Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘When we next meet, Mr Borubaev, it would greatly improve our mutual trust and advance our talks if you came unarmed.’

As they walked out of the door, the driver seized my arms, forcing them behind my back. I thought no one had seen me liberate my steak knife in the bar, but as it fell from my sleeve onto the table, I realised just how closely I’d been watched.

The driver released my arms, took away the knife. Perhaps he was going to return it to the kitchen. I hoped so: I didn’t want to get the schoolgirls into trouble.

‘I know you understand Russian,’ I said, ‘so if you don’t mind, I’ll make my own selection for a bedfellow. Maybe even go home alone.’

The driver simply grunted, shrugged, gestured at the door. A few minutes later, we were back inside the Lurch Inn, and I was inspecting the merchandise while the merchandise cast their eyes over me.

Small barely budding breasts, breasts that highlighted a plastic surgeon’s skills, flat stomachs, long, lean legs. Women whose hard faces suggested they were kathoey , ladyboys, eyes drowning in mascara and desire. Tiny women in lace underwear, promising everything, revealing nothing.

Suddenly the idea of a woman in my bed became erotic. The thought that I could lose myself in a stranger’s body and not have to explain anything, to forget my dead wife, not have to justify being on the run was immensely appealing.

I looked around the bar, saw a woman drinking a whisky and ice in a long glass, smoking one of those long slim white cigarettes that feature in porn movies at the start of a seduction. She was beautiful enough, disdainful enough, to pick and choose and charge the earth. I wasn’t the only man in the room watching her. Every male was eyeing her, wondering if he had the courage to approach.

With a brave face, and the knowledge I had a lot of Aliyev’s money in my wallet, I walked over. She stubbed out her cigarette, fished out another from the pack and turned to wait for me to provide a light.

She put her hand on mine, ostensibly to steady it, but the electric spark was as unmistakable as the flame of my lighter. The thin, red silk blouse, the tight white jeans, the strappy shoes with impossibly high heels, all suggested she normally played for pay at much higher rates than she was going to find in Nana Plaza. Long ice-blonde hair was tied back from her face and hung down her back, the way Chinara often wore her hair. A quick wave of guilt hit me at the memory, but high cheekbones, jet eyes and a generous mouth swept my past away like a tsunami.

‘You speak Russian?’ I asked, in case anyone was listening.

‘ Malenky ,’ she replied. Little.

‘ Ty ochen’ krasivaya ,’ I said, as if stumbling over even a simple sentence like ‘You’re very beautiful.’

If she understood, she showed no signs of being flattered. She tapped the ash from her cigarette onto the bar floor, pushed her drink away and prepared to stand up. I lightly touched her arm, and she looked at me as if I had some unpleasant skin affliction.

‘Five thousand baht ?’ I said, trying to sound as if it was my final offer. She looked annoyed, held up the fingers of both hands. Ten thousand. Expensive. But I decided that if I was going to die in the next few days, it would be with the satisfaction of having slept with a truly beautiful woman.

She considered, nodded, waved at a cruising taxi as we walked out. My driver pointed to his car, keen to make sure I got back to my hotel safely. But the woman shook her head. Climb into the back of a limousine with tinted windows and who knows who or what’s waiting for you inside.

As the taxi pulled away to get back on to Sukhumvit, I could almost swear the driver smiled his approval at my choice of bed companion.

The taxi swung over potholes, through red lights, with the car horn on full auto. I stared at the woman’s profile, the ever-changing lights of the shops we passed adding mystery to her features.

As the taxi pulled into Langsuan, she turned to me, looked at my face with an unreadable expression, and finally spoke, in a voice as rich and sensuous as honey poured over ice cream.

‘Well, Akyl, what shit have I got to get you out of now?’

Back in my room, Saltanat sat on the bed to unfasten her heels, then take off the long blonde wig, revealing ink-black hair. Utterly different from the last time I’d seen her, but still beautiful, unattainable in spite of having been infrequent lovers.

‘Nothing to drink, I suppose, Akyl,’ she said. It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t bother to shake my head. ‘Don’t you ever get bored with facing reality head-on, twenty-four hours a day?’ I smiled, didn’t speak. The brutal fact was Saltanat had not only seen as much violence and death as I had, she’d caused a fair proportion of it as well. Working for the Uzbek security services as a ‘troubleshooter’ (their discreet name for an assassin), you don’t spend your days at a desk sharpening pencils, unless you’re planning to push them into someone’s ear.

‘So are you going to tell me what this is all about? Why you’ve dragged me here, made me dress up like a thousand-rouble hooker on Nevsky Prospekt?’

‘I thought we could have a kind of pre-event honeymoon?’ I said. ‘You know, lie on a deserted beach, the sun warm and sensuous on our bodies, that sort of thing.’

‘Bangkok has deserted beaches?’

‘The travel agent lied,’ I said, pleased when she rewarded me with a slight smile. ‘But now you are here…’

I plucked up the courage to reach for her, stroke her face, even feel the contours of her head, so subtly different with her new haircut. I felt dizzy with the scent of her perfume, the nearness of her, the way we seemed always to come together, then drive ourselves apart. We’ve both killed people; perhaps that gives a strange sideways view of the world, or relationships, of the amount of guilt an individual can carry.

We moved closer together, held each other without kissing, her head resting on my chest. I felt strangely lacking in desire, feeling content the gap she always left in my life when she departed was narrowed, however temporarily. She took my face in her hands, kissed me, close-mouthed, ran her fingers along my cheek.

‘Shave. Or that’s the only kiss you’ll be getting tonight.’

When I came back from the bathroom, drying my face with trembling hands, Saltanat was already in bed, her clothes lying on the floor.

‘Come here,’ she said. I did as I was told…

It’s a movie cliché that afterwards a couple lie in bed and smoke a cigarette. So we did.

‘I didn’t think you’d come when I called you from Tashkent,’ I said, and I wondered if she heard the hint of sorrow, of self-pity, in my voice.

‘Texting me to meet you in the bar was pretty smart. A pain in the arse to sit there, rejecting the propositions I got. Five thousand baht , you offered me? I turned down twenty and a weekend in Chiang Mai to end up here in bed with you.’

‘I hope it was worth it.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

But she smiled as she said it, and that made all the difference. I took water from the fridge, poured two glasses, gave one to her. Ignoring the sign on the wall forbidding smoking, she lit a cigarette, sent a jet trail of smoke at the ceiling.

‘We can go out for a drink if you like,’ I said. ‘I don’t know the area but I’m sure we can hunt down a bar.’

‘You’re supposed to be making passionate love all night long to me, remember?’ Saltanat sat up in bed, pouted, said, ‘Me love you long time, too much,’ in a high-pitched imitation-Thai voice.

‘How long can you stay?’

Saltanat gave a noncommittal shrug, tipped ash into her half-empty water glass.