The Body in a Temple: Shocking. Page-Turning. International Crime Thriller.

Luke Bitmead

Description

'I hope Luke's book takes off into the Heavens.' --Jilly Cooper

'A well written, beautifully paced romantic thriller.' --Deborah Wright

...I turn to face the city. I gaze out at its concrete horrors and joys, its twists and turns, its ups and downs, its foul, fetid smells and sweet, stagnant dreams. The pleasure. The guilt. I love this place, and hate it. I cannot resolve the two.

Trapped in the unrelenting grip of pain and heartache, Josh is losing his hold on reality. Having escaped to Bangkok, his life appeared to be turning around with a beautiful girlfriend, a roof over his head and a somewhat unconventional job.

But then he took a call from somebody he thought he left behind a long time ago. On the first plane back to Hong Kong, he finds his life has again embarked on a downward spiral, and feels powerless to stop it.

Swearing he'd never go back to his old ways, Josh can't help himself from being dragged into a world of danger and hostility. Can he escape the path set out before him and, ultimately, does he want to?

Perfect for fans of Wilbur Smith and Lee Child

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thrillers
• Crime
• Holidays
• Suspenso
• Tailandia
• Thailand
• Suspense
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Thaïlande

Informations

• Publié par: Legend Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908775597
• Langue: English

Extrait

Luke Bitmead studied at Reading University before disappearing for three years. It should have been a gap year, but not being able to find an airport home, Luke ended up travelling the world. The Body is a Temple is inspired by Luke’s time in South-East Asia.
Tragically, shortly after the launch of Luke’s debut novel White Summer in 2006, Luke died, aged just 34. The Luke Bitmead Bursary, set up in his memory, supports struggling authors and has led to the successful publication of debut novels by Andrew Blackman, Ruth Dugdall, Sophie Duffy and J.R. Crook. Luke is also the author of Heading South , co-written by Catherine Richards.
Further information about Luke can be found at:

www.lukebitmead.com

Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings, London EC2M 5UU [e-mail] www.legendpress.co.uk
Contents © Luke Bitmead 2012
The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
Print ISBN 978-1-9082482-6-8 Ebook ISBN 978-1-9087755-9-7
Set in Times Printed by Lightning Source, Milton Keynes, UK
Cover design by Gudrun Jobst www.yotedesign.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
"In the end these things matter most:
How well did you love? How fully did you live?
How deeply did you learn to let go?"

Jack Kornfield, Author of Buddha’s Little Instruction Book
Contents
Chapter 1 - Bangkok. The Present.
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6: Hong Kong. The Recent Past. Part I
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11 - Bangkok. The Present.
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19: Hong Kong. The Recent Past. Part II
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28 - Bangkok. The Present.
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Standing in the kitchen, lost in my own world, I prepare breakfast. I fry the eggs, slice the meat and chop some chillies.
As usual, I’m thinking about getting out. I’m always trying, like a salmon swimming upstream: Thrusting forward. Falling back. Jumping up. Crashing back down.
Never quite making it.
The portable radio plays a Thai pop station. The sun’s yellow fingers reach out to the balustrade bordering the balcony. Steam rises from the cooking noodles. Sukhumvhit Road slowly comes alive. My beautiful girlfriend, sprawled in our double bed, continues to sleep. Her skin is dark against the white sheets. Her breath light against the heavy pillow.
The loud crash against the door makes her stir. I drop the tongs in the boiling water.
"Shit," I say, turning.
Another thud. " Sawat-di krab, " followed by a splintering sound. The door bursts open and Ratty, urged on by his momentum, crashes into the bathroom wall.
"Lek," I shout. "Wake up!"
Ratty pushes himself off the wall and spins round, his dreads dancing with the speed, his eyes wild. He lunges at me, grabbing at my shoulder. I manage to shake him off, ready to reason with him, but his eyes are glazed with madness. He throws himself at me again. I grab the keys and skid over the kitchen counter. The sweat on my hands leaving marks on the marble surface.
"Lek!" I shout again and race towards the balcony.
Ratty gains his equilibrium and follows. He leaps over the cheap bamboo sofa, stumbling low as he moves forward. I sprint through the open doors and, grabbing the base of the black iron railings, vault over. My legs swing high, like the pistons on a nodding donkey, blocking the sun for a moment.
By the time Ratty reaches the edge, I’ve swung myself over and am dropping down to the balcony below. Ratty attempts to grab my wrist and misses.
"Shit," he hisses and throws himself back through the apartment to the staircase, clipping Lek on the way.
"Ratty," she says bleary eyed, rocking back, "what happen this time. Where you going?"
Ratty ignores her, crunching over the broken door on his way out.
On the floor below I catch sight of him rounding the corner.
"Josh!" he shouts. "You mollerfucker!" The words sound muffled with the Thai accent.
I don’t look back. I increase my speed, jumping down whole sets of stairs, sweat already running through my cropped hair.
At the exit to the apartment block I swing left and charge up the road. My bare feet kicking up dust. My khaki combat trousers hidden in plumes of parched dirt. Grabbing the handlebars to my 1000cc Kawasaki, I pull it off its stand and fling myself on to the leather saddle in one clean move. I bang the key into the ignition and hit the red starter button. The revs go high, and I release the clutch. The bike surges forward, the front wheel lifting off the ground, spinning through the air. The back squirms for grip on the gravel surface. I put my chin on the speedo to allow the air to rush over me, and I’m away.
Twenty metres in front, and now twenty metres behind, Ratty skids his black Honda round in the middle of the road, leaving behind a black horseshoe of rubber. Struggling to control the power, wrestling to balance the bike, he lunges forward. Every sinew strains to handle the rapid acceleration. The force of the wind like a glass wall against his face. He is on the red tail light of my Kawasaki by the time I hit the expressway.
Rush hour traffic, Bangkok: a seething mass of green and yellow cabs. Growling tuk tuks. Glinting Mercedes. Pop popping Honda Dreams. Exhaust fumes. Distorting heat waves and horns.
And this morning, two bikes bucking through it like wild Mustang.
I weave through the traffic, gunning the bike into every space I can find. Accelerating, braking, thrusting, hanging back. I work the front suspension hard. I check the rear view mirrors constantly. Ratty gains, massive in the mirrors, then falls back. He comes almost parallel, separated only by a single vehicle, then gets snarled up. I dance my bike through the crush, using all my skill to keep out of reach. Little by little, I pull away.
After several blocks, Ratty is nowhere. I ease off the gas, reducing the engine’s roar to a purr. Two miles south I turn east towards Klong Toey market, follow the expressway for several hundred metres, then pull off into a busy, but narrower street.
I look back.
Ratty is straining to see what is happening in front of him. With the traffic and the dust and the confusion, it’s hard for him to keep track. Just as I think I’ve lost him, he spots me at the turn off. He yanks the throttle. The Honda pulls forward.
Ratty rounds the bend. The Kawasaki idles between my legs as I assess my options. I wipe the sweat from my brow. The sound of the roaring engine makes me react. My eyes widen. I select first and turn.
In front of me is a city bus.
Twisting the throttle I push off from the kerb and swerve out, beeping as I go.
Two yards ahead: three mopeds. To the left a battered, dusty Honda Civic. To the right, the pavement. Hitting the back brake, then revving hard, I dump the clutch and lift the front tyre onto the slabs a foot above the road. The back wheel skids, then follows.
Pedestrians: kids in navy school uniform, men in suits, young girls in flared trousers, rush to plaster themselves thinly against the glittering shop fronts. All I can see is camera stills: legs, open mouths, wide eyes, a hand, a lamppost.
I drop down off the pavement at an intersection. Off the grey and onto the black, then, lifting the wheel, back on to the grey. All I can see is people. All I can hear: the buzz of his engine.
And then at the next interchange a black bolt charges out at me, making me swerve. Ratty is right next to me, like a shadow. His dark, bloodshot eyes a metre from my nose. His dreads fanning out at his neck like black ropes. I glance over and see a fist sailing in towards the side of my head. I flick the handlebars. Ratty’s punch lands on my ear.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I scream as we tear down a side street back towards the market.
"Fuck you!"
"What is your problem, man?"
"The money. I tell you what can happen if you no gib me."
Ratty gives the brakes a quick jolt and steers his front wheel into my back, jerking the bike off to the left. I fight to control the swerve.
"Are you mad?" I yell as Ratty pulls parallel, his left leg brushing against a wicker rubbish basket.
"I just want the money," Ratty yells, sticking his boot out and thrusting against the Kawasaki’s fuel tank. "Like I tell you."
I fight the handlebars to correct my direction but with a stall selling satays fast expanding in my vision, I brake and go into a skid. There’s a high shriek of rubber being ripped from the tyres. The sound of scuffling feet as pedestrians scatter, and finally the incongruously innocent thud and scrape of the bike coming to rest in a shop porch. My leg is trapped beneath it.
Ratty’s skinny figure casts a stick wide shadow over me, blocking out a narrow segment of bright yellow sun. He looks round at the tan Thai faces staring at us, before re-focusing his attention. "I know," he says.
"What?"
"That falang don’t pay."
"You’re kidding. I’ve been ill. I’m a bit late... "
I try to free my leg. My combats are jagged on the brake pedal and there’s blood oozing through. Ratty raises his foot and kicks me in the chest. I shield my face.
"No, I no joking," Ratty snaps. "I want it. I want what you owe me. Okay?"
He s