The Beach Read Free

said, and returned to her windows.
A couple of minutes later I was sitting on my bed with the ceiling fan chilling the back of my neck, and the map in my hands. Beside me the empty envelope rustled under the breeze. Outside, the old woman clanked up the stairs with her mop and bucket to the next level.
The map was beautifully coloured in. The islands' perimeters were drawn in green biro and little blue pencil waves bobbed in the sea. A compass sat in the top-right-hand corner, carefully segmented into sixteen points, each with an arrow tip and appropriate bearing. At the top of the map it read 'Gulf of Thailand' in thick red marker. A thinner red pen had been used for the islands' names.
It was so carefully drawn that I had to smile. It reminded me of geography homework and tracing paper. A brief memory surfaced of my teacher handing out exercise books and sarcastic quips.
'So who's it from?' I muttered, and checked the envelope once more for an accompanying note of explanation. It was empty.
Then, on one of a cluster of small islands I noticed a black mark. An X mark. I looked closer. Written underneath in tiny letters was the word 'Beach'.

I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to say to him. I was curious, partly, just wanting to know what the deal was with this beach of his. Also I was pissed off. It seemed like the guy was set on invading my holiday, freaking me out by hissing through the mosquito netting in the middle of the night and leaving strange maps for me to discover.
His door was unlocked, the padlock missing. I listened outside for a minute before knocking, and when I did the door swung open.
In spite of the newspaper pages stuck over the windows, there was enough light coming in for me to see. The man was lying on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. I think he'd slit his wrists. Or it could have been his neck. In the gloom, with so much blood splashed about, it was hard to tell what he'd slit. But I knew he'd done the cutting: there was a knife in his hand.
I stood still, gazing at the body for a couple of moments. Then I went to get help.
Étienne
    The policeman was perspiring, but not with the heat. The air-con in the room made it like a fridge. It was more to do with the exertion of speaking English. When he came to a difficult word or a complicated sentence his brow would crease into a hundred lines. Then, little beads of sweat would pop up like opals on his brown skin.
'But Mis'er Duck no you frien',' he said.
I shook my head. 'I'd never met him before last night. And listen. The Duck name, it's not real. It's a joke name.'
'Jo' name?' said the policeman.
'Not a true name.' I pointed to where he'd written the name in his notebook. 'Daffy Duck is a cartoon character.'
'Ca'oon?'
'Yes.'
'Mis'er Duck is ca'oon?'
'Like Bugs Bunny. Uh, Mickey Mouse.'
'Oh,' said the policeman. 'So, he gi' false name to gues' house.'
'Definitely.'
The policeman wiped his shirtsleeve over his face. Sweat sprinkled over his notebook, blurring the ink. He frowned and new droplets replaced the ones he'd just swept away.
'Now I wan' ask you abou' scene of crime.'
'OK.'
'You en'er Mis'er Duck room, because wha'?'
I'd worked this out on the walk down the Khao San Road to the police station.
'Because he kept me awake last night and I wanted to tell him not to do it again.'
'Ah. Las' nigh' Mis'er Duck make noise.'
'Right.'
'And wha' you fine in room, hah?'
'Nothing. I just saw him dead and went to tell the guest-house manager.'
'Mis'er Duck already dead? How you know abou' tha'?'
'I didn't. I just thought he was. There was a lot of blood.'
The policeman nodded sagely, then leant back on his chair.
'I think you angry abou' so much noise las' nigh', hah?'
'Sure.'
'How angry wi' Mis'er Duck?'
I held up my hands. 'I spent the whole morning in the restaurant eating breakfast. From six until nine. A lot of people saw me there.'
'Maybe he die before six.'
I shrugged. I wasn't worried. There was a clear image in my head of the low light coming