Gregorio shook his head. ‘Daffy spoke to them when they first came, but he is the only one. He said they knew we were here already, and they were not interested in us if we did not move from the lagoon. Since then, nothing.’
‘Maybe they’ve got pissed off with Jed nicking grass,’ I suggested.
‘Yes, but it is the same thing. If they are angry or not angry, what difference if Jed has a partner?’
‘So what else could it be?’
Gregorio looked down at his hands, then back at me. ‘I do not know, Richard…I really do not know.’
¦
We continued chatting until late evening, but only going round in circles. Without Jed or Sal there was no way our questions could be answered, but Jed was still absent by the time we went to bed, and no one felt like talking to Sal.
It took me over two hours to get to sleep that night, and the thoughts that kept me awake were as unusual as the rest of the day had been. For the first time since arriving on the beach, I started thinking about home. Almost, in fact, wishing I could return. Not to leave the beach permanently – just to contact a few important people and let them know I was still alive and OK. My family particularly, and a few of my friends. I suppose it may have had as much to do with my earlier conversation with Francoise as with the subsequent unsettling events. The thought of parents had hovered in the back of my mind, reluctant to fall under the beach’s amnesiac spell.
? The Beach ?
54
The Decisive Moment
Hi,’ said a voice, and I turned round. A small boy was standing in the gateway of the house behind me. He grinned and marched over the pavement. ‘Would you like a drink?’
I looked at him blankly. Mister Duck was fair-haired and close to tubby as a child. It surprised me that this well-fed kid would become the scrawny figure I’d meet on the Khao San Road.
‘That is you, isn’t it?’ I said, to make certain.
‘It’s me.’ His chubby arms stretched out and clapped me on the shoulders. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Well…’ I rubbed my throat. ‘What have you got?’
‘Ribena or water.’
‘Ribena is good.’
‘OK. Wait here.’
Mister Duck went inside the house, waddling slightly as he walked. I wondered if that was where his nickname had originally come from. A minute later he came back out, holding a cup in both hands.
‘I’m afraid it’s not really very cold. It takes ages for the tap to run cold.’
‘That’s OK.’
He gave me the cup and watched me closely while I drank.
‘Is it all right? Maybe I should’ve put some ice in it.’
‘It’s very nice.’
‘I can get some ice for you.’
‘No.’ I drained the remainder. ‘It was just right.’
‘Great!’ He smiled radiantly. ‘You want to see my room?’
¦
Mister Duck’s bedroom was a lot like mine had been – clothes in heaps, dog-eared posters on the walls, duvet scrunched up at the bottom of the mattress, battered Matchbox cars on the shelves, marbles and toy soldiers everywhere else. The main difference was that I’d shared my room with my younger brother, so the mess was doubled.
In the middle of the floor was a collapsed pile of Tintin and Asterix books.
‘Shit,’ I said admiringly, as I spotted them. ‘That’s a good collection.’
Mister Duck’s eyes opened wide, then he ran to his bedroom door and peered nervously out. ‘Richard,’ he hissed, turning back to me with a sternly raised finger. ‘You mustn’t say that!’
‘…Shit?’
His tiny face went bright red and he waved his arms. ‘Shh! Someone will hear you!’
‘But…’
‘No buts!’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Swearing carries a two-pence fine in this house!’
‘Oh…right. I won’t swear any more.’
‘Good,’ he said gravely. ‘I should ask you for some money, but you didn’t know the rule, so we’ll leave it at that.’
‘Thanks…’ I walked over to the pile of books and picked one up –
‘I
‘I’ve got every Tintin book except none.’
‘Including
‘Only in French.’
‘Exactly! That’s why I haven’t got it. It really annoys me.’
‘You should get someone to talk you through it. My mum went through it with me. It’s pretty good.’
Mister Duck shrugged. ‘My mum can’t speak French.’
‘Oh…’
‘So which is your favourite one?’
‘Hmm. Tricky question.’ I thought for a couple of seconds. ‘It isn’t
‘No. And it isn’t the
‘No way…It might be
‘Do you want to know what my favourite is?’
‘Sure.’
‘
I nodded. ‘That’s a good choice.’
‘Yes. Would you like to know another book I like?’
‘OK.’
Mister Duck walked over to his bed and crouched down, feeling around underneath. Then he dragged out a large hardback, coffee-table size. Its cover was plain red and stamped with gold-leaf writing. It read
‘This book is my dad’s,’ he said airily, squatting down and beckoning me to sit beside him. ‘I’m not even supposed to have it in my room. You know what?’
‘What?’
‘In this book…’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘There’s a picture of a girl.’
I snorted. ‘Big deal.’
‘A naked girl!’
‘Naked?’
‘Uh-huh. You want to see it?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK…hold on.’ Mister Duck started flicking through the pages. ‘It’s somewhere near the middle…Ah! Here it is!’
I pulled the book on to my lap.
The girl was indeed naked, and aged somewhere between ten and twelve. She was running down a country road.
Mister Duck leant over and put his mouth to my ear. ‘You can see
