The Beach (30 page)

By setting off so early, I was hoping that Zeph and Sammy would still be with their raft. Finding them would be a lot harder if they'd already entered the jungle. I was also trusting that they'd have landed on the same stretch of beach where Étienne, Françoise and I had first come ashore. I was fairly confident that they would have, but you never knew. They might have tried to circle the island, not realizing they'd passed the only open stretch of sand. Either way, the more time I gave myself to play with the better.
At least dodging the guards wasn't a problem. They were dozy enough at the best of times, but at seven a.m. they'd definitely still be sleeping off their dope hangovers. In a way, my biggest problem was Mister Duck. He was badly out of shape, wheezing like an old coalminer, frequently pausing to lean against trees and catch his breath. I tried to tell myself that his ghostly status made it unlikely that anyone else could hear him, but all the same, each time he barked a swear-word my heart would miss a beat. I'd turn and glare at him, and he'd raise his hands apologetically. 'Sorry,' he muttered after a stream of abuse at a razor-leaf thicket. 'I'm not as good at jungle warfare as I'd imagined.' A few minutes later he tripped and fell on his gun, letting off a round into the bushes. He didn't have his safety-catch on, the idiot, and he'd been walking with his finger on the trigger. After that we decided the gun was more trouble than it was worth - seeing as it couldn't kill anything real - and we left it hidden in the undergrowth.
About thirty metres before the tree-line along the beach, I made him wait behind. Even though I was sure that no one else could see or hear him, he distracted me. If I wanted to get close to the rafting
group, I couldn't afford to be compromised.
Unexpectedly — though clearly hurt — he took it in good grace.
'I understand, Richie,' he said gamely. 'You hate me.'
'I don't hate you,' I sighed. 'But like I said, this is serious.'
'I know, I know. You go ahead. Anyway...' His eyes became
slits and flicked to the side. 'In my experience these types of jobs are
one-man affairs.'
'Exactly.'
I left him under a coconut tree, using a serrated bowie knife to
pick the dirt from under his nails.
The early-morning effort paid off. The rafters were still on the beach.
Even though I'd been watching them for months, it was a shock to see the group close up. It confirmed that it actually
was
Zeph and Sammy we'd been watching; that our assumption had been correct and that the blame for their presence could only come down to me. It was also curious because I'd been anticipating this moment for what seemed like ages, but the reality of their presence left me feeling cold. I'd anticipated something more dramatic than the bedraggled figures who sat huddled around their raft. Something a lot more sinister, considering that — as outsiders — they represented a threat to the secrecy of the camp and a threat to me. I still hadn't worked out what I was going to say to Sal about the map. I didn't have the nerve to countermand her orders, so I just had to rely on the island's obstacle course. That failing, my only hope was that I could explain the situation to Zeph and Sammy while I kept them delayed above the waterfall.
From my spy point — about twenty metres from where they sat, lying flat under the shelter of some ferns—I could see only four of them. The fifth was obscured behind their raft. Of the two visible Germans, one was a boy and one was a girl. With some satisfaction, I saw that the girl was pretty but not as pretty as Françoise. No one on the beach was as pretty as Françoise and I didn't want her usurped by a stranger. The girl would have been prettier if it weren't for her nose, which was tiny and turned-up so she looked like a tanned skull. The guy, however, was a different matter. Even though he was clearly exhausted, weakly hauling his (pink-pastel) backpack off the raft, he had the same build and appearance as Bugs. They could have been brothers, even down to the long hair which he kept having to flick out of his eyes. I took a comfortably instant dislike to him.
Eventually the fifth popped up to finish off the team. Another girl, and annoyingly, I was unable to find anything to hold against her. She was short and curvy, and she had an attractive quiet laugh that rolled cleanly across the sand to where I lay. She also had very long brown hair that at one point, for a reason I couldn't fathom, she wrapped around her neck like a scarf. It was a surreal sight, and it made me smile, until I remembered I should be scowling.
I was mildly put out that the rafters didn't make the same mistake as I had with Étienne and Françoise—walking to each end of the arrival beach before realizing that the only way to get around the island was to go across it. But this was more than compensated by another, far more serious, mistake they made.
Actually, I knew they were about to make the mistake even before it had happened. Firstly, they hadn't properly hidden their raft — only dragging it up beyond the high-tide mark — and secondly, they chatted loudly as they walked. In German, I noticed with grudging respect. (Grudging respect for Zeph and Sammy rather than the Germans, obviously.) To me, this clearly suggested one thing: they were entirely unaware of any need for caution. Mister Duck, who had rejoined me when the group turned inland, noticed it too.
'Not very perceptive,' he said, just under an hour into the trek.
I nodded, putting a warning finger to my lips. I didn't want to talk because we were following them so closely. Not closely enough to see them through the thick foliage, but always close enough to hear.
'If they carry on like that they'll get caught,' he continued, undeterred.
I nodded.
'Maybe you should do something, don't you think?'
'No,' I whispered. 'Now shut up.'
I was a bit perplexed by Mister Duck's concern, but no more than that. The next time he opened his mouth I put the warning finger to his lips instead of mine, and he got the message.
So anyway. That was the rafters' big mistake, not being very perceptive. When they came to the first plateau, not one of them realized they were in a field.

Sammy whooped, just as he'd whooped six months ago, running through the rain on Ko Samui. And he shouted, 'This is way outa fuckin' line, man! I've never seen so much fuckin' weed! This is more weed than I've ever fuckin' seen!' Then he started ripping up big handfuls of leaves and throwing them in the air, and the other four started whooping and throwing leaves in the air too. They looked like million-dollar bank-robbers throwing their loot around. Completely out of control. Completely dead meat. It was ten a.m. The guards would have been patrolling for two hours at least, and if they hadn't heard them crashing through the jungle, they'd heard them now.
By a twist of fate, nothing intentional about it, Mister Duck and I were hiding in the same bush that I'd hidden in with Étienne and Françoise. It certainly gave the scene an extra edge. Watching Zeph and Sammy was like watching myself — what could have come to pass six months ago if not for Étienne's cool head - and I felt a peculiarly vivid blast of empathy for Scrooge. Perhaps Mister Duck is my Ghost of Christmas Future, I remember thinking, as my stomach knotted with the memories of my fear. But I was also buzzing. It looked like the problem with our uninvited guests was about to be solved, and as if that wasn't enough, I was also going to find out what happened when the dope guards caught someone. Better than that, I was actually going to see it.
Not that I'd want anyone thinking I was without pity for them. I didn't want Zeph and Sammy on the island and I knew it would be convenient if they were to disappear, but it didn't have to be this way. Ideal scenario: they arrived, I had a couple of days tracking them as they found their way across the island, then they gave up at the waterfall and went back home. I would have had my fun, and there'd have been no spilt tears and no spilt blood.
Zeph bled like a stuck pig. When the guards had appeared, he'd begun walking straight over towards them like they were old friends. To my mind an inexplicable thing to do, but that's what he did. He
still
hadn't seemed to realize what was going on, even though the guards all had their guns off their shoulders and were jabbering in Thai. Maybe he thought they were part of the Eden community, or maybe he was so shocked that he just didn't click how much trouble he was in. Either way, as soon as he got close, one of the guards smashed him in the face with the butt of his rifle. I wasn't surprised. The guard looked very nervous, and just as confused by Zeph's strange behaviour as me.
After that there were a few seconds of silent staring across the heads of the dope plants, Zeph taking little backward steps as he cupped the blood spilling out of his nose. It seemed as if each of the two groups was as bewildered as the other. The rafters were having to make a considerable mental adjustment, Eden to Hell in the space of a few seconds. The dope guards seemed stunned that anyone could be so stupid as to walk into their plantation and start ripping it to pieces.
It occurred to me, during this brief interlude, that most of the guards were more like country boys than experienced mercenaries, with scars from sharp corals rather than from knife fights. A bit like the real VC. But I'm sure these observations would have been of small interest to Zeph and Sammy, and in this case I think it made the guards more dangerous than they might otherwise have been. Maybe someone more experienced wouldn't have panicked and smashed Zeph's face in. Isn't there a saying: the only thing more dangerous than a man with a gun is a nervous man with a gun? If there isn't, there should be. Once the short period of staring was over, the guards flipped. I read it as a panicky reaction to the situation. They just waded in and began beating the shit out of what were now their uninvited guests, and not mine.
I suppose they might have been battered to death right there and then, but just as I was beginning to feel that the scene was getting too unpleasant to watch, another bunch of guards arrived, and this lot appeared to have a boss. I'd never seen him before. He was older than the others and had no automatic rifle — only a pistol, still in its holster. Traditionally a mark of power amongst gunmen. One word from him and the beating stopped.
Beside me, Mister Duck reached over and clutched my arm. 'Rich, I think they're going to be killed.' I frowned at him and mouthed, 'Quiet.' 'No, listen,' he persisted. 'I don't want them killed.' This time I shut him up not just with my finger but my whole hand. The guards' boss had started talking.
He spoke in English. Not flawlessly by any means. Not like a Nazi POW camp commandant who appreciates English poetry and says to his prisoners, 'You know, we are much alike, you and I.' But good enough.
'Who are you?' he said, very loud and clear.
A deceptively tricky question. What do you say? Do you formally introduce yourself, do you say 'no one', do you beg for your life? I thought Sammy handled it very well, considering he'd just had his front teeth knocked out.
'We 're travellers from Ko Pha-Ngan,' he replied between tight gasps for air, involuntarily dribbling as he spoke. 'We were looking for some other travellers. We made a mistake. We didn't know this was your island.'
The boss nodded, not unkindly. 'Ve'y big mistake.'
'Please, we're very...' Gasp. 'Sorry.'
'You alone now? Any frien' here now?'
'We're alone. We were looking for a friend. We thought he was here, and we know we made a mist...'
'Why you look for frien' here?'
'Our friend gave us a map.'
The boss cocked his head to the side. 'Wha' map?'
'I can sh...'
'You can show me tha' map. La'er.'
'Please. We're very sorry.'
'Yes. I know abou' you bein' sorry.'
'We'd like to go. We could leave your island now and we wouldn't tell anyone about anything.'
'Yes. You tell no one. I know abou' tha'.'
Sammy tried to smile. All his remaining teeth were bright red. 'Will you let us go? Please?'
'Ah.' The boss smiled back. 'You can go.'
'...We can go?'
'Yes.'
'Thank you.' With an effort, Sammy raised himself on to his knees. 'Sir, thank you. I promise you, we won't tell any...'
'You can go wit' us.'
'...With you?'
'You go wit' us now.'
'No,' Sammy began to protest. 'Please, wait, we made a mistake! We're
very
sorry! We won't tell
anyone!
'
One of the German guys started to get up, holding his arms in the air. 'We will not speak!' he blurted. 'We will not speak!'
The boss gazed at the German impassively, then spoke quickly to the guards. Three of them moved forward and tried to lift Zeph by the arms. He began to struggle. Another guard stepped forward and jabbed the barrel of his rifle into Zeph's stomach.
'Richard,' said Mister Duck, who had squirmed from under my grip. 'Listen to me. They're definitely going to be killed.'
I took no notice.
'Do something, Richard.'
Again I didn't respond, and this time he poked me hard in the ribs with his finger. Luckily, my yelp was drowned out by the sounds of the rafters screaming.
'Jesus fucking Christ!' I whispered incredulously. 'What's your problem?'
'Do something to help them!'
'Like what?'
'Like...' He considered this question whilst over in the field the guards piled on to the German girl. She'd tried to run away and been brought down after only a couple of stumbling metres. 'I don't know!'
'Well neither do I, so belt up! You'll get me killed too!'
'But...'
Resisting the urge to shout at him, I grabbed him by the lapels of his combat jacket and put my mouth right up against his ear.
'For the last time, shut the fuck up!
'
Mister Duck covered his face with his hands and the guards began dragging their terrified captives away.

The cries and howls were gradually replaced by jungle noises. Commonplace sounds I'd never normally have registered, but which now seemed unnatural. Worse, obscurely facetious; twittering birdsong like twittering bad jokes, jangling my nerves and my temper. I stood up without a word to Mister Duck and set off on my way back up to the pass. It wasn't an easy trek. My head ached with a fading adrenalin rush, my legs felt unsteady, and I was giving far too little thought to stealth. Twice I tripped and more than twice I pushed through a thicket without pausing to see who might be on the other side.
Looking back, it seems obvious that I was shaken by what I'd seen and in a hurry to leave an area which still felt heavy with screams. But that wasn't how I saw it at the time. I only thought about the importance of getting back to camp and filling in Sal on the morning's developments. I was also furious with Mister Duck. From the moment we'd started tracking the rafters, his wires seemed to have got severely crossed. Not only had he apparently asked me to intercept Zeph and Sammy before the plateau, his blathering had put me in jeopardy. As far as I was concerned, that was a serious offence. The DMZ was way too dangerous a place if you couldn't rely on your company.
I think Mister Duck sensed this anger because, unusually, he made no attempt at conversation. Until we reached the pass. Then he stopped me with a firm shove and said, 'We need to talk.'
'Fuck you,' I replied, shoving him back. 'You could have got me killed.'
'The rafters probably
are
being killed!'
'You don't know that. And I didn't want that beating shit to happen any more than you, so don't get on some fucking moral high horse. We
knew
they might be caught. That was understood when we made the decision to make no contact with them unless they got to the waterfall, so what do you want from me?'
'Decisions? I didn't make any decisions! I wanted you to help them!'
'Steaming in like Rambo, waving an M16 that doesn't even exist?'
'You could have done something!'
'Like what? You live in a dream world! There was
nothing
I could have done!'
'You could have warned them before they got to the plateau!'
'I had clear orders
not
to warn them!'
'You could have broken the orders!'
'I didn't want to fucking break them!'
'You... didn't?'
'Not for one second!'
Mister Duck frowned and opened his mouth to reply, then appeared to check himself.
'What?' I snapped.
He shook his head, his features calming. When eventually he spoke I knew he wasn't saying what was on his mind. 'That was a cheap shot, Richard,' he said quietly. 'About me living in a dream world.'
'You could have got me killed, but I hurt your feelings. God forgive me. I'm a monster.'
'It's your world I live in.'
'That must be a comfort, considering you were the one who pointed out I'm...'
I cut myself off. While I'd been talking, I'd heard a sharp crack from somewhere in the DMZ.
'...Did you hear that?'
Mister Duck hesitated, his eyes narrowing, and suddenly he looked extremely worried. 'Yes. I heard something.'
'You sure?'
'Definite.'
We both waited.
Within five or six seconds the silence was exploded by a burst of gunfire. It was entirely unambiguous, somehow managing to ripple through the trees like a quick breeze and tear through them with shocking loudness. A single burst, but a long one. Long enough for me to blink and hunch my shoulders, and then be aware that the shooting was still going on.
When it finally did stop, the next thing I heard was Mister Duck, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.
'Jesus...' I muttered. 'Jesus Christ... It's happened. They've actually
'Been shot,' he finished vacantly.
To my surprise, I nearly threw up. Out of nowhere, my stomach knotted and my throat tensed up. An image jumped into my head, the rafters' bodies, their shirts scattered with spreading stains, limbs twisted. Swallowing hard, I turned to the DMZ . I suppose I was looking for a corroborating sign, maybe some vague blue smoke in the distance. But there was nothing.
'Been shot,' I heard once more, and then, very faintly, 'Damn.'
A moment later I turned back to Mister Duck. He had gone.