Tracy Buchanan - The Atlas of Us

I feel even more alone now, watching all these people. They’re all terrified of what they might find, but at least they’re not alone. I look at Sam. Maybe I’m not so alone. I shrug my bag strap over my shoulder, heading towards him.

He turns as I approach, frowns a little like he’s trying to figure out if it’s the same person in the photo his mum sent. Then he smiles. ‘Louise?’ he asks, a Northern lilt to his voice.

He’s in his late twenties, a few years younger than me, and is wearing a white linen shirt and cut-off blue jeans. This close, I can see the light stubble on his cheeks and chin, the small jewel in his nose, the wheel pattern of the pendant hanging from his neck. He has tanned skin, fair hair, a mole on his cheek. Will would call him a hippy, like the man with long hair who was renting the house a few doors down with his Chinese wife and two children last year. I’d been desperate to invite them over for dinner; they’d seemed so interesting. But Will had always found some excuse or other not to. Six months later, they’d moved away. I wasn’t surprised. They didn’t look the type to be happy in an estate full of expensive new builds and gas-guzzling family cars.

‘Yes, I’m Louise,’ I say to Sam. I note a hint of surprise in his eyes. Maybe he was expecting someone like my mum, all bronzed and arty with floaty skirts and flowing scarves, instead of a pale, blouse-wearing, stay-at-home mum from Kent. ‘Thanks so much for offering to help,’ I say. ‘Your mum said you’d been helping out? I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

‘Take up as much time as you want. I promised Mum I’d do everything I can to help you.’ He examined my face. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘The paperwork’s a nightmare but—’

‘I mean about your mum missing. Must be tough?’

‘I – I’m not sure really. It’s been a bit of a blur since your mum called. I’m sure everything’ll be fine, I’m sure we’ll find her …’ My voice trails off. The truth is, I’m terrified. Terrified I’ve lost my mum before I’ve even had the chance to patch things up with her. ‘Jane says you live in Bangkok. Did you travel over here to help out?’ I ask, trying to change the subject. Small talk seems out of place here, but it’s a type of anchor for us Brits, isn’t it?

He shakes his head. ‘I came to Ao Nang to visit a friend for Christmas. Luckily, we were staying further inland. As soon as we heard what had happened, we started helping out and I ended up volunteering here,’ he says, gesturing around him.

‘It must be difficult.’

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘Very. But at least I’m doing something to help. Have you done all the form-filling and DNA stuff?’

‘Yes, twice. No sign.’ I peer towards the temple. ‘So, do we go in there then?’

‘Not yet. The bodies are back there.’ He flinches slightly, like it physically hurts him to say that. ‘I’d recommend the boards first, there’s photos of each body on there. People find that easier.’

‘Yes, that makes sense.’ My voice sounds strong, considering.

‘Why don’t you show me a photo of your mum and I’ll go look at the boards for you?’

‘You don’t have to, really. I can do it.’

This time, my voice breaks as I imagine seeing a photo of Mum up there. Sam gently places his fingers on my bare arm. They feel cool, dry. ‘I’m here to help, Louise.’

The woman from the bus approaches from the direction of the photo boards, her face pressed against her husband’s chest as he stares ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I look back at Sam. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘Of course. You’ve probably been asked this already, but are there any distinguishing marks, jewellery, anything that will help me identify your mum?’

‘Just a bracelet she always wears. She’s wearing it in this photo.’ I start digging around in my bag. ‘Thing is, I haven’t seen her for over two years so I’m not sure if she still looks …’ My voice trails off. Why did I say that?

‘Two years?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Sam scrutinises my face then nods. ‘Understood. So, the photo?’

I pull the photo out and hand it over. Mum looks happy in it, tanned, smiling, her dark hair whipping about her face. Slung over her shoulder is a pink bag with the smiling face of a child embroidered into its front. I can just about make out her precious bracelet, a rusty old charm bracelet with bronze teapots and spoons attached to it. She’s wearing the yellow cardigan with red hearts I got her a few years ago too. That did something to me when Jane emailed the photo to me after they’d both gone to some Greek island together last year, made my heart clench to see her wearing the cardigan I got her – like maybe Mum did care for me.

Something changes in Sam’s face as he looks at the photo. ‘That’s an unusual bag. I think I saw it last night.’

I try to keep my voice steady. ‘With a body?’

He looks pained. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. It was wrapped around the woman quite securely. It came in late so if there’s any ID with it, it won’t have filtered down to any lists yet.’

I sway slightly, vision blurring. Sam takes my elbow, helping me steady myself.

‘I’ll go out back and check for you,’ he says softly. ‘Is it okay if I take this photo?’

‘Yes.’ My voice is barely above a whisper.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ He steers me to a nearby seat, an oddly shaped bamboo chair that feels rough under my calves. He then runs towards the temple, his flip-flops slapping on the sandy concrete as he weaves between the tables and photo boards, apologising to people as he bumps into them.

I put my head in my shaking hands. Is this what it comes to in the end? I feel a rush of regret and anger. Regret at not working hard enough to rebuild my relationship with my mum again when she stopped talking to me, anger at the fact I’d had to even try to rebuild it. It had only been a stupid argument; I’d never dreamt it would have led to her not contacting me for such a long time.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I mumble into my palms.

I stay like that for a while, trying to grapple with the idea of Mum being gone forever. When Jane had called saying how concerned she was, I knew, quite suddenly, that I had to come out here to find Mum. It wasn’t just about finding her, it was about starting over with her, making amends. I’d brewed on it all of Boxing Day as I’d watched the news unfold on TV until I’d had to wake Will to tell him what I’d decided. I could tell he didn’t believe I’d go through with it, even when I started packing my suitcase.

I sit up straight when I notice Sam jogging towards me again. He’s holding a bag to his chest like it’s a newborn baby and there’s this look on his face that makes something inside me falter. He places the bag on the dusty ground and crouches down in front of me, placing his hands over mine. I pull my hands away, stifling the growing panic inside.

‘There was a passport in the bag,’ he says very softly.

He pulls it from the bag and hands it to me. I open it, see Mum’s face, her name. I put my hand to my mouth and blink, keep blinking. It feels like there’s a wave inside, flattening everything in its path.

‘You said the bag was found with a body,’ I say. ‘Have you seen it?’

Sam nods, face crunched with pain. ‘There’s a lot of …’ He sighs. ‘A lot of damage to the face. But she has dark hair like your mum’s.’

The edges of the world smudge.

I close my eyes and smell Mum’s scent: floral perfume, mints and paint oils. With it comes a memory of her smiling down at me, her paintbrush caught mid-sweep, a blot of black ink smudging the eye she’d been painting – her own eye. The ink crawls down the canvas, distorting her painted face. I was eight at the time and had just got back from a disastrous day at school.