The Beach

∨ 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.’