Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

dark corner of heaven that I’d long since stopped swearing under my breath. My choices were: a dip in the sea that would leave me itching through lunch, or a plastic dipper from the giant jar out back that was breeding more cultures than the natural history museum. I chose the sea.
    ♦
    Major Mana was as amenable as a Venus flytrap. I sat opposite him squirming in my seat as the salt dried on my skin. In my bag I had the bulk of my report written at the scene. After lunch I would make a few phone calls, type it up on my laptop and send it off from the computer game shop. Being a Saturday I could be sure of a skirmish with the teenagers but I had my first real story in a year and a few bruised children was a small price to pay. All I needed from the major were the compulsory names and ranks of all the officers involved and a quote that would instill faith in the community that the police were firmly in control. In Chiang Mai we had a stock of such quotations for the ranking officers to choose from because they were often stuck for relevant grammatical phrases. I didn’t have my list with me so I had to let Mana baffle readers with the murder/disaster/accident/suicide theory. The business side of our lunch had been concluded in ten minutes and I was eager to be away from there and send off my story. But as I was a visitor to the south from Chiang Mai, the major had ordered delicious local mackerel and sea bass and watched for my reaction as I consumed my meal. I managed a smile.
    He had, as expected, presumed to have a bottle of ‘Hinnisy’ brandy placed on the table for our arrival as if it were a normal service of the restaurant. I knew from a report we’d done for the Mail that some of these fake rural liquors could cause deformities in the newborn and rot the teeth clean out of your mouth by the third glass. But Major Mana’s superglossed teeth gave me confidence and I matched him swig for swig through the meal. I can drink. I have no idea where my constitution comes from. My mother has to merely sniff a mosquito coil and she’s singing old Bird Thongchai Mclntyre ballads. So it has to be down to the genes of my mysterious missing father. Perhaps he was an alcoholic. Mair is ever mute on the subject. I have no recollection of him at all. Sissi, the eldest, remembers a handsome, funny man who came and went and came…and went. That’s all we have of ‘Dad’. No photos. No fond reminiscences from Mair. Just genes that don’t seem to match.
    So, anyway, we were at the fruit plate and well down the Hinnisy and Major Mana was slurring and his volume had risen. With a wink to the restaurant owner he’d slid his chair around so he could whisper secrets into my ear. As he talked about himself the entire meal, I didn’t have to lie about where I lived. He insisted on mixing our drinks from the rack of ingredients standing beside his chair. Without exception he’d put twice as much brandy in my glass and, without exception, I’d wait till he was distracted and switch glasses on him. Twice, he’d told me that he’d booked a motel room in case I wanted to rest after lunch. All the class of a dollop of lizard dung – I mean, really. Perhaps he’d never before had a lunch date who didn’t sport fur or scales.
    At one stage he failed to return from the toilet. Given the time it had taken for him to find the outhouse in the first place, I wasn’t terribly surprised. A penis is a lot smaller than a toilet. I gave him five minutes, poured the remainder of my drink into the ice bucket and walked down to the main road where I’d parked my motorcycle.
    ♦
    “Did you have a nice Sunday?” Mair asked.
    “Yes, thanks.”
    But it was Saturday.
    I still hadn’t forgiven her for what she’d done to us and I’d planned a full year of social disobedience, but as always it occurred to me that my acidity didn’t get through her leaden mother casing. Most of the time she was Mair: sweet, happy to listen to our problems, unintentionally funny, just normal Mair. But there were times she frightened us. Her slide had started with little things. You’d see a trail of ants leading to a cupboard and you’d find an open caramel pudding in there.
    “Mair, why isn’t the caramel pudding in the fridge?”
    “It isn’t?” She’d shake her head. “That’s funny. That’s where I put it, child. I can’t think who’d have moved it.” Then there were times she’d try to change TV channels with her cell phone or to