Smoking Poppy by Graham Joyce (the read aloud family .txt) 📕

from the British Consulate and finally drinking too much beer in a tiny bar opposite the Tha Phae Gate. Phil had adjourned to the hotel early in the session, complaining of fatigue but clearly disapproving of what was obviously going to turn into ten rounds of wrestling with the demon alcohol.

‘I’m not being funny,’ Mick said after he’d gone, ‘but Phil is a dead weight.’

‘Yeah.’ I could hardly disagree.

‘It’s like having a vulture on your shoulder.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How do you suppose he turned out like that, then? He doesn’t even look like you. Are you sure he’s yours?’

‘Give it a rest, Mick.’

In my ignorance I thought ‘Thai massage’ was a euphemism for knocking shop. Knowing nothing of the deep skills of a traditional Thai massage, I would only concede to the notion of foot massage in a place resembling more clinic than brothel.

We were invited to change into sports shorts and to relax into comfortable armchairs, feet resting on stools as two ladies of about our own age set about us with coconut oil. I heard myself venting deep sighs as my masseur dug into hitherto unknown joints and muscles in my feet. A giant ceiling fan rotated slowly, chopping at the air.

So in the massage shop I lay back, thinking about Mick’s remark. It must cross every man’s mind at some time. Whether a child is actually his, I mean, especially when they wind up as junkies or religious crackpots. Me, I haven’t got a religious nerve in my body, but Phil is the full hair-shirt. He’s even got a haircut like a monk’s tonsure except for the bald spot in the middle. I expect he’s looking forward to baldness with some relish. But no, though he’s a little shorter than me, he’s got my build exactly, and my eyes, and my habit of screwing up my eyebrows when I’m trying to figure something out. Much as some days I’d like to explain it away by thinking that Sheila did a wrong ’un, I can see he’s mine right through to the marrow.

Meanwhile Mick reclined in his chair. He made his lips pop on his beer bottle. ‘We’ve got to find that twat Brazier-Armstrong. He should have been there. He was supposed to be there.’

Brazier-Armstrong, whoever he was, was attracting a lot of blame from Mick. I must say I was pretty angry with the consul for not being there to sort out the confusion. We’d gone by tuk-tuk, a kind of motorised lawnmower with a sun canopy, directly from the prison to the consulate office at the IBM building on Huay Kaew Road. The journey was not without its trials as the tuk-tuk driver was incredibly persistent in trying to fix us up.

Tuk-tuk man: You wan girls?

Mick: No

Tuk-tuk man: You wan boy?

Mick: Fuck off.

Tuk-tuk man: Grass?

Mick: Just drive your fuckin’ lawnmower.

Tuk-tuk man: You wan fat lady? I got pleny fat lady.

Mick: You want fat lip? No? Then shut it.

Then when we arrived at the offices they were closed, and there was no sign of the lady with whom I’d spoken earlier in the day.

We were simply left hanging out to dry.

The confusion at the prison was bad enough. I’d simply walked out on all of them. Then of course I couldn’t get out of the compound without the guard unlocking the cage. When I returned everyone was talking at once, except the girl whom everyone had taken to be Charlie. When the Thai officials had established she wasn’t my daughter she was whisked to her cell by the female guard, and we were taken back to the office we’d come from.

The prison officer couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. He summoned half a dozen colleagues, who in turn produced papers in triplicate with Charlie’s name, date of birth and our home address in England. He also produced Thai court papers, none of which were in English. At one point we were surrounded by half a dozen blue shirts all shouting at once. The paperwork was in order, so why was I being difficult?

‘She no your dotter, that girl?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’

‘So why you here?’

Then it would start all over again.

‘She no your dotter?’

‘For the hundredth time, no!’

‘So who she, that girl?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’

Mick had the bright idea of proposing that he and I interview the girl, but they weren’t having any of that. Finally Phil suggested they get the consul down there at the double, to see what he could make of it. They phoned. Brazier-Armstrong wasn’t available.

We established that there was no possibility of Charlie being elsewhere in Chiang Mai prison. It had occurred to me that she might go to some lengths to avoid seeing me. There were only four other farang women there in total: one American girl, one Australian and two Germans, all for charges relating to drugs. All four of them were brought to the compound for us to see, to ensure no collusion or place-swapping. (Thais think all farang look similar.) Charlie wasn’t amongst them.

We shook hands with the officer who’d dealt with us, we waid, and we left. We could still hear the officers shouting at each other as we quit the prison grounds. They were suffering badly from loss of face, and clearly hadn’t enjoyed being made to look incompetent before three Westerners in heavy, dark suits. As we made our way down the sweltering street, Mick had ripped off his tie and waved it angrily at an approaching tuk-tuk. ‘Bar,’ he growled. ‘Any bar.’

Meanwhile my foot masseur pulled at each of my toes in turn, making the bone crack. I looked into her eyes and she smiled at me shyly before resuming her work. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ I said. ‘We’ll go to the consulate first thing tomorrow morning.’

We’d spent the entire afternoon running the thing backwards and forwards, but were no closer to an explanation. I was crippled with agitation. If Charlie wasn’t in Chiang Mai prison, then where the hell was she? As