The Backpacking Gigolo.

A 23 year old British backpacker is wanted by Interpol. Tristan Von Meersch, who also goes by the alliances of Timothy Smith and Mark Stevens has been on the run since July 15 this year. Nicknamed “The Backbacking Gigolo,” Von Meersch was last seen leaving Singapore Changi International Airport two weeks ago. However, a new sighting reveals he may have made his way to Malaysia on the Singapore-Kuala Lumpur express train.

Von Meersch, who is 6’1, has shoulder length blond hair, green eyes and an athletic physique is wanted on charges including fraud, arson and murder. He is highly intelligent and acquaintances describe him as charming. He speaks English, French, German and Mandarin fluently.

The police say he may now spot a different hairstyle and may have changed other details concerning his appearance. It is also thought that he may be armed and dangerous.

As Tristan heard the news bulletin, his pulse quickened somewhat. He automatically made the gesture of running his hands in his long locks but instead, found a short, cropped style. “Be calm, be cool,” he said to himself.
First, a quick glance in the mirror reassured him that he looked very different from the description given. His hair was dark now; the lenses in his eyes brown. A trimmed beard graced his normally clean shaven face. It was just as well his facial hair had always been darker. A pair of dark chinos, a striped shirt and glasses finished the look of an average office worker. He could pass for one of those foreign city workers.
Second, he was not in Malaysia as suspected, but in Hong Kong where he had arrived a few days ago.

He had enough money to lay low for a while before making his way to Australia. He looked at the small notebook in his hand. Under “Tasks for today” he’d written:
1. Change hostel
2. Inquire about travel arrangements
3. Cruise financial district or drink at Hilton.

The last point was a financial strategy. He had the option of meeting affluent, high powered executives in the financial district; or rich, bored housewives by a hotel pool.

“The Backpacking Gigolo indeed!” he laughed to himself. He had set out on an innocent gap year. After getting his degree in Linguistics, he had been hired as an advisor at a city firm to help with international negotiations. At first, he had enjoyed using his skills and prowess. Then, frustrated by the predictability of the job, he had decided to go travelling for a year. He and his colleague Mark had bought their round-the-world tickets and set off.

Europe was a breeze: clubbing in Prague, history in Italy, la vie en rose in Paris and Scandinavian girls in the Nordic countries. It was excellent! The plan was to go on to Asia, followed by Down Under and then on to the Americas. That was before Mark met Jenny, an American backpacking through India. Before long, she had enlisted herself as part of the tour.

He still felt his blood boil when he recalled that morning in Thailand when he had woken up to find them gone, along with his money, travellers’ cheques and digital camera. In the evident rush, Mark had left behind his passport. At least this had come in handy now as his new look quite coincided with Mark’s picture. Mark and the girl had talked about staying a good six months on the islands in Thailand. She had gotten Mark to start a cannabis habit which should keep him oblivious to his missing passport or at least too inert to go through the bureaucratic loops to report and replace it.

Other details came back to him in jumbled up flashes, like randomly shuffled cards.
“Where are you going?” a pudgy, smiling face on the next lounger was saying to him.
“Oh, nowhere.” He stuttered. “I mean, I don’t know. I have nowhere to go,” he said, looking down at his backpack.
He had checked out of the hostel they were staying at. He figured he could get away with spending the day at a four star hotel’s poolside until he came up with an idea. Perhaps a teaching job or call home and ask his parents to forward him some money. The latter idea humbled him so much he decided he would try and avoid that.
He really hadn’t felt like talking but she was insistent. In her late forties, she had clearly been a Thai beauty. She looked like any other rich woman of a certain age who was married to an aging business tycoon. She sympathized with him, ordering him some Pad Thai and drinks. When she suggested finding him somewhere to stay, he didn’t refuse.

That afternoon, he woke from a disturbing dream, eyes squinting in the dusk light. Across the room was Mrs. Boonmee, squeezing into her violet silk dress. He looked down at his half-covered body and found a naked torso. It came back to him. She had set him up in an aparthotel, paying the caretaker two weeks’ rent in advance. When she had attacked him, robust, red lips all over his neck, he had felt too tired and indifferent to stop her. Now she was zipping her heavy globes back into the dress and patting herself down.

For the next couple of weeks, she called on him mid morning. They spent the day at the hotel pool, had lunch and went shopping. She bought shoes and perfumes for herself and cologne and books for him. Every afternoon they returned to his apartment before she left for the day.

On the twelfth night, he ordered room service; a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon to be charged to the room. The next morning, he took the 200 dollar cheque she had given him and made for the bank.
“Why you want so much money?” she had asked.
“I need some clothes and pocket money. You know, my friend took all my cash.”
She had hesitated only for a moment before writing it out. She had made it clear that she wanted him around for a while. However, that didn’t coincide with his plans.

As he waited in the queue at the bank, he looked at the cheque and realized that his pockets were really empty apart from the pen she had used. He thought to himself, “I deserve more than that.” Calmly, he added a zero to the figure and a few minutes later, walked out with $2000 USD in his pocket.

He rushed back to the aparthotel to get his backpack, and was walking past the pool when Mrs. Boonmee came into the pool area. Everything else happened so fast. Accusations on her part, denial on his. She reaches out to stop him, he pushes her back, she slips, hits her head on the swimming pool step rails and falls into the deep end. Panicked, he calls her name, dives in and drags her body out. In a panic, he slaps her around the face and pushes at her chest. He looks around, sees nobody.

What he did next was stupid. He yanked off his wet clothes, pulled on some dry ones from his backpack, left the sodden articles there and hurried out of the complex. At the airport, he got a ticket from the first counter he saw, Singapore Airlines and got a one way ticket leaving in an a little over an hour. It was only when he was mid air that the extent of his drama struck him. On arriving, he bought hair dye and a pair of scissors before he left the airport. When he checked into a hostel, he was wearing his sunglasses and his hair was tucked underneath a hat. Not unusual in a hot tropical place.

Having changed his appearance, he set off to find his bearings that very evening. He was having a beer outside a busy shopping centre when he looked up and caught a stylish woman staring at him. Slightly flustered, she said hello. He bought her a drink and thus began the next leg of his tour. Fast forward six days later.

Her husband walks in on them one evening. Tristan runs out of the house leaving the couple to sort out the mess. Later that night, he sees a report of a house that had burnt down with an occupant, a Mrs.Ling in it. The husband is distraught. He says he arrived home and found the house on fire. He remembers he had seen a Caucasian man running away from the estate. He thought it unusual as all the neighbours knew each other. A boarding ticket supposedly dropped by the same suspect reveals his identity as Mark Stevens.

The police have confirmed that the real Mark Stevens is in Thailand at present and has just confirmed the theft of his passport by Tristan Von Meersch. The suspect is wanted for questioning regarding a suspicious death in Bangkok…

He hadn’t waited to hear the rest. He had grabbed his bags, taken a taxi to the airport and made for Hong Kong.
“How did his life become so messy?” he wondered. Somehow though, at the back of his mind, he felt a buzz from his new status. A gigolo no less. At some point he would have to face the music. He hadn’t killed anyone. He was only unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the meantime, he saw no harm in living out the caricature the media had made of him. Call it life imitating art. He needed funds for Australia and beyond. Shame he hadn’t got anything from Mrs. Ling.