An Autumn Hunting by Tom Callaghan

Author:Tom Callaghan [Callaghan, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786482372
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2018-11-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

To my surprise, we didn’t go back into the main street, but pushed further back into the bar, past the pool table and bandstand, then out through the back door. We were in a large courtyard with open-air bars in the centre and around the sides. Stairs on either side led up to two horseshoe-shaped galleries, with more bars. Dozens of women, many wearing only underwear with a numbered badge pinned to their bra straps, stood gossiping and eating, clearly on a break from working inside the bars. Everywhere the air was filled with the smells of cooking, stale beer, cigarette smoke, the promise of whatever kind of sex turned you on.

We climbed up the stairs to the top floor, walked along past strangely tall and slim women. The driver nodded at them, shrugged.

‘Kathoey. Ladyboy.’

I’ve always had a certain amount of sympathy for gay people in Bishkek. It’s a conservative city, and obviously feminine men run the risk of being attacked, beaten up, even raped or murdered. It usually wasn’t difficult to find the attackers; the nearest bar was where they would end up with a bottle of vodka, celebrating their bravery in attacking some man who’d done them no harm.

Bangkok was a different world. I did what I suppose most tourists in a red light district do, and stared. They all looked beautiful to me, and I wondered what happened when someone took a ‘girl’ back to his hotel room and got a surprise. Perhaps no one really cared, that sex was either a matter of personal preference or a way to make money.

I did my best to ignore the blown kisses, admiring whistles and the tugging at my arm as a girl wearing a scarlet dress slit to her hip tried to drag me into her bar. I noticed they all stayed away from my companion; either they knew he wasn’t interested or they’d spotted the gun.

We came to a bar that looked derelict; no neon, no curtained door, no girls grabbing customers, insisting they come watch the show. The driver pushed at a glass door covered over with old newspapers, and we entered.

The room smelt of mould, dust and abandonment, with just a lingering hint of sex on the damp air. A stage formed the centrepiece of the room, with metal poles at regular intervals for the girls to dance around. A few dusty mirrors hung on the walls, some engraved with beer signs. Empty bottles, cigarette butts and the remnants of used tissues littered the floor.

The driver led me to the inner door, pushed it open, jerked his thumb for me to enter. The room I found myself in stood in complete contrast to the squalor on the other side of the door. Discreet lighting highlighted the stylish conference table, the black leather chairs, the massive flat-screen TV where a constantly changing parade of exchange rates and share prices scrolled upwards. The man at the head of the table stood up, gave me a hands-pressed-together

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