Byline: Guillermo Wheremount

Desmond was in charge of a bag, but he went out anyway. Everything was going fine until… well, it’s hard to tell exactly when it went bad, but it went on to become really bad. He’s just woken up without his phone, and without the bag, and it appears he really should have spent the night at home watching the rest of the medical drama television series box set he purchased for just that reason. Now read on in the tenth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

Sun burning my face off like a blowtorch. In too much pain to move. Can’t update status in such a state. I beg forgiveness.

Desmond squinted his eyes open to find Dr Cranky peering into his face and sticking something medical in his ear. “You should have come in as soon as you had the symptoms. Did you eat liver? Did you wear shoes that are too small? Do you live near a fountain?” The medical thing went into his navel and punctured something. Putrid fluids abounded.

I think it was the Jamesons.

“I knew we’d get the truth from you sooner or later. The Jamesons has caused a disfibrilation of your grunderthal nerve. Give him thirty of Xaxax and a glass of orange juice with raisins in it.”

Hairy hell? Where was I?

The slow piecing together of the previous evening took on a much more important hue than usual.

Boat. Barbecue. 

Then what? Absence of Bangkok. Walking. X-Ray-X Bar. Koreans. Sweet Home Alabama. Hairy, hairy hell. Sweaty bollocks of our saviour.   

Ernest the gecko peeped from behind the AC unit then scuttled across the wall and out the vent. Too rich for his blood. Desmond also scuttled, but much, much slower, to the shower, where he stayed rather longer than usual. The boat, the conversation with Clarissa, the disturbing threat of violence…

Oh my sweet brother of holy shellshocked deliverance I must find the bag. Men with titanium teeth and fists made from machine guns will trap me in a one-way street and break my limbs with axe handles.

With a lurch he fell on the tap to stop the water, and with another he was savagely drying himself.

“You see, the trouble with axe handles is that they really do shatter the bones. It’s none of your greenstick fracture, it’s a real apple crumble they’d created down there,” said Dr Cranky with more than professional interest. “Which is fine, if you don’t need to use your knees for the next couple of years.”

In smaller and smaller lurches, as his paranoia-inspired energy drained away, Desmond set off in pursuit of his redemption. Dr Cranky’s Khmer cousin called after him as he went through the gate. “Maybe today come fix water. Maybe this afternoon.” A strangled yelp was the best answer he could manage.

Once in the street Desmond walked with purpose towards nowhere in particular. A familiar-looking motodop asked him where he wanted to go. Seeking inspiration Desmond thought of X-Ray-X Bar. Retrace steps. Find clues. This seemed to make sense to the nodding motodop if nothing else. They wove through the Sunday traffic like a no-altitude luge run. They pulled up outside X-Ray-X, but there was nothing going on but a security guard fast asleep under an umbrella.

So Desmond found himself standing in the early Sunday afternoon at a crossroads near a pumping, stenching market, not far from the river, with not close to an idea. What would Spiderman do? Probably not be wearing big shorts and a Tintin t-shirt, obviously. Unless he was undercover… Desmond abandoned that line of thinking and walked slowly in the direction he was heading, refusing to buy sunglasses and books as he went.

All at once he was aware of a voice calling his name. “Mr Desmond!” A tuk tuk pulled up in front of him, driven by the grinning Vuthy. Were those titanium teeth? “Mr Desmond! I find you! Mr Hank told me. You got the bag? You give bag to me, OK?”

Desmond froze, swallowed, and failed to have any idea come into his head. So he turned and ran straight into the pumping, stenching market.

Continues next week  

 

Desmond didn’t really mean to head towards X-Ray-X Bar, but by a long, twisting, turning route he found himself in its vicinity. It was merely a bar, on a street surrounded by other bars, each one promising more sardonically Babylonian pleasures than the last, each with a happy hour, a pool table, a cluster of sequined black dresses with oranged hair laughing and snacking and calling to passing potential customers. ‘Hello, Sir!’ called the sirens, mermaids too skinny for the sea; the sailor, having no mast to lash himself to, chose his port.

In fact, he wasn’t even sure it was the right one. Another damp shower of ‘Hello, Sir!’ splattered on his head and shoulders as he entered. He adjusted himself to the redness of the interior, with the faces behind the bar shining crimsonly like a horror movie, hoping that one or more would start to look familiar; the stomp stomp stomp of the dance music hurt his peering eyes.

One of the women who had followed Desmond in deftly steered him towards a bar stool and ordered the Jameson he asked for, then sat and watched to see how he was going to behave. He slowly scanned the room. There was no sign of Hank. This wasn’t hard to establish: there was far more company than customers. An unshaven character was slumped on the bar a short distance away and he stared at Desmond with withering contempt, or possibly shortsightedness, while two bored-looking women attempted to engage with him. In a booth towards the rear, three off-the-plane corporate types were talking loudly in Korean or something and ignoring the staff clustered around them. A very large man in emphatic shorts waddled around the pool table while a pair of very high heels defeated him mercilessly.

The woman next to Desmond began to look slightly as if he might have seen her before. ‘Hank come tonight?’ he asked. “He bar-fine Srey Lin. Maybe come back later.” No wonder the damned phone is off. Desmond looked down and saw the Jameson was gone already, so he said yes to another. Her name was Theary, she was from Kandal. He complimented her on her English. The waddling man left and so Desmond offered to let Theary beat him at pool. They knocked the balls around and he took another drink. Screw Hank and his shenanigans. Still he held onto the bag; it had become a kind of oversized talisman: he would spite Hank by being honourable in the face of dishonour. Hand back the bag untouched, despite the deceit.

The hazy atmosphere grew slowly hazier. New customers arrived. Someone took control of the computer at the bar and started programming loud American rock music, which compelled some patrons to encourage a couple of the staff to get up on the bar and shuffle desultorily in the general vicinity of the beat. Desmond was occasionally aware of a bleating from his phone, but he knew it couldn’t be from Hank because Hank would be back here before too long. Theary was efficient: there was always another Jameson.

Somehow then he had challenged one of the Koreans to play pool. He beat the Korean but the Korean refused to buy him a lady drink. This caused some commotion. He thought he saw Srey Lin appear behind the bar, but by the time he got there she was gone. So he began talking to the unshaven shortsighted guy and insisted on buying a round. Then he was sick of the whole place and called for his bill and didn’t that seem like it was a good deal larger than he remembered? … and he grabbed the bag and tried to saunter into the night, but stumbled into it instead and there was a tuk tuk and there was going somewhere and then all things turned somewhat black.

Then all things turned somewhat bright: the noonday sun kicked him in the face. It could have been worse: the apartment was the right apartment, the bed was the right bed and he was alone. It was just that he didn’t have his phone any more. Or the bag.

Continues next week  

 

Our hero (or anti-hero, if you prefer – things being all postmodern/postcolonial and such) Desmond has been drinking and vomiting and being interrogated on a sunset boat cruise on the Tonle Sap with a bunch of drunken expats and backpackers… which normally would be just his kind of thing. But he’s carrying an important backpack belonging to his friend Hank and the interrogation is by an American journalist. She’s still asking what he’s doing later, so he maintains his optimism. Now read on for the eighth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

The Phnom Penh night had fallen, the riverside had exploded into twinkly lights and Sisowath Quay was a lithe shining serpent of traffic. The Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong surged its way back to the dock and the evening cruise was over. The beer T-shirts and ankle tattoos and nose rings all drunkenly balanced their way down the narrow plank and headed up to the tuk tuks.

Desmond followed, having been assured everyone was going for barbecue, and he was definitely in favour of this, his stomach being fuller of beer than anything else. By using the dubious old trick taught him by his grandfather (“Just run with the flow of the crowd, keep yourself behind the loudest voice,”) Desmond found himself wedged into a tuk tuk with a minor United Nations of passengers – some kind of African, two kinds of Europeans, a South American and Clarissa from Seattle, while one strident Canadian aggressively negotiated the driver down from three dollars to two.

They disembarked a few blocks later at a barbecue restaurant that spilled out into the pavement, where previously arrived tuk tuks had already deposited a seething mass of limbs and haircuts and armpits onto a collection of small plastic chairs around a hastily arranged long table for two-dozen oversized diners. Desmond settled in somewhere a few too many seats away from Clarissa, the bag between his knees, and poured beer into a glass of ice.

“But I really wanted an authentic experience, you know?” “Yes, I’m taking lessons from a lovely little man…” “I’m sorry. Can I see the vegetarian menu? Is the soup made with animal stock or…?” “Try Russian market.” “No, I don’t want to buy any of your books, thank you. And you should be getting a good night’s sleep so you can concentrate at school tomorrow.” “Hey, do we know if the lettuce is organic?” “So I’m looking for a place on my own, you know, but I don’t like the idea of having a whole family living downstairs and watching me all the time.”

“I can’t decide whether to go to Sihanoukville or Siem Reap next.” “You shouldn’t visit orphanages, you know, it’s bad, I read about it…” “And it was so cheap!” “Yes, but this one is different; it’s run by a proper NGO.” “Have you tried spiders yet?” “Has anyone found diet tonic water anywhere? I keep looking and it doesn’t seem to be stocked by anyone.” “Really? Can you give me an introduction? I’d love to visit. You know, for a really authentic experience.”

Not soon enough, Desmond saw a familiar face across the street and there was a chance to show how integrated he was with the local population. With a quick ‘I’ll be back’ glance at Clarissa, which she didn’t even notice, he ambled over and soksabayed Vuthy, Hank’s regular tuk tuk driver, who had more than once been his transport home in the middle of the night.

“Hello my friend,” said the broadly smiling driver from the back seat of the vehicle.  “Did you eat yet?” “Not yet. Just waiting for my friends to order. First they want to talk.” “You drink beer instead!” “Yes, good idea. How are you?” Vuthy raised his arms above his head in some kind of stretching gesture. “Oh my goodness, not so good today. No people, no money. Mr Hank, he have a bag just like that one.” “Yes, he asked me to look after it while he’s in Bangkok.” “When he go Bangkok?” “This afternoon.” “No, he no go Bangkok today. I just take him visit his girlfriend at X-Ray-X Bar.” “Really?”

The ground began to move under Desmond’s feet, spinning into a new orientation where he was being deceived and, as Clarissa had pointed out, possibly being placed in grave danger. Or maybe it was the Scandinavian snacks coming in a second wave. “Maybe at 5 o’clock. Maybe he still there. I take you there?” “No, it’s OK. I’ll call him. Thanks,” Desmond said weakly and turned away.

He stood in the middle of the street, waiting for Hank to pick up. No answer. And again. And again. Slowly Desmond began to move, stumbling into a slow-motion montage-like state, as if it was at the conclusion of 55 minutes’ worth of a major television drama series finale, walking expressively to the soundtrack of a throbbingly emotional vocal overlaid with slide guitar and a quivering saxophone and bonus gospel choir… defying his guardian angels to save him as he went.

The blurt of the horn of an SUV nudged him off the middle of the road, closer to the pavement, but otherwise he continued dazed trudging in a daze, into the night.

Continues next week  

 

 

Desmond, in his role as a bag-carrying, beer-toting boat passenger, appears to be having a good time despite the weight on his shoulders. He may even get lucky: he was just asked by Clarissa, a Seattle redhead, what he’s doing later. Now read on in part seven of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond played it ultra cool, as if he was a man used to being asked what he’s doing later, and almost always knows what to say. To buy some time he reached for the packet of snacks gifted to him earlier in the day by the Scandinavian backpackers and opened it. There were some salty looking brown twisted squishy things inside.

“What is it?” “Swedish I think. Or Norwegian.” “No, what is it? Is it meat? Or fish?” “I don’t think so,” he said, taking one and smelling it with a bit more suspicion than was probably necessary, then biting it with a little less caution than was probably appropriate. “Tastes OK,” he said, swallowing bravely, leaning a little on the railing. “Salty. Want one?” Clarissa shook her head politely. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself,” and Desmond recklessly tossed a few into his mouth, started to chew, felt his face turn white and suddenly was vomiting forcefully into the Tonle Sap. So forcefully that the weight of the backpack almost tipped him over the flimsy guard rail. And if Clarissa hadn’t wrenched the bag off him, he may have followed the Swedish delicacies into the river himself. “Careful, sailor, there’s no lifebelts.”

Humiliated, Desmond crumpled and sat at her feet, spitting dejectedly into the water. “Damn Swedes.” “Would you like another beer?” “Ja tack.” It was several nauseated river-staring minutes before he realised she’d taken the bag with her. In fact, she was already walking back towards him carrying it when it occurred to him that he didn’t have it any more. “The bag!” “It’s certainly heavy,” she commented nonchalantly. “What’s in it?” She handed him a new beer and opened her own, taking a long drink that showed how little interested she actually was in his answer.

Hell, the woman probably just saved my life, I’d better widen the cone of silence. “A large amount of money,” he whispered, making sure he was out of everybody else’s earshot. This raised her eyebrows indeed: “Drugs?” “A favour for a friend of mine. He wanted me to look after it.” “How much again?” “He said a heartstoppingly large amount. I didn’t inquire further.” “Are you being followed?” “No,” he said, then reflected and admitted: “Not that I’m aware of.”

“How do we open it?” she asked casually, and he looked around to see her trying zips and finding the padlock. “No! It might… he… it would…” “Kill you, yeah. I guess.” On that thought, Desmond and Clarissa dropped their discussion to gaze on the sky, all spectacular reds and greys. The boat was puttering southwards along the riverside, pretty lights flashing from the quay. Other boats passed, some people waved. A fishing scull powered by a miniature outboard motor running on the smell of fish oil cut across the current, a small family huddled in the rear under the encroaching dark. The slashing sound of dance music from the quayside aerobics was fading into the encroaching night.

“So who is this friend?” “His name is Hank.” “Not Hank Vaughn?” Desmond had to admit, “I don’t know his full name.” “You don’t know the full name of the guy and you’re carrying…” Her sentence trailed off in mystification. “It never came up.” “Short guy, always wearing a Barcelona shirt?” “Nope. Tall and burned-out aristocratic-looking.” “Oh, so like a classic con artist?” Desmond had to admit that was a fair description. “What does he do?” “He strolls around looking busy.” “Sounds like a lawyer. Or a con artist.” “Looks a bit like Ralph Fiennes, actually, but taller.” “Capable of extreme violence?” “Not really, but I’m sure he’d know people who are. He could fly one in quite rapidly I expect.” “Or he could be as flimsy as a cardboard cop.” “Also true.”

“So this con artist called Hank who looks busy, who you’ve known for how long?” “A few months.” “A few months, has asked you to look after a bag full of money… why?” “He had to go to Bangkok for the weekend.” She drilled him with crazy eyes. “He left town?” “I guess.” She dropped her crazy eyes and shook her head. “Phnom Penh, huh? Your guardian angels are going to work overtime, my friend.” “I pay well.”

She seemed satisfied with that answer. So she tried for another one: “So, what are you doing later?”

Continues next week  

 

 

 

Desmond, who doesn’t gym or like Swedes so much any more, is heading for the riverside, carrying a bag for a friend, to go on a boat ride with a fetching young lady. This is the plan, anyway. Now read on in part six of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount. 

After weaving through the traffic that was starting to coagulate around the intersections, threatening to cause peak-hour heart failure for the city’s circulation system, Desmond pulled up at the boat quay and paid his motodop, who nudged his bike towards a noodle cart and didn’t look like he was going anywhere. The boats were lined up, maybe 30 of them, trying to look seaworthy, and he walked along looking for the name Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong but nothing sprang out at him in precisely those terms. Tense, with backpack getting heavier and plastic bag full of beers and weird Scandinavian snacks getting warmer, he retraced his steps until he heard a voice calling his name.

There she was, the name-caller, jumping a little and waving. But who the heck was it? He approached with a cautiously warm smile. “Hi, how are you, Des?” “Good, good.” “Traffic’s terrible, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes.” “And the sky is so beautiful!” “I guess, yes.” “How long have you been here?” “I just arrived. Now I’m looking for the boat…” “Yes, me too. They told me 5 but there’s nobody here. I guess they’ll come later.” “Anyway. There’s plenty of boats.” “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming or something, like I’d said something wrong.”

Oh shit this is Nancy I was looking for a redheaded American and this is an Australian with dreadlocks better say something quick so I don’t look stupid. “No, I’ve just been kind of distracted today. This is a crazy town.” “I know!  I…”

Whatever else she may have known was interrupted by her phone ringing, and then some more energetic jumping and waving, and soon there was quite a crowd of girls and boys of a variety of heights and weights and accents. Most of them were wearing T-shirts with beer advertising on them, or the Khmer alphabet.

Then someone who knew the score was leading them down to the boat, where the one who brought the ice shovelled it into the big orange box and the beers began to be delivered into its care. And there was shrieking and laughing and balancing on the beam to get from the muddy shoreline to the tipping boat, and the sun was coming down, and the stragglers were calling from the quay to delay the departure, and then finally the Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong was pulling away from the shore and everyone had a beer and everyone was spread around from the top railings on the upper deck in the slight breeze to the karaoke machine down by the engine and the sky was exploding into red and orange and the traffic was far, far away, and Nancy had vanished and Desmond was wishing he wasn’t carrying such a heavy bag but somehow kept remembering not to take it off.

And then, by the railing at the rear of the upper deck, he somehow found himself in conversation with an orange-haired girl who looked definitely familiar, and he felt compelled to introduce himself. “Yes, Desmond. I’m Clarissa. We met last night.” “Yes, we did. And you’re a dentist from Ohio.” “I’m a journalist from Seattle. You came here to work for an NGO that wanted to give free cameras to young Khmer with talent in photography, but kept having all its cameras stolen.” “Um, yes.”

“Not the best idea, in retrospect. So it closed down while you were in the air on the way here. But you stayed on anyway because the apartment and the visa was paid for and the beer is cheap.” “Yes, and you work for…” “I’m not working right now, I’m taking an extended travel break in the hope that I find things worth writing about.” “Like what?”

“Like why you’re carrying a heavy bag on your shoulders that you keep wanting to put down but then remember that you don’t want to do that so you don’t. Until the next time you realise you’re carrying a heavy bag on your shoulders.” “Are you creepy or just spooky?”

“I’m just observant, Desmond.”

“Clare?”

“Clarissa. What’s in the bag?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I bet you can.”

“I can’t.”

“Okay. Suit yourself,” she said and then abruptly changed the subject. “What are you doing later?”

Continues next week  

 

 

Desmond, an accidental expat, is on some kind of financial custodial duty for a friend, but another friend has said it’s OK for him to leave the bag with her and go on a boat trip because he might get lucky. Let’s see about that. Now read on in part five of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

A quick exchange of texts with Nancy and the details were defined. The boat is called Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong, the absolutely definitive leaving time is 5pm, he should bring something to drink, and she will be looking forward to seeing him there.

Desmond allowed some more medical drama (copper deficiency, narcolepsy, sexually transmitted lockjaw) to sweep past him as the slumbering part of the day drifted along, the time when the street calls reduce to less than once a minute, the traffic becomes more air-conditioned vehicles than bicyclists and the motodops snooze contentedly on bikes in the available shade. The gecko he had named Ernest sweetly slept upside down in the corner of the ceiling, away from the fan.

While he was choosing a new T-shirt for the afternoon, the sound of a heat-stricken northern Swedish dialect coming from the next room reminded him he wasn’t entirely alone and he wandered out of his room to check on them. They were dressed in what appeared to be matching outfits and were comparing between different photocopied editions of Lonely Planet.

“We will go out soon,” said the blonder of the two. “We find another place to stay; it was hot and hard to sleep wizout air-con. Normally we like air-con.” “No doubt.” Desmond was not a very domestic man, but he was starting to miss his living room. “Look, I gotta go soon, so… yeah, whatever.” But they were already on their feet and were exchanging maps. “Thank you, Dezmund,” said the less blonde and flashed the sort of smile that probably got rooms everywhere. “We leave you some Swedish snacks on top of the refrigerator for saying thank you.”

And with that they were off, stamping down the metal steps as if heading off for a special fjording weekend on the coast. Or are the fjords Norwegian? wondered Desmond, as he slipped into flip flops and looked about for his keys, and the bag, and the beers in the fridge… and the Swedish snacks for the hell of it as well, thinking they may come in handy.

On his way out he nodded at the landlord’s nephew, who was standing in the family doorway.

“Maybe today come fix water.”

“When?”

“Maybe after this afternoon.”

“Maybe? Or for sure?”

“Maybe. My friend call me.”

“Okay. Maybe I come back later.”

A familiar-looking motodop picked him up from right outside the door and, as they rode, Desmond thought of all the time he’d spent waiting for taxis, how many miles he’d run after rapidly departing buses and how many miles he’d walked after missing them… rather reminding him of the time he’d wasted in gyms just like the one he was pulling up in front of presently. Desmond fished in his pocket to pay the motodop, who U-turned in the narrow street, bought himself a small plastic bag of sugarcane juice from a vendor and sucked on the straw, not looking like he was going any place.

After peering through the glass into the gym and not seeing any Belindas, Desmond stood outside waiting, occasionally observing the indoor activities that looked strikingly like outdoor activities. In the going style, Pump Phnom Penh provided the opportunity to work oneself into a steaming sweat under the blast of air-conditioning, in front of floor-to-ceiling glass walls to show all the people outside just what you were doing. And, Desmond noted, just how you looked in bicycle shorts.

Even standing in the shade, sweat began to trickle from his neck and shoulders down his back. He wondered if the gym people would allow him to do something as sedentary as sit down inside, but from the layout it appeared they didn’t encourage people to use the cool interior to avoid sweat; quite the opposite. So he waited some more.

Soon he’d had enough, sensing that he needed to get across town before the boat and Nancy sailed away from him forever. Text: ‘Shiv man, it’s getting late. are you coming or what?’

‘Running late’ came the eventual response. ‘Various disasters. You can leave it there at the front desk.’

It was tempting, he thought, testing the weight of the bag again, but not tempting enough. And then another text.  –                                               Nancy. ‘Sorry for the spam but can everyone who is coming on the boat trip PLEASE come early we must leave at 5 at the latest don’t miss out.’

Shiv.

The choice was clear: Desmond signalled to the motodop and swung the bag conscientiously over his shoulders. “Riverside.”

Continues next week  

 

Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in Penh-dacity: Bag Man, the fourth part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount. 

Desmond, Phnom Penh expat of no fixed reputation, is engulfed in digital and brewed stimulation, wallowing in uncertain informal financial responsibility and considering a boat trip with a possible hook-up. He awaits the advice of a friend while watching a medical drama on DVD. Now read on.

This blood was definitely taken in the morning. Do you know why I can tell? The way the plasma curls around the nifting rod like milk in a properly made latte. You have much to learn, my young students.”

The reason Desmond was asking Belinda’s advice was that she was the first person he met when he arrived in Cambodia. He had arrived with great hopes, perhaps more personal than charitable, but with courage nonetheless. By some freak of nature he’d been hired to work for an NGO which, by a similar freak of nature, had ceased to exist while he was in transit in the airport in Riyadh wishing he’d not flown through Saudi Arabia and could have a beer.

“The question is, why should we take blood in the morning? Any ideas? You’d make extremely poor vampires. It’s a matter of the bromsk content.” 

Arriving in Phnom Penh without this knowledge, he had been swiftly brought up to speed by Belinda, who would have been his colleague. Instead she became his tour guide, chaperone, drinking partner, short-term financier and agony aunt.

“But honey, I won’t able to get away until early this evening, there’s a case that has just come in… I know. I miss you, too. Yes, and I miss that also. Yes, and that. I’ll text you later…”

Her message came, like a commercial break, at a critical point in the narrative of Dr Cranky, just when Desmond had started to follow the story. Apparently there had been a gas leak in the building when he was a baby… this could be important.

‘Belinda Theory 101: Fancied chances should be always followed, at least until 2am. After that nothing good happens. What money? Can you pay me back now?’

“Was it sulpuric nitrosate or nitrous sulphate? Think! There’s a very serious difference!” 

Dr Cranky’s frowning face faded into the background as Desmond replied.

‘Thx. Will provide extensive reporting if and when accomplished. The money is a custodial duty, but it may turn out to be an earner. Perhaps you could look after it for me this afternoon? The boat leaves at 5.’

The next reply seemed to take even longer than the first, but maybe it was the narrative. The disease that appeared to be diverting blood from the brain into the bile duct turned out to be a rare form of indigestion called Tungsten’s disease. Carl Tungsten was born in the poor section of Vienna in 1902, and was rescued from a fate worse than…

‘Gym at 3. Massage at 5. Cocktails at 7. Dinner at 9. After that it gets fuzzy. At least I hope it will. Does that help?’

“… will have to intubate with a number 7 fraxilator. Scalpel, please, nurse. No, not that one; the one with the corkscrew on the end.”  

‘Meet you at Pump at 4.45?’

“What’s going on? You’re operating on my son without my permission? Don’t you realise he’s got threadworm?” 

‘Sure. If I’m late you could leave it with Mr Rith, he’s pretty reliable.’

“If you hadn’t been spending all morning sexting with your not-very-secret lover, you’d have noticed from his chart that he had threadworm and was therefore unable to undergo surgery.” “You leave Clarinda out of this.” “Do you realise what could happen to this hospital if you…”

Then Belinda was back at him again: ‘This isn’t a Hank thing, is it?’

“Eureka! I’ve got to get back to the hospital. I just realised that if he’s got threadworm then the fruccipatory nerve will be inverted, leading to a reduced lymph count. It must be Fliscosity Syndrome!”

‘Sorta, yeah.’

‘He’s mad, you realise that, don’t you?’

‘Sorta, yeah.’

Continues next week  

 

 

 

Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in Penh-dacity: Bag Man, the third part of a new fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, taken possession of a heart-stoppingly large amount of money, and may still have a chance with someone who took his number last night. It’s been a busy morning so far. Now read on.

……

An old man struggled past the Running Dog, leaning heavily on a stick, every few steps stopping to spit absently towards the gutter. In the opposite direction, a coconut seller pulled his cart, singing his wares in an irritatingly perfect repetition.

New message. Nancy. Desmond finished his beer with a swig and opened the message. ‘Missed u last nite ☹ thinking boat trip at 5 with some people, r u up? xx Nancy (from Humdinger).’ Hmm.

He slid his phone into his pocket, paid the bill, picked up the backpack – surprisingly, he realised, the weight of a two-year-old child – and eased as casually as he could into the street, sweating just a little more than usual. Ignoring the calls from the motodops, he walked, regretting the beers, at least the second one, and trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.

After a block or so it seemed the best thing to do would be to have one of those box-set weekends where you ignore the rest of the world and consume several series of television while lying completely still apart from visiting the fridge for more beer. He peeled down to the riverside and into the nearest DVD shop, where he grabbed all eight seasons of the medical drama Dr Cranky, five seasons of the cops and robbers show On The Side Of The Angels, and a complete box of the legal comedy drama In Litigation We Trust. He’d just add it to the invoice, he figured.

Then he treated himself to a tuk tuk back home. Status update: ‘More hungover now than when I woke up but feeling important.’ By the time he was crossing Monivong, five likes, two responses: ‘treasure that feeling, it’ll be gone tomorrow’; ‘I was feeling important, but then Important got out of bed and I felt Grumpy.’

Armed with beers and visual entertainment, he struggled through the front gate and was picking his way between the sniffing dogs and randomly parked motorbikes towards the staircase when the nephew of the landlord appeared; the English-speaking one, naked from the waist up and belly scratching, in the doorway. Behind him a television flickered and blared while granny stared blankly towards the street.
“Maybe today come fix water.”
The shower head had been leaking for several weeks. Approaches had been made, negotiations had set in. Landlords everywhere: so tight they squeak when they walk. Now it was down to timing.
“What time?”
“Maybe after this afternoon.”
“Maybe? Or for sure?”
“Maybe. My friend call me.”
Landlords everywhere: I’ve got a mate…
“Okay. I’ll be home.”
“You not home okay, you leave key.”
Whatever. Upstairs, put down bag, put down beers, fish for keys. Three more likes, another response: ‘I always thought you were a dwarf.’

Swedes asleep, no signs of attempted escape or cabin fever so far. Beer placed in fridge. Laptop found under pile of laundry. AC on, headphones in, DVD started, beer open. Two more likes, three more morning-caffeine-inspired responses, each sillier than the last. The brain of Desmond commences to operate on a higher plane.

Oh shit how did I get into this what if I lose the bag jesus where did he get a shitload of money why me I guess I’m trustworthy not such a bad fellow buy my share of rounds what the hell so shall I stay in until I get his message? What about this Nancy bird, wouldn’t mind a boat trip screw the shower hell I should ask Belinda he didn’t say don’t tell anyone…

New message, to Belinda: ‘Need advice. Conflicting priorities. Large amount of money to look after for a few days. Invited on boat trip by random connect from last nite. Fancy my chances. Your thoughts in 140 characters or less.’

Two more likes, one more response, conversation heading swiftly sideways. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda.
New message, to Belinda:‘Well?’

Continues next week  

 

Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in the second part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, recovered a text from last night and had a call from trouble-causing Hank so he’s heading for Riverside – and he’s only been awake for 25 minutes. Now read on.

…..

The Running Dog was an elegantly seedy bar a couple of blocks back from the river, run by a bald, chain-smoking Belgian named Philippe and his dog, Rex, who treated his staff like princesses but refused to serve Spaniards (Basques and Catalans excepted). The red, stained walls were decorated with vintage propaganda posters and movie stills. Desmond sat outside with a beer, smelling the morning garbage, waiting for Hank.

He and Hank had a strange history. Desmond struggled to remember whether he had ever seen him in daylight. They had first met in Happy Joy Club, a now disappeared bar that Hank loved precisely because he claimed it had the saddest-looking bar girls in the city. “Pure misery! In the Happy Joy Club! It’s too banal, too perfect!”

Desmond had shuffled in one midnight soon after arriving in the city and they had struck up an acquaintance at the bar, Hank holding forth on a variety of subjects from phone companies to contraception and answering Desmond’s new-arrival questions with a blend of fantasy, mythology and rumour. The older man’s English Colonial façade, fenestrated with thick glasses, suggested gargoyles dangling from the walls of a Norman castle and yet he was able to blend into the crowd faultlessly. Perhaps it was the white suit that one always thought of him wearing, even though he never did.

They ran into each other every few weeks and loosely called each other friends. More than once they had stumbled down Street 51 at dawn in pursuit of the next one. The beer, like all morning beers, was going down disturbingly quickly. ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there?  xx Nancy.’ Options/new contact: Nancy; saved.

“Desi!” Hank was coming from the north, his ambling walk suggesting that he was swinging a cane, though of course he was not. He sat himself down and ordered with a flick of his wrist. “How are you, my dear man?”

“Been better. Been worse.” “Excellent,” said Hank and simultaneously there was the swift appearance of a tall glass of ice filled with two strange-coloured liqueurs arranging themselves around each other. “Ahhh,” he sighed at the first sip. Inspired, Desmond ordered another draught.

Time stopped. Hank farted quietly and gave a little smile. The two men gazed at each other through sunglasses in masculine indifference. A motodop rolled to a stop and sat astride his machine, sucking at a straw stuck into a small plastic bag of undefined liquid. “I need your assistance, Desi,” said Hank suddenly. “I hope I can count on you.”

“Sure, whatever, man. What’s up?” “I’ve got to go to Bangkok on business for a couple of days and I need you to look after this.” Hank nonchalantly patted the backpack he had casually dropped between their cane recliners. “I don’t want to leave it in my apartment. Not even in the safe. And I can’t take it with me.”

“Sure,” said Desmond. Then after a beat it occurred to him to ask: “What’s in it?” Their voices had instinctively dropped low.

“Some money.”

“How much?”

“You don’t want to know. “

“I don’t?”

Hank turned and lowered his glasses like a Bond villain. One of the old, classic ones, nondescriptly handsome but acting poorly. “You don’t. A heart-stoppingly large amount of money.”

It got quiet again. More drinking. The bag was black with grey trim, sturdy but still portable. An unassuming padlock hung from the zipper carelessly, hardly worth noticing.  “I’m just going to get up and walk down the street shortly. I’ll call you in a couple of days. I know this may inconvenience you a little, but remember that if I can afford to leave this behind with you, I can afford to pay you handsomely for your time.” Again, the lowering of the glasses. It was less dramatic this time, but just as effective in keeping Desmond quiet.

Hank pulled himself up out of the recliner, drained the last from his glass, rolled the ice cubes in his mouth and spat them into the street, and then with a step or two and a “Tuk-tuk, sir?” was gone.

Leaving Desmond alone with the remains of his beer and a heart-stoppingly large amount of money.  Then the phone buzzed at him. New message. Nancy.
Continues next week  

 

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