The Beach

∨ 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.

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.