The Beach

by Alex Garland

  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.

  Étienne

  The policeman was perspiring, but not with the heat. The air-con in the room made it like a fridge. It was more to do with the exertion of speaking English. When he came to a difficult word or a complicated sentence his brow would crease into a hundred lines. Then, little beads of sweat would pop up like opals on his brown skin.

  ‘But Mis’er Duck no you frien’,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘I’d never met him before last night. And listen. The Duck name, it’s not real. It’s a joke name.’

  ‘Jo’ name?’ said the policeman.

  ‘Not a true name.’ I pointed to where he’d written the name in his notebook. ‘Daffy Duck is a cartoon character.’

  ‘Ca’oon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mis’er Duck is ca’oon?’

  ‘Like Bugs Bunny. Uh, Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the policeman. ‘So, he gi’ false name to gues’ house.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  The policeman wiped his shirtsleeve over his face. Sweat sprinkled over his notebook, blurring the ink. He frowned and new droplets replaced the ones he’d just swept away.

  ‘Now I wan’ ask you abou’ scene of crime.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You en’er Mis’er Duck room, because wha’?’

  I’d worked this out on the walk down the Khao San Road to the police station.

  ‘Because he kept me awake last night and I wanted to tell him not to do it again.’

  ‘Ah. Las’ nigh’ Mis’er Duck make noise.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And wha’ you fine in room, hah?’

  ‘Nothing. I just saw him dead and went to tell the guest-house manager.’

  ‘Mis’er Duck already dead? How you know abou’ tha’?’

  ‘I didn’t. I just thought he was. There was a lot of blood.’

  The policeman nodded sagely, then leant back on his chair.

  ‘I think you angry abou’ so much noise las’ nigh’, hah?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How angry wi’ Mis’er Duck?’

  I held up my hands. ‘I spent the whole morning in the restaurant eating breakfast. From six until nine. A lot of people saw me there.’

  ‘Maybe he die before six.’

  I shrugged. I wasn’t worried. There was a clear image in my head of the low light coming through the newspapered windows and the sparkling highlights on Mister Duck. The blood had been pretty wet.

  The policeman sighed. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You tell me agai’ abou’ las’ nigh’.’

  Why didn’t I mention the map? Bec
ause I didn’t want to get involved in some foreign police investigation and I didn’t want my holiday fucked up. Also I didn’t care much about the guy’s death. I saw it as, well, Thailand’s an exotic country with drugs and AIDS and a bit of danger, and if Daffy Duck got too caught up, then it was his look-out.

  I didn’t get the impression that the policeman cared much about the whole thing either. After another thirty minutes of ruthless interrogation (‘Can you ve’ify you eat banan’ pancake?’) he let me go, asking me not to leave Khao San within twenty-four hours.

  The French girl’s boyfriend was sitting on the steps of the police station with his face angled up towards the sun. Obviously he’d been brought in for questioning too. He glanced around as I walked down the steps, maybe thinking I was the girl, then turned back.

  Normally I’d have taken that as a sign someone doesn’t want to chat. I do a lot of my travelling alone so sometimes I get starved of conversation and company. It makes me alert to body language, because even if I’m feeling a bit lonely I don’t want to inflict myself on a person who isn’t interested. But this time I ignored the sign. Despite not wanting to get involved with the police, the death had made for an unusual start to the day and I had the urge to talk about it.

  I sat down right beside him so he couldn’t avoid me. As it turned out, I’d read the sign wrong anyway. He was very friendly.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Speak English? Uh, je parle français un petit peu mais malheureusement je suis pas très bon.’

  He laughed. ‘I speak English,’ he replied in a gently accented voice.

  ‘You’re here about that guy who died, huh?’

  ‘Yes. I heard you were the one to find him.’

  Fame.

  ‘Yep,’ I replied, pulling my cigarettes out of my pocket. ‘Found him this morning.’

  ‘It must have been bad for you.’

  ‘It was OK. Do you smoke?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  I lit up.

  ‘So, I’m Richard,’ I said, exhaling.

  ‘Étienne,’ said Étienne, and we shook hands.

  Last night I’d put him at eighteen or so, but in the daylight he looked older. Twenty or twenty-one. He had a Mediterranean look about him – short dark hair and a slim build. I could see him in a few years’ time, a couple of stones heavier, a glass of Ricard in one hand and a boule in the other.

  ‘This is so weird,’ I said. ‘I only got to Thailand last night. I wanted to relax in Bangkok, if that’s possible, and instead I got this.’

  ‘Oh, we have been here already four weeks, and it is weird for us too.’

  ‘Well, yeah, I suppose someone dying is always a bit strange. So where’ve you been for the last month? Not only Bangkok, surely.’

  ‘No, no.’ Étienne shook his head vigorously. ‘A few days in Bangkok is enough. We have been north.’

  ‘Chiang Mai?’

  ‘Yes, we went on a trek. We rafted on a river. Very boring, no?’ He sighed and leant backwards, resting his back on the stone step behind him.

  ‘Boring?’

  Étienne smiled. ‘Raft, trek. I want to do something different, and everybody wants to do something different. But we all do the same thing. There is no… ah…’

  ‘Adventure.’

  ‘I think it is why we come here.’ He pointed around the corner of the police station, towards the Khao San Road. ‘We come for an adventure, but we find this.’

  ‘Disappointing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Étienne paused for a moment, frowning slightly, then he said, ‘This man who died. He was very strange. We would hear him late at night. He would talk and shout… The walls are so thin.’

  To my irritation I blushed, remembering the sound of Étienne and his girlfriend having sex. I took a deep drag on my cigarette and looked down at the steps we were sitting on. ‘Are they?’ I said. ‘I was so tired last night I slept…’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes we do not return to the guest-house until late so he will already be asleep.’

  ‘It won’t be a problem any more.’

  ‘Often we could not understand him. I know he talked English because I would recognize some words, but… it was not easy.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy for me either. He was Scottish. Strong accent.’

  ‘Oh… You heard him last night?’

  Now it was Étienne’s turn to go red while I concentrated on my cigarette. My embarrassment was compounded by his. It was odd, but if his girlfriend had been ugly I’d only have been amused, but because she was so attractive it almost felt as if I’d had some kind of affair with her. Which of course I had. A mental affair.

  We blushed at each other until the awkward silence became too oppressive.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, far too loudly. ‘He had a thick Scottish accent.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Étienne, also a little firmly. ‘Now I understand.’

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully as though he were smoothing down a beard, although I could see from his light stubble that he was a long way from being able to grow one. Then he said, ‘He would talk about a beach.’

  He looked straight at me as he said it. He was watching my face for a reaction – it was obvious. I nodded to make him continue.

  ‘He would talk about it all night. I would lie on my bed awake, because I could not sleep with his shouting, and I would try to follow his words. Like a puzzle.’ Étienne laughed. ‘Fokkin’ bitch,’ he said, approximating the man’s voice pretty well. ‘It took me three nights to understand it was a beach. Just like a puzzle.’

  I took another drag on my cigarette, leaving a pause in the conversation, letting Étienne fill it.

  ‘I like puzzles,’ he said, but not really to me. Then he let the silence grow.

  A trip to India, seventeen years old, more dope than sense, me and one friend decided to take about an eighth of hash with us on a flight from Srinagar to Delhi. We each made our own plans as to how to take it. I wrapped mine up in plastic, swathed it in masking tape and deodorant to mask the smell, and tucked it into a bottle of malaria pills. The precautions were probably unnecessary. The customs officers were unlikely to be too interested in internal flights, but I did it anyway.

  When we got to the airport I was shit scared. I mean I was shit scared – eyes popping, shaking, sweating like a pig. But in spite of my fear, I did the most extraordinary thing. I told a complete stranger, a guy I met in the waiting lounge, that I had some dope hidden in my backpack. It wasn’t even like he’d winkled the information out of me. I volunteered it. I made the conversation move on to the subject of drugs, and then confessed that I was a smuggler.

  I don’t know why I did it. I knew it was a fantastically stupid thing to do, but I went right ahead and did it anyway. I simply needed to tell someone what I was doing.

  ‘I know where the beach is,’ I said.

  Étienne raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve got a map.’

  ‘A map of the beach?’

  ‘The dead guy drew it for me. I found it stuck to my door this morning. It shows where the beach is, how to get there. I’ve got it in my room.’

  Étienne whistled. ‘You told the police?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Perhaps it is important. Maybe it is something to do with why he…’

  ‘Maybe it is.’ I flicked away my cigarette. ‘But I don’t want to get involved. Maybe they’d think I knew him or something, but I didn’t. I never met him before last night.’

  ‘A map,’ said Étienne quietly.

  ‘Cool, huh?’

  Étienne stood up suddenly. ‘Can I see it? Would you mind?’

  ‘Uh, not really,’ I replied. ‘But aren’t you waiting for…’

  ‘My girlfriend? Françoise? She knows the way back to the guest-house. No, I would like to see the map.’ He rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘If I may.’

  Surprised by the intimacy of the gesture, my shoulder twitched and the hand dropped.

  ‘Ye
ah, sure,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

  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.