Page 59 of The One Day You Were My Husband
Dear Carrie,
It has come to the Trust’s attention that you are in Thailand following the arrest of your traveling companion on drug trafficking charges. We need to ensure it is appropriate for you to continue to practice within this hospital. Please can you make yourself available for a video conference tomorrow at midday British Summer Time / 6 p.m. Indochina Time. The videoconference link is below.
It is a requirement that you attend.
Regards
Sima Barak
Legal and Compliance
Imperial College Healthcare Trust
“The important thing to note is that you two are not actually married,” Mum said, as we entered the Klong Prem complex three days later. On the manicured lawn in front of the prison’s smart white edifice, a man in a heavy boiler suit and wide-brimmed hat strimmed verges under the violent sun. “I’ll get a lawyer friend to look into this, but don’t think you can be disqualified by association with someone you don’t have any legal ties to.”
“But I’m wearing his ring, Mum, and I live with him. I can’t pretend he’s just some bloke I met in a bar. And besides, I surely can’t be disqualified for something I knew nothing about.”
“Carrie!” Mum was getting angry. “Your career is on the line! You were never married to Johan—do you understand? It is critical that you stick to this. It is the truth, apart from anything else.”
Tears stung my eyes as I stared down at the carefully watered greenery. “I thought you cared about the underdog,” I said. “I thought you were all about fighting for people in terrible situations. Why are you so keen to divorce us now?”
“I have no opinion on your relationship with Johan,” Mum said flatly. “I just don’t want, in the middle of all this, for you to lose your job. You’ve spent years getting to this point, Carrie.”
She turned, marching toward the visitor center, and I followed her, just like I always had. Mum had been with Prawat almost nonstop over the past forty-eight hours, calling people who had useful information: people at the prison and justice system, people who might be able to get basic help to Johan. I couldn’t afford to fall out with her now.
“So,” Mum said a few moments later, as if nothing had happened. She had no real idea how to handle my feelings. “About today. I think when you get to see Johan you should be focusing on—”
“I’ll be focusing on what exactly has happened,” I interrupted. “I need to know who pushed him into this corner.”
“You still think he’s been forced?”
“Don’t you?”
Mum took her sunglasses off for a moment, cleaning them with the corner of her sleeveless blouse. She had looked immaculate every day from the moment she’d arrived here.
“I’m not sure,” she said, after a pause. She resumed walking. “I find it hard to imagine how anyone with a decent life, who doesn’t particularly need money, could persuade themselves to take that kind of risk. Most drug couriers do it because they’re desperate. And I don’t see Johan as some dissolute posh boy, either; I don’t believe he’d mess around with drugs just for fun. But the way he spoke to you—what he said about being answerable to dangerous people—I have to say, the red flags started waving at that point. I’m struggling to see how he could be referring to anything other than a criminal organization.”
I closed my eyes.
“I am on your side, Carrie.” Her voice was terse. “I flew here quite certain Johan had been stitched up. But it’s feeling less plausible now.”
I walked straight to the cafe kiosk at the back of the waiting area while Mum registered us with the guards. I bought a red lime soda for me and sweet tea for my mother. I stared vacantly at the washing-up sink while the woman got our drinks. Scrubbed, sparklingly clean, yet emptying into a filthy bucket of scum-covered water underneath. It defied belief that this kiosk, this sink, this waiting area, was becoming part of my daily routine.
I took our drinks to a shiny table with fixed benches, directly under a suspended fan.
“Carrie,” Mum whispered, arriving opposite me. “Is that Johan’s family?”
They were sitting on a row of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, talking quietly. I had been on a handful of video calls with them fromJohan’s London flat—cheerful, conversational calls; friendly fascination from both sides—and had warmed to them immediately. But now their ease, their simple warmth, was gone. These people were broken.
We went over and I introduced myself. Johan’s father and brother got up and shook my hand, but his mother, who had swollen eyes, didn’t move. For a few terrible moments after names were exchanged, nobody said anything at all.
“He is seeming better,” Johan’s brother said bravely. “They have given him other medications and he is eating well now. But I think it will be a lot of time before he looks like he has health again.”
I looked at him keenly, this distinct but completely recognizable subtranscript of Johan’s DNA.
There was a long conversation about food, which they said Johan was able to buy from other prisoners who’d set up food rackets within the prison grounds. I asked as many questions as I could about his health but was able to infer little—his family had been unable to get any specific detail from the prison authorities.
“Thank God you’ve been able to get money through to him,” I said. “Has the Swedish Embassy helped facilitate?”
