‘I really like this place. It’s great, you know. I can get all the food I like. The temperature is just right. I like my job. I have a great life. But something is just missing, you know. It’s just a little bit empty. Like a dream when one day I will wake up.’
Frank was lying on Doctor Bedi’s couch, in her Spanish colonial surgery in downtown Panama City.
His life was great now. He was assigned to the Panamanian police, serving mostly on cases involving expats. He took great delight in chasing them across the colonial boulevards and lanes of the city in his small police car or on an electric bicycle.
He also had an undercover role as a tour guide, taking tourists – mostly overweight American in exaggerated Panama hats, and Asian tourists, who seemed to photograph just about everything they saw, as soon as they had disembarked from their cruise ship – around the main attractions of this splendid city. It helped him to see if any of them would maybe commit an indiscretion.
But mostly they just wanted to see and photograph one thing.
‘And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the Panama Canal.’ he would tell them.
‘The Panama Canal.’
‘The Panama Canal.’
‘The Panama Canal.’
‘It’s warm and long and wet and full of stuff we want. Guess what it is?’
Frank had also found a little Filipino-run cafe not far from his apartment. They mostly sold local food, but made a little off-menu arrangement with them to have whatever they were having for breakfast – charging it, of course, to his Operation Barium account, since he was still in witness protection.
He was there every morning, at the same time, for breakfast.
Every day, he woke up to his alarm tone, which was Fairground Attraction's ‘Perfect’.
He provided the little cafe with a playlist of British music to play when he was there on his own – for an extra charge. But they didn’t use it when other people were around. They wanted to keep the customers they already had.
But his life was still not perfect.
Something was still missing.
He still did not feel like himself. And certainly not like Adam Virgule-Deux.
‘Emotionally, I am not in the same place as you.’ Doctor Bedi told him. ‘This place is beautiful. The food is delicious. My life is great. And I have met this guy – Juan, my personal trainer – who does things for me no man has ever done.’
Frank waved his hands at her. ‘Too much information.’ he protested.
‘Fitness-wise.’ Doctor Bedi clarified quickly, before adding, ‘But don’t tell my husband. Or his lawyer. Especially not his lawyer.’
‘But what about my problem, Doctor Bedi?’ Frank asked her.
‘Juan will not help you with that. He’s not that type of man. Not that there would be anything wrong...’
‘But you could, Doctor Bedi.’ Frank insisted.
‘Okay, I’ll try. But I am paid whatever happens to you.’ Doctor Bedi told him, in her typical disinterested and thoroughly unaffected Indian tones. ‘The way I see it, you have played a number of roles throughout your life. And now you have reached the point in your life where you no longer know who you really are. Maybe what you need to do is ask yourself when you felt most comfortable, most at home, most like you.’
‘Wow! That’s really insightful, Doctor Bedi!’ Frank exclaimed.
‘You sound surprised. You should know me by now.’ Doctor Bedi retorted.
‘Exactly.’ Frank told her.
Doctor Bedi ignored the subtle jibe. ‘How are your dreams? Are you still having them? And are any of them...?
Frank interrupted her. ‘No. They stopped as soon as I realised who I really am.’ he told her.
‘Pity. I found them to be quite entertaining. I mean, I was not in them, so they could have been better, but you can’t win them all. They should have been more gritty, though. And more full of gays and lesbians and bad language and deviant morality. Then you could have sold them to Netflix and made a fortune. Bit of an opportunity missed there, Mister Diggory. Anyway, you are giving your video deposition to Lawrence Fitzwilliam's trial tomorrow. How do you feel about that?’ she asked him. Not that she particularly cared.
‘To be honest, I’m fine. I’ll just tell the truth. I just want it to be over.’ Frank told her.
‘And then what will you do?’ Doctor Bedi asked him.
‘I’ll go home.’ he told her.
‘And this home: it couldn’t be Bali, could it? Not Glasgow! Please, not Glasgow!’ Doctor Bedi pleaded. ‘I’m too old for the rain.’
The following morning, Frank had his Filipino breakfast. The dulcit tones of Dire Straits were belting out one of his favourite songs:
The cafe owners were only too happy to turn it off when other customers arrived. It was depressing them.
He went back to his apartment, sat on his sofa, ensured that his camera was facing the wall, and that he was using a VPN that would geolocate him to the wilds of Silicone Valley, via Cuba, Mexico and Uddingston, then he logged into the court feed to provide his deposition.
He was sworn in using a Gideon's Bible in his apartment. The solemnly dressed court registrar asked him the question, in his flat serious monotone: ‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?’
‘I do.’ Frank replied.
And then he repeated his long tale all over again.
How his reporter friend had been blown up by the Albanian mafia in Glasgow.
How the provision of information on his friend’s movements and the sophistication of the bomb led him to believe that a different gang was involved.
How they had tied this back to Orhan Osman.
How, no matter what they did, they could not prosecute him or any meaningful member of his gang.
How a prostitute working for Osman, and one of his lieutenants in Glasgow, got sick of his abusive behaviour and betrayed him to Frank.
How none of the information made sense, until a raid on Tondo in Manila led them to laptops his gang used, and his cloud accounts.
How careful and detailed investigation of these led them to Home Secretary Lawrence Fitzwilliam, who had been using compromising material they uncovered on the laptops to blackmail officials in the British, and other, governments, to keep Orhan and his men out of jail.
How Fitzwilliam had used Orhan’s smuggling ring to send British arms to embargoed countries and to ‘friendlies’ for whom support would have been ‘unpopular’.
Fitzwilliam’s defence lawyer, a demure but ice cold, dark suited woman, listened to the deposition without betraying a millimetre of emotion.
Fitzwilliam, however, was a picture of every increasingly haughty incredulity.
Right at the end of his deposition, Fitzwilliam’s lawyer made her play. ‘Objection, your honour! The defence really must object.’ she announced.
‘To what?’ the wigged, elderly male judge asked her.
‘To all of it. Everything. Detective Chief Inspector Frank Diggory is not at all well. He is grieving for a close friend. He has had a significant head injury. His testimony is nothing but a flight of fancy. It cannot, in any way, be trusted. Defence moves to strike his entire testimony from the record.’
The judge stared at her harshly, disapprovingly. ‘The defence counsel is guilty, I am afraid, of a rather shocking over-reach. We have the testimony of a fully qualified therapist, Doctor Zoya Bedi, whom we have already cross-examined, confirming that DCI Diggory is fit to stand as a witness. There is, I'm afraid, an emerging mountain of evidence connecting Mister Fitzwilliam and Mister Osman. I do not see anything in this calm, lucid and rational testimony to which the defence can possibly object. Denied!’
Lawrence Fitzwilliam stood on his feet. He thundered. ‘That relationship with Orhan Osman was entirely business-like, above board and in the best interests of this nation! I will not have it questioned. I will not!’
Frank had heard enough. ‘It is never in anyone’s best interests for woman and children to be trafficked and sold as slaves for profit – except for those who benefit from it. Your realpolitik was wrong, Fitzwilliam. Completely and utterly wrong!’
‘Order! I will have order!’ the judged yelled over the commotion. ‘The next person who speaks outside of court procedure will be found in contempt of court, whoever they are.’ he snarled, as he quickly calmed down.
‘Your honour, that is part of the problem.’ The defence lawyer pleaded. ‘If my client is found guilty of contempt of court, he will go to jail, which would be right and fair. But if DCI Diggory is found guilty of contempt of court, he cannot be sent to jail because we do not know where he is.’
The judge smiled condescendingly. ‘You don’t know where he is. But I am aware of people who do know. And trust me, neither you nor your client will ever be one of them.’
Right at that moment, Frank received a text. It only contained one word: ‘Ready’.
‘Your honour, please forgive me: I need to make some adjustments to my connection to ensure my unimpeded participation in this trial.’ he requested of the judge.
‘Please proceed.’ the judge told him. ‘But I can see and hear you fine.’
‘It’s at this end.’ Frank told him, as he opened and logged out of a few apps. ‘There, Your Honour. That should be better now.’
Four men, all in black, all in masks, approached a pretty, upscale Spanish colonial apartment block – the type to which locals could aspire, but only foreigners and the corrupt elite could ever afford. They came from the darkness of the shadows, which was tough, as it was approaching midday and the sun was really hot.
They arrived at the block. Its outside security door was open.
Their contact had delivered.
They climbed the stairs. Two flights.
They reached the door. From the inside, they could hear the trial of their erstwhile boss, and the testimony Frank was giving.
He had to be stopped. No question.
They pushed at the front door of the apartment. It opened easily.
Strange. Someone in witness protection should really be more secure.
But then, Frank Diggory had always been downright cocky.
They snuck into the apartment. Down the hallway. Frank’s deposition and cross-examination were getting louder and louder.
They burst into the living room, guns loaded and pointing. They yelled. They scanned around.
No-one there.
Just a laptop and speakers on a chair.
‘Surprise!’ a female Welsh voice called out behind them.
They spun around.
They were outnumbered.
Threefold.
‘Bienvenido a Cuba.’ Agent Hughes announced. ‘Levanta las manos por encima de la cabeza. Oh, sorry, you’re English: you don’t speak any Spanish words that don’t involve beer. Get those hands up. You’re all under arrest.’
‘You can’t arrest us.’ of them argued defiantly. ‘We have immunity.’
‘To what? Covid? Good for you! We’re still bringing you in.’ Agent Hughes told them. ‘Your old master is going to rot in jail. He won’t help you now. Oh, and my esteemed colleague Agent Moise Kaplan sends his apologies. For some reason, he could not get a visa. Can’t think why.’
As her men led their captives out of the apartment and into a rickety van, Agent Hughes texted Frank. ‘We have the last of them. You can go home.’
As soon as his somewhat gruelling deposition and cross-examination was over, Frank texted back. ‘Thank you. It's been three years too long.’
Thousands of miles away, in Paraiso, Philippines, the agents who had stayed in the village, eaten only bland British food, drank their way through the cases of Irn Bru Ethan had ordered over-enthusiastically on Operation Barium’s money, and spent every day complaining about the weather (to the extent that Alberto and Andrea honestly wondered if British people ever talk about anything else), were now depleted in number, and the last two were packing their belongings into a black SUV, which would drive them to Ormoc airport and to their private flight out of here and back to the cold and dreary skies of Great Britain.
They couldn’t wait.
Emet saw them from her bedroom window and ran out to talk to them. ‘So, you’re going?’ she asked the obvious.
‘Yes.’ they replied perfunctorily, with typical reserved British politeness and reserve.
‘Why?’ Emet asked them.
‘Because we are longer required. Frank Diggory is no longer a person of interest.’ one of them told her. On noticing her look of offence, she told her, ‘Well, he is to you, obviously. But to us, he’s nobody.’
‘Which means...’ Emet teased them. ‘... someone gets to go home.’
‘Yes.’ the agent told her as she slammed the back door of the SUV closed. ‘We do.’
Emet couldn’t sleep soundly that night. Or the night after.
Frank could go home.
Of course, there were plenty of villagers who were keen to disparage the idea. He is Scottish, they would tell her. He is not from here. His home is there.
But every night, she would dream.
And those dreams were not nightmares. Far from it.
They didn’t send her to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
And since the conversation with the departing agents, they had become even more vivid.
On the third night, though, she was starting to wonder. Where could he be? Why was it taking so long?
At a sleepless midnight, her phone buzzed. She rubbed her eyes and picked it up. It was a text. From an anonymous number. It just said thee words: ‘Bathe at 8pm.’
She pulled her phone to her chest. Her heart soared.
Only one person knew those words and what they meant:
Frank Diggory.
The next day could not go quickly enough for her. She had online meetings. Changes to deploy. Issues to fix. It was a busy day. And she went about it with her trademark enthusiasm and gusto.
But even so, the day dragged in.
Seven fifty-nine came. She made her way, barely keeping her expectant excitement under control, to her bathroom.
The door was locked.
She rattled it.
‘I’m in.’ her dad called from inside, utterly oblivious to her secret meeting with Frank.
‘Can you get out please? It's important.’ Emet pleaded.
‘One more push.’ her dad struggled.
‘If it's not coming, it’s not coming. Try again later.’ Emet flustered.
‘One of the perils of a rice-based diet.’ her dad complained, as he flushed the disappointingly empty toilet bowl, pulled up his shorts and washed his hands, before unlocking the door. ‘All yours.’ he told her. ‘No need for air freshener this time.’ He left the bathroom, a little confused over her urgency.
She locked it tightly behind her. She waited a few seconds until her dad was a little distance from the bathroom, and then she called out a little disbelievingly, ‘Frank is that you? Is that really you?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ A deeply familiar Scottish voice resounded confidently from the other side if the bathroom wall. ‘I’ve come home. At last.’
Tears poured out of Emet’s eyes. Tears of relief. Tears of joy. Deep, unrelenting, all-surpassing joy.
‘Are you okay?’ Frank asked her.
‘Way more than okay.’ Emet told him. ‘If you could only know how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment.’
‘One thousand and ninety-nine.’ Frank told her. ‘Every night. Every time I went to the bathroom, I thought of you.’
‘Way too much information there, Frank.’ Emet corrected him with a huge smile.
‘Ah. That may have not come across as I intended.’ Ethan admitted. ‘I have some news. But first, a question.’
‘What?’
Frank took in a deep gulp of air. ‘Emet Grace Manalo, will you marry me?’
Emet squealed with delight. Her mum and dad ran to the door in shock. ‘Is everything okay in there, dai?’ her mum asked her through the door.
‘Yes! Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Frank Diggory.’ she exclaimed loudly.
‘Poor girl. Deluding herself again.’ Her mum muttered. ‘When will she stop dreaming?’
‘I know you can’t see me right now, but I am so happy.’ Frank told her as he touched the bathroom tiles tenderly.
‘Me too.’ Emet sniffed. ‘Whoever thought that proposing in a bathroom could be so impractical? But you said you had news...’
‘Yes.’ Frank began. ‘I’ve quit the police so I can be with you. Always.’ Frank told her, waiting for another squeal of delight.
It didn’t come.
‘But what will you do for money? What will we do? You really should have talked about this to me first, Frank.’ Emet scolded him lightly.
‘I have some money.’ Frank told her. ‘And an idea. A dream.’
‘If that dream involves magic beans, then let me tell you, Frank, the engagement is off.’
Frank laughed. ‘It doesn’t.’
‘Well, you'd better get round here and give me my ring. And get my dad’s approval. Not necessarily in that order.’ Emet quipped.
‘Okay. In a minute.’ Frank told her.
‘Why?’
‘Do you know how good it is to be in my own bathroom?’ Frank told her.
‘Wash well after your done.’ Emet told him through the wall. ‘My dad does not like stinky men.’
A few moments later, Frank Diggory inhaled deeply and knocked on the door of the Manalo residence. Pastor Josh and Judy found it almost impossible to believe he had returned, but they were happy because Emet was happy. Deliriously so.
Frank asked for permission to marry Emet. He got it. Immediately. He fell down on one knee and presented her with the finest white gold ring he had bought in Panama that perfectly fitted her finger.
And then he told them his plan.
And the next day, he told Captain and Mister Peteros in their (joint) house on the hillside.
And then Frank Diggory donned his work clothes, ate breakfast with his much beloved fiancée at the Kainan Paraiso, took the bus and went to work.
Frank’s idea met with universal approval – acclaim, even. So much that they did not hesitate to video call it through to the head office in Manila.
Within weeks, work began: a new visitors centre opposite Emet’s dad’s church. The bus shelter was improved. New electric buses were purchased for the routes to Ormoc and Isabel piers. The house where Frank was living was given a new lick of paint. Ethan, ever keen on security, re-installed CCTV throughout the Subdivision. The mayor spruced up the streetlights. Every nearby hotel and boarding house was primed and ready.
Ready for when the publicity campaign went live.
‘How We Changed the World’ it was called: a Subdivision-wide exhibition telling the story of how Frank came to Paraiso, what happened and how it broke a global smuggling ring. Declassified records and photos were provided by MI6 and the CIA. Video interviews and re-enactments of critical events showed on a video loop in the Visitors Centre.
Each day, at precisely 12pm and 8pm, Frank and Emet showed people round his house. People paid for it – good money too.
And the highlight of their tour?
The comfort room.
The place where Frank gradually came to his senses.
Some people even tried to pay extra to talk to their beloved through the bathroom wall, but Pastor Josh was a little less keen on that idea, unless they made a donation to the church.
Which several did.
Substantial donations.
Theirs became the only church in the area with air conditioning.
The Subdivision was bustling. The road was no longer quiet. The sleeping dogs had to find somewhere else to lie. Kainan Paraiso was constantly busy. But at 6pm every day, the restaurant offered free food for the poor and needy.
Until there were no more needy in Paraiso.
On the evening before their wedding, Emet and Frank looked on hand-in-hand with pride from their new balcony as the last guests left what would become their home.
‘I can’t believe what you've done here, Frank. It’s incredible.’ Emet gushed.
‘You know, you and your dad: you didn’t need to play me when I first came here. I didn’t need you to try to convert or convince me.’ Frank told her.
‘Really?’ Emet asked, surprised.
‘I was already converted. I believed it all. Every last bit of it.’ he told her. ‘Because, let’s face it, it’s just a better life’.
Frank Diggory had been a man out of place. But now he had found it.
Seven thousand miles from where he thought it would be.
And he had no intentions of leaving it.
Except when the police came calling.
- Ang Katapusan -
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