Dying to Live

Chapter 21 - Skating on Thin Ya-Ice

It wouldn't be fair to bail out now and leave the drugs hidden in James' car. They'd turn up eventually and probably at the worst possible time. It was best just to go ahead and meet his drug-dealing mate. What a good citizen I was, Mr Nice Guy in anyone's books.

"Okay," I said, "let's meet your buddy but remember my friend has photos of you and your cab."

"And you know my name."

Yeah right, a Thai chauffeur named James was about as likely as running a successful fancy-dress party in a nudist colony. Once you've done Adam and Eve, and Lady Godiva, you've pretty much covered all the possibilities... pun intended.

"James isn't your real name," I said.

"You right, James is tourist name. That real name." He tapped the laminated taxi-driver licence which was stuck to the dashboard.

I leaned forward and took a photo of it.

"That's going to my friend as well," I said as I pressed a few buttons on my phone.

"No problem," said James. "You be happy after meet my friend. He pay good price for Ya-Ice."

I gazed out the window and watched as the traffic thinned and the area became less salubrious by the block. People stared as we went past. Maybe they didn't see many taxis in this area, or maybe they didn't see many Westerners. My scaredy-cat side kicked in again. Clenching seemed to be my involuntary reaction to the fear which was welling up inside me, my teeth, fists and buttocks were now all firmly clenched. I was glad I was inside the cab and not walking. This was no place for strangers.

We drove on for block after block. Things got darker, and more deprived looking, and a smell of menace filled the air.

"Are we there yet?" I asked, unsure of whether I wanted the answer to be yes or no.

"Five minutes. We be there in five minutes."

Five minutes later we drew up outside a rundown green shack, its white shutters closed to obscure the view of any prying eyes, no doubt. It was packed tight in among the thousands of other dilapidated shacks in this sprawling shanty town slum. Rusty corrugated iron roofs covered these ramshackle dwellings, this was a place of abject despair, such a contrast to the bright lights of the tourist districts of Bangkok. A kid, no more than seven years old and probably employed as a lookout for a few Baht a day, leaned against the chain link fence which surrounded the house. I tried to ignore the smell of poverty and despair, we had arrived at our destination, it seemed.

"Wait here," said James as he jumped out of the car. "I make sure things are alright."

That statement didn't ease my growing sense of panic. Was this guy trying to wind me up?

He exchanged a few words with the child guard before squeezing through a rickety gate and jogging up the short path which led to the front door. He rapped on a ripped mosquito screen and waited.

After a bit of hoking and poking, I managed to extract the drugs from their hiding place down the back of the seat. I stuffed them into my pocket and started to organise my thoughts, I needed a plan. Should I leave the briefcase in the cab or should I take it with me? If I took it, would they demand I open the case, after all there could be a gun inside? Bugger me, there was no easy answer. The door of the shack opened and James had a quick conversation with the large lady who blocked the entrance. He came trotting down the path towards me, waving me to get out and join him. I stepped out of the cab but I waited for him on the dirt street.

"Come, come," he said. "My friends ready for you."

"Friends? How many of your friends are we meeting?"