The Beach Read Free Page B

more.'
'Often we could not understand him. I know he talked English because I would recognize some words, but... it was not easy.'
'It wasn't easy for me either. He was Scottish. Strong accent.'
'Oh... You heard him last night?'
Now it was Étienne'sturn to go red while I concentrated on my cigarette. My embarrassment was compounded by his. It was odd, but if his girlfriend had been ugly I'd only have been amused, but because she was so attractive it almost felt as if I'd had some kind of affair with her. Which of course I had. A mental affair.
We blushed at each other until the awkward silence became too oppressive.
'Yes,' I said, far too loudly. 'He had a thick Scottish accent.'
'Ah,' replied Étienne, also a little firmly. 'Now I understand.'
He stroked his chin thoughtfully as though he were smoothing down a beard, although I could see from his light stubble that he was a long way from being able to grow one. Then he said, 'He would talk about a beach.'
He looked straight at me as he said it. He was watching my face for a reaction - it was obvious. I nodded to make him continue.
'He would talk about it all night. I would lie on my bed awake, because I could not sleep with his shouting, and I would try to follow his words. Like a puzzle.' Étienne laughed. 'Fokkin' bitch,' he said, approximating the man's voice pretty well. 'It took me three nights to understand it was a beach. Just like a puzzle.'
I took another drag on my cigarette, leaving a pause in the conversation, letting Étienne fill it.
'I like puzzles,' he said, but not really to me. Then he let the silence grow.

A trip to India, seventeen years old, more dope than sense, me and one friend decided to take about an eighth of hash with us on a flight from Srinagar to Delhi. We each made our own plans as to how to take it. I wrapped mine up in plastic, swathed it in masking tape and deodorant to mask the smell, and tucked it into a bottle of malaria pills. The precautions were probably unnecessary. The customs officers were unlikely to be too interested in internal flights, but I did it anyway.
When we got to the airport I was shit scared. I mean I was shit scared — eyes popping, shaking, sweating like a pig. But in spite of my fear, I did the most extraordinary thing. I told a complete stranger, a guy I met in the waiting lounge, that I had some dope hidden in my backpack. It wasn't even like he'd winkled the information out of me. I volunteered it. I made the conversation move on to the subject of drugs, and then confessed that I was a smuggler.
I don't know why I did it. I knew it was a fantastically stupid thing to do, but I went right ahead and did it anyway. I simply needed to tell someone what I was doing.

'I know where the beach is,' I said.
Étienne raised his eyebrows.
'I've got a map.'
'A map of the beach?'
'The dead guy drew it for me. I found it stuck to my door this morning. It shows where the beach is, how to get there. I've got it in my room.'
Étienne whistled. 'You told the police?'
'Nope.'
'Perhaps it is important. Maybe it is something to do with why he...'
'Maybe it is.' I flicked away my cigarette. 'But I don't want to get involved. Maybe they'd think I knew him or something, but I didn't. I never met him before last night.'
'A map,' said Étienne quietly.
'Cool, huh?'
Étienne stood up suddenly. 'Can I see it? Would you mind?'
'Uh, not really,' I replied. 'But aren't you waiting for...'
'My girlfriend? Françoise? She knows the way back to the guesthouse. No, I would like to see the map.' He rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. 'If I may.'
Surprised by the intimacy of the gesture, my shoulder twitched and the hand dropped.
'Yeah, sure,' I said. 'Let's go.'
Mute
    We didn't talk as we walked down the Khao San Road towards the guest-house. There was no point. Dodging through the hundreds of travellers made it impossible to have a conversation. Passing the bootleg-tape stalls, moving through the music zones, picking up the walking pace for