by Fiona Barton
I try to laugh with the rest of them, but it feels fake.
“Never mind that—have you spoken to the boy who survived?” Louise calls across to me. She’s not the sort to be distracted.
“No,” I say and my voice trembles. Louise looks at me hard and the reporters come closer.
“You look upset,” George says. “What’s happened? Has there been a row? Are you being chucked out?”
“No,” I say. “Nothing like that.”
I take a deep breath and think about keeping quiet. But they’re going to find out anyway. I would.
“The thing is, the survivor is my son Jake.”
“You’re joking! Your son?” George says, and there is a buzz of excitement among the reporters.
“Yes, I know. Unbelievable. I didn’t realize until I spoke to the doctor.”
“Wow,” Louise says and I see her scribble something in her notebook.
“I knew he was in Thailand—I told you, George—but I thought he was in Phuket, saving turtles,” I say, trying to explain but sounding hopeless.
“God, that must have been such a shock. How is he, Kate?” George asks.
“Not too bad, the doctor says. Some burns on his hands and face.”
I feel like I’m talking to my friends—they are my friends, most of them—but more of them are taking down what I’m saying. Is this a press conference?
“How old is Jake?” someone asks.
“So, is he on holiday?”
“How did he get out of the fire?”
“Did he get his burns trying to save the girls?”
“Is he a hero, Kate?”
And while I’m struggling to find answers, Louise says:
“You’ll get us in to see him, won’t you?”
The reporters go quiet. I swallow hard.
“No, I can’t. Jake isn’t here anymore.”
“Where is he, then? Have you squirreled him away in a hotel?” Louise snaps.
“No, I haven’t. I haven’t even seen him. He discharged himself this morning before I got here. I don’t know where he is.”
“What? He’s disappeared?” she says, and everyone crowds closer round me so they don’t miss a word.
“Do the police know?” a TV reporter asks from behind his video camera, and I nod. “They talked to him last night.”
“So is he a hero or a suspect?” Louise says.
“Shut up, Louise,” George says. “Ignore her, Kate.”
I look at them, at the faces I know so well. They are people I have been scared with, laughed with, confided in, got drunk with, but suddenly I am the stranger in their midst. I am the story.
PART TWO
THE STORY
TWENTY-THREE
The Mother
TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2014
She turned on Malcolm as soon as the hotel bedroom door closed.
“Why didn’t you back me up? Sitting there, not saying a word.”
“There was nothing I could say, Lesley. You and Jenny asked all the questions. And the police know what they’re doing.”
“Who says? I saw that embassy bloke roll his eyes when the policeman was talking. I want to know what happened to my daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
“Yes, yes, our daughter.”
“That’s what I want, too. You know that. We mustn’t let this push us apart, love. It’s what happens to couples when something terrible happens. They turn on each other. Blame each other. I’ve read about it in the papers.”
“We’re not like Jenny and Mike,” Lesley snapped. Being reasonable was not what she wanted at that moment. She was so angry she felt she could burst. Her daughter. Her daughter was lying in a morgue and no one could tell her why. Why was Alex dead? Who was to blame?
Malcolm got into bed fully clothed, too exhausted even to take off his shoes, and closed his eyes.
“We can’t sleep now,” she shouted, startling him. “We’ve got to find out who is responsible for this. Get up!”
Malcolm turned onto his back and looked at the ceiling, tears rolling into his hair.
“Stop being so passive!” Lesley shrieked.
He reached out his arms to her and she collapsed onto the bed, folding herself into him.
“We will find out.” He stroked her hair and stilled her clenching fists. “But we can’t function without sleep, love. You are so tired, you can’t see straight. Close your eyes, just for half an hour.”
She waited for him to fall asleep, monitoring his breathing as it slowed to comatose, then rose and sat at the desk with the flimsy notepad she’d found on the bedside table.
She wrote Things to Do, just like she would if she’d been at home. But instead of writing Phone bank, Buy cat food, DRY CLEANING!, she put Find out how the fire started. Who else was in the hostel? Was there a party? Where were Alex and Rosie? WHY DIDN’T THEY GET OUT?
She was gripping the cheap hotel biro so hard it splintered.
When she looked up from the list, she saw her hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror.
“Why didn’t you get out, Alex?” she said, but the bereaved mother looking back at her had no answers.
The phone rang and she picked it up quickly to stop it waking Malcolm.
“Mrs. O’Connor,” a sweet voice sang to her from reception. “I have someone here to see you. Please hold.”
“Lesley? It’s Kate. I hope I haven’t woken you. Can I come up?”
“Okay. But Malcolm’s still asleep.”
Kate looked terrible when Lesley opened the door. Her makeup was all smudged, as if she’d been crying. What’s she got to cry about? flitted through Lesley’s head, but she didn’t ask. She couldn’t summon up the energy.
“We’ll have to talk in the bathroom,” she whispered and led the way. She sat down on the toilet lid. Kate perched on the side of the bath.
“We’ve identified the girls. It is them,” Lesley said in one breath. “I’d hoped they’d made a mistake, but it is Alex and Rosie.”
“I am so sorry, Lesley.”
“Yes, well. Now we have to find out what happened.” She knew she sounded manic but she had to keep going or she would break down. Keep strong, she told herself, kneading her thigh with her fist to keep herself focused.
“Of course,” Kate said. “What are the police saying?”
“That there was a party that night. That there were drugs and drink. That it was most probably an accident. That’s what the interpreter told us. A candle or something like that.”
“Right,” Kate said. “Was there evidence of a candle causing the fire?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say. The thing is, there are no witnesses, according to the police. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Right,” Kate repeated.
Why does she keep saying that, as if she doesn’t believe me? “But Clive Barnes says he’s heard about the boy you mentioned at the airport—the boy who got out alive. I want to talk to him and find out why my daughter didn’t.”
Silence filled the tiled bathroom. Another tiled room, Lesley thought and tore a sheet of toilet paper off the roll to wipe her eyes.
Kate looked as upset as she was and she passed her a piece of loo roll.
“Sorry, Lesley. I’m a bit all over the place. When did Clive tell you this? Did he have a name?”
“No. Why? Do you know who it is? Have you seen him?” Lesley asked.
“It’s my son.”
“What is? What are you talking about?” Lesley felt completely lost, as if she’d blacked out and come to at a different point in the conversation.
Kate leaned forward to tell her, nearly falling off the narrow lip of the bath. Lesley put her hand out to steady her.
“Careful,” she said, but Kate brushed her away.
/> “I went to the hospital to try to speak to the survivor, and when I got to the room, I discovered it was my son Jake. The doctors told me. I didn’t even know he was in Bangkok—we thought he was in Phuket. That’s what he always told us. It was a complete shock.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. Jake.”
“Was in the fire?”
“Yes. I know it must be hard for you to take in. It was for me.”
Lesley couldn’t speak for a moment as she tried to make sense of it.
“What does he say about what happened?” she said.
“Apparently he couldn’t tell the police anything when they spoke to him, Lesley.”
“Yes, that’s what the policeman said to us, too. But he’ll be able to tell us what happened, won’t he?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Well, when can we go and see him?” Adrenaline surging through her, Lesley jumped up, threw open the bathroom door, and shouted Malcolm’s name.
“What?” he groaned. “Alex?”
“Wake up, love. We’re going to the hospital. We’re going now,” she said. Nothing was going to stop her.
Kate took hold of her arm to restrain her, but Lesley shook her off impatiently. “Come on, Kate. You can take us.”
But there was something wrong. Hers was the only energy in the room. Kate looked flat and panicky.
“Hold on, Lesley. The thing is, I don’t know where he is now. No one does. He left the hospital this morning.”
“Why? Has he run away?”
Kate couldn’t look her in the eye.
“Well, has he?”
“No,” Kate said loudly. “He told the doctor he didn’t have enough money to pay big medical bills.”
“Didn’t he call you to say he was in hospital?”
Silence again.
“No. He hasn’t been in touch properly for a while. He came to Thailand to find himself. Sorry—you don’t want to hear about my family problems. Look, there’s no point going to the hospital. Honestly. He’s gone.”
“What are you talking about?” Malcolm said, his head still on the pillow, his voice deadened by exhaustion.
“Go back to sleep, love,” Lesley said. She would deal with this.
“What are you doing to find him?” she asked.
“Everything I can, but I need your help. We are talking to different people, Lesley, but we can pool our information. Will you let me know as soon as you hear anything?”
Her turn for silence.
“And will you publish what I tell you, Kate?”
“No. Not now.” The answer was too quick, but Kate decided to go with it. “I want to find my son.”
“Okay. We’re talking to Clive later and we’re going to do a press conference in the morning. We want to talk to the media.”
“There’ll be lots of questions about drugs, Lesley. You do know that?”
“She didn’t take drugs.”
“No, but the police and local press may be telling a different story. Just be prepared.”
“And what about you? You’ll have to be prepared for questions about your son, won’t you? We’ll be in the same boat.”
BANGKOK DAY 13
(FRIDAY, AUGUST 8, 2014)
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Subject: Nightmare continues!
Hi Mags,
STILL waiting to set off for next stop—we’ve already been here a week longer than we said—but R is being a complete bitch and won’t talk about it.
Went up to our room today and walked in on her and Lars. Soooo embarrassing. Rosie shouted at me to get out. I mean, it’s my room, too. Lars came out still putting on his shirt and said sorry. Rosie pretended nothing had happened when I went in. She’s weird like that. She said Lars was taking her to another club tonight. He’s going to do some DJing. He calls himself DJ Rappo. Crappo, more like!!! I think he has taken some of my stuff. Well, someone must be. I keep losing things—those earrings I bought for school prom have gone. Rosie and I had a row about it. She says I leave stuff all over the place. But I don’t. I’m not imagining it.
I’m so desperate to leave I’m seriously thinking about ditching Rosie and traveling solo. But it’s too scary. I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this on my own. There are weird people coming and going all the time—and the locks don’t work properly. Maybe it’s better to wait. The Dutch boys are going to Myanmar by bus on Monday, so she won’t have anyone to play with after that. And I keep thinking maybe things will be different when we get on the road and it’s just us. Maybe it’ll be all right then.
I’m keeping busy, reading and people watching. There are so many visitors. Mama takes them through to the back. But they’re not staying here. Sometimes they have a coffee or a beer at the bar. Sometimes they just drift off. Lots to look at, anyway. And there’s a mystery English bloke here who I’ve seen a couple of times. He doesn’t speak to us—sits smoking dope out of the window—under the sign that says “No Drugs Here.” The boys he shares the dorm with call him The Stoner and I’ve only seen him a couple of times.
But there’s something about him. He’s older than us and interesting. I know that doesn’t sound sexy but he is in a funny kind of way. Going to have breakfast . . . Back soon . . .
Part 2!
Turns out the mystery bloke isn’t another traveler. He works here to pay for his keep—cleaning the showers and making the breakfasts. He’s normally finished by the time I get back from my walk, but I didn’t go this morning—too busy writing to you!
Anyway, he just spoke to me. Just the one word! It’s a start . . .
I was sitting at the bar and the Dutch boys were at the other end, talking about a drinking game they’d been playing last night. They still managed to eat a huge omelet with chilies, some sort of meat, and what looked like clots of tomato sauce!!! Gross.
“Finished?” was all he said when he picked up the plates, and he put his thumb in the tomato sauce smears.
We got chatting about the terrible food—he said he knows how bad it is because he used to eat it, too! He’s got a lovely smile. And he said he’d show me a better place up the road. He says there are fewer cockroaches—and it’s cheaper. Win-win!
Wish me luck. A x
Afterward, she realized she hadn’t even asked his name! One of the Dutch boys told her he was called Jake.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Reporter
TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 2014
I ring Terry from my room, repeating the facts about Jake as I know them, numb now to the consternation my story causes.
“So he’s a hero, then?” Terry asks uncertainly.
“Possibly,” I say, willing it to be true.
“File what you’ve got, Kate, and I’ll get Joe to pull it together in the office. There’s some nice stuff from family members we can weave in. What are you going to do next?”
“Not sure, to be honest. Don is putting out feelers to contacts but it’s a needle-in-a-haystack job. He could be anywhere.”
For the first time in my career, I don’t know where to begin. I normally love the hunt for the story, but this time it’s personal. Everything matters desperately. And I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
“You get on with it, then,” Terry is saying. “And stay in touch.”
I lie back on the bed—just for five minutes, I tell myself, before I have to act. I close my eyes to try to stop the chaos in my head. Ideas, thoughts, images, fears. I think about that time Jake jumped off the shed roof. He just sat there, holding his wrist like it didn’t belong to him. Pale but composed. “It’s probably broken,” he said. It was Freddie who’d cried. “My brave boy,” I’d told Jake over and over as we waited in Accident and Emergency for an X-ray. It came out later that he’d been trying to ge
t his little brother to jump when he fell. But we let it go. He had a broken wrist, after all. I wonder what else we let go. My dad used to say we spoiled him. We argued about it. Horrible word, “spoil.” Sounds so childish, but it means “harm or destroy.” I lie there thinking, Did we? Did we spoil our son?
Everything is running at twice the normal speed.
“Slow down!” I tell myself out loud. “This is good news. He’s alive. His injuries are not serious. He probably tried to save the girls.”
But there is a voice in my head asking, So why has he vanished?
I sit up and start typing. Write it and then hit the phone, I tell myself.
* * *
• • •
The next time I ring in, Terry tells me the story is the splash, a spread on pages four and five, and there’s a column by an MP who lost a child abroad.
“And Jake?” I ask.
“Three pars in the lead about him getting out alive and his injuries. Okay? One of the tabloids is ramping it up into full-blown hero stuff—they’ve got a photo of Jake from somewhere.”
“A photo?”
“From your local paper, looks like. I didn’t know he got a special prize for his A Level results. That you’d produced a genius.”
“Yes.” I remember the reporter and photographer turning up and Jake pretending not to be impressed. “I’m so proud of you,” I’d told him, and kissed his cheek and wiped off the lipstick smudge. I’d watched as he posed for the camera, my confident, clever boy.
“Now go to bed and get some sleep,” Terry says, hauling me back into the nightmare.
“Sure,” I say. But I have no intention of doing so. I need to know everything that is going on. Need to get a grip.
“Is Joe in the office? Just want to touch base,” I say.
“Yes. The golden child is sitting, watching a game show with the rest of the kindergarten. I’ll get him to ring you now.”
“Hi, Kate,” Joe says when I pick up his call. “How’s it going? Any word on Jake?”
