Carefully placing the bottle aside, she approached the bucket, finally having decided that she should accept a free drink in most circumstances. It occurred to her that it might be spiked, but the thought quickly slipped by. Her generic carefree happiness blunted any sense of danger. She pulled the nearest straw to her lips, smelling the sweat cocktail as she did.
“Just a bit will do me - thanks!”
As she was taking a couple of long, smooth draws, John was anxious to fire-start a conversation. He began by speaking very quickly.
“I love these buckets! Just imagine if they sold them back in UK bars! It would be mayhem out there for sure. You could each sit with one at pub table and spit beer at each other all night! Actually it wouldn’t be beer would it? Not with this stuff. You’d all be stir-crazy on Thai Whisky and coke - don’t they put some of that home grown red bull stuff in as well? They reckon it would be banned back in the UK, five times stronger than the juice there. Gets you dancing though - look at those crazy left footed fools!”
Louise peered in the general direction of a small dance floor surrounded by ornate patched beanbags. A couple of backpackers were engaged in some kind of mock morris-dance, banging their buckets together each time that they passed. A further reveller looked to be shunting up one of the poles holding the roof up. As she took another leisurely sip, she found the climbing figure go slightly out-of-focus. She squinted her eyes, hoping that it was the distance and light, but felt increasingly light headed.
“You know, it’s the heat as well,” John continued, “people spend most of the day running at half-steam trying not to fry, saving themselves to live by these balmy hot nights, just chuck your T-shirt on and off you go and party! You interested in a smoke?”
Louise realised that John was now looking back at her. Her rationalisation was fast deteriorating, though she knew that she should get out. The situation promised to get out of her control. With reflexes and general awareness speeding downwards she knew she must take her leave imminently. A growing top-heavy dizziness as she stood reinforced her desire to get out and away from the wirily shadow stood over her.
“I’m fine thanks”, she quickly replied. “Listen, I’d better be off now, want to get my head down.”
Before she had even finished the sentence, Louise was already starting back down the steep decent on her way back to the beach where her welcome cabin awaited. The whisky was fast going to her head, enough to raise a few warning bells from within. It had affected her fast, though she thought that earlier drinks must have played their part in her current predicament. Gingerly feeling for a piece of rope attached to the side of the path, she made her way down, passing a small sea of people still making their way up, their numbers inflated by the narrow path. She remembered the two Kiwi girls from earlier, but found her eyes too heavy and unable to pierce the darkness enough to read faces. All she saw were the feet of many people dancing to a song on the edge of her memory.
Thankful that she had reached the bottom of the slope without mishap, Louise found herself confronting her next obstacle homeward bound. A shallow swamp separated the road from her part of the beach. The murky waters were bridged by a wooden walkway, supported by a series of timber poles, which served in pushing it several feet above the brown swamp. Each pole varied in height from the other, making the walkway resemble a rickety dinosaur’s spine. With the absence of a rail, she gingerly started her slow and calculated passage, groping for any obstacle which passed for a branch. Her logical side argued that a fall would not be met with instant death, but this did little to reassure her. What if she banged her head or forgot to open her mouth? Did snakes swim? The walk, so easy with a clear head in the day, was proving to be her tightrope of ruin. Her legs took each step with less accuracy as a slight shake progressed into a noticeable swagger, running beyond her hips into the lower reaches of her abdomen. With all her focus switched to staying upright, Louise failed to notice the uneven join between two intersections on the walkway. She began to fall. Stubbing her toe in the process of tripping, her arms branched out, flailing wildly in the optimistic wish that a tree branch might offer a chance to stop her going down. She hit the wooden planking as a dead weight. With her arms still outstretched, she failed to protect herself. The impact winded her, knocking the last remnants of coherence quickly away. On instinct her hand reached out, seeking reassurance. Instead of any firm grip she found nothing and felt a dizzy panic build as her body slipped towards the edge. Her cotton top was torn as long, spidery hands pulled her back. The grip was firm and dug into her. A knee pushed down hard on her chest, stopping further movement, pinning her to the walkway. A face above the knee cut through her confusion. John grinned as he bent down over her.
Two
“Is that you Michael?”
Mike visibly jerked, kicking his duvet as he did so. From the comfortable depths of slumber, he now found himself upright and awake. He scratched at a recent tattoo, the colourful pincers of a scorpion flaking under the taunt vest. The etchings were a permanent reminder of downtown Rangoon, his souvenir to never forget a different life, colourful and spontaneous in equal measures. He drew a deep breath. Checking the time his pulse slightly quickened as the new state of alertness placed him on edge. Pemberton often had this effect on him. The older man was often short and direct in a very crisp, formal type of way. The English class-system would probably classify him as old school, the type of person unable to express emotion or sentiment without a constant watch on who might walk in. An aura of strong, silent control had to be portrayed at all times. Standards needed to be maintained. The accompanying bluntness put Mike on edge and he hated himself for it.
The call was half-expected, though perhaps was coming a few weeks late, official news rolling in a poor second to the hot channels of speculation. Mike had read the local paper and heard the gossip merchants hypothesise on likely reasons and outcomes. A string of urgent phone calls and emails had already been exchanged. Over at the Blue Moon Café Sarah Bexley held Mike’s ear the Monday before over a frothing cup of cappuccino. Louise Pemberton, fresh into her belated travelling gap year, had dropped off the horizon and gone missing. It was a trip that they most certainly would have taken together, had Louise not dumped him eight months previously. At the time she cited the desire for more independence and space, though Mike sensed it was more to do with her never having truly fancied him, leave alone any overtures for anything approaching love. Although unspoken, both had known this throughout their year of courtship. It was a surprise that it had gone this long. Despite their split they loosely maintained some contact afterwards, a few drinks after work on occasional Fridays, though the frequency of these had rapidly tailed off. Since Louise had jetted off for South East Asia there hadn’t been a single peep, something that irked Mike considerably, given his interest and expertise in all things travelling. In all things South Asian he sometimes figured that he was as good as any talking guide book, better when modesty permitted such thoughts. He could pour enthusiasm and animation over topics where printed pages could not. As it was he felt side-lined, having spent many an evening elaborating some of his own travel stories, hoping that she found them of use and would come back for more. Now she had gone missing. To a large extent this racked him with equal measures of guilt and pain. His first thoughts were that if it weren’t for his enthusiasm and storytelling of Asian travel she might never have gone. Later he came to reason that knowing Louise she would have gone anyway. Her self-determination and adventurous spirit would have won over and fuelled a burning she had undoubtedly felt to travel. This he couldn’t help but admire her for and felt both pleasure and jealousy on learning of her trip. In a sense she probably needed it. From what he knew, Louise wasn’t ready to settle into the groove of a solid career or relationship. Probably never would be come to that, certainly on the vocational side of things. Given her persona, she would probably hook up with Mr Right when the time suited her. Now h
er stuffy father Pemberton was on the end of his phone, no doubt demanding to know if or when he last heard from Louise.
Mike pulled himself near to the bedside table and fidgeted around for an unfinished rollup whilst he replied. He would never smoke in the morning, especially a yellowing stale end, but this conversation promised to fret away at his nerves.
“Morning, I errm really am sorry to hear about Louise. I’m sure things look worse than they are though.” Mike was conscious that each word was carefully pronounced.
“It’s been a terrible time for us”, Pemberton replied. “Louise’s mother and I have been doing all we can to help locate her. I’m sure that there’s a simple explanation, though it’s highly unlike Louise not to stay in touch. One can’t help but worry. The Thai authorities say they are doing all that they can, certainly the Police have no evidence of foul play and the hospitals have drawn a blank. Not sure how seriously they are taking it. Lord knows, we’ve tried to push as much pressure as we can muster on them. The truth is that she could be anywhere. I’m sure you would have told us if you had heard anything?”
Quickly realising it to be a question, Mike nervously inhaled the musty smoke as he answered. The inhalation felt unusually harsh and dry against his throat.
“Not a thing. She phoned before she left, promising that she would email me her travelogue, but that was the last I heard from her. Took a quick look through some internet sites she liked, but nothing there either. Was half hoping she might leave an online “blog” on her experiences?”
“A what? Oh never mind. I’m quite sure that you would have told us. Listen,” Pemberton continued, “Could you get yourself over here this afternoon. It’s important. Say about 3:00pm?”
This last question stumped Mike. Something about the commanding tone told him that this was not a request he should take lightly or ignore. An afternoon with the Pemberton’s held as much appeal to Mike as taking on an actuary career with any public utilities provider. It would be as much uncomfortable as it would be an exercise in multi-layered conversations linked in with topics he cared little about. Often he allowed paranoia to cloud his usual clarity of judgement when seated with the Pembertons, suspecting most questions were set to unwittingly dig past secrets or set a hidden challenge. Just this once he allowed these concerns to be spiked with a dusting of excitement, wondering what on earth it could be about. He knew that in some way it concerned Louise and that coupled with an insatiable sense of misplaced duty towards the Pembertons would compel him to go.
“Sure. If there’s a problem I’ll get back to you.”
The 3:00pm appointment gave him little time to tie up the loose ends he had hoped to get done. Currently he was temping with a telemarketing company and found that most Saturdays required his attendance in the company’s open plan Bristol office. He hated it. The hours sucked and the pay sucked. Having this Saturday off was a rarity, one he had hoped to savour and enjoy. Last night there was an air of happy relaxation, a blend of good friends and live music tempting him into tipping his pint glass back to his mouth with increasing enthusiasm. The day’s plan was to sleep off the hangover, then potter about getting some odd jobs sorted. He even hoped to squeeze a spot of reading in before going out and repeating the sequence. Now instead he was required to sit on the Pemberton’s sofa and face a hidden agenda and a torrent of questions concerning their head-strong daughter. This could not be done with a foggy head. His percolator was primed in readiness for a stronger than normal dose of coffee. It would be the first of several.
He decided a walk up the hill towards the Pemberton’s was his best option. It wasn’t a long walk and the ten minutes or so would give him time to clear his mind and not over speculate on what they wanted him in attendance for. If they were going to relay bad news or poor out any anger or grief they could easily do so over the phone. Their mock Tudor style house lay down a quiet cul-de-sac near to where the radio masts of Portishead used to prop up the skyline. Portishead offered some old charm character as a satellite town within Bristol’s commuter belt, despite the peripheral sprawl of new estates that had increasingly expanded over the past decade or two. The comparative distance from the urban pace of Bristol helped foster a mind-set that sometimes led to travel plans. It helped incubate ideas about backpacking in countries with dusty roads and chaotic markets. The lack of bright lights and big city probably led to people needing to see beyond their own backyard. Travel ideas spread and could become infectious. If you weren’t off on a travelling adventure you felt left out. So many people Mike had known had made the trip overseas, usually with a stamped holiday working visa for Australia, but invariably with a lengthy stop-off in an Asian hotspot. Whatever Mike’s relationship with her, Louise would have gone anyway. Her curiosity and sense of adventure demanded it.
Confronting the Pemberton’s door, Mike was quick to remember that they hated him rapping too hard on the door with their weighty brass knocker. He was equally glad that the roll-up he had previously been enjoying was hastily tossed aside into a convenient storm drain before he had appeared in full view of the bay window. Such things shouldn’t matter, but counted for much in the judgemental eyes of Mr and Mrs Pemberton. It was best to start on the right foot.
Before having had any chance to take a deep breath and mentally compose, Pemberton had opened the door and was swiftly ushering him in. A firm arm guided him. He was wearing one of his hideous ties, a striped affair popularised in the fifties. If Pemberton were decorating he would doubtless be straightening a knot in the mirror beforehand. To Mike’s surprise he was led past the lounge door (the only room he had previously ever been invited to) and into the dining room, now serving a dual role as Pemberton’s study, with an open Edwardian bureau elegantly occupying a far corner. Two leather chairs were waiting, with Pemberton quickly taking the one nearest his seated wife, adding an air of formality. Intentional or not, it pushed Mike firmly onto his back foot. He took the remaining seat and sat down. He could see the older man had chosen a white shirt and blue tie for the occasion, far from a homely or casual look.
Pemberton cleared his throat and began at once as if dictating to a hapless secretary at the family firm. It was now transparently clear that he meant to become the public voice for the concerns of the Pembertons. His wife had yet to even acknowledge him. She sat and looked on, her face held the look of silent authority. Fixing on every word, it was as if she might quickly interject if a wrong phrase or description were used. It appeared to Mike that this was part of the well-rehearsed script.
“Thank you for coming Michael. We very much appreciate it. I’ll endeavour to make this as brief as possible, so please leave any questions until the end. I hope that by then things will be a lot more apparent. As one can well imagine, this is a very sensitive matter that we have you here for.”
With a brief glance at his wife, as if seeking her approval, he continued. “It is certainly no secret that Louise has not been heard of for some weeks now. I will draw the line at saying that she has disappeared, as we do not believe this to be the case, but there has certainly been no contact with her. We know that she landed in Bangkok on November 19th and phoned us at home that evening. I myself took the call. She sounded herself, if a little jet lagged. She was talking about how much she was looking forward to the trip ahead of her. This was the last time we actually spoke to Louise.” Pemberton paused, as if holding the memory of the last conversation with his daughter, before continuing. “Much against our wishes, she didn’t take her mobile, saying that the experience would be more “authentic” if she were not in constant touch with her life here in England. I tried to push her on this matter, but you know how Louise can be. Several days later we got an email from her, saying that she was going to Koh Chang, an island near the Cambodian border. She gave no indication of her immediate plans. All we know is that she was planning on spending several months in the region. She had talked about temples and some trekking,
but nothing concrete. It was all just meant to be one big adventure for her.”
There was a calculated pause intended to allow the information to sink in. Mike was beginning to liken Pemberton’s chat to an RAF briefing, perhaps reflecting on a missing airman they urgently needed to pluck from the sea.. His voice carried emotion but it was all too crisp, keeping his true feelings semi-concealed. He was thinking of chipping in with some small talk, if only to lighten the formalities, but was cut sort as the older man broke into a new monologue.
“Following her first email we left things for a week. One never knows with these islands, all beach huts and margarita; it might have been difficult to keep us up-to-date on her plans. I can’t imagine there being too many internet cafes. Anyway, we started to become a little anxious. Without a contact number or name of a guesthouse we were totally left in the dark and so started asking around. None of her close friends had heard anything either. We then approached the Embassy, who said that they would make enquiries and liaise with the Thai authorities. There was a chap there, Bradshaw, who was most helpful and even called in a few contacts, but still came up with nothing. But you know, Louise is simply not the sort of person to disappear. She is perhaps headstrong at times, but too sensible to simply disappear without word.”
Missing Louise Page 2
