around? I figured the best place for it was the trash can.
I heard the roar of a motorcycle engine and looked out of the window.
There was a gun pointing at me.
A big gun.
A revolver.
A Smith amp; Wesson Model 637 Chiefs Special Airweight revolver, snubnose stainless-steel barrel, aluminium alloy frame, exposed hammer, black rubber grips,. 38 calibre.
It’s funny how your mind focuses on the little things when you’re about to die.
The Model 637 only has five shots but the. 38 is a big bullet so five is all you need, especially when your target is sitting in a taxi just three feet from you.
It’s a snubnose so it’s easy to conceal. And it weighs less than a pound so it’s easy to carry. Under any other circumstances I’d have said that it’s a nice gun.
The man holding it was dark-skinned and wearing a red and white bandana across the bottom of his face. He was sitting on the back of a small motorcycle, a 110cc black Honda Click. The driver was wearing a full-face helmet with a black visor and he was revving the engine impatiently as he waited for the pillion passenger to pull the trigger.
The shooter was holding the gun with his right hand and holding on to the driver’s shoulder with his left. The Model 637 packs a punch and I don’t think even I would try to fire it one-handed if I had the choice.
It kicked as it fired and the window exploded into a thousand cubes and the bullet smacked against the side of my head.
Time seemed to stop.
I could feel a searing pain, just above my right ear.
I could hear a bus sounding its horn.
I could see the hatred in the shooter’s eyes which I really didn’t understand because he must have been a hired gun so it shouldn’t have been personal.
I could smell the cordite.
My ears were ringing from the explosion but I could hear the driver shouting ‘again, again!’ in Thai as he revved the Honda.
I could feel cubes of glass cascading down the front of my shirt.
I could hear the taxi driver screaming in panic.
I could feel blood trickling down my cheek.
I could see the shooter’s finger tightening on the trigger for the second shot.
I could hear the pounding horn of a bus, louder now.
I could see the red flecks of blood on the headrest of the front passenger seat. My blood.
I felt the DVD slip from my fingers and clatter onto the floor of the taxi.
And that’s when the cream and blue Bangkok Mass Transit Authority bus smashed into the back of the bike and sent it and the two men on it hurtling down the street.
I guess that’s when I lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 39
‘Mr Turtledove? Can you hear me Mr Turtledove?’ It was a man’s voice. Speaking English but with a Thai accent. Then he spoke in Thai to someone else. ‘He’s still unconscious.’
‘No, I’m all right,’ I said, but the words came out all wrong as if I’d forgotten how to work my tongue.
‘Mr Turtledove?’
I felt a pressure on my eyelid and then it was forced open and a bright light made me wince. I groaned and blinked and then I opened my eyes to see a young doctor looking down at me. ‘Where am I?’ I asked, and this time my tongue seemed to have regained the knack of forming words.
‘Bumrungrad Hospital,’ he said. ‘The emergency room.’
That was good news.
At least I wasn’t dead.
I guess if you’re going to be shot anywhere, the best place would be outside one of Asia’s best hospitals.
‘How do you feel, Mr Turtledove?’
‘My head hurts. And my throat is dry.’
The doctor asked a nurse to get me some water and a few seconds later a straw was slipped between my lips and I sipped gratefully.
‘Do you have any other pain anywhere else?’ asked the doctor.
The nurse took the water away. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No pain. How many times was I shot?’
‘Just once,’ said the doctor. ‘The bullet glanced across your temple. You were lucky.’
‘I don’t feel lucky,’ I said.
The doctor took my right hand. ‘Squeeze, please,’ he said.
I did as I was told.
‘Good,’ said the doctor. He put down my right hand and picked up my left. ‘And again, please.’ I squeezed again.
‘That’s good, Mr Turtledove. Very good.’
There was a metallic whirring sound and the bed began to tilt up. I was in a private room with an LCD television on the wall and a sofa for visitors. I guess they’d found the insurance card in my wallet.
‘There was some bleeding, obviously, but it was superficial. I’d like you to come back in a couple of days to change the dressing, but other than that you’ll be fine.’
‘My head really hurts,’ I said.
‘We’ll prescribe painkillers, but we did a scan while you were unconscious and there’s no sign of damage to the skull or the brain,’ he said. ‘You’re good to go.’ He signed a form on a clipboard and handed it to the nurse, wished me a good afternoon and left.
I asked a nurse to bring me my cellphone and I tapped out Noy’s number.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Hospital,’ I said.
‘I thought you were done by eleven,’ she said.
‘That was the plan,’ I said.
‘How did it go?’
‘Good news, bad news,’ I said.
‘Oh my Buddha, they didn’t cut off your manhood, did they?’
‘No, honey, I’m still in one piece.’
‘So what’s the good news?’
‘My colon is fine. No cysts, tumours or anything untoward. Clean bill of health.’
‘That’s great, honey. So what’s the bad news?’
‘I’ve been shot.’
CHAPTER 40
Noy came to pick me up at the hospital and drove me back to our apartment in Soi Thonglor, after we’d paid the hospital bill, of course. You get great treatment at the Bumrungrad, but it comes at a price.
She didn’t ask me any questions in the car, but once I was on the sofa with a cup of coffee in my hand, they came thick and fast.
Who had shot me?
