Jayne was released from hospital the following afternoon. Her doctor, in collusion with Major General Wichit, insisted she attend a counselling session before they’d let her go. The counsellor was a buxom Englishwoman with hair too big, clothes too small and a voice too cheerful. She introduced herself as Candy, and Jayne wondered if she’d handpicked the name to go with her saccharine manner.
‘So, how are you, Jayne?’
‘Much better, thank you. Shoulder hardly hurts at all.’
‘No, I mean, how are you, emotionally speaking?’
‘Fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Does that disappoint you?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that you’ve recently survived a life-threatening incident,’ she said, an implicit ‘bravo’ in her voice, ‘and it’s normal for people in your situation to experience a range of symptoms we psychologists refer to as post traumatic stress disorder. These include depression, mood swings, listlessness, inability to concentrate, insomnia, paranoia…’ Candy prattled on and Jayne tuned out, the whole exercise beneath her. Private detectives didn’t have counselling. Philip Marlowe would never have put up with this shit.
‘…and sexual promiscuity,’ Candy continued.
This caught Jayne’s attention.
‘Survivors may indulge in risky behaviours such as unprotected sex with strangers as a life-affirming act.’
Sounds good to me, Jayne thought.
‘Some feel superhuman, as if nothing can touch them. At the other extreme, you may feel suicidal.’
In her mind, Jayne chastised the counsellor for her clumsiness: using the third person to describe activities at the fun end of the spectrum and the second person to describe suicide was hardly playing fair.
‘Are you saying I should give in to all of these impulses or none of them?’
‘Ah, Jayne, you still have your sense of humour. That’s a good sign. I’m saying that these impulses and symptoms are normal for survivors of trauma. People experience one of three responses in the face of a traumatic incident: flight, fight or freeze. You fought back—that bodes well for your recovery. In the meantime, if you do experience any symptoms, please don’t hesitate to contact me.’
She handed over her business card. Jayne glanced at it to be polite and suppressed a guffaw. Candy’s surname was Sweet.
‘I appreciate your time,’ she said, rising to her feet.
‘No, I appreciate yours,’ Candy gushed.
They shook hands.
‘Didn’t have a choice,’ Jayne said.
To her satisfaction, Candy looked wounded by this parting shot.
Jayne expected to find her apartment hot and musty after more than a week away. But the place was clean and cool, and there were fresh orchids patterned like leopard-skin in a vase on the dining table that doubled as her desk.
Rajiv.
The same impulse that took pleasure from slighting Candy wanted to toss the orchids in the bin—sending flowers could not make up for failing to step in to save her life—and this struck Jayne as a good thing. Instead of feeling nothing for Rajiv, she hated him. She was making progress.
Her mobile phone rang. Caller ID identified the man himself. Jayne let it ring five times, toying with the idea of telling him she never wanted to see him again.
‘I found the Americans,’ Rajiv said.
She made a snap decision for a stay of execution.
‘What? How?’
‘If I’m telling you, then you will not be needing me as your assistant any more and I will be doing myself out of a job.’
She wasn’t in the mood.
‘Just tell me.’
Rajiv cleared his throat. ‘I checked the registrations of all the three, four and five star hotels within a short commute of the US Embassy. I am guessing a couple with a new baby are going to want to stay nearby, what with all the tearing down of the flyovers to make way for the new Skytrain, which will be making the traffic in Bangkok worse than ever.’
‘Yes, yes. And?’
‘Suriya Hotel,’ Rajiv said. ‘Soi Ruam Rudee, almost directly behind the US Embassy.’
‘Great job. Thanks.’
‘So does this mean you will be keeping me on as your assistant?’
His tone was playful, almost cocky. He was oblivious to the fraying of the thread from which he hung.
‘That depends,’ she said curtly. ‘Have you organised the tickets to Kanchanaburi?’
‘I’ve booked the train at seven forty-five tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow morning? You idiot! I told you I need to leave today.’
The vehemence of her outburst shocked them both into silence.
‘I assumed you would be wanting to interview the Americans as soon as possible and kept this afternoon free for that,’ Rajiv said after a moment, his voice calm and measured. ‘I am thinking five o’clock is a good time to catch them at their hotel, given they have a small child. The last bus leaves for Kanchanaburi at seven o’clock, but from the Southern Bus Terminal across the river. You would be needing at least an hour, maybe two to get there on time, which you cannot do if you are meeting the Americans, isn’t it?
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I guessed sharing a minibus full of backpackers was not an option, which rules out a late departure tonight. And seeing as you would have to wait until tomorrow to leave anyway, I booked the train because it is one of the most scenic rail journeys in Thailand and I thought it would do you good.’
She could find fault with neither his logic nor judgment, which only made her hate him more.
‘The buses leave earlier, starting from four in the morning, and it’s a shorter journey than the train.’ His voice remained infuriatingly calm. ‘There’s still time to change our itinerary if you want.’
‘What do you mean our itinerary?’ At last, a chance to punish him. ‘Who said anything about you coming to Kanchanaburi?’
Rajiv sighed. ‘My mistake.’
‘If you want to make yourself useful, get me on a fast bus around six tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Make it a return ticket, same day. I don’t have time for scenic fucking rail journeys.’
She heard the click of a cigarette lighter, a sharp inhalation, followed by another sigh.
‘I will be dropping off your ticket later, Jayne. I’ll slip it under the door. Call if you need to, but only when you are no longer angry with me.’
He hung up before he could hear her burst into tears.
Rajiv waited until four o’clock before setting out. He estimated Jayne would be heading across town by then to find the Kings and he wouldn’t be tempted to check in on her.
The ferry from Banglampu carved a scalloped path along the Chao Phraya, cruising along the west bank before returning to the east bank at Tha Maharat, the jumping off point for the herbal medicine stalls and amulet market where his aunties shopped for potions and charms to heal their ailments, physical and spiritual. He wondered if the shamans’ skills extended to mending wounded pride.
He was hurt but not surprised by Jayne’s behaviour. She’d become distant and withdrawn since that night. It was almost a relief to feel her anger over the phone.
The trauma counsellor had warned him about this. She buttonholed Rajiv on his way out one evening to ask how he was doing. Rajiv said he was fine. She regaled him with statistics on the risk of marital breakdown amongst couples where one has survived trauma. Rajiv thanked her, explained that he wasn’t married and tried to excuse himself.
‘She’ll probably hate you for a while,’ Candy said. ‘Don’t take it personally.’
He stopped and looked at her.
‘It’s not rational. Grief and trauma never are. Hang in there. She’ll get over it.’
Along the riverbank, houses were squashed together, overhanging the water as if pushed to the edge by buildings bigger and stronger than they were.
So far Candy had been right: Jayne hated him. Rajiv hope she would be right about Jayne getting over it, too. He would hang in there a little longer.
He alighted from the ferry and hailed a motorcycle taxi to take him to Jayne’s apartment. Being her whipping boy was not a role that Rajiv relished, any more than being her assistant. But he was prepared to tolerate it if it got him what he wanted: to be Jayne’s partner.