Soft lighting. Stained wood panelling. Unvarnished wooden tables and chairs. Upholstered booths. Framed olde worlde posters advertising whisky and Guinness and Irish coffee and other famous beverages from the Emerald Isle. Gaelic background music. Shannon’s Pub was striving hard for authenticity, but as someone who’d visited Ireland a few times, I could say with certainty that the overall effect was more Oxford Street than Dublin. At a glance, the clientele seemed to be a relaxed co-mingling of Thais and Westerners, most sitting towards the rear of the pub below a mounted wide-screen TV, watching a re-run match between Man United and Everton. Among them I noticed several United strips, worn by Thais and westerners alike. For several minutes I stood near the deserted bar watching the game ebb and flow until I heard a male voice say, somewhat tetchily, ‘I can help you?’
I turned to see a Thai barman staring at me. He was young, pasty-faced and bony, with close-cropped dark hair and a couple of silver hoops dangling from his right ear lobe. His leather bracelets, tattooed fingers and crushed white t-shirt with a picture of a snarling Joe Strummer screamed I might be a local, but I’m worldly, so don’t even think about patronising me.
‘Pint of Guinness, please.’ It felt strange ordering Guinness in Bangkok, but I figured I’d try it if only as a way to compare and contrast.
‘You must be rich.’
A female voice this time, English, home counties. Turning to my left, I saw a young, elfin-faced white woman standing at the bar beside me. She had braided, strawberry-blonde hair and wore a white, half-cut blouse with an elasticated bottom that clung to her visible rib-cage. In the gap between her blouse and what I later came to know as Thai fisherman’s trousers – a loose-fitting kind of skirt-trousers held together by straps – I noticed she had a sunken stomach and that the top of her black knickers was showing slightly.
‘Were you talking to me?’
The barman turned away to watch the game. He seemed grateful for the opportunity. The woman stepped closer to me, cupped her hand over my ear – a surprisingly intimate gesture that gave me a jolt – and whispered, ‘The Guinness is over a tenner a pint.’
I must have reacted with shock because she stepped back and started nodding her head. Before I could say anything, she leaned in again and whispered, ‘I’d recommend the local rum. You can buy a bucket of it with Coke for about a fiver and it lasts a lot longer than a pint of Guinness. We could share it. That way you won’t have to buy me a drink.’ She stepped back again and stretched out her hand, which struck me as oddly formal after her earlier behaviour, and said, ‘Kelly.’
Slightly bemused, I shook her clammy hand and said, ‘Afia.’
We took our bucket of rum and Coke, served with icecubes and two straws, and went and sat at a pavement table near the entrance. The heat was a welcome relief from the chill of the pub’s air-conditioned interior and I took it as a sign that I was already beginning to acclimatise. As soon as we were seated Kelly said, ‘Know why they serve it with straws?’ I shook my head. ‘Apparently, you get less oxygen drinking through a straw, which means you get mashed a lot quicker.’
I gave her a quizzical look. ‘Isn’t that a myth?’
She shrugged and replied, ‘Who the hell cares?’
Using both hands, she lifted the plastic bucket to her head, sucked long and hard on her straw and handed me the bucket as though we were smoking a peace pipe. I took a sip and almost had to spit. ‘Damn, that’s strong!’
Kelly laughed. ‘That’s how they serve it here. You get used to it.’ She patted my forearm. ‘Diddums. Don’t worry. The ice’ll dilute it.’
The condescension didn’t make me warm to her but I definitely fancied her. She was pretty, no doubt, with a confidence, even arrogance, that belied her slight frame and softly spoken voice. She had the look of someone who’d seen it all and bought the commemorative mug. Under the street light, her tan was more visible and deep enough to suggest she’d been away a long time. I was grateful that she wasn’t covered in mosquito bites. She had the odd one here and there, on her forearms and ankles, but nothing like some of the women I’d seen. She didn’t look like she had the pox.
‘I hope you’re not expecting small talk,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I don’t do it. Can’t. Too boring.’ She bent forward, sucked on her straw, straightened up again and said, ‘You’ve probably got all these questions you want to ask me, but I make a habit of telling girls my life story after I’ve slept with ’em, not before. That way I don’t scare ’em off.’
Leaning back in my chair, I made a deliberate show of appraising her. I was hoping she might keep talking, as I was enjoying her forced attempts to appear interesting, but she simply looked at me, a half smile on her face, a teasing smile.
‘Drink up.’ Using one hand this time, she lifted the bucket and held it in front of my face. I took a sip, pulled away, but she kept the bucket in place. ‘C’mon, get it down
