Best British Short Stories 2020

by Nicholas Royle

  ‘I’m good,’ I said, then turned and walked.

  I spent the next few minutes ambling along a busy main road, trying not to think about how much I missed Anna, becoming increasingly annoyed at having to negotiate the narrow, overcrowded pavements. Several times I was forced to walk in the street. At other times I had to press myself against a wall or a shop front to allow people to go by. All the while I kept getting stared at. During our last WhatsApp chat, Miriam had encouraged me to make a trip to the famous Khao San Road. She’d called it ‘the spot’ and said it was full of ‘hot chicks’. It didn’t sound like my kind of place, but it was either that or head back to my hotel room to watch TV.

  The tuk-tuk ride got me to Khao San Road in about twenty minutes. On the way, the narrow maze of streets became clogged with vehicles and the air increasingly polluted. Several times I had to cover my nose and mouth to avoid inhaling the cloying stench of petrol fumes, and such was the humidity that even in an open-sided tuk-tuk I was sweating all over. Toy, my poker-faced driver, deposited me at what he said was the quieter end of Khao San Road. Thick with backpackers, it didn’t seem quiet to me. Toy and I haggled good-humouredly over the fare before I relented and paid him what he originally asked for. Wearing nothing but a pair of faded Hawaiian shorts and some worn-down flip-flops, he kissed the back of my hand theatrically, started the engine of his tuk-tuk, turned it down a side-street and was gone. Moments later I was surrounded by a trio of small Thai boys. They seemed to appear out of nowhere and must have been waiting for the right moment to pounce. None looked older than twelve. Tugging at my arm and fighting with each other for my attention, they shoved their wares into my face with barely controlled aggression. One had a forearm full of leather bracelets, another was clutching a fistful of fake gold jewellery, while the third specialised in what looked to me like satin scarves. Everything was available at a ‘special price’. Politely but firmly, I told them I wasn’t interested and to emphasise the point wriggled free of their clutches and strode purposefully away. Long after I’d gone I heard them calling, but I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare.

  There was no other way to get down Khao San Road except to stroll. At every turn someone was blocking my path. With a mounting sense of frustration, it eventually dawned on me that I was in a rush to go nowhere and that I would have a far better time of it if I did like everyone else and slowed down. It was all too easy to see why the road attracted so many backpackers. It had an aroma of vice almost as pungent as the roadside food stalls. Miriam had described the area as vibrant, which was beginning to seem like a euphemism for noisy. Techno blared from open-fronted, neon-lit bars and each bar had its attendant knot of silver-tongued, English-speaking touts shouting at the passersby and shoving laminated drinks menus into their faces. ‘Happy Hour cocktail. Beer cheap cheap.’ For a while I managed to avoid making eye contact with them, but eventually a dark-skinned middle-aged man in a pair of denim shorts caught my attention and shouted, ‘Hellooooo!’ When I smiled, he patted his arm, said, ‘Same same, but different!’, cackling at the top of his voice. I was so embarrassed I put my head down and hurried away as fast as the crowd permitted, the sound of the man’s laughter, and those of his co-workers ringing in my ears. Feeling conspicuous again, I took cover in a nearby Irish pub.

  Soft lighting. Stained wood panelling. Unvarnished wooden tables and chairs. Upholstered booths. Framed olde worlde posters advertising whisky and Guinness and Irish coffee and other famous beverages from the Emerald Isle. Gaelic background music. Shannon’s Pub was striving hard for authenticity, but as someone who’d visited Ireland a few times, I could say with certainty that the overall effect was more Oxford Street than Dublin. At a glance, the clientele seemed to be a relaxed co-mingling of Thais and Westerners, most sitting towards the rear of the pub below a mounted wide-screen TV, watching a re-run match between Man United and Everton. Among them I noticed several United strips, worn by Thais and westerners alike. For several minutes I stood near the deserted bar watching the game ebb and flow until I heard a male voice say, somewhat tetchily, ‘I can help you?’

  I turned to see a Thai barman staring at me. He was young, pasty-faced and bony, with close-cropped dark hair and a couple of silver hoops dangling from his right ear lobe. His leather bracelets, tattooed fingers and crushed white t-shirt with a picture of a snarling Joe Strummer screamed I might be a local, but I’m worldly, so don’t even think about patronising me.

  ‘Pint of Guinness, please.’ It felt strange ordering Guinness in Bangkok, but I figured I’d try it if only as a way to compare and contrast.

  ‘You must be rich.’

  A female voice this time, English, home counties. Turning to my left, I saw a young, elfin-faced white woman standing at the bar beside me. She had braided, strawberry-blonde hair and wore a white, half-cut blouse with an elasticated bottom that clung to her visible rib-cage. In the gap between her blouse and what I later came to know as Thai fisherman’s trousers – a loose-fitting kind of skirt-trousers held together by straps – I noticed she had a sunken stomach and that the top of her black knickers was showing slightly.

  ‘Were you talking to me?’

  The barman turned away to watch the game. He seemed grateful for the opportunity. The woman stepped closer to me, cupped her hand over my ear – a surprisingly intimate gesture that gave me a jolt – and whispered, ‘The Guinness is over a tenner a pint.’

  I must have reacted with shock because she stepped back and started nodding her head. Before I could say anything, she leaned in again and whispered, ‘I’d recommend the local rum. You can buy a bucket of it with Coke for about a fiver and it lasts a lot longer than a pint of Guinness. We could share it. That way you won’t have to buy me a drink.’ She stepped back again and stretched out her hand, which struck me as oddly formal after her earlier behaviour, and said, ‘Kelly.’

  Slightly bemused, I shook her clammy hand and said, ‘Afia.’

  We took our bucket of rum and Coke, served with icecubes and two straws, and went and sat at a pavement table near the entrance. The heat was a welcome relief from the chill of the pub’s air-conditioned interior and I took it as a sign that I was already beginning to acclimatise. As soon as we were seated Kelly said, ‘Know why they serve it with straws?’ I shook my head. ‘Apparently, you get less oxygen drinking through a straw, which means you get mashed a lot quicker.’

  I gave her a quizzical look. ‘Isn’t that a myth?’

  She shrugged and replied, ‘Who the hell cares?’

  Using both hands, she lifted the plastic bucket to her head, sucked long and hard on her straw and handed me the bucket as though we were smoking a peace pipe. I took a sip and almost had to spit. ‘Damn, that’s strong!’

  Kelly laughed. ‘That’s how they serve it here. You get used to it.’ She patted my forearm. ‘Diddums. Don’t worry. The ice’ll dilute it.’

  The condescension didn’t make me warm to her but I definitely fancied her. She was pretty, no doubt, with a confidence, even arrogance, that belied her slight frame and softly spoken voice. She had the look of someone who’d seen it all and bought the commemorative mug. Under the street light, her tan was more visible and deep enough to suggest she’d been away a long time. I was grateful that she wasn’t covered in mosquito bites. She had the odd one here and there, on her forearms and ankles, but nothing like some of the women I’d seen. She didn’t look like she had the pox.

  ‘I hope you’re not expecting small talk,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I don’t do it. Can’t. Too boring.’ She bent forward, sucked on her straw, straightened up again and said, ‘You’ve probably got all these questions you want to ask me, but I make a habit of telling girls my life story after I’ve slept with ’em, not before. That way I don’t scare ’em off.’

  Leaning back in my chair, I made a deliberate show of appraising her. I was hoping she might keep talking, as I was enjoying her forced attempts to appear interesting, but she simply looked at me, a half smile on he
r face, a teasing smile.

  ‘Drink up.’ Using one hand this time, she lifted the bucket and held it in front of my face. I took a sip, pulled away, but she kept the bucket in place. ‘C’mon, get it down you.’

  I swallowed hard and went back for seconds, taking several long gulps through the straw. ‘That’s the “spirit”,’ she said, and winked. When I could take no more I shoved the bucket away, almost spilling the contents. She laughed, lifting the bucket to her face and sucking on her straw till she became hollow-cheeked. When she finished she was flushed red and clearly out of breath, though she tried to hide it. She set the bucket down, smacked her lips a few times and said, ‘Might be cheap that stuff, but it certainly does the job.’

  I was already feeling tipsy. ‘You trying to get me drunk?’

  Kelly smiled and said, ‘And I thought I was being subtle.’

  I couldn’t work out how long I had been asleep, but it must have been a good few hours because when I opened my eyes dawn had broken, the light penetrating the room and throwing its scuzzy décor into even sharper relief. Kelly was nowhere to be seen and I immediately knew she had gone. The fact that all her things were missing confirmed my suspicions. I stood up, swooned, had to sit down again. I felt dreadful. My head was pounding. My neck and back were stiff from resting against the wall for so long. My throat was parched. Desperately, I swallowed some saliva, but it had little effect. With considerable effort, I started hauling on my trainers and just then I heard movement in the bathroom next door, followed by the sound of running water. Kelly?

  I laboured to my feet and shuffled to the door to check, but when I opened it I saw a short, fat Thai man come out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, his dimpled gut hanging over the top. He hadn’t seen me, so I pulled my head back into the room, closed the door quietly and tip-toed back to the bed. For some reason I felt safer on that side of the room. For a while I just stood there looking around, as if I couldn’t quite believe Kelly had gone. I walked over to the chest of drawers and opened them one by one. Empty. What was I hoping to find? Feeling sorry for myself, I realised it was time to leave. I didn’t have a clue what part of the city I was in, so I decided I would hail the first taxi I saw and get it to take me to The Grace, no matter the cost. As soon as I thought that my heart sank. I didn’t need to check my bumbag to know Kelly had stolen my money.

  The taxi driver clearly didn’t believe my story. When we got to The Grace and I asked him to wait outside while I went in and got some money from the safe in my room, he insisted on coming into the hotel with me. I was offended by his mistrust, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. At the reception desk, he satisfied himself that I was a guest then waited in the lobby while I went up to my room on the sixteenth floor to get his fare. When I entered the room, I resisted the urge to throw myself on the bed. It looked so inviting, so luxurious. My anger at being robbed was already beginning to subside, mostly through exhaustion, but also because, having had the chance to think about it, I realised it could have been a lot worse. I had lost about two hundred pounds worth of Thai baht, but my credit card, passport and the rest of my cash were tucked away in the hotel safe. Still, I decided that I would report Kelly to the police. I knew she would never be caught. Her description would probably fit dozens of women in the city and I doubted whether Kelly was even her real name, but it was the principle of the thing.

  Back downstairs I paid the driver, tipped him for waiting, and told my story to a smiley receptionist whose face was caked in skin-whitener. She listened patiently then got on the phone. Within minutes a young policeman arrived, wearing a brown, skin-tight uniform with his shirt tucked into his trousers. He was from the tourist division and just happened to be in the area. Sitting next to me in the bustling lobby, near a large bay window with tinted windows, he used a small notepad and pencil to take down the particulars of the theft. When he’d finished, he scolded me for not taking Kelly back to the hotel. He said that all guests, even casual visitors, had to register with reception and must give a valid form of ID. His advice made my hairs stand on end. Before leaving the bar, I had suggested to Kelly that we go back to my hotel but she had refused, saying she would feel more relaxed at her place. That may well have been true, but she obviously wanted to avoid detection. The policeman confirmed that it was unlikely she would be caught but commended me for reporting her. He said it would help when it came to compiling criminal statistics and that it gave the local authorities useful anecdotal evidence of what he called ‘inter-tourist crime’. Apparently, it was quite common.

  After I’d given my statement, I went into one of several massage parlours that operated in the hotel lobby and treated myself to a rejuvenating back, neck and shoulder rub. Throughout the treatment, I thought of Anna. It had only been a few weeks since we’d split and there’d been no contact at her insistence. I yearned to hear from her, and actually got out my mobile with the intention of sending her a WhatsApp, but thought better. She was unlikely to reply and a snub was the last thing I wanted. After the massage, I went to a nearby travel agent and booked a flight to Koh Samui, scheduled to leave in three hours. I also reserved a bungalow in a beach-side resort called Tiki-Tiki. It had been recommended by Miriam. She’d stayed there once and enjoyed it so much she’d posted a favourable review on TripAdvisor. The plan was to meet her there when she arrived from Vietnam later in the week.

  On my way back, I felt hungry and stopped in at an openfronted cafe that had an A-board on the pavement outside advertising English, American and Continental breakfasts. The place was deserted except for an elderly white couple sitting side-by-side at a small table, poring over a map. When I walked in they shot me a glance then quickly looked away and began to fidget self-consciously. The day before, fresh off the plane, I’d have bristled, but at that moment I felt sorry for them. They seemed so uncomfortable.

  At the counter, I ordered a couple of croissants and an Americano from a cheerless old Thai man, then went and sat at a table near the entrance. I had to put on my sunglasses to combat the glare reflecting off the tinted windows of the skyscraper building opposite. For the next few minutes, waiting for my breakfast to arrive, I watched the traffic go by, both vehicular and pedestrian, trying in vain to ignore the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes. At one point a tuk-tuk raced by, the engine droning like a swarm of bees. A scrap of paper went flying into the air then came fluttering down again, blown this way and that by competing currents. Just as it was about to settle, it got caught on another current and went soaring upwards again. After a few seconds it blew down a side-street and out of view and I found myself hoping that it was still airborne, flitting about the city like a butterfly.

  KJ ORR

  BACKBONE

  My father long ago said – about something I had found tough, really tough, almost too tough, for me, almost too much – that the thing was to find your way to letting it shift from being a big thing to being a small thing.

  This I thought sage. This I thought helpful. This I remembered.

  Easier to remember, perhaps, than to actuate.

  My partner and I would always joke about my having had back surgery. My partner at the time. The joke was about the fact – true or imagined – that I was the kind of person who would walk into a room always in the company of my surgery. With, as it were, my surgery on my arm: May I have the pleasure of making you acquainted with my back surgery?

  Or – we’d be out on the street, in the city, and someone would, say, jostle just that bit too hard on their way past, and my partner – whose comic timing I have to say was better than mine – would wait just a beat and then call out, Hey, don’t you know she’s just had back surgery? And then my partner would turn to me po-faced and say, I don’t think they appreciate that it was major back surgery.

  Anyway, that was the joke. It served purposes.

  So. This is the way a friend of mine used to start his stories. So.

  So – I needed some backbone. I signed a form. I
had the strangest feeling that the anaesthetist was laughing at me as I went under. Five. Four. Three.

  Anaesthetic is the strangest thing. The strangest thing. Complete surrender. How can such complete surrender be acceptable? That degree of trust.

  I woke up. And I’ll be honest. I woke up happy. I knew there was something solid in me now, something fixed.

  Though I could not imagine what had gone on inside my body. If I’d been asked to describe what it looked like in there now, I couldn’t have said.

  A visitor. My mother. She stood at my bedside and she smiled and she wept. I found this lovely and I found it also unnerving. And then I was alone, because she left.

  I lay there. I lay there a while – I had to lie there a few days in fact, for the backbone to take.

  Here are some of the things I began to notice as I lay there (I gave them numbers as I lay there to create some kind of order in my mind):

  I could wiggle my toes. I was grateful. I’d been worried beforehand that this facility might be gone. (Though my toes – afterwards – hard to explain – but they felt disconnected.)

  Flat on my back I did not know how to move. There were people who came and went. They adjusted things attached to me – wires and tubes. But this critical matter of how to move was not something anyone seemed compelled to address. I myself, in the state I was in, shelved the issue for later.

  I had not been told I would no longer know the difference between what I saw, eyes shut and eyes open. This confused me. It all looked the same. I’d open my eyes and see the beds lined up opposite, the rows of bedside lights on the wall behind – and then I’d close my eyes and see the exact same thing. It was alarming. I found it distressing. Even to think of it now. The implications were – hard to grasp. How was I to proceed with any confidence when I no longer knew if I was awake or asleep?