Desmond, an English-language expat in Phnom Penh, has a mission to eject an intruder into his simple over-drinking underperforming semi-occupation. He’s got to get him out of this place, if it’s the last thing he ever does. Luckily, he has friends, or co-conspirators at least. There’s a plane to be caught. Now read on.
In the deep, hot stink of the night, they are gathered, clustered, holding the perimeter around Bong, James Bong. Phany, able first lieutenant and wily tactician, runner of errands, stone sober. Wyndy, the field marshall, strategist, alert as ever, running on cranberry. Desmond, with whom the buck was in the end going to stop, with a steady stream of Dutch courage under his belt and a briefcase in his sweaty hand.
The power outage had lasted long enough to clear the punters out. With effective use of a corner, a table, well-placed chairs and lots of scotch, the captive was not going anywhere. From time to time, Bong, James Bong, himself extremely generously fortified, would wake up and drunkenly wonder why he was not being surrounded by skinny women with long black hair rubbing his shoulders, and would almost attempt to get up and go find some. But then there would be the crew’s assertions that they would make sure they got him safely onto his plane, and he would be lulled back into a passive snooze.
“Where am I?” The shout woke them all up from a brief sleep. “What’s going on?” “Relax, man, we’ll get you to the plane. Get him a drink, Phany.” There was a rested restlessness in the pop star’s eyes now, blinking and squinting in the dark bar. When Phany returned with a glass and a bottle, Des had an epiphany.
“Phany, you were in the Cambodian space project, weren’t you?” Des asked casually. “Me, bong?” “Yes. You flew halfway to the moon when the King Father died, as a tribute, right?” “Yes, bong. The king love the moon so much.” Bonne’s eyes widened. “You… you… Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded of Desmond. “Highly top secret, old chap. I risk my life just mentioning it.” But Bonne had already turned to start interrogating Phany.
“So were you funded by the US? Of course you were. And what sort of spacecraft, a rocket or, no, it must have been a shuttle kind of thing.” “Yes, bong. Yes, bong.” And so it went on, so captivating Bonne that he seemed to forget all about his last night, his luggage, his flight, placing his drunken self entirely in the hands of his captors.
And then the dawn started to light the sky; it was time to play put the pop star in the tuk-tuk. The movement prompted him to fall into a fitful sleep in between interrogations, as they zipped through the humid streets. As they jostled past the big scary government buildings on Russian Boulevard, Desmond gestured and made a point of mentioning how their lives were in danger merely from discussing the matter. As they pulled further and further out from the city, the traffic began to congest forcefully; millions of cars lined up in the opposite direction trying to make their way into the bulging metropolis.
Pulling up at the airport, they all fell out of the tuk tuk and dragged the half-asleep Bonne to Departures. Wyndy stood glowering at a distance while Des made a relieved farewell. “Don’t forget your guitar,” he said kindly, handing it over for the last time. “David Bowie may want it back some day. Or Chrissie Hynde.”
“It’s not hers,” said Bonne, suddenly sheepish. “Actually I stole it from Rick Astley. So I’m never gonna give it up…” and he tried a little dance, but it was beyond him and he slumped, exhausted. “And don’t forget this either,” said Desmond, holding out the briefcase. “What’s that?” “Your fee.” There was a pause. “Keep it. Buy yourselves a couple of rounds. Or a couple of girls. Whatever.” And with that, the one-hit wonder turned and went through the sliding doors to suffer the airport administration. A few minutes later they were waving to him as he ascended the escalator towards his future, or heaven, or passport control, or…
So the three waited quietly, patiently, unwilling to relax. The air was thick with expectation. They wandered into the car park and watched the morning sky, and were finally gifted with the wonderful sight of an aeroplane taking off, and at that moment, as a glorious baptism, the rain came, big, heavy, drought breaking drops… and they gleefully piled into the tuk tuk and lurched into the unbelievable traffic.
And ground to a halt in the creeping mass of cars and an uncomfortable silence descended. After a while the rain eased and Wyndy waved down a passing moto. She and Des respectfully shook hands and agreed to cross the street if they ever saw each other coming. Phany joined her, leaving Des alone with the briefcase full of treasure that he daren’t open. So he sat quietly in the traffic, refreshed by the rain while still grainy from lack of sleep and too much alcohol, and started making a long, long list in his head of which debts he should honour and which he could ignore.
But then he stopped. First, he had some texts to read. Finances could wait, now that there was a woman involved. A new adventure in the Charming City.
THE END