I flew back to Bangkok on a flight that arrived at sunrise and passed through immigration with my spare Mathew Johnson passport and a tourist visa stamp.
It was Colin’s idea. If GOB had pinpointed Asher & Asher and a guy called Franklin or Dobson, then better safe than sorry. Colin said he felt safe in the office because the sign outside still said Hitchens and Associates (Accountants). We’d deliberately never removed it.
I arrived with a vague plan in my mind that involved Anna, so after checking into my usual hotel, I called her on a new phone with a local SIM but she didn’t answer.
I tried again and again and time was passing but, having barely stopped for days and with my biological clock confused by time difference, I slept. When I awoke, it was already getting dark, so I showered, freshened myself up, and took a walk to that place I mentioned at the beginning. I even opened the door without hesitating and without a vision of my entire sad life flashing past.
It wasn’t busy. There were two guys at the bar staring into the necks of bottles and holding onto them, as if they represented the only security they had. Two more sat at a table in a jollier mood, sharing jokes. And two identical girls in short skirts sipped something pink through plastic straws, as if waiting for two identical husbands to arrive and carry them off somewhere better. But it wasn’t Anna behind the bar. It was another woman. Or perhaps it wasn’t a woman at all because she was almost as tall as me, her hair was long, her lipstick bright, and her lowcut shirt matched the colour of her lips. I was somewhat taken aback at first, but things happen. You need to adjust.
“Hi,” I said. “I was looking for Anna.”
She gave a big red smile and parted the strands of her long hair so I could see her face. “She’s not here right now. Ao bia mai? You want a beer?” Her voice had a deep and husky tone that some might have found appealing.
“Where is she?” I asked.
She flipped a large hand armed with five long red nails. “Family,” she said, “Her pa’s sick.”
It sounded like a good reason. She’d gone home to look after her dad but surely, she had her phone, and she’d talked to Ching and Pim so why not me?
“She’s not answering her phone,” I said. She looked at me with eyes that didn’t really show the depth of sorrow I was seeking. She also said nothing but leaned on the bar so I could check her cleavage. “Has she changed her number?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t think so,” she said in a voice that reminded me of the long dead singer Barry White.
“So why doesn’t she answer it?” I said, but it sounded so utterly pathetic that I decided to man up by ordering a bottle of Chang beer in a voice like Barry White’s.
It came. She pulled the cap, stuck it in front of me, pushed my bill into a little wooden pot and I moved to the far end, away from the other two guys, to think. Then I beckoned the lady, if that is what she was, over. “Do you have Anna’s phone number?”
“Sure,” she said, but she didn’t move or offer to share it.
“When did she go?” I asked.
“A few days ago.”
“Could you call her for me?” I asked. “I think there must be a problem with my phone.”
“I’m only allowed to call in an emergency.”
“This is a bloody emergency,” I said sharply.
“Oooooh.” She turned to the business end of the bar, glanced over her shoulder at me, tossed her long black hair, and returned with a phone in a sparkly pink case. “You want me to press the buttons, darling?”
“That’s very kind.”
She handed it to me, and I held it to my ear as she watched. But there was no reply, so I handed it back and ordered another Chang because the first bottle had gone. Five minutes later, though, Barry White was coming towards me again with the pink phone in her hand. For a moment, she held it to her breast, as if it needed to be kept warm.
“Are you Mr Mark, darling?”
“Yes,” I said and took the phone. It was Anna.
My headache went, my blood pressure dropped as well as my heartbeat. I took the phone to a table and crouched over it.
Her father had had a stroke. He was in a hospital. Her mother couldn’t cope. Her sister was working away and could only help at weekends.
She was sorry and knew I’d called but didn’t like to call back because of my work. Yes, she’d spoken to Ching, and yes, she hoped it had been useful.
I asked where was she now. She was in the hospital. Where? A hundred miles or so northeast of Bangkok in Korat. Could she come to Bangkok? I needed her help and a few other things. What about her father? Couldn’t her sister help? She couldn’t afford time off. So how about if I paid her sister for a week or so? We agreed.
I’d used up thirty minutes of credit on the pink phone, but I handed it back, thanked the owner, and handed her a big tip. She seemed pleased. She leaned on the bar again, smiled at me, and said in good baritone, “Where you stay, Mr Mark?”