In the Middle of the Night

I close my eyes and dream in red.

I dream a red world red like my eyes.

And it’s Bangkok. Well… Not Bangkok. It’s dream Bangkok. There’s still Sukhumvit but it doesn’t look the same. It’s like Sukhumvit of thirty years ago. The Miami Apartments are on Sukhumvit and Nana is close to Cowboy and Patpong’s just a run through Lumphini which is right at the bottom of Buckskin Joe’s.

And the place is a bustling madness. And there’s a red wind blowing red dust into the red air. I try to stare through the dust and see the silhouette of a woman. I stare into the blowing dirt and for a moment I see her with total clarity. And it’s exactly who I wanted her to be. She is looking at me and for one moment of tear jerking beauty we’re together. But then she pulls a sad face and I see the man with her. He’s richer, younger, better looking than me… She waves and gets into his big black car and suddenly I’m in a crowd of people all trying to get this way and that. And the world just turns to red again with a violent ringing sound.

I open my stinging eyes and I’m not in Bangkok anymore. I’m in this small dark room in London. What the fuck am I doing here when I belong out there? What fucking act of total stupidity made me come here?

The phone keeps ringing and I tell the phone I’m coming as if the phone could understand. Some cunt has phoned me at twenty to three in the fucking morning. Who phones at twenty to three in the morning?

“Hello.”

There’s someone at the other end but they don’t speak.

“Hello…”

Nothing… But I know she’s there. I know it’s her. It is her. It’s her. Of course it’s her. That’s why I just saw her. I know it’s her.

“Hello.”

She doesn’t speak but I can hear her breathing. Where is she phoning from? What part of the world ? What boyfriend is she planning to hurt, rob, and maybe destroy just for the fun of it?

A thousand fucking years have gone by since I saw her face. A thousand years of living like this pretending its fine. Pretending I’m fine. Pretending I couldn’t care less. That’s what we do right? The smart guys. The rubbish farang. The fuckers who know the score. That’s what we do. We pretend. But we’re the most romantic motherfuckers there are because we know that if we stop pretending we’ll be destroyed by the memory of that one woman… And there’s always one woman. I don’t care how many thousands you might have screwed in darkened or well lit rooms. There’s always one who you secretly want to find again. Most of the time she married a man who was prepared to be a husband and take care of her when we were still fucking about. Sometimes we never got close. But however easily we let her get away the memory of her makes the others slip into insignificance.

“Hello… Is anyone there?”

What am I asking for? Of course there’s someone there. I can fucking hear her breathing. The phone fucking rang. Of course she’s fucking there. But she’s there and not here so why the fuck are the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end?

“Who is it?” But I know who it is.

Then the phone goes dead and I’m listening to that fucking dial tone. The other person has cleared. I dial 1471. The number who last called your line has not been recognised. No fucking shit.

There’s a bottle beside my bed. Jack Daniels… Old Time… Quality… Tennessee Sour Mash Whisky… Distilled and bottled by Jack Daniels distillery. A care package from Mike. Thanks Mike. Of course drink doesn’t solve anything but then nothing will. It just might ease me back into my dream.  

In Bangkok she was always everywhere. Like a shadow in my mind. In every bar I walked into. In every alley. In every crowded shop. I would half believe she was  watching me planning some terrible life shattering event for me with a villainous smile.  

In London I miss the feeling. In London all that Bangkok stuff just doesn’t feel that real. Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I need to be in a place where nothing happens.

When I talk to myself I always find the word “wanker” coming up. I tell the same fucking story and every time my motive is different. Sometimes I left Bangkok because I was getting nowhere. Sometimes I left because I wanted to see my mother’s grave. Sometimes I left because of her. Sometimes I left because I saw a travel agent and thought that just for a laugh I’d buy a ticket back to Blighty for a week or two. It’s all bullshit.

The bed looks good now. I need to go back to sleep. I need to go back to the world where anything is possible… If only for a second… Thing is that even a cunting  whorefucker like me can wake up in the middle of the night crying like a lost kid. Stupid fucking shit… I don’t know if I should drink more or drink less.

Drink more… The drink warms me. The drink makes me feel poetic rather than pathetic. Sometimes on a bad night that can make all the difference.  

How does she find me so easily?

I unplug the phone. I don’t even know why I have a phone. How the fuck did she get my number?

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