over the mop-water-coloured ocean. Chance had spent weeks in the two rooms, knew every inch of the layout, every item it contained.

  When he wasn’t in his room, he spent most of his time sitting on a large expanse of wooden decking at the end of the hotel complex. At night he watched the lights of passing freighters, the sea breeze cool on his boiling face, and tried to push away the memory of the South African pleading for his life in the soft lamplight, the crack from the single pistol shot.

  Apart from his two companions, Thais occupied all the other apartments. Pot plants and rows of laundry screened off the tiny balconies in front of the rooms for privacy.

  Chance listened to the lapping of the sea underneath the floorboards, the uneven whirr of the ceiling fan, the two-note solo of a gecko chasing an insect across the plywood ceiling.

  Kate had been his most frequent visitor, brought him food and water, sometimes sat with him and read as he stared at the sea. Tavener dropped in occasionally, drank beer and imparted snippets from his life in his monotone drawl.

  Doctor Wirapol had appeared a couple of times at the beginning of Chance’s stay. He was soon replaced by one of the Thai nurses from the hospital. When she stopped coming, Chance figured he had a clean bill of health.

  He reached down, picked a plastic bottle of lukewarm water, guzzled. His throat felt dry, his head throbbed. He’d been careful not to drink too much last night, aware of his meeting with Issarapong, but after so long off alcohol and cigarettes, it hadn’t taken much to give him a powerful hangover.

  He heard a soft knock. He grabbed a sarong draped across the edge of the bed, wrapped it around his waist, opened the door.

  Kate stood framed in the morning light. She’d dyed her hair black since arriving in Thailand, let it grow long. Two plastic bags of iced white coffee dangled from rubber bands around one of her fingers.

  Chance scratched at his chest. The fresh air accentuated the stale atmosphere in the room, a mixture of sweat, perfume and sex.

  Kate sucked from the straw in one of the bags, looked over Chance’s shoulder to the woman lying on the bed, a neutral expression on her face. ‘I see you have company.’

  He avoided her eyes, embarrassed.

  The Thai woman stirred, threw an arm over her face to block out the light from the open doorway.

  ‘I bought you a coffee.’

  Kate handed him one of the bags, walked past him and sat at the Formica table.

  Chance drained half of the sweet, nutty-flavoured brew. The Thai woman sat up on the bed, hair askew, looked around the room. She registered no alarm at Kate’s presence.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ Kate sipped from her drink. Her large blue eyes peered at him expectantly.

  Chance fumbled for the words, realised he didn’t know the woman’s name.

  Satisfied she made her point, Kate said something in Thai. The woman replied. Chance stood in the centre of the room, drank his coffee, watched the two females talk.

  After several minutes, the Thai woman stood up, stretched, collected her clothes from the back of a chair by the table. Her naked body, which he’d had no inhibitions about mauling the night before, now made him feel awkward. The woman walked into the bathroom without acknowledging his presence, shut the door behind her.

  ‘For your information, her name is Kamala,’ Kate said dryly.

  ‘I bet it is,’ said Chance, finishing off his ice coffee. ‘Just like yours is Amber,’

  Kate smiled. ‘Bit old for you, isn’t she?’

  ‘What’s the matter with older women?’

  Kate shrugged, kicked at an empty beer bottle lying on the floor. ‘Didn’t the doctor say no cigarettes or alcohol?’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t noticed, but he hasn’t exactly left me looking like Brad Pitt. Can’t see how a little drink is going to make a difference.’

  ‘Your new face is not all that bad. I think it’s got character.’

  ‘Yeah, like Frankenstein.’

  Chance picked up his jeans from the floor where he’d thrown them the night before, sat on the bed, pulled the legs the right side out. He heard water being splashed about in the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s good you went out.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Anything’s better than moping around in this room forever. What’d you do?’

  ‘I accompanied Tavener on one of his nightly outings.’

  ‘That sleazy karaoke bar he hangs out in?’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad.’ Chance took his wristwatch from the table, looked at the time. ‘Milo dropped by.’

  ‘Ugh, he is such a toolbag.’

  ‘Hang around, he’ll be here in half an hour and you can say that to his face. He’s taking me to see his boss, the man who’s been looking after us in Thailand.’

  Her face became fragile. ‘So this is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This man wanting to see you can only mean one thing. Mister Long has located Dormer, wants you to go back to Australia.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘I know it’s been tough on you, the surgery and all, but I love it here. Even in this shithole hotel. I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself, this was always going to happen.’

  The bathroom door opened, Kamala emerged, stood awkwardly in front of Kate and Chance. Her wet was combed straight, last night’s clothes ill-fitting and out of place in the light of day.

  ‘See you ’round,’ muttered Chance, only half meeting her eyes.

  Kamala start
ed to say something to Chance, changed her mind, spoke to Kate instead.

  ‘She wants to be paid,’ said Kate absentmindedly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Money. For last night.’

  Chance felt his face flush. He fumbled for the roll of Thai Baht in the pocket of his jeans.

  Kate watched the money change hands with disinterest.

  She turned to Chance after Kamala had let herself out. ‘Looks like I’m not the only one fooling myself.’

  THREE

  It was only mid-morning but already the heat was intense. Chance sheltered from the sun under the corrugated tin awning at the hotel’s entrance, watched the laneway for his ride.

  He’d decided to shave for the meeting, the first time since his surgery. He had peered into the round bathroom mirror with grim fascination as the disposable razor sheared away the whiskers. The smooth, clean-shaven skin only seemed to exaggerate the hard angles and asymmetry of his new face.

  A white Hilux pickup appeared at the mouth of the laneway. Chance climbed into the back seat next to Milo. The Cockney gave him a quick once-over, grunted, leaned forward and spoke to the driver, a stocky dark-skinned man who glared at Chance in the rearview mirror.

  The traffic was light and they cleared Sri Racha quickly. The terrain became more rural as they headed inland, snatches of emerald rice paddies and stunted, dust-covered foliage interspersed with roadside cafés, grease-spattered garages, and businesses selling agricultural equipment.

  At one point, a section of the roadside gave way to a long line of billboards advertising a new housing estate: sleek modern apartment buildings, an azure-blue swimming pool, fashionable white people strolling around a mall and sipping coffee. The images flashed past the tinted windows, a glimpse of a parallel reality, before the scenery reverted back to rural Thailand.

  The truck eventually turned off the road, made its way along a pot-holed dirt track, stopped in a clearing crowded with similar vehicles. A carbon copy of their driver stepped out from behind a large tree, directed them to a parking spot.

  Milo got out of the truck, walked toward an open, thatched-roofed compound. Chance followed, the driver a few steps behind him. Chance noted the chunky Buddhist amulets on a chain around Milo’s neck, the buffalo head belt buckle, and the bulge on one side of his untucked flannel shirt.

  Inside the building, about fifty men were seated on circular metal benches descending toward a circle of dirt about a metre deep. The makeshift arena was splattered with patches of dark liquid and lined along the side with blue plastic sheeting. Two men squatted at opposite ends of the ring. One held a rooster by the neck, poured water onto the creature, massaged the moisture into its oily feathers. The other nestled a similar-looking bird against his huge stomach as he attached curved metal blades to its ankles with masking tape.

  Milo left Chance in the crowd, worked his way around the ring toward a youngish man flanked by what were obviously two bodyguards. The young man’s clothes mimicked the aesthetic of the spectators, blue jeans, faded work shirt, baseball cap, but he lacked their rough, weather-beaten look and manner. Chance guessed he was Issarapong.

  The bodyguards eyed Milo suspiciously as he approached. The nearest grudgingly allowed him to slip past, sit next to his boss. Milo talked nervously into Issarapong’s ear. The jao pho had a downturned mouth, sharp eyes that locked on Chance, coolly appraised him as Milo spoke.

  Chance switched his gaze to the ring. The handlers gripped their birds firmly by the neck with one hand, caressed and stroked them with the other. A man in a white shirt and black jeans stepped between them, a microphone in his hand. As he addressed the crowd, the handlers moved closer together, sat on their haunches and angled their birds so they faced each other. The referee placed a piece of Perspex between the two birds, signalled the handlers to let them go. The fowls sized each other up through the plastic for a moment and the referee lifted the screen.

  The birds went for each other, pecking, biting, scraping. The crowd cheered and gesticulated wildly but all Chance could see was a blur of coloured feathers. Bored, he glanced at Issarapong. The jao pho continued to stare in his direction.

  The birds clinched again. One got the other’s neck in a solid grip with its beak. They remained like that for a moment, moved as if in some bizarre sideways dance. There was a small spray of blood and it was over. The spectators exploded in a frenzy of cheers. Issarapong nodded to Milo and his two bodyguards, and the four men stood up. The crowd parted to let them out.

  The victorious fowl gave the limp bird a desultory peck and strutted around the ring.

  They tailed the vehicle bearing Issarapong for an hour before both cars halted in front of a double-fronted wrought iron gate covered in gold metal scrolling and surrounded by a high, cream brick wall. A camera mounted next to the gate watched their every move. A man in jeans and a Bob Marley T-shirt, a machine gun slung casually over his shoulder, opened the gate from the other side.

  Chance was transported into a faux European terrain of lush, well-maintained lawns, hedges and sculpted topiaries. A lagoon with an ornate fountain lay in the middle of the grounds, flamingos and peacocks on the grass around it. Such a display of wealth served only one purpose: to demonstrate the power of its owner.

  The driveway terminated in front of a two-story house, bay windows, six white columns across the front. Chance’s vehicle kept its distance, engine idling, while Issarapong stepped out of the lead car and disappeared through the front door.

  Chance’s vehicle pulled up to the entrance a few minutes later and he and Milo went inside. The first room was a massive entrance hall, polished marble floor and walls of inlaid wood. A curved wooden staircase led to the upper floor. A large crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling.

  Milo led Chance up the stairs, down a lengthy hallway, stopped outside a wooden door. He opened the door without knocking, ushered Chance inside.

  Eighteenth-century Europe transformed into the set of a B-grade science fiction movie. The large room was crowded with computer equipment, monitors, hard drives, and modems. More lined the shelves around the walls. Tiny lights flashed, data scrolled down screens, machinery hummed, and cables ran in all directions.

  The only respite from the high tech avalanche was a large oil portrait of a hawk-faced old man in a well-cut blue suit next to a floor-to-ceiling window. Chance stood at the window, watched two armed men stroll around the lagoon, nearby, a male peacock spread its tail feathers out in a fan of colour.

  Issarapong entered through a doorway on the far side. He’d traded his rural Thai fashion for chinos, a powder-blue polo top, clothes that made him look like he’d dressed for casual Friday at the office. His hair was wet and he rubbed at it with a towel slung over his shoulder.

  Issarapong seated himself in a black padded office chair behind the desk, motioned to Chance to take one of the two stiff-backed wooden seats facing him. Without being asked, Milo seated himself in the second.

  ‘You look surprised, Mister Chance. What were you expecting? An overweight country bumpkin on a wooden throne with buffalo horns, smelling of rice whisky?’

  His English had an American accent. Old man Boonchu had no doubt packed his son off to university in the States. Given the profusion of computer equipment, there were no prizes for guessing his major.

  ‘How do you like your new face, Mister Chance?’

  ‘It’ll do.’

  Satisfied with the answer, Issarapong turned to Milo, spoke in Thai. Milo replied and the two men fell into a conversation, the purpose of which was to put Chance in his place, reinforce his status as an outsider.

  ‘That was an interesting little show back there,’ Chance interrupted.

  Issarapong looked at him coldly. ‘Aow jai puak chao ban. Or as you farangs call it, ‘bread and circuses.’ One must keep up appearances, especially in this period of transition following my father’s death.’

  Issarapong typed something on the keyboard of a laptop on the desk
in front of him. ‘Do you know why I have summoned you here?’ he said without looking up.

  ‘I can only guess you’ve heard from Mister Long in Australia?’

  ‘My father and Long were associates in the old days, back when they were both starting out in their respective businesses.’

  ‘Let me guess: they were apprentices in the same Triad together,’ said Chance, annoyed at the Thai’s games. He noticed Issarapong’s face stiffen at the insult, felt satisfaction at his unease.

  ‘Something like that.’ Issarapong returned his attention to the laptop. ‘Yes, I have had a message of sorts from Long.’ Issarapong swivelled the laptop around so the screen was facing the two men sitting in front of him, hit a tab. ‘Why don’t you watch it for yourself.’

  A grainy flesh-coloured blur appeared on the screen, accompanied by a soundtrack of laboured breathing. The camera panned back to reveal a man, his head slouched forward, chin touching his chest, framed in a circle of light, an anonymous red brick wall in the background.

  A gloved hand reached into the frame, grabbed the man’s hair, forced his face to look into the camera. It was Long, his features distorted by a mass of purple bruises and deep cuts, his upper lip swollen to almost comic-book proportions. One eye was a black welt. The other gazed into the lens, unseeing.

  Despite the arctic chill from the air conditioning, a blast furnace opened up in Chance’s chest. A drop of sweat travelled down his spine to the small of his back. Aware Issarapong was measuring his reaction Chance relaxed his hands, sat very still. He swallowed, his throat dry.

  A shrill mechanical whine started. The source of the noise came into view, a handheld circular saw, like the ones he’d seen advertised on shopping channels back in Australia, the blade a blur of steel.

  The camera panned away, focused on the texture of the red brick wall. An animal scream echoed in what sounded like a large, empty space. The hair on the back of Chance’s neck stood up. The taste of bile crept up the back of his throat. He forced it back down.