Read Online Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat by Colin Cotterill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Colin Cotterill
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a standard, rather dowdy prayer hall to the right, a cramped ordination hall, a gazebo and a stupa. None of these were worth investing adjectives on.
The highlight of the place was a spectacular bank of bougainvilleas on the crest of the hill to the left that followed a path toward the monks’ quarters at the rear. There had been little rain for several months and the plants were ablaze with color. Like Scotch whiskies, bougainvilleas were at their happiest without water.
We were only halfway up the hill when a middle-aged man in a slate gray safari suit and flip-flops stepped out from behind a large pregnant water urn with his hands up. He seemed to be some kind of low-budget sentry.
“Nothing for you here,” he shouted.
Arny braked and we stared at the scrawny man through the windscreen.
“Arny,” I said. “Remain calm. Don’t get into one of your flaps. If it helps, you can put your hands over your ears.”
I rolled down my window and gestured for the man to come to me. His footwear suggested he wasn’t police. I took a gamble.
“We’re hear to collect our father,” I said.
“There’s nobody here,” said the man. His voice and his teeth were great adverts for not smoking. “He’s probably left already.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” I said.
He squared his shoulders at me.
“If I tell you there’s nobody here, there’s nobody here. Just turn around and leave.”
Arny fumbled for reverse gear but I put my hand on his.
“I’m not leaving without my father,” I told him.
“I’ve told y – What does he look like?”
“About thirty centimeters high and silver.”
“What?”
“They cremated him yesterday. If we don’t take what’s left of him home, our Mair will give us no peace.”
The man hesitated. Fortunately he didn’t notice Arny’s look of shock. The sentry gazed once toward the temple, then back at us, then he stepped away and waved us through.
“Be quick,” he said as we passed.
“Thank you,” I replied, wai ’d and wound up the window. “That’s weird, don’t you think? Closing a temple?”
“That wasn’t nice, pee .”
“What wasn’t?”
“Saying our dad’s dead.”
“You mean he’s not? Damn. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Its just…”
“I know. Not respectful. Can’t help but respect a creep who dumps a wife with three little babes.”
“He probably had his reasons.”
“Can’t you hate anyone, little brother? Can’t you just find it in your heart to sprinkle a handful of animosity here and there? This is the first time in thirty-two years our father’s been of any value to you. I think he’d be pleased to hear he’d contributed something, don’t you? Stop right here!”
“I…where?”
“Here. By the handcart.”
Arny pulled over and I opened the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Attacking from the rear.”
I climbed out.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Pull up noisily in front of the prayer hall, go inside…and pray.”
“What for?”
If this had been a Catholic church he could have asked for our normal service to be resumed: careers, social lives, respect, access to decent cheese, but Buddhist temples didn’t do wish lists.
“Just fake it.”
I closed the door quietly and ran behind a bush. From there I could see him pull away with a confused look on his face. I watched him drive over to the prayer hall and park the truck. Four laymen and two monks immediately stepped out of the side office and walked hurriedly toward him. They surrounded my brother like housecats round a rat. I have no idea what he said but I saw the truck door open, the men stand back, and Arny walk, shoulders hunched, into the prayer hall. A second later he reappeared, kicked off his sandals and went back in. Religion. It’s been a while.
Most temples down here have their resident nun. Nuns in Thailand don’t get nearly the same respect as monks. They cook for and feed the dogs, clean, look after the garden…Wait. This all
The highlight of the place was a spectacular bank of bougainvilleas on the crest of the hill to the left that followed a path toward the monks’ quarters at the rear. There had been little rain for several months and the plants were ablaze with color. Like Scotch whiskies, bougainvilleas were at their happiest without water.
We were only halfway up the hill when a middle-aged man in a slate gray safari suit and flip-flops stepped out from behind a large pregnant water urn with his hands up. He seemed to be some kind of low-budget sentry.
“Nothing for you here,” he shouted.
Arny braked and we stared at the scrawny man through the windscreen.
“Arny,” I said. “Remain calm. Don’t get into one of your flaps. If it helps, you can put your hands over your ears.”
I rolled down my window and gestured for the man to come to me. His footwear suggested he wasn’t police. I took a gamble.
“We’re hear to collect our father,” I said.
“There’s nobody here,” said the man. His voice and his teeth were great adverts for not smoking. “He’s probably left already.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” I said.
He squared his shoulders at me.
“If I tell you there’s nobody here, there’s nobody here. Just turn around and leave.”
Arny fumbled for reverse gear but I put my hand on his.
“I’m not leaving without my father,” I told him.
“I’ve told y – What does he look like?”
“About thirty centimeters high and silver.”
“What?”
“They cremated him yesterday. If we don’t take what’s left of him home, our Mair will give us no peace.”
The man hesitated. Fortunately he didn’t notice Arny’s look of shock. The sentry gazed once toward the temple, then back at us, then he stepped away and waved us through.
“Be quick,” he said as we passed.
“Thank you,” I replied, wai ’d and wound up the window. “That’s weird, don’t you think? Closing a temple?”
“That wasn’t nice, pee .”
“What wasn’t?”
“Saying our dad’s dead.”
“You mean he’s not? Damn. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Its just…”
“I know. Not respectful. Can’t help but respect a creep who dumps a wife with three little babes.”
“He probably had his reasons.”
“Can’t you hate anyone, little brother? Can’t you just find it in your heart to sprinkle a handful of animosity here and there? This is the first time in thirty-two years our father’s been of any value to you. I think he’d be pleased to hear he’d contributed something, don’t you? Stop right here!”
“I…where?”
“Here. By the handcart.”
Arny pulled over and I opened the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Attacking from the rear.”
I climbed out.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Pull up noisily in front of the prayer hall, go inside…and pray.”
“What for?”
If this had been a Catholic church he could have asked for our normal service to be resumed: careers, social lives, respect, access to decent cheese, but Buddhist temples didn’t do wish lists.
“Just fake it.”
I closed the door quietly and ran behind a bush. From there I could see him pull away with a confused look on his face. I watched him drive over to the prayer hall and park the truck. Four laymen and two monks immediately stepped out of the side office and walked hurriedly toward him. They surrounded my brother like housecats round a rat. I have no idea what he said but I saw the truck door open, the men stand back, and Arny walk, shoulders hunched, into the prayer hall. A second later he reappeared, kicked off his sandals and went back in. Religion. It’s been a while.
Most temples down here have their resident nun. Nuns in Thailand don’t get nearly the same respect as monks. They cook for and feed the dogs, clean, look after the garden…Wait. This all
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