The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

3

Geography

The Khao San Road woke early. At five, muffled car horns began sounding off in the street outside, Bangkok’s version of the dawn chorus. Then the water-pipes under the floor started to rattle as the guest-house staff took their showers. I could hear their conversations, the plaintive sound of Thai just rising above the splashing water.

Lying on my bed, listening to the morning noises, the tension of the previous night became unreal and distant. Although I couldn’t understand what the staff were saying to each other, their chattering and occasional laughter conveyed a sense of normality: they were doing what they did every morning, their thoughts connected only to routine. I imagined they might be discussing who would go for kitchen supplies in the market that day or who would be sweeping the halls.

Around five thirty a few bedroom-door bolts clicked open as the early-bird travellers emerged and the die-hard party-goers from Patpong returned. Two German girls clattered up the wooden stairs at the far end of my corridor, apparently wearing clogs. I realized that the dreamless snatches of sleep I’d managed were finished, so I decided to have a cigarette, the one I’d denied myself a few hours before.

The early morning smoke was a tonic. I gazed upwards, an empty matchbox for an ashtray balanced on my stomach, and every puff I blew into the ceiling fan lifted my spirits a little higher. Before long my mind turned to thoughts of food. I left my room to see if there was any breakfast to be had in the eating area downstairs.

There were already a few travellers at the tables, dozily sipping glasses of black coffee. One of them, still sitting on the same chair as yesterday evening, was the helpful mute⁄heroin addict. He’d been there all night, judging by his glazed stare. As I sat down I gave him a friendly smile and he tilted his head in reply.

I began studying the menu, a once white sheet of A4 paper with such an extensive list of dishes I felt making a choice was beyond my ability. Then I was distracted by a delicious smell. A kitchen boy had wandered over with a tray of fruit pancakes. He distributed them to a group of Americans, cutting off a good-natured argument about train times to Chiang Mai.

One of them noticed me eyeing their food and he pointed at his plate. ‘Banana pancakes,’ he said. ‘The business.’

I nodded. ‘They smell pretty good.’

‘Taste better. English?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Been here long?’

‘Since yesterday evening. You?’

‘A week,’ he replied, and popped a piece of pancake in his mouth, looking away as he did so. I guessed that signalled the end of the exchange.

The kitchen boy came over to my table and stood there, gazing at me expectantly through sleepy eyes.

‘One banana pancake, please,’ I said, obliged into making a snap decision.

‘You wan’ order one banan’ pancake?’

‘Please.’

‘You wan’ order drink?’

‘Uh, a Coke. No, a Sprite.’

‘You wan’ one banan’ pancake, one Spri’.’

‘Please.’

He strolled back towards the kitchen, and a sudden warm swell of happiness washed over me. The sun was bright on the road outside. A man was setting up his stall on the pavement, arranging bootleg tapes into rows. Next to him a small girl sliced pineapples, cutting the tough skin into neat, spiralling designs. Behind her an even smaller girl used a rag to keep the flies at bay.

I lit my second cigarette of the day, not wanting it, just feeling it was the right thing to do.

♦

The French girl appeared without her boyfriend and without any shoes. Her legs were brown and slim, her skirt short. She delicately padded through the café. We all watched her. The heroin mute, the group of Americans, the Thai kitchen boys. We all saw the way she moved her hips to slide between the tables and the silver bracelets on her wrists. When her eyes glanced around the room we looked away, and when she turned to the street we looked back.

♦

After breakfast I decided to have a wander around Bangkok, or at the very least, the streets around Khao San. I paid for my food and headed for my room to get some more cash, thinking I might need to get a taxi somewhere.

There was an old woman at the top of the stairs, cleaning the windows with a mop. Water was pouring off the glass and down to the floor. She was completely soaked, and as the mop lurched around the windows it skimmed dangerously close to a bare light-bulb hanging from the ceiling.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, checking I wasn’t about to be included in the puddle of potential death that was expanding on the floor. She turned around. ‘That light is dangerous with the water.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. Her teeth were either black and rotten or yellow as mustard: it looked like she had a mouth full of wasps. ‘Hot-hot.’ She deliberately brushed the light-bulb with the edge of her mop. Water boiled angrily on the bulb, and a curl of steam rose up to the ceiling.

I shuddered. ‘Careful!…The electricity could kill you.’

‘Hot.’

‘Yes, but…’ I paused, seeing that I was on to a non-starter language-wise, then decided to soldier on.

I glanced around. We were the only two people on the landing.

‘OK, look.’

I began a short mime of mopping down the windows before sticking my imaginary mop into the light. Then I began jerking around, electrocuted.

She placed a shrivelled hand on my arm to stop my convulsions.

‘Hey, man,’ she drawled in a voice too high-pitched to describe as mellow. ‘It cool.’

I raised my eyebrows, not sure I’d heard her words correctly.

‘Chill,’ she added. ‘No worry.’

‘Right,’ I said, trying to accept the union of Thai crone and hippy jargon with grace. She’d clearly been working on the Khao San Road a long time. Feeling chided, I started walking down the corridor to my room.

‘Hey,’ she called after me. ‘Le’er for you, man.’

I stopped. ‘A what?’

‘Le’er.’

‘…Letter?’

‘Le’er! On you door!’

I nodded my thanks, wondering how she knew which was my room, and continued down the corridor. Sure enough, taped to my door was an envelope. On it was written ‘Here is a map’ in laboured joined-up writing. I was still so surprised at the old woman’s strange vocabulary that I took the letter in my stride.

The woman watched me from the other end of the corridor, leaning on her mop. I held up the envelope. ‘Got it. Thanks. Do you know who it’s from?’

She frowned, not understanding the question.

‘Did you see anybody put this here?’

I started another little mime and she shook her head.

‘Well, anyway, thanks.’

‘No worry,’ she said, and returned to her windows.

A couple of minutes later I was sitting on my bed with the ceiling fan chilling the back of my neck, and the map in my hands. Beside me the empty envelope rustled under the breeze. Outside, the old woman clanked up the stairs with her mop and bucket to the next level.

The map was beautifully coloured in. The islands’ perimeters were drawn in green biro and little blue pencil waves bobbed in the sea. A compass sat in the top-right-hand corner, carefully segmented into sixteen points, each with an arrow tip and appropriate bearing. At the top of the map it read ‘Gulf of Thailand’ in thick red marker. A thinner red pen had been used for the islands’ names.

It was so carefully drawn that I had to smile. It reminded me of geography homework and tracing paper. A brief memory surfaced of my teacher handing out exercise books and sarcastic quips.

‘So who’s it from?’ I muttered, and checked the envelope once more for an accompanying note of explanation. It was empty.

Then, on one of a cluster of small islands I noticed a black mark. An X mark. I looked closer. Written underneath in tiny letters was the word ‘Beach’.

♦

I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to say to him. I was curious, partly, just wanting to know what the deal was with this beach of his. Also I was pissed off. It seemed like the guy was set on invading my holiday, freaking me out by hissing through the mosquito netting in the middle of the night and leaving strange maps for me to discover.

His door was unlocked, the padlock missing. I listened outside for a minute before knocking, and when I did the door swung open.

In spite of the newspaper pages stuck over the windows, there was enough light coming in for me to see. The man was lying on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. I think he’d slit his wrists. Or it could have been his neck. In the gloom, with so much blood splashed about, it was hard to tell what he’d slit. But I knew he’d done the cutting: there was a knife in his hand.

I stood still, gazing at the body for a couple of moments. Then I went to get help.