I Dream About Her

A short dar story, set in Thailand

‘For God’s sake, what is wrong with you?’ Ronny snapped, jolted awake. ‘We’ve been together for twenty-eight days, and every night you wake up screaming after an hour of sleep.’

A-ngun curled away from him, pulling the sheet tight. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it. The nightmares…’

‘Well, what are they about? Maybe talking about it would help.’ ‘No,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘I’m not ready to tell you. Maybe one day.’ ‘Fine. Let’s just get some sleep,’ he grumbled, turning over.

A-ngun stared at the ceiling, wide awake, until she heard his breathing deepen into the rhythm of sleep. Only then did her own body begin to relax.

‘See you later, babe. Need any cash before I go?’ Ronny asked, hovering by the door the next morning. ‘I don’t need your money,’ A-ngun replied, a little too sharply. She softened her tone. ‘I have a job. A real one, not in a karaoke bar.’ ‘Okay, just asking. Will you be here tonight?’ ‘I’ll be here after work. I might even tidy up this mess for you.’ Ronny blew a kiss and grabbed his car keys, the door clicking shut behind him.

A-ngun made a half-hearted attempt at the dishes and the unmade bed. ‘Half a job is better than none,’ she muttered to herself. Her eyes, however, were fixed on Ronny’s desk. Once the sounds of his car had faded, she moved closer.

She sifted through his mail, her fingers stopping on a bank statement. ‘That’s what I’m looking for.’ She pulled out her phone, and the camera shutter clicked silently as she photographed every page. Her gaze then fell on the locked top drawer. ‘A business executive like you… you wouldn’t be so stupid, would you?’

Rifling through a bowl of loose change and keys by the desk, she found a small silver key. It turned smoothly in the lock. Inside, nestled among pens and paperclips, was a black ledger. Her phone was busy again, documenting every transaction, every hidden account. She had what she needed for her boss. But a colder, more personal curiosity was taking root.

At eleven o’clock, she pushed open the heavy door to her boss’s office suite. Only his secretary and two hulking bodyguards occupied the space. ‘He’s not in yet,’ the secretary said without looking up. ‘I didn’t expect him before noon,’ A-ngun replied, sweeping past towards her own office. A plaque on the door read “Translation,” but her primary role was far less formal: explaining, in Thai, the desperate pleas of foreigners who had fallen foul of the man she worked for, Khun Parasit.

At noon precisely, the bodyguards snapped to attention. Khun Parasit strode in, shrugging off his tailor-made silk jacket, which was caught and hung by his secretary. ‘A-ngun. You are punctual,’ he said, his voice a low purr. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, offering a respectful wai, her chin touching her chest.

He sat, stirring sugar into his coffee. ‘What do you have for me?’ She slid the printed photos of Ronny’s financial documents across his antique desk. He scanned them, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘He’s a busy boy, doing well for himself. Good work. There will be a significant bonus for you when we relieve him of these… ill-gotten gains.’ ‘Do you need me for anything else, sir?’ ‘Yes. The Englishman. The rapper, Hop-The-Hoop. He, too, owes me. I will need your translations.’

The bass thumped through the club. On stage, Hop-The-Hoop screamed into his microphone, his back permanently turned to the roaring crowd. Only he knew why. In the VIP section, his six-year-old daughter, Hettie, swung her legs, waiting for her dad to finish. She pretended to love the noise, but secretly, she preferred the bright, clean sounds of K-pop.

Suddenly, the two bodyguards flanking her staggered. One crumpled into a heap; the other collapsed heavily against his chair. Hettie giggled. ‘Okay, guys, the joke’s over. Get up!’

A pretty young woman appeared and took her hand. It was A-ngun. ‘Come with me, sweetheart,’ she said, her smile warm and reassuring. ‘Look, those two men are very sick. I don’t want you to catch anything.’ As she led Hettie away, the feathered ends of poisoned darts were just visible in the guards’ necks.

‘Great show, Mr Hoop. The crowd loved it. A pity Hettie didn’t get to see the end,’ A-ngun said into her phone. ‘Where is my daughter?’ Hop-The-Hoop’s voice was stripped of its musical bravado, raw with panic. ‘Don’t worry, she’s perfectly happy, playing a game on my iPad.’ ‘I want her back! Now!’ ‘That’s not going to happen. Not yet.’ ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ A-ngun watched her boss’s stern face. ‘My employer is not happy with you.’ ‘What have I done? Is this about money? I’ll pay!’ The line went dead.

‘Let him stew,’ Parasit said, placing the phone down. He studied A-ngun’s conflicted face. ‘Sir, I know it’s not my place to ask… but why him? And why take the little girl? This isn’t just about money, is it?’ ‘Normally, your curiosity would annoy me,’ Parasit said, his voice dangerously soft. He put his head in his hands, then slammed his palm on the desk. When he looked up, his eyes were dry, but his face was a mask of profound grief. ‘When you first started working for me, you remember my niece, Nong Boonsri?’

The question sent a familiar chill down A-ngun’s spine. ‘How could I forget?’

The memory flooded back, as vivid as the nightmares that haunted her. Boonsri, a beautiful, vibrant teenager, sobbing in A-ngun’s office chair. A-ngun had calmed her, holding her until the tears subsided into a numb stare. ‘Do you feel better now?’ Parasit had asked his niece, his voice gentle. ‘Can I stay here? I can’t face my father,’ Boonsri whispered. ‘I will talk to him. But not on the phone. A-ngun, get her something to eat. We will take her home when I return.’

Twenty minutes later, A-ngun had pushed the office door open, a bag of food in her hand. It dropped to the floor with a thud. Boonsri stood in the middle of the room, a razor in her hand, methodically slicing deep, bloody gashes into her own cheeks. ‘If my face is what caused him to rape me,’ the girl slurred through a mouthful of blood, ‘then it won’t happen again.’

‘Nong Boonsri will be in a mental institution for the rest of her life,’ Parasit said, the memory hanging heavy in the room. ‘Now, it is time for my revenge.’ ‘What will you do? Kill the rapper?’ ‘No. Death is a mercy. He will suffer something far worse.’ He slid two pieces of notepaper across the desk. ‘Translate these. One for Hettie’s father. The other for your boyfriend.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ A-ngun took the papers. As she read the first, the colour drained from her face. ‘You… you’re going to cut the little girl’s fingers off?’ ‘Read the rest,’ he commanded.

Her eyes scanned the page. ‘But you’re not asking for a ransom. What if he pays?’ ‘That is not the point. Now, read the note to your friend.’

A-ngun picked up the second note, her hands trembling. ‘What does Ronny have to do with this?’ Parasit grinned, a predator baring its teeth. ‘Read it.’

The words were cold and precise: “Dear Sir, please find enclosed one of the girl’s fingers. You will receive another every Friday. The shipments will cease under one of two conditions: you pay ten million baht to the ‘Sisters of Mercy Mental Institute,’ or you kill Hop-The-Hoop. The choice is yours.”

A-ngun was stunned into silence, the paper fluttering from her numb fingers. ‘Today is Saturday,’ Parasit said calmly. ‘So little Hettie has six days with all her digits intact.’ ‘Are you serious?’ A-ngun finally whispered. ‘Utterly.’ He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. ‘Oh, and do you know why that pathetic creature never faces his audience? When he was raping Boonsri, she fought back. She shoved a blade into his eye and sliced his face open from cheekbone to jaw.’

Three days later, Ronny looked up from his mail, his face pale and confused. ‘What the hell is this?’ he asked, holding up a plain, unmarked envelope containing the translated note.

A-ngun looked over from the kitchen, her expression a perfect mask of innocent concern. ‘No idea, darling,’ she said softly.

The END

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