The Beach (3 page)

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.'

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 autopilot, 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.

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. 'Delta One-Niner,' I muttered. 'This is Alpha patrol.' The jeep left us outside a decent-looking bunch of beach huts, but backpacker protocol demanded we check out the competition. After half an hour of slogging across the hot sand, we returned to the huts we'd first seen.
Private showers, a bedside fan, a nice restaurant that looked on to the sea. Our huts faced each other over a gravel path lined with flowers. It was
très beau,
Françoise said with a happy sigh, and I agreed.
The first thing I did after shutting the door behind me was to go to the bathroom mirror and examine my face. I hadn't seen my reflection for a couple of days and wanted to check things were OK.
It was a bit of a shock. Being around lots of tanned skin I'd somehow assumed I was also tanned, but the ghost in the mirror corrected me. My whiteness was accentuated by my stubble, which, like my hair, is jet black. UV deprivation aside, I was in bad need of a shower. My T-shirt had the salty stiffness of material that has been sweated in, sun-dried, then sweated in again. I decided to head straight to the beach for a swim. I could kill two birds with one stone — soak up a few rays and get clean.
Chaweng was a travel-brochure photo. Hammocks slung in the shade of curving palm trees, sand too bright to look at, jet-skis tracing white patterns like jet-planes in a clear sky. I ran down to the surf, partly because the sand was so hot and partly because I always run into the sea. When the water began to drag on my legs I jumped up, and the momentum somersaulted me forwards. I landed on my back and sank to the bottom, exhaling. On the seabed I let myself rest, head tilted slightly forward to keep the air trapped in my nose, and listened to the soft clicks and rushes of underwater noise.
I'd been splashing around in the water for fifteen minutes or so when Étienne came down to join me. He also ran across the sand and somersaulted into the sea, but then leapt up with a yelp.
'What's up?' I called.
Étienne shook his head, pushing backwards through the water away from where he'd landed. 'This! This animal! This... fish!'
I began wading towards him. 'What fish?'
'I do not know the English — Aaah! Aaah! There are more! Aaah! Stinging!'
'Oh,' I said as I reached him. 'Jellyfish! Great!'
I was pleased to see the pale shapes, floating in the water like drops of silvery oil. I loved their straightforward weirdness, the strange area they occupied between plant and animal life.
I learnt an interesting thing about jellyfish from a Filipino guy. He was one of the only people my age on an island where I'd once stayed, so we became pals. We spent many happy weeks together playing Frisbee on the beach, then diving into the South China Sea. He taught me that if you pick up jellyfish with the palm of your hand, you don't get hurt - although then you had to be careful to scrub your hands, because if you rubbed your eyes or scratched your back the poison would lift off and sting like mad. We used to have jellyfish fights, hurling the tennis-ball-sized globs at each other. On a calm day you could skim them over the sea like flat pebbles, although if you chucked them too hard they tended to explode. He also told me that you can eat them raw, like sushi. He was right. Literally speaking, you can, as long as you don't mind a few days of stomach cramps and vomiting.
I looked at the jellyfish around us. They looked the same as the ones in the Philippines so I decided it was worth the risk of a sting, thinking how worldly and impressive it would seem to Étienne. The gamble paid off. His eyes opened wide as I plucked one of the quivering blobs from the sea.
'Mon Dieu!'
he exclaimed.
I smiled. I didn't realize French people actually said
'Mon Dieu'.
I always thought it was the same thing as English people supposedly saying 'what' at the end of every sentence.
'It is not hurting, Richard?'
'Nope. It's about how you hold it, like stinging nettles. You try.'
I held out the jellyfish.
'No, I do not want to.'
'It's fine. Go on.'
'Really?'
'Yeah, sure. Hold your hands like mine.'
I slid the jellyfish into his cupped hands.
'Oooh,' he said, a big grin spreading over his face.
'But you can only touch it with your palms. If you touch it anywhere else it'll sting.'
'Only the palm? Why is that?'
I shrugged. 'Don't know. That's the rule.'
'I think maybe the skin is more thick there.'
'Maybe.' I picked another one out of the water. 'They're weird, aren't they? Look, you can see right through them. They don't have any brains.'
Étienne nodded enthusiastically.
We peered at our jellyfish in silence for a few moments, then I noticed Françoise. She was on the beach, walking towards the water in a one-piece white swimsuit. She saw us and waved. As her arm lifted her swimsuit drew tightly over her chest and shadows from the one o'clock sun defined her breasts, the dip under the ribcage, a groove of muscle down her stomach.
I glanced at Étienne. He was still examining his jellyfish, pulling its tentacles outwards from the bell so it sat on his palm like a glass flower. Perhaps familiarity had blunted him to Françoise's beauty.
When she reached us she was unimpressed by our catch. 'I do not like them,' she said curtly. 'Will you come for a swim?'
I pointed at the chest-deep water, shoulder-deep for Françoise. 'We are swimming, aren't we?'
'No,' said Étienne, finally looking up. 'She means a swim.' He gestured to the open sea. 'Out there.'
We played a game as we swam out. Every thirty feet we would each dive to the bottom and return with a handful of sand.
I found the game strangely unpleasant. A metre underwater the warmth of the tropical sea would stop, and it would turn cold, so abruptly that by treading water one could pinpoint the dividing line. Diving down, the chill would start at the fingertips then swiftly envelop the length of the body.
The further we swam, the blacker and finer the sand became. Soon the water at the bottom became too dark for me to see anything, and I could only blindly kick out with my legs, arms outstretched, until my hands sank into the silt.
I began dreading the cold area. I would hurry to catch my fistful, pushing up hard from the seabed though my lungs were still full of air. In the times I waited at the surface, while Étienne or Françoise swam down, I would keep my legs bunched up beneath me, using my arms to stay afloat.
'How far out do we go?' I said when the sunbathers on the beach behind us had turned into ants.
Étienne smiled. 'You would like to go back now? Are you tired? We can go back.'
Françoise held up her hand clear of the water and unclenched her fingers. A lump of sand rolled out and dropped into the sea, where it sank, leaving a cloudy trail behind.
'You are tired, Richard?' she said, eyebrows arched.
'I'm fine,' I replied. 'Let's swim further.'