Page 50 of The One Day You Were My Husband
“Yes. Klong Prem.”
It is in Klong Prem remand prison, crammed shoulder to shoulder with thirty other men in a four-man cell, a bucket for excrement, and little more than offal for food, that arrested Thais and foreigners will spend often two or three years while their court hearings and eventual trials rumble on, I’d read earlier.
Sprawling, filthy, a “high-security nightmare,” it was—according to the ex-inmate whose memoir I’d read snippets of during my flight back to Bangkok—one of the darkest places on earth.
I crouched down, suddenly, on the floor, hugging Johan’s bag.
What had he done?
The woman watched me, saying nothing.
“I have money,” I whispered again, but she shook her head.
“He is at court tomorrow. You cannot visit him at the police station or courthouse…But soon he will go to Klong Prem remand prison, and they have a visitor center there. Good luck.”
I called after her to ask which courthouse, but my phone started ringing.
“Carrie. I’m on my way to Heathrow,” was the first thing my mother said.
Eighteen.
Mum arrived at lunchtime the next day, immaculate and raging, and stormed the embassies with the force of a siege. She couldn’t hear the wordno. She wouldn’t leave, and she knew who to ask for next if the poor soul in front of her couldn’t help.
My mother had arrived at precisely the right moment, for I no longer had capacity. After an hour at the embassy I went out to the tropical garden, where I sat by a dusty tree. To this day I don’t know who she spoke to or what she said, but within a few hours we were on the Skytrain, heading toward a district called Silom.
“The courthouse is there,” Mum said. “I am told there are some holding cells outdoors that he’ll pass through before his hearing. If we need food or water, I can go. There will be no chance of you missing him that way.” She glanced at me. “But of course I am going to find a better solution. This is just for today, Carrie.”
This was Mum in her truest self. The fire was within her; there was no burden of jet lag or fatigue. She had lived in Thailand for a few years before she met Dad, working with the rape victim charity, andher Thai was still more than adequate. I had never in my life been more grateful to have this woman for a mother.
“Sayang,” Mum said softly as we hurtled above the chaotic streets. Outside our air-conditioned carriage, hot rain was emptying from a brown sky. “How are you feeling? Have you slept?”
Sayangmeanslovein Malay. Dear, precious, endless love. She hadn’t used this word with me in years. My eyes filled with tears.
“Terrible, and no,” I said, wiping my eyes on a tissue she had been ready with all along. “Mum, what’s happening?”
“Oh, Carrie,” she sighed. She put the tissue packet back in her bag and then turned back to look at me.
I blew my nose. “Johan doesn’t use drugs. I’ve never even seen him smoking marijuana. He doesn’t use drugs and he certainly doesn’t sell them. But…”
“But?”
I had to tell her. I had to tell someone. “The thing is, he took far too long to get to me from the airport the night he arrived. I keep going over it in my head. And I’ve checked on a map; he would definitely have had time to make a detour to Chinatown to do whatever it was they think he’s done. But Mum, the thing is, he just wouldn’t. Hewouldn’t. I know him.”
Mum put a hand on my bare leg, then took it away.
“Carrie,” she said softly. “My contact at the embassy went through back channels to find out for me. Possession of class A drugs. Not a huge quantity, but sufficient for it to be considered trafficking. And as far as the police are concerned, there’s no mistake. He’s who they were looking for. They just hadn’t found him yet. But then he used his bank card on Koh Samui to make a withdrawal. That’s how they found him.”
I stared at her. “He made that withdrawal to buy my wedding ring,”I said. “He was just a guy at a night market, Mum, he wasn’t…he’s not…”
The train whizzed on. Two young women in short skirts and chunky trainers were giggling at a magazine opposite us, not a care in the world. Beyond them, the sky was filthy brown for miles, rain hammering down.
“I’m sorry,” Mum said.
Tears began to fall down my cheeks again, but this time I didn’t stop them. I didn’t know how to use my hands anymore. My surgeon’s hands.
I made myself think once again about our trip to Chinatown. About the strange furrow of Johan’s mood, that shop full of catering equipment. The well-dressed, very attractive woman who’d started talking to him when he went in to drop off sweets for that kid. She’d been oddly familiar with him, touching his arm, smiling, but he’d seemed anxious—unhappy, even—to see her.
I relayed all of this to Mum, who listened keenly, asking me to repeat various details.
