This time, my voice breaks as I imagine seeing a photo of Mum up there. Sam gently places his fingers on my bare arm. They feel cool, dry. ‘I’m here to help, Louise.’
The woman from the bus approaches from the direction of the photo boards, her face pressed against her husband’s chest as he stares ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks.
I look back at Sam. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘Of course. You’ve probably been asked this already, but are there any distinguishing marks, jewellery, anything that will help me identify your mum?’
‘Just a bracelet she always wears. She’s wearing it in this photo.’ I start digging around in my bag. ‘Thing is, I haven’t seen her for over two years so I’m not sure if she still looks…’ My voice trails off. Why did I say that?
‘Two years?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Sam scrutinises my face then nods. ‘Understood. So, the photo?’
I pull the photo out and hand it over. Mum looks happy in it, tanned, smiling, her dark hair whipping about her face. Slung over her shoulder is a pink bag with the smiling face of a child embroidered into its front. I can just about make out her precious bracelet, a rusty old charm bracelet with bronze teapots and spoons attached to it. She’s wearing the yellow cardigan with red hearts I got her a few years ago, too. That did something to me when Jane emailed the photo after they’d both gone to some Greek island together last year, made my heart clench to see her wearing the cardigan I got her – like maybe Mum did care for me.
Something changes in Sam’s face as he looks at the photo. ‘That’s an unusual bag. I think I saw it last night.’
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘With a body?’
He looks pained. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. It was wrapped around the woman quite securely. It came in late so if there’s any ID with it, it won’t have filtered down to any lists yet.’
I sway slightly, my vision blurring. Sam takes my elbow, helping me to steady myself.
‘I’ll go out back and check for you,’ he says softly. ‘Is it okay if I take this photo?’
‘Yes.’ My voice is barely above a whisper.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ He steers me to a nearby seat, an oddly shaped bamboo chair that feels rough under my calves. He then runs towards the temple, his flip-flops slapping on the sandy concrete as he weaves between the tables and photo boards, apologising to people as he bumps into them.
I put my head in my shaking hands. Is this what it comes to in the end? I feel a rush of regret and anger. Regret at not working hard enough to rebuild my relationship with my mum when she stopped talking to me, anger at the fact I’d had to even try to rebuild it. It had only been a stupid argument; I’d never dreamt it would have led to her not contacting me for such a long time.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I mumble into my palms.
I stay like that for a while, trying to grapple with the idea of Mum being gone for ever. When Jane had called saying how concerned she was, I knew, quite suddenly, that I had to come out here to find Mum. It wasn’t just about finding her. It was about starting over, making amends. I’d brewed on it all of Boxing Day as I’d watched the news unfold on TV until I’d had to wake Will to tell him what I’d decided. I could tell he didn’t believe I’d go through with it, even when I started packing my suitcase.
I sit up straight when I notice Sam jogging towards me again. He’s holding a bag to his chest like it’s a newborn baby and there’s this look on his face that makes something inside me falter. He places the bag on the dusty ground and crouches down in front of me, placing his hands over mine. I pull my hands away, stifling the growing panic inside.
‘There was a passport in the bag,’ he says very softly.
He pulls it from the bag and hands it to me. I open it, see Mum’s face, her name. I put my hand to my mouth and blink, keep blinking. It feels like there’s a wave inside, flattening everything in its path.
‘You said the bag was found with a body,’ I say. ‘Have you seen it?’
Sam nods, face crunched with pain. ‘There’s a lot of…’ He sighs. ‘A lot of damage to the face. But she has dark hair like your mum’s.’
The edges of the world smudge.
I close my eyes and smell Mum’s scent: floral perfume, mints and paint oils. With it comes a memory of her smiling down at me, her paintbrush caught mid-sweep, a blot of black ink smudging the eye she’d been painting – her own eye. The ink crawls down the canvas, distorting her painted face. I was eight at the time and had just got back from a disastrous day at school.
‘What’s with you, grumpy face?’ she’d asked me.
I’d hesitated a moment before stepping into the spare room she was using as a studio. Our house was just a small three-bed semi, but my father had insisted on turning the largest room into a studio for Mum. It had always felt off-limits to me. But she’d beckoned me in that day, gesturing towards her paint-splattered chair, a bright blue leather one she’d found in the local charity shop.
‘Tell me everything,’ she’d said, kneeling in front of me and taking my hands, getting green paint all over them.
‘I don’t want to go into school tomorrow,’ I’d said, resisting the urge to pull away from her and clean the paint off my hands. I’d never got on well at the private school Dad had been so keen to scrimp and save to get me into; the teachers always seemed to regard me as inferior to the other, richer, kids. Mum had warned him it would happen. ‘There’s nothing worse for a snooty bourgeois than an aspiring bourgeois,’ she’d said. Is that what she’d thought of me when I married a company director – a snooty bourgeois?
‘Why not, darling?’ she’d asked.
‘My teacher told me off today.’
She’d raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. I remember thinking that mums aren’t supposed to smile about things like that and part of me was annoyed. Why couldn’t she be like other mums?
‘Why’d your teacher tell you off, Lou?’ she’d asked.
‘I told the truth.’ Her smile had widened. ‘She read out a poem she’d written to help us with our poems and I said it was rubbish.’
Mum had laughed then, those big white teeth of hers gleaming under the light. ‘You told the truth, that’s wonderful! “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know”,’ she’d added, quoting her favourite Keats poem.
‘But she hates me now.’ I’d crossed my arms, turning away. ‘I can’t go into school.’
‘Of course you can! You can’t let fear rule you, Lou. You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.’
‘You okay?’ Sam asks, pulling me from the memory.
I open my eyes, Mum’s words echoing in my mind like she’s right there with me.
You can’t let fear rule you, Lou.
‘Can I see the bag please?’ I ask Sam.
‘Of course.’
He hands it to me. It’s dirtier than in the photo, caked with dried mud, and there’s a grotesque tear across the child’s face. I imagine Mum shopping in one of Thailand’s markets with it, reaching into it for a purse to buy some odd Buddhist ornament, half a smile on her tanned face.
I take a deep breath then unzip it, peering in. There’s a hairbrush in there, a bright red lipstick and something wrapped in a plastic bag. I pull the brush out first, examining the hair on it. It looks dark, just like Mum’s.
But then lots of people have dark hair, right?
I place the brush gently to one side and look at the lipstick. Mum sometimes wears red lipstick. She’s not alone in that, though. Plenty of women do.
But what about her passport? That can only belong to one woman.
I clench my fists, driving the surge of grief away. It’s not over until it’s over.
I reach into the bag again for the item wrapped in plastic. It’s square-shaped and feels heavy, its surface rough beneath the material of the plastic. I pull it out and lay it on top of Mum’s bag. Its front cover is made from stri
ps of thin wood interwoven with each other, and an image of the earth is etched in bright turquoise into it with four words painted in gold over the top.
The Atlas of Us.
There’s a bronzed key lock on the side but it looks broken. I open the heavy front cover, see two lines written on the inside page, the ink only a little blurred – amazing considering how much it must have been thrown about in the water:
To my darling, my life, my world. The atlas of my heart.
Your love, Milo
It feels impossibly romantic. Maybe Mum had met someone? And yet she still hadn’t got in touch with me to tell me about them. I can imagine what Will would say if he were here. ‘Accept it, move on. Your mother doesn’t want to involve you in her life any more.’
I flick through the atlas. On the first page is a hand-drawn illustration of the United Kingdom and Ireland. Opposite is a paper pocket. I run my fingers over it, surprised to feel something inside. I reach in and pull out a dried purple flower encased in cellophane. There are other items too: a yellowed tourist leaflet from a place called Nunney Castle, a ticket to an awards ceremony in London, a photo of a cobweb flooded with light and a business card belonging to a journalist called Nathan Styles. There’s a crumpled piece of notepaper too, with a pencil sketch of a sheep teetering on a tightrope, its eyes wide with comical fear, and a note scrawled in handwriting I don’t recognise above it:
Exmoor by Claire Shreve
A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plummet downwards and destroy everything below.
I’ve never heard of a Claire Shreve. Is she one of Mum’s friends? I flick through the rest of the atlas and see more illustrated maps – including one of Thailand – and pockets too, some bulging with items.
‘Do you recognise any of it?’
I look up at Sam. ‘Just the bag. And the passport of course. I’m not sure about this atlas. I’d have remembered it if I’d seen it. It’s quite unusual.’
‘Okay. Shall I see if I can find a photo on the boards? Or… you might prefer to see her?’
My head swims at the thought. Then I remember Mum’s words again: You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.
‘I’d like to see her please,’ I say.
‘I’ll take you.’
I follow Sam towards a pair of bright blue gates to the side of the temple, criss-crossed with red stripes, the spikes on top gold. The smell instantly hits me: meaty, horrific. I tuck the note back into the atlas and place my sleeve over my nose as I follow Sam towards the temple. A Thai woman is standing in front of the gates, a clipboard in her hand, a bucket of surgical facemasks next to her. Beyond the gates is a temporary trailer, people milling around it. I’m thankful it’s blocking the view of whatever’s behind it.
Sam nods at the woman, who hands me a surgical mask. I put it on, gagging at the smell of antiseptic.
‘Brace yourself,’ Sam says as he leads me through the gate.
I walk around the corner of the trailer towards a large area fringed by spindly green trees, the hill darting up behind them. At first, I think it’s dirty clothes spread over the plastic sheets in the middle. But as I draw closer, I see a bloated leg sticking out of one mound, a tangle of black hair fanning out from another and realise it’s bodies, scores of them, half covered by different coloured sheets of plastic. People are walking around in blue scrubs and wellies, and then there are the relatives and friends, hands over mouths as they crouch over the bodies, some crying, most looking frantic and exhausted.
I want to turn around and get the hell out of there. But instead, I force myself to follow Sam as he walks towards the bodies and try to control the whirlpool of terror inside.
‘She’s here,’ Sam says softly, coming to a stop in front of a blue sheet. He crouches down, taking the corner of the plastic between his fingers, then peers up at me. ‘Ready?’
‘Wait.’ I look up at the bright blue sky, tears welling in my eyes. Everything will be different after this; even the sky might look different.
I have to do this. I have to know.
‘Ready,’ I say. I hear the crunch of plastic and look down.
The colour of the face hits me first: dark red, bloated. Then the hair, long, curly and tangled around a swollen neck. There’s nothing there to recognise. It’s all distorted, grotesque. How can I find my mum in that?
I quickly look away again, stifling a sob. Could it really be her? It takes a while before I’m certain my voice will sound normal. ‘I can’t be sure,’ I say. ‘She has the same colour hair. But I – I can’t be sure. Is she wearing a bracelet? She always wore her bracelet.’
There’s a pause, more rustling then Sam’s voice. ‘No. There’s a necklace around her neck though, quite distinctive. It’s a gold typewriter with blue gems for keypads?’
Hope flutters inside. ‘I never saw her wear something like that. Do you think that means it’s not her?’
‘She could have bought the necklace at a stall here, plus her passport was inside so…’
His voice trails off but I understand what he’s trying to say. The chances are it is Mum. I feel the tears coming, the world tilting, and stumble away, leaning against a nearby tree as I try to control my emotions.
Sam follows me, placing his hand on my back. I don’t flinch away from him this time.
‘Mum left when I was twelve,’ I gasp. ‘I’ve barely seen her since. The last time was over two years ago at a party, it was awful.’ I don’t really understand why I’m saying all this now, to a virtual stranger. But the words continue to come out in a rush. ‘We had a terrible argument and I didn’t hear from her after, no matter how many times I called. Your mum keeps me posted with what she’s up to. But my mum won’t speak to me, her own daughter, and – and now I can’t even be sure if it’s her body back there.’
I start crying again in loud, shuddery hiccups and Sam wraps his arms around me. He smells faintly of sweat and antiseptic, the plastic of his outfit crinkling against my cheek. I ought to pull away. What would my husband say? But I need this right now, human touch, even if it is a stranger’s touch. We stay like that for a few moments, surrounded by death and mourning relatives.
Then there’s a strangled sob from nearby. I pull away to see a man with curly blond hair crouching down next to the body we’ve just been looking at. An Indian man wearing scrubs is standing over him, brow creased.
‘This is Claire’s necklace,’ the blond man says. ‘It’s handcrafted, one of a kind. She wears it all the time. Oh God.’
Relief rushes through me as I look down at the atlas in my mum’s bag, thinking of the note I found in it. Is it the same Claire?
‘What if it’s not Mum?’ I say to Sam, clutching onto this new possibility. ‘There was something in the atlas written by someone called Claire! And if that’s Claire’s necklace…’
‘But your mum’s passport and bag were with the body, Louise,’ Sam says softly.
I refuse to acknowledge what he just said, can’t possibly now there’s a glimmer of hope it might not be Mum. I look towards the blond man who’s now kneeling next to the woman, his head in his hands. Hope surges inside me. ‘He seems convinced he knows who she is,’ I say.
Sam follows my gaze. ‘He does, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s not your mum’
I look up at the sky. Still the same. I promise myself that if – no, when – I find Mum alive, I’ll make her talk to me, really talk to me and we will repair what came apart since she left.
Then something occurs to me. ‘Maybe the reason that woman had Mum’s bag was because she knew her? If so, that man might know where Mum is.’
I go to walk towards him but Sam stops me. ‘Louise … give him a minute.’
I look into Sam’s eyes. I can tell he thinks I’m grasping at straws. Maybe I am, but what other leads do I have? ‘I have to find my mum, I have to bring her back to me, back to her grandchildren. I don’t care what it takes, where I have to go, but Mum
’s going to be on that plane back to the UK with me.’
I shrug off his arm and march towards the man. He looks up when I approach, his eyes red.
I hesitate a moment. Maybe Sam’s right. But then I think of Mum out there somewhere, possibly injured in some filthy hospital with doctors who don’t speak English.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say softly, kneeling down to his level and putting my hand on his arm. He’s wearing a powder-blue suit, more expensive-looking than any of Will’s.
He shakes his head in disbelief, tears falling down his tanned cheeks. ‘I knew she was in the worst possible place for the wave to hit. But I never dreamed I’d find her body. She’s been through so much, gone through so much, and always come out fighting. Oh God.’
His voice cracks and I feel like crying with him. It could have been me kneeling here grieving for my mother. It was for a few moments.
‘I think my mum knew your wife,’ I say gently.
The man flinches. ‘Friend, not wife.’
‘Friend. Sorry. She had my mum’s bag when she was found,’ I say, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulder. ‘And there was an atlas with a note written by someone called Claire Shreve in it?’
He frowns. ‘Are you sure that’s your mother’s bag?’
‘Her passport was in it. It’s quite a distinctive bag too.’
‘Did your mother know Nathan Styles?’
I think of the business card in the atlas. ‘No. Why?’
He ignores my question. ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ he asks instead.
‘Nora McKenzie.’
His face flickers with recognition. ‘The name rings a bell.’
All my nerves stand on edge. ‘Really? Did Claire know my mother?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry, I’m not very good with names, especially now.’ He looks down at the body again, face crumpling. Then he takes in a deep breath, composing himself. ‘I need to make some calls then I really must sleep. But maybe it’ll come to me once I get some rest. Where are you staying?’ I tell him the name of my hotel in Ao Nang and he nods. ‘I’m not far from there. There’s a small café just a few minutes’ walk from it.’ He pulls out a pen and business card from his pocket and scribbles down the café’s address before handing it to me. ‘Shall we meet there tomorrow morning, at nine?’
The Lost Mother: An absolutely gripping and emotional read that will have you hooked Page 2