A New Beginning Read online

  A New Beginning

  Everyone deserves a second chance

  Mark David Abbott

  Copyright © 2019 by Mark David Abbott

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For all the Amiras

  Contents

  Do You Want Advance Notice Of The Next Adventure?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Glossary

  Also by Mark David Abbott

  Ready For The Next Adventure?

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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  1

  John pumped his arms harder, increasing his pace for the last four hundred meters. He weaved between slower runners and walkers, carefully avoiding a small child who had wandered off the grass onto the pavement. Sweat ran into his eyes as he sucked in deep lungfuls of air. Crossing an imaginary finish line beside the turtle pond, he slowed and reduced his pace to a jog before slowing to a walk. Sweat drenching his clothes, he stopped, bent over, placed his hands on his knees, and inhaled deeply. Finally catching his breath, he straightened up, smiled, and nodded at another regular runner, then moved over to the grass and sat with his back against a tree.

  Benjasiri Park was filled with joggers and walkers, exercising in the cooler morning hours. Down by the lake, a few families had brought their children to feed the brightly colored Koi carp before heading off to school and work. A burst of laughter caught his ear, and he glanced across to the Takraw court where four men, stripped to the waist, performed incredible feats of athleticism to launch a small rattan ball over a volleyball net with their feet. John recognized them. They were here most mornings, and he had spent a lot of time watching the game.

  John closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree. He felt good. He was fitter than he had ever been, regular runs and workouts in the park making him lean and tanned. His diet, consisting mainly of Thai salads and grilled meats, was working wonders on his energy levels. He was sleeping well and hardly drinking. It had been three months since he moved to Bangkok from the beaches of Phuket. There was only so much time one could spend lying on the beach, and with his new shareholding in Pegasus Land1, he no longer had to worry about keeping his expenses low.

  John had taken a short-term lease on an apartment just off Sukhumvit Road, a major thoroughfare running west to east through the massive city. The streets that ran off Sukhumvit were called Sois and he had chosen an older building on the south-west side, around Soi 24, an upscale area of luxury apartments and large houses, nestled in walled, tropical gardens. It was a location popular with Japanese expats, and many of the stores and restaurants catered to that nationality.

  Compared to his previous home in Hong Kong, the apartment was huge. Large balconies, lined with red flowering bougainvillea, wrapped around the two sides of the corner apartment from which he had expansive views out across the suburbs.

  An elderly Thai lady came twice a week to prepare food and clean the house, but otherwise, he was left alone. It suited him. He spent his time keeping fit, exploring the city, and had enrolled in a local Thai language school to try to pick up the rudiments of the language. He was enjoying the relaxed pace of his life and had no rush to get involved in anything that would tie him down.

  One of the young men from the Takraw court wandered over and sat down, his body glistening with sweat, wiping his face with a small white hand towel.

  “Sawasdee krup, Khun John.”

  John smiled and returned the greeting. “Sawasdee Krup. Good game?”

  “Kup,” the young man nodded. “Yes,” he grinned. “You should join us, Khun John. Much more fun than running in circles.”

  “But I’m not as flexible as you, Khun Phichet. There is no way I can do that somersault kick of yours,” John laughed.

  “You can, just practice.”

  John smiled at Khun Phichet. They met a month ago when John had been watching them play through the chain mesh fence surrounding the Takraw court. The game was like volleyball, but instead of using one’s hands, only the feet and the head were allowed to touch the ball, a rattan ball about half the size of a football. The game was a good workout, and the flying kicks and somersaults performed by the more skilled players kept them lean and flexible.

  Phichet had invited him to join them, but John had declined, wary of injuring himself badly on the asphalt court. Over the next few weeks, they had struck up a few conversations, sometimes enjoying an occasional coffee together after the game. Phichet worked for a small import-export company, dealing in machine tools and lived with his wife, young daughter, and parents in a small apartment in one of the back Sois near to the park. He had explained to John the hour he spent playing Takraw every day was the only time he got for himself, the pressures of work and fami
ly life taking up the rest of his waking hours.

  “Have you got time for a coffee?” John asked.

  “Mi mee, Khun John. No, I’m sorry.” Phichet checked his watch and frowned. “We have a client visiting from Europe, and I have to meet him for breakfast.” He jumped up, wiped his body with the hand towel, and pulled on the t-shirt he had tucked into his waistband. “See you tomorrow?”

  John stood too and dusted the grass from his shorts. “I’ll be here. Have a good day.”

  Phichet nodded, gave a slight bow, and headed toward the main gate.

  John stretched and looked around. Laughter and birdsong filled the park, the air warm and scented with the incense burning in the small spirit house beside the side gate. He grinned. Life was good.

  1 See “A Million Reasons” - John Hayes#2

  2

  Opening his eyes, he glanced at the luminous display on the clock beside the bed—eleven-thirty a.m.—about time he started his day. Swinging his legs off the bed, he sat up, scratched his belly, and yawned. Standing, he turned and looked at the girl stretched out on the bed. She wouldn’t get up for a while. The cocktail of alcohol and drugs would take a few more hours to work their way through her system. The girl had been a good one. He might have her again—he wasn’t bored with her yet. He sniggered and slapped her on the buttock, the girl stirring but not waking. Life had turned out well for the poor boy from the slums of Dhaka.

  With difficulty, Hassan Rahman bent his overweight frame, picked up his robe from where he had thrown it on the floor the night before, and shrugged it on. Cinching the belt around his generous waist, he slid on a pair of slippers, and walked out into the living room of his four thousand square foot penthouse.

  “Amira,” he bellowed.

  A young girl rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the hem of her kameez, her eyes downcast.

  “Sir?”

  “Get me some food.”

  Hassan Rahman sat down at the place already laid for him, picked up the napkin, and tucked it under his chin.

  “Hurry up.”

  Amira rushed out again with a plate of hot parathas and set it down on the table.

  “Chai,” he barked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Hassan tore off a piece of paratha and stuffed it into his mouth. His head was throbbing, and he needed some hot greasy food and caffeine to alleviate his hangover.

  Amira placed a silver pot of tea on the table and retreated hastily to the safety of the kitchen. Hassan licked his fingers, and reaching for the teapot, poured himself a cup, a slight shake in his hand making him splash tea on the table. Ignoring the spillage, he took a loud slurp of the hot milky liquid and reached for another paratha.

  The previous night had been a wild one even for a man of his appetites, and he was paying the price now. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, tempted to go back to sleep for a couple of hours, but looking at his watch, he realized he couldn't. He had work to do before his bar opened for the night. A journalist had scheduled an interview with him for one of the expat magazines, and he needed to clean himself up before she arrived.

  3

  Adriana D’Silva waited as the petite young girl, kneeling beside the coffee table, poured tea into a fine porcelain cup and passed it to her. Adriana smiled in thanks, but the maid avoided eye contact and poured tea into another cup before setting it down in front of Hassan. Adriana guessed she wasn’t more than sixteen or seventeen years old although it was hard to tell for sure. She had a face that could be pretty if she smiled, but dark circles around her eyes and a suspicious discoloration around her left cheek—a bruise maybe—made her look older than her years.

  Adriana tried again, “Thank you.” The young lady’s eyes flicked toward her briefly, then looked away. She kept her head bowed, quickly and quietly leaving the room.

  Adriana took a sip of her tea, then set the cup down on the table beside her and picked up her notebook.

  She looked up and regarded the man sitting across from her. He was obese, the expensively tailored linen suit doing little to disguise his bulk. His hair was oiled and slicked back against his scalp, and small dark eyes peered out from the deep recesses of his pulpy, corpulent face. Despite the arctic chill of the air conditioning, beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

  “Mr. Rahman, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “Please, call me Hassan,” he smiled, exposing a row of uneven, yellow teeth. “It’s always a pleasure to have tea with a beautiful lady.”

  Adriana smiled politely at his attempt at charm, but inside, she was irritated. Lines like that might work on young girls dazzled by his wealth, but she was a little more discerning. She had spent four years studying journalism, yet her career was reduced to writing puff pieces for sweaty businessmen. Still, as her father had always told her, whatever you do, you should do it well.

  She opened her notebook to a blank page and clicked her pen open. “So, Mr… Hassan, what brought you to Bangkok? You are from Dhaka originally?”

  “I came here on holiday after selling my business and loved it so much, I stayed,” Hassan smiled. “How about you?”

  “Something similar, but this interview is about you, not me, ah…. Hassan.” Adriana wrote in her notepad business? and looked up. “And what business were you in before?”

  “Garments. I had a factory that manufactured garments for many of the world’s major clothing brands.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting,” Adriana nodded, scribbling in her notebook. “Was this a family business?”

  “Ha, no, no.” Hassan chuckled, warming to the subject of himself. “I was a poor boy from the slums, our family had no money. As a boy, I got a job in a factory, sweeping the floor, then slowly, slowly, saved enough money to buy a sewing machine. I started a tailoring business and built my business from there.”

  “Wow, that’s an inspiring story. Our readers will love to hear this. So, why did you sell the business?”

  Hassan removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. He examined the handkerchief as if puzzled at the presence of sweat, then tucked it back into his pocket. He looked up and smiled again.

  “Adriana, can I call you Adriana?”

  “Of course.”

  “The clothing business is a cut-throat industry with very low margins. The fashion brands are always squeezing us to produce clothes at lower and lower costs. They want to keep their clothing affordable but maintain their margins. Unfortunately, it’s the manufacturers who suffer. There is only so much we can reduce, yet still maintain a decent wage for our staff. I always prided myself on good working conditions for my workers, and I wasn’t prepared to compromise. So eventually, I gave up, sold the business, and came here.”

  “Hmmm.” Adriana tilted her head to one side, wrote something on her notepad, then looked up. “What has happened to the business now?” she frowned. “How is the new owner able to maintain profitability?”

  Adriana thought she saw a flicker of irritation cross Hassan’s face, but it was so fleeting, she couldn’t be sure.

  “I don’t know, I don’t keep in touch with the new owners. Besides, you have come to interview me about my place here in Bangkok, am I right?”

  “Yes, of course.” Adriana made another note and smiled. “I just wanted some background for the article. It’s always interesting how people start their journey. So, tell me about Dragon.”

  “Yes, Dragon.” Hassan pushed down on the armrest and straightened up in his seat. “When I came to Bangkok, I liked it so much, I decided to stay. But one can only be a man of leisure for so long. So, I looked around for something to do, and one day, I noticed the site where Dragon is, was up for sale.”

  Adriana looked up from her notes. “So, what made you open a restaurant and bar? It’s so different from what you were doing in Dhaka. Did you have any knowledge of the industry before?”

  “Not at all, but business is business. The principles are the same whatever the industry.
I was successful before, so I was confident I would make this a success. Have you been to the restaurant, Adriana? Have you seen how busy we are?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Oh, then you must come. As my guest. Have dinner with me tonight.”

  Adriana felt Hassan’s eyes roaming her body and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “That’s kind of you, but I have plans this evening. Perhaps another time?”

  “Of course.” Hassan looked disappointed. “It’s important for you to visit before you write your article.”

  “Yes, I will visit, I’m just not sure of my schedule.”

  The last thing she wanted was to spend an evening making small talk with him, but he did have a point. She did need to see the place. It was just he made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she was sure he wasn’t always as charming as he was trying to be right now. Anyway, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.