The One Day You Were My Husband (64)

She shook her head. “I want to give this project everything I have, and I can’t if I’ve got to spend three hours a day on public transport.”

She watched me for a while, then put down her own chopsticks. It was a Tuesday night, nearly 10 p.m., but the restaurant was full. Above us, a speaker was playing music that might or might not have been Malaysian. To me it just sounded like Thailand.

“I’ve failed you,” my mother said, to my astonishment. “I flew out to Thailand on a great white horse, convinced I’d be able to rescue Johan. But I failed abysmally. I failed him, and I failed you.”

“Mum, he was guilty! He openly admits to having done it! What could you possibly have done?”

“All I could think of was getting justice for him—for you. It didn’t occur to me that he might actually have done it. I didn’t pause. I didn’t think. I never do.”

“But you tried. I was on my own and desperate, Mum—you flew out to be with me. I’d have gone under if you hadn’t.”

Mum looked relieved. “I suppose it’s more than your father managed.”

“Mum.”

“Sorry. But I was disappointed by his absence. I’d have thought he’d set aside his loathing of me for at least a couple of weeks, given what you were going through.”

“He was in touch every single day. And he did offer to come to Thailand. He was only in Bangladesh; it wouldn’t have taken him long. But we both agreed you were the best person for the job.”

“Except I wasn’t,” Mum said, angry again. “I didn’t achieve a thing. I have never been a good mother, and yet here I am, having failed you again. I love you, Carrie. But I was never made for this job.”

I had never heard my mother speak in this way.

“Please try to forgive me. And even if you can’t, please take my flat. I want you to have somewhere safe and easy near your work. You need it.”

Mum’s eyes had filled with tears. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen this happen. She picked up a napkin and almost hit herself in the face with it. My mother and father could not have been more different as human beings, but both of them did nearly anything rather than cry.

I accepted her offer. What else could I do? And she was right: I did need somewhere to live that wasn’t full of my life with Johan.

She slept on the sofa that night so that I could have the bed. There was a photo of me and Maya on her bedside table, two smiling girls on top of Hound Tor on a blazing summer day. In her tiny bathroom, a picture frame holding little offcuts of our hair. Carrie, December 1985, her handwriting said, next to one. Maya, April ’88.

I’d been too frozen to cry since coming back at the end of September. The hair was what finally brought the tears.

The next morning, as I walked the short distance to the hospital, Mum sent me her first ever text message. She believed mobile phones should never have been developed beyond their basic ability to make and receive calls. It was very touching to receive a communication like this.

I’m sorry, she wrote. I love you.



* * *



—

The call from Prawat came through two days before Christmas. I was in the on-call bedroom, checking the bedsheets for signs of prior use, when my phone rang.

I hadn’t actually talked to Prawat in Bangkok; Mum had done it all. So I didn’t know his usual tone, but I knew straight away that the news was bad.

“Johan’s trial took place over the past two days,” he said, after some hopeless pleasantries. I peeled back the duvet and inspected the bedsheet. It looked clean and stretched tight. Two nights ago, I had been in someone else’s dirty sheets for the three hours’ rest I managed to get between emergencies.

“We were not expecting such a quick trial. It is very unusual in Thailand. His lawyer was not prepared, and I think this was not an accident. I think they wanted his lawyer unready.”

I sat down. “And?”

“The lawyer did his best, but it was not a good trial. I am very sorry, Carrie, he has been found guilty and they have given him a twenty-five-year sentence in Bang Kwang Prison.”

He went silent, but I knew he was still there because I could hear mopeds and horns, a faint ribbon of music.

I had read about Bang Kwang. It sounded like the darkest place on earth. It housed Thailand’s highest-security male prisoners, along with the national death row and execution chamber. I distinctly remember one post on a forum that said the only way out of Bang Kwang was in a box.

I curled slowly down onto the bed, suddenly faint.

“Not Bang Kwang.”

“It is Bang Kwang,” Prawat said softly into my ear. Thousands of miles away. I pulled the synthetic duvet over myself. I hadn’t even removed my shoes. “I am so sorry.”

I didn’t speak.

“Carrie. I have to tell you that even though Johan’s lawyer was not ready, he would get the guilty verdict anyhow. I am sorry to say that I have continued my inquiries, carefully and quietly, and I am satisfied that he did commit the crime. There is no doubt. I also have learned that he was delivering for one of the biggest crime rings in Asia. He was cooperating with them for a long time.”

I lay down on my back, adjusting my phone. “Are you sure?” I asked. “You really believe this?”