Desmond has had a hell of a weekend. At least he has the bag again, and his phone, after leaving them behind somewhere. Now he sits and plots the denouement to this story. Read on and savour the conclusion to our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
There was something tranquil about sitting by the pool. A young couple was taking it in turns to swim laps and keep an eye on a sleeping child, occasionally murmuring in something like French, but otherwise there was no one around. The garden foliage was thick and shady; the walls were high enough to banish the sound of the traffic. Two staff in white uniforms worked silently or stared at their screens.
Desmond was drinking slowly. Desmond was doing everything slowly now. It helped his hangover, it helped his brain process. It gave him time to give thanks for being delivered from hellishly violent interludes resulting in chronic pain. The beer tasted good, like it does with a hangover in the shade. He flicked through his phone retracing the missing steps of the previous evening, reading a series of increasingly irritated messages from Clarissa, and a couple from the barely recalled Nancy. Ah well. At least I’m alive to try again another time.
Eventually, the call came. Hank must have finally woken up. “Desi, old man!” “Good to hear from you, Hank.” “Let’s meet up, old man. Where are you? I’ll send Vuthy.”
“No, I don’t think so, Hank. I’ll come alone. Where are you?” “Rightio-ho, old man! I’m at Dirigible.” “I know it. Expect me shortly.”
Dirigible was all white table cloths and balsamic drizzle and reduced duck, but Desmond could make an exception. He strode boldly in and looked around. Hank was seated alone at a table for six with the remains of a large, late breakfast around him.
“Good health to you, old man. Too early to join me in a G&T?” “Why not?” answered Desmond, as he took a power position at the far end of the table. He had lost track of what time it was anyway. “So, how was Bangkok?” Hank looked genuinely surprised. “Bangkok? Haven’t been there since November, old man.” “I thought as much.”
With what was supposed to be a flourish, but came out as a clumsy move that almost upset the table, Desmond stood up again and deposited the bag just out of Hank’s reach.
“So perhaps you can explain what this is all about.” “Oh, there it is. I knew I’d left it somewhere. Funny, just this morning I told Vuthy I’d given it to him.” “So, like, WTF?”
“I’m sorry, I’m missing something,” said Hank. “What’s wrong, Desi?” “You gave me this bag. Yesterday. This bag, full of money.” “What money?” “A large amount of money. Heartstoppingly.” “Where did you get money from? Can you pay me back now?” “You gave it to me, in the bag! It’s locked! You said keep it.” “Oh dear. Maybe I’ve been experimenting with my medication again. I have blackouts when I do that. I said keep the bag?” “You said look after the money while you’re in Bangkok.”
Infuriated, Desmond grabbed a steak knife from an almost empty plate and ripped a heart-sized gash in the side of the bag. He thrust his hand into the gash and pulled out bundles and shouted: “You said look after the money!”
After that burst of noise it got very quiet in the Dirigible and all they could hear was the sound of some thin Khmer pop floating out of the kitchen. Desmond held in his hand a few well-folded copies of the Cambodia Daily, held together with rubber bands. Bewildered, he scooped out another handful: some old paperbacks and a couple of photocopied editions of Lonely Planet.
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Hank. “Rough night on Friday. Woke up yesterday convinced I was being followed. I had to throw them off the scent.” “Who?” “The people following me. Turned out to be paranoid nonsense, of course, but better to be safe than sorry,” said Hank, who wiped his eyes, finished his coffee and abruptly changed the topic. “So I wanted to talk to you about coming in with me on a new venture. I’ve decided to open a bar again. Now, where are those jolly G&Ts?”
Desmond arrived home just as the sun set, enjoying the colours of the sky more than anything he’d done all weekend. He managed a wistful status update: Blogpost-worthy sunset. If only I had a blog. Also I’d like to have a balcony. Next flat I’ll try for a balcony.
There would be no responses apart from a couple of likes, and one of them from his mum. The front gate creaked as he opened it, and the landlord’s nephew wandered out of his lair as it closed.
“My friend come fix water, you not here, you not leave key.”
“Tomorrow come again?” “Maybe come tomorrow.”
Tomorrow could be handled when it arrived, but first there was a need for sleep.
The End