Everyone Burns by John Dolan

have the time. I’ll try to control myself.”
    “I hope you won’t try too hard.”
     
    On the drive back to my office, I reflected on Kat’s situation. She had hitched her hopes to Charoenkul’s star, which in the early days of their marriage must have been burning bright. His luminous career was now in danger of transforming into a black hole. As an intelligent and cultured woman, Kat must have seen Samui as a temporary stop-over before elevation to the brighter lights of Bangkok. I imagined she felt like a caged animal, frustrated and confined on this small island. Small wonder she’d been propelled into the arms of a smooth-talking farang. I considered for the first time how much she personally had invested in her husband’s elusive promotion. It wasn’t even as though she had any children by way of consolation. Ironically, Papa Doc was not a papa .
    I also realised that my own situation here bears some sad parallels to Kat’s. Leaving aside Claire, the Old Monk, and Charlie Rorabaugh of Bophut Jazz, my only sources of sophisticated conversation are the Police Chief and his wife; both of whom have been exposed to Western education.
    Arriving back at the office in sombre mood, I asked Da to ring Wong’s Home Delivery for some Chinese noodles to calm my rumbling stomach. I declined to call back Sinclair in spite of her obvious disapproval, and locked myself away in the West Office to jot down some thoughts and to cruise the internet for information on corpses, crime scenes and criminal psychology.
     
    *       *       *       *       *
     
    That was hours ago.
    Da has long since gone, and the remnants of Wong’s noodles sit cold and unappetising in the bin under my desk. The room smells like a cocktail of grease and cigarette butts with a dash of BO and Bells.
    Nice.
    I am no wiser, but much better informed about corpses, crime scenes and criminal psychology. I really should go home.
    But before I do, I need a fix of Chinese wisdom. I unwrap the fortune-cookie that I’ve been saving and crack it open.
    The slip of paper inside says
     
    Like many Western men who settle in Thailand, you have an addiction to risk, questionable morals and a desire to have sex with as many women as possible; although in your case you prefer married ones.
     
    Naw, I’m just messing around. It actually says
     
    Be prepared. Something big is coming your way.
     
    If fortune-cookies were really that accurate the world’s policemen, social workers and psychiatrists would all be redundant. And so would I.
     

4
    “Words are fools
    Who follow blindly once they get a lead.
    But thoughts are kingfishers that haunt the pools
    Of quiet”
    Siegfried Sass oon, Limitations
     
    When I throw my straw hat at the hat rack and it actually stays on the peg, I feel a disproportionate rush of satisfaction. But this is snuffed out almost instantly when I see Da glowering at me from behind her desk.
    “ Khun David,” she says in the strict tones of an experienced dominatrix, “The West Office smells like a smoky alcoholic abattoir this morning. It is disgusting. I’ve had to open all the windows. You cannot use it for clients today.”
    “Do I have any Western clients today?” I ask superciliously.
    “You should have.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean are you going to ring Mr. Sinclair now?”
    What is it with bloody Sinclair? Wayan was frosty with me over breakfast too. She’d bumped into the Geordie the previous day outside the school and he’d been moaning that I hadn’t called back. The normally-diplomatic Wayan had even been tempted to confess that my ‘brilliant deductions’ about his son were just a sly confidence trick. Of course she hadn’t – she’s far too nice to drop me in it – but her displeasure made for an uncomfortable orange juice and muesli.
    “Later,” I say.
    “I think that’s very unprofessional, if you want my opinion.”
    “I don’t.” I shake my head. “What is this