Dying to Live

Chapter 24 - Stripping in Bangkok

The security queues reminded me of lines waiting for a top Disney World ride on a busy day. Hundreds of people shuffled forward slowly, extracting their laptops from rucksacks, drinking their water-bottle dregs and loosening belts and shoelaces in preparation to load the grey plastic trays before facing the walkthrough X-ray machine. The short time spent at check-in had given me a false sense of security... pun intended.

After about ten minutes, a muffled commotion behind me attracted my attention. Two policemen with sniffer dogs were giving the lines the once over. Even in this air-conditioned heaven, a little rivulet of sweat trickled down the back of my neck. Nerves prickled my skin and a sense of dread bubbled up from the pit of my stomach, could there be traces of drugs on me from my Pattaya adventure?

Facing the front of the queue, eyes fixed on a large clock, I waited for my turn in their nasal search. Paws pattered and claws clicked on the smooth marble floor, they were near. Relax. Take normal breaths. Don't tense up. Despite my best efforts, my breathing was speeding up. I sucked in a lungful of air and held it, hoping it would last until the dogs were past me.

WOOF, WOOF, WOOF. Shit. One of the dogs was picking me out. It was jumping at my backpack and howling like a werewolf.

PHEEEW. The handler's shrill whistle stopped the dog jumping but the noise brought four police officers rushing forward. One of them rode a Segway with a Police sign on the front, in any other circumstances, I would have laughed and wondered if he had blues and twos fitted. Other commuters stared and pointed as they dragged me out of the queue and frogmarched me across the concourse to a door with a large 'no entry' sign on it. We entered regardless of the sign and a strong shove in the back propelled me towards the centre of a huge room.

"Stop."

Bare plastered walls and a grey concrete floor created a bleak image. A long wooden table and a scattering of plastic chairs were all the room had to offer in the way of furnishings.

"Passport and baggage receipts," demanded one of the officers his voice echoing off the undecorated walls.

"What's the problem?" I asked as I handed over my documents.

"Drugs. Dog sniff drugs."

"I can explain..."

"Strip."

"What?"

"Strip. Take off clothes."

"My flight leaves in just over two hours. I can't miss it."

"Strip," demanded the officer again, this time he reinforced his request by poking me in the ribs with his baton.

Doing what they asked seemed to be my only option. Hopefully cooperating would clear up the mistake and let me get on my way. Being targeted like this was frightening but I knew I'd be okay, after all, I hadn't done anything wrong. Well, not that day anyway. The Thai bank receipt had been ditched; how the hell would I have explained that? My only regret was that I hadn't kept more dollars in cash, because a fistful of dollars as a bribe might speed the process along.

It's funny how sometimes a thought just strikes you out of the blue. I remembered the state of my body. Lumps and bumps from the Pattaya stiletto kicking were still visible as was the massive bruise on my ribs where the French bastard had kicked me in the hotel car park. Throw in the black eye, which I guess they'd already seen, and I was maybe going to have some explaining to do. Mind you, I already had a well-prepared tuk-tuk accident story to tell and anyway, maybe these sorts of injuries were commonplace for lone male tourists; some people pay good money to get marks like these. As it happened, no one mentioned the bruises, it seemed they were much more interested in drugs.