IGW-v2-5p3

IGW V2, Issue 5, p3

The Independent Gay Writer Newsletter is pleased to carry the serialized novel by Peter Mitchell, which otherwise will not be available for purchase in the United States.

THE CHILDREN OF OM
A young man in his gap year before university, after completing a stint of voluntary work at a youth camp in Thailand, decides to enjoy a final fling in Pattaya. His drink is spiked in a gay bar and he wakes up being masturbated by a transsexual who claims to be collecting his sperm to produce beautiful children for “the doctor”. When the katoey is murdered and it is
discovered that OM has an unknown genetic defect, the hunt is on to avert catastrophe. The second part of the book follows the careers of three of the offspring who slowly discover the mystery of their father’s past. The plot is a mixture of farce and fantasy, of the sublime and
the ridiculous. Strap on your parachute harness and suspend your disbelief.

About the author
Peter Mitchell was educated, unhappily, at Eton and Trinity College Cambridge. He stood for parliament on gay rights issues during a central London election – a campaign described in The Peculiar History of Oliver Trent. After spending the twenty “best” years of his life drafting bills for backbenchers and fighting them through parliament, only to see them thwarted by the government, Peter took advantage of a small inheritance and went freelance. When the friend with whom he had shared a house for 18 years died suddenly, Peter decided to leave England and live with his Thai lover in Pattaya. He spends the Thai monsoon season in an isolated finca in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, southern Spain. His style is taut and sardonic – a radio rather than a television play, where the readers have to eke out the spare text with their own imaginations.

This novel will appear here in three parts. Here is the first part.

The Children of OM
by Peter Mitchell

Part One: Conception

1

Despite subsequent criticism, there had been no alternative. There had been no time for thought, let alone decision. When a bundle the size of a rugby football strikes you in the chest at thirty miles an hour, you are predetermined to clasp it with your arms, fall heavily on your posterior and strike the back of your head on the pavement.

OM only lost consciousness for a few seconds and came round to piercing screams in his left ear.

“That’s a good sign,” he thought vaguely. “If the lungs can make that much noise, there can’t be too much serious damage elsewhere.” His left arm was pinned, but he managed to raise himself on his right elbow and forced his eyes to focus. A small crowd had already gathered around that all too frequent combination on a Thai street: a dented pick-up, a smashed motorbike and two misshapen and helmetless bodies. No one had yet noticed that a small participant in this daily drama had literally flown the scene.

“Maa, maa,” bawled the child.

“Oh my God,” thought OM, “what the hell do I do now?”

So many parts of his anatomy were complaining that he was not even sure that he could manage to get to his feet. He decided to wait for the arrival of the police and in the meantime try to comfort his unexpected companion.

“Mai pen ry, noo”, he lied, “it’s alright, little mouse.”

OM had recovered sufficiently to be aware that all was definitely not right, especially for the little mouse who had now calmed down and was clinging tightly to his tee shirt. OM decided that she was a girl aged about two who had been predestined to die with her parents if he had not inconsiderately got in her way. OM prayed that an aunt would emerge from the crowd and claim the child; but his prayers were not answered.

Eventually he heard a whistle and saw two pairs of tight brown trousers.

“Help,” he managed to bleat, “chuay duay”.

OM was in the pre-university gap year and had picked up a little colloquial Thai during a community placement, but he was now out of his depth and would probably be better off playing the dumb tourist.

One of the policemen turned to look in OM’s direction and his eyes lit up. A farang! Where there was a farang there was money.

“You caused the accident did you? You’ve killed two people. You’re under arrest.”

At least, this was what OM decided was the gist of the remarks. Fortunately a bystander, who had seen the accident, declared that no pedestrian had been involved, but that, now he thought of it, he remembered seeing a child on the motorbike just beforehand. OM recognised the word “child” and said “dek nii” as he tried to prise the little girl from his chest and show her to the officers.

“I think she is OK. Please take her.”

“What are you doing with her? Are you a relation?”

The policeman’s basic training obviously had not included the conservation of momentum.

“What next?” groaned OM, “first I am accused of manslaughter and now of paedophilia. I wonder if there is a law against damaging the pavement with your head?”

Inconsequentially, he recalled someone being convicted in the UK for damaging a policeman’s boot with his nose. This was hardly encouraging. OM lay back down again and closed his eyes.

OM was not, of course, his real name, but his initials. When he first arrived in Ratchaburi, six months before, he found that the locals could not get their tongues around either his first name or surname and they demanded to know his nickname. Since practically all Thais had monosyllabic nicknames he chose OM without really thinking and then had the horrible feeling that he might be committing sacrilege. He was relieved when one of the boys laughed, put his thumb in his mouth, and said, “Om meu, baby.”

It had been OM’s godfather who had suggested that he might find Thailand interesting and had paid for his flight and expenses. For reasons he did not understand, his parents had been less enthusiastic and had suggested either Australia or the USA. These destinations, however, seemed to him a little tame. Although after years of mass tourism Thailand could no longer claim to be exotic, OM was determined to escape from the US-dominated anglophone world for a few months. In addition, he had become impatient with the blandness and incoherence of Anglicanism and was eager to learn how a society could be bound by a religion without a Supreme Being.

For OM to have conceived the true tragedy of the little bundle of tears in his arms would have been to credit him with too much imagination. The dead man and woman carried no identification and were undoubtedly illegal immigrants. The motorcycle proved to have been stolen, and so provided no clues. Even assuming that the couple were the girl’s parents it would be almost impossible to ascertain if her birth had been registered, or where. The local newspapers published pictures of the orphan and of the corpses, but no one came forward to identify them. Her future lay, probably, in an understaffed and loveless children’s home; this would be followed by training as a seamstress and a life either of unrewarding toil or of humiliating and lethal employment in a bar or brothel. All this was explained to OM by a police captain who made it quite clear that he had done no one a favour by saving her life.

OM wandered purposelessly around the streets of Pattaya, ignoring the cries of “handsome man”, “nice clean girl”, “sexy boy”. His week for rest and recreation before returning to London had turned sour on the first day. His head was still aching but he was too restless to stay any longer lying on his bed in a cheap and noisy hotel eating paracetamol. He had been determined to take advantage of his freedom to lose his virginity and he had put a condom in his pocket, despite the fact that in his current state it was bound to be a disaster. He also had not yet decided if he wanted to fuck a boy or a girl.

OM suddenly felt an acute thirst and he walked straight into the

first bar he saw without bothering to check out its attractions first. “A Coke or Pepsi, please, or whatever.” “Rum Coke?” “No thank you, just ice.” OM looked around and saw it was a go-go boy bar, with about

twenty youths gyrating around pillars on a central stage; about the same number were waiting their turn on the seats by the toilets.

The cola arrived and OM drained it at once, asked for another and made his way past caressing eyes and hands to the lavatory. While he was pissing, the attendant massaged his neck and then ran his hands down to OM’s bum.

“You want boy?” “No thank you, not now.” “Maybe later, OK?” OM felt he ought to have been repulsed by the intimacy, but it was

strangely relaxing. He washed his hands, accepted the proffered towel, fished a 100 baht note out of his pocket, handed it over with a smile and retreated to the bar.

OM downed his second drink as quickly as his first. The next thing he knew, he was lying strapped on a bed about to explode. A katoey eased the rest of the sperm into a test tube and held it up with pride.

“You very strong. Have many beautiful children.”

OM could move his head sufficiently to see that the room, although windowless, was quite a comfortable jail. In one corner were a table and chair, and opposite were a sofa and a door, which OM hoped led to a bathroom. There was light from the ceiling, although OM could not see its source, and the hum of air-conditioning.

He tried to remember the Foreign Office advice on being kidnapped that he had skimmed through on his father’s insistence. Escape if you can but never attempt to fight overwhelming odds. The sole objective is to remain alive and this is best achieved by remaining passive and cooperating with your captors, rather than antagonising them. Your life may be of no value to them, but they are more interested in what they can gain from your abduction – usually a ransom. OM recalled the paradoxical advice that while the British government would never condone payment of a ransom, this information should be withheld from the kidnappers. The longer a kidnap victim remained on amicable terms with his abductors, the less likely he was to be killed. OM decided his best bet was to captivate his captor.

OM was still puzzling over the transvestite’s final remark when the door slid open and he reappeared.

“Doctor very pleased. Sperm very healthy. I milk you twice a day. You enjoy. No trouble, no problem. Now you shower and I bring you breakfast. My name Nung.”

Nung unfastened the straps and disappeared as silently as he had entered, leaving OM to stretch his limbs and heave himself off the bed.

In the bathroom he found a toilet and a shower and all the accessories of a first class hotel. When he re-emerged in a bathrobe he found Nung laying out a full American breakfast with a pot of coffee. OM was convinced he must be dreaming and pinched himself hard to no effect. His watch had been removed with his clothes so he had no idea what time, or even what day, it was but his stomach was indicating that it was well past time to eat and he needed no encouragement to get stuck in.

Nung hovered fussily over him.

“You like? What you want for lunch? Steak, pork chop, fish?”

“I don’t mind,” Oliver replied, “all I want is to know why I am here and what is going on.”

“No worry, no problem. You are our guest for a short time.” Nung oozed unctuously in a manner that reminded OM of Uriah Heep.

“But my flight is on Sunday.” OM said tartly.

“No problem, it will be changed.”

OM clenched his fists. If Nung said “no problem” once more he was going to get his mascara smudged.

Nung sensed OM’s anger.

“I am sorry. I cannot tell you any more. The doctor is phuu yai mak mak. VIP.”

“Then can I see the doctor?” OM demanded.

“No. Sorry. You only see me.” Nung sounded apologetic.

“Then at least tell me why you want my sperm and what you are doing with it!” OM was becoming exasperated.

“Yes, I can tell you that. Thai men like white skin. Most prostitutes from Esan, too dark. Half-half boys, luuk krung, very handsome too. Many pop stars are half-half. You finish breakfast. I bring you something to read.”

OM lay on the sofa and tried to make some sense of what Nung had told him. It seemed utterly ridiculous, but he supposed it was a possible fantasy in the mind of some mad scientist. So he, OM, was going to father a made to order race of whitish tarts and boy bands. Apart from the immorality it was a genetic time bomb since some of his offspring were likely to interbreed.

OM tried to remember his schoolboy biology. How many sperm were there in each ejaculation? Was it half a million or five million? How many would the doctor need? Surely a week’s production would be more than sufficient. Then why had they taken the trouble to alter his ticket? When he did not arrive, his parents would contact the airline and what would they be told? What about his hotel, his luggage and his passport? He must ask Nung. The only conclusion he could reach was that they wanted as much time as possible before anyone realised he had been kidnapped; and the longer he was held the greater the chance Nung would become careless and he could escape.

On another count he also drew some reassurance. If they intended to kill him, why were they taking such efforts to ensure that he did not know where he was and who was imprisoning him (apart from Nung, who, with a change of name and warpaint would be unrecognizable)?

As soon as OM relaxed he remembered the girl. He had intended to return to the police station the following day – today? Now it looked as if he was going to be imprisoned for a couple of weeks; by the time he was released it was quite probable that all trace of her would have disappeared. Could he ask Nung to help? The idea was absurd. “Excuse me officer. An Englishman, whom we are looking after temporarily, has asked us to find a young girl whom he caught in a traffic accident a few days ago. Can you assist?” OM shrugged his shoulders. It was fate that he had saved her life. It was fate that he had been chosen for this breeding programme. He wondered what other tricks fate still had up her sleeve. OM had already experienced the apparent indifference with which Thais accepted events that to western eyes seemed tragic.

OM was dozing on the sofa when the door slid open silently and Nung entered with a crash.

“Exercise bike,” he panted, “doctor says you must use it for half an hour twice a day. Lazy sperm no good.”

Nung went out again and returned with a DVD player and a box of books and DVDs. OM riffled through the books. Nung had obviously been to a second hand shop where tourists got rid of the paperbacks they had bought at the airport. He suspected all the films were pirate copies, but who was he to complain?

“Thanks, Nung. But no TV or Bangkok Post?”

“Sorry. Doctor not allow.”

OM could not work out why allowing him access to the news could do any harm; perhaps they feared that an item about his disappearance might give him information that could endanger them. Nung plugged in the machine and inserted a disc. It was a bit grainy, but the sound track was audible. Nung turned it off.

“You exercise now. In one hour I bring you lunch. Then you rest for an hour before I milk you again.”

Nung smirked and handed OM shorts and a singlet. OM knew there was no point in arguing, so he dressed, moved the bicycle into the centre of the room, selected the lowest gear and began gently to pedal.

“No good, too easy,” Nung was not to be fooled and adjusted the controls, “don’t try to cheat, we shall be watching you.”

This was the first time that Nung had admitted what OM had already suspected: that he was under constant observation.

Nung had set an alarm and by the time it rang OM was exhausted. The singlet was dripping sweat so he ripped it off, dropped his shorts and forced his aching legs into the bathroom. Under the shower his brain began to function again and he realised that he had forgotten to ask Nung about his passport and luggage. While he was towelling himself down, Nung reappeared with a tray.

“Pepper steak, French fries, pak ruam.”

Nung’s English let him down when it came to the stir-fried mixed vegetables. OM hoped the steak was not overdone and was pleasantly surprised to see a layer of red meat when he cut it.

“Wait a moment. I want to ask you something. What about my passport and luggage at the hotel? As I have not paid my bill they will probably sell them.”

Nung adopted the condescending tone that had so irritated OM before.

“Don’t worry. All taken care of. Your passport is here and your luggage is at Don Muang for you to collect before your flight. The hotel has been paid and an e-mail has been sent to your father to say you have saved enough money to stay for another week or so.”

“How the hell did you know how to e-mail my father?” OM spluttered. But he immediately answered his own question. His father’s name and address at the House of Commons was at the back of his passport.

“But how did you know which hotel I was staying in?” OM blurted out instinctively, before realising again what a stupid question it was. The mad doctor was highly professional in everything but his ethics. He might even have been selected while he was still in Ratchaburi. He had made no secret of the fact that he was going to Pattaya, so they would have had no difficulty in tracking him. Without doubt the hotel

had been paid or even advised to forget all about its young guest.

Nung just smiled.

“Rest now. I shall come back in about an hour.”

So OM settled down with the first of the blockbusters, which sent him to sleep before he had finished the first page.

It is said that captives often come to identify with their captors and adopt their ideology. While Nung was wholly innocent of ideology, or for that matter of morality, OM day by day began to grow more and more fond of his epicene jailer. At first he submitted to the twice daily abuse in the spirit of the aristocratic wife who “lay back and thought of England”, but he soon decided that there was nothing to be gained from resistance to the pleasure. For his part, Nung increasingly concentrated on erotic arousal and delayed the collection for which he was being paid for as long as possible. Was the doctor watching? Did it matter?

Nung began a running commentary on the delights of OM’s body

– mostly in Thai, but it was not hard to follow the drift. At the end,however, he reverted to English. “Oh I love this cock. This is such a waste. I want it inside me. Ooooooooh!”

For the first few days, OM assumed that Nung was faking but he was once in no doubt that his orgasm was shared when Nung failed to conceal a stain on his skirt.

For his own impenetrable reasons the doctor would not even allow OM a pencil; so OM kept track of the days by tearing pages out of one of the unreadable thrillers. He therefore knew that it was his seventeenth day of captivity when Nung entered to perform his morning routine in a state of nervous excitement. He began caressing OM’s body as usual, but as soon as OM was aroused he choked a sob and stuttered,

“Bad news, good news. I am going to lose you. The doctor says he has enough milk. So today it is all mine!”

In a flash he shed his dress, rolled a condom down OM’s penis, slid it smoothly into his rectum and rolled OM over onto his side.

“Fuck me hard, hard, hard.”

OM was barely awake but Nung’s energy was infectious. So this is how I lose my virginity, OM thought as Nung plunged his tongue into OM’s mouth. Nung established a rhythm that would sustain his pleasure for as long as possible and by the time he ejaculated OM was exhausted, although Nung’s cock was still so flaccid that it seemed to have retreated into his body.

“Didn’t you come?” OM asked, worried that he had failed.

“You too good. I love you too much. My cock not important. Come to shower.”

In the shower OM insisted on soaping and washing Nung’s genitals until the cock started to grow. Once inside OM’s mouth it inflated rapidly.

Nung moaned softly, “I never come like this. Please stop.”

But he made no effort to match action to his words and in a couple of minutes OM’s mouth was full of a liquid he had never tasted before. OM spat it out and gargled under the shower.

Nung dried OM down lovingly and then, with tears in his eyes, told him that he would fetch his clothes in anticipation of his departure. He watched OM dress and then hugged him for the last time. OM felt the prick of a hypodermic needle in his neck and lost consciousness again.

OM’s second awakening from drugged sleep was less erotic than the first, but no less bewildering. He was in a deep thicket through which few rays of the morning sun were able to filter. He could hear dogs barking and the noise of motorcycles, so he knew that at least he was in spitting distance of civilisation. He checked his pockets. He found his passport and his plane ticket, which had been endorsed with a change of date that OM calculated was in five days time. Presumably the mad doctor had not known for how long he needed to detain him.

His credit and health insurance cards were in his wallet, together with 20,000 baht in cash, with which he had certainly not been roaming the streets of Pattaya: about 1,000 baht a day, the price of a cheap whore. OM pushed his way through the bushes and was blinded by the unaccustomed harsh sunlight. He seemed to be in a housing estate and he headed for what appeared to be the main road, edging along in the shade of the trees with his left hand over his eyes.

“Sorry old girl!”

OM knelt down to pat an old, jet-black bitch that he had stumbled over. The sleeping dog barely stirred, but her nose began to quiver. With immense effort she struggled to her feet and licked OM’s hand . With increasing agitation she began to whine and paw the ground.

“Pen arai?” A man’s voice called from inside the house. “Oh, g’day mate, can I help you?”

A Thai Oz or an Oz Thai? Whatever the variation OM felt the combination could not be friendlier; and he was in no state to refuse the offer of help.

“Yes please. But it’s rather hard to explain. Can I come out of the sun?”

“Sure, mate. Come on in. Wanna beer?”

“No thanks, water will be fine.”

OM wondered why the doctor could not use anaesthetics that did not leave him with such a hangover. He followed his host inside with the bitch at his heels. During his imprisonment he had decided the story he would tell, but he could not think where to start. Instead, OM bent down to fondle the dog again.

“She looks quite an age,” he remarked after sipping his drink.

“Yes, she’s almost as old as I am. My name’s Darunpan by the way.” Darunpan stretched out his hand for OM to shake.

“Everyone calls me OM in Thailand and I can’t really think of myself here as anyone else.”

“Your initials I suppose. Let me guess. Oliver?”

OM shivered as if some great secret had been exposed, but it was ridiculous not to use his real name with a fluent English speaker. Darunpan looked in his early twenties, but was probably slightly older.

“It’s rather a coincidence. My uncle had an English friend called Oliver. He taught me to swim. The old girl’s blind, by the way; perhaps you had not noticed. Maybe she recognises the scent of an Englishman. Fee fy fo fum, wasn’t it? Jack the Giant Killer?”

“So what happened to Oliver and to your uncle,” OM asked.

Darunpan’s eyes glistened with tears.

“They were both killed in a car crash some twenty years ago. I was only five or six at the time and I hardly remember them. But Oliver left enough money to enable me to go to medical school in Perth. I work at the local hospital. This week I am on nights. But that’s enough about me. Where did you drop in from?”

By now OM had prepared a plausible story.

“About three weeks ago I was drugged and kidnapped in a bar in Pattaya. I have been kept incommunicado since then. I was told they were asking for a ransom. This morning I was drugged again and dumped over there in the bushes. I suppose it means a ransom was paid,” he continued rather lamely. “My parents aren’t rich at all.”

“I’ll get onto the local police immediately, although I doubt if I’ll get much sense out of them. Then I’ll ring the Embassy. You’d better give me your full name.”

OM handed over his passport.

“As soon as it’s daylight in England you can ring your parents. Are you hungry? Knock yourself up something in the kitchen while I am on the phone upstairs.”

OM made some toast and boiled a couple of eggs and had finished eating by the time Darunpan returned to the living room.

“Just as I thought. I was given the run around by the local cops. It is almost certain that someone has received a pay off. But the Embassy was right on the ball. They had received a demand for a million dollars and have been in frantic discussion with your parents. A police major general is in charge, for what that’s worth, and a chap has flown in from Scotland Yard. The only odd thing is that the Embassy does not think that any ransom has yet been paid. I was given strict instructions to keep you here until the British Bobby arrives from Bangkok.”

OM had turned white. The doctor might be mad, but he was brilliant. He knew that the Embassy would demand an investigation into OM’s disappearance, and he had decided to organise it in a way which would camouflage his real purpose. Once everyone was convinced that it was a ransom plot, even if OM came out with his story it was likely to be treated simply as a case of opportunistic sexual assault.

Detective Inspector Smith arrived at one o’clock

“It’s seven in England, so I shall ring your parents immediately. I have been in touch daily since I arrived.”

DI Smith went upstairs and dialed the number from memory.

“Good morning ma’am. I have very good news. Your son is safe and well and by my side now. No, I am afraid I cannot say yet when he can fly home, but I am sure you will have a lot to say to each other.”

He handed the receiver to OM and left the room. OM was too charged up to notice the slight click of the extension being lifted in the bedroom next door.

It was some time before OM could get a word in as his mother gushed over him as if he was a seven-year-old. Finally he was able to reassure her.

“Mother, it was far worse for you than for me. I did not feel in any danger, but there was no way I could contact anyone. But I had the most amazing luck today. I tripped over an old dog owned by a doctor trained in Australia. And do you know the most amazing coincidence? He had an uncle who had an English friend called Oliver. But they were both killed in an accident twenty years ago.”

OM heard his mother gasp.

“Mother? Are you all right? Is something the matter?” DI Smith’s ears pricked up but OM’s mother simply replied, “No, nothing. It just reminded me of something your godfather told

me years ago. But you’re quite right. It’s just a coincidence.” DI Smith was not so convinced, although he could not think what it could possibly have to do with the case in hand.

I shall sleep in the next room to you and there will be two Thai constables on guard downstairs.” DI Smith left no room for discussion. Darunpan had already departed for the hospital, where he was in charge of the night shift in A & E. There would be the usual procession of drunks, motorcyclists with broken bones and cracked skulls, and the occasional tourist whose heart was unable to endure the ecstasy provoked by his young companion. Fortunately the night’s events were light and routine and he was able to concentrate on the mysterious appearance of Oliver Marshall.

Darunpan called himself a Buddhist and went through the rituals of giving food to monks and making merit by charitable contributions. He found the teachings of the Buddha a solid support on which to lean, in the midst of all the misery and materialism with which he was surrounded. The only doctrine that troubled him was reincarnation, which seemed as unscientific and illogical as the heavens and hells of the theistic religions. He forced himself to believe that the apparition of a second Oliver, and the almost as bizarre reaction of his dear old bitch, was no more than a coincidence. Yet if the doctrine was true, the concurrence of facts could not be more pronounced. Perhaps his mother in Chiang Mai might make some sense of it, but he was unwilling to disturb the old lady while everything was so confused. The only other person who had known his uncle well, a first cousin, had died from a stroke two years before.

When Darunpan arrived home he found DI Smith in grim discussion with a police captain from Pattaya.

“Is anything the matter? Is Oliver awake?”

“Yes, but I told him to stay in bed until you returned. In your profession you must be quite used to this; but I wanted you to be here before showing it to the boy.”

DI Smith passed Darunpan a photograph of what at first sight appeared to be a naked woman with her throat slit, apart from the fact that between her breasts were the bloody remains of a man’s genitals.

“You’re right. I’ve seen some horrors in the past, but none as ghastly as this. Do you think ...?” Darunpan paused and DI Smith interrupted,

“We don’t know. Only the boy can say.”

“You can’t show him this!” Darunpan exclaimed.

“We must, sir, I’m afraid. In any event I want him to have a full check up, the full battery of tests. I think that the Bangkok-Pattaya hospital would be more suitable than yours. Even if his insurance will not pay the Embassy will. I would, however, like you to be there. You are off duty until this evening?”

Darunpan nodded.

“Then please get him up and we will be on our way. I have already booked a private room.”

OM gave blood and urine and wandered in a daze through a maze of medical acronyms before he was put to bed and hooked up to a drip.

“I am sure this is not necessary. I feel perfectly all right.” OM protested.

“Just a precaution,” Darunpan said softly. “But I am afraid the inspector has got something nasty to show you.”

DI Smith had clipped some paper over the bottom two thirds of the photograph, leaving only the face and throat uncovered. He held it towards OM. OM’s mouth fell open

“Oh my God!” he screamed, and passed out.

When DI Smith returned to the hospital in the evening, he had discovered Nung’s real name and background, but no clues as to his murderer. Nung had come from Bangkok three years earlier and had worked in a number of gay bars before spending eighteen months in the Alcazar transvestite cabaret. He was laid off when the cast was downsized during an economic depression, and had subsequently been fined on several occasions for soliciting on Beach Road, the last time being four months ago. The local police were working on the assumption that he had joined the gang who kidnapped OM and was beginning to climb his way up the ladder of crime. As a matter of course various policemen had certain arrangements with known local gangs, which were mutually profitable; but each side knew the parameters. A brutal murder was definitely off limits. All officers were instructed to request the full co-operation of any contacts they might have. So far, however, there was not a single lead.

“In view of this tragic development, I hope you don’t mind, young man, if we go through your story again.” DI Smith’s voice was firm but gentle. “First, can you confirm that the man in the photograph and your jailer were one and the same?”

OM nodded.

“Then I am afraid I must ask you to describe exactly what his relationship with you was. Did he just bring you your food, or was something more involved?”

OM nodded again.

“I must be blunt. Did you have a sexual relationship?”

OM squeezed his eyes tightly to conceal his pain.

“No, I mean yes. I suppose I must tell you the truth. I did not think you would believe me if I told you at first. And of course I was embarrassed. I told you about a ransom demand because that seemed simplest. I did not know that it was in fact true. Nung mentioned nothing about it. Even now I think it might have been a deliberate red herring. But Nung’s murder seems so stupid, so senseless.” OM started to sob.

“The principal reason for the murder of an accomplice is a doublecross. My guess is that Nung’s release of you was unauthorised, and he has paid the price. Can you think why he should have taken the risk? Perhaps we shall discover the motive when you tell us why you were being held if it was not for ransom.”

OM took a minute to compose himself and then said so quietly that his audience strained to hear,

“Nung’s job was to collect sperm from me twice a day for a fertility programme run by a person he only referred to as ‘the doctor’.”

“Great Scott!” DI Smith thought that he had seen and heard of every crime under the sun, but this was beyond belief.

“Why should anyone kidnap a tourist and fake a ransom demand just for the sake of a little sperm he could purchase for a few dollars just by clicking his fingers? It makes no sense at all.”

“Perhaps not to you, Inspector,” Darunpan interrupted. “Oliver, did Nung say why he wanted your sperm in particular?”

“Yes,” OM replied shyly. “They wanted a white man’s sperm to produce what he called ‘half children’, who are apparently highly prized in Thailand.”

DI Smith was still staring open-mouthed.

“That’s what I suspected,” Darunpan continued, “and the younger and healthier the man the better. The sperm of a typical drunken retiree would be a poor investment.”

Darunpan spoke rapidly in Thai to ensure that the two local policemen were up with the ball. The police captain turned to DI Smith.

“Since we killed the drugs trade, criminals have gone back to prostitution. We are now doing all we can to stop the flow of women from Eastern Europe. If this story is true, it seems that someone is planning far ahead. There must be big money involved.”

DI Smith had pulled himself together and turned to Darunpan.

“Well, doctor. What is your estimate of the number of children Oliver could have fathered by this procedure?”

Darunpan smiled.

“It is not my specialty. If you simply squirted the sperm up a productive vagina with a syringe, I think you could expect half-a-dozen at most. That would be extremely wasteful. Given the organisation and ruthlessness your Mr Big has demonstrated so far, I am sure the fertilisation will be done in vitro. In that case the sky’s the limit. To be more precise, in my, not fully expert, opinion there will be enough sperm for all the women whom Mr Big can kidnap or seduce.” Darunpan avoided saying ‘the doctor’, in deference to his own profession.

“Perhaps I could ask the Thai police a question?” he continued. “What charges do you think can be brought? Kidnap and false imprisonment? Theft? Receiving stolen property?”

Without translating or waiting for an answer, he turned back to DI Smith.

“Things have improved recently. Twenty years ago you could shoot a policeman dead in a bar and get away with it for years if your father was powerful enough. Nevertheless I am afraid that, even if we can identify the culprit, Oliver will be a grandfather before the case gets through the system.”

Darunpan repeated the gist of what he had said in Thai and was rewarded with resigned shrugs.

“There is also the question of whether Oliver wants to press charges. If he does he will be subjected to huge inconvenience, not to mention ridicule. If I was him, I would go back to England and try to forget all about it.”

“Well that’s that then,” DI Smith said abruptly. “My job is at an end. The murder is entirely your business. Personally I can’t wait to climb aboard a plane.”

“Wait a moment.” Oliver said. “You haven’t answered the question about Nung’s motive.”

“Oh that’s obvious enough.” DI Smith sneered. “ Nung had orders kill you. But he had fallen in love with his pretty young captive and saved your life at the expense of his own.”

DI Smith felt the situation had made a complete fool of him.

“Good day gentlemen,” he barked as he slammed the door.

"I still can’t see why they killed him,” Oliver wailed, “or why they needed to kill me.” Darunpan was off duty that night and he and Oliver were sitting by the pool, while two policemen played cards inside the house. “The first thing to do, Oliver,” Darunpan replied, “is to forget everything that DI Smith said. He knows bugger all about Thailand. I can’t think why he was ever sent out here. By the way, what does your father do?”

Oliver hesitated. “Actually he’s a politician, a junior minister.”

“Well I suppose that explains it,” Darunpan observed wryly, “he must have put pressure on the government to be seen to be doing something. I am sure DI Smith could be easily spared.

“You have got to realise,” he continued, “how little we actually know. There are only two incontrovertible facts. First, that someone unknown telephoned the British Embassy asking for a ransom for you. Second, that a local transvestite has had his throat slit. Personally I believe your story, because in my professional opinion your reaction on seeing the photograph was not faked. I do not know what the police think. It would not be the first time that a teenager faked his own kidnapping to get money from his parents.

“Nevertheless the hard information you have provided is negligible. You have merely reported what you were told by your jailer, who cannot be considered reliable. Although I lent credence to the fertilisation story, I did so mainly in order to get rid of DI Smith. It seems to me far more likely that it was all a fantasy of Nung’s, who used it as an excuse for molesting you.”

“In that case the ransom demand must have been genuine,” Oliver interrupted. “You can’t believe that Nung acted alone and could afford to feed me for three weeks just for kicks. And if it was genuine why was it aborted, unless Inspector Smith was right in saying that Nung had learned they were planning to kill me anyway?”

“You have a point. The fact is that nothing adds up whichever way you look at it.” Darunpan was feeling tired. He had not slept for over twenty-four hours. “Is there nothing you’ve left out that might help?”

Oliver blushed.

“Actually there is. At first I did not think it was important, and then I forgot all about it. When I was kidnapped, I only had about 400 baht on me. When I woke up in that bush over there I had an extra 20,000 baht in my wallet. I assumed it was a payment for services rendered, which would enable me to get to the airport. I still have my credit cards, but I expect they will have been cancelled.”

Darunpan sighed.

“Or, on DI Smith’s theory, it would have been a gift from Nung. That’s enough for one day. I am on duty tomorrow morning, but I shall bring some lunch over at noon. Time for bed. Sweet dreams.”

“What a damn stupid thing to say”, Oliver thought. as he swallowed two sedatives, but he realised that Darunpan’s brain had already gone to sleep. The pills worked rapidly and it was about four hours before the nightmares began.

Oliver was in an empty carriage on London’s northern underground line. He felt relieved, as this would take him home to Highgate if the train was traveling in the right direction. He saw the lights of an approaching station and he strained to hear the piped announcement, but it was inaudible. When the train stopped, people poured out of other carriages but the doors of his did not open. Oliver tried to reach the emergency handle, but his hand would not move. Through the window he could see someone waving. It was Nung with a bright red cravat around his throat, and he was signalling to Oliver to get off. As the train restarted he caught sight of the name of the station – South Pattaya. Oliver struggled to get up, but a giant magnet held him down.

The train left the tunnel and was running along the edge of a cliff, where it deposited Oliver on a ledge. Oliver could see his parents’ house on the other side of a bay, but the only way to get there was to swim. The sea was about twenty metres below so he jumped, and fell, and fell, and fell. He was sweating and longed for the cool embrace of the water, which never came.

Now he was paralyzed again, lying flat on his back with cramp in both legs. He felt a breath of air as a door opened behind him and a hand stretched over his head and jabbed a dagger into his throat.

Oliver slapped his hand to his throat, but the mosquito had drunk her fill and flown away. Wide-awake now, he rubbed his calves until the pain subsided. The sheet and duvet were soaking wet. Oliver turned on the light and ripped off the sheet and threw it onto the floor. He turned over the pillow and duvet and slumped back exhausted. He looked at his watch. Only 2am and four hours until daylight. He had the sensation of having forgotten something, of having something urgent to do. He thought back to his months in Ratchaburi, which now seemed years in the past. What had he done then? Of course! He had come to Pattaya and been floored by a human cannonball. How could he have forgotten the girl! He had thought of her constantly while he was in prison, but the drama since his release had driven her from his mind. He would get Darunpan to help. The image of the child calmed him down and in no time he was slumbering again.

Over breakfast, Oliver related the story of his encounter with the little girl .

“A veritable latter-day Don Juan!” Darunpan laughed. “What other surprises have you in store for us?”

“Don Jewan? Don’t you mean Don Hwan?” Oliver said rather rudely.

“No. Not Tenorio, nor even Mozart’s Don Giovanni, but Byron’s Don Juan, whom he rhymed with ‘new one’. For some reason his hero found himself besieging a city with a Russian army and he plucked a girl from the corpses of her parents before she could be skewered by some Cossacks. It was apparently a true story that Byron adapted and versified. At any rate, this tale of yours is much more probable than the other one and should not be too difficult to prove. It is quite likely that the child was taken first to my hospital and with any luck she will be the only kid orphaned in a traffic accident on that date. But what do you want me to do if I find her?”

“I don’t really know. I just feel responsible for her somehow. Perhaps providing a small income would help her find adoptive parents. My family could not possibly afford the ransom demanded; but we are not poor and I know that a little money can go a long way here. In addition, when I am eighteen in June I come into a trust which I think was set up for me by a grandfather I never knew. My godfather is the trustee. He is the person who suggested I come to work in Thailand. He had a friend who lived out here when he was young and he came and stayed with him once or twice.”

Why did Darunpan shiver when he heard this? In Oz he had learned the strange expression of feeling someone had walked over your grave. It did not make much sense (especially in Thailand where everyone was cremated), but now it seemed to fit the bill.

“Did he say where in Thailand?” he asked.

“Oh yes, here in Pattaya. But he never talked about it much. I have a feeling his friend died in tragic circumstances ... I think it was probably AIDS.”

Darunpan felt oddly relieved. There could not be any connection. It was only the dog’s strange behaviour that had set his fancy running wild. Oliver was fondling her neck as they spoke and this jogged his memory.

“I do remember him telling me that his friend had two gorgeous labradors, a dog and bitch, just like your sweet old thing.”

Darunpan froze again.

“And your godfather’s friend – what was his name?” He felt his voice was coming from a different planet.

“Oh, didn’t I say? The same as mine. I was named after him. I don’t know why. I was adopted by the way. When I am eighteen I shall be entitled to see my birth records, but I don’t think I want to know. I love my parents and am quite happy as I am.”

The photograph of Nung in all his naked and emasculated gore was plastered over an inside page of a Thai language mass circulation daily, but Oliver had no reason to see it. In the weekly local English paper Nung’s death only merited a couple of paragraphs; the police were working on the assumption that it was a the result of a quarrel with another katoey. The police had also agreed not to reveal Oliver’s rescue until he was safely back in England.

The Embassy sent a car and a second secretary to take Oliver to the new international airport, which expatriates still referred to as Cobra Swamp. The young man was very nervous and very pretty. When Oliver subsequently remarked on this fact to his father, he was cynically informed that diplomats were chosen for their looks. “What they actually do and say is decided by the ugly ones left behind in the warrens of Whitehall.”

“My name’s Jocelyn Carruthers. The last three weeks must have been terrible. I do hope they did not hurt you in any way.”

Oliver reassured him on that score without even hinting that any pleasure had been involved.

“I spoke with Sir Andrew yesterday in order to brief him on the details of the journey. We have arranged to whisk you through the VIP lounge, just in case any journalists have got wind of your arrival.”

Jocelyn had been intimidated by the baronet, who had been his minister in the department of trade.

“So what’s your job here? Do you speak Thai?” Oliver asked.

“Oh no. It’s not worth the bother. I am learning Korean and Mandarin. I studied Japanese and Spanish at university. Most of my work is actually for the European Union on trade and development issues.” Jocelyn relaxed as he warmed to his topic.

“All the small print is pretty tedious, but it is really satisfying when we manage to help establish local enterprises that export products which are not in direct competition with EU companies. After the expansion of the EU it became even harder to maintain access for ASEAN goods.”

“That sounds fascinating. I am going up to Oxford to read history and modern languages, but I have not yet chosen which ones.”

“Well I am sure you know enough French already. Practically no one speaks it any longer. ASEAN has used English for years, despite the three former French colonies. I suppose it depends on your motivation, whether your interest is primarily a particular country and its literature or whether you want to work internationally.”

From Jocelyn’s tone of voice Oliver marked him down squarely as a neo-colonialist, albeit a benevolent one.

“You make it sound so appealing. I shall certainly think carefully before reaching a decision,” he responded, with ill-disguised contempt.

During his last year at medical school in Perth, Darunpan had fallen in love with a first year student. Susan Hill’s father was an Australian of Scottish ancestry and her mother was Chinese from Singapore. Susan had begged Darunpan to get a job in Perth, but he had insisted that his first duty lay with poor families in Thailand. In addition, he refused to get married until Susan had completed her studies. They had therefore spent three years communicating mostly via the internet.

At last the time had come when they could be together. Darunpan was flying out in May for Susan’s graduation and they were going to be married the following week. Photisan, Darunpan’s mother, was coming from Chiang Mai and meeting him in Bangkok before flying out together. Photisan would return home after the wedding while Darunpan and his bride headed to the European summer for their honeymoon. Susan would then return with him to Thailand where they planned to work together for a few years before raising a family in Australia. This idyllic programme had required many e-mails to elaborate before obtaining Susan’s mother’s consent.

Darunpan decided to spend a couple of nights in Bangkok and to pay a visit to the Professor of Genetics at Chulalongkorn University. A colleague had studied under him years before and gave Darunpan an introduction.

Darunpan was profuse in his apologies when they met. Professor Witayagorn was, however, an amiable old man who soon put Darunpan at his ease.

“It is an extraordinary tale, I concede; but you are absolutely right to take it seriously.” The professor’s brow furrowed.

“I also agree that the police are unlikely to be of any use at this stage. You showed great foresight in obtaining samples for a DNA analysis before the young man returned to England. So what is the time scale? Apart from miscarriages, there can’t be any births before the beginning of October. It would be too complicated to check up on miscarriages. Anyway they are no longer a problem; nature will have found its own solution.

“I think I can get a couple of my students to undertake a study of children born to Thai mothers who appear to have unknown western fathers. I am sure I can think up valid reasons for the exercise that will not excite suspicion. Leave it with me and forget all about medicine for the next two months.”

Two months was not nearly long enough. They flew to Rome and tramped around all the ancient sites before hiring a car and driving to Florence and Venice.

“That’s the hard work done,” Darunpan joked, as they boarded a plane to Paris and headed straight to Europark to spend five days behaving like lovesick teenagers.

It was early July before they arrived in London on Eurostar. Oliver was waiting for them and shepherded them into a black cab for the short ride to his family home in Highgate.

“My mother, Mary,” Oliver said as they drew up at the front door. Mary had been keeping a look out and was down the steps before Darunpan and Susan had emerged from the taxi.

“Mother, Darunpan and Susan”.

Mary embraced Susan warmly and offered her cheek to Darunpan, who obliged. He had become enured to kissing strangers in Australia, but he still found it rather distasteful.

“We are so grateful for all you did for Oliver in Pattaya,” Mary gushed and Darunpan was impressed that Oliver had taught her the correct pronunciation. “I am afraid that Andrew is still at the House, but he will be here for supper.”

Darunpan looked slightly confused, so Oliver quickly added,

“The House of Commons. It’s trade questions today, so as a junior minister he has to answer the more boring ones. He’s paired tonight though, that means he has agreed with an opposition MP that neither of them will vote tonight and they can go home early.”

“That sounds an eminently good arrangement,” Darunpan commented, as he followed Mary and Susan into the house.

When Sir Andrew Marshall arrived home it was clear that he was considerably older than his wife and that his behaviour towards Mary was more paternal than uxorious.

“We are cousins, you know. I used to watch her playing with the other children at Christmas and Easter gatherings. I never thought for a moment that she would agree to marry me one day.”

Mary blushed. Oliver had told Darunpan that his parents had no other children, which saved him or Susan from putting a question that might be unwelcome. It was clear that Mary adored Oliver, but was also rather frightened by him.

They stayed a couple of nights before hiring another car and driving to the Lake District. Darunpan’s only disappointment was in not meeting Oliver’s godfather; school had broken up and the headmaster had already fled to his villa in Spain.

“He was appointed headmaster when he was very young, and I think he has got bored with young boys after over thirty years.” Oliver explained. “His wife died of breast cancer last year and the shock aged him terribly. When he has settled down I shall try to drag him out to Thailand to see you.”

On their return to Pattaya, the happy couple were greeted with the sad news that the old Labrador bitch had died in the arms of Darunpan’s neighbour; and with the disturbing news that Professor Witayagorn wanted to see Darunpan in Bangkok as soon as possible.

"How much do you remember of your genetics?” the professor asked Darunpan as he handed him a cup of coffee. “Well the basics, of course, but my practice in Pattaya is rather more humdrum mostly.” “Never mind. This boy – Oliver? He seemed perfectly healthy to you did he?”

“Yes, perfectly. Why, what is the matter?”

“Well, that is odd,” the professor continued. “I naturally looked at his chromosomes. You remember trisomies? Trisomy 21 for Down’s syndrome, for example. Well your fellow has a trisomy in a chromosome that has never been seen before. I have checked all round the world; everyone is just as amazed as I am.”

Darunpan gasped as the implications hit him.

“You mean that the sperm which we fear is being distributed to poor Thai women contains a genetic mutation that has never been seen before? This could be disastrous.”

“Precisely. The best we can hope is that the mutation causes infertility, but at this stage there is no way we can know. You would think that all these years after the human genome was mapped we could answer all possible questions. It is strange that the boy is perfectly normal. I don’t suppose you could ask him over for me to have a look at him?”

“I am certain that his parents would forbid it, despite the fact that he is legally an adult. I also told him that the samples were for DNA matching, not for tests that show he is a freak. But tell me more about

the chromosome. What do its genes do?”

The professor paused before replying.

“Quite a lot of things actually. Some of them seem to determine the ageing process. What have I said? You’ve gone quite white.”

“I’m sorry. Every day the jigsaw puzzle throws up new pieces. That doesn’t make sense but you know what I mean. Please listen carefully because what I am going to suggest is totally impossible, at least it was until what you have just told me.

“First fact. I had an uncle who was killed in a car crash about twenty years ago. He was travelling with an English friend called Oliver who, I was told, died with him.

“Second fact. Oliver was named after a friend of his godfather’s. This friend had a Thai partner. Oliver believes he died of AIDS.

“Third fact. Oliver was adopted by his parents when he was a baby. He has no idea who his natural parents are.

“Last fact. This I only learned while talking to my mother on the flight to Perth. Her brother’s friend had not been killed in the crash. He returned to England, not as the man of thirty something she had known, but in the body of an adolescent.”

Both men remained silent, as if neither dared to be the first to speak, the first to put in words what Darunpan was suggesting.

“Your mother saw him after the accident?” the professor finally asked.

“No, only a cousin, and he died last year. Yet there should be some police and hospital records …”

“The chance of them being useful is slim to say the least. Is there no one who can shed any light at all?”

“Yes sir, there is one person – Oliver’s godfather. It’s funny, but he never actually told me his name. Still it will not be hard to find him. He is currently tending the vines around his villa in Spain.”

“Spain, eh? I’ve always wanted to go there and I have plenty of leave due. I don’t suppose you can afford to go straight back to Europe?”

“Heavens no! But I shall let you have a dossier of all I know in the minutest detail before you go.

On the last day of the summer term, Stephen Black had handed his resignation to the Chairman of the Governors of St Egbert’s. He was quite out of order, since his contract required a term’s notice, but he considered that after more than thirty years’ faithful service one misdemeanour could be forgiven. He explained that he did not have the courage to face a formal farewell, standing alone on the terrace above the throngs of boys, old boys and parents on the lawn below. If Julia had been beside him it would have been different. Since her death he had become increasingly introverted and all he wanted was to find a place to be alone.

Some old friends of his had retired to the south coast of Spain and, on his behalf, they had scoured estate agents’ newsletters for somewhere suitable. Eventually they hit on something they considered perfect: a tumbledown farmhouse set on an escarpment between two valleys, with hills to the north rising sharply behind it.

Stephen flew out, fell in love, opened a bank account and signed a contract with local builders to commence a total renovation as soon as the sale was completed.

Now, a year later, he was sitting on his terrace watching the evening shadows slowly climb up the eastern hills. Above him, the vine and jasmine were gloriously entangled with the branches of the lemon tree. It was a beautiful sight, but bad husbandry; still, they would survive the summer and he could start knocking the garden into shape in the autumn. The first grapes were already ripening and in another month he would have a sackful of almonds.

“One last swim,” he said to himself, “and then I’ll allow myself a sundowner and check the test match score.”

Stephen stripped, picked up a towel and walked down to the pool. It was only small (the size limited not by the expense but by the terrain) but it was ideal for an old man to cool off with a lazy breaststroke. After ten minutes he rubbed himself down and turned on his computer while he fixed himself a drink. England had collapsed again. Stephen groaned and clicked on the e-mail. The Marshalls had his address, but very few other people; so it was with considerable surprise that he saw the name of Witayagorn with Oliver Marshall in the subject line. Stephen had, of course, received the official account of his godson’s escapade and he assumed, correctly, that the e-mail was somehow connected with it. The contents, however, appeared deliberately vague, even evasive.

My dear Mr Black Please excuse my presumption in addressing this letter to you; but it so happens that I am due to spend a vacation in Spain and I should be exceedingly honoured if you would allow me briefly to disturb your tranquillity and pay you a short visit. I am a colleague of Khun Darunpan, the doctor with whom Oliver Marshall stayed after his unfortunate experience in Pattaya. There is one thing associated with this episode which is still troubling us and we believe that you may be able to provide some essential information. If, as I hope, I receive a favourable reply I shall inform you of the time and day when I shall arrive in Malaga from London. Yours very sincerely Dusit Witayagorn

Stephen guessed that Dr Witayagorn had studied in England many years ago and had retained the idioms of the time. He had no choice, of course, and he replied immediately to say that he would be delighted to meet the doctor at Malaga airport and that he was welcome to stay in Stephen’s guestroom for as long as he wanted. On awaking the following morning he found an e-mail specifying the flight and time of arrival in ten days time.

Over and over again Stephen told himself that he had nothing to worry about, but he felt a constant dread that the past was about to rise up and knock him hard on the chin. He was a coward, he always had been. He had chosen a profession that provided an easy living and made no great demands on his intellect. In order to obtain preferment he had hidden his sexuality and married a woman for whom he had no desire, but whom he had, by default, come to love. He had left Patrick Marshall to fight all his campaigns alone and had barely even reached out to him when he was dying of AIDS.

Then there was Oliver Trent. Certainly Stephen had helped him up to the end, and beyond. The driving force, however, had been to protect the headmaster of St Egbert’s. Stephen had a good idea what Dr Witayagorn wanted to know; but he had not the slightest idea why. He thought of writing to the Marshalls, but he reasoned that it was only through them that his e-mail address had been obtained. It was strange then that they had not also contacted him. It was never difficult for Stephen to decide to do nothing.

Dr Witayagorn charmed Stephen immediately. “Please call me Dusit. I was called Witty when I was at college in London, but I am glad to say the nickname did not follow me back to Thailand. How London has changed! Yet all the most important things have stayed the same: The Abbey, Hyde Park. Would you believe that when I was at Barts, St George’s was still at Hyde Park Corner? Funnily enough a fellow student is now a professor at St George’s in Tooting. He was a great rugby player. Not me, I am afraid. I don’t think the Thai physique was intended for that game.”

Dr Witayagorn prattled on apparently aimlessly, while Stephen headed the car east along the motorway.

“You get quite a good view of Malaga and the harbour to your right in a moment, but you don’t really see the countryside until we get off into the hills.”

After fifteen minutes Stephen drove down a ramp to the right, circled back under the motorway and inched his way up little more than a dirt track.

“Fortunately, few people know this short cut. Not that many people use this road anyway,” he continued, as he turned right onto a carretera. “It only leads to three small towns and a handful of villages. The first town is called Benagalbon. It is very beautiful, but you don’t see much from the road. Perhaps we can go there for lunch tomorrow.”

Once past Benagalbon, Dr Witayagorn felt they were just going round and round in circles until Stephen appeared to drive straight over a cliff. He put his hands over his eyes for a couple of minutes until

Stephen stopped the car.

“You can open you eyes again now. That’s my house down there.”

Dr Witayagorn slowly parted his fingers. Although looking little bigger than a postage stamp, the finca, with the sun sparkling on the pool, dominated the fields of figs, almonds and olives which surrounded it.

“Welcome to my castle. Or El Castillon as the locals call it.”

Stephen had no difficulty in persuading Dusit of the virtues of the Spanish national sport – the siesta. Indeed it was six hours later before Dusit re-emerged and a pleasant breeze blowing up the arroyo from the sea had dissipated the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Stephen was in the pool, but Dusit declined to join him and sank into an easy chair, which Stephen had placed in the shade of the jasmine.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Stephen asked. “I have prepared a very simple meal which we can eat at any time. It will only take fifteen minutes to cook. I usually eat around nine or even ten o’clock. This may seem late, but actually we are bang on the Greenwich meridian, although the clocks are two hours ahead.”

“No thank you. I found some water in the refrigerator. You certainly keep your guestroom well stocked. But I am feeling slightly peckish, so perhaps we can eat a little earlier and then have a chat afterwards,” Dusit replied softly.

“That’s fine by me,” Stephen said, as he hauled himself out of the pool. “I was anyway going to suggest that we leave talking shop until after we’ve eaten. You must remember the old rule that no business is discussed before the brandy. First, I’ll water the garden that is already in the shade and I’ll do the other half while the fish is steaming. It is a Thai recipe that Oliver sent me years ago.”

Stephen bit his tongue, but Dusit gave no sign of noticing the slip.

“That sounds lovely. I am a very light eater, so don’t do too much.”

“Don’t worry about that. Nothing goes to waste here. From what you said I gather you have seen the bottles of spirits in the cabinet. I actually drink more wine, but keep that in the main house, which is slightly cooler. The quantity is explained by the fact that I find it convenient to have a delivery once every two months. My excuse is that I need it for the eight litre bottles of water and have to make up the minimum delivery price with booze. Watch that hose please, in case it performs gyrations when I turn the tap on. The water pressure here is always high, ridiculously so at times.”

Dusit clearly enjoyed his meal and glass of wine and complimented Stephen on his lemon sauce with garlic and chillis. He declined brandy but accepted a small cup of coffee. Stephen cleared away the dishes and the two men settled themselves comfortably by the wall of the terrace overlooking the pool.

“I shall come to the point immediately.” Dusit’s voice was just as soft and polite, but Stephen sensed that he had reverted to being the professor.

“I am a geneticist, teaching and working at one of our leading universities and its associated hospital. A few weeks ago I was contacted by a colleague in Pattaya, Darunpan, the man who sheltered Oliver after his release. The story he told me was quite unbelievable, but it was my duty to take precautions just in case it was true.

“Oliver’s parents have not been told the full story, and as yet Oliver only knows half of it. The are still dozens of gaps, but from what Darunpan has told me you may be able to fill in a few of them.”

Professor Witayagorn first related the ostensible purpose of Oliver’s imprisonment, which had Stephen shaking his head in bewilderment.

“You can understand the irresponsibility from a genetic point of view. Darunpan asked Stephen to give him some samples for DNA matching, which he brought to me. I then did something that was theoretically unethical without Oliver’s express consent. I did a chromosome analysis.” He paused for half a minute.

“Oliver has a genetic abnormality that none of the world’s leading geneticists have ever seen or heard of before.”

There was a long silence.

“Jesus Christ!” Stephen began to sob.

“You understand the wider implications; but you are also very fond of the boy. You are his godfather. I am sorry. But I need to know more about Oliver and about his namesake, a friend of yours, after whom you named him.”

Dusit told him everything he had learned from Darunpan, including the strange behaviour of the dog.

“Dear little Fak, and Happiness. To think that she should have lived so long. I had a picture of them together when she was a puppy, but it must have disappeared by now.”

“Fak?” Dusit queried.

“Darunpan’s nickname when he was a boy. I am not surprised he dropped it.”

“So what happened when the other Oliver returned to England?” Dusit brought Stephen back to the point.

Stephen told the story of how he had spent a year at St Egbert’s and won a scholarship to Eton. Finally he described that terrible night when he was summoned by the headmaster to explain how a baby wrapped in clothes belonging to Oliver Trent was found at the bottom of Brigadier Marshall’s garden.

“So what happened to the baby? Did it die?”

“Oh no. The baby is now eighteen and called Oliver Marshall.”

It was Dusit’s turn to fall silent, then he pulled himself together.

“Are you telling me that Oliver Trent and Oliver Marshall are the same person?”

“Now that is a really difficult question.” Stephen had recovered his composure.

“It was one of Plato’s odder ideas that the soul of a person preexists his birth in a state of communion with the Forms or Ideas. It is only at his birth that he forgets about them and has to start again from scratch. As far as I remember this is a process that only occurs once and so is not the same as the Buddhist doctrine of reincarnation. One thing, however, of which I am sure is that Oliver Marshall has no recollection of a former life. At one stage I had to deceive my own wife by passing Oliver Trent off as the son of his former self. Officially, Oliver Marshall is an adopted orphan whose real parents are unknown.”

“But his adopted parents, what do they think?”

“Mary, who is slightly subnormal, thinks he is just a gift from God, like Moses in the bullrushes. Sir Andrew thinks Oliver is Mary’s natural child and that he performed a family duty by marrying his young cousin. He also needed a complaisant wife for his political career. I do not think Mary would understand a word of what you have told me and Sir Andrew would call it stuff and nonsense.”

“That is what I would expect. It must be handled with great tact. I mentioned on the way here that an old friend is in charge of genetics at St George’s Hospital in London. He was the first person I told about the chromosome disorder. From a medical point of view it is essential that he be allowed to examine Oliver thoroughly and monitor him for the rest of Oliver’s life. I say this both for the sake of Oliver himself and for any unfortunate offspring of his.”

A thought occurred to Stephen.

“I have not yet told you about Oliver Trent’s life before he went to live in Thailand. I think it is too late now to give you a full account. But there is one oddity you may find pertinent. When I first met Oliver I was sixteen and he appeared to be in his seventies. From that time on he had periods of growing younger gradually, but any emotional trauma caused him to shed years overnight. We had a great friend called Patrick. When Patrick died of AIDS Oliver dropped from fifty-five to thirty-five, and when his lover in Thailand died in the car crash he plummeted to fourteen or fifteen, as you know. Of course, these figures are only indicative; for all we know Oliver is as old as Methuselah and has been ageing and rejuvenating for centuries. As far as I can tell, Oliver Marshall’s childhood and adolescence have been perfectly normal. Yet I would not be surprised if his experience in Thailand has affected him in some way. It is something your friend might check.”

“Thank you Stephen. You have been very helpful. I have a lot to think about. I think it is time for bed.”

Stephen stayed outside for ten minutes longer. As horrific as the developments had become, he felt some relief that he no longer had to bear the burden of his knowledge alone.

The next morning Dusit asked if he could borrow Stephen’s computer and spent four hours synthesising all the information that he had obtained from Stephen and Darunpan. He worked methodically, colour-coding the data according to his estimate of its reliability. Unconfirmed evidence from any source was coloured yellow; consistent facts from two unrelated sources were in red. Only direct observations by himself or Darunpan were recorded in black. Yellow was by far the predominant colour.

Stephen had slept badly. Between his nightmares he lay awake with a distant thought nagging away at the back of his mind which he was unable to grasp. It was something he had said, not Dusit. Finally it surfaced. He had suggested that the shocks Oliver had experienced in Thailand might have affected his age in a way similar to Oliver Trent. The difference was that Oliver Marshall was growing older whereas Oliver Trent had been growing younger.

Stephen struggled to remember what Patrick had told him about Oliver Trent’s first appearance. There had been a train crash and Oliver had turned up naked in the district hospital physically unharmed, looking about eighty but with the mental age of an infant. What else had he been told? Then he remembered the episode of the passport when Oliver and Patrick were living in Bedlam Park Road. Oliver had no birth certificate and exhaustive searches had failed to find evidence of the pension payments which he must have been receiving. Must have? How stupid they had all been! No, that was unfair.

It now all seemed so obvious. There were no pension records because there had been no pension. There had been no pension because the person whom the hospital named Oliver Trent had not been of pension age when he boarded the train. The shock of the accident had added a score of years just as later on the deaths of Patrick and Rak were to subtract them. Should he tell Dusit his deductions? He thought not. It could no longer be of any relevance. Stephen also felt he had already made a sufficient fool of himself.

When Dusit had completed his document he asked Stephen to e-mail it for him to Sir Adrian Wisdom at St George’s. Within an hour a reply came back saying that Professor Wisdom would be delighted to see Professor Witayagorn at 8pm the following day.

“You are leaving so soon? What about your holiday in Spain?”

“I am sorry. That was a little white lie. I am afraid this business cannot wait. Nevertheless I should be delighted to stay one more night, and perhaps you will allow me to repay your hospitality in the village we passed on the way up the mountain.”

“Witty, my dear fellow! How good to see you again after all these years! And you don’t look a gram heavier than forty years ago. Can’t say the same for me I’m afraid.”

Sir Adrian Wisdom grasped Dusit’s shoulders with his chubby hands. His bulk, which had been an asset in the back row of a rugby scrum, was now a liability and cause of diabetes. Dusit wondered why doctors so often found it hard to take their own advice.

“Please call me Dusit, Sir Adrian,” he replied softly, as he extricated himself.

“Only if you drop the Sir”, Adrian riposted with undented good humour. “It’s a pity though. The Witty Syndrome would be such a good name. What an amazing discovery! And what an amazing story! You are sure that someone is not pulling your leg?”

“I am not sure at all, Adrian. I rather hope that someone is. Nevertheless it is incumbent on me to follow it up. I have planned my operation in Thailand, but the only solid evidence at present is here in London; so I need your help.”

“Of course my dear chap! I am champing at the bit! A genetic mutation, not to say a trisomy, which appears to be benevolent. It’s incredible. This lad is eighteen years old and otherwise perfectly normal. I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”

“I am sure you see more trisomies in Britain than we do in Thailand, as your population seems to be deciding to breed at older and older ages. In my experience, the question of transmitting a trisomy to another generation has never been a problem, for reasons which I need not dwell on. Yet I do not believe that it is theoretically impossible, given its occurrence in a healthy individual. What is your view?”

Sir Adrian shrugged his shoulders. “I share your opinion. Science is empirical. A single fact can overthrow a mountain of theory.”

“So how do you suggest we proceed?” Dusit asked.

“Well Oliver is legally an adult, if only just. I could write, asking him to make an appointment to see me. But he would be bound to show the letter to his parents and we should be off on the wrong foot. Sir Andrew is quite a prickly customer, resentful of never being offered a cabinet post. I know him quite well as he was a junior health minister for a couple of years. I think the best thing would be to ring him and ask if I can come over for a drink with him in the Commons tomorrow evening. Not that I drink any more,” he ended mournfully.

“How much do we tell him?” Dusit asked.

“As little as possible, certainly nothing about your mad scientist and his lady boy. I suggest that I just say that further tests on routine examination after his ordeal have shown up some odd results and ought to be repeated. I shall not even say that you came to Europe, as that would arouse his suspicions. I shall just say that you rang me as an old friend and asked me to help.”

“If he suspects a genetic disorder, he may feel his wife should be tested since he suspects that Oliver is her natural son. Which he well may be for all we actually know.”

Dusit was beginning to feel that Sir Andrew might prove a problem.

“I think that might be a good idea anyway. And Sir Andrew’s as well. After all there is no reason why I should know that Oliver was adopted. Don’t worry. Despite his experience he has little idea of what different doctors do.”

“And what about the boy? He already knows our general concern about his potential offspring.”

“I’ll play that by ear, depending on my assessment of his ability to cope with the knowledge of whatever it is we find.”

Dusit was already airborne when Sir Andrew and Sir Adrian met in the central lobby of the House of Commons and strolled down the stairs to the terrace.

“Nothing serious, I hope?” the former asked, and in his best bedside manner Adrian assured him that it was merely routine.

“But you know in tropical climates there are lots of nasty bugs around. Despite every effort malaria and dengue keep resurging. Oliver will need a complete examination, but we should also be grateful if you and Lady Mary gave a blood sample for comparative purposes. I can get a nurse to visit you at home so that you will only be inconvenienced for a couple of minutes. Oliver of course, will need to come to St George’s and we may want him to stay overnight.”

Sir Andrew appeared perturbed, but could hardly refuse. After all, they tested his blood for cholesterol and triglyceride twice a year.

“Very well then. We shall both be at home on Saturday morning, if that is convenient. What do I tell the boy?”

Adrian handed him an unsealed envelope addressed to Oliver.

“I think it best to let him make the arrangements himself. Please don’t worry or let Lady Mary worry. It’s really all just precautionary.”

A division bell started to ring and both men rose.

“Good night and thank you Sir Andrew. I must not keep you from your parliamentary duties.”

A week later Dusit received a short e-mail from Adrian.

All the data in the attachment. Witty syndrome confirmed. Oliver no relation of either Sir Andrew or Lady Mary. His sperm has fertilised a number of eggs, but we have to kill the embryos after fifteen days. Warmest regards, Adrian.

Dusit sighed. The second piece of information was largely irrelevant, but the first and third combined confirmed that the worst scenario was a real possibility. His vanity prevented him wishing that Adrian should prove he had made a blunder; but he had been praying all week that Oliver’s sperm would be shown to be infertile.

If his unknown antagonist had the resources to sequester a hundred or more women, impregnate them, deliver them and raise their children without any contact with the health services, there was little that he as a doctor could do. This, however, would entail enormous risks as well as expense; Dusit had to assume that the man was mad, but also rational.

The Thai health service had become increasingly centralised. Ninety percent of births took place in only one hundred and fifty hospitals. Dusit planned a two-stage approach. First, he would write a personal letter to the head of each obstetrics department explaining the research he was undertaking. Although he or she might be surprised, there was not a doctor in Thailand who would not be flattered to cooperate with Professor Witayagorn. All he was asking the maternity department to do was to identify babies who appeared to have been fathered by a Caucasian, tag the paediatric file and send Dusit the name and address of the mother, with, if possible, a sample of the baby’s hair. This would take no more than ten minutes of a nurse’s time. If any abnormalities were obvious at birth, Dusit would also naturally be informed. The main work, however, would arise when the mothers brought their babies to paediatric clinics.

Dusit planned to analyse each baby’s DNA from the hair sample himself. The nature of the next stage would be determined by the results. If he established no link between Oliver and any baby there was no further medical detective work to be done. For his own amour propre, however, he would engage a couple of female sociology students to interview the mothers. Their findings might well prove interesting in any event.

The second possibility was the discovery of a clutch of babies who had been fathered by Oliver, but who had not inherited his genetic mutation. Although this would be an immense relief, it would be necessary to conduct more exhaustive tests, for which he would employ two medical students. At this stage he would also initiate discreet consultations with civil servants at the health and interior ministries in order to track down the instigator from information his sociologists could glean from the mothers.

The third possibility would entail a similar approach. For the present Dusit preferred not to contemplate it.

During the monsoon season, that is to say the summer months in Europe, there had been no statistical abnormalities in the number of miscarriages reported to the authorities. The figures were notoriously unreliable anyway since some women miscarried without being aware they were pregnant and might not even contact a doctor. No conclusions could be drawn at all.

Dusit had sent out his letter to the obstetricians seven months after Oliver’s release, in order to catch any babies born prematurely. He was not, therefore, surprised that in the first two months he received only a score of reports scattered almost randomly across the country. Although it was likely that many of the babies had been conceived in the cities frequented by foreign tourists, it was also to be expected that some women would return to their home villages to give birth and receive support from their families.

None of the babies matched Oliver’s DNA.

At the end of October the trickle became a stream; in November it became a flood. Colleagues remarked that they had never seen Professor Witayagorn look so strained. At the beginning of December there was a long weekend, which included the King’s birthday. Dusit telephoned Darunpan and asked if he could stay with him in Pattaya for a few days. Darunpan agreed enthusiastically but from the tone of Dusit’s voice he dreaded what he was going to hear.

Darunpan was not, however, prepared for Dusit throwing his arms

around him and beginning to sob as soon as they were inside the house.

“What’s happened sir? Please sit down.”

Darunpan filled a glass at the water cooler and held it to Dusit’s lips.

“Thank you, thank you. I am so sorry. It’s just such a relief to have someone I can talk to. The only other person is Adrian in London. But e-mails are not the same. And it’s almost impossible to find a time to ring him when we are both free and awake.”

“He’s the geneticist at St George’s?”

Dusit nodded. “He’s as happy as a sandboy.”

Darunpan smiled at the way English slang of the last century occasionally came to Dusit’s lips.

“He is talking about an article in the medical journals over our joint names. He seems to be in seventh heaven while I am in the seventh circle of hell. Our worst fears have come to pass. Dozens of Oliver’s children are being born every week. Half of them have the same abnormality.”

Darunpan knew that Dusit wanted to unburden himself and gently encouraged him.

“Fifty percent. Is that a sex difference?”

“No, no. You wouldn’t expect that. The sex chromosomes are normal.”

Darunpan expected Dusit to continue, but, as he remained silent, he gave him another prod.

“Please remind me. A baby receives half of each chromosome from each parent? So half the babies are receiving a healthy half from Oliver?”

Dusit appeared to have gone into a trance. Darunpan had an idea.

“Adrian has had plenty of time to do research on Oliver’s trisomy. Has he come up with anything?”

“Yes and he has damn sight better equipment than I have,” Dusit said bitterly. “How I wish we could change places!”

“So what has he found?”

“It appears this trisomy is different from all the others. He described it in astronomical terms. You know there are some systems where two stars circle around each other, called binaries. Oliver appears to have one normal autosome and a binary autosome. Don’t ask me to make it any clearer, I can’t.”

“So whether he passes on the binary is an even chance?

“That seems to be the case, yes.”

“And so far only two people know this, or three if you include me, or four if Adrian has told Oliver as I think he must have done.” Darunpan was just murmuring softly to permit Dusit to gather up the courage to express the conclusion he must already have reached.

“We can’t keep it under our hats much longer. Have you picked a research team yet?”

“Yes, two medics, one man and one woman and two women sociologists. We are due to meet next Wednesday for the first briefing.”

“And officialdom?”

Dusit winced. “I have changed my mind. It would be the same as sending a press release to Thai Rath. I shall take full responsibility. We need to get a handle on how and where our Frankenstein is operating before we alert him. I expect he is highly mobile and could cover his tracks quite easily. If I was him I would take the rest of the sperm bank to Laos or Cambodia and start all over again.”

“How much are you going to tell your students?”

“I think I must be totally honest with the medical students. If they found I was concealing something I would lose their trust completely. I shall, however, just give the sociologists a general idea; the medical details would not help them in their work.”

“And the mothers?”

“There I am afraid our job is to obtain information, not to impart it. A moral conflict, I know. You understand why I am so upset.”

“Can I help in any way?” Darunpan asked, and for the first time Dusit smiled.

“I hoped you would say that. Do you think you could be seconded to the team for three months? I think the students may find it easier to confide in you and it would be useful to have someone else around who knows the full picture.”

“We are overstretched, of course. Maybe you could arrange a swap?”

“I think so. Now I’m starving. Let me take you to that seafood restaurant you told me about. And by the way, did your parents call you Fak as a child and was your dog called Happiness?”

Darunpan laughed and punched Dusit gently on the arm.

“More or less,” he said.

It will, I believe, be of general convenience (and without the slightest intention of being disrespectful) to refer to the four students by their nicknames and also to preserve the fiction that conversations held in Thai were conducted in English. In respect of the latter it should be noted (if it was not already obvious) that when alone together Dusit and Darunpan (having both learned their medicine abroad) were pleased to converse in a mixture of twentieth century Oxford English and twenty-first century Strine.

The four students were called Ay, Bpee, See and Dee. Heaven forfend that any reader should be cynical; but it may be appropriate to remark that these are Thai words, which mean (inter alia according to the tone) Single, Year, Colour and Good respectively.

Darunpan was the only relaxed member of the group squashed into Professor Witayagorn’s small office. The four students were overawed by the professor’s reputation both for scholarship and (less justly) for intolerance of fools. Dusit himself was filled with anxiety about the danger in which he was placing them. He came straight to the point.

“This is an unusual piece of research. There may be some risks involved. If any one of you wants to back out you are free to do so. There will be no consequences for your careers. Even so, I must ask you to keep secret everything I tell you today and everything you learn during your work.

“I have commenced a study of children born to Thai women and white fathers. I was following a tip off which I am sad to say proved to be correct. Since the beginning of September I have received 120 reports from throughout Thailand. Of these 100 prove to have the same father.”

There was a collective gasp. Ay, the male medical student, could not refrain from exclaiming, “Wow!”

“No, young man, we are not coping with a Casanova. The sperm was obtained from a young Englishman while he was held in captivity. We are dealing with a criminal who is a very competent scientist and who must consider he is making a viable long-term investment. I shall for the moment leave you to ponder what he has in mind.

“Apart from three children in Phuket, Chiang Mai and Nongkhai, seventy are in or around Korat and the rest in Bangkok or Pattaya. From the large numbers it is almost certain that conception was in vitro. We can only surmise how the women were induced to participate in the scheme or what lies they were told.

“I need not detail now all the medical and social problems that may arise. The one good piece of news is that the births appear to have tailed off. It is likely that the mastermind, who I shall call Mr Big, does not want all the children to be exactly the same age. We suspect he is either preserving surplus sperm or plans to repeat his operation each year. I believe the former is far the more likely. Our primary mission is to track him down before he can do any more damage.

“I need hardly say that if he gets wind that the law is on to him he can disappear taking his sperm bank with him. I suggest that we proceed as follows.

“Ay and See, you are from Esan, so I have chosen you to do the research in Korat. Bpee and Dee will cover Bangkok and Pattaya.

“The sociologists will have the toughest job,” he continued, addressing See and Dee.

“You will need to gain the confidence of the mothers. To avoid arousing suspicion you will also interview a control group. You will gently ask if the mothers knew the father of their child and what nationality they were. Ex hypothesi, the mothers in our target group will have difficulty in answering. I am no sociologist and I have already talked with your tutor. You may discuss with her how you structure your interviews. What we hope to find out is where the fertilisation took place.

“You, Ay and Bpee will do most of your work in the laboratory from blood and tissue samples. So far I have only done a DNA test on the babies’ hair. I will discuss the details with you later.”

Dusit waved his arm towards four boxes piled in a corner.

“Those are the latest portable computers, phones, GPS, alarm – you name it they’ve got it. Darunpan has been playing with his for a couple of days and will familiarise you with them this afternoon. Darunpan also will be your co-ordinator and you can contact him via those gadgets at any time. All your results will be recorded and relayed to Darunpan instantly. I should have mentioned that the batteries last five days even when constantly switched on. Your working days will be Monday to Thursday. On Friday mornings we shall have a case conference here and after that you will be free for the weekend.”

Darunpan handed around the computers and See and Dee left the room. Dusit turned his attention to the two medics.

“The following information is for your ears only. In theory I should let you find it out for yourselves, but I don’t want to lose time or to subject you to the shock I received.

“The father of the babies has a chromosome abnormality, which has never been encountered before. A colleague in London is doing exhaustive research on the father. Your primary task is to discover if the defect has been passed to his children and, if so, to how many. If the defect is present I want to you to record the child’s development in the minutest detail. I warn you not to expect to find anything outside the norm. The most I am hoping for is a pattern of slight deviations.”

Ay and Bpee looked stunned. Dusit relaxed and handed each a file.

“Have a read through this protocol, discuss it and come back in an hour.”

When the students had left the room Dusit opened a small fridge and took out two cans of beer.

“Do you think they can cope? he asked.

“Sure they can,” Darunpan responded. “At their age nothing is impossible. But I’ve been meaning to ask you about Oliver. Has Adrian turned up anything? Any signs of ageing? Did I tell you that Oliver looked so mature when I saw him in London, but nothing abnormal?”

Dusit smote his brow like an Old Testament prophet.

“I forgot,” he exclaimed. “I forgot to tell Adrian something that Stephen said after I had completed my memorandum. He had filled my mind with such a load of stories about Oliver Trent that I suppose I couldn’t take any more in. Yes, he suggested that Adrian test the hypothesis that the shock of the events in Pattaya might cause a sudden acceleration in the ageing process. I am going to send Adrian an e-mail anyway to let him know the research is about to start and I’ll ask him for an update on Oliver.

“Perhaps I can ask you a question too. When do you think Oliver should be told about his possible connection with Oliver Trent? And who should tell him?”

“There is only one person, Stephen Black. If I met him as a toddler I don’t remember. It’s his story, although nothing we have discovered so far contradicts it. What’s he like?”

“He lives on his own in what he calls his castle in Spain. I would dismiss him as a fantasist except for the fact that you have corroborated part of his story and, like it or not, the few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that we have do seem to fit together. But we need a few more. At the moment, however, I think we have enough on our plate.”

A reply from Sir Adrian came back before Dusit had left the office; he must have been working early.

“Absolutely no clinical deviations from the norm, old chap. Oliver

is very self-confident and emotionally stable and people might

easily take him for a year or two older. Without all those incredible

stories no one would believe there was the slightest thing wrong

with him. I am confident that this will also prove true for your

babies. Regards, Adrian.”

Darunpan was only a few years their senior, but even he was amazed at the energy and enthusiasm with which the four students approached their tasks. Each night he prepared a summary, which he discussed with Dusit over breakfast. Because of the disparity of the cohorts they changed the plans slightly and Bpee did the lab work on some of the samples that Ay had collected as well her own. She was working with Dee in Bangkok and they decided not to move to Pattaya until Dee had completed her interviews in the capital.

At the first Friday conference only very preliminary results were available, but as far as they went they confirmed the hypothesis on which Dusit and Darunpan were working. Without exception all the mothers were in their late twenties and healthy – not a single instance of HIV infection.

“Near the end of their shelf life in their chosen profession, I suppose, but still in prime condition for breeding.” Ay remarked acidly.

His female colleagues resented his attitude, but could not refute his logic.

There was emerging, however, a significant difference between the mothers in Korat and Bangkok. Although Dee had a much smaller caseload, she was having difficulty in gaining the trust of the mothers, since they were much more streetwise and suspicious than the women from the provinces. See was finding the Korat mothers more friendly and eager to confide in a woman from their own region, as if See was a younger sister. So far, eight mothers had admitted shyly that they had not had a farang lover, but that “a doctor gave me the baby”. Four of them said the doctor had promised them a very special baby. They also told See that they had been taken to a large house in Korat, which looked like a hospital inside; but they could only give a vague idea of where it was. All had been taken there at night.

Darunpan had managed to obtain a classified aerial photograph of the provincial capital and had marked with pins the addresses where the women were staying. By plotting the length of time each woman estimated it had taken to reach the clinic he hoped to be able to narrow down the target to three or four streets.

Dusit only asked one question. Did any of the women know of others receiving the same treatment? And had they seen any other patients at the clinic? See had worked this out for herself. The answer was negative in each case.

“You are doing a magnificent job,” Dusit concluded by saying. “I think, Dee, that you should back off your Bangkok cohort and only conduct superficial interviews in Pattaya. I am certain that the answer lies in Korat and there is no point in taking the risk of someone alerting Mr Big unnecessarily. Have a relaxing weekend.”

On Sunday night Darunpan drove Bpee and Dee to his home in Pattaya, stayed with them overnight and on Monday morning introduced them to the three paediatric centres, which he knew well. If the two young women felt aggrieved that their contribution had diminished in importance, they put on a brave face. Darunpan stressed that, once the detective work was over, all the mothers would need equal support.

“We are rescuing them from a prostitution racket that has developed into an unimaginable obscenity,” he impressed on them. In a week’s time he expected to be able to tell Dee what Bpee already knew.

It was the last Friday before Christmas, the tourist season was in full spate and Thailand was preparing for the New Year. Ay and Bpee were able to present the preliminary results of their lab tests and Dusit decided it was now time to share them with See and Dee.

Of Oliver’s hundred children, fifty-two were boys and forty-eight were girls. Fifty-one presented the same abnormality as Oliver and forty-nine were free. Otherwise, all the babies were in perfect health.

“I don’t understand,” See said. “How did you know? I can’t believe this is an accident!”

“It was pure luck, although that may not be an appropriate word where these poor mites are concerned. Their father, who is called Oliver, literally stumbled across Darunpan after escaping from the clutches of our Mr Big. After hearing his story, Darunpan had the foresight to obtain some samples for me to analyse. It was the greatest shock in my life. Oliver is in the care of an old friend and colleague of mine in London. I am happy to say that at the age of eighteen he is in perfect health. No one, however, can predict the future, either for him or for his children.

“I hope, See, that the others won’t mind if I call you the hero of the operation so far. The information you have obtained from your mothers deserves a medal. Darunpan, please.”

Darunpan lifted onto an easel the metre square softboard on which he had glued the map of Korat. There were seventy pins, around all of which faint circles of varying radii were circumscribed. One small area stood out darkly where almost all of the circles intersected. About two millimetres to one side there was a detached house standing in its own grounds of about an acre.

“Voila!” Darunpan exclaimed and beamed at See.

“I think you have all deserved a vacation,” Dusit declared. “A very happy New Year to you all.”

“Whom can we trust?” Darunpan asked when he and Dusit were alone together.

“No one, but we only have one choice – Police General Boonchit. It is a police job and we have to go to the top. I have already spoken to him privately at a wedding we attended last weekend. I did not give him any details then, but he has invited us to lunch with him at his private residence tomorrow.”

“How can I help you, Professor? You sounded very serious last week.”

Lunch had been cleared away and the three men were relaxing over coffee.

“I shall restrict myself to the scientific facts of which I can be absolutely certain,” Dusit replied.

“In the space of about two months, one hundred Thai mothers gave birth to children who share the same father. That man has been identified as the English tourist who was kidnapped in Pattaya at the beginning of the year. No doubt you remember the case.

“Seventy of the children were born in Korat and are attending paediatric clinics there. A team of students from the university, assisted by Darunpan, has interviewed all the mothers and tested all the babies. The babies were, of course, conceived in vitro. From information given by the mothers we think that we have been able to pinpoint the clinic to which each was taken twice. Darunpan, please.”

“I wondered what you were concealing there,” General Boonchit remarked casually. “You appear to have done some excellent detective work. Of course, I have a thousand questions about how you got to this point, which you may fill in later. What is more important is what you think we should do now and why.”

“So far I have stuck to scientific fact, now I move to hypothesis. We believe a criminal is seeking to extend his prostitution network by producing designer babies. I have little doubt that he still retains enough frozen sperm for next year’s litter, and perhaps for several more. For strictly genetic reasons I want that sperm captured and destroyed. I am sure you can also think of other reasons for decapitating this organisation. The person behind it is an execrable human being, but an excellent scientist. He also appears to have substantial funds.

“We have come to you because we (I am ashamed to say) believe there is a risk that this person is, at the very least, retaining an informant in the local police. He would need only a couple of hours’ notice to disappear over the border.”

“Very well, gentlemen. I see you have brought supporting documents for me to study. But I think I already know what I need to do.”

It was late on Christmas Eve when an unmarked police car drew up at the university entrance where Dusit and Darunpan were waiting. General Boonchit opened a rear door for Dusit; Darunpan slipped in beside the driver.

“I shall fill you in as we go along, although you have done ninety-nine percent of the work yourselves. Of course we may be making a huge mistake; but you have put your reputation on the line and now it is my turn.”

General Boonchit had taken the precaution of choosing a driver who did not understand English.

“That house was rented for a year last January by a US citizen called William Wright with, apparently, his Thai wife. Hardly anyone has ever seen him, but there are reports of comings and goings at night. Don’t worry, I have my own private networks.”

The General sank back into his seat.

“That’s all really. I’ll let you do the talking now. I have read the part of your dossier that seemed to me immediately relevant; but perhaps you could now help pass the time by retelling the odd story of Oliver Trent.”

It was 23.50 when the car arrived at Korat police headquarters.

“Stay here, please,” the General instructed his driver, and led Dusit and Darunpan into the building.

“Good evening, Major, just a social visit” he said amiably.

It was the first time the Major had seen the national police chief face to face, but he recognised him immediately. Despite his dark north-eastern features, his face grew pale.

“Sir!” he barked as he jumped to attention.

“Perhaps you could bring some chairs for my guests.” The General sat down in the Major’s chair and stretched his arm lazily over the group of telephones on the desk.

“Actually, I am here on business. In precisely thirty seconds the national vice squad will be raiding an address on Sunshine Avenue.”

The Major looked even more terrified.

“So if any of your local lads report a disturbance you can say that there is nothing to worry about.”

This was not exactly the Major’s own emotion at the moment. General Boonchit made a mental note to run an unusual wealth check on him at the very least.

A telephone rang and the Major instinctively moved to answer it. The General waved him away.

“No, I think we can let this one ring for a bit.”

It was a long fifteen seconds before the ringing ceased; but it was less than a minute before General Boonchit felt the slight tremor of the mobile phone in his shirt pocket. He looked at the message.

“Just a few minutes to wait now, Major.” he smiled.

His subordinate was slumped against a wall. Amid the sound of revellers outside a voice with a distinct American accent was raised in anger.

“You shall pay for this. I am an American citizen. I demand to see a lawyer.”

A man in his early forties was frog-marched towards the desk. His eye fell on the Major.

“You bastard!” he shouted.

Dusit smiled broadly at Darunpan, but General Boonchit was staring intently at the man’s face.

“William Wright? There is a warrant out for your arrest in the USA, if I am not mistaken. Illegal human cloning isn’t it? I shall be delighted to put my comrades at your disposal to grant you consular access first thing in the morning, even if it ruins your poor Ambassador’s Christmas. Take him away. No, wait. First of all I should like the Major here to read the suspect his rights.”

The Major mumbled away in Thai.

“Never mind, I am sure Mr Wright knows them anyway. But at least you know what yours are. I am not, of course, arresting you, merely instructing you, as your superior officer, to accompany these colleagues of ours here. Now, Dusit and Darunpan, I think it is time for us to pay a short visit to the house in question.”

An officer saluted when they arrived and led them into a back room with a large freezer in the corner. Dusit opened the door gingerly. Neatly stacked inside were about five hundred small phials.

“You won’t need all these for evidence will you?”

General Boonchit shook his head. Dusit removed a couple of phials and Darunpan placed them in the cooler bag that he had brought. The General gave an order and four policemen emptied the freezer of its contents and stacked them in a large sink.

“Just run hot water over them until you can open the stoppers with your bare hands. Then flush five hundred babies down the drain.”

Dusit grasped Darunpan in his arms and once again began silently to sob.

n the outskirts of a small town in the northwest of Thailand, a traveller who had left the usual tourist traps far behind might come across an unusual village. At first sight he might think that he had stumbled back into the nineteenth century. There were about fifty bungalows, built in the Lanna style, which blended harmoniously with the surrounding forest. Set to one side was a two-storey building, which could be identified as a school solely by the goal posts on the playing field behind it.

By the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century, Thailand’s economy was more developed than those of many of the newer members of the European Union. Unfortunately, its neighbours to the west, north and east were still embroiled in poverty, tyranny and civil strife. Nowhere on earth was the connection between prosperity and good governance and its corollary more starkly manifest. Preventing the influx of illegal workers was impossible. Thailand oscillated between acceptance and repression according to its economic cycles.

One consequence of the precarious condition of these uninvited guest workers was a growing number of orphaned or abandoned children. In some cases it was impossible to determine to which country they belonged. Even if it had been, they would be as unwanted there as in Thailand and certainly worse treated. After lengthy negotiations the Thailand government and the European Commission came to an agreement. The EU would wholly fund the accommodation, care and education of the children until they were aged sixteen. In return, the Thai government agreed that when they reached that age they would be given permits to live, work or continue their education in Thailand with the same rights as Thai citizens. After they reached the age of twenty-one they could apply for Thai nationality under the normal rules.

The Lanna style village was the first to be built under this scheme. Each house was run by a houseparent (occasionally by a married couple) and contained no more than six children. The intention was to provide the orphans with a stable and secure family life, which they had almost certainly never known before.

Ong lived in the nearby town and cycled to the village every weekday to take charge of one of the three top classes. The village had been open for three years, but the oldest children were still only ten or eleven years old. This was because the government had imposed a debatable policy of only accepting children up to the age of eight on the grounds that older children would have been irreversibly tainted by the lives they had led and would be a source of disruption and corruption. Ong’s class, therefore, consisted of thirty children aged between nine and eleven, most of whom had arrived at the village when it first opened.

By now, all the class could speak Thai as fluently as natives of their age and were wrestling with the written language. English was taught concurrently, or, at least, the Roman alphabet and some simple words. Some pupils, who realised from their situation that they were not Thai, would have preferred to devote themselves to the simpler language, which they were well aware was used throughout the world. Ong’s competence in English did not, however, extend very far.

On the other hand she was deeply committed to helping heal the wounds her charges had received in their infancy. She knew instinctively that they should be encouraged to recall and accept their past experiences rather than create a fiction that their lives only began the day they arrived at the village.

One Friday evening, Ong told her class that the following Monday she was going to ask them to write a story about the most exciting event in their lives. They had all weekend to think about it.

The following Monday evening Ong settled down with thirty sheets of paper covered with a wild variety of calligraphy. The majority of the stories were predictable: visits to a zoo, or a temple or a waterfall. One, however, stood out from the rest. It was written by Sunny, one of the youngest children, and read as follows:

My most exciting experience happened a long, long time ago. I was riding on a motorbike with my mummy and daddy. A car hit us and I was thrown through the air. A white angel caught me and saved my life. But my mummy and daddy were killed. I would like to meet the white angel again in order to thank him.

Ong was stunned. She was certain that Sunny had never mentioned this before to anyone, since she had regular chats with the houseparents and Sunny’s were sure to have mentioned it. Ong wondered whether it was something Sunny had been thinking of constantly, or, more likely, had flooded back into her memory as she was wondering what to write about.

The next day she thanked the children for their stories and asked if anyone would like to read his or hers to the class. Three or four hands shot up, but Sunny’s was not among them. After the lesson was over, Ong took Sunny aside and asked her if she could remember anything else about the accident. Did she know where it had taken place? Sunny shook her head sadly. She only remembered that her angel was very beautiful and that she wanted to marry him. Ong gave the little girl a big hug.

“Well you never know, darling. If he was an angel perhaps there will be another miracle.”

At a meeting with Sunny’s housemother and the headmistress, it was agreed to send the story to the local paper. It was just the kind of human-interest copy that a popular rag lapped up. With any luck it might be syndicated and even make the nationals. None of them thought that it could do any harm.

It was over two weeks later, when Darunpan was leafing through Thai Rath over his morning coffee, that his eye was caught by the picture of a girl under the somewhat confusing caption “Does Anyone Know This Angel’s Saviour?” The mass circulation daily had sent a reporter and photographer to the village in an attempt to embellish the story, but had failed to enhance Sunny’s simple original statement.

Darunpan read it with a mixture of incredulity and fatalism. He mopped his brow with his hand. “Here we go again,” he thought.

After the arrest of William Wright, about one hundred million baht had been discovered in bank accounts he had opened under various aliases. On the presumption that it was the proceeds of crime, the money was confiscated by the government. Professor Witayagorn used all his charm and prestige and eventually persuaded the prime minister to renounce the state’s entitlement and to set up a trust fund for the abused mothers and their children. Both he and Darunpan were appointed trustees.

One of the aces up Dusit’s sleeve was the anxiety of the prime minister that the full story should never be told and sully his country’s reputation. Once he was given assurances that Mr Wright would receive a very lengthy prison sentence in the USA, he gave orders for charges in Thailand to be deferred and for extradition to be expedited. You do not blackmail prime ministers, but Dusit had let it be understood that if he could not obtain the villain’s loot for his patients he would be forced to look for funds elsewhere. No one was in any doubt as to the price his revelations would fetch in the United States.

On the academic front, Dusit was acclaimed in all corners of the world in association, of course, with Sir Adrian. The only doubt was whether the notoriously dilatory Nobel Committee would award him the prize that was his due before he died. Dusit cared little for the adulation in which Adrian revelled, but agreed to give a number of papers and accept honorary fellowships from various societies and universities. Darunpan, for his part, was only too happy to return to the arms of his long-suffering wife.

Before Dusit departed on his victory lap, however, the two friends held some heated discussions on the vexed question of who should tell what to whom and when. With Wright out of the way, there was no longer any reason to speculate on his plans for the children or to worry the mothers on that score. All the mothers were, however, told that there had been a single sperm donor and that it would be important that none of their children intermarry. To this end, the children would need to be followed up for at least a score of years; the trust fund was adequate incentive for the mothers to comply.

Should the fifty-one mothers of the babies who had inherited Oliver’s abnormality be told? This was far more difficult. There was no possibility of them understanding the science involved. Telling them vaguely that their infants had a defect that might or night not cause problems in the future would only damage their relationship with their offspring. Dusit personally visited all the paediatricians and agreed with them that the files should be tagged with a code indicating that the baby should be referred immediately to the university hospital in the event of any unusual symptoms. Apart from this, all the children would receive identical treatment.

But what about Oliver? Sir Adrian had confided all the medical information about the trisomy and also the fact they had learned from the unintentional empirical trial in Thailand that there was a fifty percent chance of transmission, but that all of his children were otherwise perfectly healthy. When Oliver decided to start a family, however, he advised him to discuss all the issues beforehand with Sir Adrian or, more probably, Sir Adrian’s successor.

Dusit wanted to leave it at that. Darunpan argued that Oliver was an adult and had a right to know certain other facts relating to his past.

“Facts you say? Pretty thin and few and far between! I am still convinced that Stephen Black is a fantasist, even though you have corroborated a couple of details. Your most important ‘evidence’ is third hand. I am perfectly prepared to believe that Stephen had a friend called Oliver Trent who had an affair with your uncle and that this explains how he knew your childhood nickname and your dog. I also grant that there is a mystery concerning Oliver’s adoption and the trust fund that Stephen administers. Hardly enough to prove metempsychosis! All the rest is Stephen’s imagination.”

They reached a compromise. Darunpan would write to Stephen giving him a full account of the developments since he saw Dusit in Spain. It was entirely up to Stephen to decide what to tell Oliver. The two doctors, however, were of the opinion that the right time to do so was after he had obtained his degree from Oxford. Stephen should speak then or forever hold his peace.

Long gone was the assertiveness of Stephen’s youth. He did not know what decision he would make. Yet if he did decide to recount the tale, it was hardly something to be related over a glass or two of wine. For the next two years he typed out painstakingly a monograph which he provisionally entitled The Peculiar History of Oliver Trent.

The Children of OM is the sequel to The Peculiar History of Oliver Trent, which follows the lives of three gay men in the battle for Gay rights in the last half of the Twentieth Century. For information please email info@elcastillon.com

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