Tracy Buchanan - The Atlas of Us

The colour of the face hits me first: dark red, bloated. Then the hair, long, curly and tangled around a swollen neck. There’s nothing there to recognise. It’s all distorted, grotesque. How can I find my mum in that?

I quickly look away again, stifling a sob. Could it really be her? It takes a while before I’m certain my voice will sound normal. ‘I can’t be sure,’ I say. ‘She has the same colour hair. But I – I can’t be sure. Is she wearing a bracelet? She always wore her bracelet.’

There’s a pause, more rustling then Sam’s voice. ‘No. There’s a necklace around her neck though, quite distinctive. It’s a gold typewriter with blue gems for keypads?’

Hope flutters inside. ‘I never saw her wear something like that. Do you think that means it’s not her?’

‘She could have bought the necklace at a stall here, plus her passport was inside so …’

His voice trails off but I understand what he’s trying to say. The chances are it is Mum. I feel the tears coming, the world tilting, and stumble away, leaning against a nearby tree as I try to control my emotions.

Sam follows me, placing his hand on my back. I don’t flinch away from him this time.

‘Mum left when I was twelve,’ I gasp. ‘I’ve barely seen her since. The last time was over two years ago at a party, it was awful.’ I don’t really understand why I’m saying all this now, to a virtual stranger. But the words continue to come out in a rush. ‘We had a terrible argument and I didn’t hear from her after, no matter how many times I called. Your mum keeps me posted with what she’s up to. But my mum won’t speak to me , her own daughter, and – and now I can’t even be sure if it’s her body back there.’

I start crying again in loud, shuddery hiccups and Sam wraps his arms around me. He smells faintly of sweat and TCP, the plastic of his outfit crinkling against my cheek. I ought to pull away. What would my husband say? But I need this right now, human touch, even if it’s a stranger’s touch. We stay like that for a few moments, surrounded by death and mourning relatives.

Then there’s a strangled sob from nearby. I pull away to see a man with curly blond hair crouching down next to the body we’ve just been looking at. An Indian man wearing scrubs is standing over him, brow creased.

‘This is Claire’s necklace,’ the blond man says. ‘It’s hand-crafted, one of a kind. She wears it all the time. Oh God.’

Relief rushes through me as I look down at the atlas in my mum’s bag, thinking of the note I found in it. Is it the same Claire?

‘What if it’s not Mum?’ I say to Sam, clutching onto this new possibility. ‘There was something in the atlas written by someone called Claire! And if that’s Claire’s necklace …’

‘But your mum’s passport and bag were with the body, Louise,’ Sam says softly.

I refuse to acknowledge what he just said, can’t possibly now there’s a glimmer of hope it might not be Mum. I look towards the blond man who’s now kneeling next to the woman, his head in his hands. Hope surges inside me. ‘He seems convinced he knows who she is,’ I say.

Sam follows my gaze. ‘He does, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s not your mum.’

I look up at the sky. Still the same. I promise myself that if – no, when – I find Mum alive, I’ll make her talk to me, really talk to me and we will repair what came apart since she left.

Then something occurs to me. ‘Maybe the reason that woman had Mum’s bag was because she knew her? If so, that man might know where Mum is.’

I go to walk towards him but Sam stops me. ‘Louise … give him a minute.’

I look into Sam’s eyes. I can tell he thinks I’m grasping at straws. Maybe I am, but what other leads do I have? ‘I have to find my mum, I have to bring her back to me, back to her grandchildren. I don’t care what it takes, where I have to go, but Mum’s going to be on that plane back to the UK with me.’

I shrug off his arm and march towards the man. He looks up when I approach, his eyes red.

I hesitate a moment. Maybe Sam’s right. But then I think of Mum out there somewhere, possibly injured in some filthy hospital with doctors who don’t speak English.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say softly, kneeling down to his level and putting my hand on his arm. He’s wearing a powder-blue suit, more expensive-looking than any of Will’s.

He shakes his head in disbelief, tears falling down his tanned cheeks. ‘I knew she was in the worst possible place for the wave to hit. But I never dreamed I’d find her body. She’s been through so much, gone through so much, and always come out fighting. Oh God.’

His voice cracks and I feel like crying with him. It could have been me kneeling here grieving for my mother. It was for a few moments.

‘I think my mum knew your wife,’ I say gently.

The man flinches. ‘Friend, not wife.’

‘Friend. Sorry. She had my mum’s bag when she was found,’ I say, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulder. ‘And there was an atlas with a note written by someone called Claire Shreve in it?’

He frowns. ‘Are you sure that’s your mother’s bag?’

‘Her passport was in it. It’s quite a distinctive bag too.’

‘Did your mother know Nathan Styles?’

I think of the business card in the atlas. ‘No. Why?’

He ignores my question. ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ he asks instead.

‘Nora McKenzie.’

His face flickers with recognition. ‘The name rings a bell.’

All my nerves stand on edge. ‘Really? Did Claire know my mother?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry, I’m not very good with names, especially now.’ He looks down at the body again, face crumpling. Then he takes in a deep breath, composing himself. ‘I need to make some calls then I really must sleep. But maybe it’ll come to me once I get some rest. Where are you staying?’ I tell him the name of my hotel in Ao Nang and he nods. ‘I’m not far from there. There’s a small café just a few minutes’ walk from it.’ He pulls out a pen and business card from his pocket and scribbles down the café’s address before handing it to me. ‘Shall we meet there tomorrow morning, at nine?’

I want to tell him he needs to remember right now but then I put myself in his shoes again.

‘Perfect.’ I look down at the business card: Jay Hemingford, Journalist. ‘Thank you, Jay.’

He smiles very slightly then looks back down at Claire Shreve. I leave him alone and follow Sam through the gates, the crowds and noise a contrast to the quiet solemnity and hushed sobs of the makeshift morgue behind us.

‘Mum mentioned you booked a hotel in Ao Nang,’ Sam says. ‘There’s a bus coming soon that’ll get you there. You should go check in and get some rest then start again with a fresh head tomorrow. I can come by the café tomorrow morning after you’ve met with that man to see if I can help with any information he gives you?’

‘That’ll be great, thanks.’

‘And my mum gave you my number right? So just call if you need me.’

‘I will. I really appreciate your help, Sam.’

‘No problem. I better get back to it.’ He shoots me one last pained look then jogs away.

When the bus arrives, I step onto it like I’m sleepwalking, slumping into a chair near the back and staring blankly out of the window as it starts rumbling down the road. There’s a young boy crying for his mum in front of me, his dad cuddling him to his chest as he tries to hold back his own tears. I wish I were a child again so I could cry for my mum. I’m relieved that wasn’t her body, but that’s not to say there won’t be other temples, other bodies to see … one of which might really be hers.