by Jon Evans
Danielle can’t argue with that. Laurent is a knight. He cannot abandon his cause in the midst of battle.
“If I wasn’t here, where would you go?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter. The important thing is, I would work to come back here.”
“I don’t think I can live here. I don’t think I can live like you do.”
“I know.”
They look at each other.
“Come with me tomorrow,” he says. “Come to Paris. I think I will go there with Angus and Estelle, find common cause, perhaps bring our groups together. Come with me.”
“But you just said –”
“Please. Worry about the distant future when the distant future comes. Come with me. We’ll go together. Please.”
She aches to say yes. But as much as it would hurt to end things, maybe it would be better now than later. Even if the very thought is like imagining tearing her own arm off. “I have to think it over.”
He nods. “I understand.”
They look at each other.
“Come here,” he says.
It isn’t a request. She walks to the bed and stands over him for a moment, smiling slightly, before he pulls her down, draws her beneath him, almost rips her clothes as he tears them off, then entwines her hands in his and pins them above her head, kisses her passionately as he slowly lowers himself to her, careful as ever of her fading bruise.
“Stay with me,” he whispers.
Danielle arches her back, presses herself against him hungrily. Sex with Laurent is amazing. He is almost too good in bed. She knows she is only the latest in a long string of women. It is ridiculous to think of a future with him. Maybe here in India they make sense together, but back in the real world, it will be like trying to tame a wild animal. He isn’t the kind of man she should fall for. But it is much too late for that. All she wants is to be with him. She decides not to think about it, not now. Instead she closes her eyes and allows raw animal pleasure to extinguish all rational thought.
* * *
They hear the party before they see it, in an isolated bar between the beach and the spiny headland that protrudes into the water at its end. The space is little more than a large open wooden floor with an L-shaped bar in one corner and an impressive sound system on the other, at which a shaven-headed DJ plies his trade, his face as intent as that of a surgeon doing tricky work. Lines of tables outside the bar proper, on the beach, are laden with stubby bottles of Castle beer, plastic water bottles, Marlboro Light packets, purses, day packs, discarded clothes. Most of the chairs are empty. The crowd is here to dance. About two hundred people, mostly in their early twenties and in exceptionally good shape, maybe a dozen of them Indian, writhe to the fast-paced thumpa-thumpa-thumpa beat. Tattoos, dreadlocks, bare-chested musclemen, women in sarongs and bikini tops, the harsh smell of cigarettes and the sweet smell of pot.
Danielle didn’t think Laurent would be interested in the party, but it was he who roused her at ten-thirty and suggested, all but insisted, that they go. Further unwelcome evidence that she doesn’t actually know him. She dressed in a short skirt and a tight shirt that leaves her midriff bare. She wouldn’t have dared this in Bangalore, but in hedonistic touristic Goa, it is tame. Laurent wears white yoga pants and no shirt, like when she first saw him, without the handcuffs. Estelle is in a bright sarong and a blue bikini top, Angus in cargo shorts, his slender torso bare. Keiran, dressed in black jeans and black T-shirt, leads them onto the floor. He is obviously looking for someone.
They have to push through the crowd; very few people make way for them. The noise is sufficiently loud to preclude most conversation, but Danielle hears harsh glottal noises that she recognizes as either Arabic or Hebrew. Of course. Travelling through India for a few months is a rite of passage for young Israelis after they complete their military service, which explains this crowd’s youth, fitness level, and fuck-you attitude. Danielle supposes that if this was her first chance to cut loose after two years spent looking for suicide bombers on the West Bank, she wouldn’t be much inclined to worry about the well-being of strangers either.
The people Keiran knows – friends of friends, apparently – number half a dozen, all male, all with shaved heads and tattoos. The rest of the crowd gives their group more space than most. After a quick shouted conversation in incomprehensible English, Keiran takes something from one of his friends and leads Angus, Estelle, Danielle and Laurent back onto the sand, far enough away to hear one another.
“How do you feel about chemical enhancement?” he asks.
Danielle frowns. Laurent raises his eyebrows. “What sort?”
“I believe the American slang is ‘rolling’? My friends just dropped ten minutes ago. If you want to get in sync…” He holds out an upturned palm, on which are five gel capsules. “Work hard, play hard, that’s my mantra.”
Danielle shakes her head instinctively. She hasn’t touched drugs for years. She has walked out of parties solely because people started passing joints around. Not that she isn’t tempted. Ecstasy was always her favourite drug. But she doesn’t do that any more.
Laurent takes two of the pills and offers one to her.
“Come on,” he says, smiling. “Moderate excess might do you good.”
“I gave it up.”
“One night won’t kill you. No need to be a puritan. You can enjoy life and still live it the way you want.”
Danielle looks at the drug in her lover’s hand. She knows that the experience of doing Ecstasy together is, or can be, a powerful emotional bond. But she knows this from damaged, drug-dependent relationships.
“Come on, Dani,” Keiran says. “All the cool kids are doing it.”
She wants to slap him. But instead her hand reaches out, as if self-propelled, takes the pill from Keiran. It doesn’t occur to her to wonder about safety or purity until a moment after she swallows it. Laurent follows her example. Keiran offers the last two to Angus and Estelle, who look at each other, obviously tempted, but politely decline.
“Israeli-made, top quality,” Keiran assures them. He takes his own pill and passes a bottle of water around to wash down the drugs.
They return to the dance floor. It seems uncomfortably remote, now, its denizens menacing, the music harsh and too rapid. Danielle wishes they hadn’t come, that she and Laurent had stayed in bed. She dances, but her heart isn’t in it. She wants a beer, but no. One drug at a time. She even wants a cigarette, which she quit years ago. It’s as if this night all her old vices have returned to haunt her.
Time passes. Laurent seems to be enjoying dancing, and anyway it is too loud to talk. Keiran has a long conversation with his Israeli skinheads, and then they are back on the dance floor, throwing themselves around with graceful rhythmic abandon, their faces glowing with bliss. Not Keiran. It hasn’t hit him yet.
Then Danielle starts to feel the drumbeats grow more powerful, vibrating through her, through everything, seemingly shaking the air, the floor, the earth itself. Time seems to slow down. Or maybe she has sped up. The drums keep pounding out their staccato demands, but space has somehow grown between the beats, she can easily pick out every element of their complex rhythm. She feels very warm, but comfortably so, and her surroundings have become somehow deeper, more present, as if thickened in some barely perceptible fourth dimension. Both time and space feel warped, distended, but at the same time ordered with crystalline perfection. Colours seem more vivid, sounds are clearer, the warm wind is delicious on her skin, and every human face and form around her seems impossibly beautiful. Danielle feels a wave of energy surge within her, filling her whole body with throbbing strength and power.
She looks up at Laurent. He is so beautiful. He is beautiful even sober. On Ecstasy he looks like a god. He smiles at her. She can tell it hasn’t hit him yet. But Keiran’s eyes shine with understanding. They exchange a beaming smile. She is glad Keiran is happy, he deserves it, it isn’t easy being him, deep inside he is shy and misunderstood, his brain w
orks in ways the rest of the world doesn’t comprehend, so he has become distant and short-tempered. Danielle understands that now better than ever. She would like to sit down with him in the beach, hold him tightly, listen to him, understand him, while running her hands over the rough denim of his jeans, the cotton of his shirt, his smooth skin and spiky hair, not sexually, she doesn’t feel the least bit sexual right now, but just to feel the sensations, now that the pleasure response of all five of her senses has been amplified tenfold. But she doesn’t want to leave Laurent. And she wants to dance.
The music calls to her. She throws herself into it, moving with perfect clarity of thought and motion, every step an epiphany, and she is surrounded by impossibly beautiful, wonderful people, heros and princesses, all of them unique and gorgeous and precious, and oh God, here is Laurent, a smile stretched across his face, he puts his arms around her, dancing with her, they move in perfect harmony with each other and the music, he is so warm, she presses herself against his bare chest and gasps with delight, she feels she might explode from the perfection of this moment, but she doesn’t, and it doesn’t end, it goes on, and on, and on.
“I forgot how good it could be,” Danielle murmurs to him, she doesn’t know how much longer later, they are on the beach, she can feel every particle of sand against her skin, that feels wonderful, but nothing compared to Laurent’s body pressed against hers.
“If it’s been a few years, then it’s like your first time all over again,” he says.
“I want to know all about you,” she says. “If you like. I don’t mean to press you. But if you want to tell me, I want to listen. Growing up. Coming here. The Legion. Anything you want to say to me,” she laughs, “and not just when I’m on drugs, I want to listen.”
He traces the outline of her face with a finger. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “I wish we could stay here, like this, forever.”
“Me too. Me too a whole lot. Do you have any water?”
He produces a bottle. She drinks deeply, Ecstasy makes you thirsty, but not too deeply, cuts herself off because she knows most deaths due to this drug are actually caused by hyponatremia, drinking too much water. She passes back the bottle, glad she is able to maintain at least some judgement in the midst of this overwhelming storm of pleasure.
“Let’s dance,” he says, and leads her back to the dance floor. She wants to talk and hold each other instead, but she follows, and when they are again immersed in the storm of sound and motion, she lets the music carry her away. Every motion, every sway or shake of the hips, feels flawless, she moves with the instinctive grace of a ballerina, in perfect sync with the beat.
Eventually she realizes she is coming down. She still feels wonderfully energized, but only physically, the psychoactive effects have worn off. According to her watch it is one AM. Two hours have passed since the drug hit. She wishes it didn’t dissipate so quickly, or at least that she could remember its effects better, recall more than a few glittering fragments of grace and perfection.
Keiran approaches them. “Want to go for a walk? Cool down a bit, then catch a taxi back home?”
“Sure,” Laurent says. “Let me get some water first.”
He soon returns from the bar with fresh water, deliciously cold. Angus and Estelle, undrugged and thus exhausted, join them, and the five of them walk back up the beach. Angus and Estelle walk hand in hand, talking in low voices, chuckling at private jokes. The ocean to their left sighs rhythmically. The stars and moon above are bright enough to read a newspaper.
“Where did your friends go?” Laurent asks Keiran.
“Back to their house, to smoke spliffs and chill out. Not really my scene.”
“How do you know them?”
“Online, mostly. Lots of good Israeli hackers. But they don’t know what I’m up to. They think I’m here on holiday.”
Danielle is glad to see that Keiran is treating Laurent at least civilly now. Then again he is on Ecstasy.
“How long will you be here?” Laurent asks.
“I’m going back to London soon as you’re home safe. I do have a job to go back to. I mean, a day job. In addition to the work.”
“And what’s the work?”
Keiran shrugs. “Same as ever. To own fill-in-the-blank’s whole computer network. Here the blank is Kishkinda.”
“You can do that?”
“If anyone can.”
“You don’t lack confidence,” Laurent observes.
“No. I don’t.”
They walk on. Danielle lets her mind drift to a crazy notion of Laurent living with her in Manhattan, bringing her bagels every morning. Before she knows it they are in Arumbol proper. It seems smaller and more relaxed than Anjuna.
A cab, conveniently, is there waiting for passengers. It’s an Ambassador, not a large vehicle, and Estelle winds up riding on Angus’s lap in the front, with Keiran and Danielle and Laurent in the back. They instruct the driver to go to the ashram and then the rented holiday house in Calangute. Once in motion Danielle takes Laurent’s hand in hers, leans against him, and closes her eyes. She isn’t tired, there’s still enough E in her system that she feels vibrantly alert; she just wants to focus on the feel of him, the smell, the way his rough fingers curl gently around hers.
Her reverie is broken by Keiran’s sharp voice. “This isn’t the right way.”
She opens her eyes. She can’t tell where they are exactly, somewhere on an empty road, forest to either side.
“Short cut,” the driver explains.
Keiran shakes his head. “This isn’t right. We want to go south. This takes us east. I saw the map. Turn around, this route will take ages.”
“Short cut,” the driver repeats, showing no inclination to follow Keiran’s advice.
“No, this is the longest cut available. We should be going exactly the opposite way.”
“Let it go,” Angus says tiredly. “He’s the driver. Maybe the map’s wrong.”
“It happens,” Danielle agrees, thinking of the incomplete bridge that was supposed to cross the Tungabadhra, what feels like years ago. She nestles her head in the crook of Laurent’s neck. Maybe Keiran is right. In fact, he’s almost certainly right, she knows very well that this isn’t the kind of thing his searchlight mind gets wrong. But what does it matter? They have already agreed on the price.
It is odd, though, that a local driver would go in so exactly the wrong direction.
A tiny, ice-cold kernel of worry appears at the base of Danielle’s spine. Then it begins to thicken and grow, like ice spreading across a winter lake. Either Keiran is disastrously wrong, or the driver is disastrously wrong – or the local taxi driver is deliberately taking them away from the coast, into Goa’s quasi-rural wilderness. He would only do that if he had been paid to do so. If, for instance, he had been given pictures of certain white people, and told there was a great reward for taking them to a certain place in Goa’s remote hinterland.
“Guys,” Danielle says, sitting up straight. “Guys. I think Keiran’s right. We should go the other way.”
“It’s okay,” Laurent says soothingly, “We’ll be fine.”
“No it isn’t. Why is he taking us out here? Tell him to turn around. Make him turn around.”
“Stop the car,” Keiran orders. “Stop the car right now.”
“Short cut,” the driver says blandly, stepping on the accelerator.
Estelle looks back at Keiran and Danielle, then at Angus. Then she says, loudly, “Stop this car right now or I’ll stop it for you.”
“Here,” the driver says, rounding a bend at such speed that his passengers are thrown together by the centripetal force, and then, appearing out of the wilderness forest before them, they see a Bharat Petroleum station, alone on a thickly forested road, like the famous Hopper Mobilgas painting. The station is lit by a pair of white fluorescent tubes that project from fifteen-foot-high poles in the shape of hockey sticks. Their light illuminates the station surreally in the otherwise perfect
darkness, it looks too vivid to be real life.
A gas station. He was just taking them to a gas station to fill up. Danielle and the others relax, and Danielle giggles with embarrassed relief, as the driver parks in the gravel on front of the pump, switches off the car, opens the door and exits.
“Sorry,” Danielle says. “Sorry. I guess I’ve gotten paranoid.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Estelle says. “I was getting pretty worried too.”
Then Keiran says, his voice taut, “This is no petrol station.”
After a silence Angus says “Looks like it to me.”
“That pump. It’s not connected to anything. There’s nobody in the building. And our driver’s done a runner.”
Danielle realizes Keiran is right. Their driver is gone, and the station is deserted. It isn’t just closed for the night, in fact its construction isn’t even complete, bundles of rebar still sprout from its unfinished roof, and the pump stands at an angle on its concrete base, not yet connected to the gas tank beneath. Relief is replaced by cold terror as she looks around. They have been driven to this deserted site and deliberately abandoned.
“Everyone out of the car,” Angus orders, opening the door.
Danielle follows Laurent out. Her limbs feel beyond her own control, like she is a passenger in her own body, she watches herself clamber out of the door with some amazement at the way all her limbs manage to gracefully coordinate. The situation feels unreal, far more hallucinatory than the chemicals she ingested earlier.
The five of them cluster beside the car, standing rigidly, senses straining, trying to see or hear something in the perfect blackness all around them. But nothing moves and the only sound is a faint buzz from one of the fluorescent lights.
“Where did he go?” Danielle asks, meaning the driver.
“Around the building,” Keiran says.
“Maybe we should look for him.”
“Right,” Estelle says. “Charge into the darkness. I’ve seen too many horror movies to sign up for that one, thank you very much.” A faint quaver in her voice undermines her bravado.