Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

Finally, we agreed on an eight per cent discount, which was only one point more than Aliyev had instructed me to offer. We shook hands, toasted the arrangement, Quang with lapsang souchong while I sipped strong black coffee.

‘What are your plans, Mr Borubaev?’ Quang asked. ‘I imagine you’ve no particular desire to go back to your home country. I suspect Minister Tynaliev is not a man who forgives quickly or lightly.’

‘He’s not a man who forgives at all,’ I said, ‘so I think I’m going to have to find somewhere a long way away from his reach.’

‘As I said before, would you consider staying here in Thailand? I’m certain there will be some teething problems with our new arrangement, and someone who speaks Russian, who understands his home market would be very valuable.’

‘Are you offering me a job, Khun Quang?’ I said. At that moment, staying in Bangkok seemed a better option than Bishkek, if only because I wasn’t dead.

‘Early days,’ Quang said, allowing something approaching a smile to move his mouth. ‘As I’m sure you know, there’s a fine line between rushing in too hastily and missing out on an opportunity. I never do either.’

He drained his cup, placed it on the table.

‘Our cuisine and the way we live may be a little spicy for your palate at first, but you’d come to love it.’

‘I’m not sure I could cope with living in Bangkok; somewhere a little more rural perhaps, maybe by the sea. As you know, the closest we Kyrgyz get are the beaches at Lake Issyk-Kul.’

Quang seemed set to embark on his newfound role as tourist operator when the driver entered, whispered something to Quang, who looked puzzled, then annoyed. He stood up and stared at me. His face remained expressionless but I sensed anger, perhaps even fear.

‘Mr Borubaev, you haven’t been entirely open and honest with me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, genuinely bewildered. He couldn’t have known about my meeting with Saltanat, or I wouldn’t have made it this far. I’d be floating in a muddy water khlong while longboats crammed with tourists stared at me and took selfies.

‘I go to great lengths to protect my personal security,’ Quang said. ‘You may consider them excessive, even paranoid. But did you honestly think a simple pat-down of your clothes would be enough?’

‘I’m not carrying any weapons, if that’s what you mean,’ I said. ‘I’ve no way of harming you.’

‘There are many ways to harm someone,’ Quang said, ‘and they don’t all involve a physical threat. That’s why I have special highly sensitive scanners built into the doorframes of every room.’

He paused, looked over at the driver, who stood awaiting his orders.

‘Please remove Mr Borubaev’s shoes.’

The driver stepped forward, but I held up my hand to stop him and took my shoes off myself. The driver took the SIM card between finger and thumb, held it out towards Quang for inspection.

‘And who were you intending to call?’ Quang asked, the veneer of politeness gone, steel in his voice. I looked around for a weapon, saw nothing.

‘I use it to contact Aliyev,’ I said. ‘Not here, obviously, and I buy a disposable phone each time I text him. How else would I keep in touch with him?’

‘Why would you need to?’ Quang asked. ‘Either you have the authority to make a deal, or you don’t. If you do, there’s no need to contact him until you return. If you don’t, he should be here himself. And you would be… surplus?’

Quang was a man who believed there are no such things as secrets, and the fewer people with access to information, the better he liked it. In fact, the only way he liked it.

Behind Quang, a door opened and the masseuse Achura walked in, this time not wearing traditional robes but a sweatshirt and jeans. Dressed like that, she looked much more masculine, a great deal more dangerous.

‘You remember Achura, of course,’ Quang said. ‘A person of remarkable qualities. You may think having a kathoey as a bodyguard sounds eccentric, their ability to fight merely a spectacle like watching two women wrestling in Nana Plaza. But you obviously never saw Achura fight Muay Thai, our traditional martial art, the Art of Eight Limbs.’

Quang gave a patronising smile at my confusion.

‘Muay Thai involves eight points of contact: punches with the fists, kicks with the feet, knee and elbow strikes. Deadly when practised by someone as skilled as Achura.’

I looked as Achura bowed her head in acknowledgement, then folded her arms. I’d never hit a woman before, and I suspected I wasn’t going to get an opportunity this time. Achura would have me disabled and dead within a minute.

‘Achura, would you escort Mr Borubaev outside?’

As Achura moved towards me, I felt rather than saw the driver move behind me, to block any attempt to move away.

‘You’ll understand I have many precious works of art in this room. You’ll agree it would be a tragedy if any of them were damaged.’

The driver seized my arms and forced them behind my back, pushing me towards the door. Achura gave a smile of anticipation and led the way outside. I didn’t think a relaxing massage was on the agenda.

I’d faced guns, knives, the occasional broken bottle, but never the possibility I might be kicked to death. Tynaliev would weep with laughter, once he’d got over his anger at not being able to kill me himself. Dead may be dead, but who wants to be a laughing stock into the bargain?

‘Don’t worry, Mr Borubaev, I don’t want you dead. Yet. But it will amuse me to watch Achura show you that being a kathoey isn’t all lipgloss, implants and mascara. You have to know how to survive as well, and theirs can be a cruel world.’

‘We shook hands, agreed the deal. Why would you jeopardise that?’ I asked, wondering how I could talk my way out of a beating.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I fully intend to keep my word, work with Mr Aliyev. I’m just not sure whether or not our little venture requires your future presence.’

I listened, but all my attention was on Achura as she advanced towards me. I jerked a thumb in the direction of the driver who stood near the gate.

‘Put him in a dress and size twelve heels, he’d still look more like a woman than you,’ I said, hoping to anger Achura into a mistake, something to allow me a second to take advantage. But the insult passed her by, her stance that of a feral animal waiting to pounce. Suddenly she pivoted on one foot, swung through three hundred and sixty degrees and aimed a kick at my head. I pulled back, felt air move in front of my face.

‘She’s merely playing with you, Borubaev,’ Quang said. ‘Much more fun for her and me if the fight doesn’t end straight away.’

I moved backwards, feeling my way with my feet, not taking my eyes off Achura. I was learning a new lesson; when you fight someone with Muay Thai skills, you don’t just watch their hands. Achura launched an elbow at my face, a knee at my groin, then dragged me forward.

I could smell tobacco on Achura’s breath, but the habit hadn’t slowed her down at all. Even if smoking didn’t kill me, it looked like a smoker would. Every blow was pulled at the last second, leaving me staggering, confused, but so far unhurt. It felt like dancing with a mad person, one whose every move was unpredictable, a choreography from hell.

‘Time for the red paint, I think,’ Quang called out. A strange way to describe blood, I thought, but stood still, panting, sweat dribbling down my back in the humid air, as Achura stepped back, walked with indescribable grace to the veranda and smeared red chalk upon her fists.

Even as I was puzzling out the significance of the chalk, Achura hit me over and over again, each blow nothing more than a tap but leaving me dazed and confused all the same. I was used to fist-fights in Bishkek bars, watching two men square off, drunkenly telegraph each blow which took an eternity to land. This was like being enveloped in a swarm of bees, impossible to swat away.