Running in Circles: An international mystery with a heart-stopping twist (Lucy Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by Claire Gray

  ‘Yes,’ I say, desperate suddenly to be sitting on that futon. ‘That would be good.’

  Chapter Nine

  I wake up on Steve’s dusty sofa, my fingers brushing an empty wine bottle on the floor. My mouth is dry, my lips cracked and tongue fat. I don’t remember falling asleep. When we arrived here last night, Steve and I ate pizzas topped with meat we couldn’t identify, and although I hadn’t asked to see them, he got out his laptop and showed me photographs of his daughter from when she came to visit last year, before I’d arrived on the island. I let him talk about her, and about the things they did together, and we tried to forget that the world has changed.

  He’s left some freshly printed newspapers on the coffee table. It’s Saturday; the day the Koh Star comes out. Sitting up, I take one from the top of the pile. It feels twice as thick as usual and there’s an image of the bomb site on the front page. I can see my hostel, ruined in the background like it was never a real place at all; a place where people slept and ate and smiled at each other. I fold the paper and put it back down.

  ‘Good morning,’ Steve says from somewhere across the room. I raise my head with an effort and see him perched on a stool by the window, eating a donut and reading the back page of the Koh Star.

  ‘Morning,’ I mumble.

  ‘I’ve counted three spelling mistakes,’ he says. ‘You’ll probably spot more. But still, I think this might be the best work we’ve done in a long time.’

  ‘Do you think there will be any tourists left to read it?’ I ask, sitting up as he pours us each a coffee from a grimy looking cafetière.

  ‘I don’t know. But there’s important stuff in here. If even one person reads it I think it’ll help them. So, I’d count that as us doing our job well.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I don’t think Steve feels as positive as he’s trying to sound. His hands shake as he passes over my coffee, and his eyes have sunk even further into his skull since yesterday.

  ‘Speaking of work,’ he says, ‘are you still coming with me to the port? It can’t hurt to ask around, see if anyone remembers anything suspicious. Anyone odd arriving or leaving the island around the time of the bomb. And, I don’t know about you, but I feel like I want to keep busy today.’

  I agree with him, and after a quick shower and a change of clothes, I drive us out of town and towards the port where the majority of visitors come in and out of the island. The road is winding and potholed, busy with mopeds and cars crammed with people. Steve has brought along a big bottle of sparkling water and we drain it within twenty minutes of being sat in the slow-moving traffic. The interior of the car is so hot that we can taste metal, like the vehicle’s frame is melting.

  When we get to the port a worker is checking backpackers’ tickets as they queue beside a huge banana plant. We line up to speak to him; the offices seem to either be closed or bursting with people anxious to find a way out of here. Small, brightly-coloured fishing boats are resting in the turquoise water, and beyond them are other boats of varying size and modernity waiting to take people back to the mainland. There are usually one or two boats coming in and out of here every few hours. I count six here right now.

  When we reach the front of the queue the worker holds out his hand for our tickets. He doesn’t look at us; he’s frowning towards the ticket offices where the crowd is swelling like the sea. As Steve begins speaking in Thai, two young girls with henna tattoos on their arms and bandages on their legs, slip past the man and try approaching the first boat.

  ‘No, no,’ he shouts, rushing to block their way. ‘I tell you before. No ticket, no boat.’

  ‘There aren’t any left for today but we need to go,’ one of them wails in an Australian accent.

  The man ushers them back past the banana plant and I watch as they wrap their arms around each other and disappear into the crowd.

  ‘Ticket, ticket,’ he says to us impatiently.

  ‘We’re from the Koh Star,’ Steve explains. ‘We wanted to ask a few questions.’

  ‘We didn’t realise how busy you’d be,’ I say. ‘We should have known.’

  One of the ships blows its horn, making people duck and cry out. I have to swallow a whimper myself, and take deep breaths to slow the fluttering of my heart.

  ‘No time for this,’ the man says, pushing us aside. ‘Go to office.’

  I crumple up my empty can and toss it into a bin that is already close to overflowing. Insects rise from it and then settle again.

  ‘I suppose we ought to try their office, then,’ Steve says, eying the crammed buildings warily.

  ‘Excuse me,’ someone says beside us. ‘Did you say you’re from the Koh Star?’

  A sunburned English man is drinking a bottle of lager with the label peeled off, and is just throwing a cigarette away towards the dustbin when we turn to nod at him. He has a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, which have the same sleepless look as Steve’s. He’s maybe in his mid-twenties but his shoulders are hunched like an old man’s and his voice sounds raw, as if he’s been shouting or crying.

  ‘I’ve read your newspaper,’ he said. ‘It was useful for finding out boat times.’

  ‘Oh good, good,’ Steve says, distracted, trying to steer me in the direction of the office.

  ‘Wait,’ the man says. ‘I want to tell you guys something.’

  ‘Okay?’ I say, stopping.

  ‘Everyone’s saying that the bomb was in a bag out the front of XS. But it wasn’t. It was in front of the café next door. In one of the big plant pots, probably.’

  ‘You mean the ice cream parlour? How do you know?’ I ask. I can picture the plant pots. I was able to see them from my bedroom window. They reminded me of giant pineapples, and the yellow leaved plants always looked half dead.

  ‘My mate Gaz,’ he says, pointing to a man perched on top of a pile of backpacks, smoking a rollie and leafing furiously through a Thai phrase book. ‘He used to be in the army. Been to Iraq and Afghanistan. So, he’s seen lots of explosions. Came here for a break. Funny eh? Anyway, he was able to tell just by looking at it. He knew where the explosion started.’

  Steve steps towards Gaz as if he wants to talk to him, but the other man shakes his head. ‘He’s already spoken to the police. He’s not going to talk to you. Look at him. He’s done talking for a while. I just wanted to mention it because I don’t know if the police were listening to us. It didn’t even seem like they were writing much down. They definitely didn’t care that he’d been a soldier for ten years. I know there’s going to be experts coming in and telling folk exactly what happened. What type of bomb it was and all that, but the other thing is, I tried to go in that café the afternoon before the bomb went off, to get a bottle of water, but it was all locked up. Deserted. I’d been going in there every day all week until then. I don’t know. I just felt like I ought to tell someone.’

  Chapter Ten

  We have lunch back at Steve’s place; cold slices of the pizza from the night before. They leave a film of grease on the roof of my mouth. We switch on the television and watch a news report with English subtitles scrolling at the bottom of the screen in bright yellow. Not all of it makes sense, but we learn that the death toll has risen to twelve, and still more people are unaccounted for. A middle-aged white lady is interviewed at the port we’ve just come from. The subtitles give up as the lady speaks in what sounds like Polish, but we understand the catch in her voice, the lines around her eyes and the way that she turns away at the end, mid-sentence, a hand against her face.

  ‘Thank goodness for the ice cream parlour theory,’ Steve says, poking his crust into ketchup. ‘Or this morning would have been an utter waste of time.’

  We never managed to get anything from the people working at the port. We hung around outside their offices for a while, drinking more of that strange juice and watching people surge onto the waiting boats. Eventually the office workers came out to lock the doors and put up signs saying they’d be back in the morning; tickets wer
e sold out for today. They shook their heads at our questions, said that the police had already been around and they didn’t know anything about anything anyway.

  ‘I actually noticed it was closed that day too,’ I say, thinking about what the man at the port had told us. ‘I was going to get a drink on my way to the Bollywood wedding.’

  ‘Is that unusual, for it to be closed?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘I think so.’

  ‘So, that’s what we look into next. We find the owner. First, though, I’m going to have to lie down for a while, Lucy. I don’t think I can sleep but I need to rest. My head is pounding. I’ll see you in an hour or two.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, I understand.’

  After he’s gone I put my hands over my face and press down until my eyes hurt and I see stars. What am I supposed to do today? Now that the initial horror is over and I’ve been left alive, it’s hard to settle on a new path to follow. I decide to phone the police, to see if they’ve found Shuttleworth. Pulling my mobile out from the sofa cushions, I see that my German friend, Lena, has texted me. I reply to say that I’ll meet her at a café in town.

  I can’t get through to anyone when I call the police. There are beeps, crackles and then a Thai voice that is abruptly cut off. I give up for now and pour a glass of juice from the fridge. As I sip it I try to decide whether Bernard Shuttleworth is alive or dead. There is so much death around us right now. It’s difficult to sense his amongst it all. I think maybe he’s alive. Maybe the police will call me later with an update, and they’ll tell me that it’s all been a mistake.

  Lena texts back to say that she’ll be half an hour, so I take a moment to look around Steve’s home. I’ve been here before, but never alone. It’s a one storey, open plan sort of space, with cobwebs and occasional lizards on the ceiling, dusty light coming through slats in the blinds, books everywhere, magazines too, and speakers arranged about the place, many with their wires trailing to nowhere. He has two electric guitars and a stereo system about four feet tall. The whole place is dim and warm, and smells of rolling tobacco and unhealthy food.

  I linger beside a set of shelves, reading the spines of books. On the top shelf, hidden behind a stack of science fiction magazines, I discover a pair of photographs. Their frames are delicate and ornate, which suggests to me that Steve wasn’t the one who framed them. One is of a baby in a Moses basket, and I assume this must be his daughter, Jenna. The other photograph is of Steve when he was about twenty years younger, with his hand on Jenna’s shoulder. Jenna’s holding a plump rabbit, squeezing it against her chest. A woman stands beside them, a slight smile on her face. This lady, like Jenna, is very pretty, but there’s something about her eyes and the distance she’s keeping from the others, like maybe she’ll say something unpleasant when the camera turns away. I’ve never stopped to think about Jenna’s mother. Steve doesn’t mention her.

  Time to go. The road outside Steve’s house is a brown strip of dust. The buildings are packed close together, built with wood and breezeblocks. I’m the only person out here, but I can hear people speaking in Thai, also an American drama on TV, and metal scraping against metal. There’s this sense that people are all around me, but hidden. I walk slowly, feeling their eyes on me.

  Lena will probably want to speak about the people who have died. Their names haven’t been released yet but there has been talk of Swedish women, Australian teenagers and a British TV talent show star from years ago. All just rumours. Steve and I keep searching for confirmation and we’re told there will be a press release soon. If I hadn’t seen what happened the night before last, I’m not sure I’d be able to accept that people who were enjoying the island just days ago no longer exist. As it is, their fates are clear to me, and I feel it with a dull ache all through my body.

  I’m thinking this, when I notice two Thai women on the other side of the street. I’m closer to the centre of town now, and there are people about, a semblance of normality. These particular women are drinking milkshakes on the curb, huddled together like children, luggage piled up around them. But what I really notice is the way that they’re dressed. They’re wearing Bernard Shuttleworth’s golf resort uniform, which consists of black and gold blouses, pleated skirts and long white socks. It’s pretty hideous, which is why I remember it so clearly from my visits to the resort in the past.

  I cross towards them, pausing halfway to let a moped pass. The women glance up and I see that they are just girls really. One looks like she has recently been crying and the other has on a lot of gold jewellery.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I ask as I step onto the pavement, smiling hopefully.

  After a pause, they nod.

  ‘You work for Mr Shuttleworth?’

  The girls look at each other and then nod again. ‘Actually, we leave today.’

  ‘I heard about your boss going missing. I’ve met him before. Does anyone know what happened?’

  The girls discuss this in Thai for a moment and then shake their heads. ‘We don’t know anything,’ they say.

  ‘Okay. That’s okay. Can I ask why you’re leaving?’

  ‘His wife closing,’ the girl with the tear-stained face says.

  ‘I didn’t know he was married.’ I’m truly surprised, and probably stare at them for just a beat too long, so that I start to seem strange.

  ‘Why you asking us?’ the same girl says. She has one hand on her bag, like she’s afraid I might steal it.

  ‘I’m just curious. Sorry.’ I’m about to leave but then hesitate. ‘Do you know Maliwan?’

  The girls nod, and smile a little. They like Maliwan, I see.

  I ask: ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No. You her friend?’

  ‘Sort of, yeah. You have no idea where she might be?’ I smile and hope that I look young and normal, like someone who might be friends with Maliwan.

  They shake their heads.

  ‘Do you know her boyfriend? Dolph?’

  They look at each other and then tell me: ‘No, we not see.’

  I remember something that Shuttleworth said and decide to try it. ‘Could she be with her mum? Her mother. She’s sick, right?’

  The girls stare at me but don’t shake their heads. Maybe.

  ‘Where does her mum live? You have an address?’

  ‘You are police?’ the sad-looking girl asks.

  ‘No, I’m a journalist. For the Koh Star. I need to talk to her. It’s really important.’

  ‘We can tell you address. But will you help us? We need to get bus and we haven’t been paid.’

  I get some money from my purse and the girls hold out their hands. I decide to see this through, even though I can feel their mistrust of me and I doubt they’re going to give me anything real for my cash. All the same, I let the notes go, and one of the girls writes an address in English across a page of my notepad, her gold bracelets jangling.

  ‘I don’t remember exactly,’ she says as she writes. ‘But you find it. There’s a...’ she speaks with her friend in Thai for a moment, searching for the right word.

  ‘Pond,’ the other girl says.

  ‘Okay, thank you.’ I hug the notepad to my chest as I walk away. They were messing with me, probably; when people say they need money to take a bus they are nearly always lying.

  I don’t look at the address until I get back to the other side of the street. Maliwan’s mum lives up in the hills, apparently, where not everyone has electricity and where the clouds hang low. Perhaps she does live there. Perhaps she knows something important and I’m doing the right thing.

  My phone begins to ring. I scrabble for it in my bag and see that Steve’s calling.

  ‘They’ve announced a press conference,’ he says before I can speak.

  I stop walking. Lena, the address, and everything else can wait.

  Chapter Eleven

  We’ve gathered outside the town hall; a spiky building that I’ve always disliked. It casts shadows like giant insects. A statue of an ancient Th
ai King stands in its courtyard. Strips of gold on the statue and building are twinkling as foreign journalists point their cameras at the police chief. He’s speaking from the top of the concrete steps. His face, and the triangle of chest visible at the top of his shirt, are wet with sweat. Watching him makes me want to mop my own forehead.

  I arrived late and had to squeeze through the gathered crowd to reach Steve’s side. All around us, people are writing, recording, gently jostling for a better view. TV cameras glide and dip like birds. There is a smell of sweat and electricity. Behind this ball of journalists, normal people are watching, standing where there would usually be plastic chairs, fried chicken stands and ice cream stalls. Some of these people, I think, are here because their children are dead. I’m looking at them as the police chief talks. They are white, middle-aged, dressed too warmly for the weather, and they stare like beaten animals. Steve nudges me and whispers something, making a scribbling motion with his finger. I get out my notebook and start writing; I’m better at shorthand than he is.

  ‘Sixteen people,’ the police chief is saying, using his hands to hush shouted questions. His English is good but I see people straining to understand his accent. Armed police stand behind him in the doorway.

  ‘They are Europeans. Young people. Their families are coming here. The death toll will rise.’ He stutters slightly as a man in a suit reaches out to him from the shadows of the doorway, as if to keep him from telling more. No names are given.

  And then there are questions. An Australian journalist asks how many people were injured. The police chief screws up his face and says maybe thirty. Most have been flown to the mainland and some to Singapore. Some of these people might still die? Yes, they could. Steve and I don’t ask anything although we had both planned to. I have a folded piece of paper in my pocket with several questions written on it. They’re good questions but my mouth is dry. If I try to speak I might scream instead. The scene goes on around us and maybe Steve feels the same way I do; that the world is ending and we have to get away from these people and the snap, snap, snap of cameras.