On The Run Read online

  Bannon relaxed a little as he gave the address and slunk down into the carriage. “Jailbreak,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go.”

  2

  He stood in the middle of his bedroom for a long time, barely able to catch his breath. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Bannon strained to listen. Across the hall a key turned in a lock and he heard a door opening. He took a long breath, exhaled, and breathed again, his chest rising and falling in a deliberate cycle. He dropped to his knees and lifted a floorboard to uncover a small red medical kit. He laid it on top of the bed and began sorting through its contents. His passport first, then a handful of loose aspirin and sleeping pills. He took out five joints, all of them neatly rolled, before he pulled out a torn envelope and an empty dime bag. He opened the envelope and searched inside; forty four dollars sat beside a couple thousand baht. From the nightstand he grabbed a framed photograph. A faded blue lake filled the background of the picture. In the foreground a ten-year-old Bannon stood beside his father, a scuba tank strapped to his back, the top of his head just reaching the middle of the man’s chest. He paused for a moment, looking over the smiling faces in the photo before he set the picture down.

  In the street he heard the whine of a siren, and he ducked into a nearby alleyway as red lights passed across the face of the building. An ambulance hurtled by and Bannon hoped the Austrian was inside. He listened as it carried on along the road, his thoughts turning to Kathy. He remembered her smiling back at him through gritted teeth as the medics carried her away. The memory steadied him a little and he took another long, deep breath before he scanned the street and headed into town.

  *

  In a small pool hall Bannon heard an argument break out at a corner table, and he slipped out the back as people looked toward the noise. He spent the next hour slinking from place to place, moving when he felt a suspicious glare or when trouble threatened to bring the police. He settled, finally, on a second-floor bar with a good view of the street from the windows, too crowded for him to be seen from the door. He drank cheap whiskey and tried to make it last. When he finished his drink he rose to leave, but the bartender offered him a free one. “Looks like you could use it.”

  “Looks that way,” said Bannon, scanning the dance floor where a mass of bodies shifted inharmoniously to a frenzied wail of music. He took a drink and sat the glass back down, leaping in his seat as a hand reached out and grabbed his arm. The chair rocked with the movement, teetering on its back legs. The hand slipped from his arm and he felt it grip the chair. He looked at the exit, distant over a crowd of bodies, and then, hopelessly, he turned to face his captor.

  Bannon’s face broke into a grin as he saw the Swedish girl. Her vivid blonde hair framing her face, her sunburned skin softening to a lighter shade of red. She smiled back, “I thought it waz you. Sorry I scared you.”

  “No. No. It’s alright. Where’s your friend?” said Bannon, still a little flustered.

  The Swede let out a little shriek. “Ach, she is off with some boy, the slut.”

  “Really? I didn’t think she was the pretty one.”

  “You’re too sweet,” said the girl, gently touching his swollen eye. “Look at you, it is just terrible what happened.”

  “I’ll turn out alright.”

  “I join you?” she said, gesturing to the seat beside him. Bannon nodded, moving his backpack to make room, and the girl watched as he did, her hand never leaving his face. “You are going?”

  “Out of a job, out of a home.”

  “You poor thing,” she said. “Come. We will drown our sorrows together.” the girl slipped into the chair and ordered a couple of beers.

  “You know, I’m not sure I ever caught your name,” said Bannon.

  “Anika.”

  “Good to see you again, Anika.”

  “You too.”

  They drank for a while and Bannon felt her thigh press against his. “Sorry about your friend,” he said.

  “Ach, us Swedes, buy us a drink and we will rush to bed with you.” she smiled once more before she rose and moved toward the bathroom. Bannon watched her go, the hem of her dress just brushing the tops of her legs. He dipped into his pocket and surveyed his measly handful of baht before he peeled away a bill and laid it on the bar. “My friend,” he said, “we’re gonna need a few more drinks.”

  *

  The dress strap ripped from the fabric and Anika laughed as he pulled the dress away. “You animal,” she said, wriggling free of the dress and reaching back for the clasp of her bra. Plump tits spilled out, tanned down to the bikini line then sheet white and finished with a pair of glistening nipples. Bannon fumbled at his belt buckle and he felt the Swede easing his trousers over his hips. He put his hand between her thighs and she bit against his neck, her face twitching in spasms of pleasure as he eased inside her. She rose up, her back arched and her breasts pushed flat against the stiff contours of his chest. Her face twitched again and Bannon felt a little shiver run through her as his motion quickened, her eyes rolling back, her breath hot on his neck.

  He came into the bed sheets and for an instant he was farther off and freer. He felt Anika slip toward his waistline, felt her run her tongue along him before she eased back along his body, their slick skin pressed side by side, her head resting on his chest.

  *

  At the ferry station he waited in the early morning sun, the sea a mirror for the shifting colors of the sky. Businessmen in black suits stood beside migrant workers who loitered around their tattered possessions. Young boys came next, scurrying across the sand, their eyes sunk back into pale faces. “Shit,” said one, “couldn’t find a bed. Had to stay out till the ferry left.”

  They filed onto the boat, a rusting ferry with barnacles creeping past the water line. In a window seat Bannon pulled a hat over his face and curled up next to his backpack. He fell in and out of sleep as the ferry chugged along to Phi Phi, waking at the lagoon edge as they passed between the cliffs, spying the island rising mountainous out of the shallow breaks of water, the golden sand stretched out like a buffer between the calm water of the bay and the island’s mad tangle of jungle. Fishermen drifted out into the open ocean, trawling their nets behind them as music sounded out from the beach.

  Travelers got on and off the boat before it chugged back out of the lagoon. Bannon watched as the island disappeared into the distance, the last traces of music lost amidst the groans of the engine.

  *

  The boat reached Phuket beneath a vermilion sun, the town already busy with partygoers moving through the streets in the dying light of the day. He checked into a little hostel, a dorm room, its bare walls empty except for a solitary postcard pinned lopsidedly to the plaster. He cracked the window and lit a joint, blowing smoke out into the street and watching the crowds below.

  The joint finished, he lay in his bed with his hands clasped behind his head, nicely stoned and looking lazily at the ceiling as the air conditioning stuttered and stopped. He slept for a few hours, waking when the door swung open and a man burst in, a girl draped on his shoulder. “Sorry, mate,” said the man, scanning the room. “Erm, mind if we use the shower?”

  Bannon was about to answer but the girl cut him off. “I’m not fucking you with someone in the room,” she said, prying herself away. Bannon gazed at her; she looked young, late teens perhaps. She swayed in the doorway. The mascara around her eyes was starting to run as she sweated in the clammy air of the room. The man tried to usher her back in but the girl scoffed and pushed him away. “You two use the fucking shower.” And with that she disappeared out of sight, her sandals slapping against the wood.

  “What was that about?” said the man.

  “High-strung,” said Bannon.

  “Probably was a bit forward, eh?”

  Bannon laughed, awake now. He reached into his backpack and removed another joint. “Think I’ll take a smoke,” he said, offering the joint to the man.

&n
bsp; “You want something for it?”

  Bannon shook his head, “You got a name?”

  “Jonny.”

  “Bannon.”

  They stood by the window smoking, Jonny’s teeth were stained red with lipstick and his skin shone eerily in the streetlight. His mouth lolled open as he studied the crowd below and Bannon could smell the booze on his breath. “There’s some real freaks out there,” said Jonny.

  “I’d imagine so.”

  Jonny stood a little straighter, keeping one hand planted against the wall.

  “You alright?” said Bannon.

  Jonny moved his hand from the wall and took a first step, stopping with his legs astride and twisting his feet back into the carpet. He took another step, moving drunkenly across the room, his whole torso drooping forward, his fingers brushing the floor as his arms swung apishly at his sides. He reached the bed and planted his hands on top of it, easing himself into a seated position before he turned back to Bannon, the whites of his eyes almost completely bloodshot, his hair stuck to the sweat on his brow, “Yep, real freaks,” he said.

  “Maybe get some rest?” said Bannon.

  “You want to hear something crazy?”

  “Sure you don’t want that rest?”

  “No judgement?”

  “No judgement.”

  “Alright,” said Jonny, lifting a hand from the mattress and brushing the hair from his face. “I told you there were some freaks out there?”

  “You mentioned it.”

  “Guys and gals.”

  “Yep,” said Bannon, taking another drag of the joint and blowing smoke back out above the crowd.

  “Well, the other night I found myself drinking with a set of Aussies—or Kiwis—or something. They’d bought a car and were driving all over the country. We got to talking and drinking.”

  Bannon nodded, the joint still smoldering in his fingertips, Jonny sitting opposite and focused on a point just past Bannon. “Anyway,” said the traveler, “we tried it on with some girls, but nothing came of it.”

  “No showers to hand?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, keep going,” said Bannon.

  “Where was I?”

  “You tried it on. No dice.”

  “Oh yeah, no dice. So one of the Aussies—at least I think they were Aussies—gives me a ride home. I mean, I thought he was giving me a ride home.” Jonny wobbled on the bed and he gripped at the edges to steady himself. “So we’re driving around and all of a sudden he pulls over and asks me if I want to get out and have a smoke. Cigarettes, not weed.”

  “Shame.”

  “Yeah, anyway, he says we should get off the road, so we duck in behind some trees and we start smoking away.”

  “Okay.”

  “And it’s alright until he asks me if the nicotine makes me horny, so I turn around to answer and there he is with his dick in his hand. I ask him what he’s doing and he says he’s having a bushwank. A fucking bushwank!”

  “And?”

  “And he asked if I’d give him a hand.”

  “And did you?”

  “The fuck I did. I ran straight out of there. The fucker even followed me for a bit. His dick still hanging out. Calling me back. We were right by the road.”

  Bannon looked back at the man; large patches of sweat were blotting his shirt and he swayed from side to side “Get some rest,” said Bannon, “or else you’ll throw the booze up.”

  Jonny nodded. He tried to lean backward but quickly lost control, crashing face-first into the bedding. Bannon stood for a moment, holding the joint between his fingers and looking at the stuporous figure on the bed. The boy snored and Bannon smiled. Satisfied, he turned back to the window and finished the last of the joint, flicking the butt of it out into the air, minute traces of ash and ember peeling away as it drifted toward the crowd.

  *

  The phone rang six times before Kathy picked up. Her voice sounded weak as it crackled into the handset.

  “Kathy.”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “It’s Bannon. How are you feeling?”

  “Bannon?”

  “Yeah. Are you alright?”

  “Are you?”

  Bannon paused.

  “You still there?” said Kathy.

  “Look, I probably shouldn’t talk long. I don’t want to get you in any trouble. I just wanted to know that you’re doing okay.”

  Kathy’s voice got a little stronger as she answered. “I’m doing okay. Think I should thank you for that.”

  Bannon smiled. “They figure out what got you?”

  “They’re not sure. A box jellyfish…maybe. No way I wouldn’t have spotted it though. If it was, it must have been a loose tentacle.”

  “Well as long as they’re looking after you.”

  Kathy started to speak but Bannon interrupted. “Did they bring in the other diver?”

  This time Kathy paused and Bannon slumped against the side of the phone booth. “You shouldn’t have run, Bannon.”

  “I stayed as long as I could.”

  “No. I know that. I mean, you shouldn’t have put yourself in that kind of trouble.”

  “Warner was right, if they’d tested my blood…,” his voice trailed off as he saw movement in the street and he checked for any sign of the police.

  “Bannon,” said Kathy, “there was a lot going on.”

  “I’m sorry I got on the boat. I never should have.”

  “Bannon. You still have friends here.”

  “It’s too late,” said Bannon, watching as a man moved over to the phone booth, “I’ve got to get clear of this mess.”

  “Think about what you’re doing,” said Kathy and Bannon heard muffled sobs on the other end of the line. He pressed a fist to his forehead and choked down a sob of his own as Kathy’s voice sounded again. “Can you hear me?”

  “I’m glad you’re doing okay,” said Bannon, drumming a fist against the plastic glass of the booth before he hung up the phone and hurried back into the street.

  *

  He spent the rest of morning touring the various bars and restaurants, looking for work and finding no one hiring. He spent a couple of coins on a paper and found a write-up of the accident, guessing a little at the content as he struggled to understand the language. He saw his name mentioned but no photo.

  In the afternoon he passed an electronics store, watching as a wall of televisions each played the same feed: shots of Medellin, Colombia. Triumphant commandos waving guns above their heads, the shocked expressions of the citizenry cut with stills of a familiar face. Sound breached the windowpane, the rapid-fire Thai of the broadcaster punctuated by a phrase repeated over and over again, “Pablo Escobar shot dead in Medellin.”

  In the evening he wandered the streets, searching for a free bed and drinking on charity. He met a group of Americans, huddled in a corner booth and happy to talk about home. There were four of them in total, three girls, and he eyed the closest one. She was a sweet girl, big boned with pristine white teeth and full, flushed cheeks bearing faint little acne scars. She said her name was Suzanne and she mimicked Bannon’s southern drawl as she said it. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Austin, originally. Although I moved east when I was young. Guess I never quite shook the accent.” the group laughed. They had travelled from the West Coast, from Oregon, and Bannon talked about Crater Lake, asked them if they’d dived it.

  “No,” said one. “You?”

  Bannon smiled as he recalled the story. “Yeah,” he said. “Me and the old man drove a worn-out Chevy all the way from Chicago. Guess I couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. We drove for nearly three days, loaded up with gear.”

  “Three days?”

  “And that’s just the start of it. You can’t drive all the way up to the lake. When you park you’ve still got to lug your stuff to the top.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Suzanne.

  “I thought so while we were clim
bing. But you hit the lake’s edge, see all the steep sides of the crater running down to it, the cliffs towering above you, and the trees on top reflected right back off the water. If I had had any breath left after the hike, that view would have taken it.”

  “And the dive?”

  “Well I don’t think there can be too many places like that. You get in and go right down a shelf of rock. Ninety feet of it, dropping into the clearest water you’ll ever see. At fifty feet you look up and you can still see the trees on top of the cliffs. It’s easy to get disorientated, easy to forget how deep you are. You get stuck looking at the rock, big chunks of it lining the side of the lake and they look almost like blocks of ice in the strange wash of the water. You hit the southeast wall and you see formations and patterns that I’d struggle to properly describe to you. My dad had to tap me a few times to make sure I wasn’t sinking too deep. Even then I still burned through my air.”

  “You used up all your air?” said Suzanne.

  Bannon blushed. “First and last time I’ve done it. Now I’d dived plenty before this and I can’t wholly explain why I did it, maybe just the rapture of the dive. I left it too late before I signaled I was running low. About halfway up the ascent I took one long breath on my reg and didn’t get any air back.”

  “So what then?” said another of the girls. “Wasn’t it dangerous?”

  “Could have been if it wasn’t for my dad. He still had half a tank, couldn’t believe that at the time, I remember asking him about it after: how he saved so much air. He just shrugged, said he never seemed to need so much. He gave me his alternate—”

  “Alternate?”

  “His spare regulator. And we went up together. I’ll never forget hitting that safety stop, fixed to the same tank, sitting there at fifteen feet, staring down into the water and it seeming to go on forever. On the drive out my dad talked about putting our mark on the lake. A little sign that someone might find a thousand years from now. He’d picked up a couple of rocks from the shore and carved our names into them. That’s when we let them go, watching as they disappeared below us, a straight quarter mile to the bottom. Even with his mask on and reg in you could see that smile on his face. I suspect he would have seen the same on mine.”