Missing Louise

by Nicholas Frankcom

  “Run!”

  The urgent tone came from the same direction as the thrown wooden crate. No other prompting was necessary. Mike sprang in an instant and took off towards the welcoming light where the main street beckoned. Without even slowing Mike bolted out into the chaos of human traffic and cars. A Honda step-thru clipped his leg as he charged blindly to the other side. It knocked him off balance, hands flailing in the air. His numbed mass hit the floor, jolting his senses back into real-time. His brain started piecing the event together. Somebody else had been back there! There was some other person back in the alley, an unknown guardian who had helped save his ass. As the thought registered into his conscious an arm grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled. His initial panic quickly subsided when he heard the voice, the same that had commanded him to run.

  “Come. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  Mike swallowed the bile rising from the base of his throat and ran after the figure, dodging the tide of people on the pavement. The attempted mugging had sent a surge through his body and he was able to move fast. His legs took on rubber flexibility as he surged forwards. He reasoned that anyone with the power and guts to stop a street robbery had earned the right to be listened to and followed.

  From the short distance behind, Mike could see that he was close on the heels of a lanky westerner with straggly blond hair. The shoulders formed a perfect V, ample power for the small backpack they carried. Getting the age right was tricky, given the circumstances, but mid to late twenties probably wouldn’t be too far wrong. Two blocks later the runner slowed to a trot then stopped. Mike pulled up alongside, breathless from both shock and the nocturnal sprint.

  “Big thanks are in order. I was screwed back there!”

  “No worries”, the lanky runner replied. “I could see you were going to get walloped back there. Street crime is growing and it’s fucking me off. Used to be such a safe haven until a year or two backs - now you need to watch your back just like anywhere else. Us westerner’s used to be the last on the tick list, left well alone. That’s all changing now. Lucky I could see the guy waltzing up behind you and was able to grab a piece of wood and clunk the bruiser. Did you check his face? Probably not yet out of his teens. I’m Rusty by the way”.

  Mike was now able to pick up the Australian accent, perhaps weakened from time abroad, but was stumped by the name. The sun bleached surfing mop of hair was far from ginger or red.

  “You’re certainly not rusty at waving that plank of wood around!”

  “No mate, rusty at many other things though. Come on, I think we’re safe here but it’s best to keep moving. Should get that arm of yours looked at. Looks like you’re lucky; it’s more of a slash. Is your room close by?”

  “Should we not report to the tourist police first?”

  “Why?” Rusty replied, his tone bordering on incredulous. “What the stuff are they going to do? This guy’s long gone. Sure, you can waste a bit of time filling in forms for the stats, but I can’t see them busting a gut on this one. Besides, did you get a real good look at the guy? Unless you get a sure fire ID they’re going to bury it. Sure, they’re here to help us dimwit backpackers, give us a safety in their presence and that, but without an ID you’re nowhere.”

  “Seems you know a fair bit?”

  “Comes from teaching English out here for several years. You get to know the city and its ways. Had stuff of mine stolen and they did sweet FA about it. Even heard of some Canadian guy mugged and thrown in the open sewer just up north of here. Ended up in hospital with exploding bowels for a week. The police didn’t even bother turning up to take down what the poor bastard saw! Their biggest issue was in keeping it out of the papers.”

  With little space for argument, Mike led Rusty back the short distance to his budget guesthouse. The busy scurry around the bars and stalls no longer held the same magic to him as earlier. The short burst of adrenaline had now left his body, leaving him feeling heavy and tired. Lactic acid from the brief sprint and extended bar visit with Kae made his legs sore at the calves. Thankfully, his chosen hostel was close enough to make it a very short walk. Its location close to the river gave the place a far more relaxed feel than the nocturnal Koa San Road. Inside the communal door, varnished wooden steps led sharply up to a dark corridor, which interconnected the neighbouring building, recently acquired by the guesthouse to extend its premises. Mike had stayed here before and chose it again because of its old and timeless character, coupled with the quiet aura a honeycombed building could contain within its stone walls. He was looking forward to tapping into some of that peace and quiet for the remainder of the night, once he had wrapped a loose bandage around his arm and promised to buy Rusty more beer than he could possibly drink the following night. Digging his key out to the tin padlock securing his door, he failed to notice the hinge on the latch rattled slightly, nor the two screws loosened in their sunken mounts.

  “What in the hell - this is too much!”

  The opened door to Mike’s dimly lit riverside room illuminated a scene of violent chaos. His favoured canvas backpack was pulled open and all of his packing emptied over the bed. Piles of clothes looked to have been pilfered through, notebooks discarded and thrown to the floor, his IPod Nano thrown to one side next to his travel guide and paperbacks, all ripped and upended. His belongings were now a jumbled mess, seemingly violated by probing strangers’ intent on riffling through everything. He felt strangely sickened at the thought of this and depressed how such a thing could happen. This was only one day into his quest and he was a double victim to crimes that he had never been on the receiving end of before. If bad luck travelled in groups of three, he might as well prepare for the seventeen-hour flight home.

  Seeing his look and the state of the room, Rusty placed a reassuring hand on Mike’s shoulder, careful not to aggravate the cut.

  “Come on mate, let’s take a look. Do you reckon they got away with anything?”

  “My passport and money’s on me,” Mike replied. “The bastards would have got sod all. They should have taken the IPod; it’s about the only thing worth taking away. Bloody genuine Apple as well!”

  “They were probably just after cash - yaba junkies I reckon. They know that by hitting ad-hoc rooms in this district, they’re going to get lucky. Some backpackers jump off a plane greener than the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. In their haste to immerse themselves in the city lights, they leave stuff all over the place, thinking a padlock will shut out the rest of the world. An out-of-work junkie is going to get pretty desperate you know. Maybe it’s time you got out of here and forgot about all of this.”

  Mike couldn’t help but agree. It was turning out to be a torrid start and he was keen to move on and feel like he was doing something, even if his search skills were likely to prove ineffectual. At least he could put the word out - maybe get lucky. Rusty on the other hand looked like he could prove quite useful in the bounty-hunting nature of his task. With the Pembertons several thousand miles away, they could hardly raise the preverbal finger at him for taking on some extra help. Over the next twenty minutes he put Rusty in the picture and spent little time having to do any convincing; a two-man team would now be searching for Louise.

  “I’m pissed off with the teaching game anyway,” had been Rusty’s instant response.

  Five

  Getting out of Bangkok the next morning took an age. Mike accompanied by his new straw blonde comrade decided to see what they could uncover on Koh Chang, the Elephant Island. It was the last known place where Louise planned to visit and the obvious starting point. The local police had drawn a blank in their previous enquiries, but had probably taken little time to ask many questions of the small backpacking community centred on Lonely Beach. The chances were that they deemed it a low priority, a simple case of another backpacker going AWOL without bothering to tell anyone. Mike didn’t yet have a plan B, so there was a lo
t riding on how good his questioning could be.

  After checking that nothing was missing - an easy enough task given the few items Mike thought to bring on the trip - they had decided on getting out of Bangkok on the first bus available. With his room having been turned over and a close mugging to mull over, Mike wanted to be well away. His nerves were ragged, his personal safety under threat. The only way that this could be accomplished was to get up at the crack of dawn and make their way to one of the many travel agencies in the area dealing with low cost minibus trips to the Thai islands. Tickets were inclusive of the ageing ferry, more fishing boat than contemporary passenger carrying vessel. Early arrival at the agency offices was essential to ensure a space on a cramped Japanese manufactured mini-bus. The proprietors usually offered cheap breakfasts to further boost their profits, before you embarked on the snake like journey through the traffic congested highways. This often took several hours as the rush hour started early and lasted well into the day. The boom and bust tiger economy provided an ever-growing number of citizens with their own cars, happy to trade up from battered bikes and mopeds. An enthusiastic road building program seemingly created little other than providing acres of temporary car-parking for the queues of Toyotas.

  By the time they arrived at the jetty where the ferry was set to embark from, Mike was feeling the strain. His clothes were crumpled and he felt dishevelled and weary. In his haste he had forgotten to call Kae, so made his excuses to Rusty and wandered off to find a pay phone. He elected not to tell Rusty of this, feeling that the Australian need not be made aware unless there was something that Kae could do to aid them in their search for Louise. If such a situation arose he was sure that Rusty would be admiring of his secret liaisons with the Thai. Overall the thought of this left him with the sentiment that he were in some way deceitful to their new found friendship, though he couldn’t help but think that Rusty would belittle the notion of him communicating with an unknown local. Unless practical help were forthcoming Rusty would probably label it “meddling”. This notion more than any other kept him from keeping Rusty fully in the picture. For now he would keep this on a strictly need-to-know basis. Mike thought that there was something about Kae that suggested he could prove a useful ally. His enthusiasm and concern had seemed very genuine. Local knowledge and possible contacts could prove invaluable and having a third party only a phone call away must surely add a further bonus to their fledgling search.

  The tone and attitude of the voice at the other end of the line took Mike wholly by surprise.

  “You should have told me - you didn’t say you were going immediately! If you’d only asked. I have a car and could have driven you. It would have been my honour to help.”

  This took Mike aback, so much so that he was shaking his head holding on to the phone. Was Kae trying to shame him? He nearly didn’t make the call and now wished that this were the case. A subtly chastised Mike was made to promise several times over that he would keep Kae fully in the picture from now on and not hesitate to call whenever he needed strings to be pulled. He concluded the conversation by jotting down the name of a sergeant assigned to the tourist police on the island. It was at least a start of sorts. He half expected that Kae would be speaking with the sergeant before they even checked in. The concern and enthusiasm seemed genuine enough, even if a little overpowering. It caused a thin vein of wariness to emerge in his thoughts towards the Thai. He now felt that he needed to answer to Kae together with the aloof Pembertons. Generally he regarded himself as independent enough to be resentful of having one manager, it would now appear that he had acquired two.

  He was back with Rusty just in time to jump on-board the ferry, taking shelter from the sun under a canvas awning. They camped out on a hard wooden seat, facing out to the bay. The comparatively petite size of the craft allowed him to take a view from any of the bearings he chose. The overpowering smell of fresh salt calmed him as he took in the view, water lapping in each direction. Although a ferry service, the journey felt more like a cruise as the lush green peeks of Koh Chang filled the skyline. For Mike the short crossing came to a close too early and he was forced into strapping his backpack on and waiting to disembark. On his last visit he had taken the same trip in rough seas and departed the boat with very different sentiments. On that occasion the wooden boat had creaked and groaned, as the waves threatened to penetrate the old planking. Serving foot-passengers in the main, the ferry was no cross-channel roll on/off liner, more a converted fishing boat susceptible to sudden changes in weather. It was crudely kitted out to carry island visitors. Many would simply sit on the flat wooden deck with little or no strapping to cling on to. Seats were little better, thinly padded benches on the whole. Safety features looked to be a low priority for the cash strapped operators, likewise passenger comfort.

  The ferry customers were briefly made to wait whilst bundles of merchandise were manhandled by waiting porters. This was the island’s lifeline, a bustling trade with every new arrival that was probably unchanged since Siam was last inked on the map. The listing swell did little in slowing their progress nor dent their confidence as they danced between boat and pier in canvas shoes.

  Mike watched in fascination, caught up in the colour and noise. A sharp whistle signified the waiting passengers that their time to disembark was here, the deckhands pulled ropes taunt and waved people up. He was about to jump up onto the makeshift pier when his toe caught the uneven dowel on the bow’s decking. He fell heavily. The gap between ferry and pier afforded a fleeting glance at the murky water below. Seaweed and diesel slopping against the bow. With his backpack attached he would sink like a stone. As he pitched forward arms reached out and roughly grabbed his shoulders. He went with it, momentum pulling his body hard into the pier. He quickly gained a handhold and scrambled up.

  “You bloody moron - next time take your bag off first! You can sling it off and jump up afterwards. You could have been impersonating a deep sea diver there!”

  The words belonged to Rusty. Looking up, Mike felt that once again he was indebted to the taller man. Not only had he helped him out twice, but the ex-pat Aussie was once again here to save the day. Mike promised to produce more than a vote of thanks when the time came. As he slowly stood up and caught his breath, he couldn’t help but think a similar fate could so easily have befallen Louise. No matter how unusual or sinister a set of circumstances might be, any number of mishaps could push a person off the radar. Even a strong character such as Louise could trip over and fall into the dark waters below. She could simply be off the radar because of mishap. Mike hoped that this wasn’t so. You didn’t retrieve people from nasty accidents. They got shipped back to grieving relatives in body bags.

  After a short discussion, it was agreed that they head straight out to Lonely Beach. If indeed Louise had made it this far, she most likely would have headed in that direction. Most guidebooks recommended it to the independent traveller as a matter of course. Other beaches and resorts catered more for the domestic or package trade. There was still a charismatic independent charm associated with Lonely Beach. It was the type of resort now facing near extinction in large parts of the tropics.

  The bay had already fallen victim a process of rapid commercial change since Mike’s last visit, necessities of tourism encroaching on the tropical vista, though still held much of the rustic appeal that had drawn backpackers here for several decades. The sheer size and distance from the ferry piers helped in this respect. Although brick air-con chalets thrust their white facades out towards the sea, most of the stilted wooden huts remained, dotted along the shore and up the slopes amongst the trees. Rather than blight the environment with garish visual noise, these older huts moulded back into a natural equilibrium. Mike took heart at this and was pleased that several were available to choose from. The views along the bay would be astonishing.

  Without bothering to unpack much from their bags, they both decided to get on and press home a s
imple investigation. If little came up by the evening, they would relax and take a bar-b-q at one of the beachside café bars. They began with bartenders and Thai resort staff. A downloaded picture of Louise was brandished around and hooked a hit within the first half-hour. Dab, a local fire juggler, thought the picture matched that of a girl he had seen in the company of a couple of other girls, maybe a month or so ago. Faint pink scars across his torso bore testament to his art.

  “Can you be more specific with the time?” Mike had enquired, excited frustration forcing an urgent tone in his voice. “We think that she was here in mid-November”.

  “No, not accurately, though that sounds about right. I have been doing the fire display for two years now and many nights meld into one. I am almost certain it was the girl. Her friends might have been from New Zealand, though I am not very good with all of the accents. I remember them more than others because they invited me over to sit with them after the fire show. They were friendly, inquisitive like they wanted to talk. That does not always happen.”