Chapter 19

“He was supposed to give me a keychain from Morocco, P’,” said Elixir when Sun and he are alone.

“He was supposed to give me something for my birthday too, nong,” said Sun back, wiping the tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, P’. I’m sorry you had to hear this sad news on the eve of your birthday.”

At this, Sun did not answer. Despite looking straight at the wall in front of him, he is no longer stunned like earlier when they were being interrogated. Exeter’s passing has now sunk into him. He feels his heart is being squeezed like a sponge. His Grumpy is now gone; he will not be in his birthday tomorrow. He bends forward and cries to his knees with Elixir patting him on his back as he does, unable to hold his emotions back unlike earlier.

Outside the residence of the Helmans, Lt. Tan receives a text message from Officer Tine: “Dr. Yankhun passed away. Time of death was registered at 20:18H. Sorry, lieutenant.”

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Tas and Gan are exchanging messages in a chat application, but they are not that of admiration, love, or anything sort of romantic. Since their first dinner-date at Steaks as boyfriends, Gan has been in a bad mood. When Tas gets home, he never heard from Gan again. He sends him sweet messages trying to pacify him, but none work.

“Are you mad because I was texting Mochi?” Tas finally asked. He is fed up now of Gan’s tantrums.

“What do you think?”

“Why would you get mad at my classmate?”

“Why do you think?”

“He is my friend, Gan. If you’re jealous of him, you don’t have to be.”

“Yeah. Whatever, Tas.”

“Gan, can you please answer me properly?”

Gan puts his phone down on his bed and crosses his arms. He knows it’s not really jealousy he is feeling. Instead, he feels that he wants Tas’ undivided attention when they are together.

Tas just wants to sleep instead of wasting more energy, and maybe, talk to Gan tomorrow. He is even willing to go to the pharmacy where Gan is working at. However, Tas is the kind of guy who doesn’t want to let the night pass by with a misunderstanding with someone. Like in his previous relationships, it was Tas who always reached out first if he and his boyfriend had a misunderstanding, to try and straighten up things. He activates the video call feature of the chat application he is using and calls Gan.

“What?” answered Gan, annoyed.

“Are you mad because I was texting Mochi?”

“Who wouldn’t be mad at his boyfriend when he talks to someone else?”

“So, you are jealous of my friend?”

Gan did not answer but just looks away at the camera. Their relationship may not be that long yet, but Tas knows that even without Gan saying it at this moment, his boyfriend is jealous.

“Gan,” called Tas, but the other did not look his way. “Gan, look at me,” he said again, this time, in an imploring tone. Gan looks at the camera to see his begging boyfriend. “Gan, you don’t have to be jealous of Mochi. You are my boyfriend, and he is just a friend.”

Hearing Tas explain his side melts Gan’s temper, especially the part “You are my boyfriend.”.

“I’m not mad because you are talking to your friend. It’s because you are giving me less attention during our date,” said Gan.

“Okay, it won’t happen again. Sorry about that.”

“Sorry, too, for acting like this, Tas,” apologized Gan. Being in his first ever relationship, he can’t help but feel neglected at the shortest second that Tas gives his attention to another.

“I know we got into this relationship in a rather early note, Gan. That is because you know that I like you so much.”

“And I you, Tas. I like us to prove – against all odds – that it was not a mistake that we got together so soon.”

“I can’t do that alone, Gan. I need your help to do it.”

“Then, let’s help each other, Tas – no more unnecessary tantrums; no more useless distrusts.”

“And for me, I won’t let you feel neglected. How’s that?”

“Fair enough. Puff out your cheek.”

Tas obeys without question, and Gan kisses the screen with a sound, as if they are beside each other doing it.

“Next time, I’ll make it real,” said Gan after.

“I’m looking forward to it,” replied Tas, giving a kiss of his own on the screen. “You don’t have work tomorrow, right?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ll fetch you. Let’s go to Sun’s birthday, and maybe I’ll redeem that kiss you said.”

“Sure!”

They did not end the video call. Instead, they keep it running as they sleep, so that it is as if they are both together in bed despite them being apart from each other.

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A motorcycle pulls up in front of a house numbered 36-1 at Ranghong Street. The driver dismounts his motorbike and dials the number of the recipient of the metal briefcase he has.

“Sawadee krap. Is this Mister Remil Wattana?”

“Sawadee khun. Yes, I am he. What is this about?”

“I have an item for you.”

“Right. I’m coming out,” Mil said to the delivery guy, realizing that this must be the item sent to him by someone who called him friend in an SMS he got earlier.

“Kindly bring an ID for identification.”

“Krap.”

He gets his driver’s license and proceeds to meet the courier. As he goes down from his room, Mil keeps thinking on what the item is, which, according to the sender, is a matter of life and death.

“Sawadee khun. Here is my ID,” said Mil as he approaches the Grab rider, handing over his license in the process. The delivery guy gets the card and looks multiple times between Mil and the picture in it.

“Thank you, P’,” he finally said after getting convinced that the man in front of him is indeed the person he is delivering the item to. The boy hands back Mil’s license card, and then, walks to his motorbike to untie the briefcase.

“Here is your parcel,” said the boy, putting the case down in front of Mil.

“Thank you, nong. Who’s the sender?”

“Khun Ren Krittanai.”

“I see. How much?” asked Mil. The name that was said to him rings a bell.

“No need P’. The sender already paid the delivery fee.”

“Here.” The prosecutor gave the boy a hundred Baht. “Your tip. Am I your last stop?” asked he, compensating the boy for his effort to deliver an obviously heavy parcel at such a time in the night.

“Yes, P’. Thank you for the tip,” said the delivery boy. He mounts his bike and drives off.

Mil lifts the briefcase with one hand and with difficulty. He ends up walking back to his house gripping the handle with both hands and placing it out front, so that his legs provide more support. When he reaches his room, he is already sweating. He takes his phone that is lying on the bed and opens Ren’s message to him earlier.

“Hmmmm. 0-7-1-1.” He moves the four dials at the center of the briefcase, underneath the handle, to the corresponding numbers starting from left to right. Each of the dials has ten numbers, so if one is to guess, he will have to pick from more than a million possible combination. After inputting the digits, he presses two buttons simultaneously, which are located on the opposite ends of the case. The buttons did not return unpressed, and the top side of the case opens.

The things inside were arranged neatly: computer hard disks, photographs, and piles of printouts placed inside marked folders. However, two items catch his attention: a voice recorder and a piece of paper where a phrase was legibly written:

To Mil, who I’ll always love

From Ren, who will always be sorry

Mil is touched as he says each word in the phrase on the paper: despite not being together anymore, Ren still knew the salutation they used when they sent each other something. The phrase is one that only they can understand and have been using it since they ended their relationship.

Ren and Mil first met at the driving school where Ren taught, and at which time, Mil was his student.

“What course will you be taking Mister Wattana?” asked the lady at the lobby of their school building.

“This one – the seven-lesson refresher.”

“Have you taken a previous driving lesson, khun?”

“Krap khun. Here is my previous certificate,” replied Mil showing his old Certificate of Completion from another driving school. According to it, he completed the 20-day course and passed the corresponding practical test. The lady took the certificate to have it copied.

“Kindly sit on the side, khun. I will call your instructor. He will introduce the course to you. If ever he is not available for a day, we will assign you a substitute,” said the lady. She handed back Mil’s certificate after.

“Does that happen a lot? The primary instructor not being available?” clarified Mil.

“Not really. Most of the time, it is the primary instructor who will be with you unless he is on a scheduled absence or has an emergency.”

“I see. Thank you for clearing that.”

He sat at one of the vacant benches to wait. Mil prefers only the same instructor for the duration of the course he opted: he wants the same teaching style and method throughout the course. It is not that he doesn’t trust a substitute instructor, but it is more of a preference issue. Mil has this strong loyalty over things, and he practices it in almost anything.

After a few moments of waiting, a man wearing a white polo shirt approached the lady at the lobby. She, then, waved at Mil and invited him over to the reception table.