part0013

Paul slogged his way through the sand towards the remnants of the Full Moon Party, the ceaseless heat prickling his bare skin. At this rate, he would either sweat his hangover out by lunchtime or die of dehydration. Most of the tourists and partygoers had gone back to their hostels by now. A few determined stragglers still danced in the sand, but the stalls were being packed away.

‘Hey, anybody? I need the police,’ he called out half-heartedly in a raspy voice.

Either no one heard him or cared to listen. He lumbered towards one of the stall-holders.

‘Excuse me,’ said Paul. The local smiled at him indifferently and walked away. ‘Wait, please. I need your help. Police? Where can I find the police?’

The man shrugged and kept walking, eager to get away from this crazy white guy. Paul gave up, hoping to find someone more helpful. Sweat trickled down his back and he stole another Coke from the unmanned kiosk. The frozen can felt good in his hand and he rubbed it across his forehead .

‘Won’t somebody help me?’ he shouted.

‘Shut up,’ called a voice from the beach.

‘Trying to sleep,’ said another.

‘My friends have gone missing. I think they’re in a boat out there…somewhere,’ he said, his protestations falling on deaf ears. He looked out over the sea, then along the beach, past the prone bodies and the litter and the speaker system. There, through the haze of the sun, a pier shimmered in the distance like a mirage, at least a dozen boats of differing sizes moored to it.

A plan formed in Paul’s sleep-deprived mind.

Rach was at sea. Ahead of him were some boats.

Sure, he could get the police involved. They would send out a boat to find Rach and bring her back to the island. If he was lucky, they might let him tag along and revel in the second-hand glory.

What if he was the one who rescued Rachel? Paul imagined himself as the captain of a vessel, navigating treacherous waters in pursuit of his woman. Just imagine her face when she saw him coming for her!

She’d be so grateful, and he would be a hero.

With any luck, he and Rachel would sail away and “accidentally” leave Ana behind.

Realising who he really needed to speak to, he abandoned the Full Moon Party and headed off in the direction of the pier. He had to hurry. Time was of the essence.

That said, he was pretty hungry, so he stopped and bought some noodles and a beer, paying with his pool winnings. Feeling generous, he even left the woman a small tip, something he normally resented. He parked his arse down on the sand and slurped his noodles, eyeing up young ladies in thong bikinis as they staggered past.

With lunch out of the way, Paul resumed his journey, eventually reaching the long wooden walkway of the pier, the planks warped and twisted by the elements.

Several boats were docked, but most sat lifeless and empty. Tour boats, fishing boats, they were all deserted. He strolled casually along the pier, checking out each boat as he passed, wondering where everybody was. Could he steal one if necessary? The wooden beams creaked alarmingly beneath his feet, getting worse the further out he travelled. He spotted activity on the ship docked at the far end of the jetty and made a beeline for it, eager to get on board and out of the sun’s harsh rays.

A young Thai man in shorts and a Beyonce tee shirt sat on the deck untangling fishing nets. He must have been about the same age as Paul, early thirties or so. An older gentleman reclined against the rails, smoking a cigarette and eyeing Paul warily. The younger man noticed the tourist and glanced up.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘You speak English? Thank God,’ said Paul. He hated going to other countries and finding the locals didn’t speak English.

Uninvited, he stepped cautiously onto the deck. It was a good size, about thirty feet, twice the length of the others. It reminded Paul of the boat from Jaws , a film he hated; the special effects were just so unrealistic. The young man kept sorting through the nets, separating them and checking for rips or tears .

‘My friends have disappeared. I think they may have stolen a boat, or been kidnapped. I need someone to take me out there after them.’

The old man barked something in Thai from the other end of the fishing boat. The young guy replied and Paul wondered if they were father and son. He turned back to Paul. ‘Sorry, my friend. We’re busy today. Fishing season. You understand.’ He smiled and got back to work.

‘I can pay you.’

He looked up. ‘Not enough,’ he said, still smiling.

Paul smiled back and pulled a wad of notes from his shorts pocket. His pool winnings. As Paul counted the notes out he saw the guy’s eyes widen in disbelief. Sixteen-thousand Baht. According to Paul’s calculations, that was approximately three-hundred and fifty pounds. He made that in a day back home, where he worked for a video games company. But to a Thai fisherman, it was the jackpot. The lottery.

‘Please wait here,’ said the man, and he ran over to the older fellow. After a brief but animated discussion, the two of them came back to him. ‘We can help you find your friends,’ he said excitedly.

‘Oh my God, thank you. Thank you!’ Paul grinned. This was too easy.

‘My name is Chakrit. This my uncle, Tan. He doesn’t speak English. Doesn’t have to deal with the tourists like I do.’

He held out his hand and Paul shook it eagerly.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Paul. Last night, someone stole old Prama’s boat. He said there were eight or ten of them, all white, all in their underwear. That sound right? ’

Paul shrugged. ‘I guess so. I wasn’t there. I was, uh, busy.’

Chakrit nodded. ‘Okay. Well, we can sail out and head east. See what we find. But I tell you, the ocean is big. Very big, my friend. Maybe we won’t find them.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Paul, a little too smugly. ‘I’m tracking them.’ He handed Chakrit his phone, pointing to the flashing dot on the little world map. Chakrit’s eyes narrowed. He took the phone from Paul and showed it to the older man, who yelled something in Thai and stepped back, almost losing his balance, the colour draining from his face. He started shouting at Chakrit, then took the money from his pocket and thrust it back into Paul’s chest, shaking his head.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ said Paul, as the old man held up the phone and pointed at the dot, ranting madly about something. ‘What’s he saying?’

Chakrit ignored Paul, shouting back at the old man. Paul scratched at the back of his neck and stared off into the distance, uncomfortable. His neck sizzled at the touch. After a while the conversation ended, the old man pocketing the money again and stalking off towards the navigation bridge.

Chakrit turned to Paul and smiled again. ‘We find your friends.’

‘What was all that about?’ asked a bewildered Paul.

‘My uncle. He’s a good man, but like many Thai, he can be a superstitious fool.’

‘Superstitious about what?’

Chakrit clapped Paul on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. Old stories.’ He removed his Beyonce shirt and handed it to Paul, then started untying the rope that moored the boat to the dock.

‘Put it on. You need it more than me,’ laughed Chakrit, pointing at Paul’s reddening skin .

Paul put the shirt on as the engine spluttered into life with a choking sound like someone strangling a robot, and soon the little wooden pier was fading into the distance. Through the window of the cockpit he watched the old man counting the cash again.

Money talks , thought Paul. And luckily, it’s bilingual.

Something soft brushed past his leg and he recoiled, almost falling overboard. Chakrit grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

‘Thanks,’ said Paul, watching as a little pug dog scampered out from under his seat. It sat and stared at Paul, his big eyes framed by a wrinkled face.

‘Don’t mind Grub,’ said Chakrit. ‘He likes to know what’s going on.’

Paul stared at the dog and the dog stared back at him. Grub yawned and wandered off to find some shade, resting his chin on his paws. Paul shook his head.

‘I know the feeling, pal. I know the feeling.’

Chakrit lit a smoke and offered Paul one. He accepted, then looked at the old man, who left the cockpit and sat next to the pug, scratching his scruff. He spoke in Thai to Chakrit, who snorted and waved his hand dismissively.

That old guy looks really worried , thought Paul. In fact, he looks scared out of his mind .

‘He okay?’ asked Paul.

Chakrit grinned at him, the sun reflecting off his sweat-slicked muscles. ‘I told you. Old stories.’

Paul nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Yeah. That’s what you said.’

After a while he joined the old man and the pug in the shade. As he did so, the old man got up and went back inside. Paul decided not to take offence; he wasn’t in the mood for a chat anyway. He checked his phone. They had barely made any progress. Hardly surprising, considering Rachel had about a ten-hour head-start on them.

He tried to brush a speck of dust from the screen, and when it wouldn’t budge he realised what he was looking at. Zooming in on the miniature map confirmed his suspicions. He hadn’t been able to see properly before, with the glare of the sun on the screen, but now, here in the shade, he could see it clearly.

Rachel was heading towards an island.

It was too perfect. They would stop there, then Paul would arrive to save her and perhaps spend some time on a desert island. He smiled as things started to fall into place.

‘Everything’s coming up Milhouse,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ said Chakrit.

‘It’s a Simpsons reference,’ started Paul. ‘Actually, forget it. Doesn’t matter.’

Chakrit nodded and lit another smoke. The pug walked over to Paul and clambered onto his lap. The old man grumbled in Thai and looked back towards the distant memory of the shore. And all the while, the great sun in the sky beat down with righteous fury. Paul realised he could no longer see Koh Phangan beach, just the panorama of crashing blue all around him. He leaned back, closed his eyes and fell asleep.