Читать книгу The Atlas of Us - Tracy Buchanan, Tracy Buchanan - Страница 7

When I close my eyes, the water comes: the violent thud of waves, the tart smell of salty dampness seeping through the cracks of my dreams. But when I look out of the bus window, it’s nothing but mangled cars again; boats that have somehow found their way onto the roofs of two-storey buildings; suitcases flung open, their innards spilling out onto the dusty pavements below.

The bus takes a turn and I’m facing the sea again. It looks calm, ebbing and flowing like it’s forgotten the devastation it caused a few days ago.

My phone buzzes, a text from Will. I force myself to look at it.

Did you get my voicemail? You shouldn’t have gone. Call me.

‘British, love?’ There’s a woman watching me from across the aisle. Stark white lines dart up from the strapless top she’s wearing, disappearing over the fleshy mounds of her shoulders. I feel the urge to tell her about my friend Simone who nearly died of skin cancer.

Instead I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Thought so. I saw you at the airport earlier. We’re going to see about our son, he’s eighteen.’

My heart goes out to her. How would I feel if it were one of my girls missing? ‘I’m sorry. I hope he’s okay.’

‘We hope so too, don’t we, Roy?’ The woman peers at the man next to her, but he just continues staring bleakly out of the window. ‘His friends say he met a girl, spent the night with her. Now he’s missing.’

Missing.

That’s the word I’ve been using to describe Mum’s status too since getting a call from her friend Jane on Boxing Day. But now that I’m heading to the temple – the endgame – missing seems too optimistic.

‘What about you?’ the woman asks. I can see she’s desperate for the comfort blanket of talk her husband obviously can’t offer. He’s probably like Will, always telling me I talk too much. Even after I’d got the phone call about Mum, he was too engrossed in his new iPod to listen properly as I tried to tell him how desperately worried I felt.

‘My mum’s been travelling around the islands over Christmas,’ I say to the woman now. ‘She’s not tried to call anyone to let us know she’s okay. We’re really worried.’

‘Oh, poor luv. You’ve come out here all alone?’

‘Yes. I’m all my mum has. We’re very close.’ I don’t know why I lie.

‘That’s lovely. You’re very good to come out here for her.’

Or stupid. That’s what Will had called me when I’d woken him in the early hours to tell him I wanted to fly out here to find Mum.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I am bloody stupid to leave the girls with their dad and come alone to a country more alien than I’ve ever known. I can smell the foreignness in the scorched spicy air drifting in through the windows; see it in the wires that hang precariously from the pylons; hear it in the strange urgent accents of the Thai people outside.

I feel my chest start to fill with apprehension but quickly swallow it away.

‘Have you been putting photos of your mum up on the notice boards?’ the woman asks.

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Strange, isn’t it? All those smiling faces?’

She doesn’t say why. I know what she means though. Strange to think half of them might be dead now, bloated corpses laid out in a temple like the very one we’re heading to now.

What if Mum’s one of those corpses? Oh God.

‘Did you check the patient list at the hospital?’ the woman asks.

I clear my throat, trying not to show the fear building inside. ‘Yes, I did.’ I’d gone into the hospital too, waving my mum’s photo in the faces of harassed-looking staff whose accents made my head buzz with confusion, the phrase book I’d bought in a hurry at the airport useless.

‘You never know, someone might call,’ the woman says, looking down at her mobile clutched in her plump hand. ‘The embassy photocopied the picture we brought of our son. So nice of them. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’ Her hand flutters to the small cross around her neck. ‘I’m sure we’ll …’

Her voice trails off, her eyes losing focus as the bus slows down. A large spiky roof with gold spires comes into view, a mountain shrouded in trees behind it. As the bus draws closer, the whole temple appears before us, curved and ornate with tiered icing-sugar walls and arched windows fringed with gold. Two painted tiger statues adorn its entrance, looking ready to pounce on the frantic relatives and tired-looking officials hurrying around the busy area in front of it. This must be where the foreign embassies are: white canopies, rows and rows of photo boards, lines of desks weighed down with paperwork and flags. I try to find the Union Jack among all the other flags, as if it might blur the strangeness of this place a little. But all I can see is a tiny beige monkey that is weaving in and out of the table legs. I make a mental note to tell the girls about it. They’ll want to know things like that when I get back. They don’t need to know about the bodies I’ve seen floating in the sea, nor the turned-over cars. Just this little sprite of a monkey and the bright green lizards I noticed while waiting for the bus.

I think of their faces when I’d told them I’d be leaving them for a couple of days to find their nanna. My youngest, Olivia, had got that look, like she might cry any minute, and it had made my heart ache. They’ve not spent more than one night away from me and even then it felt like a small kind of torture for them – and me. To make them feel better, I’d told them Daddy was taking them to the show they’d been going on about; the same show he’s made every excuse under the sun not to go to.

I hope he takes them, I really do. He needs to spend more time with them. He can make their breakfast and ferry them from one friend to another like I do each day, wash their clothes, clean the house, pick up the dog muck in the garden … the list goes on. Maybe he’ll understand life isn’t such a breeze as a stay-at-home mum?

Oh God, what was I thinking? How on earth will he cope? I really was stupid coming here.

We pass under a square blue archway, the red globe lanterns hanging from its ceiling trembling in the breeze. The woman sitting across from me clutches at her husband’s arm. But he ignores her just like Will would ignore me. I want to shake him, tell him his wife needs him. Instead, I reach over and place my hand on the woman’s plump arm. The woman nods, her eyes swimming with thanks. But she doesn’t speak any more.

The bus comes to a stop beneath a lush green tree, and I try to recognise Jane’s son Sam among the crowds from the photo she sent. A man approaches the bus.

It’s him.

His tanned face speaks of exhaustion, of sadness and unknown horrors. People stand, blocking my view of him. I rise with them, smoothing my fringe down, checking the collar of my neat blossom-coloured blouse. Despite it being early evening, the heat’s a nightmare, sweat making the thin material of my blouse cling to all the wrong curves, curves I usually cover with tailored tops and trousers; strands of my fine hair already escaping from the ponytail I’d crafted so carefully a few hours before. I’m pleased I inherited Dad’s height and blond hair, but combine that with my mum’s curves and I’m in trouble.

I catch myself mid-moan. How can I worry about my weight when Mum’s missing?

The bus driver hauls open the door and I step out, blinking up at the sun and trying not to think about what it must be doing to all those bodies. The other passengers hesitate too, faces white with worry as they take in the temple in the distance. A woman leans her face into her husband’s chest and sobs while two young men next to me take frantic gulps of water, the nervous energy throbbing off them.

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.

‘What’s with you, grumpy face?’ she’d asked me.

I’d hesitated a moment before stepping into the spare room she was using as a studio. Our house was just a small three-bed semi but my father had insisted on turning the largest room into a studio for Mum. It had always felt off-limits to me. But she’d beckoned me in that day, gesturing towards her paint-splattered chair, a bright blue leather one she’d found in the local charity shop.

‘Tell me everything,’ she’d said, kneeling in front of me and taking my hands, getting green paint all over them.

‘I don’t want to go into school tomorrow,’ I’d said, resisting the urge to pull away from her and clean the paint off my hands. I’d never got on well at the private school Dad had been so keen to scrimp and save to get me into, the teachers always seemed to regard me as inferior to the other, richer kids. Mum had warned him it would happen. ‘There’s nothing worse for a snooty bourgeois than an aspiring bourgeois,’ she’d said. Is that what she’d thought of me when I married a company director – a snooty bourgeois?

‘Why not, darling?’ she’d asked.

‘My teacher told me off today.’

She’d raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. I remember thinking that mums aren’t supposed to smile about things like that and part of me was annoyed. Why couldn’t she be like other mums?

‘Why’d your teacher tell you off, Lou?’ she’d asked.

‘I told the truth.’ Her smile had widened. ‘She read out a poem she’d written to help us with our poems and I said it was rubbish.’

Mum had laughed then, those big white teeth of hers gleaming under the light. ‘You told the truth, that’s wonderful! “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know”,’ she’d added, quoting her favourite Keats poem.

‘But she hates me now.’ I’d crossed my arms, turning away. ‘I can’t go into school.’

‘Of course you can! You can’t let fear rule you, Lou. You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.’

‘You okay?’ Sam asks, pulling me from the memory.

I open my eyes, Mum’s words echoing in my mind like she’s right there with me.

You can’t let fear rule you, Lou.

‘Can I see the bag please?’ I ask Sam.

‘Of course.’

He hands it to me. It’s dirtier than in the photo, caked with dried mud, and there’s a grotesque tear across the child’s face. I imagine Mum shopping in one of Thailand’s markets with it, reaching into it for a purse to buy some odd Buddhist ornament, half a smile on her tanned face.

I take a deep breath then unzip it, peering in. There’s a hairbrush in there, a bright red lipstick and something wrapped in a plastic bag. I pull the brush out first, examining the hair on it. It looks dark, just like Mum’s.

But then lots of people have dark hair, right?

I place the brush gently to one side and look at the lipstick. Mum sometimes wears red lipstick. She’s not alone in that though, plenty of women do.

But what about her passport? That can only belong to one woman.

I clench my fists, driving the surge of grief away. It’s not over until it’s over.

I reach into the bag again for the item wrapped in plastic. It’s square-shaped and feels heavy, its surface rough beneath the material of the plastic. I pull it out and lay it on top of Mum’s bag. Its front cover is made from strips of thin wood interweaved with each other and an image of the earth is etched in bright turquoise into it with four words painted in gold over it.

The Atlas of Us.

There’s a bronzed key lock on the side but it looks broken. I open the heavy front cover, see two lines written on the inside page, the ink only a little blurred – amazing considering how much it must have been thrown about in the water:

To my darling, my life, my world. The atlas of my heart.

Your love, Milo

It feels impossibly romantic. Maybe Mum had met someone? And yet she still hadn’t got in touch with me to tell me about them. I can imagine what Will would say if he were here. ‘Accept it, move on. Your mother doesn’t want to involve you in her life any more.’

I flick through the atlas. On the first page is a hand-drawn illustration of the United Kingdom and Ireland. Opposite is a paper pocket. I run my fingers over it, surprised to feel something inside. I reach in and pull out a dried purple flower encased in cellophane. There are other items too: a yellowed tourist leaflet from a place called Nunney Castle, a ticket to an awards ceremony in London, a photo of a cobweb flooded with light and a business card belonging to a journalist called Nathan Styles. There’s a crumpled piece of notepaper too with a pencil sketch of a sheep teetering on a tightrope, its eyes wide with comical fear, a note scrawled in handwriting I don’t recognise above it:

Exmoor by Claire Shreve

A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plummet downwards and destroy everything below.

I’ve never heard of a Claire Shreve. Is she one of Mum’s friends? I flick through the rest of the atlas and see more illustrated maps – including one of Thailand – and pockets too, some bulging with items.

‘Do you recognise any of it?’

I look up at Sam. ‘Just the bag. And the passport of course. I’m not sure about this atlas, I’d have remembered it if I’d seen it. It’s quite unusual.’

‘Okay. Shall I see if I can find a photo on the boards? Or …’ he hesitates, ‘… you might prefer to see her?’

My head swims at the thought. Then I remember Mum’s words again: You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.

‘I’d like to see her please,’ I say.

‘I’ll take you.’

I follow Sam towards a pair of bright blue gates to the side of the temple, criss-crossed with red stripes, the spikes on top gold. The smell instantly hits me: meaty, horrific. I tuck the note back into the atlas and place my sleeve over my nose as I follow Sam towards the temple. A Thai woman is standing in front of the gates, a clipboard in her hand, a bucket of surgical facemasks next to her. Beyond the gates is a temporary trailer, people milling around it. I’m thankful it’s blocking the view of whatever’s behind it.

Sam nods at the woman, who hands me a surgical mask. I put it on, gagging at the TCP smell.

‘Brace yourself,’ Sam says as he leads me through the gate.

I walk around the corner of the trailer towards a large area fringed by spindly green trees, the hill darting up behind them. At first, I think it’s dirty clothes spread over the plastic sheets in the middle. But as I draw closer, I see a bloated leg sticking out of one mound, a tangle of black hair fanning out from another and realise it’s bodies, scores of them, half covered by different coloured sheets of plastic. People are walking around in blue scrubs and wellies, and then there are the relatives and friends, hands over mouths as they crouch over the bodies, some crying, most looking frantic and exhausted.

I want to turn around and get the hell out of there. But instead, I force myself to follow Sam as he walks towards the bodies and try to control the whirlpool of terror inside.

‘She’s here,’ Sam says softly, coming to a stop in front of a blue sheet. He crouches down, taking the corner of the plastic between his fingers, then peers up at me. ‘Ready?’

‘Wait.’ I look up at the bright blue sky, tears welling in my eyes. Everything will be different after this; even the sky might look different.

I have to do this. I have to know.

‘Ready,’ I say. I hear the crunch of plastic and look down.

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.

The bus bumps over a pothole, and something digs into my hip. I look down and realise I still have the atlas. I must remember to give it to Jay Hemingford when I meet him tomorrow so he can return it to Claire Shreve’s family.

I hesitate a few moments then lift the atlas to my nose. It smells of salt, of mangoes too, I think. I go to open it, unable to resist. It’s clear Claire Shreve wouldn’t want random people poking their nose in. Maybe if I just look in the pocket next to the Thailand map? If Mum met Claire Shreve out here and they visited the same places, there might be some breadcrumbs leading me to Mum’s whereabouts. And anyway, if they did know each other, surely Claire Shreve would want to help me find my mum?

I find the right page then reach into the pocket. The first item is a photo of three people I don’t recognise: a young girl with curly red hair, a petite brunette a few years older than me, then a young blond man. There’s a hint of a palm tree in the background and, behind them, a large elephant statue with blue jewels all over it. I turn it over, but there’s nothing on the back.

I go to the next item, a creased napkin with a pencil drawing of a rock jutting from the sea, someone standing on it with their arms wide open, like they want to catch the scribbled moon above.

And then the final item, a piece of orange tissue paper patterned with flowery swirls. Attached to it with a safety pin is part of a torn note, three words scrawled across it:

The bad things …

I shiver slightly, despite the heat, then tuck it back into the pocket before leaning my forehead against the cool window, thinking of that first note I’d found.

A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys …

I’d visited Devon for the weekend with the girls the year before. Will had meant to come with us but something big had gone down at work. He’d suggested cancelling it but I’d thought, what the hell, why can’t I do it alone? It wasn’t easy. The drive down there was a challenge with two grumpy, tired kids. But once we’d got into the stride of things, it had been a little adventure – just me and the girls enjoying long walks and scones crammed with jam and cream, no frowning husband and Daddy to tell us we’d get fat.

God, how I’d love to be back there right now on safe and familiar ground, away from the fierce heat and the strange smells and sounds. The past few years, I’ve dreamed of spreading my wings a little. But I’d meant trying a holiday to Greece instead of Portugal; meeting new friends whose lives revolved around more than the school run and bake-offs; romantic dinners somewhere other than the local Italian. I didn’t mean this – fumbling blind in a country with bamboo houses on stilts. I’d rather see thatched cottage roofs and feel Exmoor’s sharp westerly wind fierce against my skin …