Now
There was another question that I should have been asking myself, but wasn't. In my now considerable experience, it's part of the strange way the brain works when reeling from a severe knock. You get hung up on the inconsequential mysteries and not the important ones.
The question I should have been asking was, why wasn't anyone coming to help me? If I'd been out for ten minutes, as I suspected I had, then they'd had plenty of time to get their act together. But there they were, cowering behind the circle of candles, as much use as a bunch of waxworks.
'Help me,' I slurred. 'What's the matter with you?'
I tried to scowl at them, which was extremely difficult. Apart from being out of focus, I was seeing double so I wasn't sure where the scowl should be directed.
'Keaty... help.'
Hearing his name seemed to spur him into life. He took a few steps towards me, but even through my fucked-up eyes I could tell there was something weird about the way he was moving. It was as if he was scared of something over my shoulder.
My elbows gave way and my chin hit the ground. I dribbled to get the dust off my mouth. 'Hurry, Keaty.'
Then he was next to me, with someone else. Françoise, by the smell. They picked me up and pulled me back to the marquee, only strong enough to raise my arms and shoulders. When I passed over the candles, they were extinguished by my stomach. It was an extra bit of pain I really didn't need, but at least it startled me into thinking a bit more clearly. And a gulp of coconut beer was a boost too. It goes to vinegar pretty fast, and the stuff I gulped down was already on the turn. Sharp enough to make me wince and shut my eyes, and when I re-opened them, my sight was back to normal.
At last I was able to see why everyone had turned into statues. Using Étienne and one of the bamboo poles that supported the canopy of sheets, I hauled myself up to a standing position. The VC hadn't felt that beating me up was a severe enough warning. They'd left us with a reminder, just to ram the point home.
Bullets had done nasty things to the rafters. Big holes, smashed skulls. All the bodies were naked, suggesting they'd been stripped before they were killed. Rigor mortis had given them strange positions. Sammy was lying on his back, but he must have been on his front when the stiffness set in, so he looked as if he were pushing upwards against the weight of the sky. The German girl with the pretty laugh and long hair was on her side. She looked as if she was asking for a hug.
I don't see any need to describe them further. I've only described them as far as I have because it's relevant to what happened next.
To have been confronted with such a sight would have been bad at the best of times. Directly following the scene with the dope guards would have made it worse. But to have been through all that while you were tripping — it would drive anyone crazy.
'Right,' Sal said, coming out of her trance, and began to walk towards the heap of bodies. 'I think we should get this cleaned up. It won't take long if we all...'
She paused. Her shoulders twitched as if she were slipping off a jacket, and she sat down with a thump.
'It won't take long. Come on everyone. Let's get this mess cleaned up.'
She stood up again.
'This mess. Such a mess.'
The German guy was trapped beneath Zeph's chest, and his rigid arms were hooking the two of them together. Sal couldn't make him budge. We all watched in silence as she yanked uselessly at the German's legs.
'What a mess,' Sal panted, and gave another hard tug.
Her grip slipped.
She fell backwards, twisting as she fell, and landed on Sammy's corpse.
'Clumsy,' she exclaimed brightly.
Then she started screaming and clawing at her cheeks. Sal and Sammy's faces had made contact as she rolled off him, and Sammy had no lower jaw.
She screamed the way some people cry. The people who never normally cry, so you know that the tears are coming from somewhere unthinkably deep inside. It was a sound that made my skin crawl, but for Bugs, it seemed to blow his mind.
I've thought a lot about what he did, and I've got two explanations. One is that he was angry with Sammy for having kissed Sal. The other is that he saw Sammy as the cause of Sal's misery, and he wanted to make the misery stop. Both explanations rely on Bugs being insane, but that's OK. He was.
He called Sal's name. Then he sobbed, only once, not loudly. Then he went over to the seating area and picked up one of Unhygienix's stubby cooking knives. Then he went over to Sammy and attacked him.
It began with kicking, which quickly became stabbing. In the chest, the groin, the arms, anything. Next he straddled the corpse and began tugging at the neck. Or that's what I thought he was doing. It wasn't completely clear through the shadows, and most of the view was blocked by Bugs' broad back. I only saw when he rose Up. He'd cut Sammy's head off. Cut it off, and was swinging it by the hair.
And suddenly Jean had a knife and was cutting at the thin German girl, slicing into her belly and pulling out her insides. Then Cassie joined them, hunched over Zeph, working on his thighs. Étienne vomited, and within seconds the corpses were swarmed.
Looking back, I know that we could have left at that moment. There were still people under the marquee - all the cooks, Jesse, Gregorio, and a few of the gardeners — but they wouldn't have tried to stop us. And I was physically able to leave. The scene in front of me had sent so much adrenalin pumping through my system that my battering was forgotten. I could have run a marathon if necessary, let alone crept into the darkness.
But we stayed put. We were transfixed by the dissection of the rafters. Every severed limb seemed to root me further to the spot.
Friendly Fire
I don't know how long the frenzy lasted. It could have been as long as half an hour. The cutters had to fret and struggle with some of the joints, twisting arms around until tendons gave way. But at some point, I noticed that the crowd had dispersed, sitting exhausted beside their handiwork or milling in the darkness. Only Moshe remained. He was concentrating on something small, a finger perhaps, and he didn't seem to feel it was small enough. It was while I was watching Moshe that I heard Sal's voice.
'Wait on Chaweng for three days,' she read with numbing coldness. 'If we haven't come back by then it means we made it. See you there? Richard.'
The words took time for me to comprehend. Several seconds passed in which they meant nothing beyond random noises. But then, with a flash of understanding so tangible I almost saw it, their relevance became clear.
I turned. Sal was standing beside me, holding the piece of paper the VC boss had left behind. It had passed me by, that piece of paper. Deafened, pistol-whipped, its importance had been missed.
'...See you there,' she repeated flatly.' ...Richard.'
Outside the marquee, the surgeons stirred. Some came close by, nudging past Keaty, who was staring at me with a peculiarly blank expression.
'Richard?' one of them whispered. 'Richard brought the people here?' It was a girl, but she was so stained with red and black that I couldn't place her.
More arrived, quietly surrounding me, shutting off Keaty and
Françoise. Desperately, I began to search for a face I knew. I felt I could appeal to someone if I found a face I knew. I could plead a case. But the more cutters that arrived, the more anonymous they became. Under their shifting feet, candles were kicked over. Darkness grew, features melted. When Étienne vanished, I was alone with strangers.
'Jean!' I shouted.
The strangers laughed.
'Moshe! Cassie! I know you're here! ...Sal!
Sal!
'
But she had gone too. Where she'd been, a squat creature hissed at me. 'After Tet, life will be back to normal.'
'Sal,
please,'
I said, and a needle jabbed into my leg. I looked down. I'd been stabbed. Not deeply, but somehow that scared me more. I cried out and was stabbed again. The same pressure. Half an inch into the skin, this time my arm, the next time my chest.
For a moment I was too shocked to do anything but stupidly wipe at the blood running down my stomach. Then terror bubbled up in me, and when it reached my throat I started screaming. I also tried to fight. I threw a punch at the nearest face but it landed poorly and glanced harmlessly off the person's cheek-bone. The next punch I threw was blocked, and my wrists were held.
I pleaded, 'Don't,' and began spinning. Fear gave me strength and I managed to wrench myself free of the hold. But every time I span away from the knives, I was cut from behind. I could feel from the impact of the blows that the stabs were getting worse. No longer piercing but slicing. A different pain, less acute. Infinitely more alien and alarming.
'Not like that,' I sobbed.
Something slippery was wrapped around my neck. Intestines. Mine, I thought, my brain convulsing with fright, and tore them off. The strangers laughed and more objects were thrust at me. A hand that pawed my chest. An ear, clamped to the side of my head.
Feeling my knees about to buckle, I bunched up my arms. A last time, I looked up at howling figures and their knives. I called for Sal again. I asked her to make them stop. I told her that I was very sorry
for whatever I'd done, but I didn't know what it was any more. I only knew that I'd never wanted to do anything bad.
Finally I called out for Daffy Duck.
Suddenly, in the whirling faces, I saw one I recognized.
But Nothing
The stabbing continued, but it no longer hurt. The faces continued whirling, but the face I knew remained constant. I could talk to it calmly, and it could talk back.
'Daffy,' I said. 'This is fucked.'
'Yeah, GI.' He smiled. 'Beaucoup bad shit.'
'Fragged by my own side.'
'Happens all the time.'
A blade punctured my top lip. 'It doesn't mean anything, right?'
'Doesn't mean much.'
'Never should have been here. That's all.' I sighed as my legs collapsed and I fell down to the palm-leaf carpet. 'Jesus, this is a nasty way to die. At least it's ending.'
'Ending?' Daffy shook his head. 'It can't end now.'
'Can't?'
'Come on, Rich. Think. Think how it ought to end.'
'Ought to...'
'A flat roof, a panicking crowd, not enough room on the...'
'...Last chopper out.'
'That's the boy.'
'Evacuation.'
'Every time.'
Daffy was gone. The knives had stopped. One of the cutters had started twisting, fumbling at her belly, and another was toppling sideways, flailing out with his arms.
I looked around and saw Jed standing beside me. And beside him, Keaty, Étienne and Françoise. The four of them carried fishing spears, points fanning outwards. On the ground, Bugs sat with his arms crossed, fresh blood spilling into his lap. Moshe leant against one of the bamboo posts, sucking air through clenched teeth, clutching his ribs.
'
You all keep back!
' Jed yelled. He reached down, lifted my arm over his shoulders, and dragged me up. '
Keep lack!
'
Bugs slumped forwards. 'But,' said Sal. 'But...' She took a step in our direction, and Jed pushed his spear deep into the folds of her shirt. Immediately he pulled it back. Sal remained standing, swaying as the point exited.
'
Back!
'
Jed yelled again. '
All of you keep back!
'
And amazingly, they all did. Though we were outnumbered and they could have easily prevented us if they'd wanted to, they let us go. I don't think it was because of Sal, who had closed her eyes and couldn't seem to catch her breath. It was because they were tired. Their slack arms and glazed eyes told me as much. Tired of everything. Beaucoup bad shit, too beaucoup.
GAME OVER
Strange But True
I feel I should provide an account of how we all got back home. But it's going to be a brief account because the story is over. This is just an epilogue.
We talked a lot. That's what I remember most about the journey -the talking. It's stuck in my memory because it seems so unexpected. You'd imagine silence, all of us withdrawn into our private horrors. And the first part of the journey, the night-time trek to the raft,
was
silent. But it was only because we were afraid of being heard by the guards. As soon as we'd pushed off and were on our way, we opened our mouths and never shut them. The funny thing is, I can't really remember what we talked about. Maybe because we talked about everything, maybe because we talked about nothing.
Because of my condition, I wasn't much help, but the others took a paddling and swimming rota in pairs. I kept getting shivering attacks. When they hit, all I could do was curl up and shake. They'd only last a couple of minutes, but Jed thought it better to keep me out of the sea in case I drowned. I'd already nearly drowned once, when we were swimming across the lagoon on the way to the caves and the chimney. In any case, the salt-water was murder on my stab wounds, superficial as they were.
We didn't have to paddle for long. A few hours after dawn broke, a fishing boat came to check us out. And after a bit of banter, they towed us back to Ko Samui. It was extraordinary. They didn't seem more than cheerfully curious about who we were and what we were doing on a raft in the Gulf of Thailand. The only thing that raised
an eyebrow was me and my cuts. By which I mean, a raised eyebrow was the full extent of their reaction. We were just another bunch of weird
farang,
doing the weird kind of things that
farang
do.
On Ko Samui we ran into a couple of problems because we had no money. But we were travellers, so it wasn't that big a deal. Keaty and I sold our watches. Then, to all our surprise, Étienne stole a wallet. Bit of a dark horse, Étienne. Some dick-head had left his room key under his T-shirt while he went for a dip. We stole a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers, which I needed to hide my cuts. The cash was enough to get us all back to the mainland, eat
and
buy Keaty's watch back.
From Ko Samui to Surat Thani, and the bus ride to Bangkok, for which Keaty had to re-sell his watch. And still we were talking, irritating our fellow passengers, keeping them awake.
Back in the city, the only thing left to do was to call home. We all took turns in an aircon phone booth on the Khao San Road. The last thing I want to do is lapse into sentimentality at this late stage, but we were all crying by the time we'd hung up. We must have made a pretty stupid sight, me in my blood-flecked new shirt, and the others in their rags, all in floods of tears.
Seventy-two hours later we had airline tickets and replacement passports from our respective embassies. I had my last shivering attack getting cigarettes in the Bangkok duty-free. As soon as we boarded the plane, I felt OK.
At this exact moment, I'm sitting in front of a word processor. At this exact moment, I'm typing this sentence. At this exact moment, it's a year and a month since I flew out of Thailand.
I never saw Étienne and Françoise again. One day I will. It's going to be by chance but I know it's going to happen because the world is a small place, and Europe is even smaller.
I see Keaty and Jed all the time. Like the talking, it's another thing you wouldn't expect. By rights we should have drifted apart, unable to deal with our shared history. But we didn't. We're good friends.
So I see Keaty and Jed all the time, and they see each other even more. This is strange but true: they both work at the same place.
Different firms, same building. Stranger still, they got the jobs without knowing the other was there. And even stranger still, it sort of ties in with the way they stayed at the same Indonesian guesthouse all those years ago, the one that Keaty burned down. They haven't burned down their office yet, which would be the icing on the cake.
Actually, Keaty hates the job (admin shit), so it might actually happen. I won't mention the name of the firm in case it does.
What else.
About three months ago, maybe four, I was flicking through Ceefax when I read, 'Briton Caught Smuggling in Malaysia.' A few nights later, I saw Cassie on the news. She was sitting in the back of an Isuzu van, flanked by policemen in khaki uniforms. The van was outside a crummy-looking court-house. She'd been busted at Kuala Lumpur airport with over a pound of heroin, and the word is she's going to be the first Western smuggler to be executed for
six years.
The BBC reporter managed to get a microphone to her before she was driven away, and she said, 'Tell my parents I'm sorry I haven't written in a while.'
Poor Cassie. She was probably trying to fund her flight home. Her mum and dad, who look like decent types, are appealing for clemency and appearing on TV.
But they're wasting their time. She's dead meat. Or toast.
But the point is that Cassie got off the island, so at least some of the others must have too. I'm curious to know which ones. I tell myself that Gregorio and Jesse made it, and Unhygienix and Ella. I'm sure they did. I'm also sure that Bugs died, and I like to think that Sal died with him. Not out of maliciousness. I just can't stand the idea that she might turn up on my doorstep some day.
As for me...
I'm fine. I have bad dreams, but I never saw Mister Duck again. I play video games. I smoke a little dope. I got my thousand-yard stare. I carry a lot of scars.
I like the way that sounds.
I carry a
lot
of scars.