Read Online Lost Innocence: The Accused. Part One by John Daysh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Daysh
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pulled out and pushed the pedal to the
metal. He inserted a Sinatra CD into the player, nudged up the
volume, broke the speed limit and tapped on the wheel as Ol ’ blue eyes flew him to the
moon.
Nigel’s flight landed
early. He struggled through immigration, picked up his luggage and
headed over to the nearest Bureau-de-Change. After exchanging a
stash of cash with a sexy cashier with dyed hair, he avoided the
taxi touts and headed for the exit.
“ What the hell,” he
cursed at the humidity. He dived into a green and yellow Toyota,
wiped the sweat from his brow then noticed a middle-aged,
wrinkle-faced man glancing back at him.
“ Hot?” he
laughed.
Nigel nodded,
unfolded a piece of paper and handed it over. ‘Wrinkle-face’ held
it up to eye level, nodded, handed it back, switched on the meter
and drove away. Nigel sat up, opened his journal and peered out of
the window.
It seemed the whole
population of Bangkok was on its way to work. People were crammed
into open buses and hanging on the outsides, young girls in short
skirts and tight shirts were riding side-saddle on motorcycles
driven by men in bright orange vests and battered trucks emitting
thick, black, toxic substances into the atmosphere were driven as
if their drivers were drunk. Nigel thought the traffic in London
was bad - welcome to Bangkok.
After a while, they
finally arrived at a run-down apartment building. It was crumbling
on the outside and the neighbourhood looked rough.
Nigel turned to his
driver. “Can you wait? Can I leave my bag?”
“ Okay,” the Thai
nodded.
“ What’s your
name?”
“ My name
Pang.”
“ Thank you, Pang. I’m
Nigel. I won’t be long. You can leave the meter on if you
like.”
Nigel climbed out of
the car with his Thai phrase book in hand. He stepped over to the
entrance, rang the main buzzer - nothing. He pressed again and
waited. He glanced back at Pang who was out of the car and leaning
on the boot. He was a short, skinny man with a kind, trusting face,
wore tight, shabby clothes and his shoes were literally on their
last legs.
Nigel was about to
press again when the door swung open and a lady in tight, striped
leggings appeared. She was holding a steaming bowl of soup and
eating something spicy.
“ Can you speak
English?”
She stood there with
a blank expression. He repeated his words slowly - she didn’t
reply. Sweat was beginning to ooze from his body.
“ What you want to
know?” Pang asked. He had stepped over from the car.
“ I need to see the
studio rented by my grandson. Can you tell her that in
Thai?”
Pang nodded. A long
conversation ensued. Finally Pang turned back to Nigel.
“ Your son with
Police, not come back yet.”
“ Yes, I know. I want
to see the apartment.”
Pang turned to the
lady; another conversation began and ended with her putting down
her bowl.
“ Can you join us?”
Nigel asked Pang.
Pang nodded,
locked the car and followed Nigel and the
lady inside. She led them through a dim hallway and up a wooden
staircase. There was a smell of vomit in the air. Nigel, feeling
the heat, turned back to Pang. “No air-conditioning in
here?”
“ Not have, but in
room may have.”
After climbing the
staircase, Nigel and Pang were led into Michael’s studio. Nigel
caught his breath, flicked on the air-con and took a look around.
It was a fair-sized studio with a low ceiling but could have used a
little more light.
There were sketches
of several girls pinned to the walls. Nigel stood back and admired
them. Then spotting a sketch on an easel he took out his mobile and
photographed it. “Excuse me, Pang.”
Pang stepped over and
stood at his side.
“ Can you find any
other drawings of this girl?”
Pang studied the
sketch, checked the others and returned a few minutes later with
another two. He held them up for Nigel to photograph
them.
“ You want to work for
me?”
“ How much you
pay?”
“ How’s five thousand
a day?”
“ What you want I
do?”
“
metal. He inserted a Sinatra CD into the player, nudged up the
volume, broke the speed limit and tapped on the wheel as Ol ’ blue eyes flew him to the
moon.
Nigel’s flight landed
early. He struggled through immigration, picked up his luggage and
headed over to the nearest Bureau-de-Change. After exchanging a
stash of cash with a sexy cashier with dyed hair, he avoided the
taxi touts and headed for the exit.
“ What the hell,” he
cursed at the humidity. He dived into a green and yellow Toyota,
wiped the sweat from his brow then noticed a middle-aged,
wrinkle-faced man glancing back at him.
“ Hot?” he
laughed.
Nigel nodded,
unfolded a piece of paper and handed it over. ‘Wrinkle-face’ held
it up to eye level, nodded, handed it back, switched on the meter
and drove away. Nigel sat up, opened his journal and peered out of
the window.
It seemed the whole
population of Bangkok was on its way to work. People were crammed
into open buses and hanging on the outsides, young girls in short
skirts and tight shirts were riding side-saddle on motorcycles
driven by men in bright orange vests and battered trucks emitting
thick, black, toxic substances into the atmosphere were driven as
if their drivers were drunk. Nigel thought the traffic in London
was bad - welcome to Bangkok.
After a while, they
finally arrived at a run-down apartment building. It was crumbling
on the outside and the neighbourhood looked rough.
Nigel turned to his
driver. “Can you wait? Can I leave my bag?”
“ Okay,” the Thai
nodded.
“ What’s your
name?”
“ My name
Pang.”
“ Thank you, Pang. I’m
Nigel. I won’t be long. You can leave the meter on if you
like.”
Nigel climbed out of
the car with his Thai phrase book in hand. He stepped over to the
entrance, rang the main buzzer - nothing. He pressed again and
waited. He glanced back at Pang who was out of the car and leaning
on the boot. He was a short, skinny man with a kind, trusting face,
wore tight, shabby clothes and his shoes were literally on their
last legs.
Nigel was about to
press again when the door swung open and a lady in tight, striped
leggings appeared. She was holding a steaming bowl of soup and
eating something spicy.
“ Can you speak
English?”
She stood there with
a blank expression. He repeated his words slowly - she didn’t
reply. Sweat was beginning to ooze from his body.
“ What you want to
know?” Pang asked. He had stepped over from the car.
“ I need to see the
studio rented by my grandson. Can you tell her that in
Thai?”
Pang nodded. A long
conversation ensued. Finally Pang turned back to Nigel.
“ Your son with
Police, not come back yet.”
“ Yes, I know. I want
to see the apartment.”
Pang turned to the
lady; another conversation began and ended with her putting down
her bowl.
“ Can you join us?”
Nigel asked Pang.
Pang nodded,
locked the car and followed Nigel and the
lady inside. She led them through a dim hallway and up a wooden
staircase. There was a smell of vomit in the air. Nigel, feeling
the heat, turned back to Pang. “No air-conditioning in
here?”
“ Not have, but in
room may have.”
After climbing the
staircase, Nigel and Pang were led into Michael’s studio. Nigel
caught his breath, flicked on the air-con and took a look around.
It was a fair-sized studio with a low ceiling but could have used a
little more light.
There were sketches
of several girls pinned to the walls. Nigel stood back and admired
them. Then spotting a sketch on an easel he took out his mobile and
photographed it. “Excuse me, Pang.”
Pang stepped over and
stood at his side.
“ Can you find any
other drawings of this girl?”
Pang studied the
sketch, checked the others and returned a few minutes later with
another two. He held them up for Nigel to photograph
them.
“ You want to work for
me?”
“ How much you
pay?”
“ How’s five thousand
a day?”
“ What you want I
do?”
“
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