Emily Barr - The Sleeper

I was in the back of a tuk-tuk, which was vibrating violently underneath me as its engine strove to compete with the proper vehicles, and there was far too little between me and a potential grisly end under the wheels of a lorry. I barely cared. It had happened to Laurie, and it would almost be fitting if it happened to me. I had hidden away for all those years exactly to escape things like this.

The tuk-tuk was open to the world on both sides, and it was only the fact that it was moving, blasting my face with fiery hot wind, that was stopping me collapsing in the face of the hostile climate. I was not built for this.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed that we were weaving in and out of cars, lorries and taxis, all of them a million times better armed for the roads than we were. The buildings were higgledy-piggledy, some of them crumbling concrete, some modern glass and steel. There were stalls selling street food, people shouting, people everywhere.

I was propelled right off the seat by a sudden application of the brakes, and my driver turned and grinned.

‘We’re here?’ I asked.

‘We here,’ he agreed, and I paid him gratefully and watched him rattling away. As I stood on the pavement and felt my body still tingling with the remembered vibrations, I wanted to cry.

It had seemed such a clever idea, flying to Thailand to find Lara, either hiding from the terrifying Jake/Donald or under his control (or, possibly, dead at his hands). Now that I was here, I could see instantly how ridiculous it was. I had come nowhere close to finding out what had become of her in London, and that was a city I knew, home to her family and the people who loved her and were desperate to trace her. Now I was on a continent in which I knew not a single person (except, if she were still alive, Lara), on the trail of a convicted drug smuggler who had, as far as I could tell from the internet, been transferred to an Australian jail four years ago, and released two years after that; at which point, ominously, he seemed to have vanished without trace. He could have been anywhere.

I had texted Alex my apologies, and before I left I posted him the diary. I had not been able to bear, so far, to talk to him. When he had read Lara’s story, he would know why I was here.

Lara had sent Jake to prison. He would have come to get her. I could imagine him getting on the night train and killing Guy to set Lara up. She had known something was coming; she must have done, or she would not have taken the precaution of stealing my passport.

What, I asked myself, was I planning to do? Wander around Bangkok with an old photo of him printed off a computer, and ask anyone who looked a little dodgy if they had seen him lately? Amiably stalk a psychotic druggy killer, all on my own? Walk up and down the fabled Khao San Road staring at everyone in case they were Lara? I had not thought this plan through and it was stupid.

Coming here had been a grand and futile gesture, and it was solely serving to remind me that I was not up to this kind of thing. I never had been one for adventures, not even back when Laurie was alive and I was happy. This was beyond me.

I had booked a random guest house. It was quite expensive, so I thought it ought to be nice enough. The outside was painted pale green, and as soon as I walked through the plastic front door, the air conditioning attacked me with the force of a cold shower. The hairs on my arms instantly stood up on end, and I shivered.

This place, this city, this continent: it was not for me. I thought of Lara’s description of strolling along, making eye contact with a handsome Australian and becoming an excellent drug smuggler. It was so unimaginable that it was almost funny. Lara had been so much better than me at everything. She had effortlessly hooked up with a gorgeous, unattainable man on the train. She had stolen my passport in the coolest possible manner. She had loved Asia so much she wanted to make money in one part of it and then retreat to the mountains in another. I would never actually have been interesting enough to be friends with her. I was built for a small life.

The room was small and basic, but it had a tiny bathroom attached, and its door locked, and there were both an air-conditioning unit and a ceiling fan. It was a good place for waiting around in; this was a hiding place. I sat down on the bed, which had a thin, hard mattress that was probably good for backs, and tried to tell myself to be brave.

This was ridiculous. I was paralysed. All I could do was blank it out, by reading the book I’d bought at the airport. It was a literary thriller and I did not take in a word of it. Every muscle in my body was tense.

In the end I called Leon. He answered after half a ring: ‘Iris!’

‘Hi, Leon.’

I could hear how expectant he was, across the world, and I hated the fact that I was going to disappoint him. I said nothing.

‘You’ve arrived safely?’ he checked, in the end.

‘Yes, thanks. It’s quite a …’

‘A culture shock?’

‘A huge one. Oh God, I’m not sure I’m up to this.’

‘No, you can do it. Try her email and all her social networking accounts again. Tell her you’re here. Don’t mention anyone else or you’ll scare her. Make sure you say it’s just you. No Olivia, no Sam, no policeman, no me. Don’t write Jake’s name down in case that scares her. Keep it simple. Make it just about you and her.’

I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me.

‘OK,’ I managed to say.

‘And Iris? Have you seen half the idiots who go to Thailand from round here? If they can manage it, then believe me, my dear, you can. All right? Get out there. Go to that Khao San Road place and walk around. Or look at a temple or something. You’ll acclimatise.’

I took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. OK, I’ll give it a go.’

‘Keep in touch. You’re doing a great job. I’m at the end of the phone any time at all. Day or night.’

I would never get used to the heat: I knew that for certain. I was made for London clouds and Cornish drizzle. All the same, once I had changed into a loose skirt and a T-shirt, regretting not thinking about footwear when I’d packed, I felt a little more ready for it. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, instantly making myself feel like a style-free twelve-year-old, and cursed myself for still not getting around to having that long-overdue haircut.

Then, with my biker boots incongruously on my feet, I set off in search of sandals. It was good to have something to aim for.

The pavements were uneven, the air as solid a wall of heat and unfamiliar scent as it was before, and there was not even the shadow of the gentlest of breezes. My feet were sticky and sweaty. I knew the area I wanted: the famous Khao San Road that Lara had written about in her diary, that even I had heard of as the backpacker centre of South East Asia, was a few blocks away. I knew I would get there and find some shoes to buy. I did not know anything else.

It was the afternoon. The evening, and the next day, and days beyond that stretched ahead of me. When I lived in Budock with just my cats and a ghost for company, I had been a lot less lonely than this. And yet I was in Thailand, and everyone knew that was heaven.

I was getting closer to the backpacker nirvana. I could tell because there were a lot more white people about. They were alien to me, and I wanted to hide from every one of them. When I saw a shoe shop with its door wide open, I decided to be brave.

It was staffed by a chubby man who smiled broadly at my approach. He must have been baking in his formal shirt and woollen tank top, but he didn’t look it.

‘You’d like some shoes,’ he surmised, then looked at my feet. ‘Oh, my word! You need some shoes.’