The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

104

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 You’d imagine silence, all of us withdrawn into our private horrors.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.