t the coffee shop a few miles north on the main road, AJimm
y ordered two strong espressos. I declined. “You can drink mine. I need something more refreshing.”
“Suit yourself, Kurt.”
I got a bottle of orange Fanta with a straw, courtesy of Jimmy.
Having settled with it, I sat back and looked at him. “Question time,” I said. “Are you up for it?”
“Try me.”
“What’s the BRN?”
He blew smoke. “You want a lecture?”
“You sure you know enough to give a lecture?”
“I’ve attended a few in the course of things,” Jimmy said as if that was the only training required. “The army thinks it makes sense to keep its recruits informed so they don’t shoot the wrong guys. You ever think about what goes into protecting the public, Kurt? While the many sleep others keep watch.”
“Just like garbage,” I said. “While the many discard it others pick it up.”
A faint smile appeared in Jimmy’s straight jaw, and he leaned forward. “OK. Listen up. Strong separatist feelings have simmered down here in the south of Thailand for years due to rifts between the Malay Muslim minority and the Thai
Buddhist majority. Shootings and roadside bombings, like Cass is accused of, are not uncommon. The police are cagey.
They’re on constant look out because they also get shot.
Restaurants and checkpoints get hit. Anywhere south of here -
Narathiwat, Pattani, and Yala are the main areas.”
I interrupted. “Why?” I asked. I was testing him, seeing how good he was at answering stupid questions. I’d had a lot of practice at school. Why, was short and sweet and provocative.
Why was always my favourite question.
He knew I was being awkward, but he rose above it. “It’s the same everywhere, isn’t it, Kurt? Anger, feelings of injustice, lack of opportunities and cultural, ethnic, and religious differences. Sects within religions like Shias versus Sunnis, protestants versus Catholics. It looks to me like your own inner-city area suffers from it. Colin gave me a brief history.
It’s majority Moslem, yes? Weren’t there street troubles a while back?”
I nodded but said nothing. I remember the few Christian churchgoers living around Park Road were told to stay alert.
My mother became nervous, but God knows why. She was not exactly a churchgoer, but it was a good excuse to move to London. Winston had a not-too-dissimilar tale. His mother would tell him to keep his head down while putting her make-up on. Then she’d leave him alone for the night.
“Yeh,” Jimmy went on. “The BRN. The Barisan Revolusi Nasional Patani. The so-called National Revolutionary Front is a rebel group based around here. It hides away in the villages, and it’s not short of friends. There are also subgroups of the BRN. It’s complicated, Kurt. Things like this always are. Factions, groups, angry individuals. You can’t actually put your finger on anything.
“From what I’ve heard, Cass was abducted by people linked to ISIL. ISIS, Daesh, or whatever you want to call them.
Running any terrorist operation costs money, but while hundreds die, others make big money out of it. Seems like Cass had to keep his head down until he got a chance to escape. That chance came when he was sent to Malaysia probably to join up with the BRN.
“Trouble is, Kurt, it isn’t just the BRN. Attempts are being made to draw in similar groups like the Pan-Malaysian Islamic Party, the Islamic Defenders Front in Indonesia, and Abu Sayyaf in the Philippines and someone’s trying to organise it. Question is who? Maybe Cass knows, but it’s why the US and UK get involved. No one wants another Al Qaida or ISIL, but when you stamp out one fire another starts up somewhere else. That’s why I sometimes get involved, checking on movements. Cass slipped through the net. Pity in a way now that we now know he was actually trying to escape. If we can find him in time, he could be a source of a lot of useful intelligence. What we don’t know, of course, is where he is right now.”
Jimmy paused, leaning back, with one hand in a pocket as if tempted to pull out his bag of odds and ends, and roll himself another. However, this time, he seemed to conquer the urge.
“Ummatan wassatan,” he said instead
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s what the Koran taught, Kurt. Not that you hear it mentioned very often. Ummatan wassatan means to build a middle way, a community of moderation. But that can only be done by fostering a sense of respect and a willingness to agree and disagree without reverting to bombs and guns. Did you know that?”
I didn’t. Jimmy had just taught me something.
“But that is also what the Buddha taught. Don’t you think?”
“Yeh,” I said, remembering how I’d first met him, sitting alone beside the lake, cross-legged, eyes closed just like you imagine a Buddhist monk doing all day long.
“Do you think humans might one day achieve a state of mutual toleration, respect, and understanding?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said rather feebly.
“I do,” Jimmy said. “It’ll never happen.”
And then he went silence while I decided I may have misread Jimmy just because of his appearance, manner, and habits.
That was a lesson in itself.
I now know that Jimmy was thinking I looked and sounded so like his friend Pink that he was tempted to ask if I had a pink patch on my butt. But Pink was dead, of course. Pink had been killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq, and Jimmy had had to retrieve his legs and buttocks. Pink’s pink patch had become just as black as the rest of him.
I watched him wipe beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Jimmy was struggling with his memories.
Then: “Another Fanta with all its artificial colourings and additives, Kurt?” he asked me probably as a distraction.
“No thanks. So, what do we do about Cass?”
“We wait,” Jimmy said.
“For what?”
“For info about where Cass might be. Then we move. Instinct tells me he’s not too far away, but we need to get to him real quick.”
I nodded and then realised Jimmy had, it seemed, overcome the urge to pull out his tobacco pouch for once so I grovelled inside my own pocket. “Try a Chiclet?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, “Don’t mind if I do.”