Ta

Short Dark Story

'Ta. Thanks a lot,' Jazza said to himself; he was unhappy with his boss's comment, even less happy with her suggestion. His latest task was handed over via email, which ended with "My office door is open". The other reporters hid their grins behind papers. He trudged towards the door at the far end of the building.

It was tough getting his work permit; now, it seemed even harder to keep it. He was stumped. His boss was the editor of a provincial newspaper. Jazza was only the second non-Thai journalist working for them. To gain the work permit, he needed to prove he was doing a job that a local could not. He was sent on missions no Thai journalist would want. Garbage collection outside schools was the latest no-hope article, two thousand words nobody will read. The editor's newest scheme was to blow open the growing trade in "night-life" workers from the provinces.

Her bright red lipstick annoyed him, so did her tight skirt, and her blouse stretched the buttons beyond belief.

'Christ, mutton dressed as lamb, what would my mum say?' He could imagine his mother telling her neighbours, 'My Jeremy, he's doing so well, a high-flying journalist in Thailand. Imagine?'

'Yeah, she wouldn't be so proud now.'

He snorted, shook his head and marched through the door into the editor's cluttered office.

'You want me to pretend to buy underage girls to learn their trade in a pretend massage parlour?'

'Yes, not only girls, but boys can also be good at massage too, you know?' She laughed.

'Are you serious? You'll get me shot,' Jazza was on the verge of walking out.

'Did you know that footballer you keep on about, he is coming to The Crest Hotel,' she flipped a finger at the window behind her, 'over the road, with his wife when the season ends. I'll need him interviewed. How do you fancy that little job?' she said.

Jazza suddenly perked up. 'Really?'

'Yes, but I want an award-winning story about massage kids first.'

'I'm not saying no, but this seems perilous?' said Jazza.

'Look, we can't use a Thai person; the girl's dad won't believe our story; it must be a European or American. You're the man for the job. Remember, I have a contact high in the police force; he will be eh… monitoring your progress from a distance.'

'And expenses? I'll have to spend, car rental, maybe entertaining and for the poor unfortunate child.'

'Yes, yes, you will need cash; the parents won't have it any other way. For any bar or restaurant bills, you can use the company credit card.'

'Won't that be a giveaway?'

'Yes, yes, it will. Use your cash; I'll pay you back when you get back. And I need receipts.'

'I don't think they give receipts in the places I'll be going,' Jazza said.

He grumbled his way home, 'Early to bed, early to rise,' he said to himself, preparing to meet the next day's challenges. He was dreading buying food and drinks for some pimp. He looked at the scruffy slip of paper with the name and phone number of the in-between contact.

Jazza could speak passable Thai but never mastered reading or writing. He had met up with the contact, short military haircut, immaculately dressed, a very upright person, at least in his demeanour if not his trade. He drank wine and enjoyed the steak dinner he was offered as he handed over details of the poor girl for sale, the lass he had to buy.

He was thinking about his chosen career, the good, meeting famous people, and the bad, dealing with wicked folk.

'No problem,' he said to the car's mirror, 'I doubt if I need to read a contract with the farmer or his daughter,' he laughed as he reached the up-country village.

As much as he hated taking a fourteen-year-old girl away from her family and school friends, he was excited by the cloak-and-dagger thrill of working undercover. He had drafted the skeleton of the article in his bed. Now he needed the bones and a few shots with his iPhone camera secreted in his pocket.

Not only did the farmer not want a contract, he barely spoke. Dragging the young girl from a shed behind the house, she struggled and cried as she sat in the front of Jazza's hire car.

The farmer counted the thousand Baht notes, grunted, and stomped inside.

'Don't worry,' Jazza told the girl as the car moved off. 'My boss promised to find you a safe and friendly care home where you can finish your schooling.'

An uncertain smile flicked across her face. Jazza wondered if she doubted his comment or if she was laughing at his poor language skills.

The road was damaged and cracked beyond repair, and the edges were broken and missing as Jazza manoeuvred around potholes. Flashing lights caught his eyes ahead.

'Oh, no, I hope that's not an accident?' he mumbled.

It wasn't; police cars surrounded him in an instant.

He was bundled into the back of a pickup truck and cuffed to a railing.

'What's going on?' he asked.

The uniformed officers sneered at him without reply.

'I want to speak to my boss; no, I want the embassy.'

They laughed, tapping each other playfully, high-fiving, happy with their arrest. His phone and wallet were confiscated, and he slumped as he was charged with kidnapping at the station.

Later at the newspaper building, a well-dressed police captain strolled into the editor's office; he threw his cap to a spare chair, plonked himself down, and stretched his feet onto her desk.

'That all went well.' He breathed. 'I've got rid of a pain in the arse Brit for you. I recovered all your money for a new staff member for my massage parlour. Happy now?' He asked as he leant forward and kissed his mistress full on the lips.

'Not in front of my staff,' she laughed.

'Oh, I've placed the farmer in the same cell as Mr Jeremy. Do you think they'll get on?' They both roared. She tore the work permit in half.

'Wait, you may need to use that again.'

'A permit for a female called Alice Drabble to use? I doubt I'll be lucky enough to find another half-wit who can't read Thai or be bothered to get paperwork checked.'

Nearby in a police cell, a young Englishman sat with his head in his hands.

'Ta, thanks a lot!' he mumbled as a grubby fist burst his upper lip.

The END

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