Older Balinese believe in Leyaks, practitioners of black magic who can take the form of a monkey, a pig, wind or light. In the most extreme manifestations, they take on the form of humans by day – apart from their prominent fangs – but by night the head breaks off and flies, entrails straggling behind.
I had a feeling that Kadek might be one himself when, on my third glance around the car park, I spotted him at one of the food stalls. I could have sworn he hadn’t been there seconds ago.
He raised a hand to me and I walked over, trying to keep the anger from my voice.
‘What are you doing?’
He pointed to a much-diminished pile of rice and meatballs on a banana leaf. ‘I’m eating, Ibu. I was hungry.’
‘I meant leaving the car door open like that.’
The boy looked puzzled. ‘I can see it. I have the keys. And nobody would touch it.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on that,’ I snapped. ‘What was it you said about this place being full of bad men?’
He looked alarmed, not about the bad men, but from the expression on my face and my tone of voice. I was shaking. Maybe that made my voice quiver.
‘What happened in there? Are you OK, Ibu?’
I ran a hand through my hair. It felt matted with sweat, dust and fear. ‘No, not really. I need a drink.’ Pathetic, I know. But just the one, I told myself.
I looked hopefully at the stallholder, but Kadek put me straight. ‘This man is pendatang. Muslim. No alcohol. Just a moment.’ He slid the remainder of his meal into his mouth and threw down some rupiahs. He washed his fingers in the proffered bowl and shook hands with the vendor, before instructing me to follow him.
We passed the Toyota and he kicked the door shut with his sandalled foot, raising an eyebrow that asked: Happy now?
‘Lots of Muslims in Bali these days. They come from Java, Sulawesi, all over, because we have more tourists. Too many come,’ he said glumly. ‘More mosques than temples one day, maybe.’
We did the usual moped roulette as we crossed the street. The air was bitter with their exhausts, mixing with the ever-present scent of cloves from cigarettes. Kadek ducked under a thatched awning and we found ourselves in a substantial warung selling bamboo skewers threaded with meat, with a small bar to one side. He said something briefly to the woman manning the station and she poured a single shot of clear liquid into a glass. Then she popped the top off a beer and handed it to Kadek.
I got the unknown fluid. I examined it suspiciously. ‘What is it?’
‘Arak,’ he said. ‘It calms the nerve.’
‘Nerves. There are lots of them to calm.’ I took a gulp.
It didn’t so much calm as cauterise them.
I gave a cough and tried to speak, but I sounded like I’d had a laryngectomy. Eventually I managed: ‘Beer.’ I gulped half of the second Bintang down in one. ‘Jesus.’
‘Feel better, Ibu?’
‘I’m not sure I can feel anything. Thank you.’
We clinked bottles and moved away to sit at one of the three tables.
‘How old are you, Kadek?’ I asked.
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Here. Bali,’ he said proudly, as if that were unusual.
‘I meant which part.’
‘A village on the edge of the slopes of Gunung Batur.’ I knew that was the island’s perfidious volcano.
‘Was it evacuated last year? When it blew?’
‘Yes. Although not much damage.’
‘And your parents? What do they do?’
‘Farm. But not rice. Rice not grow well near the volcano. Fruits, vegetables, coconuts . . .’
‘They own their own farm?’
He sipped his beer and shook his head. ‘They are sudras. Lower caste. They still believe in such things. King owns land; they must pay tribute – fifty coconuts every six months. Not fair.’
I didn’t realise a feudal system still existed. My reading had suggested the royal family were mere figureheads, with real power wielded from Jakarta. But, maybe like extant royal families the world over, they were canny enough to hold on to land even as their influence faded. ‘And you didn’t want to farm?’
He flashed me a wry smile as if it were a stupid question. ‘I farm tourists,’ he said. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken. But I think this crop has failed.’
He pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side, as if he couldn’t quite compute this. ‘What do you mean, Ibu?’
‘I think I’ll have to let you go. There might be trouble. I can’t take the risk.’
‘Trouble? Who with?’
‘Bad men.’
‘Bad men don’t frighten me.’
I admired his bravado, especially for a kid who barely came up to my shoulders. ‘Maybe not. But as I said, I can’t take the chance you’ll get hurt. I suspect your parents depend on you farming tourists.’
A nod. ‘They live near Ulun Danu Batur temple. Very expensive.’ He took a slug of beer. ‘Which bad men?’
‘Well, there was a cop at the food stalls back there. He was one of them.’
He mimed a big belly with his free hand. ‘Big cop?’
‘Yes. Flowery shirt.’
He gave a little snort. ‘Wayan Agung. He mainly rolls tourists on mopeds for speeding fines or not wearing helmet. Plus some protection.’
‘You know him?’
‘I know who he is.’ He flicked his hand as if shooing a fly. ‘He can’t hurt me.’
‘Why not?’
‘My mother’s om. Uncle. He is local Chief of Police.’
‘Wow. That’s some connection.’ And it explained why he wasn’t too worried about leaving the door of his car open. He had protection.
Kadek shook a clenched fist. ‘He touch me, then Durga bite his ass.’
‘Your uncle?’
He giggled. ‘She goddess. An evil, evil goddess.’
Another good ally to have, no doubt. With the fat cop taken care of, I wasn’t worried about Dieter. He was better suited to life with the roaches under the brothel huts than anything else. But Bojan? He was cut from a different cloth. One with blood all over it. Some of it, as I recalled, mine.
I wasn’t sure Bojan would care too much about family connections in the local police force. He’d taken on bigger and badder than that. ‘Look, I’ll give you the money I owe you and we’ll call it quits.’
‘No quits,’ he said forcefully. ‘You are seeing bad side of Bali. Those girls over there.’ He pointed back towards Bacang. ‘Most from Java. Brought by Thais. Bali people good in heart. Outsiders make trouble. I take care of you.’
Well, I was an outsider. And I was going to make trouble. So he knew what he was getting into. ‘OK, Kadek. Thank you. I need to know if I can get a burner phone at this time of night. A non-traceable one. Text, phone, that’s all. Not a smartphone.’
‘Easy, yes.’ He pointed down the street, still gaudy with neon signs blurred by the exhaust fumes.
‘And a laptop.’
‘Same, same.’
The vague plan I had was beginning to take a more solid form. When I had walked back through the brothel, it had all been scrambled noise, like bad jazz. Now, gradually, I could pick out a tune. My head had cleared. The shakes had gone. I took a breath.
‘And there’s something else I want to buy,’ I said.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Your car.’