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  ‘No one will ever seen them.’ Chance flexed his fingers, rubbed his wrists vigorously to get the circulation back. ‘They stay with me, insurance, just in case you change your mind, come looking for us or feel tempted to let slip to Gao’s father where we are.’

  ‘Did I say Gao’s father had Long killed? That’s right. I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The e-mail I received, with that film, turns out it didn’t come from Gao’s people after all.’

  Chance stopped rubbing, watched Issarapong.

  ‘If it wasn’t Gao that killed Mister Long, who was it?’

  Issarapong closed his eyed, savoured his advantage over Chance.

  ‘Dormer.’ Chance answered his own question. ‘Long must have told him where I was before he died.’

  ‘I did a little work after our first meeting, wasn’t easy but I managed to track the e-mail’s source. The information technology degree my father paid all that money for wasn’t wasted after all.’

  ‘Where?’

  Issarapong’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Melbourne.’

  All the time, sitting on the dirt floor of the hut in Issarapong’s camp, Chance had thought about two things: finding Kate and getting out of Thailand. That plan was suddenly erased and a new one took hold.

  ‘Deal’s changed,’ said Chance. ‘In addition to everything previously specified, I want to know exactly where that e-mail came from.’

  ‘As my father said, farangs are so predictable.’ Issarapong produced a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his freshly laundered jeans, handed it to Chance. ‘Now turn around.’

  Chance saw a narrow trail cut in the jungle, descending toward a mass of fast moving brown water.

  ‘Wait down there. A boat will come by shortly, take you across the border to Thailand.’

  Nareth was already heading back along the path that had led to the clearing. Issarapong paused for a moment, followed.

  ‘What happens then?’ Chance shouted after them.

  Issarapong disappeared into the riot of green without replying.

  THIRTEEN

  The light and noise of Soi Cowboy felt unreal after where he’d been. At the end of an eight-hour journey from the Thai-Burma border, most of it spent in the back of a flatbed truck full of migrants heading to Bangkok to find work, Chance found Huey sitting outside the same bar where they’d first met.

  ‘You smell as bad as you look,’ said Huey, as Chance sat next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry about Tavener,’ said Chance, taking the American’s beer and draining it.

  ‘Lias was a soldier. Soldiers get killed.’

  The old guy had used what little juice he had left to get the authorities to release Tavener’s body without too many questions, have the death ruled as the result of a robbery gone wrong.

  ‘What about the other guy, the one on the motorcycle?’

  ‘A Filipino national. Police weren’t that concerned. Got more pressing issues, I guess.’

  Chance had seen the front page of the main English language daily at a roadside news agency when their truck had stopped to refuel. The political protests were getting worse, rumours spreading of a possible military coup.

  ‘Where’s Kate?’

  ‘Safe, along with your share of the money.’

  ‘What happened to Tavener’s share?’

  ‘I’ll hold onto it for expenses.’

  ‘Is she still in Thailand?’

  ‘Up-country. Nong Khai.’

  Chance had heard of it, a town in the northeast of Thailand.

  ‘Lias’s funeral is tomorrow, you coming?

  ‘Yes.’ Chance signalled one of the cowgirls for a drink.

  The flames quickly consumed the mock wooden temple. Chance felt the heat from the blaze. Pieces of burnt yellow ribbon, flecks of ash mixed with the smoke fluttered and twisted in the air.

  Huey stood next to him in a frayed charcoal brown safari suit, the only other mourner at the funeral. The old man stared at the pyre, his face more pinched and sickly than usual.

  ‘Chanting monks aside, very Viking,’ said Chance. ‘Tavener would have approved.’

  Huey said nothing, a slight quiver in his underbite the only sign he was annoyed by the comment.

  ‘How long do we have to hang around?’ Chance glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got a bus to catch.’

  ‘A little longer, then you can buy me a drink or two.’

  ‘Good, there’s something else I need your help with.’

  He left Bangkok later that afternoon, took an overnight bus straight to Nong Khai.

  Kate was sitting outside her guest house room reading a thick paperback, gasped when she’d first laid eyes on his face, the bruises on his face still fresh.

  She ran up, slapped him, followed it up with a long kiss.

  ‘Is that what you call tough love?’ Chance peered into her eyes. He’d forgotten how large and blue they were.

  ‘I was worried about you.’

  Outside, night had fallen and rain beat down hard on the tin roof.

  Chance’s mouth was full of her tang, his salty taste. He raised his head slightly, met Kate’s half-closed eyes across the length of her stomach.

  ‘No one said you had to stop,’ she said.

  ‘I’m getting a cramp.’

  Chance admired the swirling tattoo letters on the smooth skin inside her left leg. ‘Sean together forever,’ he read aloud. ‘I hope he got a matching one.’

  She gave him a husky laugh. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You never wanted to get it removed?’

  ‘Never got around to it.’ Kate grasped the back of his head, pulled him toward her. They kissed deeply.

  ‘Besides,’ she broke away, her large eyes looked up at him, ‘doesn’t it give you a thrill, fucking someone else’s woman. Gao certainly liked it.’

  ‘You have a very dirty mind, Miss Norliss.’ She arched her back, sighed as Chance kneaded one of her breasts. ‘Has anyone told you that?’

  ‘Frequently.’ She kissed Chance’s neck. ‘Christ, I’ve missed this. The last few days, I wondered whether I’d ever see you—’

  Chance didn’t want to go there yet, mashed his mouth roughly onto hers. She closed her eyes and allowed him to change the subject.

  Chance hugged her from behind and kissed her neck, the skin slick with sweat.

  He rolled onto his back, stared at the slowly moving ceiling fan.

  ‘I’m going after Dormer.’

  ‘Why?’

  Chance felt her tense, the warmth drain away.

  She cut him off as he started to speak. ‘With the money we have, we could go anywhere. Is Dormer really that good? Can he find us wherever we are?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I don’t know. Whatever, I’m not prepared to take the risk.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I don’t know how much information is out there about my location, my new face.’

  Chance reached for his tobacco, began rolling a cigarette.

  ‘Those two men that came after Tavener and me in Bangkok mean Gao’s people obviously know what I look like and that I’m in Thailand. For all I know, Dormer might, too. I have to move quickly, get to Dormer at least before he gets to me.’

  Kate was silent.

  ‘Listen. Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life with one eye over my shoulder, living in some rat-arsed caravan camp, like the one in Yass, a gun under the pillow and a go-bag next to the bed? It’s no life, at least no life I want to live.’

  ‘When will you leave?’

  Chance exhaled a stream of smoke toward the low roof.

  ‘As soon as Huey helps me with certain paperwork I need, a few days.’

  ‘And, you thought you’d spend your remaining time in Thailand getting laid?’

  ‘Kate, come on, it’s not like that.’

  Chance reached for her with his free hand. She shrugged him away.

  ‘What exactly is it like then?’

  ‘In
case you don’t remember, you made the first pass at me.’

  ‘That doesn’t give you the right to treat me as a bit of R&R between jobs.’

  ‘Kate, come on.’

  ‘Do you remember, back in Sri Racha, you asked me why I’d come to Thailand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I liked you, sure. But that wasn’t the reason. It’s because Thailand was far away from where I’d been and who I’d been. You were my ticket out of Australia and I’m not going back.’

  ‘I could come back here, after I’ve finished what I—’

  ‘I won’t be here.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Chance stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the bedside table. Kate lay with her head on his chest, ran her fingers through the fine dark hair.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ she said.

  ‘If my information is right, yes—’

  Kate put a finger up to his lips, stopped him mid-sentence.

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ she whispered, then kissed him hard.

  GLOOMY CITY

  ONE

  Chance rubbed his forearm against the window, peered through the hole in fogged glass. The outline of abandoned factories hurtled past in the night.

  The train carriage was packed, young Saturday night revellers headed to the city, undeterred by bleak weather, a few older people huddled into their clothing, eyes on books or smart phones.

  On the seat opposite two cadaverous junkies engaged in foul-mouthed slow motion discussion about trying to score, oblivious to the people around them. Their clothes were filthy, their pale skin a patchwork of faded blue ink. One had a straggly beard, the other a badly shaven scalp, patches of hair where the razor had missed.

  Chance got off at the second stop on the underground loop. On the escalator up to the street he checked his body for lingering symptoms of malaria. He no longer felt like sleeping all the time, the fever had faded and the ache in his muscles was down to a dull throb, similar to the sensation after a long run.

  In Melbourne two weeks, most of it spent in his motel room bed recovering from the disease. The first symptoms had come on his last day in Thailand, intensified on the plane trip back. He thought he’d picked up some sort of bug but when the fever and sweats had become too much, he’d dragged himself to a doctor, slipped him several hundred dollars for an off-the-books diagnosis. The doctor had given him pills that seemed to work, cut down the symptoms, made him able to function.

  He pulled his black woollen beany tight over his head, dug his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket to brace himself against the gloomy weather. After days of drenching his sheets with sweat, the cold shocked his system. It stung his eyes and slapped his cheeks. The wind, laced with moisture, created tiny squalls in the confined spaces between buildings, shook the skeletal trees along the footpath.

  The city felt different after three years away. Familiar buildings and spaces were gone, whole city blocks empty or transformed with new structures. Chance paused in front of one of these spaces, had the sensation it was familiar, that he should know what had once been there, but couldn’t remember.

  A shaggy busker stood in a doorway, played an off-key version of Khe San to himself. Melbourne was a ghost town compared to Bangkok. Chance missed the press of people, the roadside food stalls, even the constant traffic. The smell and noise of a city that lived its life on the streets rather than huddling inside.

  He missed Kate, too. He could sense their connection fading, the familiarity of her touch and smell. Another couple of weeks, he’d struggle to recall her face.

  Chance found the building he was looking for, an old school pub situated between an office block and a shop selling golfing accessories, its peeling mustard façade at odds with the gentrification surrounding it.

  He followed a hand-written sign, went up the stairs, handed twenty dollars to a woman sitting at a table outside the first room he came to, and went inside.

  The harshly lit room was half full of florid, heavyset men in jeans, black T-shirts and black leather coats, equally tough-looking women. The crowd sat at large circular tables, jugs of beer and platters of fried food in front of them, listened to a slight man speaking into a microphone on a stage. He looked like a mid-level public servant or a school principal with his wire-rimmed spectacles, thinning hair and cheap black suit, an appearance at odds with the fiery tone of his oratory.

  In a thick brogue he talked about the contribution of Aussie comrades to the independence struggle. He cracked a joke about kneecapping, which got a few shy laughs, went on to talk about the dire economic situation in his home country, the youth of Ireland, the country’s best and brightest, leaving for jobs overseas.

  Chance scanned the crowd, recognised a few faces, trade union hard men, a couple of minor underworld players, found Walsh in a knot of people by the bar.

  The Irishman had the same short, dark hair, a flat face covered in dark stubble and softened only by a pair of sleek, almost feminine blue eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, like the other men, the only difference the trademark black and white chequered Arabic Keffiyeh around his neck. ‘A gesture of solidarity with my Arabic brothers’ was how he’d once explained his affection for the scarf.

  Walsh leaned against the bar, a half-empty pint in his hand. Every now and again he shared an aside with an elderly man with a shock of thick grey hair, nicknamed ‘Killer.’ Chance had never found out why. Bored with the speech, the Irishman’s eyes wandered around the room. His gaze briefly rested on Chance. Chance smiled, half-raised his hand to acknowledge the Irishman, stopped himself when he realised Walsh wouldn’t recognise his new face.

  Walsh’s arrival in Australia pre-dated the Celtic diaspora lamented by the speaker on stage by more than a decade. When the ceasefire was brokered in Northern Ireland in the mid-nineties and the Provisionals cached their weapons, most of Walsh’s comrades gave up the fight. A few joined the breakaway movement to continue the struggle. Walsh, a former IRA enforcer, was smart enough to know when politics ended and business started, went from kneecapping local crims to replacing them. Chance and the Irishman had bounced at the same nightclub, clicked from the beginning, become good friends. He didn’t know why Walsh had come to Australia, never asked.

  Applause signalled the speeches were over. Chance nudged his way through the crowd that materialised at the bar until he stood next to Walsh.

  ‘You looking at something, fella?’ said Walsh, staring straight ahead. His voice had a hard Irish lilt. Walsh always accentuated his brogue when he wanted to appear intimidating.

  ‘It’s almost nine, Liam, and you haven’t started a fight yet.’

  Walsh liked a blue. Chance used to joke the Irishman could’ve started a fight in an empty room.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to help me out on that score?’ Walsh swivelled his head, locked eyes with Chance.

  ‘What you going to do, Liam? Stash me in the cool room, like you did that stockbroker, give me a thrashing after closing.’

  Walsh did a double take at the reference to an episode from their bouncing days, known only to Walsh and himself.

  ‘What fucking nonsense is this shite,’ said Walsh, looking closer at Chance. ‘Gary Chance, surely not, is that you, comrade?’

  ‘Live and in the flesh.’

  ‘But your face. You always were an ugly fucker, but your face. I mean, what the hell happened?’

  ‘Long story,’ said Chance. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a drink and we can talk about old times and a job you might be interested in.’

  The two men sat in the front window of a Chinese restaurant, half-eaten plates of greasy noodles in front of them. Faded décor, shit food, even shittier service.

  Chance gave Walsh a heavily abbreviated version of his life story since they’d last seen each other.

  ‘You ask me, whoever did that to your face is the one you want to be going after,’ Walsh said af
ter Chance had finished talking.

  The Irishman pushed his plate away, drank from his can of beer, joined Chance in looking at the street outside. It was crowded, gangs of young people, three and four abreast, shouting drunkenly at one another and passersby, Asian university students dressed like glam rock stars. The restaurant was on the Russell Street section of Melbourne’s Chinatown, once the city’s heroin capital. But if there was any action happening now, Chance couldn’t see it. The junkies must have found somewhere else to score.

  ‘You interested in the work or not?’ said Chance.

  ‘Let me get this straight. You want me to help you find this bloke who double-crossed you, what’s his name?’

  ‘Frank Dormer. Least that was his name the last time I met him. He was working with a woman called Sophia Lekakis. I’ve got a lead on where he might be. What I want from you is a bit of backup and some assistance getting around. My Melbourne geography is a little rusty and I don’t have time to study up.’ Chance looked at Walsh. ‘Maybe some help when I find him.’

  Walsh regarded Chance in silence, let the implications of the last part of his friend’s statement hang in the air between them.

  ‘How pissed are you at this fella?’

  ‘How pissed would you be?’

  Walsh acknowledged the point with a nod.

  ‘I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life,’ said Chance. ‘And I want my share of the money.’

  ‘What are you proposing?’

  ‘A fifty-fifty split after expenses.’

  ‘Sounds like a good bit of craic and I could use a break from construction work.’ Walsh fingered the diamond stud in his ear, drained his beer. ‘Why not.’

  TWO

  Walsh arrived at the motel the next morning in a white Holden Commodore, like Chance had requested. The Irishman glanced around the cramped confines of Chance’s hotel room, rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, whoever said crime doesn’t pay.’