south to the stadium in Chalong, his big meaty arms wrapped around my waist all the way. The Amanpuri was the most exclusive hotel on the island but, unlike a lot of clients I was sent to pick up, the Russian didn’t complain about being picked up by bike.
Farren often did business at night. Phuket had two seasons – wet and dry – but the heat was always with us, and in the day it could kill you. So business was often conducted in the cooler, darker hours, when it was easier to work, and think, and sell, and dream.
‘A mean streak,’ Farren repeated. ‘A lovely people who are capable of extreme cruelty if you push the wrong button. Just like the Brits.’
It wasn’t a criticism.
‘Come on, Jesse!’ Farren laughed. ‘Murder the little bastard!’
Leaning against the ropes on the far side of the ring, Jesse gamely motioned for his opponent to come forward, and he did, the Thai kicking him high on the thigh again, and then again, and then again. Three kicks that blurred into one kick and seemed to shrivel something in my lower stomach.
Farren turned away and clinked beer cans with the Russian, who seemed to be having a rare old time. We were in the VIP section. There were only a dozen seats in there, but if you were in the VIP section they put a rope around your little area, and gave you a plastic bag that contained two cans of Tiger beer. I took a nervous swig of the can I was holding.
Jesse lunged forward, hunched down and fists flying, one last desperate try at getting past the kicks that were crippling him. But the Thai lifted one knee and it met Jesse flush on the chin and he dropped into the arms of the referee who hugged him like a loving parent and waved it all off. I felt a sickened relief that it was all over.
The little Thai did a series of perfect, joyous backflips, and his bare feet cracked against the well-worn canvas of the Muay Thai ring like pistol shots.
Pirin, Farren’s Thai, was in the corner and he looked at me now and nodded, but the band had stopped playing and there was a brief moment for talking normally.
‘All good with you and the family, Tom?’ Farren said, and something must have passed across my face because he leaned in and poked his finger against my chest. ‘We’re going to get you that car,’ he said, and I could smell the Tiger beer on his breath. ‘That old bike is not good enough for you.’
This was the chance I had been waiting for.
‘I like the bike,’ I said. ‘I can fix it up.’ I hesitated for just a second. I had been thinking about this for a while. ‘But it’s my visa,’ I said. ‘It’s a tourist visa. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me – I really do – but I want to be legal.’
I shook my head, not knowing what else to say. That was it really. I wanted to work. I was happy to work. But I wanted to be legitimate. And Tess wanted it for me too.
‘But everyone comes in on a tourist visa,’ Farren said. He clapped me on the back and it was a good feeling. ‘We’ll sort out the paperwork later,’ he told me. ‘We’re not going to let the little men stop us with their bloody paperwork, are we?’
‘No,’ I said, smiling back at him, and enormously relieved even though nothing had changed. ‘No. We’re not.’
I climbed into the ring where Pirin was nursing Jesse. ‘Always the same in moo-ay tai,’ Pirin said, and it sounded strange to hear the national sport of Thailand pronounced with a Thai accent. ‘Kick loses to punch. Punch loses to knee. Knee loses to elbow. Elbow loses to kick.’ We helped Jesse to his feet. He could just about stand, although his pale blue eyes scared me. They didn’t seem to be looking at anything. ‘And Jesse loses to everyone!’ Pirin laughed, and slapped him on the back.
Jesse looked at us. ‘What happened?’ he said.
‘Cha-na nork,’ said Pirin. ‘Knockout. But you fought bravely. There’s no shame. Be proud of your heart.’
‘No,’ Jesse said. ‘I mean, what happened to me? I used to be quite good at all this.’ He looked at me, bleary with sadness as much as anything else. ‘I really did. Quite good, I was.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I saw your fights. You showed me the DVD, remember?’
‘You saw my DVD?’
We gently helped him between the ropes and into a chair in the little VIP section. There was a backstage area by the toilets where the fighters prepared and got patched up and exchanged equipment – a surprising amount of sharing went on – but Jesse did not look ready for the long walk to the toilets.
Farren was making his pitch to the Russian.
‘A foreign buyer in Thailand needs to bring in one hundred per cent of the purchase price in foreign currency,’ he said. ‘We can help you with your FETF – that’s the Foreign Exchange Transaction Form you need for the Land Department. Then Wild Palm helps you to set up a Thai company that legally owns the land. A Thai company that you control. You are allowed to own up to forty-nine per cent of the shares.’
Then there was what they called the money pause.
Farren was silent, staring at the Russian, giving him the chance to ask the obvious question – But how do I control a company if I own less than half of it?
The Russian did not ask the question.
They never did.
Jesse sat with his head between his legs and Pirin and I stepped aside to allow two Thai fighters to enter the ring. Their bodies shone and dazzled under the lights and although I had taken it for sweat, I saw now that they were oiled. There were curved rope bandanas around their foreheads, and thin coloured scarves around their biceps. They both circled the ring, lightly touching its ropes.
‘Keeping out evil spirits,’ Jesse said, and I looked at him, expecting to see mockery in his face. But his eyes, closing as I looked at them from the beating he had taken, were misty with belief.
The two Muay Thai fighters got down on their knees and touched their heads to the ground. They spread their arms wide and then, still on their knees, one leg out and one leg back, they began rocking on the rear foot. It was somewhere between a prayer and a warm-up, a stretch and a meditation.
‘The wai kru,’ Jesse said.
‘Remember and respect,’ Pirin nodded. ‘Your ancestor. Your teacher. Your country. Your god. Your king.’
The fighters were in the centre of the ring, smiling – unbelievably smiling – gently touching gloves, gently touching foreheads, gently patting each other on the shoulder, offering an almost fraternal support to their opponent. No, there was no ‘almost’ in it. For even their smiles were gentle. They did not look as though they were about to fight. They looked like they shared a mother.
‘Ah,’ said Pirin. ‘Showing more respect.’
But it did not look like respect. It looked like something deeper than that. It looked like something stronger than that. And I felt that for all the similarities that Farren saw between the British and the Thais, they had things that we did not. They were better at showing love to each other.
The fight began. With the fights that involved Westerners – and it wasn’t just Jesse, there were a
