by RJ Bailey
I realised my attention had drifted from my daughter when Star had ‘bunched’ up under me, his muscles firmly contracted and bouncing on his toes. It became clear to me that the horses were not going to walk, trot and build to a steady canter. They were going off now. And fast.
I had barely formed that thought when the lead five horses released the brakes and, no matter how decent a rider I thought I was, there was no way I could stop Star from taking off too.
I managed to shout to Jess to hold on as the sand flew up all around us and the group went from a standstill to a gallop. We must have gone for less than a minute when I heard a distant cry. I knew immediately it was Jess. I used all my strength, stubbornness and panic to slow and turn Star.
Jess was lying in a foetal position around fifty metres behind me. Patch had wandered down to the water’s edge and was looking confused. I slipped my boots out of the stirrups to get off the horse. The lead rider barked: ‘Stay on your horse. We can’t get you back on if you get off.’
Fuck that.
I slid off ungracefully and sprinted to Jess’s side just as she rolled over and sat up. I fell to my knees and did a quick check for misshapen limbs or other signs of trauma, but she looked to be in one piece. The soft sand must have broken the fall. I pulled her close to me. ‘Oh, Jess, I am so sorry.’
She gave a chest-heaving sob. ‘Why did you leave me?’
I had only ridden on for a matter of seconds, but perhaps it felt like an eternity to her, a mother galloping away with no concern for her plight. I looked down into Jess’s eyes as I cradled her. There was shock and doubt in there. ‘Why didn’t you come and get me, Mummy?’ she asked.
I closed down the photos, unable to face any more memories, painful or otherwise. I opened the WhatsApp Family Chat on my phone. There it was, as one-sided as ever.
Periodically, I wrote her a note and sent it out into the servers. I checked every few days, hoping for a tick to show it had been received, another that it had been read. They never came. Still, I composed yet another pointless missive.
Dear Jess,
Some days I almost manage to forget you are out there. Never completely. There’s always a nagging at the back of my mind, as if I have left the gas on. And then I realise what it is. You aren’t at home. I can’t come and see you, cuddle you, kiss you, nag you. And it hurts. Please don’t forget that I am here, desperate to see you. I have not forgotten or abandoned you. I had things to do, important things. I know, what is more important than you? Nothing, my lovely daughter. Nothing. But I have to be strong now. I have to forget I left the gas on. Just for a few days while I work. Then I’ll be back on the case. Because I am coming to find you, Jess. I’m going to bring you home. Love you, love you, love you.
And then I pressed send, just as a tear dropped onto the phone and pooled on the screen.
SIXTEEN
Four million people live on Bali. There are three million registered vehicles. That’s what the guidebook I read on the flight from Hong Kong told me. It didn’t warn me that they would be on the road all at once when I arrived.
We had flown via Hong Kong because every other guest was going via Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. This way, I knew Noor could sit up in Business and me in Premium Economy without worrying too much. I passed the time reading through some of her emails and texts, and scrolling through the wedding itinerary as well as the guest list. I made a note to ask Noor which of the latter she had ever met.
What were the chances that the promises to ‘fuck you up if you ever show your black face at home’ or ‘do you like a kipper’ or ‘kick your half-nigger arse’ were a real threat? In my experience, about a one-in-twenty chance. But – and it was a big but – there was always the possibility that it was the work of a genuine nutter. So there just might be an obsessive character, with a real or imagined slight, who posed a risk.
It didn’t mean they’d ‘fuck up’ Noor literally. It might be an attempt at embarrassment or a confrontation. Of course, there was also the possibility they didn’t get an invite. Or couldn’t come. Nipping over to Bali isn’t cheap.
I went through the taunts again. No actual mention of rape. The most graphic threat of physical violence was: ‘You’d better have a bowl at your arse to catch your teeth’. Either Noor had read between the lines about the sexual intimidation or she’d exaggerated to get me on board. Still, they were pretty severe – the insults were either racist or misogynist, sometimes both. Certainly enough to be getting on with.
The drive from Ngurah Rai airport to the hotel was meant to take a shade over an hour, but that looked optimistic, as we had arrived in time for a furious downpour. Rather than risk a local cab, I had arranged for a hotel car to meet us, but even the Mercedes’ wipers found it hard to cope with the deluge.
So far, I’d seen clogged roads, a cat’s cradle of power lines, lost tourists and an endless strip of concrete shops festooned with colourful signs for local services and homestays. The run was broken only by the odd thatched or gilded roof, shrines, arrogant I’m-not-moving cattle and overloaded bikes that gave no quarter.
Mangy dogs sloped along the roadside, nosing at piles of garbage and the offerings on shrines. Every few yards there was a cluster of snack bars and restaurants – warungs – that ranged from a simple bamboo shed with a hatch to serve standing customers, to more substantial breeze-block and concrete structures with seats and tables.
Gradually, this squalid semi-urban huddle fell away, and I got my first glimpse of the famed emerald rice paddies and the sculpted hillside terraces, which looked as if a giant, celestial Albrecht Dürer had carved them. The flags dotting the steeped slopes, designed to keep the birds away, hung sodden and limp. As the rain clattered on the roof of the car, I made sure our doors were locked and closed my eyes.
I was confident I could wind down my status to a mere Yellow.
By the time I opened my eyes again, we had turned off the main road and were driving down an asphalt track between the paddies, which were now steaming in sunshine. Ahead was the hotel, an enormous concrete disc protruding from the hillside, like a crashed spaceship. It was startlingly modern and completely out of keeping with the jungle surroundings.
We were decanted into a rather more conventional bamboo and thatched bale, or pavilion, where we were swarmed over by slender young women, all dressed in colourful batik blouses and skirts. Cold towels, frangipani and sweet drinks were proffered. The women darted around with such hummingbird energy and elegance, I felt like a parboiled heifer in comparison.
Eventually, we got to our villa: two bedrooms, a living room, two bathrooms, an outdoor shower and a secluded pool in a walled garden. Nyoman, our ‘villa concierge’, a keen young man in a white shirt and trousers as black as his hair, invited us to embrace the island’s niskala energy with a dove release, perhaps try a psychic reading, attend a sacred jewellery-making class or have an afternoon nap suspended in a silk cocoon. I just wanted my bed, but I knew that would have to wait.
After I’d managed to send Nyoman away with a fistful of rupiahs, I told Noor to rest up and make sure to lock her door and sliding windows from the inside. Then I went in search of Erik.
Erik was head of security. We had already exchanged emails. He had heard of Noor, he claimed, loved her music and would do everything he could to help. He was Austrian – blond, tanned and trim – and dressed in a lightweight grey suit, complete with a shirt and tie, which was perversely counterintuitive given the climate and the loose clothing the rest of the staff wore, but he carried it off with cool aplomb.
We sat at the bar, which came with a view down the side of the gorge carved by a rushing river, heard, but not seen, behind its ridiculously lush cloak of vegetation. I risked a gin and tonic, while he sipped a beer. He was in his forties, ex-military and, although he hadn’t done a tour of duty in the Middle East, he was impressed that I had. I explained I was a colleague down and would need what, back home, we would call a ‘corridor man’.
; In this case, I guess I required at least one ‘villa man’; someone to control the traffic to and from our rooms. And twenty-four hours a day if required. We would, of course, pay the going hourly rate, which turned out to be very reasonable compared with what a corridor man could command in London.
Erik assured me that they had hosted presidents from twenty different countries, rock stars, film actors and reality-TV flotsam – not his word – and his people were well trained. And would I like to join him for dinner? Whether he meant me, or me and Noor, or maybe just Noor, I wasn’t sure. But I explained I was here on business and that we’d eat in the room. Busy day tomorrow. And the Big Day after that.
He accepted the brush-off with good grace, gave me his card with all of his contact details and told me to ask for anything my heart desired. Everything my heart desired at that moment was back in the villa under a ceiling fan and a silk canopy and came with big, fluffy pillows.
Despite being exhausted, I couldn’t sleep that night. Dinner had been served poolside, with floating candles and lotus flowers on the water, and I wondered if the servants thought Noor and I were an item, because they made a point of saying we wouldn’t be disturbed for thirty minutes after they had served the main course of grilled prawns and minced fish. Perhaps they thought we’d go skinny-dipping in the pool.
Instead, we went through the wedding guest list. It turned out there were only half a dozen old faces from home. Kassie – sorry, Kate – was paying for hotels, food and booze, but it was up to guests to pay their own way for flights. Noor reckoned that had been a deal-breaker for many who hadn’t made a decent whack as a pop star, like Noor, or nabbed themselves someone in the City, like Kate.
As I listened to the air-con push out fingers of frosted air, a deep feeling of unease plagued me. Bali is meant to be an island of spirits, with evil swarming the streets after dark, looking for those who haven’t been to the temple, burned incense and said their five supplications. I, of course, didn’t believe that, but I did have a feeling that there was a malevolence in my room. It was a presence rather than anything solid, but as I lay under the sheets it leaned over me and whispered in my ear that I should be out looking for Jess, whipping up my feelings of guilt and helplessness.
In the end, I went back to the pool, wishing I had bought cigarettes. I made do with a Bintang and a Snickers from the minibar that probably cost me – or, strictly speaking, Noor – as much as my last pair of shoes.
The warm, soupy air was filled with the croaking rhythms of tree frogs and the stars were playing peek-a-boo behind clouds. But all I could think was that Jess was – or had been – somewhere on this island. I was probably closer to her at that moment than I had been for over a year. And it hurt; a real physical pain low down in my stomach. I just wanted to get out there and ask questions, knock heads together, but I knew I had to bide my time.
Two days. That was all. Three at the most.
The wedding was due to take place in two days’ time. Noor was flying back to her sanctuary in Wales the morning after the nuptials. I’d take her to the airport, she’d be met in London by a driver. The flight was via Doha, just to mix the routes up. She’d be fine.
That’s when I would take a trip south of Kuta and make myself a fucking nuisance.
‘Can’t sleep either?’ It was Noor, padding out in a robe. ‘You got any mossie repellent on?’
I admitted I hadn’t and she went back and returned with her own beer and a pump-spray, with which we both doused ourselves. It was citronella, which I am not convinced works, but I hate DEET so much I’d rather put up with the bites, given the chances of malaria or dengue fever were small. Once I had covered all my exposed places, I returned to the fridge for a second Bintang.
When I returned, Noor was scanning a print-out of several sheets of paper. We sat in silence for a while as she read, while the tree-frog chorus seemed to build in intensity. Some of the nearby guard dogs barked as if telling the amphibians to keep the noise down, then fell silent, defeated.
‘Do I want to go and buy some batik, a wooden ukulele, some carvings, bamboo furniture, a stone statue, make a windchime, or see a temple ceremony tomorrow?’ she asked eventually. ‘Kate has put together activities.’ She sniffed. ‘Oh look, an Uluwatu handmade lace demonstration.’
‘I don’t know, do you?’
She shrugged. ‘I can also visit a local school, a gamelan orchestra or learn how rice is grown.’
‘Shall we decide tomorrow?’
‘Yeah,’ she said with a weary grin. ‘Maybe just lunch somewhere. I don’t think I need a new ukulele. And I fuckin’ hate windchimes. And monkeys. It was around here I got bitten last time, near the Temple of the Dead. Anyway, I’ll call Kate, see what she’s doing for fun tomorrow.’
‘How come Kassie became Kate and got herself a hedgie?’ I asked.
Noor laughed. ‘It cost me a fuck of a lot of money. She was with some guy who spent every penny on the machines at his local bookies. I knew him from school as it happens. A right dick. So, I organised an intervention. Like she was in a cult. And while I was at it, I got her a trainer, a stylist, all the shit they threw at me when I was first signed to the label. Nobody is more surprised than me that it worked. But good on her.’
I was about to ask more, but I saw the projectile glinting in the weak starlight as it arched over from between two of the palm trees that leaned over our compound. It was instinct that took over. I jumped at Noor, wrapping my arms around her upper body to cushion any blow on the tiles. As we landed, the bottle shattered on the poolside, sending glass shards skimming across the surface of the water before sinking.
I had cracked my elbow, but the adrenaline had kicked in, so I hardly noticed. I waited, in case the bottle had contained an explosive or noxious liquid. Once it was clear it hadn’t, I pushed myself to my feet, then yanked Noor to hers.
‘Get inside,’ I said. ‘In your room. Lock everything. Stay away from the window.’
I went outside and found Nyoman running up and down with a torch. ‘You see anything?’
‘No, Ibu,’ he said. ‘You are unhurt?’
‘We’re OK. There’s some glass in the pool that’ll need to be cleared tomorrow. But, yes, we are all right. You didn’t see anything? Anyone?’
‘No. But I not asleep.’
Was that him protesting too much? ‘Of course not.’
‘I get some more people, Ibu. For rest of night.’
‘Yes, thank you. I think a circuit of the perimeter every few minutes, eh?’
‘Yes, Ibu.’
‘What does Ibu mean?’ I asked, remembering my daughter’s ‘white slut’ tattoo that she was told said something else altogether.
‘It mean lady. Or miss.’
‘OK. And thank you.’
I went back in and checked Noor’s room was secure. She was a little shaken. She’d taken a vodka miniature from the minibar and was sucking on the narrow neck. ‘What the hell was that for?’
‘Just to keep us on our toes.’ I didn’t say it, but I thought it could have been worse. It could have been a Molotov cocktail.
She finished the vodka and tossed the bottle into the bin. ‘I’m not sure a fuckin’ wedding is worth all this shit.’
‘You want to leave, just say the word. It’s up to you.’
She thought for a moment. ‘No. Can’t run away just because someone lobbed a bottle. And Kassie’d kill me. Kate, Kate, Kate,’ she prompted herself.
‘That guy she was living with before you did a Pygmalion on her . . .’
‘A what?’
‘My Fair Lady. A makeover. The bloke with the betting habit. He’s not here, is he?’
‘Alex? Nah. Jesus, he hasn’t left William Hill for years. He wouldn’t come to Bali, even if he’d been invited. Which he hasn’t. You think . . .?’
‘No, just looking for a motive. He might blame you for giving Kassie ideas above what he thought was her station. But if he’s not here . . .’ I yawned, the adrena
line gone now, leaving me flat and cold inside. ‘OK, try to get some sleep. I doubt whoever did it will be back, and we’ve got some extra bodies outside.’
I didn’t go back to bed immediately. I cleaned up around the pool, then I went back to the print-outs of threats and insults as well as the guest list.
And, just as my eyes began to feel like someone had thrown sand in them, a possible solution to the whole stalking thing popped into my head. Problem was, I didn’t have a shred of proof.
Like that’s ever stopped me.
SEVENTEEN
The actual ceremony was to be held down on the banks of the roaring Ayung River, at a waterside spa of a different hotel from the one we were staying at. I took Noor along with me for my pre-inspection and parked her with its head of security, a New Zealander called Keith – an ex-rugby player judging by his nose and one of his ears – and Mae, the hotel’s wedding planner, while I went down the steep stone steps that switchbacked through the foliage.
About halfway down, the temperature plunged and I could feel cool moisture in the air. I took a deep breath. A few steps away from the bottom, I glimpsed the creamy, frothy water for the first time, rushing between Flintstone-sized boulders. On the opposite bank was what looked like untouched jungle – note to self: search Google Earth for any tracks that might bring paps, or stalkers, to opposite bank – but on my side, there was a series of wooden platforms built over the riverbank. Looking back the way I had come, I could see that a series of ledges had been cleared and bales erected to serve as massage stations.
I sat on one of the hammocks strung between the trees close to the water’s edge and listened to the insistent stridulation of cicadas and the gurgle of the waters.
I had already checked the staff as far as was possible. Mae was providing outside hair and make-up specialists who were unlikely to have even heard of Noor. The catering was all in-house, cooked and served by staff. Keith had told me that the local villagers would trek down on W-Day and act as a choir for the ceremony. Wedding photography was to be by drone – something I’d have to check before I allowed it to fly over Noor – there would also be a release of doves and a blessing by a local priest. Priest also not a problem, drone operator an American who was unlikely to be able to find Bishop’s Stortford on a map.