The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

5

Mute

We didn’t talk as we walked down the Khao San Road towards the guest-house. There was no point. Dodging through the hundreds of travellers made it impossible to have a conversation. Passing the bootleg-tape stalls, moving through the music zones, picking up the walking pace for one beat, slowing it for another. Creedence Clearwater told us to run through the jungle, as if we needed to be told. A techno beat pumped out of fuzzy speakers, then Jimi Hendrix.

Platoon. Jimi Hendrix, dope, and rifle barrels.

I sought out the smell of grass to complete the connection, and found it through the stench of a hot gutter and sticky tarmac. I think it came from above – a balcony full of braided hair and dirty T–shirts, leaning on the guard-rail, enjoying the scene below.

A brown hand flashed out and caught hold of me. A Thai trader sitting by his stall, a slim man with acne scars, was gripping my arm. I looked towards Étienne. He hadn’t seen, was still walking down the road. I lost him behind bobbing heads and tanned necks.

The man began stroking my forearm with his free hand, smoothly and swiftly, not loosening his grip. I frowned and tried to pull away. He pulled me back, taking my hand towards his thigh. My fingers clenched to a fist and my knuckles pressed against his skin. People pushed past me on the pavement, knocking me with their shoulders. One caught my eye and smiled. The man stopped stroking my arm and started stroking my leg.

I looked at him. His face was passive and unreadable and his gaze was levelled at my waist. He gave my leg a final caress, turning his wrist so his thumb slipped briefly under the material of my shorts. Then he released my arm, patted me on the behind, and turned back to his stall.

I jogged after Étienne – he was standing on the pavement twenty yards ahead with his hands on his hips. As I approached he raised his eyebrows. I frowned and we continued walking.

At the guest-house the silent heroin addict sat in his usual seat. When he saw us he drew a line with his finger over each wrist. ‘Sad, huh?’ I tried to say, but my lips were sticky and barely opened. The sound that came from my throat was a sigh.