A Place for Sinners

by Aaron Dries

  Every eye was upon them. No eyes were upon them. She was alone there now.

  Amity turned away. I’m a ghost.

  5

  They left Phuket Town behind with their backpacks heavy on their shoulders. Good-bye, creature comforts, Amity signed to the air, something she did only when alone. You will be missed.

  Tobias went with them.

  Together, they dived into island life, snorkeling through schools of fish in Raya’s crystalline waters, sleeping in beach hammocks on Naka Yai and Naka Noi, each with a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey in hand. They just missed out on Koh Phangan’s Full Moon Party by a single night, which was a disappointment, arriving in time to discover the wreckage left behind: twisted bonfires, grimy beer bottles, broken glass and the bodies of unconscious tourists in puddles of their own vomit. Thai emergency medical staff buzzed around. When the tide rolled in, unopened condoms glimmered below the surface like coins in a wishing well.

  “Damn it, we came all this way for nothing. What the hell do we do now?” Caleb had asked.

  “We keep on moving,” Tobias replied. “Never stay still. There is so much more to see.”

  Amity read his lips and nodded in agreement. They high-fived. Day by day, his presence around her became easier. They even managed to teach him some basic sign language on the long bus trip north to Chumphon, the lesson continuing in their foul-smelling Prachuap Khiri Khan hostel. But a lot of the ground made up between them was somewhat undermined when Amity caught him sneaking into Caleb’s bunk bed in the middle of the night.

  It was a rare thing for Amity to be grateful for her deafness. These were such occasions.

  Three weeks slid by, a contrast of speedy days versus painfully long, hot nights, with the downpours offering little relief. Amity spent many of those hours on her iPhone, waiting for her Facebook to load, or drawing in her notebook. Sketches were still magic, casting off bad mojo.

  Doing a four-hour round trip to see a handful of dinosaur bones in a van they just knew was going to break down going both ways became the norm. They crossed gray mountains washed in low-lying clouds and smoke from locals who were back-burning during the wet season, through drizzling rain that no poncho or raincoat could shield them from.

  And their soundtrack to all this was the voices of the tourists on the road with them. The ignorant Australians and Americans, who left Caleb feeling embarrassed with their cultural assumptions. He was of the opinion that a responsible backpacker should, at least, conduct a little background research on the country he was visiting, thus becoming familiar with what was and what wasn’t respectful. The number of times he’d witnessed some grimy traveler with dreadlocks patting a Thai person on the head, or refusing to give up a seat for monks on public transport were numerous. He’d overheard a British couple buzzing about heading into the country’s northwest and embarking on a 650-kilometer journey to the “Bermuda Triangle”. That had made him laugh. “Um, I’m pretty sure it’s the Golden Triangle, guys,” he’d mentioned to them.

  Their weeks together taught them that, above all else, the local people loved: their families, Buddhism, and most importantly, their king, whose image could be found in restaurants, hotels, shops, department stores, people’s homes, night markets, on the sides of buses, on the backs of motorbikes and in toilets. Also, when they’d gone to the cinema to escape the humidity, they’d had to stand for the Thai national anthem, which was played before the feature with robust fanfare, while images of the king cross-dissolved back and forth across the screen. Later they had learned that not standing was not just disrespectful, but a criminal offense.

  “I think we should go to Hua Hin,” Tobias suggested over breakfast one morning while loading up his backpack with bread rolls he’d taken from the buffet table. “Get away, go somewhere more quiet. Away from…” He gestured to the little card table next to them with a flick of his quiffed head, where two girls sat rolling a series of cigarettes for the day ahead. “Everyone else.”

  “Where?” Caleb asked, taking out his Lonely Planet guide and thumbing through the index.

  “Hua Hin. It’ll say that it’s a beachside city. Some guy told me it is where the Thai royal family goes for a holiday. Very cool, yes?”

  “Oh, here we go. Hua Hin. It says it’s full of cheap night markets, good food and ‘a laidback lifestyle to complement the tourist traps of the south’. I’m okay with that. I feel like chilling, anyway.”

  And it would be an hour and a half drive from Hua Hin, off the coast of Bang Kao, on the tiny island of Koh Mai Phaaw, where sugar-white sands would run red.

  Chapter Five

  Robert

  1

  They didn’t care if they slept or not, whether they were happy or sad. They only understood one thing, and that one thing kept them alive. Robert Mann came to respect them for this, although he’d suffered by the time his judgment had turned.

  Feed without remorse and escape intact; Robert almost admired them for their efficiency. They were coldhearted bastards, but then again, he’d been accused of being just as callous in his fifty-three years. He and they were not so different.

  But only in some ways. Robert, for example, had the capacity to sympathize, to show mercy.

  They only knew of one thing: their desire to feed.

  Robert guarded his secrets well, which was why nobody at work knew how unhappy he was. It was all high fives under pressure and unwinding with after-hours drinks. People looked up to him because he was so confident and commanding. Even when the economic red line that dictated their lives dropped low, Robert kept his cool.

  “You’re the Mann,” his co-workers would say, thinking they were so clever. He let it slide. Sometimes, his Cheshire Cat grin was more rigor than sentiment. In truth, he was fucking terrified.

  The marketing executives—dinosaurs that had been in the advertising business for longer than anyone alive, it seemed—watched the creative types like him, ready to unhinge the trapdoor beneath their feet should they slip up. And added to all this were the rookies—copywriters and graphic designers who didn’t know how to piss without sprinkling their shoes, threatening to supersede him. The competition was as high as the risk, and the gain. A pulse and a little adrenaline went a long way on their stretch of American asphalt, just so long as the deadlines were met and the clients could be kept happy.

  THE SECRET WORTH KEEPING.

  These words, stamped across a page layout depicting rose petals against black and the smoothened surface of Your Secret version 2.0, a petite, mauve-hued clitoral stimulator. Robert’s fingers hovered above the keyboard, ready to backspace his way to contentment should the scales of reason happen to tip that way. A sigh was all he could manage. He’d like to think that “This is what I’ve been reduced to, writing ad hoc copy for goddamned sex toy companies”, but of course it had always been like this. There was money, as there always would be in sex, regardless of what he was selling.

  THE SECRET WORTH KEEPING.

  Nobody knew about his divorce, or about his bright and beautiful twenty-five-year-old daughter Imogen, who had to be coerced into talking to him. They didn’t know that as a child he’d witnessed his old man getting mowed down by a pickup truck in Wichita, driven by a liquor-happy teenager who only served a fraction of his sentence.

  No.

  It was high fives under pressure. It was a cold stare, the twinkle in his green eyes.

  THE SECRET WORTH KEEPING.

  He backspaced his way out of the building. Only the dinosaurs knew that he had arranged to take his long service leave. That he wouldn’t be back for twelve months, if ever. Deep down, he knew this was good-bye.

  Robert stuffed his suitcase with shirts he wouldn’t be caught dead in at work, not even when New York burned hot and people traded stocks for tans. He then watched the city shrink down to a tiny dot in the airplane window, and within hours had checked himself into one of Orlando’s cheapest motels. There was a ticket to Universal Studios tucked into the pocket of hi
s jeans.

  He decided on the Days Inn because it promised a decent Wi-Fi signal and secured parking for his rental car. That was enough. It was all he needed. And that was the point.

  The walls of his motel room were the color of nicotine-stained teeth, but the bar fridge at least appeared clean. The ceiling fan looked new, its polished blades incongruous with its surroundings. He turned on the air-conditioning and listened to the old machine groan. Robert kicked his suitcase under the writing desk, bumping the telephone off its cradle. It spun in half-circles at the end of its cord. He snatched up the receiver; it was cold and strange.

  Robert laughed. “Landline. Fucking love it.”

  He wet his face and combed back his graying hair. He felt tired, fatigue running deep. He was spent without a smile to maintain, as pathetic as a used rubber floating in a toilet bowl. Not that he had used one in years.

  The queen-size bed was covered in a tawdry duvet that he pulled back and tossed to the floor. Robert rolled onto the mattress and groaned. “Holy Moses, that feels good.”

  2

  Universal Studios hadn’t captivated him the way he believed it should have; yet Robert still felt an undeniable thrill on the rides. And he knew how pathetic he looked with his digital camera, dressed in his Hawaiian shirt, but he wasn’t bothered. He had no room in his life for condescension anymore.

  Rain on my day and you can go to hell.

  He felt the first itch around midday. It started as a tickle that mutated into a burn. He lifted the sleeve of his shirt and saw four red bumps staring back at him. He scratched and the irritation faded.

  But the itch returned in the line-up for The Mummy Experience. Only now, it wasn’t just on his arm, but on the shin of his right leg too. He rolled up his jeans and saw six more bites.

  The voices around him sounded too loud.

  “And, like, the ride went up and woosh!”

  “I just couldn't believe it when he told me. I’m a grown woman, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Keep it moving, folks, we’re all hot in here.”

  “Damn, is this line moving at all?”

  He felt a flicker of panic; it was strong enough to suck the air from his lungs. The echoing laughter of the children took on a manic quality.

  The lights dipped, and when they burned bright again, screams filtered from hidden speakers. The jewel-encrusted sarcophagus to his right swung open, revealing a mummy. Its mouth snapped open and he saw picket-fence teeth. It belched dry ice. Robert’s heart skipped a beat, his sweat running cold. The fog dissipated and the crowd fell silent, waiting for a boo that didn’t come. What crept from the speakers was not a squeal or a clichéd musical sting.

  Just the scurrying of scarab beetles.

  Robert returned to the motel, sunburned but happy.

  He couldn’t wait to upload his photographs to his desktop back home, and for a moment, it saddened him to think that he had nobody to show them to. He thought about sending some to his daughter.

  “Mmmmm. Maybe not.”

  Although the itching had lessened, it wasn’t gone. The bites hadn’t been serious enough to detract from his day, but with the distractions of the park gone, the silence of his room seemed to beckon to them. Robert shook off his pants and inspected his legs. There were bites across his foot as well, plus one on the back of his left hand.

  Something buzzed by his ear.

  Robert chased the mosquitoes around the room for the next hour, disappearing into the bathroom to wash his hands after each little victory. The competitive streak in him bubbled to the surface. “Come on, you little shits. Come to papa-bear.” He giggled as he bounced across the bed and slapped at the air, singing, “Yankee Doodle Went To Town”.

  Relieved that he’d killed them all, Robert slouched into the chair near the desk. He popped the can of Diet Coke from the back of the refrigerator and downed it so fast his eyes watered.

  “I got you. I got you all,” he said and wished for a cigar. “Fuck with the bull and you get the horns, ain’t that what they say?”

  Robert laughed and dug through his suitcase. He retrieved the tube of Sting Eeze antiseptic cream from his toiletries bag. He showered, dabbed the bites white and then dialed out for a pizza. When it arrived, he threw the door open, surprising the young deliveryman on the other side.

  “Hi, my friend!” Robert said, unaware that he was scratching at his neck. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Um, sure,” he replied.

  “Damn good night, isn’t it? Jesus, this weather!”

  “That’s Florida for you. So, yeah, it’s twenty-two fifty for the pizza and drink.”

  “Of course,” Robert said, a little disappointed that the kid wasn’t riding his high. In the creative studio they called it “surfing”: you caught a wave and rode it back to shore. Robert handed over a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Oh man, I really can’t take that. I don’t have the change.”

  “I don’t expect any.” Robert took the pizza and soda from his hands. “Do yourself a favor and pocket the tip. It’ll only end up in the wrong hands. And spend the damn thing. Our economy needs it.”

  3

  He opened his eyes, slow and cautious. It was just after midnight and the room was dark. Something crawled across his arms, across his legs.

  The sensation had assimilated with his dream, which itself was crafted from memory. In it, he was having dinner with his ex-wife, Ruby. Above them was a huge chandelier, the bulbs in its limbs fizzling out, threading the air with acrid smoke. Their table was in the middle of their old Manhattan apartment, surrounded by furniture pieces draped with white sheets. His ex-wife’s mouth was opening and closing, soundless and empty words. The lights continued to pop out, throwing their faces into darkness; there was just enough illumination for Robert to see how angry Ruby still was. She reached across the table and slapped his face, leaving behind a hand-shaped welt.

  And that was when he’d first felt the tingling on his limbs, an out-of-context sensation. It was like swimming in a lake, only to have tendrils of seaweed wrap around your ankle.

  The chandelier exploded. Windows filled with dust.

  Robert rolled over in bed, reached into the dark, switched on the bedside lamp. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. His ears were ringing. Tinnitus.

  Black bugs—each the size of a grain of rice, if not smaller—were swarming all over him. Mouths so tiny they couldn’t be seen uprooted from his skin. He watched them scatter, frightened and confused, their secret exposed.

  Robert gagged, flailing his arms. He shuffled across the mattress and heard crunching sounds under his weight—exploded bugs in stars of blood mashed on the sheets. They clung to his stomach hairs, burrowed into his bellybutton. He stumbled, his foot landing on the remote control. The television blinked to life; Dawson’s Creek, dubbed in Spanish, began to scream at him. Perfect-looking faces laughed to a bopping nineties soundtrack, mocking him. Fumbled for the off switch. Found it. The screen went black, a blink of fading light and then nothing. One of the bugs bit into the filmy skin of his eyelid, and without thinking of the consequences, Robert thumped his fist against his face. Yelping, he ran for the bathroom, clipping his shoulder on the door frame as he went.

  Punched on the light. Legs went weak.

  His reflection revealed a mask of crawling insects.

  Weird, animalistic sounds escaped from him when the freezing shower water struck the crown of his head. The bugs fell off his body in droplets, popping under his feet as he jumped around the tub.

  “Ah, you fuggahs! Fuggin—shit!”

  Robert wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not, but he thought he could hear them chattering in their foreign tongue as he dug the insects from his ears.

  He lifted a hand and saw one of the bugs sitting on the tip of his finger. It was flat along the top, a weak shell lending weak protection to the legs beneath. It bore a twittering little face that showed no compassion or fear as it dran
k from a bubble of his blood.

  4

  “Look, Robert. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t be angry, but there’s really nothing I can do. Bedbugs are horrible. Don’t feel like they got you because you’re dirty; unlike a lot of things on this planet, they don’t discriminate. And it’s not just run-down places that have them, you know. They’re everywhere! It’s a major issue in North America. Google it—”

  “I have, Donald,” he told his doctor of nine years.

  Robert’s eyes had the same spark and determination they usually showed in the creative studio, only they now stared out of a face littered with quarter-size bumps. And those welts didn’t stop at his neck; they covered his entire body. They were on his scalp, under his arms. Even on his testicles.

  “Trust me,” Robert said. “I’ve Googled it.”

  There were a total of three hundred and four bites.

  “Look, Robert. Bedbugs don’t spread disease, and the bites’ll settle down. This will go away. Give it two more weeks. You’re on holiday, right?”

  He slapped at his skin, a poor substitute for scratching but it worked. He had already torn up some of the inflammations with his fingernails. “I was planning to just cut free of all this bullshit, you know. And now here I am again, back in Manhattan. I feel so…”

  “Just heal up for a week and go again. It’s not the end of the world.”

  A melancholy shadow scored Robert’s face. He lowered his hands into his lap; they were still strong, but were beginning to look like they belonged to someone else. He didn’t understand why.

  “You got your money back, right?” Donald asked. “From the motel?”

  “Of course I did. And I’ve contacted my lawyer.”

  “Good luck. Bedbugs are like an act of God, you know. You can’t control a storm or tidal wave, and no matter what the experts say, you can’t control bedbugs. They’re immune to pesticides. How can you prosecute against something that can’t be helped?”