After some minutes the tone of their voices relaxed. Then Françoise said in English, ‘May I have a cigarette, Richard?’
‘Sure.’ I gave her one and held out a light. As she cupped her hands to cover the flame from the ceiling fan, I noticed a tiny dolphin tattoo half hidden behind her watch-strap. It seemed like a strange place for a tattoo and I nearly commented on it, but to do so seemed too familiar. Scars and tattoos. You need to know someone fairly well before asking questions.
‘So what is this map from the dead man?’ Françoise asked.
‘I found it on my door this morning…’ I started to explain, but she cut me off.
‘Yes, Étienne has told me already. I want to see it.’
I passed the map to her and Étienne pointed out the beach.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Near Ko Samui.’
Étienne nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes. Just a little ride on a boat. Maybe first to Ko Phelong, because the tourists can go there for one day.’
Françoise put her finger on the X-marked island. ‘How can we know what we will find here?’
‘We can’t,’ I replied.
‘And if there is nothing, how do we get back to Ko Samui?’
‘We get back to Ko Phelong,’ said Étienne. ‘We wait for a tourist boat. We say we were lost. It doesn’t matter.’
Françoise took a delicate puff on her cigarette, barely taking the smoke into her lungs. ‘I see…Yes…When are we leaving?’
I looked at Étienne and he looked back at me.
‘I am tired of Bangkok,’ Françoise continued. ‘We can get the night train south tonight.’
‘Well, uh,’ I stammered, thrown by the speed at which events were developing. ‘The thing is, we’ve got to wait a bit. This guy who committed suicide…I’m not supposed to leave the guesthouse for twenty-four hours.’
Françoise sighed. ‘Go to the police station and explain you have to leave. They have your passport number, yes?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘So they will let you go.’
She stubbed out her cigarette on the floor as if to say, end of discussion. Which it was.
∨ The Beach ∧
7
Local Colour
That afternoon I went back to the police station, and as Françoise predicted I didn’t get any hassle. The detailed excuse I’d worked out, about how I had to meet a friend in Surat Thani, was brushed aside. Their only concern was that Mister Duck had been without ID, so they didn’t know which embassy to inform. I said I’d thought he was Scottish, and they were pleased about that.
As I walked back to the guest-house, I found myself thinking what would happen to Mister Duck’s body. Amidst all the business of the map, I’d forgotten that someone had actually died. Without ID, the police would have nowhere to send him. Perhaps he’d lie in a Bangkok deep-freeze for a year or two, or perhaps he’d be incinerated. An image came into my head of his mother back in Europe, unaware she was just about to start several dark months of trying to find out why her son had stopped contacting her. It seemed wrong that I could have such an important piece of information while she was ignorant. If she existed.
These thoughts unsettled me. I decided not to continue directly to the guest-house, where Étienne and Françoise would be wanting to talk about the beach and the map. I felt like a bit of time alone. We’d arranged to catch the eight-thirty train south so there was no need for me to get back for at least two hours.
I took a left off the Khao San Road, went down an alley, ducked under the scaffold of a half-finished building, and came out on a busy main street. I suddenly found myself surrounded by Thais. I’d half forgotten which country I was in, stuck in backpacker land, and It took me a few minutes to adjust to the change.
Before long I came to a low bridge over a canal. It was hardly picturesque but I stopped there to find my reflection and follow the swirls of petrol colour. Along the canal banks, squatters’ shacks leant dangerously. The sun, hazy throughout the morning, now shone hard and hot. Around the shacks a gang of kids cooled off, dive-bombing each other and playing splashing games.
One of them noticed me. I suppose a pale face would once have held some interest for him, but not now. He held my gaze for a few seconds, either insolent or bored, then leapt into the black water. An ambitious somersault was achieved and his friends shouted their appreciation.
When the kid surfaced he looked at me again, treading water. The motion of his arms cleared a circle in the floating litter. Shredded polystyrene that, for a moment, looked like soapsuds.
I tugged at the back of my shirt. Sweat was making it stick to my skin.
♦
All in all, I probably walked two miles from Khao San Road. After the canal, I ate some noodle soup from a roadside stall, weaved through some traffic jams, passed by a couple of small temples tucked discreetly between stained concrete buildings. Not sights that made me regret leaving Bangkok so soon. I’m not much for sightseeing anyway. If I’d stayed a few more days, I doubt I’d have explored any further than the strip joints in Patpong.
Eventually I’d wandered so far I didn’t have a clue how to get back, so I caught a tuk-tuk. In a way it was the best part of the excursion, chugging along in a haze of blue exhaust fumes, spotting the kinds of details you miss when you’re on foot.
Étienne and Françoise were in the eating area, their bags beside them.
‘Hey,’ said Étienne. ‘We thought you have changed your mind.’
I said I hadn’t and he looked relieved.
‘So maybe you should pack soon. I think we should arrive early for the train.’
I went upstairs to get my bag. On the landing of my level I passed the heroin mute on his way down. A double surprise, partly to see him away from his usual seat and partly because it turned out he wasn’t mute after all.
‘You off?’ he said, as we neared each other.
I nodded.
‘Heading for white sands and blue water?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, have a safe trip.’
‘I’ll try.’
He smiled. ‘Of course you’ll try to have a safe trip. I’m saying, actually have one.’
∨ The Beach ∧
8
It’s Life Jim, But Not As We Know It
We took the night train south from Bangkok, first class. A waiter served a cheap meal of good food at the table, which at night flipped up to reveal spotless bunk-beds. At Surat Thani we got off the train and took a bus to Don Sak. From there we caught the Songserm ferry, straight to the pier at Na Thon. That was how we got to Ko Samui.
♦
I only felt able to relax once I’d shut the curtains to my bunk-bed, and cut myself off from the rest of the train. More to the point, cut myself off from Étienne and Françoise. Things had been awkward since leaving the guest-house. It wasn’t that they were getting on my nerves, just that the reality of our undertaking was sinking in. Also, I was remembering that we were virtual strangers – something I’d forgotten in the excitement of our quick decision. I’m sure they were feeling the same, which is why their attempts at conversation were as limited as mine.
I lay on my back with my hands behind my head, content in the knowledge that the muffled sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rocking movement of the carriage would soon send me to sleep.
Most people find it easy to sleep on trains, but for me it’s particularly easy. In fact, I find it almost impossible to stay awake. I grew up in a house that backed on to a train line and night-time was when you’d notice the trains most. My version of the Sandman is the 12:10 from Euston.
While I waited for the Pavlovian response to kick in, I studied the clever design of my bunk. The carriage lights had been dimmed, but enough came through the gap around my curtain for me to see. There was a whole array of useful pouches and compartments which I’d done my best to employ. My T–shirt and trousers were tucked into a little box at my foot end, and I’d put my shoes in an elastic net above my waist. Above my head was an adjustable reading lamp, switched off, but beside it a tiny red bulb gave a reassuring glow.