Des woke to brutal, sapping heat, with an equally brutal sense that there was a Khmer wedding going on in his head to which he was being subjected rather than invited. This clankingly painful wedding could have been better described as Scottish, because it was the national alcohol of that land that was the source of this particular medical drama.
He had been dreaming bad things, something of a mixture of his mother warning him about the dangers of alcohol and loose women, old public education films about the dangers of venereal disease and marijuana, official Foreign Ministry warnings about mysterious Asian nations, and his friend Belinda telling him not to take the job at Snuck Bar.
Slowly, slowly, the nightmare faded into the nightmare reality that he was forced, much against his will, to confront. In a desperate attempt to logify proceedings, he took stock of his condition and what was ahead.
First things first: the air con was dead, so the power was out again. That gave him a rough idea of what time it was. Next, he had to get well pronto, to get this concert up and off and gone. In a related matter, he had to find the act, Bong James Bong, and make sure he was in a fit state to appear. And finally, he had Sophal to contend with.
Bravely, he turned his phone back on then laid back and listened to the messages bleep in. Seventeen. Seventeen and it was only 2 o’clock. He sighed and flicked through and saw that two of the messages were from Wyndy. “In the interests of public hygiene I suggest we make peace and collaborate on getting this clown out of the country. Will drop by yours later to discuss.” And then, about ten minutes ago: “Waiting in your bar. Where are you?”
The option of assistance in what might have to be a forceful deportation was too good to resist. He glanced at Sophal’s first message, winced and knew that it needed proper time to consider how to respond. He replied to Wyndy and then dunked his pain, straddling the toilet seat and bending under the shower head to maximise the thin piss of cooling water.
Down in the dark shadows of the bar, Wyndy sat properly, like a dreadlocked nun, nursing a cranberry juice, flicking through her phone and occasionally passing light Khmer conversation with Sophea and Sopheak. She got straight to the point. “I need this problem to go away and so do you. You need my help. It’s not that I don’t trust you…” “It’s just that you don’t like me.” “I’ve got nothing against you, Desmond, you’re just another clueless… forget that, we need to work together here. We have to make sure he gets onto that plane. What flight is he on?” Desmond had to admit that he actually had no idea. “My boss said Sunday, so…” Wyndy stared at him a moment, let out a slow breath and said: “Well, let’s get that sorted out, shall we?”
Des called Sambath and was able to recover, after some delays, the relevant information. An early flight, 7am. Direct to Singapore. “I come tonight after show,” said the boss. “Give you money to pay him in cash. US dollar. Big success, everyone know Snuck Bar now. Well done Mr Desi-mond.” Des soft-pedalled the premature praise. He could see plenty of slip twixt the cup and the lip.
“OK,” said Wyndy, taking control again and waving over Phany to assist. “Best he never leaves our sight after he gets off the stage. I’ve been discussing with Bong Phany, he will go to the hotel during the show and check him out.” “How?” “I ask tuk tuk from outside Doof where hotel for crazy man,” said Phany, simply. “Then I go there and be tuk tuk for him. No problem.”
“I’ve told Phany you’ll give him a good tip.” Desmond’s hungover fuzziness was drifting him in and out of the present like dodgy wifi on a PP-SR shuttle bus. He needed to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. He couldn’t tell if Phany was still angry with him, and Wyndy was openly contemptuous, and yet their help was vital in getting rid of his problem so that he could deal with the next problem, and possibly there was even some of Sambath’s money in it for him. The mechanism crunched and he managed to grasp a moment of clarity: “Maybe you should go ask about the hotel now, Phany, make sure he comes here in the first place.”
Then who should lurch into the bar, clutching a battered guitar case, but James Bonne himself. The three conspirators watched as he walked towards the stage, put down the guitar, sat down and then slowly, gently, slid into the yoga position known as The Comatose Alcoholic.
Continues next week