The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

54

The Decisive Moment

Hi,’ said a voice, and I turned round. A small boy was standing in the gateway of the house behind me. He grinned and marched over the pavement. ‘Would you like a drink?’

I looked at him blankly. Mister Duck was fair-haired and close to tubby as a child. It surprised me that this well-fed kid would become the scrawny figure I’d meet on the Khao San Road.

‘That is you, isn’t it?’ I said, to make certain.

‘It’s me.’ His chubby arms stretched out and clapped me on the shoulders. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Well…’ I rubbed my throat. ‘What have you got?’

‘Ribena or water.’

‘Ribena is good.’

‘OK. Wait here.’

Mister Duck went inside the house, waddling slightly as he walked. I wondered if that was where his nickname had originally come from. A minute later he came back out, holding a cup in both hands.

‘I’m afraid it’s not really very cold. It takes ages for the tap to run cold.’

‘That’s OK.’

He gave me the cup and watched me closely while I drank.

‘Is it all right? Maybe I should’ve put some ice in it.’

‘It’s very nice.’

‘I can get some ice for you.’

‘No.’ I drained the remainder. ‘It was just right.’

‘Great!’ He smiled radiantly. ‘You want to see my room?’

♦

Mister Duck’s bedroom was a lot like mine had been – clothes in heaps, dog-eared posters on the walls, duvet scrunched up at the bottom of the mattress, battered Matchbox cars on the shelves, marbles and toy soldiers everywhere else. The main difference was that I’d shared my room with my younger brother, so the mess was doubled.

In the middle of the floor was a collapsed pile of Tintin and Asterix books.

‘Shit,’ I said admiringly, as I spotted them. ‘That’s a good collection.’

Mister Duck’s eyes opened wide, then he ran to his bedroom door and peered nervously out. ‘Richard,’ he hissed, turning back to me with a sternly raised finger. ‘You mustn’t say that!’

‘…Shit?’

His tiny face went bright red and he waved his arms. ‘Shh! Someone will hear you!’

‘But…’

‘No buts!’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Swearing carries a two-pence fine in this house!’

‘Oh…right. I won’t swear any more.’

‘Good,’ he said gravely. ‘I should ask you for some money, but you didn’t know the rule, so we’ll leave it at that.’

‘Thanks…’ I walked over to the pile of books and picked one up – Cigars of the Pharaoh. ‘So you like Tintin, huh?’

‘I love Tintin! Do you? I’ve got every Tintin book except one.’

‘I’ve got every Tintin book except none.’

‘Including The Blue Lotus?’

‘Only in French.’

‘Exactly! That’s why I haven’t got it. It really annoys me.’

‘You should get someone to talk you through it. My mum went through it with me. It’s pretty good.’

Mister Duck shrugged. ‘My mum can’t speak French.’

‘Oh…’

‘So which is your favourite one?’

‘Hmm. Tricky question.’ I thought for a couple of seconds. ‘It isn’t Tintin in America.’

‘No. And it isn’t the Castafiore Emerald.’

‘No way…It might be Tintin in Tibet…or The Crab with the Golden Claws…I can’t decide.’

‘Do you want to know what my favourite is?’

‘Sure.’

‘Prisoners of the Sun.’

I nodded. ‘That’s a good choice.’

‘Yes. Would you like to know another book I like?’

‘OK.’

Mister Duck walked over to his bed and crouched down, feeling around underneath. Then he dragged out a large hardback, coffee-table size. Its cover was plain red and stamped with gold-leaf writing. It read Time. A Decade in Photographs: 1960-1970.

‘This book is my dad’s,’ he said airily, squatting down and beckoning me to sit beside him. ‘I’m not even supposed to have it in my room. You know what?’

‘What?’

‘In this book…’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘There’s a picture of a girl.’

I snorted. ‘Big deal.’

‘A naked girl!’

‘Naked?’

‘Uh-huh. You want to see it?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK…hold on.’ Mister Duck started flicking through the pages. ‘It’s somewhere near the middle…Ah! Here it is!’

I pulled the book on to my lap.

The girl was indeed naked, and aged somewhere between ten and twelve. She was running down a country road.

Mister Duck leant over and put his mouth to my ear. ‘You can see everything! he whispered excitedly.

‘You certainly can,’ I agreed.

‘Everything! All her bits!’ He started giggling and rolled forwards with his hands over his mouth. ‘Everything!’

‘Yes,’ I said, but I was suddenly feeling uncertain. There was something puzzling about the photo.

I noticed the fields that surrounded the country road; they were strangely flat and alien. Then I noticed the collection of indistinct buildings behind the girl, either out of focus or made fuzzy through clouds of smoke. And the girl was upset, holding her arms away from her sides. Other kids ran beside her. A few soldiers, apparently indifferent, watched them as they passed.

I frowned. My gaze flicked quickly from the girl to the soldiers, back to the girl again. It was as if my eyes had become confused, unsure of where to settle. I wasn’t even sure what they were settling on.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered and shut the book with a snap.

Mister Duck sat up. ‘I’m sorry, Rich,’ he said. ‘But I’ve already warned you about swearing once. This time it’s going to cost you.’