You recently added my friend Kirsty Anderson on Facebook. I haven’t heard from her in some time, and this isn’t like her. If you could reply and let me know when you last saw her, I’d really appreciate it.
Grace Harris
Standing up from the computer and stretching, she looked at the old man and gestured at her papers. He nodded: she’d been coming here for days now, and he could tell, even without any common language, that something wasn’t right. She rubbed her eyes and crossed the street to the busy little noodle stand.
To: Grace Harris
From: Jon Anderson
Dear Grace,
You were right to get in touch. We didn’t know you were going to Thailand, but I suppose that’s not something to get excited about now. Are you sure she knew you were coming? In any case I have spoken to Stephen Jones, he’s the superintendent over in Brighton. He suggested you speak to the police there. Her mother and I would appreciate if you could call and let us know how it went. There’s no point in panicking, but we haven’t heard from her in over a week now either.
Sincerely,
Jonathan Anderson
The response hadn’t jumped out at her in the sea of emails she had received since she sent her message, and she had missed it the previous day. She had practically forgotten about Kirsty’s parents. Grace sighed. She had expected them to know what to do, a hangover from childhood she supposed; the uncomplicated world of omniscient parents. She was exhausted; still affected by jet lag. She knew she would have to call and speak to the Andersons, but she couldn’t face it tonight. Resolving to call them first thing, she shuffled back to her hotel room.
“Mr. Anderson.” Grace played with the cord of the hotel phone. “I just wanted to update you. I went to the police station a couple of days ago. They were helpful, but there’s nothing they could do, they—”
“Grace, didn’t Kirsty contact you?”Jon Anderson interrupted. Grace heard the irritation in his voice. She’d expected them to be upset, which was why she’d put off making the call, but he sounded livid.
“No...” she started.
“Look, I know you were concerned. But think of what you’ve put her mother and me through. Stop worrying. She’s fine.”
“But her...” Grace stopped at the sound of the flat beeping tone that indicated he’d hung up.
She stared at the receiver in amazement, before reaching for the duty free Stoli she’d bought to share with Kirsty on their ‘reunion’. Draining the last of it straight from the bottle, she ignored the clock on the bedside table, which was telling her, in disapproving green neon, that it was 10am.
What the hell is going on, she wondered, looking around to see where she’d left her mobile.
From: Kirsty Anderson
To: Grace Harris
Hi Grace,
Mum and dad said you were worried about me, and now they’re starting to worry. I’m so sorry for not showing up in Bangkok, I can’t really explain it right now. I’ve let my parents know that I’m ok, sorry again. I’ll wire you the money for the flights if you send me your bank details.
I’ll be in touch soon.
Kirsty
Grace shook with rage and disbelief. She couldn’t believe it: this was beyond anything that Kirsty had done before. They had spoken on the phone more than once since Grace had told her she was coming; they’d chosen a place to meet. Grace had reminded her of the date every time they’d spoken. Surely that would have been a good time to voice her hesitation? It was sometimes difficult to gauge enthusiasm in Kirsty, but not this time: she had sounded genuinely delighted about Grace’s imminent arrival.
Grace cast back in her memory to the last conversation between them, three days before Grace had left London. She’d been at work when Kirsty had called her. They hadn’t spoken for long as she’d been in a rush and had struggled to hear what her friend was saying over the background sound of what sounded like a children’s party (Kirsty had been using a borrowed laptop in a cafe), but Kirsty had sounded fine. Grace wished now that she hadn’t been about to race off to a meeting when she took the call: maybe then she’d have had time to chat for longer, to find out where Kirsty was. All she knew was that Kirsty had had a flight to Bangkok booked for later that day, which it now looked like she’d never taken.
Then there was the secret boyfriend. Photos didn’t lie, but why hadn’t she told Grace? Perhaps she had become swept up in the new relationship: it certainly looked intense in the photos. She had never seen Kirsty like that with anyone.
She looked around the room. Its sleek fittings and decor had lost their appeal now that she knew Kirsty wouldn’t be coming. She spent enough time sitting in hotel rooms on work trips that she saw no appeal in spending any more of her free time in one. Flinging the covers back, she shuffled down the bed and tried to stand with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Her indignant rage helped her along. So Kirsty was having so much fun that she couldn’t be bothered to come and meet Grace? She’d make her own fun.
She walked into the marble bathroom and turned on the shower. The power still surprised her: it was better than her shower at home. She stepped in and scrubbed at her hair, trying to shake off the hurt and disappointment she felt. She had taken all this time off. I might as well make the most of it, she thought.
Drying off and wrapping a towel around her wet hair, she sat down on the bed and opened the to-do list she had compiled for Bangkok and synced to her phone.
Chapter 11
Kirsty awoke again, feeling less groggy than before. She was in the same room, still restrained. The room was bright, as before, but there was no indication whether it was night or day. She listened carefully to the sounds that wafted in from outside, but they told her nothing. Not that it made a difference. She might have been trapped there for hours or several weeks: she had no clue.
The room felt different now. Along with the lingering odour, she could feel the clammy moisture clinging to her skin. She thought hard. She still had no idea how she had come to be here. She had tried to piece her memories together, but it was like trying to make sandcastles from dry sand.
She remembered Laos; how she and Grant had travelled the country, before arriving back in Vientiane for their flight to Bangkok. Had they taken the flight? Where was Grant? She felt like the information she needed was staring her in the face, but no matter how hard she focussed, she couldn’t remember.
She had slept deeply since she’d first woken here, waking infrequently. Confused at first, she would try to kick-start her fuzzy brain into action, before unknowingly drifting off, and repeating the whole process again, a few hours, maybe even days later, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t seen anyone since she’d been here; at least, she didn’t remember seeing anyone. Her cries had gotten louder since the first time, but no one ever answered. Once, she thought she heard the music in the next room get louder, but she was starting to distrust her own senses.
She tried to sit up. The pain in her head, while slightly duller now, still throbbed sharply. Her eyes were still swollen and her vision unfocussed. She tried in vain to lift her head, grunting from the exertion, but nothing happened. This time though, she managed to tilt her head forward a fraction, far enough to see more of the opposite wall of the room. It was lined with wardrobe doors that reached the ceiling, greyish, like the rest of the room. It told her nothing new about her location.
Frustrated and impatient for answers now, she tried to ignore the pain, and turned her head slowly to the right. She started. She wasn’t alone, as she had thought. She blinked several times, long, rolling blinks to clear the fuzziness from her vision. She opened her eyes again at the same time as she felt pressure on her right shoulder. Everything turned fuzzy again.
Traffic was gridlocked as usual, but the day was bright and sunny, and Grace felt herself relax in the back of the taxi. First up was Wat Pho temple. She had heard about it from a colleague who had adored the mythi
cal lions and brightly-coloured floral tiles. She wasn’t disappointed when she finally walked through the gates, renting a sarong from a saffron-robed monk to cover her bare legs. It was a world away from the staid churches her mother had dragged her to as a child. Golden pagodas gleamed in the sunlight, as more brightly-attired monks walked single-file in orderly lines, seemingly oblivious to the hoard of tourists snapping their pictures.
She wandered around in the searing heat for a while, admiring the intricately painted tiles. Soon she was overwhelmed by the humidity and the cacophony, and sought solace inside a cool, dimly-lit temple. It was crowded inside too, but a respectful hush prevailed. She slipped off her flip flops and padded quietly to the altar, on which sat a small Buddha idol, carved from jade. The altar sat in an alcove decorated with gold tiles, which caught the dim reflections of candlelight on their tarnished surface. She knelt on one of the worn cushions, feeling self conscious as she gathered the sarong around her knees to avoid touching the fabric. All around her, people were kneeling forward on cushions, holding smoking incense sticks and loose bunches of lotus flowers. For the first time in several days, she felt peace wash over her, as she closed her eyes and tried to stop moping about her friend’s betrayal.
After half an hour, she left the cool sanctuary in a daze. She felt the same calm that often enveloped her after yoga classes, on the occasion that she found time to participate.
Chatuchak Market was on the other side of the city, so Grace was prepared for a long journey. It didn’t take long for her stresses and worries to fight their way back inside her mind. The car crawled along a street lined with tiny shops peddling golden Buddha statues of every variation imaginable: from large, fat and salubrious to small and reverent. She soon found herself thinking about Kirsty again. Her rational brain was fighting a war against the niggling doubts that human nature threw its way. Insecurity wasn’t one of Grace’s weaknesses, yet she struggled to contain it now.
The market was bigger than she had expected: she had read that it was the largest market in south East Asia, but that title hadn’t prepared her for the sprawling reality. The whole thing was organised by product, with sections for practically everything one could imagine. She rounded the corner from a fabric stall and passed a tough looking woman blowing bubbles to attract customers to her frozen drinks stand. A moment later, she was standing before a cage filled with tiny bunnies, dressed up for the market with red ribbons tied around their tiny necks. There were dog stores and wig shops interspersed with the more standard market fare of sunglasses stalls and pirated DVDs. Her favourite was a cowboy and western stall, complete with a huge Native American feather headdress. The denim-clad proprietress barely saw her; she was apparently too engrossed by the guitar performance of a man in a Stetson.
After wandering around for two hours, she still wasn’t convinced she had seen everything, but the stalls were already beginning to pack up. She stood in the middle of a walkway trying to decide what to do: she was exhausted, but didn’t want to miss any of the intriguing places.
“You wan’ try?”
Grace hadn’t noticed the little stall until she heard the voice. When she turned around, a short, tidy man was looking at her, smiling and gesturing to the table in front of him.
She walked forward a couple of steps to take a closer look. She had been so engrossed that she had grown ravenously hungry without even realising. She did a double take when she saw what was on offer. It was a smorgasbord of bugs. The table was split into three sections: worms, cockroaches and some other multi-legged creature she couldn’t – and didn’t want to – recognise.
The stall-owner was smiling at her with a wicked, gap-toothed grin. It didn’t take much to translate his look as a challenge to the fainthearted tourist. She rankled.
“I’ll try one of those,” she said, rising to the challenge, pointing at the worms and holding up one finger.
The man looked extremely pleased, picked up one of the charred grubs, and held it out to her. When she took it, he moved to serve a young Thai couple standing behind her. Grace was amazed to see him filling a thin plastic bag with the creatures. When he had finished, he returned his attention to Grace, as did the couple. She forced a smile and tried to stifle her gag reflex. They continued to watch her expectantly. She closed her eyes and placed the odious thing in her mouth, trying to close her throat as she chewed, repulsed.
When she opened her watery eyes, her audience was still watching, with concerned looks on their faces. She was surprised to realise that she hadn’t been sick, and that it actually tasted of nothing. The young couple clapped delighted, and stayed to chat with her for a while in excellent English as the stall owner packed up his wares.
Grace felt much better as she walked through the revolving door of the hotel, buoyed by her courage. As she passed the reception desk, she saw the receptionist talking rapidly at a young man in a blue shirt, who was poring over her PC with studious concentration. She was struck by inspiration, and wondered why she hadn’t thought of calling him before.
Checking her watch and mentally calculating the time difference, she hurried back to her room, retrieving his number from her mobile on the way. She picked up the received and typed in the digits quickly, realising that she hadn’t needed to call up the number. She hung up before it started ringing. They hadn’t spoken for months now, and from the way Kirsty had described her brief encounter with him, his anger hadn’t dissipated. She clutched the receiver to her chest and breathed deeply, before tapping in his number again, more slowly this time.
“Lennox.”
“Neil. Hi. It’s me.” She felt breathless and dizzy; her heart was pounding. What if he just hangs up on me?
“Grace.”
“Look I need to trace an email, is that even possible?”
She heard him exhale; then, nothing.
“Neil?”
“It’s about Kirsty,” he said finally. “I saw your email. Yeah it’s possible. Who’s the email from?”
“Kirsty,” she whispered, waiting for him to reproach her for wasting his time.
He was silent for a moment. “Sure, I can look into it. Is it in your work or personal email?”
“Personal,” she confirmed. “Do you need me to send you the email, or my password, or what?”
She was sure she heard him chuckle softly. “You might want to change your passwords once in a while.”
“Thanks. I know she got in contact, but I’m worried...” she stopped, hearing dial tone. She felt a sharp stab of regret.
Grace had a quick dinner at the hotel and headed back to the internet cafe, ready to give up and move her return flight forward. The most likely explanation was that Kirsty simply didn’t want Grace in her life any more. She looked so happy in the photos, with her tall, handsome stranger. The zen calm from earlier had withered away, and all Grace wanted to do was get back home and clear the mountain of work that had already built up in her absence. She felt like a fool for calling Neil.
Chapter 12
Grace threw her clothes into the sleek black case and sat down, struggling to zip it closed. After a marathon phone call with UK Airways, during which she spoke with five different members of the reservations staff, she managed to move her return flight closer, but to the ungodly departure time of 7am. She’d gotten out of her routine of rising at dawn, so the alarm call came as a sharp shock.
Dragging her half-closed case to reception, she signed her bill and bade farewell to the reception staff, feeling a fleeting resentment for the inflated cost of her extended stay. She wished Kirsty luck with her new beau, but she’d wasted nearly two weeks of holiday time and tarnished her hard-earned reputation with her bosses. She didn’t relish the idea of speaking to her mother, who would have a field day.
She followed the taxi driver outside, allowing him to carry her haphazardly packed luggage, ignoring her bleeping phone until she’d sat in the back seat and closed the door of the garish pink and green car.
Chec
ked the IP address: it’s in Bangkok. The address it’s registered to is 305, Suriani Apartments, Soi Sok Cha, Bangkok 10110. Be safe. N.
Grace’s stomach felt like it was plummeting. “I’m such an idiot,” she muttered.
She could see the cab driver watching her curiously in the rear-view mirror. She sat back as the cab thrust itself into the thick web of Bangkok’s traffic.
As the car lurched along the highway, Grace’s misgivings returned. What if everyone was just wrong? They’d been the best of friends for over fifteen years. Hurt as she felt, she knew she might just have to swallow her feelings and go confront Kirsty.
The cab wasn’t going anywhere as she dithered over what to do. She hadn’t told the office that she was coming back early, so she could try and navigate the airline’s bureaucratic depths again and change the flight. But was it worth it? If their friendship was over, maybe she should just let it lie and move on with her life...
Grace ground her teeth in the back of the cab; they hadn’t moved for almost ten minutes now. At this rate she was going to miss her flight anyway. At least then the decision would be made for her. She scrolled through her messages, reopening Lennox’s. She leaned forward and showed the message to the driver.
“Do you know where this is?”
He shrugged.
“Soi Sok Cha,” she tried, hoping she was pronouncing it correctly.
He turned around and looked back at her, seemingly deep in thought, before replying in a volley of Thai. Grace gave up, and opened her mobile browser to search for the address. Thai street names were indecipherable to her; she had almost given up trying to find a familiar series of squiggles when she spotted it. Sukhumvit MRT station. She frowned; that was only a couple of blocks from her hotel. What on earth was going on, she wondered, as she instructed the driver to turn around.
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