Neither Doctor Bedi nor Ethan Peteros were fans of these calls. They took place at midnight – midnight! – on a Friday night.
What could be more inhumane!
But they were calling America and the UK. Of course the call had to take place at their convenience. The earth obviously revolved around them.
Not Paraiso Subdivision.
Of course, Ethan could say nothing. He could easily game into the small hours without even thinking about it.
But tonight would be a little different. Tonight he had a late night visitor. And he was really looking forward to it.
So at 9pm, he had a shower, had a long swim in his personal swimming pool behind his house, got out, showered again, sprayed enough deodorant on him and his clothes to burn a hole in the ozone layer, and then boiled some coffee.
It wasn’t to keep him awake. He’d heard that coffee helped people feel more at home. Or maybe it was realtors.
Whoever it was, that coffee was on.
He was ready by 11pm and already seated on his sofa in front of his screens. Twiddling his already twitchy fingers.
Doctor Zoya Bedi, on the other hand, was much more relaxed. She watched some Indian TV on her laptop for a few hours, had a cold shower and then prepared herself to go to bed after the call.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Who knew when Frank – or any of her other patients (she did have some, although it often didn’t feel like it) – would have some form of emergency and need her help?
This was a small Subdivision. She was permanently on call.
Ethan’s visitor was not given to subtlety. In fact, if he was honest, she intimidated him a little.
Actually, a lot.
At 11.45pm, he could hear the throaty rasp of an approaching motorcycle. That was unusual. This Subdivision didn’t get much, if any, passing traffic, and definitely not at this time of night.
So when he heard the engine slow to a growl and then to silence, he knew it was her.
And his sense of nervous anticipation jumped. As did his pulse rate, according to his smartwatch.
In a few minutes, she would be here: Captain Reyna Bautista. PNP Ormoc City. Build like a strong supermodel. Looks to kill – or, as he preferred to put it, given her occupation – looks that were very arresting. Leather jacket. Tight leather trousers. Stunning black shoulder-length hair.
His pulse rate jumped again.
It took him ten minutes to carefully descend the stairs to the Subdivision below in daytime. It took her three to ascend. At night. In the dark. By mobile phone torchlight.
She was magnificent.
Sure enough, ten seconds before she was expected, there was a sharp knock on his front French door. ‘Peteros! Let me in! It’s the police. Bautista.’ she rapped.
‘Enter!’ Ethan wafted his majestic words to the wind.
Captain Bautista slid the door open. ‘You’re not up to date with chivalry yet, are you, Peteros?’ she snapped as she entered and slid the door behind her.
‘You are a strong woman. You need no man. I am a modern man.’ Ethan explained/excused himself.
‘Yeah, yeah. Next time, open the door for me.’ Captain Bautista barked.
‘I have your permission?’
‘You have my command.’ She scanned around the room. ‘Nice place you have here. I don’t need to investigate you for unexplained wealth, do I?’ she asked him as she unceremoniously plonked her bottom on the couch in front of his bank of screens.
‘No, no. This is all legit. I am a successful investor in cryptocurrencies.’ Ethan explained loftily.
‘So I do need to investigate you for unexplained wealth.’ Captain Bautista quipped.
‘No. No, you don’t, but I’m open to a little questioning, if you’re open to a little... DNA swapping...’ Ethan flirted. Clumsily. As he sat down a small distance from her on the couch.
‘Yeuch!’ Captain Bautista expressed her disgust, before moving further away from him. ‘You do not have women up here regularly, do you? Or at all.’
‘Not regularly. Or at all. You might be the first.’ Ethan admitted.
‘Well, watch that mouth or it might be your last.’ Captain Bautista scolded him.
‘Yes, Sir... Ma’am... Captain... Bautista.’ Ethan backpedalled like a pedicab driver on a steep hill.
‘That’s better. Now, let’s get this show on the road.’ Captain Bautista announced.
Ethan, thoroughly emasculated, obeyed and typed a few keys on his keyboard. Video conferencing software started up with a loud ping. Within seconds, three more participants joined the call: Doctor Zoya Bedi, Agent Moise Kaplan – a stocky Jewish-American, New York born, grey haired CIA agent, based out of Langley, and Agent Cerys Hughes – a blonde, thirty-five year old Welsh MI6 officer, based out of London.
‘Good morning!’ Ethan gestured to his new audience. ‘And what a pleasure it is to see you all, and to be in the presence of three powerful women.’ he announced.
Captain Bautista put him right back in his place. ‘And yet none of us will date you.’
‘Not even me, and I have a husband at sea and some crazy HRT side effects.’ Doctor Bedi added.
Agent Hughes chuckled. ‘Sounds like you know each other.’
‘A little too well. And I only met him a month ago.’ Captain Bautista added. ‘Captain Reyna Bautista. PNP Ormoc City. I’m here to provide assistance from Philippine law enforcement and to ensure that all proceedings take place in line with our laws.’
‘And are they?’ Agent Kaplan asked seriously.
‘You mean, apart from the fact that every person over eighteen years of age in this Subdivision is guilty of fraud and should be arrested and imprisoned, no, I’m fine with it. We can proceed.’ Captain Bautista told them sarcastically.
Agent Kaplan heard what he’d wanted. ‘Good. So how is our subject?’
‘He is well. Sticking to his daily routine. Very little deviation.’ Ethan told them. ‘And I should know. I designed it. And conduct it.’
‘Physically, he is well. Despite the low nutritional value and variation of the British elements of his diet.’ Doctor Bedi interjected. ‘At least he has not eaten fried food for some time.’
‘Please! Do not torture him!’ Agent Hughes quipped. ‘He is Scottish.’
Doctor Bedi continued. ‘But I have doubts about his psychological health. He has nightly dreams. Nightmares. Which I find oddly...’
Ethan interrupted, waving both hands in front of his face. ‘Too much information!’ he protested.
‘What dreams?’ Agent Kaplan asked forcefully.
‘Two, that I recall.’ Doctor Bedi told them. For the first one, he was on a raid in a northern barrio that ended with a slum fire.’
‘The Tondo Incident!’ Agent Hughes gasped. ‘I thought he would forget that!’
Doctor Bedi continued. ‘The second one took place in a nightclub, where he apparently tried to dance with a woman and stabbed a man.’
‘Sounds like an average night out in Glasgow. Or anywhere in the UK.’ Agent Hughes quipped.
‘Didn’t you suspend him for that?’ Agent Kaplan asked Agent Hughes, a condemning ring to his tone.
‘Well, he was drunk on duty and had just stabbed a man. What else were we to do? Throw him a street party, where he’d do it again?’ Agent Hughes parried defensively.
‘You could at least tell him who he stabbed. He has the right to know.’ Agent Kaplan argued.
‘Oh, he’ll know. Once he remembers.’ Agent Hughes argued back.
Ethan interjected. ‘Look! Sir! Ma'am! If it helps, I recorded his session with Doctor Bedi. The whole thing. I can send it to you. It might help.’
The two agents looked at him blankly.
‘I watched it, okay?’ Ethan told them. ‘What can I say? The TV round here is bad. I know it’s probably none of my business, but from what I could see, he may have been drugged. And the stabbing? It might have been accidental.’
‘You’re right. It's none of your business.’ Agent Kaplan snapped.
‘But send it to us anyway. I’ll look at it.’ Agent Hughes told him.
‘The main thing is that you keep him happy. If he’s happy, he might remember. The sooner he remembers, the better. And when he remembers, you let us know. Right away. Kapeesh?’ Agent Kaplan fired.
Ethan saluted. ‘Yes, Sir. Understood.’ he responded. Which he did.
But there were pressures within the Subdivision to ensure Frank didn’t remember. For as long as possible.
Because the mga afam were paying his bills.
Ethan told them nothing about that.
‘So, tell me: is there anything else we should know about? Any changes in behaviour?’ Agent Hughes asked them.
‘Nothing much.’ Ethan told them. ‘Except, he is spending a bit longer in the bathroom. Maybe ten to fifteen minutes more. And he heads in there at 8pm precisely.’
Doctor Bedi shook her head. ‘Nothing to worry about, I feel. He’s probably blocked up. He’s British. It’ll be a reaction to a more rice-based diet.’
A few minutes later, the call ended. Despite the brutal put downs and emasculation, Ethan thought it had been the best night in his life. He turned to Captain Bautista and turned on the smarm. ‘Can I get you anything? Can I interest you in a drink? Or some food, maybe? Or a night swim in my pool?’
Captain Bautista stared him directly in the eyes until Ethan felt downright uncomfortable and had to look away. ‘I hope swimming in your pool is not a euphemism for something. But no, Peteros, you cannot get me anything.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe next time.’
‘You mean... you mean, there might be a next time?’ he stammered.
‘Maybe.’ Captain Bautista teased. ‘But if there is, you don’t need all this.’ She waved her finger, gesticulating from his head to his toes. ‘There might be a nice guy under it all. I didn’t meet him this time. I want to. Next time.’
Captain Bautista got up from the couch and wandered deliberately to the French doors in the lounge.
Ethan scampered after her. ‘I can be a nice guy. I can. I can be anyone you want.’ he begged.
‘Just be the nice guy, Peteros. And open the door for me.’ she told him.
And then she left.
With the sound of him whooping and hollering for sheer ecstasy ringing in her ears all the way down to the road.
What was he celebrating?
Something he had lacked for as long as he could remember:
Hope.
The room was basic. Dark. Dingy. The carpet smelled of spilt beer and candyfloss vapes.
So, hell smells of candyfloss now. Good to know, Frank quipped to himself.
The sheets were stained. The walls mouldy. The view out of the window, such as there was, consisted of a dark back alley, a dumpster filled to over the brim and the occasional rat.
There is no way Frank Diggory would review this place on TripAdvisor.
That would mean admitting to having stayed there.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress felt as if iron springs were about to poke through.
Any action tonight would be an uncomfortable affair.
He was impatient. Impatient to meet her. Impatient to get out of here.
But then, women like her didn’t meet men like him in high class hotels.
There was a timid, near silent, knocked on the door.
He knew better than call out to her.
He had to be discrete.
He didn’t want to let anyone know she was there.
He arose from the uncomfortable mattress and let her in.
She was tall. Not slender. More skinny. She wore skimpy clothing to show off what wares she could sell, a threadbare faux fur coat her only protection against the harsh elements. Her pitted complexion beneath trowels of cheap makeup betrayed days battling addiction and nights battling self-loathing and despair.
She didn’t greet him.
He didn’t greet her.
They were there for business.
Not pleasure.
She headed for the cheap, chipped wooden night stand. She took out a small pouch. She spilled its contents on the night stand. Intentionally.
It was a white powder. Cleaner than the night stand. But cut with who knows what.
She took out a credit card.
She had little money, and no-one gave her credit anymore. At least the card still had its uses.
She scraped the powder into two straight-ish lines. Pulled two cut plastic straws from her pocket.
Recycling. At least that was something.
She gestured to him. He gestured to her.
Ladies first.
Frank Diggory felt ill with disgust.
He watched as, first the woman, and then he himself, snorted that white powder into expectant nostrils, held their heads back triumphantly and sighed with deep satisfaction.
Frank Diggory was utterly appalled.
What on earth had become of him?
Frank and the woman sat down on the end of the uncomfortable bed. They talked for a few minutes.
Business.
Only business.
No pleasure.
No warmth.
No affection.
She thrusted a hand into her pocket. Handed him a foil wrapper. Almost square.
He inspected it. Condom wrapper. The top was torn. It wasn’t empty.
He took out his wallet. Placed the condom wrapper carefully into one of its slots. Then he took out some money. Bills. Not coins. He handed them to her.
She took them hurriedly. Jammed them into her pocket.
Then she nodded.
They both stood. Removed their outer garments. Inattentively let them fall on the floor.
Frank Diggory gawped in utter dismay.
No!
Surely not!
They began to unfasten their next layer. Not slowly. Or provocatively.
Just mechanically.
Coldly.
Business-like.
Frank Diggory gasped.
He could not believe it.
The door crashed open. Before them was a wild beast of a man. A foot taller than both of them. Tattoos where they had muscles. Muscles where they had nothing.
His face was a furious red.
He snarled at them. Barked. Yelled. Nothing but invective.
Frank yelled back.
The woman buttoned herself up. Tried to argue. Tried to pacify.
In vain.
The man swung for Frank.
He missed.
Again.
Frank ducked.
The woman screamed. Yelled for help. But in a place like this no-one heeds.
The man lunged towards Frank. He backed up towards the bed. Or the window to the alley below. The man swung his fist again. Crashed it onto the wall. Leaving a scar.
Frank picked up a lamp. Threw it at the man, cable and all. It struck him. Hard on the head. But barely made a dent.
The man lunged again.
Missed.
But the man felt a jab on the nape of his neck. A hard jab. He turned to the woman. Cursed her.
Frank swung at the man. Caught him on the side of his head. Frank yelped with pain. He came off the worst. That punch hurt. He shook away the pain from his knuckles.
The man wobbled. Swayed. He swung again at Frank.
Hit the headboard.
Another swing.
Another miss.
Another jab on the back of his neck.
Down he crumpled. First onto the side of the bed. Then onto the floor.
Onto their jackets.
They grabbed them from underneath his heavy, comatose frame.
Frank took one last look at him. Froth was gathering on his lips.
That was all Frank needed.
He and the woman were gone.
They bolted out the room, down the main stairs, out of the building.
Not even stopping to tell Reception what had happened.
They left without a word.
And ran.
As they passed a nearby, a song blared out loudly from a nearby club into the gloom:
Frank Diggory was white as a sheet. Whiter even than normal. And panting hard. Wheezing. Stood with his back to the tiled wall of his bathroom.
Ethan’s smartwatch had buzzed. He’d picked up his mobile phone from his nightstand. Read the display. ‘Okay? Emet, you’re up. You’re on the plate. Go get him.’ he'd muttered, and then he’d fallen asleep once more with a hog-like nasal snore.
Emet stood on the other side of the wall. ‘Bad dream?’ she asked Frank.
‘I hired a prostitute.’ Frank sighed in deep disappointment and disbelief.
‘I know Ma’am Roberta cleans your place, but I wasn’t aware she provided extra services. But then, she has a kid in college. And college isn’t cheap.’ Emet mused.
‘No. In my dream. I hired a prostitute. I took illegal drugs and hired a prostitute.’ Frank confessed.
‘Add some testosterone-infused driving, gratuitous violence and a rampant lack of morality and you've got “Grand Theft Auto”.’ Emet quipped flippantly. ‘Which I haven’t played, by the way. Ever. Honest.’
‘You don’t understand. I don’t do that.’ Frank whined in protest.
‘Well, you’re a man. And men have needs. And some men need to play Russian roulette with their sexual health and that of their partners by going where many men have gone before. I get it. I don’t agree with it. I think it’s vile and disgusting and unthinkable. But I get it.’ Emet told him.
‘But it’s not me.’ Frank argued. ‘I mean, I'm a man.’
‘Are you sure?’ Emet chuckled. ‘I mean, you haven’t been too sure of your identity lately. Have you checked what you have down there?’
‘Yes. Every time I come here. I am a man. I’m sure of that.’ Frank retorted. ‘But I don’t think real men do that. I think real mean quietly sacrifice themselves for their family. I think real men go to work every day in humble futility, achieve nothing but a salary and a pension for their work, and achieve everything for their family. They don’t chase pointless hedonistic pipe dreams. They live them every day. With their family. Together.’
Emet smiled. ‘You’re not a man, Sir Frank. You are a good man. And good men are hard to find.’
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