Hungry Ghosts (3 page)

“Oh, David, never mind. Just do as you’re told. Go and have a drink on the roof and don’t come back down for at least
half an hour.”

I do as I am told.

There is only me and the barman on the roof. I take a beer and look out over the housetops of Siem Reap.

From this vantage point t
he town looks peaceful. Above my head a multitude of stars has punched holes in the black sky. Lonely wisps of cloud catch the bright moonbeams, and from somewhere nearby I hear the drifting strains of some slow nocturnal melody. I light a cigarette and empty my mind of worries and plans, and of what the future might hold.

Thirty five minutes later, and holding two glasses of wine, I make my way downstairs. I can smell the incense before I reach our room. Anna opens the door and draws me inside.

The interior is lit only by candles and the white covers of the bed are strewn with red petals. Anna has tied back her hair, into which she has also woven flowers. She is barefoot and wears only an ethereal white dress, most of the buttons of which are undone.

She puts a finger to my lips to forestall any comments.

“I wanted our last night here to be special,” she says.

My beautiful sister-in-law
takes the glasses of wine from me and puts them on a side table. She slowly undoes my shirt, kissing my chest and stomach as she inches down me. With my back still to the door, I kick off my loafers and she unfastens my belt before removing my chinos and boxers. She kneels before me, and I know what’s next.

However, this won’t do.
I disengage her from me, and shake my head as she looks up.

“But I promised,” she says.

I shake my head again, raise her to her feet and brush my lips lightly against hers.

I loosen her hair, and it falls in red waves across her white neck and shoulders. I lift her onto the bed, kiss her again and sli
p my hand under her dress. Her sex is already moist, and she arches her pelvis slightly inviting my fingers into her.

But I can’t wait.

I part Anna’s thighs further and penetrate her immediately. We entwine our arms about each other’s shoulders and she pulls me to her. Foreheads touching, I taste Anna’s breath and she tastes mine.

In
the light of the candles our warm bodies move rhythmically, first slowly and then with greater urgency; until our conjoined flesh can no longer defer the moment.

Together
we empty ourselves of desire.

I prop myself up and look at Anna’s face as she lies sleeping beside me. Most of the candles have long since burned out, but the one on her bedside table is still alight casting a glow on the empty wine glass that bears the imprint of her lipstick.

Her hair is spread out across the pillow and her lips are slightly parted. Her features look innocent, like those of a child. Should the Christian beliefs prove
correct, and we find ourselves someday at the Pearly Gates, I have no doubt that Anna will get her angel wings.

I will also get
my wings.

But I will be a bat.

I feel ashamed of my suspicions that Anna could be the author of the anonymous letters I have been receiving, and my heart struggles with my head. The problem for me is the most recent letter which reads
David Braddock, I know you killed your wife
.

There are only two people who know for certain that I murdered my wife
Claire. One is a Scottish prostitute with whom I have long since lost touch, and whom I can safely discount. The second is my sister-in-law and current bed-partner.

Logical deduction might say one thing, but my feelings for this woman whom I have known for a quarter of a century, and who has been my friend as well as my lover, say different.

I lie down, nuzzle my face against Anna’s neck and steal my hand into the opening of her dress.

I move my fingertips over her
breasts and ruminate on why her sister had to die.

3

David Braddock’s Journal

“Wakey
-wakey, Mr. Floppy!”

A
nna is holding my limp penis between her thumb and forefinger and wiggling it in a disconcerting manner.

The bedside clock says 04:02.

I had been sleeping so deeply that I hadn’t heard the alarm. I’d really like to go back to sleep or at a push have sex with Anna again. Neither of those things is going to happen, however.

I had promised Anna that we’d get up early and go to Angkor Wat to see the dawn. Although I’ve been to the temples several times, I haven’t done this early morning thing. I’m currently regretting it, but maybe after a shower and a cigarette I’ll feel differently.

Twenty five minutes later we’re cleaned and dressed. Having collected our ‘breakfast packs’ from the sleepy concierge, we’re climbing into the cab of the pre-arranged
tuk-tuk
. Our driver is wide awake and chirpy and I’d like to punch him. I light a Marlboro to improve my mood.

As we chug through the near-deserted streets I start to feel human again. Anna is clearly excited and squeezes my hand
. I kiss her forehead and put my arm around her. It is a bit chilly.

After a short, vibrating journey
we disembark at the entrance booths to the temple complex. We have our photographs taken and buy our tickets. We see a couple of coaches bearing Korean tourists. The passengers are weighed down with photographic equipment but are chattering expectantly.

Our
tuk-tuk splutters us towards Angkor Wat and I soon realize that I have not properly thought through this adventure. All around the gigantic temple it is absolutely pitch black. I have not brought a torch.

As we walk across the wide stone bridge over the
dark moat we stay close to other better-prepared tourists lest we trip on the uneven slabs. This would not be a good moment for a sprained ankle. Light beams of various widths and strengths flutter around us, and the conversations are muted as if in deference both to the current time and to the antiquity of our surroundings.

After a few minutes gingerly negotiating the undulating ground beneath our feet we arrive at the large pond at the front of the main temple, whose outline is only dimly visible against the night sky. Dawn is still some time off.

Anna keeps our place as the crowd grows – eventually into the hundreds – while I make my way to some nearby candlelit stalls to purchase cups of hot, sweet tea. The stalls, to make themselves instantly recognizable and attractive to the tourists, carry names like ‘Harry Potter’, ‘Angelina’ and ‘Madonna’. The toothless but happy crone at ‘Madonna’ who serves our tea also dispenses spoons with which to fish out dead flies from the cups. And there are gazillions of flies, although fortunately they swarm
above
our heads, occasionally caught in upward-shining torch beams.

Rejoining Anna, I see lots of young Koreans taking photographs of each other and of themselves, and one serious-looking older guy with a camera mounted on a tripod. He is keeping some kind of log, and wears a hat with a red light, rather like a miner’s helmet.
From time to time he makes tutting noises and re-adjusts his equipment.

Next to us is a middle-aged couple from Maryland. The fat wife complain
s that nothing is happening while the tall, gormless husband keeps himself amused by finding a satellite image of the site on his phone. God bless America.

After what seems an eternity, the sky begins to lighten behind the massive stones and the full magnificence of the temple comes into view. At first, the light is too low for the
expensive cameras, much to the frustration of their owners. The teenagers meanwhile are snapping away joyfully on their cheap camera phones. Then everyone gets to smile as the sun gathers strength and the mighty edifice casts its huge reflection in the pond. Anna busies herself getting some good shots.

I’m not carrying a camera
since I get quite enough of that with the day job.

I need
more fly-flavoured tea, so we go together to the stalls and purchase two steaming cups. With the arrival of the sun the flies have dispersed, so we drink the vegetarian version with our bottoms perched on a decaying wall. Our hotel-packed breakfast is not inspiring but it is welcome nonetheless.

“Let’s go and see Ta Phrom one more time,” says Anna brushing crumbs from her lap. “The light is good and I want some more photographs.”

“You must have taken dozens the other day.”

She drops her eyes and gives a sad pout.

“Come on, then. But we can’t spend too long. We have a plane to catch this afternoon.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Our tuk-tuk driver is very happy to extend his commission and within a few minutes he drops us at the entrance arch that leads to the temple made famous to Westerners by
Tomb Raider
. An Angelina Jolie film, of course. Inevitably.

As we walk up the empty and dusty path between the trees an un
washed girl of five or six appears from nowhere. She speaks no English but we gather she is selling bamboo flutes for three dollars. Anna takes some photographs of her and gives her ten dollars. Within seconds the girl has vanished again like a wood spirit.

After beating our chests in the temple’s echo chamber, and the taking of several dozen pictures of enormous tree roots forcing their way through crumbling walls, we leave the overgrown ruins
to the tender care of a party of Chinese tourists.

At the exit we are almost overwhelmed by child hustlers selling beads, cloths and
guide books. They are persistent little buggers and eventually I have to practically manhandle Anna into our tuk-tuk so we can escape.

“You’re far too soft-hearted,” I tell her. “You couldn’t live in Asia.”

She looks at me strangely.

“I
could
,” she asserts, before turning her head away and falling silent for several minutes.

Eventually she reaches o
ut, takes my hand and gives me a wan smile.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m just not ready to leave yet. You understand, David, don’t you?”

Mid-afternoon finds us at Bangkok airport, saying our farewells. Anna has a connecting flight to London and I have business in the city.

She holds me for a long time.

When she pulls away I can see she is holding back tears. She looks like she wants to say something but
can’t.

“Anna, I’ll see you again soon,” I say gently. “It’s only three months.”

She takes out a tissue and sniffs.

“For you, David, it’s
only
three months. But for me it’s
three months
.”

“Darling, I –”

She puts a hand to my mouth. “Shush. It’s all right, it’s all right. I’m just being silly.”

Anna
picks up her bag.

“I’d better go,” she announces decisively.

I kiss her forehead.

“Give my love to Jenny,” I say.

She nods, then turns and waves to me over her shoulder. She doesn’t look back.

*       *       *       *       *

I am in Bangkok to oversee the launch of my latest business venture, one about which I have deep misgivings.

It is all the fault of my formidable personal assistant, Da, who is
supposed
to be on maternity leave following the birth of her first child a few weeks ago. The baby boy notwithstanding, she continues to interfere in the running of the David Braddock Agency sometimes from afar and sometimes by arriving unannounced at the office with the aforesaid joyful bundle strapped to her body.

It was during one of these visits – while I was out of the office – that Da had happened to take a phone call from a
well-to-do American lady who had heard of us through a friend of a friend. The lady in question, a Mrs. Miranda Tesman, had an unusual request. Her husband was coming to Bangkok on a business trip, and she wanted to find out if he was indulging in extracurricular activities during his travels.

“Now, just wait a minute,” I’d said to Da when she’d recounted the entire conversation to me.
“Let me get this straight. This woman doesn’t simply want us to follow her husband, she wants us to set up a girl to meet him and see if he tries to seduce her?”

“That’s right. It’s a logical extension to our business after all,
Khun
David. As private investigators, we should be catering for women clients as well as men.”

Letting the
our business
remark pass, I went on, “This is in no way a logical extension. It’s a completely different situation.”

“You are just being sexist,” she had lectured. “You are happy to expose Thai women who are being unfaithful to
farang
men, yet you don’t like the thought of exposing men who are cheating on their wives. That’s such a typical male reaction.”

I’d looked at her aghast.

“You are talking about our setting up a
honey trap
.”

She had rolled her eyes. “And your objection is …?”

“Well, in the first place it’s unethical. We’d be tempting this poor guy into behavior that he might not otherwise indulge in.”

“If he is a good man he won’t be tempted,” she said sniffily. “My husband wouldn’t be tempted.”

“Your husband Tong is a saint, pure and simple. The fact that he can put up with you testifies to that.”

She was unconvinced.

“I think it’s a service we should be providing. It is clear to me Miranda is a very distressed lady and has some reason for her suspicions. We may be able to put her mind at rest.”

“More likely she’s some hard-hearted
American bitch looking for an easy route into a lucrative divorce settlement. I take it the husband has money?” I tried to sound as indignant as possible. “Nice that you and
Miranda
are already on first name terms, by the way,” I added.

Da rearranged baby
Pratcha on her lap, and made goo-gooing noises at him. He appeared to smile back, although it was probably wind.

“Anyway, I’ve already told her we’d do it,” she said.

“And who exactly is going to play the part of the
femme fatale
?” I asked acidly. “You, perhaps?”

(This is not as far-fetched as it may sound. Da is very attractive, even after just popping a baby out, and she knows how to be flirty and submissive when she needs to be – although with me she takes a more assertive line. I do sometimes wonder which one of us is the boss.)

“Of course not,” she replied, “I am a respectable married woman.”

“So, who? Or do you suggest I wander around the streets of Patpong until I find somebody suitable?”

She looked at me. “I thought – Miss Ting.”

Miss Ting is well known to us at the Agency.
You can either regard her as legendary or notorious, depending on whether you are looking on from afar with admiration at her techniques or from up close having cash expertly extracted from you. Several clients have made their way to our door after falling under her spell and trading sexual ecstasy for a smaller bank balance and a broken heart. One such disillusioned male had bestowed on her the nickname ‘Ching Ching’, an onomatopoeic handle meant to represent the cold sound of a cash register clocking a sale.

“She hates us. She must do, we’ve cost her money.”

“She is a business woman. She understands we also have our job to do.”

“She is a reptilian-blooded con artist. And she’ll never work with us in a million years.”

“You are wrong, Khun David.”

I looked a
t Da suspiciously.

“You’ve spoken to her already, haven’t you?”

She bounced Pratcha on her knee and said, “I couldn’t ask you to do it,
Khun
David. This was a conversation to be had between two women.”

“This was a conversation not to be had at all.”

“It’s good business for all of us.”

“It’s only a short while back you were telling me I should be spending more time on the therapy side of the Agency and less time on the seedy PI side,” I had huffed. “Now we’re moving into entrapment and marriage-wrecking.”

Da was unmoved. She quietly opened her notebook and showed me the quotation she had given Mrs. Tesman, including the deduction for expenses, Ting’s fees and so on. The profit figure was impressive.

She raised an eyebrow and
regarded me quizzically.

“OK, let’s do it,” I said.

However, even the ever-confident Da later had to admit the project was less-straightforward than
she had envisaged. Turning ‘Ching Ching’ Ting from a Chaweng bargirl into a more sophisticated temptress who would not look out of place in a five-star hotel was not easy. Da had gone shopping with her for more suitable clothes, and had tutored her in a few of the niceties of polite social exchange. If I wasn’t so nervous about the whole endeavour going pear-shaped I would have been amused at the prospect of my PA schooling a hooker in how to pick up a Western man.