He lay on the plank, panting, trying to regain some strength. The sea was rougher now, and it was taking all his energy to keep afloat. His stomach gnawed from the lack of food, and every bone and muscle in his body felt weak. Would he have the strength to paddle both floats? He glanced around. In those few moments George’s beam had drifted several yards away.
‘Hold on, George, hold on!’
No reply. Tom paddled back towards him. The beam was moving up and down with the swell, and George’s head with it. As he got closer the beam disappeared from view behind a wave. It reappeared after a second or two, but George was no longer on it.
‘George!’ he screamed, taking frantic strokes towards the spot. He slid off his own plank and dived under the surface, beating around in the cloudy water. He could see nothing. He came up for air and dived again.
It was hopeless. Tears of anger and pity pricked his eyes. He had seen so many men die that it had become commonplace, but with each death he experienced a fresh surge of rage and frustration. He dragged himself back onto the plank and shut his eyes, trying to blank it out, to gather enough strength to save himself.
He lost track of time. Each time he lifted his head there were fewer and fewer men around him. After a while he couldn’t hear anyone shouting for help. He would have to push himself to the edge to get out of this. He wasn’t going to be one of those who slipped silently beneath the waves.
Each time he rose on the swell, he could just about see the dark smudge of land on the horizon, but there was no way of telling how far away it was. He made an effort to paddle in that direction, but for every yard he struggled to advance, he was washed back another by the tow. The cramp in his arms sometimes made it impossible to keep going. This forced him to lie still on the plank until he could move again, his jaws clamped together, rigid with cold, even though the skin on his arms and legs was scorching and peeling in the tropical sun.
More than once he drifted out of consciousness. The last time he came round the sky was growing dark and the sun was dipping beneath the western horizon. Tom was now so thirsty he could barely swallow. His mouth and blistered lips were coated in crusted sea salt.
With the sun gone, a breeze got up and it was icy cold on the water. He paddled on when he could find the strength, but without the sun to guide him he couldn’t tell whether he was heading further out to sea or towards the land.
He must have been paddling and drifting for hours. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain as his injured leg brushed against a rock. He made a last supreme effort to haul himself forward, and after a few more strokes the plank ground to a halt on gritty sand. Tom lay there panting, face pressed down on the breakers, allowing his body to be dragged back and forth by the waves. He could not muster the energy to haul himself onto the beach.
He heard a shout. Then the splash of footsteps in the shallow water. Tom struggled to sit up. About a dozen men in shabby uniforms surrounded him on the moonlit beach. Several of them were holding guns. One of them yelled something at him, his rifle pointed at Tom’s head. Slowly, Tom raised his hands in surrender and waited for the shot that would end it all.
25
The ferry lumbered across the flat waters of the Malacca Straits towards Georgetown. Laura leaned on the rail, welcoming the salt breeze on her face, a respite from the fierce sun. She watched the other vessels ply to and fro between the island and the mainland, and the deep green hills of Penang drawing closer and closer.
She was tired. Her limbs ached from the twenty-four-hour journey on the train. Even though she’d managed to get some fitful sleep, the steward had woken her at six in the morning, wanting to get the bunks stowed away and set up the carriage for breakfast. She was served with rubbery bacon and eggs, and as she ate she watched her fellow passengers with interest. There were two Malaysian businessmen deep in discussion over charts and graphs, a Thai family with two perfectly behaved little girls, and a German family whose children noisily refused to touch the food. Across the aisle, a couple of backpackers, dressed in shorts and flip flops, were so wrapped up in each other that they hardly looked out of the window or noticed anyone else around them. She thought about Luke, and looked away.
The landscape rolled past her: the craggy limestone outcrops of Southern Thailand, occasional glimpses of a turquoise sea between the jungle-covered hills, the little towns where locals waited for slow trains on crowded platforms with their bundles of wares and luggage tied up with string.
When night fell she stretched out on the bunk. Lying on top of the linen sheets the steward had put on, she read the books she had bought in Kanchanaburi. She stared at the artefacts she had brought from home: the photograph of Joy de Souza, the invitation to High Tops. She felt thwarted by having found out so little in Kanchanaburi. Even finding the book by Arthur Stone had been a false dawn. Perhaps she would discover more in Malaysia? She glanced again at the picture of Joy, at the enigmatic expression in those dark eyes. ‘Are you still there, Joy? Will I find you?’ she whispered.
She scribbled postcards to Ken and Marge, and one
