Тимоти Холлинен - Bangkok Noir

“So?”

“He showed me how to...”

“How to what?”

She raised her head with great effort to say: “Project the etheric body, also known as the ghost body. It can be done, you know, consciousness can live anywhere, it can even create its own vehicle .” Then she collapsed back onto the pillow and closed her eyes.

“No,” I said, “you can’t leave it at that.” I shook her. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. What did you do to Uncle Walter’s diary?”

She smiled very faintly. “Bunthan said it had to be done that way. It’s part of the architecture of your mind that your Uncle Walter has to be on your side. After all, he’s the one who brought you to Thailand in the first place, he’s your real life guru. You needed at least a hint from him. I read the diary to Bunthan, who is illiterate in everything except ancient Khmer, and even then he can only read magical incantations. He says your Uncle Walter was very advanced, but there was a paragraph missing from the script, which Walter deliberately left out because you weren’t ready, but now had to be replaced.”

I stared at her with aggressive incomprehension until, with great effort, she pushed me away, then started to drag the sheet off of her. She was wearing a cotton dressing gown, which she pulled up until her pubic hair was exposed. I breathed in sharply: there was that same tattoo about two centimeters from her vagina, identical in every way to the one Om also wore in the same place. I needed no further prodding. I pulled open her dressing gown and made her sit up. Sure enough: the same tattoos as Om in identical positions on her shoulder, belly and lower back.

She was quite exhausted and could hardly manage the last words she ever said to me: “I’m going to make it up to you. What you’ve seen so far is only the beginning.”

She died that same night.

I typed the foregoing notes, Reader, in a state of great agitation the day after Lali died. On reflection they appear to me as a crude attempt at exorcism, and I trust you will forgive a certain hysteria inherent in the account, which is, I can assure you, nevertheless true in every particular. Now, six months have passed and everything has changed.

I waited a decent length of time before moving Om into the compound. The ex-in-laws didn’t like it, but there was nothing they could do. They knew something occult was going on, over which they had no control — and in any case, there’s no way they can survive without me. Just to be on the safe side, I also moved Bunthan into the compound, because he terrifies them. In other words, Lali’s death has made me prince of the fort, a veritable boss or jao poh , who runs the show. I am finally free and intend to celebrate by taking Om on an extended vacation to the Himalayas: we’ll be spending quite some time in Ladakh. I can’t tell you how excited she is.

Life has improved in other ways, too. I’ll give an example. Om and I have developed our social life to the point where we’ve learned to enjoy even the stuffiest side of my profession. When we went to a Law Society dinner last week they sat us more than ten places away from each other on opposite sides of the infinite table. Both of us were stuck with brainnumbing bores on either side, but it didn’t bother us at all. Just as the high court judge on my right was starting into an insufferable diatribe against the latest criminal law amendment statute, I felt a friendly tug at my crotch, followed by the unzipping of my pants by petite expert hands and a long, slow, humorous caressing of my member. True, Om was sitting more than thirty feet away, but distance is no problem for one of her reach. Of course, I don’t call her Om anymore when we’re alone. I call her by the name of the master who is projecting her: Lali.

John Burdett was brought up in North London and attended Warwick University where he read English and American Literature. This left him largely unemployable until he re-trained as a barrister and went to work in Hong Kong. He made enough money there to retire early to write novels. To date he has published six novels, including the best selling Bangkok series: Bangkok 8; Bangkok Tattoo; Bangkok Haunts and The Godfather of Kathmandu .

Inspector Zhang looked out through the window at the fields far below. There was so much land, he thought, compared with his own Singapore. The nearly four million population of the island state was crowded into just 253 square miles, and there was little in the way of green space. But Thailand had green in abundance, criss-crossed with roads and dotted with small farms, and in the distance mountains shrouded in mist. He closed his book with a sigh. It would soon be time to land.

“Are you okay, Inspector?” asked Sergeant Lee, removing her headphones. She was twenty-four years old and was wearing her hair long for a change, probably because while they were on the plane, they weren’t, strictly speaking, on duty, even though they had been sent to Bangkok by the Singapore Police Force.

“Of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “Why would I be otherwise?”

“I don’t think you like flying,” she said. “You did not eat the meal, you have not availed yourself of the in-flight entertainment system and you seem... distracted.”

Inspector Zhang shook his head. “I am fine with flying,” he said. “In fact I have a Singapore Airlines frequent flyer card. Two years ago I flew to London with my wife, and the year before that we went to visit relatives of hers in Hong Kong.”

“London?” she said. “You went to London?”

“Just for a week,” he said. “It was always my dream to visit 221B Baker Street, and to follow the trail of Jack the Ripper.”

“Who lives at 221B Baker Street?” asked the Sergeant.

“Why, Sherlock Holmes, of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “Though I have to say that it was something of a disappointment to discover that in fact there is no 221B and that the only building that comes close is the home of a bank.”

He shrugged. “But it was fascinating to see where the evil Ripper plied his trade and to follow in his footsteps.”

“He was a serial killer in Victorian London, wasn’t he?”

“And never caught,” said Inspector Zhang. He sighed. “What I would give to be on a case like that, to pit my wits against an adversary of such evil. Can you imagine the thrill of the chase, Sergeant?”

“I’m just glad that I live in Singapore, where we have one of the lowest crime rates in the world.”

“For which we are all thankful, of course,” said Inspector Zhang. “But it does tend to make a detective’s life somewhat dull.” He sighed again. “Still, I have my books.”

“What have you been reading, sir?” asked Sergeant Lee.

Inspector Zhang held up the book so that she could see the cover. The title was The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie. “It is one of my favourites,” he said. “It is the book that introduces the greatest of all detectives, Hercule Poirot. I never tire of reading it.”

“But if you’ve already read it, then you know how it ends,” said Sergeant Lee. “There is no mystery.”

“The solution is only part of the enjoyment of reading mystery stories,” said Inspector Zhang, putting the book into his briefcase. “Agatha Christie wrote thirty novels featuring Poirot, and I have read them all several times.”