The Beach, Page 3

At the guest-house the silent heroin addict sat in his usual seat. When he saw us he drew a line with his finger over each wrist. ‘Sad, huh?’ I tried to say, but my lips were sticky and barely opened. The sound that came from my throat was a sigh.

  Françoise

  Étienne gazed at the map for five minutes without speaking. Then he said, ‘Wait,’ and darted out of my room. I heard him rummaging around next door, then he came back holding a guidebook. ‘There.’ He pointed to an open page. ‘These are the islands in the map. A national marine park west of Ko Samui and Ko Pha-Ngan.’

  ‘Ko Samui?’

  ‘Yes. Look. All the islands have protection. Tourists cannot visit, you see?’

  I couldn’t. The guidebook was written in French, but I nodded anyway.

  Étienne paused, reading, then continued. ‘Ah. Tourists can go to…’ He took the map and pointed to one of the bigger islands in the small archipelago, three islands down from where X marked the beach. ‘… this one. Ko Phelong. Tourists can go to Ko Phelong on a special guided tour from Ko Samui, but… but they can only stay one night. And they cannot leave the island.’

  ‘So this beach is in a national park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are people supposed to get there?’

  ‘They cannot get there. It is a national park.’

  I leant back on the bed and lit a cigarette. ‘That’s that sorted then. The map is bullshit.’

  Étienne shook his head. ‘No. Not bullshit. Really, why did the man give it to you? He went to so much trouble. See the little waves.’

  ‘He called himself Daffy Duck. He was mad.’

  ‘I do not think so. Listen.’ Étienne picked up his guidebook and began a halting translation. ‘The most adventurous travellers are… exploring the islands beyond Ko Samui to find… to find, ah, tranquillity, and Ko Pha-Ngan is a favourite… destination. But even Ko Pha-Ngan is…’ He paused. ‘OK, Richard. This says travellers try new islands beyond Ko Pha-Ngan because Ko Pha-Ngan is now the same as Ko Samui.’

  ‘The same?’

  ‘Spoiled. Too many tourists. But look, this book is three years old. Now maybe some travellers feel these islands past Ko Pha-Ngan are also spoiled. So they find a completely new island, in the national park.’

  ‘But they aren’t allowed in the national park.’

  Étienne raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Exactly! This is why they go there. Because there will be no other tourists.’

  ‘The Thai authorities would just get rid of them.’

  ‘Look how many islands are there. How could they be found? Maybe if they hear a boat they can hide, and the only way to find them is if you know they are there – and we do. We have this.’ He slid the map across the bed at me. ‘You know, Richard, I think I want to find this beach.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Really,’ said Étienne. ‘You can believe me. I do.’

  I did believe him. He had a look in his eye that I recognized. In my early adolescence I went through a stage of mild delinquency, along with two of my friends, Sean and Danny. During the early hours of the morning, weekends only because we had school to think of, we would patrol the streets around our area, smashing things. ‘Hot Bottle’ was the favourite game. It involved nicking empty milk bottles from people’s doorsteps. We would throw the bottles high into the air and try to catch them. Most of the fun came when bottles were dropped, seeing the silvery explosion of glass, feeling the shards flick against our jeans. Running from the scene of the crime was an extra kick, ideally with the shouts of enraged adults ringing in our ears.

  The look I recognized in Étienne’s eyes came from one particular experience when we graduated from smashing milk bottles to smashing a car. We’d been sitting in my kitchen, playfully discussing the idea, when Sean said, ‘Let’s just do it.’ He said it casually, but his eyes said he was serious. Through them I could see he’d already moved beyond thoughts of practicality and consequence, and was hearing the sound of the windscreen folding in.

  Étienne, I imagined, was hearing the sound of the surf on this hidden beach, or hiding from the marine-park wardens as he made his way to the island. The effect on me was the same as when Sean said, ‘Let’s just do it.’ Abstract thoughts suddenly flipped into thoughts about reality. Following the path of the map had become something that could happen.

  ‘I think,’ I said, ‘we could probably hire a fisherman to take us to the island.’

  Étienne nodded. ‘Yes. It might be difficult to get there, but not impossible.’

  ‘We’d have to go to Ko Samui first.’

  ‘Or Ko Pha-Ngan.’

  ‘Or maybe we could even do it from Surat Thani.’

  ‘Or Ko Phelong.’

  ‘We’d have to ask around a little…’

  ‘But there would be someone to take us.’

  ‘Yes…’

  At that moment Françoise appeared, having returned from the police station.

  If Étienne was the one who turned the idea of finding the beach into a possibility, it was Françoise who made it happen. The odd thing was, she did it almost accidentally, simply by taking it for granted that we were going to try.

  I didn’t want to seem impressed by her prettiness, so when she stuck her head round the door, I looked up, said ‘Hi,’ then went back to studying the map.

  Étienne shifted over on my bed and patted the space he had made. Françoise stayed in the doorway. ‘I did not wait for you,’ he said, presumably speaking in English for my sake. ‘I met Richard.’ She didn’t follow the language lead and began rattling away in French. I couldn’t follow their conversation past recognizing the odd word, including my own name, but the speed and forcefulness of the exchange made me think that either she was pissed off that he’d left without her, or she was just keen to fill him in on what had happened at the police station.

  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 guest-house 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.r />
  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.’

  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.

  As I became sleepy I started to fantasize. I imagined the train was a space ship and I was en route to some distant planet.

  I don’t know if I’m alone in doing this kind of thing. It isn’t something I’ve ever talked about. The fact is, I’ve never grown out of playing pretend, and so far there are no signs that I ever will. I have one quite carefully worked-out night-time fantasy that I’m in a kind of high-tech race. The race takes place over several days, even a week, and is non-stop. While I sleep my vehicle continues on auto-pilot, speeding me towards the finish line. The auto-pilot thing is the rationalization of how I can be in bed while I’m having the fantasy. Making it work in such a logical way is important – it would be no good fantasizing that the race was in a Formula One car, because how could I go to sleep in that? Get real.

  Sometimes I’m winning the race, other times I’m losing. But on those occasions I also fantasize that I have a little trick up my sleeve. A short cut perhaps, or just a reliance on my ability to take corners quicker than the other competitors. Either way, I fall asleep quietly confident.

  I think the catalyst for this particular fantasy was the little red bulb beside the reading lamp. As everyone knows, space ships aren’t space ships without little red bulbs. Everything else – the clever compartments, the rushing noise of the train’s engine/warp drive, the sense of adventure – was a happy complement.

  By the time I fell asleep, my scanners were detecting life-forms on the surface of a distant planet. Could have been Jupiter. It had the same kind of cloud patterns, like a tie-dye T-shirt.

  The warm security of my space-ship capsule slipped away. I was back on my bed on the Khao San Road, looking up at the ceiling fan. A mosquito was buzzing in the room. I couldn’t see it but its wings pulsed like a helicopter’s when it flew near. Sitting beside me was Mister Duck, the sheets around him red and wet.

  ‘Would you sort this out for me, Rich?’ Mister Duck said, passing me a half-rolled joint. ‘I can’t do it. My hands are too sticky. The Rizla… The Rizla keeps falling apart.’

  He laughed apologetically as I took the joint.

  ‘It’s my wrists.
Slit them all over and now they won’t stop bleeding.’ He lifted up his arm and a squirt of blood arced across the Formica wall. ‘See what I mean? What a fucking mess.’

  I rolled the joint but didn’t lick it. On the strip of gum was a red fingerprint.

  ‘Oh. You don’t want to worry about that, Rich. I’m clean.’ Mister Duck looked down at his sodden clothes. ‘Well, not clean…’

  I licked the Rizla.

  ‘So spark it up. I’ll only make it wet.’

  He held out a light and I sat up on the bed. My weight sunk the mattress and a stream of blood ran down the slope, soaking into my shorts.

  ‘Now how’s that? Hits the fucking spot, huh? But you want to try it through a rifle barrel. That’s a serious hit, Rich.’

  ‘Blow my mind.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mister Duck. ‘That’s the boy. That’s the kid…’

  He lay back on the bed with his hands above his head, wrists facing upwards. I took another drag. Blood ran along the blades of the fan and fell around me like rain.

  KO SAMUI

  R&R

  The journey from the train station at Surat Thani to Ko Samui passed in a sleep-fogged blur. I vaguely remember following Étienne and Françoise on to the bus to Don Sak, and my only memory of the ferry ride was of Étienne shouting in my ear over the noise of the boat’s engines. ‘There, Richard!’ he yelled, pointing towards the horizon. ‘That’s the marine park!’ A cluster of blue-green shapes was just visible in the distance. I nodded obligingly. I was more interested in finding a soft spot on my backpack to use as a pillow.

  Our jeep from the Ko Samui port to the Chaweng beach resort was a big open-top Isuzu. On the left the sea lay blue between rows of coconut palms, and on the right a jungle-covered slope rose steeply. Ten travellers sat behind the driver’s cabin, our bags clamped between our knees, our heads rolling with the corners. One had a baseball bat resting against his shoulder, another held a camera on his lap. Brown faces flashed past us through the green.