I just assumed he was a
taxi driver. The way he hurried into the
place, shoulders rounded, a small plastic bag swinging off his wrist. A girl with a backpack had followed him into
the front patio of the guest house and was waiting, studying a map. It was only when he left, minus the plastic
bag, and then returned again, a few minutes later that our suspicions arose.
We were enjoying a port
and stilton night. A silly evening,
serving as a little reminder of home after 9 months absence. It had been planned while we were in Tioman,
to give us something to look forward to in Kuala Lumpur. Back at the Number 8 guest house. Where, a month previously, Alex’s passport,
credit cards and cash had been stolen from our room. An audacious little thief had walked into our
room one morning, while I lay asleep, and snatched it from the bedside table. We were now in possession of a clear
passport, and were just waiting for the new credit card to arrive. Then we could finally move on, head towards
the mountains, hide amongst the Himalayas.
But there was just a little more waiting to be done.
In our absence the
guest house owner had installed security cameras, and caught three people trying the door knobs of rooms,
looking for an opportunity. Two were
guests of the hotel, one had been staying while we were last here, the
likely culprit, the other a taxi driver.
There was an uncomfortable
look about the man walking back in. A shadow
cast across his demeanour. Quick moving
eyes and a tight unwilling smile. Alex
and I exchanged a look, suspicious and concerned. He walked in after the man. A few moments later he was back.
‘He’s just wandering
around upstairs.’ Alex said.
‘That’s weird. There’s something weird about him.’ I said.
‘I checked our
room. It’s definitely locked.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘What would I say?’
I shook my head at
Alex, and went in to look for the man myself.
I couldn’t find him. As I sat
back down again outside, with a view into the reception area, he reappeared. He wandered out of a side door, made a
cursory look at a notice about the wifi password on the reception desk, glanced
around, and exited out the back. I got
up again. The fortification of port
ensuring this thief would not be getting away with it. The girl from reception was watching him,
eyes narrowed.
‘Is he staying
here?’ I asked her.
She nodded. ‘I don’t like him. He come with only plastic bag. No luggage.’
We followed him out the
back. He was sneaking around the back
rooms. When he saw us he straightened
himself.
‘What are you
doing?’ I challenged.
He walked towards us,
his eyes unable to make a connection with mine.
‘I was looking for a
chair. There isn’t one in my room.’
‘A chair?’
He nodded.
‘What room are you
staying in? And under what name?’
‘805.’ He gave a name I couldn’t understand, but I
asked the receptionist to check. She
confirmed it.
‘Sorry.’ I said.
‘There have just been a few robberies.
You seemed to be wandering around, I made an assumption. My name is Wendy.’ I held out my hand.
‘Xali.’ He said shaking my hand.
We walked outside
together. I sat with Alex and he walked
to where the rooms at the front were.
‘Something’s not right
with him. I just accused him of being a
thief, and he still shook my hand. He
didn’t seem upset. It’s weird.’ I said.
‘You can’t just accuse
people of being thieves Wendy.’
‘You thought he was odd
too. Otherwise why did you follow him
in. I bet he tries those doors in a
minute, when he thinks no one is looking.’
Xali called me over to
him. I ignored him. I didn’t want to listen to him try and
justify himself, to attempt to make a friend of me. He walked inside and sat on the sofas in
reception. The owner approached
him. Shortly Xali left with his plastic
bag, head low, ostracised, no longer welcome.
I followed him.
‘So where you going
now? Try the doors of some other hotel
rooms?’ I asked.
Xali stopped and leant
up against a wall. He shook his
head. Middle aged, Asian, defeated. Intense sadness sat heavily in his eyes. I saw shame gnawing at his soul. The hostility I felt towards him waned,
leaving just a pretence of it.
‘Will you help me
Wendy? I need help. Please help.’
‘What?’
‘I have 3000 ringits
(£600). I need you to tie me to a
chair.’
‘What the fuck. Are you being serious?’
Xali
nodded
‘I need to you to tie
me to a chair, only for an hour.’
There was a long
pause. He turned his face away from
mine. His shoulders rounded more,
enfeebling him further.
‘I’m a heroin
addict. I want to stop. I get violent. I’ll pay you.
Please don’t tell the man you are with.’
‘I can’t see any track
marks on your arms.’
‘I smoke. I am a respectable man. My wife and family
don’t know. In Singapore I have my own
business. Please, I need you to tie me
to a chair.’
His sorrow was tangible,
oppressive.
‘I have come here for 2
nights, to get clean.’ He continued.
‘What’s in your bag?’ I asked.
Xali opened his plastic
bag. Inside was a thick coil of tough
plastic rope.
‘You really were
looking for a chair.’
Xali nodded.
‘Why are you telling
me?’ I asked.
‘You seem open. I like the way you talk.’ He replied.
I went and bought a
couple of beers from the Chinese shop across the road, and sat on the curb with
Xali as he told me his story.
He was 50, and owned a
plastic mouldings company. Sixteen
months ago, he met some clients who he wanted to win business from. He did what they did, to fit in with them, to
win the contract. They smoked
heroin. He couldn’t stop after the deal
was completed. So far he had managed to
hide it from his wife and family, but the addiction was demanding more from
him. It was his plan to come to Kuala
Lumpur for the weekend and find someone, female, not Chinese, to tie him to a
chair, for the couple of hours the come-down ravaged him worst.
On his forearms were
inch long, wide cuts, healing badly.
Wounds from his last attempt to restrain himself, as he had struggled to
work himself free. He pressed me to tie
him to the chair. I wanted to help. But Alex’s voice in my head chastised me,
‘What if he dies Wendy, that’s a manslaughter charge. Don’t be an idiot. You can’t tie strange men to chairs in cheap
hotel rooms.’
His shame, that I had
mistaken for the shady behaviour of a thief, was painful to watch. But there was nothing I could do to
help. I told him I was sorry, and left
him on the curb, staring into the gutter.
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