Chapter Eight

Jean had said it so casually: she knew where Louise Pemberton had been heading! Those words of insight had put them on a path that had so far taken three days. Jean had stated that she was at a loose end and had firmly insisted on accompanying them, so Mike now found himself in a mini-bus travelling across the ‘Friendship Bridge’ on the border with Laos, duelling for foot space with the Kiwi’s ample legs. He found it hard to counter her argument that she would be infinitely more approachable if and when they encountered Louise. Rusty seemed to take more exception to their new travelling companion, a standpoint which Mike felt mildly bemused by, considering Jean’s natural wit and rounded buttocks.

With no viable alternative, from Trat they took an overcrowded bus to Bangkok. Following his last encounter with the buzzing metropolis, much of the magic of Thailand’s capital had dimmed for Mike. Returning so soon caused an element of unease, worries of the back-alley mugging fresh on his mind, though there was little choice of transit city: Bangkok was still the humming hub of communication, the central piece of South East Asia’s vast transport network. On arrival the train north was fully booked, leaving little option other than a further crowded bus to the border at ‘Friendship Bridge’. With inevitable connection delays, the journey took an exhausting three days, much of which was spent chasing sleep in broken reclining chairs under cold air-con ventilation. His hopes of catching Kae in the rush were dashed in the mad clamber for connections, leaving him with no alternative but to leave a jumbled message about the goose-chase to Laos. He had hoped a calming conversation with the Thai would have helped focus many of his current questions and concerns. He still saw himself as the amateur sleuth, bumbling along on a journey directed more by Lady Luck than skill.

A jaded Mike finally stepped out of the minibus that served as a shuttle and looked back over the modern bridge that spanned the legendary Mekong, the long meandering river marking the border between Laos and Thailand. The only information that Jean was able to convey had been that Louise was planning a trip to Vientiane when they had last spoken. Jean was convinced that Louise was looking to make a prompt start on her next stage of travelling, and bar any unexpected downfall (or more likely, a change of heart and direction) was several weeks and a couple of thousand miles ahead of them. This had been a scrambled conversation when the two girls were sharing an illicit smoke in front of the fire eaters on Lonely Beach. The details were fleeting and vague, though it was enough to set their makeshift party off on a lengthy overland trip to the Laotian capital. It wasn’t as if they had anything else to go on. The trail before them would be cold with many possible paths or dead-ends, but at least it seemed they were making headway.

The sketchy details prompted a torrent of questions from Pemberton when Mike finally called him from a coin-eating payphone in Trat. His aloof and lecturing manner weighted the questions with double-edged requests, plying Mike into elaborating on what they had, which was in fact very little. The underlying fact was that Louise was still alive, or at least was when she shared the joint with Jean, which though enough for Mike, was not wholly enough to satisfy Pemberton. He said that he needed details to give his ever-pressing wife. Mike mused that this was down to the fact that Louise was still not making any contact. Whatever agenda Louise possessed was not one she wanted to share, certainly not with her parents in any case, though the real reason could well lie at a more sinister level. Maybe she was too afraid to chat with her folks, perhaps even unable? It was probably useless to hypothesise, given that - from what they knew - pretty much anything could be going on. Mike terminated the call with a promise to phone again, no matter how small the news seemed. He was well aware that this was more an order from Pemberton than a request. Even if Pemberton weren’t his temporary paymaster, the demand still would have been made. Louise’s father firmly believed in a world of big pegs and small pegs. Mike was under no illusion what size the older man had in mind for him. By contrast, Louise seemed not to have inherited this trait. As Mike remembered, she would often take the opposite stance, promoting equality for all during powerful debates in one of the High Street pubs. It bemused Mike how they could possibly be related.

Passing through the customs post brought no further information, though if they knew any details of Louise Pemberton passing through, the guards were unlikely to let a group of three dishevelled backpackers in on the latest international bulletin. Language difficulties did little to help the matter. Visas could be purchased on the spot, organised paperwork of any kind being an afterthought. That way the exact accounting figure could never be published. The only maintained records were for regulars, known smugglers and gun-runners. These were probably only kept for purposes of bribery. Petty criminals could easily pay their way across. Unless the guards remembered her personally it was highly unlikely that even professional detectives from Scotland Yard would get much out of them. With few other ideas in mind, the plan once again reverted to the only one they knew. Guesthouses and bars would be checked and information boards plastered with notes and makeshift posters. The three agreed that they should check into a guesthouse in the heart of the transitional travelling community, one Louise might well have chosen because of its distinctive charm or convenient proximity to attractions or backpacking facilities. Although this worked very well on Lonely Beach and Trat, Vientiane promised to prove a tougher proposition. None of them had crossed this border before. Laos lay unfolding before them in some way similar to a mysterious and slightly unconventional cousin, someone they had heard much about but never met. There was an air of great uncertainly, a scent of tingling danger.

Mike took the opportunity to jump out of the transit minibus and walk the last part of the bridge. Free from the weight of his rucksack, he happily ambled the short distance. The exposed height threw up a pleasant breeze, lifting Mike’s spirits as he studied the Mekong beneath him. Deep in thought, his single-minded focus prevented him from hearing Rusty approach from behind.

“Kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

Mike was forced into agreeing. “Awesome yes,” he said. “You know, I can’t help thinking that Louise would have been struck by this. She wouldn’t stay around a city too long. Too much heat, crowds and flies for her. If she were able, she’d be out there, finding out what goes on further up this river.”

Rusty too found himself studying the river, letting his imagination paint the picture of the mighty Mekong cutting its way through the mountains and narrow flood plains all of the way from the mysterious Luang Prubang, a World Heritage Centre city steeped in legend. Without further word they completed the trek across ‘Friendship Bridge’ and re-joined the minibus. The bridge provided a highly visible frontier. The pace and feel of the land across it was very different to that of Thailand, a place they knew, however slightly. Ahead was a rural country, isolated and unfamiliar. Rusty felt a genuine chill as he thought of what lay ahead.

The capital city of Vientiane offered a tired French colonial feel, though a rejuvenated and lightly restored centre freshened up much of the appearance. The French presence in Laos had never remotely rivalled their occupation of Vietnam, though it was clear to see from the array of aging facades that they had spent plenty of time and money in putting their European stamp on the place. Leafy boulevards created a feeling of space, further reinforced by a relatively small population in comparison to other sprawling Asian cities. The result was a city with a surprisingly relaxing tone, and with plenty of room to move about without much hustle and bustle. The ambience on offer enticed many backpackers to stay longer. The three were very much taken by its obvious charm as the mini-bus sought out the centre. A passing Louise would have felt this pull as alluringly strong.

The three travellers took a decision to stay central, close to the markets and the river. Several converted older houses in the district offered airy rooms with fans at highly competitive rates, more pleasant and far cheaper than some of the modern choices emerging close by. The location lay within easy walking distance of Wat Ho Prakeo, the old temple worshipped in by the long-deceased royal family, who had been imprisoned in a cave and killed following the Revolution. Taking along plenty of loose change for luck, the three decided a visit might bring some sort of providence in the course of their quest. It was generally agreed that another break was needed. Fortune had been on their side so far and they needed it to remain that way. Eastern thinking was gradually creeping into their daily judgement, influenced by their surroundings and cultural exposure. If they were aware of this it was largely on a semi-conscious level, seemingly happy to accept changes without actively acknowledging any gradual progression.

The early afternoon visit to Wat Ho Prakeo was the first act of sightseeing Mike had entered into since his touchdown in Bangkok. The events since then had left him drained, more stressed than tired, but in sore need of diversion. Barefoot he strolled around the temple, having to leave his leather trainers by the carved archway marking the grand entrance. He soon left the others to be with his own thoughts. In silent admiration of his teak surroundings, he reflected on how surreal the past few days had become. His fatigue dulled the senses, a giddying dizziness brought on from lack of sleep helping reinforce a feeling of complete strangeness. Looking at both tourists and worshippers alike, he wondered how many before him could have found themselves in a situation similar to his own, travelling with comparative strangers on a search for missing flames from the past. In the unlikely event that there were any, he would love for them to come to him now and explain just how he was supposed to carry out this nigh-impossible task. Often international agencies failed to locate individuals, especially those not wanting to be found. If Louise fell into this category, he doubted that their chances would rate too highly. The whole thing risked becoming a crazy charge across half a continent, slender chances and fluky promises ensuring that they didn’t give up and trip until the very end. If Louise was of free will and wanted to stay hidden, then that was where she would stay.

Lost in his own tired despondency he failed to notice Jean approach from the side. Her naturally high eyebrows arched higher still in an open expression of empathy.

“Hey Mike, you look a million miles away!” she said.

“Yeah.” His reply was slow and drawn out, reflecting his current mood. “I guess that we’re still chasing our tails on a hopeless search. Look at this place - it could swallow an army. I mean it did, didn’t it! Look at what happened in the 70s. With all the stuff across the border in Vietnam, the men in green were able to melt away at will. You know, we had a very lucky break bumping into you. Even so, all we know is that Louise came to Laos - we have sod all else to guide us anywhere. I just feel that we’re up against it. The only positive I have is that we know that she is alive, or at least was!”

“What do you mean ‘was’,” Jean replied. “Come on Mike, what about a bit of your earlier optimism, some of that energy you had? We’re still on her trail aren’t we? In the good news stakes we’re still doing OK. Something will come up - you’re just drained from the trip and feeling down. Anyway, this should be our time out. It’s beautiful here and will give us all a chance to think. Relax a bit - besides, there are far worse places to wind up in!”

Mike felt compelled to agree. Taking time out to relax and think could well rejuvenate their faltering quest. Niggling at his mind, though, was an obsessive feeling that their best hope was going to be a further piece of luck. In the land of temples and charms this seemed perfectly natural. Earlier he had thrown coins and even made a wish for good fortune over a lighted candle. Away from Lady Luck they still held no coherent plan, other than asking the occasional backpacker. Looking at Jean he realised that he knew very little about her at all, but here she was keeping him going, injecting life into his fatigued spirit. It still seemed slightly odd that his two travelling companions should wish to throw themselves at the cause so energetically and positively. Perhaps Jean had more of a reason, for she had met and befriended Louise. Rusty surprised him all the more. The situation must be so alien to him, searching for a girl he had never met. Perhaps he might have done the same thing, the faint whiff of an adventure providing enough bait to follow along.

As the afternoon heat faded into a pleasant evening breeze, the three ambled around from bar to bar. The visit to the Wat had helped relax them with its serene setting and oasis calm, prompting Rusty to suggest a siesta back at their colonial guesthouse before returning to the task in earnest, so the evening was drawing on before they got around to conducting any serious enquiries. A series of waterfront café bars lined the river, offering plenty of opportunity to combine their investigation with a sunset beer or two. The mood became leisurely as time wore on, slowing the pace as they asked around and put up messages where possible. In all cases nothing showed up, leading to a resignation that the search would start afresh the next day, with daylight hours helping to light up the streets in a vague hope that they might spy her sauntering around one of the faded boulevards.

With all agreed that the night was at an end, they made their way back up the promenade and took a right to head back towards the central market. Vientiane was much less of a party town than the Thai cities, the communist culture encouraging only pockets of nightlife: though loud and sometimes wild, the venues were very closely monitored by undercover police and often concealed from main roads. This left the streets largely quiet and calm before eleven. Casually loitering at dormant shops and stalls, they peered through into darkened rooms, happy that the absence of western style security grills made it easy to peer in at the silhouetted shapes of merchandise within. Sheaves of silk hung alongside wicker ware and copies of designer clothing. One boasted original US military hardware, barrels of spent shells and obsolete fatigues from the Vietnam era. Most displayed local interest posters and adverts, plastered haphazardly around windows and walls. Others had wooden shutters and lay closed like dormant boathouses waiting for the first sign of summer. Closer to the guesthouse they passed a travel agent’s, a small single-storey affair specialising in budget services to passing backpackers. Photographs with hand-written descriptions reached out to grab attention, most prices being shown in US dollars, the most liquid of foreign exchanges. Mike was distracted by a shrill noise from behind. A passing taxi-driver had pulled up on his moto, a small motorcycle often substituting as a family limousine with children and animals clinging on. The rider was trying to grab their attention, his husky voice hissing broken English.

“You like weed? Maybe gun? Man need gun. I get you anything, you like boom boom? You like good time? I know plenty women.”

Mike had now turned to face the torrent of dubious questions. They were spat out like a machine gun, droplets of saliva substituting for the bullets. The man was being more forceful than most and was quickly becoming annoying. Mike’s natural caution put him on edge and he didn’t at first notice Rusty’s wild exclamation. Rusty grabbed his sleeve, pulling him slightly off balance. He was still facing the moto rider and hesitated before turning around. He didn’t want to turn his back. It was difficult deciding who he should give his full attention to, but Rusty was proving the more urgent.

“Mike, Mike, take a look at this!”

Rusty was clearly excited, which took Mike by surprise. He was usually calm under most circumstances, including the attempted mugging in Bangkok.

“What is it?” Mike replied, none the wiser for Rusty’s excitable outburst.

“Look there, it’s her! It’s the same girl you showed me the picture of.”

Mike’s eyes followed the direction of Rusty’s finger. He could feel Jean huddle in close to his side. She too was focusing on the object of Rusty’s sudden animation. Pinned to a board behind the window was a crudely written poster advertising bus services to Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang to the north. An enlarged digital print had been stuck on to the poster. The scene depicted a mixed group of locals and backpackers boarding a battered Chinese coach with hand-painted logos. At the front of the queue a confident-looking girl with long tied-back hair was climbing the steps to board. Mike froze as he took in the familiar features. He was looking at Louise Pemberton.