Something was definitely wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Desmond lay with his eyes closed and tried to focus on what it was. The oceanic wash of sound clinked and clanked with building noise, running children, street vendors, barking dogs, but nothing unusual in the first scan.
And there it was, just under the shush of the air conditioner: the distinct sound of humping. Rising and falling and rising and falling. And it was coming from the living room.
The morning sun had risen onto his face, warming him into the gradual waking up that would take a good hour or so to be finally formed, and he cursed it. The curtain next to the bed was not entirely drawn, allowing the brightness of the day to rush in and disrupt the precious last hours of sleep.
So Desmond lay awake listening to the indiscreet noises, which sounded more like National Geographic than porn, and wondered why that was so, why the heavy breathing was not encouraging his old fella to respond, why he was more pissed off than turned on. It was probably because the sun had yanked him into an awareness of his need to pee. Also, as he began to piece the previous evening together, he realised it was plain bad manners.
He had been very charming at Humdinger and the Swede had seemed quite flirtatious herself. A little young for his taste, perhaps, but still. And then when they found each other again in the Squalor he had been only too glad to offer his sofa to a young lady in distress. And of course it wasn’t until they were all in a tuk tuk together that he realised there was a boyfriend included. A little revenge was extracted by buying beers from the mini mart on the way home, and insisting on staying up late to drink them all and watch a Black Books DVD while the Swedes were uncomfortably falling asleep. Screw ’em, it’s a free room.
But that’s just bad manners, isn’t it, to bonk on the couch when the guesthouse is overbooked and someone is nice enough to provide some alternative accommodation? Under a threatening cloud of impotent defiance, Desmond roused himself from the bed, threw on some clothes and emerged from his room into the bordello, crossed to the bathroom and pissed loudly with the door open as the moans and grunts continued to escalate. Then he grabbed the keys and left, locking the door behind him. That’ll teach them.
On his way down the stairs, Desmond wondered whether to head towards the stinky canal for coffee, where it was better and cheaper but sometimes overwhelmingly smelly, or in the other direction and try his luck.
He wound up in a mini mart on a busy road, sitting at the window with a Red Bull, flicking through his phone and remembering more of the plot. There had been an American girl. Kathy? Karen? There had been kissing. And… shit, that was who he thought he found at Squalor. Kathleen? Klara? He scanned through the Ks in his contacts and found nothing. In the inbox, from an unrecognised number: ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’ The phone buzzed angrily, making him jump. Hank. This could be trouble. It usually was.
“Desi, man!”
“What up, Hank?”
“Look man, can I meet you? I gotta ask something.”
“Sure, I…”
“The Running Dog, twenty minutes.”
Then the screen was abruptly returned to ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’
He considered the Swedes, but only for a moment, before flagging down a moto and heading for the riverside.
Continues next week