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CHARLES EMERGED FROM the cool of the arrivals lounge onto the forecourt and hailed a taxi. The sun came out from behind a cloud. It had just rained: the ground was steaming and glistening and there was an acrid smell of wet dust. Shielding his eyes, he supervised the driver loading his luggage into the boot then got onto the front seat where he could keep an eye on the road. The air-conditioning was set to low.
“Where to?” the driver said.
“Do you know the island well?”
“Lived here all my life,” He was a small middle-aged man in a short-sleeved shirt, with a shock of black hair sticking out so far it looked like it was trying to escape. He rolled the window down and lit a cigarette.
“I need you to recommend me a hotel,” Charles said.
“Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll supply the name.”
“A hotel.”
The driver grinned. “So we both speak English. I mean, luxury, budget, bed and breakfast, beachfront, inland, country, town – what? How long are you staying?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Most people can put up with a hovel for a night, or so. Longer than that though and you want somewhere a bit more upmarket.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“What about price?”
“Price is no object.”
The driver smiled. “That must be nice. In that case, I recommend the Brunton Taylorforth. If price is no object - ”
“It isn’t. I suppose it’s got Internet access?”
“Yes – I don’t know – no one’s ever asked that before ...”
“It’s a reasonable question, isn’t it? Phuket isn’t one of those backwater places.”
“It’s just most people ask about the food or the air-conditioning or the beds or the maid-service. No one’s - ”
“If it’s the best hotel on the island then obviously I’m entitled to expect all that and more. That goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
“Hey, look, I’m only a taxi-driver.”
“So you don’t know whether the whatever it’s called – the ...”
“Brunton Taylorforth.”
“Has Internet access, or not?”
“I’m willing to gamble.”
“Why should anyone gamble with you? Take me over there, and if it satisfies I’ll settle up with you. If it doesn’t, you can take me somewhere else. They’ll know who’s got Internet access even if you don’t. Or shall I get in another taxi?”
“No, no. Sorry.”
“And put that bloody cigarette out.”
The driver tossed the cigarette onto the road and put both hands on the wheel.
It was George that made Charles insist on Internet access. In Australia, he’d checked his e-mail regularly. Now there was the danger George might try to contact him again, and fail, then ring Vera Turnstall. At which point, all hell would break loose.
“So what brings you to Phuket?” the driver said. “Business?”
“No, not business.”
“What, then? Looking for a wife?”
Charles was jarred. He felt himself flush. “Why would I come to Phuket looking for a wife?”
“Sorry, my little joke. It’s still Thailand. We get lots of foreign men around your age looking for wives. It’s perfectly okay.”
“Well ... I’m not looking for a wife.”
The driver nodded. “Well, if I can help you with anything, my name’s Wimon Sowanna.”
He was holding his right hand out. Charles shook it to ensure it returned to the steering wheel. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And your name is?” Wimon said.
“Never mind that. Just drive.”
They arrived at Kata Beach. The car slowed before a brick building with a sloping roof, broad eaves, and neat lawns loomed. “Here we are then, sir. The Brunton Taylorforth.”
Charles made no attempt to move. “Be a good chap, will you? Run in and see whether they’re networked.”
Wimon got out. He left the meter running and returned after five minutes.
“Fully networked,” he said. “MSN, Google, AOL, the whole shaboodle.”
“Get my bags then and follow me.”
When Charles settled he made no attempt to query the fare. He added a fifty per cent tip.
“Thank you, sir,” Wimon said, looking at it. “Thank you very much indeed. I don’t know what to say. Thank you again. I - ”
But Charles was walking way.
