Number Six Page 4
But, instead, two fat, white-skinned men in singlets and undershorts walked down the house steps with their hands raised.
“What can we do for you officers?” said one of them.
“What’s going on here?” Chom asked.
“It’s a private party,” said the second man.
“To celebrate what?” Chom asked.
“The Summer Solstice,” said the man. “It’s a Chinese tradition.”
That was the question I’d asked Birgitt. ‘Was her driver from a Chinese family?’
“Are you all Thai here?” Chom asked.
“We have friends and relatives visiting from the old country.”
“Do they have passports?”
“Of course.”
“What province are they from?”
“Province? Why do you want to know that?”
“It’s relevant.”
“Well, most of them are from Guanxi, the city of Yulin. It’s where our ancestors came from. We get together once a year to enjoy some traditional food and drink and have a good time. We don’t worry anyone. The main feast is today. You and your friends are welcome to join us. We have some very special booze from China and local fruits and probably the best stew you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’d like to check the passports of your visitors,” said Chom.
“Oh, Lieutenant, I’m sure that isn’t really necessary, is it? I imagine there’s some sort of fine we could pay to make the day more pleasant for all of us.”
I left the hagglers to it. Chom came from money so I knew he wouldn’t be taking any bribes. I jogged past the fat men.
“Toilet?” I said.
They seemed surprised but they both pointed to the house. I ran up the steps past the slow-moving guests, mostly men, one or two elderly and overweight hookers. I passed the volunteer driver who didn’t appear to recognize me. Not surprising considering all he’d seen of me was my chest. The house was quiet. I looked into some of the sweaty rooms but what I needed to find was the kitchen. My guess was that it would be outside the back door in a separate building. I followed my nose and found myself on the rear steps with the kitchen area in front of me. Three dowdy local women were cooking up a riot in there. I ran to an open gas range where four huge vats of boiling stew bubbled before me. In each, floated small chunks of brown meat. As it all bubbled and sizzled I imagined each lump as a tail, wagging. And I burst into tears. My fault. My nightmare.
“Want some?” said one of the women, holding up a full bowl.
“It’s my friend,” I blubbered.
They didn’t know what I meant. Chom joined me as his colleagues searched the building and grounds. He put his arm around my shoulder and led me back through the house.
“You did your best,” he said.
“Never good enough,” I replied.
We walked to the trucks. The policemen joined us one at a time all shaking their heads. No evidence that the meat in the stew was canine. They found no pelts, no recognizable body parts and no dogs, live or otherwise. The party goers wished us a good day. There were no illegal aliens amongst them. They had done nothing against the law even though the Summer Solstice was the day on which the residents of Yulin celebrate with lychee and rice wine and the delicacy of fried dog. The Chinese knew that dog meat kept you cool in the hot months. It conferred you with vigour and vitality. It gave you super-human strength and put another twenty centimetres on your willy. And in Yulin each year, 100,000 dogs fell victim to these ridiculous myths. They were skinned and boiled alive for super freshness and their bones were ground to make potions. And Beer, my little chubby Beer was one of them.
I sat in silence beside Chom as he switched on the ignition and turned the car around. I had the window down because his air conditioning made my nipples ache. We kicked up gravel as we started off.
“Stop!” I said.
“What?”
“Turn off the engine.”
He did so.
“What is it?” he said.
“Can you hear that?”
He listened.
“No.”
“The howling,” I said. “It’s Beer.”
“You can’t possibly…”
“It’s Beer.”
*
“Why would he leave the bigger dogs and take a six-month old with bad skin?” asked Sissy.
We were on our weekly Skype and I was celebrating with a bottle of Chivas I’d bought with my article reimbursements. I suppose I should have bought fresh vegetables and a new rice cooker but that didn’t feel like success to me. Victories should always be celebrated with alcohol. Sissy was wearing a low cut blouse that highlighted her breasts: as globular and smooth as the day she bought them. The rest of her wasn’t holding up so well.
“The skin didn’t make any difference because they’d peel that off at the table before they dropped her into a vat of boiling soup.”
“Please, I’m eating liver pâté here.”
“The driver selected the young ones with the most meat; the venison of the dog world. He’d tell the Street Project volunteers someone was willing to adopt the puppy and he’d drop it off at his house on his way to the hospital. The vet checked in eleven dogs not knowing they’d actually caught twelve. He got away with that for two weeks. When he set off for the Summer Solstice he had twelve bonny baby girls ready for the pot. It was a BYO. Other guests dog-napped friendly domestic dogs from in front of their own houses and took them to the party. We found about forty dogs in the freezer ready for the stew.”
“Why didn’t you all notice them when you searched the house?”
“Apart from being in possession of several other dubious traits, the fat Chinese was a poacher of endangered wildlife. He ran illegal safari tours night hunting at the Khao Sok national park. His customers would bring back the kills and they’d stash them in an underground freezer before butchering and eating them. They were under suspicion from the Parks Department who’d never been able to find evidence on the property.”
“But the doggies weren’t frozen?”
“No. They wanted them alive past the entrees.”
My new neighbour arrived home on his motorcycle. I gave him a flirtatious smile. He ignored me. I was too good for him anyway.
“And little Beer lived happily ever after,” said Sissy. “What did Mair say about all this?”
“About what?”
“About her favourite dog starring on a Chinese menu.”
“Ah, you know Mair.”
“Jimm?”
“What?”
“You still haven’t told her, have you?”
“She’s frail. I didn’t want to upset her.”
“She is no more frail than I am fertile.”
“All right. Then I didn’t want to upset me. What could be gained from telling the truth?”
“You do know she can speak to animals?”
“It’ll be my word against the dog’s.”
THE END
Jimm Juree’s Short Stories
Number One: The Funeral Photographer
In this story, Jimm, exiled from the north of Thailand and just about surviving in the south, finds a new career by accident. Being Jimm, a crime is never far away.
Number Two: When You Wish Upon a Star
A car drives into a river and a woman is dead. A terrible accident and a broken hearted husband. Or it would be if Jimm’s sixth sense didn’t cut in.
Number Three: Highway Robbery
"First, my only appointment of the week phoned to postpone. Second, on the TV news in the evening I was astounded to see scenes from our own Highway 41 where an armoured security van had been deserted minus its cash. And, third, I was awoken just before midnight by the sound of groaning coming from the empty shop house beside mine. It was a while before I learned how these three events were connected."
Number Four: The Zero Finger Option
A letter a day delivered by a good looking young postman leads Jimm into a new my
stery. It starts as a case of internet scamming, but ends up somewhere far worse.
Number Five: Trash
Not a message in a bottle; instead it's in a sealed plastic bag which once held medicines, stuffed inside an old sardine can and washed up on the beach. A cry for help by someone held against their will? And is there any connection to the Burmese labourers dying from malaria? Another case for Jimm Juree.
Number Six: Spay With Me
"On the day I, Jimm Juree, sent one of my mother’s dogs to hell, someone robbed the Siam Commercial Bank in Pak Nam. The two events sound unrelated, but they weren’t. The connection between the two was me and one amazingly bad decision I made. This will all become evident as I talk you through the events of that Thursday."