The Beach Read online

  ‘Yes,’ Étienne added. ‘And maybe it can help… The nicotine… It helps.’

  ‘Good point.’

  I lit up and crawled back to the cliff edge.

  If, I reasoned, the waterfall had been pounding down into the pool below for a thousand years, then it was likely that a basin had been eroded into the rock. A basin deep enough to accommodate my leaping into it. But if the island had been created relatively recently, maybe the result of volcanic activity two hundred years ago, then there might not have been time for a deep enough pool to have formed.

  ‘But what do I know?’ I said, exhaling slowly, and Françoise looked up to see if I was talking to her.

  The pebbles in the water were smooth. The trees below were tall and old.

  ‘OK,’ I whispered.

  I stood up cautiously, one foot an inch from the cliff, the other set back at a stabilizing angle. A memory appeared of making Airfix aeroplanes, filling them with cotton wool, covering them in lighter fuel, setting fire to them, dropping them from the top window of my house.

  ‘Are you jumping?’ called Étienne nervously.

  ‘Just taking a better look.’

  As the planes fell, they would arc outwards, then appear to curve back towards the wall. The point where they landed, exploding into sticky, burning pieces, always seemed to be nearer to the edge of the house than I expected. The distance was difficult to judge; the model planes always needed a harder shove than seemed necessary if they were to clear the doorstep, and the head of anyone coming to investigate the patches of flame around the yard.

  I was turning this memory over when something happened. An overwhelming sensation washed over me, almost boredom, a strange listlessness. I was suddenly sick of how difficult this journey had become. There was too much effort, too many shocks and dilemmas to dissect. And this sickness had an effect. For a vital few seconds it liberated me from a fear of consequences. I’d had enough. I just wanted it over with.

  So near and so far.

  ‘So jump,’ I heard my voice say.

  I paused, wondering if I’d heard myself correctly, and then I did. I jumped.

  Everything happened as things are supposed to happen while one falls. I had time to think. Stupid things flashed through my head, such as how my cat slipped off the kitchen table one time and landed on its head, and how once I misjudged a dive from a springboard and the water felt like wood – not concrete or metal, but wood.

  Then I hit the pool, my T-shirt shot up my chest and jammed under my neck, and seconds later I bobbed to the surface. The basin was so deep I never even touched the bottom.

  ‘Ha!’ I shouted, thrashing the water around me with my arms, not caring who might hear. ‘I’m alive!’

  I looked up and saw Étienne and Françoise’s heads poking over the cliff.

  ‘You are OK?’ called Étienne.

  ‘I’m fine! I’m brilliant!’ Then I felt something in my hand. I was still holding my cigarette – the tobacco part had been torn away, but the brown filter sat in my palm, soggy and nicotine-stained. I started laughing. ‘Fucking brilliant! Chuck down the bags!’

  I sat on the grassy shore, my feet dangling in the water, and waited for Étienne and Françoise to jump. Étienne was having some difficulty psyching himself up, and Françoise didn’t want to jump first and leave him up there on his own.

  The man appeared just as I was lighting another cigarette to make up for the one I’d ruined. He walked out of the trees a few metres away from me. If it hadn’t been for his features and his full beard I could hardly have told he was a Caucasian. His skin was as dark as an Asian’s, although a slightly bronze colour hinted it had once been white. All he had on was a pair of tattered blue shorts and a necklace made of sea shells. With the beard it was hard to tell his age, but I didn’t think he was much older than me.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, cocking his head to one side. ‘Pretty quick, for an FNG. You did the jump in twenty-three minutes.’ His accent was English and regionless. ‘It took me over an hour, but I was alone so it was harder.’

  FNG

  I covered my eyes with an arm and lay back. Over the sound of the waterfall Étienne’s disembodied voice called to me, saying he was about to jump. From his angle, he wouldn’t have been able to see the man in the trees. I didn’t bother to answer him.

  ‘You OK?’ I heard the man ask, and the grass rustled as he took a few steps towards me. ‘I’m sorry, I should have… You must be really freaked out.’

  ‘Freaked out?’ I thought. ‘Not really. I feel quite relaxed.’

  Extremely relaxed. Floaty. Between my fingers I could feel the cigarette warming my skin, burning closer to my hand.

  ‘Who are you calling an FNG?’ I murmured.

  A shadow passed across my face as the man bent over to check I hadn’t fainted. ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘Yeah. I did.’

  Étienne shrieked as he fell, and the noise of his splash merged into the pounding of the water, and the pounding of the water sounded like the pounding of a helicopter.

  ‘I said, who are you calling an FNG?’

  The man paused. ‘You’ve been here before? I don’t recognize you.’

  I smiled. ‘Sure I’ve been here before,’ I replied. ‘In my dreams.’

  Fragging. Bagging. Klicks. Grunts. Gooks. Charlie. MIA. KIA. LZ. DMZ. FNG.

  FNG. Someone who’s just starting their first tour in Vietnam. A Fucking New Guy.

  Where do I learn these things?

  I saw 84 Charlie Mopic in 1989. I saw Platoon in 1986. My friend Tom said, ‘Rich, you want to see Platoon?’ ‘OK,’ I said, and he grinned. ‘Then you’d better find someone to go with.’ He was always making jokes like that – it was as natural to him as breathing. We went to see it that night at the Swiss Cottage Odeon, screen one, 1986.

  1991, standing in an airport lounge, looking for something to pass the hours over a long flight to Jakarta. ‘Eric Lustbader?’ suggested Sean, and I shook my head. I’d seen Michael Herr sending dispatches. The hours flew by.

  Fucking New Guy? Yea, though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evil, for I am the evilest motherfucker in the valley.

  New to what?

  We followed the man through the trees. Sometimes we crossed the stream from the pool as it meandered through the jungle, and sometimes we passed glades – one with a smouldering camp-fire and charred fish-heads strewn around it.

  We didn’t talk much as we walked. The only thing that the man would tell us was his name – Jed. The rest of our questions he waved aside. ‘Simpler to deal with the talking at the camp,’ he explained. ‘We’ve got as many questions for you as you’ve got for us.’

  At first glance the camp was close to how I’d imagined it might be. There was a large, dusty clearing surrounded by the rocket-ship trees and dotted with makeshift bamboo huts. A few canvas tents looked incongruous, but otherwise it was very like the kind of South-East-Asian village I’d seen many times before. At the far end was a larger construction, a longhouse, and beside it the stream from the waterfall re-emerged, bending around to run along the edge of the clearing. From the straightness of its banks, it had obviously been deliberately diverted.

  It was only after taking all this in that I noticed there was something strange about the light. The forest had been both dark and bright by turns, but here everything was lit in an unchanging twilight, more like dusk than midday. I looked up, following the trunk of one of the giant trees. The height of the tree alone was breathtaking, accentuated by the fact that the lower branches had been cut away, so it was possible to appreciate its size. Higher up the branches began to grow again, curving upwards across the clearing like gables until they joined with the branches from the other side. But their point of joining seemed too dense and thick, and as I looked harder I began to see that they were coiled around each other, intertwining to form a cavernous ceiling of wood and leaves, hanging with the stalactite vines that now became magically appropr
iate.

  ‘Camouflage,’ said Jed, behind me. ‘We don’t want to be seen from the air. Planes sometimes fly over. Not often, but sometimes.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Originally the branches were tied together with ropes but now they just grow that way. Every so often we have to cut them back a bit, or it gets too gloomy. Impressive, huh?’

  ‘Stunning,’ I agreed, and was so captivated by this sight that I didn’t even register that people had begun to emerge from the longhouse and were walking over the clearing towards us. Three people to be exact. Two women and a man.

  ‘Sal, Cassie and Bugs,’ said one of the women as they reached us. ‘I’m Sal, but don’t try to remember our names.’ She smiled warmly. ‘You’ll only get confused when you meet the others, and you’ll learn them all eventually.’

  I’m not likely to forget Bugs, I thought to myself, just managing to suppress a laugh. I frowned and put a hand up to my temples. Since jumping off the waterfall my head had been feeling increasingly light. Now it had started to feel like it might float off my shoulders.

  Françoise stepped up to the woman and said, ‘Françoise, Étienne and Richard.’

  ‘You’re French! Lovely! We’ve only got one other French person here.’

  ‘Richard is English.’ Françoise gestured to me and I tried to nod politely, but I overran the motion forwards and the nod turned into a little bow.

  ‘Lovely!’ exclaimed the woman again, watching me curiously out of the corner of her eye. ‘… Well, let’s get you some food, because I know you’re all hungry.’ She turned to the man. ‘Bugs, you want to fix some stew? Then we can all have a good long chat and get to know each other. Does that sound good?’

  ‘It sounds great, Sal,’ I said loudly. ‘You know, you’re quite right. I do feel hungry.’ The laugh I’d suppressed before suddenly worked its way out. ‘We’ve only eaten these cold Magi-Noodles and chocolate. We couldn’t take the Calor gas stove… Étienne’s stove… And…’

  Jed lunged to catch me as I fainted, but too late. His alarmed face spun out of view as I toppled backwards. The last thing I saw was a blue pinprick of sky through the canopy ceiling, before darkness rushed in and engulfed it.

  Batman

  I waited patiently for Mister Duck to show up. I knew he was near because in the candlelight I could see blood scattered in the dust around my bed and there was a red hand-print on the sheets. I guessed he was in the shadows at the other end of the longhouse, waiting to loom out and surprise me. But he was the one who was going to be surprised. This time I was expecting him.

  Minutes passed. I sweated and sighed. Wax ran down the candle, balling in the dust. A lizard fell from a beam above and landed between my legs.

  The lizard from the rainstorm, come back to visit me.

  ‘Aah,’ I said. ‘Hallo there.’ I reached to pick him up but he wriggled free, leaving a centimetre of pink tail behind.

  One of Mister Duck’s games.

  I swore and held up the tail, and it flipped around on my palm. ‘Very clever, Duck. Don’t know what it means, but it’s very clever.’ I sunk back on the pillow. ‘Hey, Duck! That’s the kid, huh? That’s the boy!’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ said a sleepy voice from deep in the shadows.

  I sat up again. ‘That you, Duck? You sound different.’

  ‘… It’s Bugs.’

  ‘Bugs. I remember. Hey, let me guess. Bugs Bunny, right?’

  There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘That is right.’

  I scratched my head. Sticky clumps were matted into my hair. ‘Yeah, thought so. So you’ve taken over from Duck now. Who’s next?’ I giggled. ‘Road Runner?’

  Two people muttered in the darkness.

  ‘Porky Pig? Yosemite Sam? No, wait, I’ve got it… Wile E. Coyote. It’s Wile E. Coyote, isn’t it?’

  In the orange candlelight I saw a movement down the longhouse, a figure padding towards me. As it moved closer I recognized the slim shape.

  ‘Françoise! Hey, Françoise, this is a better dream than the last one.’

  ‘Shh,’ she whispered, kneeling beside me, her long white T-shirt drawing up around her thighs. ‘You are not dreaming.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Françoise, I am. Trust me. Look at the blood on the floor. That’s Mister Duck, from his wrists. They never stop bleeding. You should have seen what happened in Bangkok.’

  She looked around, then back at me. ‘The blood is from your head, Richard.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You hurt it when you fell.’

  ‘… Mister Duck.’

  ‘Shh. There are people asleep in here. Please.’

  I lay down, feeling puzzled, and she rested her hand on my forehead.

  ‘You have a little fever. Do you think you can go back to sleep?’

  ‘… I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you try?’

  ‘… OK.’

  She tucked the sheets over my shoulders, smiling slightly. ‘There now. Close your eyes.’

  I closed them.

  The pillow shifted as she leant over. She kissed me gently on the cheek.

  ‘I am dreaming,’ I murmured, as her footsteps padded away down the longhouse. ‘I knew it.’

  Mister Duck hung above me like a wingless bat, his legs gripping the beam, the curve under his ribcage stretched into a grotesque cavity, his swinging arms dripping steadily.

  ‘I knew it,’ I said. ‘I knew you were near.’ A pulse of blood splashed on to my chest. ‘Cold like a fucking reptile’s.’

  Mister Duck scowled. ‘It’s as hot as yours. It’s only cold because of the fever. And you should put the covers back. You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Too hot.’

  ‘Mmm. Too hot, too cold…’

  I wiped my mouth with a wet hand. ‘Is it malaria?’

  ‘Malaria? Nervous exhaustion, more like.’

  ‘So how come Françoise doesn’t have it?’

  ‘She wasn’t as nervous as you.’ His outsized jaw jutted out and split his face into a mischievous grin. ‘She’s been very attentive, you know. Very attentive indeed. Checked on you twice when you were asleep.’

  ‘I am asleep.’

  ‘Sure… Fast asleep.’

  The candle-flame faltered as melting wax began to flood the wick. Cicadas chirped outside. Blood like icy water dripped, made me shiver and twist the sheets.

  ‘What was the deal with the lizard, Duck?’

  ‘Lizard?’

  ‘It ran away. In the rainstorm I could hold it in my hand. But here it ran away.’

  ‘I seem to remember it running in the rainstorm, Rich.’

  ‘I held it in my hand.’

  ‘Is that what you remember, Rich?’

  The pool of wax grew too large for the candle to contain. Suddenly it drained away and the wick flared brightly, throwing a crisp shadow on the longhouse ceiling. A silhouette. A wingless bat with hanging claws and pencil arms.

  ‘Lightning,’ I whispered.

  The jaw jutted out. ‘That’s the boy…’

  ‘Fuck…’

  ‘… That’s the kid.’

  ‘…you.’

  Minutes passed.

  Talk

  Late morning, I reckoned. Only from the heat. In the darkness of the longhouse and the steady glow of the candle, there was nothing else to reveal the time.

  A Buddha sat cross-legged at the foot of my bed, palms resting flat on ochre knees. An unusual Buddha, female, with a US accent, heavy breasts clearly outlined through a saffron T-shirt, and long hair tied back from her perfectly round face. Around her neck was a necklace of sea shells. Beside her incense sticks burned, sending tiny spirals of perfumed smoke up to the ceiling.

  ‘Finish it, Richard,’ said the Buddha, looking pointedly at the bowl I held in my hands – half a freshly cut coconut, now nearly drained of a sugary fish soup. ‘Finish all of it.’

  I lifted the bowl to my mouth, and the smell of the incense mixed with the fish and the swe
etness.

  I put it down again. ‘I can’t, Sal.’

  ‘You must, Richard.’

  ‘I’ll throw up.’

  ‘Richard, you must.’

  She had the American habit of frequently using one’s name. It had the strange effect of being both disarmingly familiar and unnaturally forced.

  ‘Honestly. I can’t.’

  ‘It’s good for you.’

  ‘I’ve finished most of it. Look.’

  I held up the bowl for her to see and we stared at each other across the blood-stained sheets.

  ‘OK,’ she sighed. ‘I guess that’ll have to do.’ Then she folded her arms and narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Richard, we need to talk.’

  We were alone. Occasionally people would enter and leave but I’d never see them. I’d hear the door at the far end of the longhouse bang open and a small rectangle of light would hover in the darkness until the door swung shut.

  When I reached the part about finding Mister Duck’s body, Sal looked sad. It wasn’t a strong reaction; her eyebrows flicked downwards and her lower lip tensed. I guessed she’d already heard about Duck’s death from Étienne and Françoise, so the news wasn’t as shocking as it could have been. Her reaction was pretty hard to read. It seemed more directed at me than at anything else, like she was sorry that I’d had to witness something so horrible.

  Aside from that one moment, Sal made no other signs. She didn’t interrupt me, frown, smile, nod. She just sat in her lotus position, motionless, and listened. At first her blankness was disconcerting and I paused after key events to give her time to comment, but she’d only wait for me to continue. Soon I found myself slipping into a stream of consciousness, talking to her as if she were a tape recorder or a priest.

  Very like a priest. I began to feel as if I was in confession, guiltily describing my panic on the plateau and trying to justify why I’d lied to the Thai police; and the silent way she absorbed these things was like absolution. I even made an obscure reference to my attraction to Françoise, just to get it off my chest. Probably too obtuse for her to pick up, but the intention was there.