Sunlight, window, no curtains... yaddah yaddah yaddah. What actually wakes me this time is the guard leaving the cheap suit which my lawyer hired to make me more respectable for my court appearance. Or is it to make me seem more respectful? The little shit hasn't come to see me since the trial and the only thing I've had today is a message to say he'd meet me at the courthouse.
I'm half-suited and booted, the shackles aren't coming off so the suit trousers aren't going on. A couple of prison officers lead me to the antiquated blue van which will transport me to where the judge will pronounce sentence. This is going to be my one opportunity to make a plea for clemency.
"Own up and mention mitigating circumstances," my lawyer had recommended. "And make a heartfelt apology to the fair people of Thailand because true remorse offers best chance of evading death penalty."
I've taken his advice and have been practicing my speech ever since the verdict.
The van bumps and jolts its way along the road. There are no windows although somehow the smoky stench of unfiltered diesel exhaust fumes seeps in. The oppressive heat, lack of ventilation and nerves combine to make me lightheaded and nauseous. A tingle starts at my fingertips and travels up my arms. Don't faint, don't be sick. A wooziness engulfs my skull. My torso swings forward and I crash to the floor of the van. The foul smell and murky wetness jolts me back to full consciousness, like a good old-fashioned dose of smelling salts. I clamber back onto the bench seat with no help from the smiling guards; they seem to find this whole scene amusing.
The right shoulder and arm of my suit jacket are covered in whatever was swishing about on the floor. Involuntarily my head jerks away to escape the stench. I hadn't thought it possible for this cheap suit to look any worse; I was wrong.
A policeman leads me into the court while the two judges peer down at me from their raised dais behind dark wood panelling. Stoney-faced, there they sit with my life in their hands; sort of literally. There had been no jury for the trial so the two men who sit in their black robes in front of me decided my guilt. The massive responsibility seems to sit comfortably on their shoulders, maybe because they hate westerners who pollute their country with deviant sexual appetites, drugs, greed and crime.
Now, here I am again. Guilty as charged, awaiting my sentence.
The large, slowly rotating, ceiling fan wafts stifling air round the room; round me. Sweat trickles down my brow, no doubt making me look even more disreputable. The judges glare down at me with distain from their lofty perches. Above them, the portrait of the King is also staring at me.
I sit in the dock to the left of Mr Mookjai. He's shuffling papers on the defence table. To his right sit the prosecution team, they have no papers in front of them. The lady lawyer on their team is wearing her short skirt again, framed by her black robes, it's a sexy sight.
A low railing splits the room in half and divides us from the members of the public and other interested parties. Today there are none, other than a few local reporters and my friend Marty who I wave to as I hobble into the court. I have to use my left hand as my right is clasping the piece of string which holds my ankle chains off the floor. Just seeing Marty raises my spirits.
"What is dreadful smell?" asks Mr Mookjai, my ineffectual lawyer.
"I fell in the van on the way here."
"Not good look," says the wee fucker as he rearranges his papers some more.
A punch in the face might wipe the cheesy grin off his face but even I know that would be a bad idea, anyway, I couldn't get at him through the thick plate glass which encloses the dock.
One of the judges taps his gavel on a microphone to indicate the court is in session. My nerves jangle, I sweat even more. This is it. This could be the beginning of the end of my life. Mr Mookjai stands, as does the public prosecutor and his team. He gives me no clue as to whether I should stand or not, I choose to stand. Better to be over-respectful rather than the opposite. Again, the whole procedure is conducted in Thai so I only understand what my defence counsel chooses to translate for me. This exacerbates my sense of isolation.
One of the judges points at Mookjai and appears to ask him a question because he straightens his back and starts talking. There follows a conversation which, by the sound of it, is becoming more and more animated.
"What are they saying?" My life hangs in the balance so I want to know everything. As it is, I know nothing.
"Judge asked what awful smell was. I told him it was you. He said you show little respect for the court."
"Didn't you tell him I fell in the van and whatever I have on me is because they treat prisoners like pigs and cart us about in shit wagons?"
"No," he says, "I did not tell them that. I will tell them now."
What a useless bugger they've lumbered me with.
"No, don't translate that. Just tell them I showered respectfully before I came but I got mucked up on the journey here."
"Too late," he says, "they've moved on."
The prosecution lawyer stands and begins to make his statement. The judges make notes. Mr Mookjai says nothing.
"What are they saying?" I whisper through the little holes in the plate glass.
"They say you are typical westerner. Worse still, you are British and you still think you have empire and you can treat everyone like inhabitants of one of your colonies. You treat our country without respect. You believe you can break our laws with impunity. They demand death penalty."
"And you're going to say?"
"I am going to say nothing. How can I argue with facts?"
"Oh for fuck's sake... and don't translate that."
The lead judge nods at the prosecutor who bows and sits down. The judge turns to Mr Mookjai and conducts a short conversation.
"He wants to know if you are going to make your plea in Thai."
"No, English."
"Oh, that is shame. Your statement would be better received if you had taken trouble to learn to say it in our language, after all, you had plenty of time on your hands." He smiles his cocky little smile. Once again, a quarter of an inch of plate glass helps me resist the temptation to punch him in his smug face.
"Why didn't you tell me that? I could have at least learnt a few words."
"I thought it was obvious."
This man is a bloody idiot.
"Okay. Stand up and say your piece... in English. I'll translate for judge. Speak slowly, my translation skills aren't great."
I stand but my legs wobble and won't hold my weight. I fall forward and have to use the glass to support myself. I regain my balance and start into the speech I've been rehearsing in my head for days. This is it. This has to be perfect. This is far and away the most important presentation of my life. This is a presentation for my life.
"My lords, first may I apologise to you and the people of Thailand."
"Slow down." Mr Mookjai says before he translates.
"My crime was despicable and..."
Mr Mookjai translates again. This is hopeless, this little man who is supposed to be on my side is probably making things worse for me with his badly-timed translation.
"... and I apologise profusely."
Mr Mooklai doesn't translate.
"Why didn't you translate that?"
"Not relevant."
"Not relevant? You translate 'my crime is despicable' but not that I apologise profusely?"
"Yes, you've already apologised to people of Thailand. We don't want to waste judges' time."
"This is my life we're talking about."
It's hopeless trying to get help from this imbecile. I stutter on through my speech with Mookjai translating what he feels like, or what he can. I end with my finale, namely abject grovelling.
"I humbly beg your forgiveness and plead that you can find it in your hearts to be lenient with me."
Mookjai stays silent.
"Translate that last bit," I insist.
"What bit?"
"I humbly beg your forgiveness and plead that you can find it in your hearts to be lenient with me."
He looks at me as I say the words. He turns to the judges and says about three words. Fuck you, little man. The judges put their heads together and whisper to each other. I can only assume Mookjai didn't translate my finale, I assume he said my statement was finished. I watch the judges intently and strain every sinew in my body to try and hear what they are saying. It wouldn't make sense to me but maybe I could detect something from the tone of their conversation.
"Turn eyes," says Mookjai.
"What?"
"Turn eyes to floor. Don't stare at judges. Turn eyes to floor and look humble."
That's the final straw, the little man has broken me. My body goes into spasms of trembling. I can't control it. Urine leaks down my leg, I can't control that either. The suit jacket was already in trouble after my fall in the van, now the shoes are full of piss. Nothing would be going back to the hire shop without a damn good clean.
The lead judge taps his microphone bringing silence to the courtroom. He makes a short statement and then the two black robed men rise and leave by their private door behind the dais.
"Well, what did he say?"
Mookjai shakes his head.
"What did he say?"
"You are to die. Sentence to be carried at time in future which court will decide. Delay in execution is part of punishment. Delay gives you time to properly regret the bad thing you have done. Uncertainty about execution day will enhance your suffering. There will be no appeal."
"Fuck. Fuck you, Mookjai, fuck you all."
I turn to Marty who is standing alone in the public area. He turns his palms up and makes a 'what's going on' face. He doesn't understand Thai and nobody's there to translate for him. I draw my finger across my throat and shake my head. He knows exactly what I mean because he collapses onto the hard wooden bench holding his head in his hands.
The guards lead me out of the courtroom. I hobble and I clank, dragging my chain behind me; they didn't even give me time to grab my piece of string.