‘Who are you talking to?’ said a sleepy voice from deep in the shadows.
I sat up again. ‘That you, Duck? You sound different.’
‘…It’s Bugs.’
‘Bugs. I remember. Hey, let me guess. Bugs Bunny, right?’
There was a long pause. ‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘That is right.’
I scratched my head. Sticky clumps were matted into my hair. ‘Yeah, thought so. So you’ve taken over from Duck now. Who’s next?’ I giggled. ‘Road Runner?’
Two people muttered in the darkness.
‘Porky Pig? Yosemite Sam? No, wait, I’ve got it…Wile E. Coyote. It’s Wile E. Coyote, isn’t it?’
In the orange candlelight I saw a movement down the longhouse, a figure padding towards me. As it moved closer I recognized the slim shape.
‘Francoise! Hey, Francoise, this is a better dream than the last one.’
‘Shh,’ she whispered, kneeling beside me, her long white T–shirt drawing up around her thighs. ‘You are not dreaming.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Francoise, I am. Trust me. Look at the blood on the floor. That’s Mister Duck, from his wrists. They never stop bleeding. You should have seen what happened in Bangkok.’
She looked around, then back at me. ‘The blood is from your head, Richard.’
‘But…’
‘You hurt it when you fell.’
‘…Mister Duck.’
‘Shh. There are people asleep in here. Please.’
I lay down, feeling puzzled, and she rested her hand on my forehead.
‘You have a little fever. Do you think you can go back to sleep?’
‘…I don’t know.’
‘Will you try?’
‘…ok.’
She tucked the sheets over my shoulders, smiling slightly. ‘There now. Close your eyes.’
I closed them.
The pillow shifted as she leant over. She kissed me gently on the cheek.
‘I am dreaming,’ I murmured, as her footsteps padded away down the longhouse. ‘I knew it.’
¦
Mister Duck hung above me like a wingless bat, his legs gripping the beam, the curve under his ribcage stretched into a grotesque cavity, his swinging arms dripping steadily.
‘I knew it,’ I said. ‘I knew you were near.’ A pulse of blood splashed on to my chest. ‘Cold like a fucking reptile’s.’
Mister Duck scowled. ‘It’s as hot as yours. It’s only cold because of the fever. And you should put the covers back. You’ll catch your death.’
‘Too hot.’
‘Mmm. Too hot, too cold…’
I wiped my mouth with a wet hand. ‘Is it malaria?’
‘Malaria? Nervous exhaustion, more like.’
‘So how come Francoise doesn’t have it?’
‘She wasn’t as nervous as you.’ His outsized jaw jutted out and split his face into a mischievous grin. ‘She’s been very attentive, you know. Very attentive indeed. Checked on you twice when you were asleep.’
‘I am asleep.’
‘Sure…Fast asleep.’
The candle-flame faltered as melting wax began to flood the wick. Cicadas chirped outside. Blood like icy water dripped, made me shiver and twist the sheets.
‘What was the deal with the lizard, Duck?’
‘Lizard?’
‘It ran away. In the rainstorm I could hold it in my hand. But here it ran away.’
‘I seem to remember it running in the rainstorm, Rich.’
‘I held it in my hand.’
‘Is that what you remember, Rich?’
The pool of wax grew too large for the candle to contain. Suddenly it drained away and the wick flared brightly, throwing a crisp shadow on the longhouse ceiling. A silhouette. A wingless bat with hanging claws and pencil arms.
‘Lightning,’ I whispered.
The jaw jutted out. ‘That’s the boy…’
‘Fuck…’
‘…That’s the kid.’
‘…you.’
Minutes passed.
? The Beach ?
23
Talk
Late morning, I reckoned. Only from the heat. In the darkness of the longhouse and the steady glow of the candle, there was nothing else to reveal the time.
A Buddha sat cross-legged at the foot of my bed, palms resting flat on ochre knees. An unusual Buddha, female, with a US accent, heavy breasts clearly outlined through a saffron T–shirt, and long hair tied back from her perfectly round face. Around her neck was a necklace of sea shells. Beside her incense sticks burned, sending tiny spirals of perfumed smoke up to the ceiling.
‘Finish it, Richard,’ said the Buddha, looking pointedly at the bowl I held in my hands – half a freshly cut coconut, now nearly drained of a sugary fish soup. ‘Finish all of it.’
I lifted the bowl to my mouth, and the smell of the incense mixed with the fish and the sweetness.
I put it down again. ‘I can’t, Sal.’
‘You must, Richard.’
‘I’ll throw up.’
‘Richard, you must.’
She had the American habit of frequently using one’s name. It had the strange effect of being both disarmingly familiar and unnaturally forced.
‘Honestly. I can’t.’
‘It’s good for you.’
‘I’ve finished most of it. Look.’
I held up the bowl for her to see and we stared at each other across the blood-stained sheets.
‘OK,’ she sighed. ‘I guess that’ll have to do.’ Then she folded her arms and narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Richard, we need to talk.’
¦
We were alone. Occasionally people would enter and leave but I’d never see them. I’d hear the door at the far end of the longhouse bang open and a small rectangle of light would hover in the darkness until the door swung shut.
When I reached the part about finding Mister Duck’s body, Sal looked sad. It wasn’t a strong reaction; her eyebrows flicked downwards and her lower lip tensed. I guessed she’d already heard about Duck’s death from Etienne and Francoise, so the news wasn’t as shocking as it could have been. Her reaction was pretty hard to read. It seemed more directed at me than at anything else, like she was sorry that I’d had to witness something so horrible.
