by Claire Gray
‘We will find those responsible,’ the police chief says, but his voice is weak.
‘No one has claimed responsibility?’ a woman close to me asks, pushing forwards and shouting across the crowd.
‘Not yet.’
‘But who do you think it was?’ she presses.
‘Cannot say. Not at this time.’
‘Was it a suicide bomber?’ asks a man with an Irish accent.
‘We believe the bomb was hidden. Not a suicide bomber.’
‘Hidden where?’ someone demands.
‘We are still working that out,’ the police chief says, and Steve and I glance at each other.
Afterwards, I sit beneath the statue of the King, chew a stick of gum and watch the vehicles slowly disperse. Some reporters are yelling and grinning at each other, like they’re on an adventure holiday. Steve joins me. He leans against the statue and stares at the sky. I watch his shoulders move as he breathes. Neither of us says anything for a while.
‘I somehow thought things would feel less horrible once someone official had stepped in and taken charge,’ Steve says.
‘Me too. But it still feels the same. Worse even. Because now we know that the official people are as lost as we are.’
‘Oh, that reminds me. I bumped into Kadesadayurat when I arrived here,’ Steve says. ‘They haven’t found Shuttleworth. And this Dolph character is missing. He’s a Marine Biologist and shares a house with a few other scientists. They’re concerned about him. They thought he must have been injured or killed by the bomb but of course several people, you included, have seen him at the Imperial Hotel since then. He probably just got scared and left the island like everyone else. Maliwan’s not been seen either. Her mother thinks she’s dead, and she’s quite possibly right.’
‘Maybe she is,’ I say, looking down at my feet. ‘That could be why Dolph looked upset. But why was he staying at a hotel if he has a house here?’
‘Well, I don’t know. That is sort of odd.’
I look towards the town hall, where the doors have been sealed and shapes move on the other side of the glass. I imagine that the people inside are staring at the ground much like Steve and I, asking question after question but getting no answers.
‘It’s strange that no one’s claimed this attack,’ I say.
‘I guess. But it’s still been less than forty-eight hours.’
‘Did Kadesadayurat say anything else about Shuttleworth?’ I ask. ‘Don’t they have any idea what happened to him?’
‘Well, they don’t think you killed him.’
‘That’s a relief. Although, it’s not very thorough policing, is it? How do they really know I’m not involved?’
‘Honestly, I don’t think they care too much at the moment. They know how he treated people and they have terrorists to hunt.’
‘You know he’s married?’ I say, shielding my eyes as the sunlight pulses around the roof of the town hall.
‘They’re separated. She lives in the States, I think. Don’t waste too much energy worrying about the Shuttleworths. His disappearance isn’t your responsibility and I don’t think they’re connected to the bomb in any way. I know he gave you what he thought was a lead but he’s a strange guy; I doubt he knew what he was talking about. Are you coming back to the office?’
‘I need to meet Lena but I won’t be long. I haven’t seen her since the other night. I’ll swing by the office afterwards.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Steve says with the faintest of smiles.
Chapter Twelve
Lena’s sitting outside the coffee shop. She notices me just as she’s finishing a cigarette; she crumples it into a clay pot in the centre of the table, which is covered with laminated menus and emptied coffee cups. She stands up to greet me with the gentlest of hugs and kisses me with lips that smell like blackcurrant and leave a stickiness on my cheek. It’s impossible not to look at the cut on her forehead. It’s healing, but the dried blood is as black as her hair.
‘Good to see you,’ she says without smiling. She stops a passing waitress and asks for two more coffees.
I’ve known Lena since I arrived at the hostel. She was working on reception when I paid for my first week’s stay. She’s been travelling for two years and doesn’t see an end to it. She spends most of her time resting in chairs, curled like a cat and smoking, or reading, or drinking from glass bottles which she taps her coloured nails against. But when something excites her she becomes a spark of energy, igniting everyone around her to party or protest. I was wary of her at first, and still am a little. But she seems fond of me and tells me about her life whether I ask her to or not. I don’t tell her much at all. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Today, Lena is changed. Her face looks plumper than usual and she keeps her hands still in her lap. She’s been staying with her boyfriend since the night of the bomb. He’s a Thai fisherman. Five or six of them live there together, laughing, eating and smoking. I visited the house with her about a month ago. We drank vodka on a mat made from reeds. There was very little in there besides a smell of fish; some crates, boxes, piles of clothes. I don’t think she should be staying there right now. I can’t imagine what she does in there for all those hours, hanging around people she can’t communicate with verbally, as her Thai is as basic as mine. I want to tell her that she should be with her family or with her friends, but I don’t say anything because I know I would hate it if she said something like that to me.
‘Look who I have here.’ Lena reaches into a mound of blankets beneath her chair and pulls out a puppy; a furry slug with a pink nose and rheumy eyes.
‘Cute,’ I say, although it isn’t; it looks sick.
‘It’s one of Billie’s puppies. Don’t you recognise him? The others all died in the explosion, but not this one. They were downstairs. I found him under his mother’s body when I tried to get back inside for my stuff.’
‘Shit,’ I say. The hostel dog. ‘They even got Billie.’
We drink, she smokes and cradles the puppy, and we try to capture something of how we used to be. It’s hard to know what to say, other than to list the names of people we knew, and to state their various fates. And then we agree that what happened to them, and to us, is terrible. Our real thoughts, the ones we have when we’re alone, won’t translate into words. We both know this and stare at each other, trying out telepathy. It doesn’t work. We give up and talk of other things, chasing normality. I feel like I’ve failed; this is not the conversation we ought to be having. I think of Steve alone in the office and I want to leave this place, but can’t. She keeps reaching over to touch my knee. I expect Steve’s worrying about how long I’ll be; chewing on the end of a pencil, writing his thoughts on post-it notes so that he’ll remember to bring them up with me later.
I tell Lena about the press conference and, interested, she asks what I learnt.
‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ I say, taking out my notebook and looking at the single page of shorthand.
‘Very weird. Like hieroglyphics,’ Lena says, tracing her finger over my biro marks. ‘And what is this?’
‘Oh, an address I got today. I don’t think it’s anything important.’
‘Address for who?’ Lena, who I think is pleased to have someone she can properly converse with, keeps pressing me until I tell her about Mr Shuttleworth and Dolph and Maliwan and my conversation earlier with the girls in the street.
‘You absolutely must go to this place,’ Lena says.
‘I will, I will,’ I say, eating the crisp little biscuit that came with my coffee.
‘No, I mean right now. What if the old man is being held there? You should really check.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’
We hug again as we say goodbye. I notice red marks above my elbows as I walk away, from where her fingers dug in.
‘I’ll see you again soon!’ I shout back to her, but she’s already rounding the corner, lighting a cigarette and frowning at the ground.
; Chapter Thirteen
Steve isn’t at work when I arrive there. He’s scribbled a message on a love-heart-shaped post-it note; he’s gone to meet someone from the mayor’s office. I stand by my computer for a moment and tap at the keyboard just to make a noise. I wipe dust from the screen with the palm of my hand. Going to the shelves beside the window, I gently flick through the sheets of paper that Steve has piled here; notes from his conversations with people at the bombsite on Thursday night. He took so many eye-witness accounts that we couldn’t use them all in this week’s newspaper. We’re going to type them all up anyway, but I can’t bring myself to read them right now.
I look outside and see Steve’s little car parked crookedly on the pavement. I could get to Maliwan’s mother’s house and back in less than an hour, if I needed to. I pick up the phone from the nearest desk, and read Kadesadayurat’s number from a list taped to the wall. It rings for a long time, but then someone answers in Thai, speaking quickly and talking over me as I try to explain myself.
‘It’s to do with the missing man,’ I say. ‘Bernard Shuttleworth. I’ve got this address, see. What? I’m sorry, do you speak English at all? I’m really sorry.’
They hang up on me and I try calling the main police phone number, but I’m on hold for so long that I’m able to watch an old man limp nearly the whole length of the street, leaning on a battered pair of crutches.
‘Oh, fuck it,’ I say out loud, slamming down the phone.
I grab a post-it note from my desk; these ones are shaped like rainbows. I’ll be back soon. I leave this by Steve’s love-heart, lock up and go to the car, which has not cooled down at all since we drove back from the port.
The address in my notepad leads me out of town and uphill. It’s a steep climb, and as the car struggles I pass homes built on high verges. The jungle is threatening to reclaim them, growing around their walls in thick tangles. Everything is wet. The trees look rotten.
I try not to look at the empty passenger seat beside me. It would be better not to do this alone. If Maliwan’s mother really does think that her daughter was killed the night of the bomb, then this is going to be hard. I haven’t done a difficult interview since moving here, but I have done this kind of thing before. I’d only been working as a journalist for a month when my boss sent me to visit a woman whose son had been knocked down by a drunk-driver. I hate this, but I know how to do it. If the address is genuine and Maliwan’s mother is out here, I’ll be able to talk to her, and I’ll find out something useful. I know I will. I have to. I always used to be good at dealing with horror, until I had a personal horror of my own. I wind down the window to let some air blow across my face. I fill my lungs, choking on the heat. I press a hand against my stomach and tell myself not to think about the pregnancy now. Not ever.
Eventually the track narrows. I slow right down, peering out at dogs resting in the shade. They all look related; white fur and crooked bat ears. There is a smell of wood smoke. Plants begin to scrape the sides of the car. And then a three-legged cat steps into my path, staring.
‘Screw it,’ I say when the cat refuses to move.
Stopping the car, I get out. The air is thick with moisture. I hear a waterfall not far away. In a different life, this is the sort of place I would visit with a camera and a packed lunch. I climb a muddy slope away from the road, come out of the trees and here, right in front of me, is a little pond filled with weeds. There are burnt-out incense sticks on the ground beside it. Further up the slope is a tiny wooden home with a closed screen door. A couple of chickens scratch at the ground beneath it. Finding this place has been easy, but there’s an air of abandonment to it that makes me think either those girls were lying, or Maliwan’s mother has moved on. I think about what Lena said; that maybe Mr Shuttleworth is being held here. I can see other buildings dotted around between the trees, some with washing hanging outside them, others with push bikes propped against their walls. If there are bad people here, I can scream and surely someone will come out to help me. I look back towards the car and curl my hand around the phone inside my pocket.
Still, I edge closer. The building is decaying in the sun. There’s an odour. It smells like sickness. Like a bad hospital. The door is hanging open just a little. Reaching out, I knock on the metal rim. It makes a tinny noise, hardly louder than the buzzing insects.
‘Hello?’ I push the door open a bit further. It’s dark inside. The smell gets stronger; medicines and antiseptic, sweat and urine. Suddenly I don’t like it. I want to run outside, breathe some clean air, but I force myself onwards.
As my eyes adjust, I realise that someone is sitting at the other side of the small room. They are slightly reclined, as if asleep. Sunlight creeps in with me, showing a mat on the floor, an old woman’s gnarled feet. I feel my stomach shift, but if this woman is dead — and she certainly looks it — it’s surely a better death than the others this island has seen lately.
Crossing the room with my fists clenched by my sides, I see that her eyes are closed inside a leathery face. Her hair, jet black, is pulled back. I don’t know what to do, but then she’s awake and clawing at me, squawking like a bird.
‘No, stop!’ I stumble backwards. ‘I just want to help. Are you ill?’
‘Yes, I’m ill,’ she says in a bone dry voice, ‘but not too ill to fight you.’
‘I saw you through the door. I wanted to make sure you were okay.’
She sinks back into her chair, seemingly unable to leave it. When she begins to cough, I pick a bottle of water up from the floor, but she ignores it.
‘I’m really sorry.’ I glance at the door and the sliver of light around it but stay where I am. ‘Look, I’m from the newspaper. My name’s Lucy Lewis.’
‘You’re here about Maliwan.’
‘Yeah.’ I nod earnestly, trying to look like I know something; anything.
‘My daughter. And she’s always been the good one. It makes me sad that people like you are after her now. If it had been one of the other girls, I’d understand.’
‘I’m not after her,’ I say. ‘Who else has been here?’
‘The police. This morning. That’s why I’m so tired now.’
‘Here, have some water.’ I hold out the bottle as she coughs and shakes.
‘I don’t want that. There’s some Pepsi by the window.’
I get her a can, and smile, trying to look friendly, even though I’m imagining her grabbing at me with those long fingernails. I’d have to beat her off, knock her out of that chair. ‘Your English is really good,’ I say.
‘Why are you surprised? I’m educated. I used to be a nurse in Bangkok.’
‘Oh?’
‘I saw some bad things in that city, but nothing like what’s happened here.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about Maliwan,’ I say, unnerved by the sudden tremor in my voice. ‘You think she was there when the bomb went off?’
‘I haven’t heard from her. She wouldn’t let me worry.’
‘What about her boyfriend? Dolph. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, he’s an American. Very good for her. She’s a good girl. They come to visit me in his car. That’s it. Are you going back to the town? Can you help me find her? I’ve heard the bodies are piled up in the streets, all without names. Look for her, won’t you?’
‘It’s not that bad. There aren’t any piles. It is bad though. I can take you into town, if you want?’
‘When I feel well enough, I will go,’ she says, and I worry that she will never be well enough. She coughs again and it sounds like there are ball bearings bouncing between her ribs.
‘You haven’t heard from Dolph?’ I ask, speaking quickly so that I can finish this.
‘No. The police tell me he’s alive. They say other things about him which I don’t believe. He didn’t protect my daughter. I suppose he’s afraid to see me.’
‘You don’t think he had anything to do with what happened to her boss?’ I say. ‘Or anything else?’
‘My d
aughter wouldn’t be with someone who does bad things.’
‘Okay. I’m sure you’re right. But do you know where I might find him? Where’s his house?’
‘I never went to his house,’ she says, grimacing so that I see her pale gums.
‘Okay.’ I flap my arms and look around the dark room. It’s tidy, barely anything in it, but feels dirty, like a layer of dust and grease is lying over everything. ‘Do you have anyone to look after you?’
‘I have friends. I have family. What do you think? No one cares about me?’
‘No, no,’ I say, shaking my head so hard that it hurts my eyes. I begin to back towards the door. I can no longer remember what I hoped to find here.
‘They were here on Wednesday. The night before the bomb. They brought me some fish and all these cans of Pepsi. They know I like it. She’s very good, Maliwan; she’s a very good girl to me.’
‘She sounds it.’
‘She works very hard.’
‘At the golf resort? Was she happy there? She wasn’t going to leave?’
‘Why would she leave? The money is very good.’ She begins to say more but then covers her face with her hands, wheezing loudly enough to fill the whole building with the sound. I think that I can feel her hot breath all over me.
‘I’ll leave you alone,’ I say, going for the door. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you. And for your loss. Really sorry.’
I hurry outside, slamming the door back into its frame. As the sunlight fills my eyes, I slip on the wet ground, landing on my knees. The noise of the hidden waterfall, very close, is enough to drown out the memory of that woman’s dry breath, but I feel tainted by the smell of the place, and by this feeling that I just took a step in the wrong direction. My face is burning. I don’t belong here. If Steve had been with me, things would have gone differently. He would have had her smiling by the end of it, and would have probably made some move to hug her, make her more comfortable in her chair. I expect he would have rustled her up something to eat, or helped her out into the daylight. And the thing is, he would have enjoyed all that. Perhaps I was that way too once. I can’t remember.