What I did on my Holiday

WHAT I DID ON MY HOLIDAYMIKE MACBETH

WHAT I DIDON MY HOLIDAY by Mike Macbeth 1

Text copyright 2016 Mike Macbeth All Rights reserved 2

For Pen...with thanks for all her love, help and encouragement 3

PART 1ENGLAND 4

1 ‘Thailand?’ the old lady says, her face creasing with disap-proval. ‘Isn’t that where they have all those women?’ I’d hoped to avoid this. I just want to give her my key andget on my way. The plane leaves in less than four hours and Ihave to pick Ted up on the way. ‘I’m told it’s a beautiful country Mrs. Benson,’ I say. ‘Lotsof culture. Temples and stuff.’ ‘I’ve seen it on the telly,’ she says stiffly. ‘All those mengoing over there to have sex with women. It’s disgusting!’ ‘Not me,’ I assure her. ‘It’s just a holiday. Sun, sea and sand,you know?’ ‘They have sex with young girls,’ she goes on, her eyesnarrowing suspiciously. ‘Underage girls.’ ‘I’m not interested in underage girls, Mrs. Benson,’ I tellher, then I try a joke. ‘I don’t even like children.’ Not a clever thing to say to the wrinkly old crone wholives across the landing and watches my comings and goingsthrough the letter box. ‘This is the key to the front door,’ I tell her, desperatelychanging the subject. ‘The cat food is under the sink. She usesthe cat flap, so you don’t have to let her in and out, okay? Andthank you again for agreeing to look after her while I’m away.I really appreciate it.’ She hesitates a long time before taking the key, her eyesboring into me like she’s taking a reading of my soul. 5

‘I’ve got to get going,’ I say. ‘I’m running late. Don’t wantto miss out on all those temples and things.’ She watches me all the way down the stairs. I know she’llbe in my flat the moment the front door closes, going throughmy stuff, looking for evidence of sexual perversion. Well shewon’t find any. I’m not a pervert. I don’t even have a sex life,not since Helen and I split up almost a year ago. And I honest-ly don’t intend to sleep with any prostitutes, regardless of whatthe other lads do. God knows why I agreed to go to Pattayawith them in the first place. I mean, Pattaya! Sex capital ofThailand, itself the sex capital of the world, or so people keeptelling me. I climb gratefully into my Audi and head north, out ofBrighton on the A23. Destination: Thailand, via Fuller Broth-ers Ltd, Sports and Social Club, Crawley. But I have to pick Ted up first. Ted’s the nearest thing Ihave to a friend at Fullers. He’s in his early fifties, old enoughto be my dad, but we get on pretty well. His job is Produc-tion Manager, while I’m the company accountant, so we bothfall under the heading of middle management, i.e. we’re notallowed to take any important decisions but the shit comes ourway when things go wrong. Ted’s a good bloke. A Northerner, he’s a little over mediumheight and quite a bit over medium weight, with a ruddy, out-doors face that sits oddly with his distinguished-looking silverhair. He’s also standing in the rain without a coat on. I’d assumed I was picking him up from his house so I’msurprised to see him waiting on the corner of his street. Therain isn’t really trying, just quietly drizzling, but Ted is dressedfor Thailand in a short-sleeved shirt and fawn-coloured light-weight trousers. His jacket, a windcheater-type thing, as wornby the older man, is draped over the suitcase standing by his 6

feet. He’s shivering in the cold October air and I wonder whythe silly sod doesn’t put the damn thing on. ‘What’s this?’ I call as I draw up alongside him. ‘Singing inthe rain?’ ‘Hello, Mike. More like bloody crying in the rain,’ hemutters as I jump out and open the boot. He picks up the suit-case and the jacket falls away revealing the word ‘FORNICA-TOR’ written in large letters on the side. The suitcase is paleblue and the letters are big and black, written with a permanentink marker. ‘Problems?’ I ask, and he grimaces. ‘Joyce.’ I nod my understanding. Joyce, Ted’s wife, a one wordexplanation for all his troubles. ‘Not too happy about you going?’ He flips the heavy case into the boot and I see the other side.It says, ‘CHILD-MOLESTER’. ‘She’s giving me Hell,’ he tells me as we drive off. ‘She’sconvinced I’m going for the ‘Chinese whores’ as she puts it.’He shakes his big head. ‘I ask you, what would I do with aChinese whore?’ ‘Same as anyone else?’ I suggest, smiling. Ted gives me asevere look and I lose the smile and make a mental note to cutout the wisecracks. I’m not very funny at the best of times, buttoday I’m hitting rock bottom. ‘She’s been on at me for weeks,’ he says. ‘Ever since Isigned up for the bloody trip. She just won’t stop nagging. AndI think she’s been putting stuff in my food.’ I glance at him to see if he’s joking then return my eyes tothe road. ‘What sort of stuff?’ I’m thinking ground glass or ratpoison. ‘Laxative,’ he says, and I try not to smile, but it doesn’twork because he says to me: ‘It’s not funny Mike. I’ve been 7

to the loo three times already this morning. Can you imaginewhat it’ll be like on the plane?’ ‘Sorry Ted,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to take the piss.’ And then,because I just can’t help myself, I add: ‘No shit.’ ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’ ‘Why are you going then, if she’s so dead set against it?’ ‘Got to, haven’t I? Member of the Social Committee. Got toshow solidarity in the face of opposition.’ His face falls as headds: ‘Leastways, that’s what Benny says.’ Benny being Benny Slipshaw, chairman of the Sports andSocial Club Committee. Also works shop steward and a shiftylittle runt. But he has The Gift. He can talk you into anything,given half a chance. I should know. Benny is the reason I’mgoing too. ‘How did he hook you?’ I ask. ‘He threatened to expel me from the darts team,’ Ted says,making it sound like tarring-and-feathering. ‘And the poolteam.’ ‘The ultimate deterrent,’ I quip, but Ted is in no mood to beamused. ‘It’s all right for you,’ he says. ‘You can go anywhere. Youcan drink in one of the pubs in town, or even go to a club.For me, it’s the social club or nothing. Joyce won’t let me goanywhere else. She reckons I’ll fall into the company of loosewomen.’ ‘Plenty of loose women at the social club,’ I point out.I’m thinking about the women on the production line. Theyoutnumber the men five to one and they like to lighten theworking day with the sort of sexual banter that would get themfired if they were male. Frankly, they terrify me. ‘Ah yes.’ Ted says, ‘But Joyce has her spies there, doesn’tshe? Nothing goes on in that clubhouse that she doesn’thear about sooner or later. That’s why she’s so down on this 8

holiday. No women along, see, so no spies.’ ‘Better check she hasn’t bugged your suitcase,’ I say, andfor a moment he looks as though he’s taking me seriously.Then he relapses into gloom and we continue our journey insilence. I feel sorry for old Ted. I’ve only met his wife once, at acompany social thing. I’m thirty two and she’s forty seven orthereabouts so it’s hard for me to see her as a woman, if youknow what I mean, but I reckon even if I were Ted’s age she’dstill be unappetizing. She’s small and stringy with a face likea bad smell. I can still hear her sharp little voice asking: ‘Areyou married?’ Ted had just that second introduced us and it was her firstquestion. ‘Divorced actually,’ I told her. Her face pulled itself into a sneer. ‘There’s too muchdivorce about these days, if you ask me. Men deserting theirwives. Disgraceful, I call it.’ ‘She deserted me,’ I told her mildly. ‘Then you should have treated her better,’ she spat, and ourconversation was at an end. I can just imagine the roasting shegave Ted when he told her he was going to Thailand. We’re on the A23 still heading North. Fuller’s is in Crawley,nice and convenient for Gatwick airport. It’s a shame then, thatwe’re flying out of Heathrow. The trouble, as I understand it, began last year. I’ve onlybeen with the firm for six months but I heard all about it fromTed. Apparently, in the good old days, the social club outingwas usually a weekend in Blackpool. Then last year thecommittee got ambitious and organised a week in Lanzarote.The married men took their wives of course and a few of thesingle ones took their girlfriends, but some didn’t. When theparty arrived back terrible tales were told of ‘going’s-on’. Two 9

engagements foundered and at least one marriage was set onthe road to divorce. Undeterred, or perhaps deliberately aiming for confron-tation, the committee announced their plans for this year’souting, something a bit special, a fortnight in sunny Pattaya.That put the cat firmly among the pigeons. ‘What time is it?’ Ted asks. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not late. It’s only a couple more miles.’ Ted’s a bit of a worrier. When the destination for this year’s outing was announcedthere was uproar, but the committee stood firm. The women,office and shop floor workers for once solidly united, respond-ed with a boycott. Wives and girlfriends put their collectivefeet down and one by one their menfolk dropped out. That’swhen I received a visit from Benny. ‘You not coming on the trip, Mike?’ he said, making itsound as though he’d just heard. I’d already had six weeks tosign up and hadn’t bothered. ‘Don’t fancy it.’ ‘Gonna miss out on all the fun.’ ‘Not my idea of fun.’ ‘What, you don’t like women?’ ‘I like women. I just don’t care for prostitutes.’ ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, a little huffily, and left. But that wasn’t the end of it. The next day I got called intoArnold’s office. Arnold Fuller is the Managing Director, son ofour illustrious founder, and my boss. ‘I hear you’re thinking of going on this Thailand trip,’ hesaid to me. ‘Am I? Who told you that?’ ‘I was just chatting about it with Benny Slipshaw at lunchtoday. Bit of a balls-up if you ask me. The women are up inarms. It’s not good for morale.’ He shook his head sadly, his 10

heavy jowls shaking, then added, ‘Or production. We’re downten percent on last month.’ ‘I know. I produced the figures.’ ‘Can’t stop it of course. Nothing to do with the company.Social club business, paid for with their own money. Not ourplace to dictate policy.’ I was wondering why he was telling me all this when hefinally got to the point. ‘That’s why I thought it was a good idea…’ he said, ‘…yourgoing along. Member of management, you know. Maybe keepthings under control. Make sure no-one gets arrested for drugsmuggling or…or…whatever. God only knows what they’llget up to if they don’t have someone responsible with them.’ ‘Ted’s going. He’s management grade.’ ‘Ah yes, Ted. Good man, of course. And a damned fineforeman. Keeps production tight. But not exactly a leader ofmen, wouldn’t you agree? Too keen to be one of the boys.That’s why I thought you’d be perfect.’ ‘Because I’m not one of the boys?’ ‘Well you’re not, are you, let’s face it. You’re a white collarworker. A professional man.’ ‘But I’m a member of the social club. I even play on thepool team.’ ‘I know. And I’m all in favour of it. Good to have a repre-sentative of management in the social club. Same as with thistrip.’ ‘Actually, I’d already decided not to go.’ ‘Really?’ His face fell and he let out a heavy sigh. ‘Oh well,your decision of course. Can’t say I blame you. Not my cup oftea either, to be frank.’ And that was that. No covert threats to my job or mychances of promotion. No emotional blackmail. I could go ornot as I pleased. 11

In the end I agreed to go, though quite why I’m still notsure. I suppose I could blame it on Benny. He called into myoffice again a few days later and dropped a brochure on mydesk. ‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘Holiday brochure. Thailand. Thought you might like toread it.’ He gave me a sly grin and plumped down into myspare chair. Warily I picked up the brochure and flipped through thepages until I came to the ones extolling the virtues of Pattaya.The photos showed golden beaches with bikini clad westernwomen splashing in the waves while speedboats plied the bluewaters of the bay. ‘Where are the prostitutes?’ I said. ‘You what?’ ‘I thought they were Pattaya’s main attraction. But there’sno pictures of prostitutes here.’ ‘It’s not all prostitutes!’ He tried to sound hurt, as though I’dinsulted him. ‘There’s lots of other attractions. Water sports.Sunbathing. Stuff like that.’ I dropped the brochure back on my desk. ‘No thanks.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll leave it anyway. You might change yourmind.’ He was half way out the door when I stopped him. ‘Benny.Tell me something. Why the hell are you so keen for me to goalong?’ He stepped back in and shut the door behind him, giving mean appraising look, trying to decide, I expect, whether I wouldswallow a lie. Then he seemed to conclude that the situationwas desperate enough for the truth. ‘Numbers,’ he said, in ahalf-whisper. ‘Numbers? You need my accounting skills?’ ‘Nah. Group discount. We get a discount for more than six.’ 12

‘Ah, I see. And you have how many?’ ‘You’d be number seven.’ ‘How big a discount?’ I could see him hesitate. Benny’s not the type to give outinformation unless it’s strictly necessary. Necessary to achievehis ends, that is. But he needed me on board. ‘Ten percent.’ hesaid, glancing over his shoulder at the closed office door. ‘Ten percent off the published price?’ There’d been a leafleton the notice board in the canteen for almost two months. ‘Nah. Price on the board was after the discount. Didn’t thinkwe’d have any difficulty getting the numbers, did we?’ ‘So what happens if you don’t get your seventh man?’ ‘All the lads’ll have to pay extra.’ His voice became plain-tive. ‘It’s a pretty expensive package as it is. Some of the ladswon’t be able to afford to enjoy themselves if they have tocough up the extra.’ ‘I see.’ I gave it a moment’s consideration. ‘Listen Benny.No promises, understand, but I’ll think about it. Give me a fewdays.’ The next day I signed up. Why? Call it lethargy, if you will. I had a couple of weeksholiday due and I knew that if I didn’t go to Thailand I’dprobably end up spending them in front of the telly. Helen, myex-wife, used to arrange our holidays. She was very good likethat. Without her prompting I just can’t seem to get around tothings on my own. So now, by default more than by decision, I’m on my wayto Thailand and England is helping me feel okay about it byproviding a cold, wet and generally miserable October day tosee us on our way. * 13

2 ‘Here we are,’ I tell Ted unnecessarily as we enter the famil-iar gates of Fuller Brothers Ltd. I follow the driveway round the side of the factory to theclubhouse located on the far side of the car park. It’s Saturdaymorning so the wide expanse of wet tarmac is empty save forthe few cars belonging to those going on the trip. Ted surveys the little line of vehicles morosely. ‘We’re thelast,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not late. The minibus isn’t here yet.’ We lug our cases out of the boot and hurry through the rainto the clubhouse. A gust of warm air greets us as we pushthrough the double doors. We enter the main bar and five facesturn towards us. Five unhappy faces. Benny is nearest us, sitting with a half-empty pint on thebar before him and an empty-pint expression on his face. Nextto him is Ray, his best mate. Ray’s a thickset man in his earlyforties, a skilled machine operator with more than ten years onthe job. Ray fancies himself as a bit of a hard man and rightnow he looks like he’d like to punch someone. Beyond him is Mean Bob. Bob must be the wrong side offifty and looks like he’s stuck in the Fifties. He’s the only manI know who still slicks his hair back with Brylcreme. He has anarrow, grey face with black eyes and eyebrows that meet inthe middle. He’s wearing a scowl, but then he always does. The last man at the bar is John. John-boy they call him, 14

big and fair and good-looking, but not too bright. In his earlytwenties, he’s the youngest member of the group but at themoment he looks like a ten year old who’s just been told thetruth about Father Christmas. Separate from the others, pacing the floor and lookingeven unhappier than the rest, is Adrian Prewitt. Adrian is thecompany rep. He’s also the best looking man in the room bya wide margin. Despite this, he’s very popular with the lads.He’s one of those life-and-soul-of-the-party types with anendless store of jokes, mostly blue. Today, he looks like he’sattending a wake rather than a party. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ Ted says, and I give him a look. ‘Doesn’t bleeding matter,’ says Benny, his voice dead. ‘Weain’t going.’ Ted’s face drops. ‘What?’ he says, ‘What d’you mean?’ ‘Like I say. We ain’t going.’ ‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘What’s happened?’ ‘Ask him,’ Benny says, hooking a disgusted thumb atAdrian. ‘It’s not my fault,’ the salesman bleats, still pacing up anddown. ‘I don’t have any control over the bloody woman.’ ‘Who are we talking about?’ I ask. ‘His wife, Linda,’ Benny says. ‘Stupid cow.’ Adrian looks uncomfortable, as though he can’t decidewhether to stand up for his wife or cry, ‘Hear, hear!’ I know Linda, slightly. I met her at the same function whereI met Ted’s wife. I remember her as a pretty woman but pasther best and running rather to fat. She seemed pleasant enoughthough, so I can’t imagine what she’s done to bring down thisdegree of scorn on her head. ‘What’s Linda got to do with this?’ I ask. ‘She’s got the tickets,’ Benny snarls. ‘And she ain’t handing‘em over.’ 15

‘What the hell is she doing with our tickets? Adrian takes up the story. ‘She works for a travel agent,’ heexplains. ‘We booked the flights through her. Got a rather gooddeal actually.’ His face brightens momentarily as he thinksabout the ‘rather good deal’ we got, then falls again when heremembers we won’t be taking advantage of it. ‘I never ex-pected anything like this to happen,’ he moans. ‘So what has happened, precisely?’ Adrian is about to answer but Benny butts in: ‘She foundout about Romeo here…’ he casts a scornful look at Adrian,‘….and Rebecca, didn’t she? Threw him out the bleedin’house. Two fucking days ago that was, but this is the first wehear about it.’ ‘I thought it would blow over,’ Adrian whines. ‘She alwaysforgives me in the end.’ ‘In the end is no bloody good to us, is it?’ Benny rages. ‘Notwhen she’s got our tickets and our flight leaves in three and ahalf hours.’ ‘Rebecca?’ I say, still trying to catch up. ‘Who the hell isReb…?’ Then the penny drops. ‘You don’t mean Arnold’ssecretary? But…but she’s only been with the firm…what…afortnight?’ ‘He’s a real quick worker is our Adrian,’ Benny sneers. ‘I’m really sorry lads,’ Adrian says. ‘I never thought she’dfind out.’ ‘But I always do, don’t I Adrian?’ Our seven heads turn as one, swivelling towards thedoorway where Linda is silhouetted against the murky day-light. ‘Linda!’ Adrian cries, the relief melting his face. ‘Darling!Oh, thank God you came. Have you got the tickets? I promiseI’ll never look at another woman again. On my honour…’ ‘Shut up Adrian,’ she says. Her soft, pudgy face manages to 16

look hard and her voice lashes him, but even from this distanceI can see that she’s trembling. Benny slips off his stool and moves towards her, arms out-stretched as though to welcome or comfort her. ‘Linda, doll. Iknew you’d see sense. You was just making us sweat, wasn’tyou? Now if you’ll just give us the tickets…’ ‘Fuck off Benny!’ she snarls, and the little man takes a stepbackwards. ‘You’re as bad as he is,’ she tells him, her voice rasping.‘You all are. You encourage him. Oh yes you do. I know whatyou say when I’m not around.’ She suddenly adopts a nasalCockney accent as she says: ‘Go on Adrian. Give her one forme mate. Don’t worry about the missus. She’ll never find out.’ She reverts to her normal voice. ‘Well I did find out, andnow you’re going to pay for it.’ Despite our predicament, I can’t help smiling. Her impres-sion of Benny was really rather good. She got the right toneof macho bullshit, and the words rang horribly true. I feela sudden stab of sympathy for this woman, who knows herhusband so well, but still puts up with him. I decide to playmediator. ‘Linda,’ I say quietly. ‘I know you’re angry. You haveevery right to be. Adrian’s behaved like a prat. He deserveswhatever punishment you decide to impose on him. But youcan’t punish the rest of us too. You can’t keep those ticketsand deprive everyone of their holiday. It simply isn’t fair. Youknow that, don’t you?’ ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your precious tickets,’ she says,giving us a scathing look. ‘If…’ She pauses dramatically and the room goes very quiet,everyone waiting for that ‘if’ to explode. ‘…if… you agree to my terms.’ ‘Terms?’ Benny cries. ‘What’s this about bleedin’ terms?’ 17

‘My terms,’ she repeats stoutly, then looks momentarilyuncertain. ‘Or rather…my term…there’s only one.’ She pushesthe uncertainty down and her voice hardens again as she con-tinues: ‘But if you don’t agree, you don’t go.’ ‘Now listen here,’ Benny begins, his voice rising. ‘Them’sour tickets, paid for and bought. You can’t…’ ‘Yes I can!’ she snaps back. ‘I’ve got the tickets. Andthey’re non-refundable. The plane leaves in less than fourhours so you better make your minds up fast. You agree to myterms….term….or you go home and watch football on the boxfor two weeks. It’s up to you.’ The room goes very quiet then. The big clock ticking overthe bar simply serves to remind us of the urgency of our situa-tion. We all look at one another, each man waiting for someoneelse to deal with the situation. No-one steps forward. ‘What do you want?’ I ask quietly. She turns and looks atme, the light of triumph in her fierce blue eyes. She nods dis-dainfully at her husband. ‘He…’ she says, ‘…my husband…the human prick…’ Adrian opens his mouth to protest, butshuts it quickly when she strafes him with her eyes. ‘…hedoesn’t get to go.’ Adrian looks as though he’s been hit, but Benny just shrugsand says, in a smooth, comforting tone: ‘Linda, my love. I un-derstand your feelings. Believe me I do. As Mike says, Ade’sbeen a stupid cunt, no two ways about it, but that ticket cost alot of money. It’s a shame to let it go to waste.’ ‘It won’t go to waste,’ she says, and her voice tremblesslightly as she delivers her bombshell. ‘I’m going with you.’ The silence that meets this remark is total. I cast a quickglance around the room and see the same expression on everyface: blank horror. ‘But…you can’t…’ Benny starts to say. Linda cuts him off. ‘Yes I can, she says, ‘Otherwise, you 18

can all kiss your holiday goodbye.’ ‘The ticket,’ Ted says, coming alive for the first time inminutes. ‘Linda, love, the ticket’s in Adrian’s name.’ ‘Was in his name,’ she says. ‘I changed it yesterday.’ ‘Darling…’ Adrian tries, but she rounds on him and spits,‘Shut up you…you…just shut up! I don’t want to hear anotherword of your lies.’ Her face is livid with rage and fear, and I realise what it’scosting her to come here and face up to these men like this.Oddly enough, I don’t feel part of it. I feel somehow neutral. ‘Linda,’ I say. ‘I don’t understand something. Why onearth do you want to come to Thailand? You know wherewe’re going don’t you? You can imagine what it’ll be like. Sowhy…? ‘So’s he can’t go. And besides, it’s years since I’ve had aproper holiday. He’s always going off on his ‘business’ trips…bonking trips more like…but I always get left at home. Wellnot this time.’ ‘We don’t want you along,’ Benny says bluntly. ‘You won’tenjoy it. Stuck in a hotel with six blokes who don’t want youthere? Hardly a recipe for fun, is it?’ ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to be with you either. As soon aswe get off that plane, I don’t want to see any of you until theday we fly back. So, what’s it to be? Do I go, or do we all stayhere?’ The sound of a diesel engine reaches us from outside, fol-lowed by the toot of a horn. ‘The bus is here,’ she says. ‘Better make your minds up.’ Everyone looks at Benny, our illustrious leader. He in turnlooks at Adrian. ‘Sorry mate,’ he says. ‘But it’s your own bleedin’ fault.’ * 19

PART 2PATTAYA 20

3 I come awake with a start. For a moment, I don’t knowwhere I am. I have no idea what time it is. The room is brightwith sunshine but I’m cold, shivering cold. Then I remember:I’m in Thailand. That’s it, I’m in Thailand and it’s so cold myballs are trying to climb up inside my body. Is it supposed tobe like this? I raise myself groggily into a sitting position and lookaround. I’m lying on a cheap double bed that creaks when Imove, covered only with a thin sheet that’s been through thewash too many times. Underneath, I’m naked, so there’s rathera lot of gooseflesh on display. In the corner of the room, the airconditioning unit rumbles like a London black cab in neutral,pushing out enough chilled air to riffle the pages of the bookI’ve left on the bedside cabinet. I get out of bed, still half asleep, and pad gummy-eyedacross the room. I attack the air-conditioner, pressing buttonsand twiddling dials until the noise winds down like a jet planeafter landing. The heat begins to creep back into the room evenbefore I make it back to bed. I roll onto the mattress and dragthe thin sheet around me. I doze off and wake an unknownamount of time later with sweat crawling on my body. With the air-con off, the room is quiet as well as stifling hot.I lie in my sweat and try to get my thoughts in order. I groan as I remember the long journey from England. First,the flight to Bangkok, a gruelling thirteen hours of sleepless 21

discomfort. Not only physical discomfort, squeezed into aneconomy-fare seat that wouldn’t allow me to stretch my legsout, but mental discomfort as well. By democratic vote thelads decided that I should be the one to sit next to Linda. Forthirteen hours she never spoke a word to me, just sat and ema-nated hatred from every pore of her body. Impossible as it was to ignore one another, we spent thetime locked in a little bubble of hate-filled silence while else-where the lads attacked the plane’s booze supply with gustoand generally had a pretty good time. As the long flight wore on I ached for sleep, but it justwould not come. I remember sitting in the darkened plane, lis-tening to the combined snores of three hundred passengers andwondering why the hell I’d ever signed up for this holiday. Finally, we arrived at Bangkok airport and transferred to ourflight to Pattaya. On arrival at Pattaya airport, we piled intothree taxis - three because none of the others would share onewith Linda. The ride into town is just a blur now, a vague impressionof heat, dusty-looking palm trees, buzzing motor scooters andlittle brown faces chattering in a strange, sing-song language.And then we were here, The Royal Palace Hotel, Pattaya, andit didn’t matter that the place looked like a third rate Frenchpension, or that I was given the room next to Linda whileeveryone else was stationed on the next floor up. None of it mattered, so long as I could climb into bed andsleep for a week. I remember dropping my case on the floor,turning the air conditioning up to ‘max’, stripping my sweatyclothes from my sweaty body and falling into bed. And now it’s…morning? Evening? I have no idea. Mywatch is still peddling English hours and my mind is toogroggy to make the translation to Asian time. I prop myself up against the thin pillows and take a good 22

look at my room for the first time. The word that comes tomind is ‘shabby’. The walls look like they’re made fromwhitewashed cardboard. The floor is covered with scuffed greylino tiles. The furniture consists of a cupboard just inside thedoor for hanging clothes, a three-drawer dressing table withfaded mirror and the bedside cabinet. All are made from cheapwood, the varnish cracked and peeling. Most of the handlesare missing. The room itself is fairly large. It’s a corner room, doubleaspect, with two wide windows providing me with a view of…God knows what. They’re so dirty I can’t see out of them fromhere. Their upper parts are fitted with slatted panes of glass thatcan be swivelled, so I get off the bed again and swivel them. Istand on tiptoe to peer out, but the view isn’t worth it: a vistaof ugly roof tops and broken-leafed palm trees. The air comingthrough the opened panes is hotter than the stuff already inhere, and brings with it the distinctive smell of Thailand:rotten foliage, stagnant water, garbage and food. My stomachturns over and I quickly shut the window and check out thebathroom. Here I receive the first piece of good news: the toilet is awestern affair, not the hole in the ground I’d been fearing.No bath, but the shower works and the water is only slightlybrown. It never gets more than slightly warm either, even with thetap turned to maximum, but I don’t care. I stand under it for along time, letting the cool stream wash the sweat of flight andsleep from my body. Then I dry myself on a towel that seems,if anything, thinner than the sheet on the bed, and climb intoclean clothes. I feel about a thousand times better. I’m about to complete the process of rebirth my brushingmy teeth when I remember Benny’s stern warnings about 23

drinking the water. Shit! I’ve forgotten to buy any bottled stuff.After a moment’s indecision I brush them anyway, taking carenot to swallow. It leaves me with a strong peppermint taste inmy mouth and a white tongue but it’s a definite improvement. I check my watch again and find that it’s half past eleven inEngland, though whether that means the good citizens backhome are tucked up in bed or deciding what they should havefor lunch I’m not sure. I wonder what I’m supposed to do now.Did the lads make some arrangement? Was I supposed to meetthem? If so, where? I decide the best bet is the hotel bar and head downstairs. Sure enough, Ray, John-Boy and Mean Bob are at the bar. ‘Hello lads,’ I say, slipping onto a stool beside them andsignalling the bartender, a pretty Thai girl who looks like sheshould be an air hostess or something. ‘John? Ray? Can I getyou one?’ ‘No thanks, Mike,’ John says, holding up his near-full pint.‘Just got them in.’ Ray also waves the offer away, but Bob is quick to say, ‘I’mready for another.’ He finishes his beer in one long swallowand places the empty glass before me. I order him a pint and abottle of Bud for myself. ‘Cheers, Mike,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you one later.’ I nod as though I believe him, though I know his reputa-tion. ‘So what time is it?’ I ask. ‘My watch still thinks it’s inEngland.’ Ray lifts a hairy forearm and reads the time from a heavy,metal-banded thing with lots of knobs on. ‘The time in Thai-land,’ he says in a funny, robotic voice, ‘Is six forty-threeprecisely. Beep, beep beep.’ ‘Thanks.’ I adjust my watch. I’ve been asleep for abouteight hours, but jet lag and exhaustion are still making megroggy. I decide to go easy on the booze today. 24

The bar girl places my drink before me and I settle back onmy stool, taking a moment to savour the look of this, my firstbeer in Thailand. The condensation on the outside of the bottlelooks so good I want to lick it off before I drink the contents.I resist the temptation, but the first sip of ice-cold lager runsdown my throat like fire. I swill the next sip around my mouth,washing away the taste of toothpaste, and sigh with pleasure. ‘Benny about?’ I ask. ‘Or Ted.’ ‘Nah. They’re still in their pits,’ Ray replies. ‘Lazy bastards.Wasting good drinking time.’ ‘How about Linda. Is she up and about yet?’ ‘Who gives a fuck?’ Ray says. ‘Just asking,’ I mutter. I turn to John. ‘What d’you think ofthe hotel?’ ‘It’s okay,’ John says, but Ray overrides him: ‘It’s a shit-hole,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen public lavs that were posher than thisplace.’ Clearly, Ray’s not in the best of moods. Hung over, I expect,from all that free booze he consumed on the plane. Serves himright. I look around for a neutral topic of conversation andnotice an expensive looking camera lying on the bar in front ofRay. It’s not the typical compact that most people carry thesedays if they want something that takes a better picture thantheir phone can manage. It’s a digital SLR, a semi-professionalmodel. ‘Yours?’ I ask with a nod in its direction. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Planning on boring the folks back home with your holidaysnaps?’ ‘Videos,’ he corrects me gruffly. ‘And they won’t be boredwith the videos I’m going to make. They’ll be fucking queuinground the block. Invitation only, it’ll be.’ ‘Ah, I see.’ 25

‘Yeah? Well don’t get your hopes up. You’re not invited.’ ‘Fine by me.’ I’ve had just about enough of Ray, and it’sonly day one. I turn my attention to the street outside. The hotel stands on the junction of two roads and the baroccupies most of the ground floor. It’s open on two sides,providing a perfect place to sit and watch the multi-colouredparade of people passing by. Mostly, they’re girls. All I’ve heard about since I signed up for this trip are thegirls. Their reputation has spread around the globe: beautiful,available, cheap and poxed. Everyone wanted to tell me aboutthe girls, and I listened with half an ear, like I do when thetalk turns to football. I don’t play, and I don’t play around, so Iwasn’t much interested. Of one thing I was absolutely certain.I wouldn’t be sleeping with any prostitutes, no matter howbeautiful they might be. But now I’m here, and for the first time I begin to realisethat it’s going to take will power to keep my nose out of thehoney pot. I can’t believe how uniformly pretty they are. They strollalong in twos and threes, smiling and chattering in theirstrange, high pitched voices, handbags swinging from smoothbrown shoulders, hips swaying inside short skirts or tight,figure-hugging jeans. Despite the heat, they manage to lookcool and sexy. I watch them with interest and the beginning of arousal.Apart from their clothes, they all look pretty much the same tome: small, slim, oval-faced, big-eyed and black-haired. Mostwear their hair long and natural, but a few have it cut westernstyle. I decide I like natural best. The few men that pass are all white guys. Compared tothe girls, they look big and clumsy with their long swingingarms, their flapping shorts and pale, hairy legs. Their voicestoo, sound loud and coarse as they laugh and shout and throw 26

playful punches at one another. It looks very hot out there. Themen look like they’re melting, their body fluids soaking intotheir cotton shirts and shorts. ‘Are we staying here for a while?’ I say to no-one in par-ticular. ‘I’m staying ‘til Benny gets here,’ Ray growls. ‘But you canpiss off on your own if our company ain’t good enough foryou.’ ‘Keep your hair on,’ I tell him. ‘I was just thinking it looksbloody hot out there. I’m more than happy to stay here until itcools down a bit.’ Ray grunts and goes back to the conversation he was havingwith Bob. I watch the girls for a moment longer, but it’s becoming un-comfortable. It’s been a long time since I had sex with anotherperson. The truth is, I haven’t slept with anyone since Helenleft. I suppose I could have met someone, joined an onlinedating site or something, but I haven’t been able to raise theenthusiasm. After a year without sex, I’ve sort of stopped missing it,but sitting here now, watching the procession of beautifulyoung girls walking by, and knowing that I could have one if Iwanted, my libido seems to be waking up. I can feel it stir-ring like a dragon that’s been asleep in its cave for a thousandyears. And I’m worried that the dragon is hungry. I shift on my stool and tear my eyes away from the street,taking a good look at the bar instead. It’s furnished with cane chairs and coffee tables, arrangedin little conversation areas, and lots of plants, palms and thelike, in big pots. Above our heads a dozen fans, ornate bladesspinning, create a pleasant breeze. The place is almost empty,just us and, down at the far end, two young men, each with a 27

petite Thai girl in attendance. There’s a colour television mounted high up on the wallabove them on which a football match is being played out, butthe men aren’t bothering to watch. They’re lounging in theirbamboo chairs, talking in lazy, rumbling monotones. Theytalk only to one another. The two girls hold their own separateconversation across them. The men look lethargic, bored even, as though they’ve ex-hausted all the novelty of their situation. One man takes a swigof his beer and his girl immediately leans forward and tops hisglass up from a bottle standing beside it. He doesn’t appear tonotice, but a few minutes later he crooks his finger at her. Sheleans across and he says a few words, producing a crumplednote from his shirt pocket. The two girls rise and leave the barand the men move closer together, as though glad to be rid ofthe female presence. The girls are back a moment later, carrying some sort offood, kebab-like things on sticks. The men take them withouta word of thanks and the girls return to their conversation. Inotice the girls don’t eat. They have to be prostitutes, these girls, but they’re not whatI was expecting. They’re both young, late teens I’d guess,fresh-faced and innocent-looking. And very, very pretty. Isearch their faces for signs of their trade - cynicism, despair,avarice - and find none. Apart from their colour they could beany two girls sitting in a pub back home. Any two exceptional-ly pretty girls. ‘Mike’s going to come in his shorts in a moment,’ Ray says,breaking into my reverie, and the others chuckle. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ I say. ‘I didn’t expect…Imean…they are prostitutes, aren’t they?’ ‘Course they bloody are,’ Ray says. ‘Though you don’t wantto waste time looking at them. They’re taken. But there’s a 28

thousand more where they came from.’ ‘They can’t all be as good looking as these two,’ I say, butRay shakes his head. ‘Better. You should have seen the one that was in here halfan hour ago. I’d’ve given her one and no mistake.’ ‘Cept she was with a bloke who was six feet six and builtlike Arnie Schwarzenegger,’ Bob chips in. ‘Fuck off,’ says Ray. ‘He was just one of them nancybody-builders, all biceps and no balls. I could have snappedhim in half without breaking sweat.’ They fall to bickering and I tune out the rest of the conver-sation, returning my gaze to the little group at the end of thebar. The scene is surprisingly domestic. I’m not sure whatI’d expected: dark alleyways with girls in fish net stockingsleaning on lampposts saying, “Fancy a good time sailor?”, Isuppose. Something like that anyway, but not this. The girlshave produced a magazine and are flicking through it, gigglinginto their hands at the pictures. I assume it’s a porno mag untilone girl turns the page and I catch a quick glimpse of PrinceCharles. I realise it’s one of those celebrity magazines, the richand famous at play, that sort of thing. Nothing seems to bewhat I expect. I decide it’s probably not a good idea for me to sit hereogling girls like this. It’s beginning to affect the hang of myshorts. And after all, I’m definitely not in the market forwomen on this trip. I’m a window-shopper at best. I turn my back on them and tune back into the conversationthat’s taking place around me. ‘….your own Johnnies,’ Mean Bob is saying to John. ‘Ifyou don’t have any, they’ll supply them but they’ll charge youabout twice what they cost in the shops.’ ‘What are we talking about?’ I ask. 29

‘You’d know if you’d been paying attention, wouldn’t you?’Ray says. That’s typical of Ray. He’s ex-services apparently, thoughI don’t know which one. He’d like you to believe it was theSAS, but it was probably the Catering Corp. I reckon a realex-SAS man wouldn’t waste so much time trying to impress.Ray is stocky with a square face and dark hair cut in a numberone. A lot more dark hair spills out the top of his shirt and Ican only suppose that the absence of a gold medallion is due tohis forgetting to pack one. John helpfully supplies the answer to my question. ‘Prosti-tutes,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve never been with one before. Bob hereis just explaining how it works.’ ‘Same as with any other girl,’ Ray chips in. ‘You still put itin the same hole.’ He laughs loudly at his own joke but no oneelse does. ‘And another thing,’ Bob says, as though Ray hasn’t spoken.‘If you don’t have a Johnnie, they won’t let you do it. No bare-back riding these days. It was different in my day, but whatwith all this AIDS about now, you can’t blame them.’ ‘And it’s safe is it?’ John asks. ‘If you use a condom?’ He’s looking a bit worried, but excited too, like a kid who’sabout to take his first puff on a fag but fears he’ll throw up. ‘Safe as houses,’ Bob assures him, then adds, with a side-ways wink at Ray, ‘Provided it don’t split.’ John looks even more troubled. I’m tempted to reassurehim, but I decide not to interfere. At times I have trouble re-membering that John-Boy, as they call him at work, is a grownman of twenty three, not the naive teenager he sometimesresembles. There’s a puppyish quality about him that belies hissize. He’s about six foot two, and must weigh sixteen stone, buthe doesn’t come across as threatening. He could be the prover- 30

bial gentle giant, except that I’ve heard he used to box for hisschool. It has to be said, though, that he’s not the quickest on theuptake. Not stupid, exactly, just a bit slower than most. Theylove to play practical jokes on him at work, but he alwaystakes them in good humour, smiling his soppy smile andlaughing at himself along with the others. He’s good looking, I suppose, in a farm-boy sort of way,with his big, open face topped by a haystack of blonde hair.I’ve heard he’s popular with the girls on the shop floor, butcanteen gossip has it that his fiancée, Trish, leads him aboutlike a bull with a ring through its nose. ‘So how much does it cost?’ John is asking, and Bob suckshis teeth and says: ‘That depends.’ ‘On what?’ John asks. ‘On a lot of things,’ Bob says, playing the man-of-the-worldsuit for all it’s worth. ‘For a start, how good she looks. A reallooker will cost you a packet. Especially if she’s young. Per-sonally, I prefer them older myself.’ ‘On account of you’re a mean bastard who’d rather savemoney than fuck something you could bear to look at in themorning,’ Ray puts in. ‘It’s experience that counts,’ Bob says haughtily. ‘Not justlooks. Half of these young birds today don’t have a clue howto please a man.’ ‘Whereas the birds you go with know exactly what to do,’Ray says, grinning. ‘Put a bag over their heads!’ ‘Hah-Hah. Very funny. Now can I carry on?’ ‘Go ahead,’ Ray says magnanimously. ‘This is an education.“The sex life of Mean Bob”, as told to his friends over a pintin a bar in Pattaya.’ ‘Anyway,’ Bob says, ‘As I was saying, what you paydepends on a number of factors. Looks is one. Time is 31

another.’ ‘Time?’ John asks, looking mystified. ‘You mean, how lateit is?’ ‘No you bloody moron. I mean you pay her for her time.’ ‘Oh, I see. You mean she charges by the hour, like?’ ‘In Bob’s case, by the minute,’ Ray says, and once more hefinds himself the only one laughing. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ says a voice behind us,and Benny joins us at the bar. Ted shuffles in behind him. Hetakes the stool next to mine. ‘Have we missed anything interesting?’ Ted asks. ‘Only Bob here spouting a load of bollocks about a subjecthe knows nothing about,’ Benny says. He’s looking veryrelaxed and confident in a short sleeved Hawaiian shirt andbaggy cotton trousers. His hair is still wet from the shower, orperhaps it’s gel, I can’t be sure. ‘There’s not much you can tell me about prostitutes,’ Bobsneers. ‘I was banging them when you were still sucking yourmother’s nipple.’ ‘It was probably Benny’s mum you were banging,’ Ray saysand laughs, but the rest of the little group turn their faces awayin embarrassment. ‘What’s that about my mum?’ Benny asks, his tone coldenough to chill marrow. Benny’s only a little runt of a chap, eight stone with hisclothes on, so I’m surprised when Ray looks sheepish andsays: ‘Nothing Benny. Just a joke. I didn’t mean anything byit.’ Benny continues to stare at him for a long time, then seemsto snap out of it and smiles around the assembly. ‘Right then,’ he says, ‘Now let me tell you the true facts oflife as they apply to this part of the world. For a start, you canforget everything you think you know about prostitution.’ He 32

gives Bob a meaningful look as he says this, then goes on: ‘Itdon’t work like that over here.’ ‘Don’t tell me we have to pay them,’ Ted jokes and a waveof relieved laughter runs through the group. ‘If you’ll shut up and listen,’ Benny says calmly, re-claim-ing centre stage. ‘I’ll tell yer. This is how it goes. You go to abar, right? You see a bird you like. You buy her a drink, chather up a bit, all that stuff. Once you know she’s worth it, youbuy her off the bar.’ ‘Buy her?’ Ray says. ‘I want to fuck her, not take her homeas a souvenir’ For once Ray hits the mark and everyone has a goodchuckle. Benny waits for the laughter to die down, then con-tinues. ‘See, each bird works for a bar. If you want to take herhome, you have to pay a fine to the bar, so’s they’ll let her go,understand?’ ‘Why’s it called a fine?’ Ted asks. ‘Dunno. That’s just what they call it here.’ ‘How much is this fine?’ Bob asks doubtfully. ‘The going rate,’ Benny tells him, ‘Is about five hundredbaht.’ Silence descends on the group as each man does the conver-sion in his head. Ray gets there first. ‘Christ!’ he says. ‘That’sonly about a tenner!’ He looks around for confirmation and Inod. He grins. ‘Boys, we are going to have one hell of a goodtime,’ he says. ‘Hold on,’ Benny says. ‘Just hold your horses. That ain’t allyou pay. You got to pay the girl as well.’ ‘I knew there’d be a catch,’ Bob says dolefully. I supposehe’s pissed off with Benny for stealing his role as residentexpert on prostitution. ‘Why do we have to pay her as well?’ John asks. ‘Cause the money you pay to the bar don’t go to her, do it?’ 33

Benny explains. ‘That’s just to get her off from her work.’ ‘Couldn’t she just take a tea break and slip outside for aquickie?’ Bob asks. ‘Then we wouldn’t have to pay this ‘fine’thing.’ Benny sighs like a man tried to the limits of his patience.‘I’ve already told yer, it don’t work like that over here. It ain’tabout quickies. Once you buy a girl, she’s yours for the nexttwenty four hours.’ ‘Twenty fo…?’ Ray says in disbelief. ‘What the hell is Bobsupposed to do with her for the other twenty three hours andfifty nine minutes?’ ‘Anything he likes,’ Benny says. ‘Take her to the pictures.Buy her a meal. Play bloody scrabble if that’s what turns youon. The point is, she’s yours for a whole day. It’s like, onceyou’ve bought her, she’s your girlfriend, right? You take heraround with you.’ ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Bob says. ‘Sounds expen-sive.’ ‘Doesn’t have to be,’ Ted suggests. ‘You could always stayin bed with her for twenty four hours.’ ‘Playing scrabble,’ Ray adds nastily. ‘How much does she charge?’ John asks. ‘You haven’t toldus yet.’ ‘I was coming to that,’ Benny says. ‘First, there’s somethingelse you should know.’ He pauses to make sure he’s got all ourattention and then lets us have it. ‘You don’t pay up front.’ hesays. There’s a moment’s silence, then Bob explodes: ‘Bollocks,’he says. ‘I never met a whore yet who didn’t want cash in handbefore you’d get so much as a sniff of her fanny.’ ‘Well they do over here,’ Benny tells him. ‘You pay ‘em thenext day, when you kick ‘em out.’ ‘But how much, Benny?’ John says. ‘How much do they 34

charge?’ ‘That’ll depend on what you’ve had,’ Ray says knowledga-bly. ‘The more you do it, the more you pay.’ ‘Wrong again,’ Benny says with smug triumph. ‘That’s thequeerest bit of all. You give her what you think she’s worth.’ Everyone stares at him. ‘You’re kidding?’ Ted says. ‘No I’m not,’ Benny insists. ‘Course, there’s a going-rate,so to speak. But you don’t have to follow it. You can give hermore if you reckon she’s earned it.’ ‘Or less?’ asks Bob. ‘Or less,’ confirms Benny, as though he’s dispensing lar-gesse. ‘But she’s going to expect a minimum, so you can’t justboot her out the door empty handed.’ ‘Why not?’ Bob asks. ‘Cause her pimp will come round and kick ten tons of shitout of you,’ Ray says maliciously. ‘Maybe not her pimp,’ Benny says. For the first time hesounds uncertain. ‘I don’t know as they has pimps here. Butpersonally, I wouldn’t risk it. I mean what’s the point, whenit’s so cheap anyway?’ ‘You still haven’t told us how much,’ John points out,sounding like a sulky six year old. ‘I’ve only got about sixhundred quid. And that’s got to cover my beer as well.’ ‘The going rate for twenty four hours of non-stop nooky…’Benny tells us. ‘…if you’re up to it…’ he adds, with a glanceat Bob, ‘…is fifteen hundred baht.’ He gives us a smug grin. ‘And to save you working it out,that’s about thirty quid. Not bad, is it?’ ‘So, if we have a different bird every night of the holiday,’Ray says, working it out in his head as he speaks, ‘It’ll costus…about five hundred quid. That’s right isn’t it?’ ‘That’s right,’ Benny confirms, like a schoolteacher pleasedwith his star pupil. ‘But you might want to consider staying 35

with one bird for the whole time.’ ‘Why would we want to do that?’ Ted asks. ‘Cheaper,’ Benny says. ‘Bulk discount?’ Ray quips. ‘Something like that,’ Benny agrees. ‘Say you keep thesame bird for the whole holiday, fourteen nights, yeah? At theend you might bung her, say, fourteen thousand baht. That wayyou save seven thousand. She’ll be happy with the fourteenthou. It’s a lot of money over here.’ ‘It’s a lot of money back home, too,’ mutters Bob. ‘For Christ’s sake Bob!’ ‘Ray snarls. ‘Will you put a sock init? We’re on fucking holiday, ain’t we?’ ‘I reckon I’ll have a different one every night,’ John says,his face glowing with anticipation. ‘Just think, fourteen differ-ent girls, one after another.’ ‘And every one a little beauty,’ Benny says happily. ‘Sowhat are we waiting for? Let’s get fucking!’ * 36

4 We have one more pint in the hotel bar, then just one more,so by the time we hit the street it's coming on for evening andthe temperature is merely hot, not scorching. We walk slowly,savouring the strange sights and sounds of this exotic seasidetown. Our hotel, it transpires, is well placed in the centre ofthe red light district, a short stagger from the main bars andclubs but still only a couple of minute's walk from the beach.We go down to the sea road now and look out across the bay.The beach is golden sand, as advertised, but very narrow andfilled with parasols and beach chairs. At this time of day therearen't many people but I can imagine how crowded it must getduring the day. ‘Beach ain’t very deep,’ Bob points out. ‘And there’snowhere to lie down ‘less you rent one of them sunbeds. Betthey cost a packet.’ 'Stop fucking moaning,' Benny says. 'We didn’t come allthis way just to get a bleedin’ suntan. We came to get laid. Solet's go.' We follow our leader along the beach road, past a big,posh-looking shopping arcade and numerous stalls selling tee-shirts and jeans and crap souvenirs. 'This is it lads,' Benny says, and we cluster around him andtilt our chins up to stare at a huge square archway that spansthe road. 'Walking Street', it says in large white letters. 'What’s this then?' Ted asks. 37

'This,' Benny announces, 'Is where we're goin' to findourselves some nice fuckable little birds. All the best bars andclubs are down here. It's Main Street, Whore City.' Benny seems to know what he's talking about. The road islined with bars and restaurants and neon signs are everywhere,but these are not the things we notice first. First, we notice the women. I thought we'd seen plenty on our way here, but this is ridic-ulous. They're everywhere. They sit on stools at the bars thatline the wide pedestrian street, they stroll in hunting packs,they play pool, and all the time they call out to us in their sing-song voices: 'Hel-lo-ah. You come in here. Good place. Cheapbeer. Nice girl.' The girls appear to outnumber the available men about tento one so competition is fierce. I've never experienced any-thing like it in my life. It's frankly overwhelming, to be thefocus of so much female attention, and I can see it’s having asimilar effect on the rest of the lads. We strut down the middleof the street like kings of all we survey. Ray has his gut pulledin and his chest pushed out. Benny is swaggering like someNegro pimp from Harlem. Even Mean Bob is smoothing backhis slicked down hair and licking his lips with anticipation. 'Fucking Hell,' Ray breathes. 'This is a bit of all right.' 'Told yer,' Benny grins. 'I told yer, but you di'nt believe me.' The girls are all around us. They close in, smiling and sim-pering and pushing their tits at us. Our small group begins towaver, losing focus, each man contending with the attentionsof at least three girls. Benny calls us back to order. 'Tell 'em all to fuck off,' he commands. 'We don’t want toget lumbered yet. We'll find a bar and have a drink. Spy out theland, so to speak. No sense in making your choice in a rush.Plenty of time to find something really special.' Regretfully, we move on, leaving the girls to try their luck 38

with the next party of men. Within yards, we're accostedagain, but we have our orders and we wave them away. 'There's a lot of bars, Benny,' John says. 'Which one d'youreckon is best?' 'How about that one?' Ted suggests. 'It's got a pool table.' In fact it has four tables. The lads cluster round, examiningthem, serious pool players that they are. The tables seem allright, American league size, good quality and covered in bluebaize. Worthy of our attention. A sign above the doorway declares it to be ‘Jacky’s Bar.’ 'Okay lads,' Benny says. 'We'll organize a tournament.Everybody plays everybody.' Ray gets the drinks in, and John and Bob begin the firstgame. With so many tables, we could all play at once, butwe're in no hurry. The bar we’re in is only one of half a dozen or so crammedinto an enclosed area about the size of a football pitch. Thereare no walls dividing them. Tables and chairs are scatteredaround and it's not easy to tell which bar they belong to, but Isuppose the owners' know. The bar itself is a long rectangle,with the bar staff inside and stools all the way round for thepunters. 'Well go to a club later,' Benny tells us, 'But this'll do fornow.' The bar appears to have five or six girls attached to it. Whenwe arrived, two of them were playing a desultory game of poolwhile the others were sitting around looking bored. But nowthey're smiling and happy, chatting with the lads and preeningthemselves. One of them approaches me. 'Hel-lo,' she sings. 'Where you from?' 'Eh? Oh, England,' I say. 'But I'm afraid…' 'What your name?' 'Mike. But look, I don't want…' 39

'Hel-lo Mike. My name, Susha.' 'Well Susha, I'm afraid…' 'You buy me drink?' I feel like I'm being steamrollered. It's time to assert myself. 'No,' I tell her, and she looks surprised and hurt. 'Sorry,' Iadd. 'You no like me?' she asks, pouting prettily. 'No. I mean…yes….of course I do…I like you very much,but… 'I like you too,' she says, giving me a Cheshire cat smile andplacing a dainty hand on my thigh. 'You buy me drink?' I look around in desperation and catch the eye of one ofthe women behind the bar. She's older than the others, inher thirties I'd guess, and nowhere near as pretty. Her face isnarrow and rather long, with big front teeth that protrude alittle from her mouth. She seems to recognise the mute appealin my eyes. She smiles and comes over, leaning her elbows onthe bar. 'Hi,' she says. 'Hi. Do you speak English?' 'Little. What you want? You want girl? You like her, huh?' 'No. That's the problem. I don’t want a girl. She's very niceand all that but…I just don’t want a girl.' I realise that I'm talking too fast, gabbling my words, butshe seems to get the gist. She nods her head in understanding and speaks to the girl inrapid Thai. The girl gives me a little moue of disappointmentand moves away. 'Thank you.' 'My name, Jacky,' she says. To my surprise she offers meher hand to shake. 'I'm Mike. Do you run this place?' 'I own bar. With my husband. So, you no want girl. You like 40

boy maybe?' 'No! No, I don’t like boys. I like girls. I just don’t want one,that's all.' 'You already got girl?' 'No we just got here.' 'But you no want girl?' I can see she can't figure it out. It's probably outside herexperience. 'That's right,' I tell her. 'I don’t want girl. Just beer. Playpool. Enjoy holiday. But no girl.' She shrugs easily, not understanding but accepting. 'OkayMike,' she says. 'I tell girls. They no bother you. You have nicetime here. You want anything, you call me.' 'Fine.' Ted slips onto the stool next to mine. He's looking harassed. 'Can I join you Mike? Safety in numbers.' 'What's up?' His face is red and he's sweating freely, thoughit isn't that hot now. 'These bloody women. They won’t take no for an answer.' 'So why don’t you try saying yes? 'Cause I don’t bloody want to,' he says with feeling. I'm intrigued. I thought I’d be the only one without a girltonight, but now it appears Ted will be joining me. 'Is this about Joyce? She's six thousand miles away Ted.She'll never know what you get up to.' 'She might.' 'How?' 'Linda. She might find out and tell.' 'We haven't seen Linda since we got here. And besides, shewants nothing to do with us, remember?' 'She still might see us,' he says, but I sense he's covering up.There's something else troubling him. 'Bollocks,' I say pleasantly. 'What's the real reason?' 41

He looks cornered, scared, but at the same time I can seehe's aching to share his secret with someone. 'You won’t tell the others?' 'Of course not.' 'You promise?' 'Look, they're hardly my bosom pals, are they? But if youdon’t want to tell me, that's fine. I didn't mean to pry.' He sighs heavily. 'I may as well tell you. They'll find outsoon enough.' 'Find out what?' His face is a picture of misery, as he tells me, 'I can't do it,Mike.' 'Can’t do what? Chat up girls? It’s not hard, they do all thework.' 'No. Not that. I can't do…it!' 'You mean…?' He nods. 'I can’t get it up.' 'Jesus,' I breathe quietly. 'How long…?' 'Seven years,' he moans. 'I've been impotent for sevenyears.’ I stare at him. Ted's only in his early fifties, not an old man.Admittedly his wife is a prune-faced, ball-breaker, but still…he did marry the damn woman. He must have fancied heronce. 'Bummer,' I say inadequately, and he nods mournfully. 'So you can see why I don’t want to pick up a woman. Iwon’t be able to get it up, and then she'll tell everyone and thelads will take the piss out of me forever.' 'They wouldn't do that. They’re your mates. They'd under-stand.' He doesn’t deign to answer me, just gives me a look of suchscepticism that I shut up. 'Okay then. You're just going to have to fight them off. Keep 42

saying no.' 'But what'll I tell the lads?' 'Tell them nothing. What business is it of theirs'?' 'It won’t work, They'll know something's up. I'm going tolook a right prat, aren't I, sitting here, the only one without agirl. I mean, that's the whole point of the trip, isn’t it?' 'You won’t be the only one. I'm not picking up a girl either.' He immediately jumps to the wrong conclusion. 'Don’t tellme you….but you're a young man, Mike…how …?' 'It’s not that, Ted. I don’t have your problem. I simply don’twant to sleep with prostitutes.' 'But…but why the hell did you come along if you're notgoing to sleep with women?' 'God knows. I just sort of let Benny bully me into it. Hetold me about the discount and how it all hung on getting thenumbers up, and I thought, what the hell, why not?' 'What discount?' I tell him briefly about my conversation with Benny andhow my presence secured the ten percent discount. 'That's very strange,' Ted muses, 'I haven't heard a wordabout any discount. I'm sure I would have. I'm on the commit-tee after all.' 'Well let's not worry about that now,' I tell him. 'Listen, thisis what we'll do. We'll stick together and fend the women off.It won’t seem so odd if there's two of us doing it. And if thelads want to take the piss, we'll present a united front, okay?' 'Okay,' he says, but I can see he's still unsure. For the next three hours we stand back to back, metaphori-cally speaking, swords drawn, ready to repel all boarders. Asit happens, there aren’t many. There seems to be an unwrittenrule in operation. While we're in the bar, only the girls tied tothat bar are allowed to chat us up. As we've already made itclear to them that we're not interested, this saves us from direct 43

propositioning. I say direct because we get indirectly propo-sitioned about once every ten seconds. The street is alive withwomen, more now than earlier. They wave at us as they passand try to catch our eye, shouting their eternal 'Hel-lo's' andother entreaties. But as long as we don’t go outside, we're safe. It’s getting on for midnight when Benny joins us at the bar,a little Thai girl in tow. She's a pretty little thing, her slim hipssqueezed into a tight fitting satin mini skirt and her unusuallylarge boobs fighting against the fabric of a snow white tee-shirt. 'Hello lads,' Benny says. 'Having fun are we?' 'Yes thanks.’ 'Not got yourselves a woman yet?' 'Not yet,' I say, with a glance at Ted. 'You don’t want to leave it too late. All the best ones will’vegone. Like Amber here.' He gives his girl a resounding slap onthe bum and she shoots him a hard look that quickly trans-forms itself into an ingratiating smile. 'I haven't really seen anything I fancy yet,' Ted says. 'Yeah? Fuck me, you're choosy ain't yer?' Benny says. Helooks around the bar. Only two of the bar girls are still withoutpartners. He inspects them with the air of a farmer sizing upheifers, then wrinkles his nose in distaste. 'You may have a point,' he says, 'But you don’t have tochoose one from here. Pick one off the streets. No bar fine thatway either, so you save money too.' 'I don’t know,' Ted says, looking worried. 'There mustbe something wrong with them, don’t you think? I mean, ifthey're not working for a bar.' 'Jesus Christ! There's no pleasing some people,' Bennycries. He walks off, apparently in disgust, but he's back a fewminutes later. 'Got it sorted,' he tells us. 'We're gonna get you something 44

special. Prime meat. Best in Pattaya.' 'Oh?' says Ted. 'Yeah. We're going to this club that Amber knows.' 'I don’t think I'm up for dancing,' I say, but Benny smirksand tells me: 'Don't worry Mike, it ain't that sort of club.' * 45

5 Benny’s information proves to be right. The Sunset-a-Go-Go is definitely not the sort of club you go to for a dance. Not that dancing is forbidden, there’s plenty of it going on,it’s just that we’re not doing any of it. For a start, we’re over-dressed. We’d be overdressed if we were wearing nothing butour underpants. And besides, we’re entirely the wrong sex. Benny and his girl lead the way down the long, narrowroom. Flashing disco lights assault our eyes and thumpingrock music tears at our eardrums. The stage, a narrow catwalkaffair with chrome-plated poles set at regular intervals, stretch-es down one long wall, the bar down the other. Unusually, thebar stools aren’t at the bar. Instead, they form a line along thefoot of the stage, where a strip of Formica provides a place fordrinks and a padded leather banquette cushions your elbows.We take our seats, order drinks and sit back to watch the show. It’s not hard to watch. It would be harder not to watch.Near-naked women writhe mere feet in front of our faces. Theone in front of me is kneeling on the stage, her knees wideapart, thrusting her pelvis at me in time to the music. If sheweren’t wearing a little red g-string, I’d know as much abouther as her gynaecologist does. ‘Fucking hell,’ breathes Ted, sitting beside me. ‘Yeah.’ There are six girls on stage and I try watching each one 46

in turn, but my eyes keep coming back to the one in the redg-string. For some reason, it’s her thighs that catch my attention.They’re powerful-looking, slender but well-muscled. The hipsare wide, curvaceous, child-bearing. The waist is tiny, thebreasts small and jutting. Her face…I don’t really notice herface, but her hair….it cascades down her back, tumbling towithin inches of her knees. She uses it, makes it work for her,swaying her head in counterpoint to her body, causing it to fanout in a beautiful, blue-black curtain of silk. Benny appears behind us, placing one paternal hand on myshoulder and the other on Ted’s. He leans over and leers at us:‘Not bad, eh?’ he says. ‘I’m starting to think you had the rightidea all along Ted. I might have been a bit hasty with youngAmber there. I mean, she ain’t bad, but she ain’t in this class,is she?’ He gives his head a sorrowful shake, then brightens.‘Still,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow is another day, eh?’ He leaves us and Ted turns a worried face towards me.‘How are we going to get out of this one Mike?’ Right now, I’m not sure I want to get out of it. My eyes areriveted to the girl before me. ‘Christ Ted,’ I murmur, ‘Youcan’t tell me that watching that, doesn’t do anything for you!’ His face crumples with misery and immediately I regret mycrassness. ‘Fuck, I’m sorry, Ted,’ I tell him. ‘Forget I said that.I’m just a moron.’ He looks down and mumbles something I don’t catch. Itoccurs to me that up until now I haven’t really taken Ted’saffliction seriously. The thought of his being unable to makelove to Joyce, his wife, didn’t seem that catastrophic. I reckonthe sight of her, naked, would make my dick shrivel too. But tosee him here, now, with all this going on inches from his face,and to know that none of it affects him: it’s scary. God forbidthat it ever happens to me. 47

Admittedly, there doesn’t seem much danger of that at themoment. As I continue to watch the girl in the red g-string,my mind puts her in my bed, puts her in my hungry arms,pinning her to the mattress, spearing her with my cock. I seeher riding above me, her breasts swinging before my eyes, thatamazing hair slithering over my face, insinuating its way intomy mouth. I can taste it, feel it clogging my throat, making megasp for breath…. I swallow hard, my throat dry and painful. I sip my beerand shift on my stool, tugging discretely at my shorts, givingmy cock some room to breath. I take another sip of beer andreplace the glass on the narrow Formica shelf, doing all this bytouch alone, unwilling to take my eyes from the vision beforeme. She knows what she’s doing, this one. She never breaks eyecontact, never stops moving, swaying with the music, writhinglike a snake, playing with me. She knows she has me hooked, or thinks she does. But Iknow she doesn’t, or think I do. I should look away, strike up aconversation with Ted, break the spell she’s weaving over me.But I don’t. Not yet. Soon. Her hands are moving across her body, fingertips skatinglightly across the film of perspiration that coats her skin. Herthumbs find her nipples, as though by accident, stop to inves-tigate, circling the little brown buds, tracing the dark aureoleswhich swell as I watch, becoming puffy and engorged. Herfingers form crab’s claws, pinching the sensitive nipples,tugging at them, making them angry. Then her hands slideaway, downwards, following the separate descending lines ofher ribcage, across her smooth undulating belly, over the jutof her hip bones, converging once more down the line of herpelvis to meet at the waistband of her tiny red g-string. She pauses, watching me, licking her lips, holding me in the 48

moment. Her thumbs slip behind the fabric like silent intrudersand begin to exert their downward pressure. The small triangleof cloth eases away from her body and for a second I’m afford-ed a glimpse of thick black curls. Without meaning to, I findmyself leaning forward, craning my neck to see over the top ofthat little red scrap, to see more of its forbidden contents. She smiles and releases the tension on the fabric whichsprings back flat against her belly, but the tension in me is notreleased. It builds. My dick is hurting with the pressure. Itstrains at the front of my shorts. Her lazy smile widens, as though she knows precisely theeffect she’s having on me. She takes a step towards the edgeof the stage, closing in on me, making her performance seemmore intimate, for me alone. Swaying still, she begins tolower the g-string again, at the same time bending her kneesand moving them outwards. Her feet are close together. Sherises on her toes as her body descends, until she’s crouchedbefore me, sitting on her heels, thighs wide apart. I stare intothe tunnel formed by her legs. The g-string is stretched tightbetween her knees, like a suspension bridge, and nothing ob-structs my view of her dark little pussy, glistening with sweat,wet and inviting. My cock feels as though it will explode. I want to reach outand sink a finger into her soft moistness, two fingers, all theway up to the knuckle. I long to lick her, taste her salty tang. I want very badly to fuck her senseless. It comes to me with sudden clarity that this is the horniestthing I’ve seen in my entire life. Nothing has ever come near. Ican’t imagine that anything ever will again. But a moment later it’s relegated to second position. She stands up, a smooth, athletic, effortless movement, likeshe’s operated by pistons. The g-string falls to the floor andshe takes a neat step sideways and out, flicking the scrap away 49