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

far as I knew, she might be back home in England. I was also left with the impact of Mick’s revelation that he’d come along with me prepared to try and bribe the prison guards with his life savings. I kept stealing glances at the bulging moneybelt on which he permanently rested a fat pink hand. Naturally I was relieved that this desperate plan hadn’t needed to be put into action, but what was I to make of the man who was prepared to do this for me?

Somewhere in there was another thought, one so dark that I kept trying to push it to the corner of my fevered imagination. It was the idea that Charlie might not be anywhere, that she might be dead. The thought was there, but prowling at a distance like a wild animal circling a camp fire, wanting to attack but held back by the light. I preferred to put my faith in the British Consul coming up with a sensible explanation, and, I admit, a bit of direction about what I might do next.

The masseur hit a nerve in my foot and I twitched violently. ‘Heart,’ she said to me softly and apologetically. ‘Heart.’

There was nothing for it but to wait until I was able to see Brazier-Armstrong, to make some sense out of this.

‘He should have been there!’ Mick jabbed a finger emphatically at the floor. ‘Brazier-fucking-Armstrong. At the fucking prison this morning. Pardon the French, my sweet darling,’ he said to his masseur, putting down his bottle and wai-ing her deeply by way of atonement.

She tittered and shot a glance at her colleague.

Mick tapped my arm conspiratorially. ‘See that? She fancies me.’

13

Mick was beginning to lose his temper, and the skull-cracking hangover we had in common wasn’t helping. Restored to his Hawaiian shirt and calf-length shorts, Mick leaned across the desk at the consulate in a manner that might be described as menacing. Me, I’d given up on the woman. I badly needed an intake of icy, clear water to sluice away the ravages of the previous night’s Singha beer.

‘So what you’re saying is,’ Mick, wagging a finger at her, ‘not only do you not know where Brazier-Armstrong is, but you have no idea of when he’s coming back.’

Phil weighed in, too. He stood directly before the woman and, narrowing his eyes, placed his hands together as if in prayer, pointing his touching fingertips down at her. ‘The father has come for the daughter. He will speak with the consul.’ I don’t know what the woman made of this, but his technique gave me the shivers.

The oriental concept of ‘loss of face’ is interesting. The woman at the consulate who had introduced herself as Mrs Duongsaa (and though she spoke impeccable English we never did find out whether she was an official, a secretary, or a general factotum) was losing hers fast. The traditional Thai smile with which she’d greeted us had slipped when we’d demanded she contact Brazier-Armstrong instantly. Before that she’d persuaded us to run through events, sympathised, expressed incredulity and promised she would ‘look into’ it and report back.

‘When would that be?’ I asked her.

‘As soon as I have some information,’ she replied.

‘No. I want some action now. I want you to speak to the prison authorities immediately.’

Very sweetly she assured us that enquiries would be made, that something had obviously gone seriously wrong, and that there were a lot of formalities to be negotiated.

‘Stuff all that,’ Mick had said. ‘Where’s Brazier-Armstrong?’

The maintenance of ‘face’ is conducted by smiles, sympathetic expressions, gentle indirection, and by body language signalling control and competence. When Mick asked for Brazier-Armstrong, Mrs Duongsaa looked as though he had slapped her. Now he was in her face, and her features had stiffened visibly.

Mr Brazier-Armstrong was away on unavoidable business. Mr Brazier-Armstrong could not be contacted. Mr Brazier-Armstrong had not been specific about when exactly he would be back in the office. That’s when I’d asked where, exactly, the consular official was at that moment. Mrs Duongsaa was unable to be specific at that moment. Now her face was paralysed, though her eyes were moist with hatred.

I’d slumped in a chair. The more I tried to think about how we were going to make progress in this impossible situation, the more grinding was my hangover. After the foot massage of the previous evening I’d allowed Mick to talk me into getting smashed out of my head. We’d ended up in the Corner Bar on Loi Kroa, a neon-lit shed full of pretty young prostitutes. They made me laugh, and even with Mick trying to wind me up, I didn’t implicate myself beyond buying a few beers. Sweet girls, all of them, and all about Charlie’s age.

Mick made me snort when he suggested, ‘There is no Brazier-Armstrong, is there? He doesn’t exist. There’s just you and this desk.’

‘Ha!’ went Phil.

Stung, Duongsaa was about to reply when the telephone rang, but it was Mick who snatched it up. Duongsaa got to her hind legs in protest, but Mick danced a couple of steps backwards, informing the caller, ‘The British Consulate in Chiang Mai is closed while we sort out this fiasco with Chiang Mai prison. Goodbye. Who am I? I’m the British Ambassador in a purple vest, so fuck off.’ He placed the receiver back on its cradle with exquisite gentility. Duongsaa was still remonstrating when Mick added, ‘We’re going to stay here by this phone until you get Brazier-Armstrong.’

Snatching up a cellphone Duongsaa tapped out a number. When she got a response she spoke in rapid Thai, staring at us icily throughout the conversation. Something that was said on the other end made her voice go up an octave. When she’d finished she said, ‘Mr Brazier-Armstrong will come to see you at your hotel.’

‘Breakthrough!’ said Phil.

‘When?’ I demanded.

‘Today if possible. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘So why did you lie to us about not being able to contact him?’ Mick wanted to know.

‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘You