The Dying Beach (28 page)

‘She's pretty. What are your boys' names?'

‘The first one Chupong, number two Putthipong and number three Sittipong.'

Paul choked back a laugh. Jayne punched him in the arm.

They drove through villages distinguished by ornate temples and austere mosques, united in a love of whitewash and gold paint. After an hour, Pongsak turned off the highway and careened down a potholed road towards the coast.

‘Why the detour?' Paul said.

Jayne and Pongsak had a brief exchange in Thai.

‘He's dropping the old man off, then taking us to Khanom via the scenic route.'

It made no difference to Paul, who longed both to be rid of Pla's ashes and to put off meeting the aunt for as long as possible.

They deposited their passenger at a tiny village dwarfed by towering coconut palms. With the old man gone, Pongsak invited Paul to join him in the front. Paul moved the seat back while Pongsak fiddled with something tucked beneath the dashboard.

‘You like music, Mister Porn?'

Before Paul could reply, the strains of a warbling diva filled the air.

Jayne leaned forward from the back seat. ‘Tell me you didn't ask for Celine Dion,' she hissed.

‘Is that who it is?' Paul said over his shoulder.

‘How can you live in Bangkok for nearly a year and not recognise “Because You Loved Me”?'

‘Dumb luck, I guess.'

‘You said it. If Pongsak's driving doesn't kill me, his taste in music will.' Jayne slumped back in her seat.

Pongsak opened a bottle of Red Bull against the steering wheel. ‘I can make louder for you, Mister Porn.'

‘No, no.
Mai pen rai
,' Paul said.

Pongsak shrugged and handed him the Red Bull. Paul wasn't a fan of the energy drink unless he had a hangover but he took a sip to be polite, only to taste whisky. Pongsak gave him a conspiratorial wink and Paul decided it was best Jayne didn't know. He took another swig and stared out the windscreen.

The scenic route Pongsak had promised them was a mismatch of stunning sea views on one side and dustbowls on the other, as though large areas of shorefront had been excavated for building projects that were then abandoned. Paul glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Jayne frowning at the view.

‘Would you translate for me so I can have a conversation with Pongsak?'

‘Of course.' She leaned forward again.

‘I want to know what's behind these stretches of dirt and dust.'

‘
Nah goong
,' Pongsak said, turning down the music.

‘Shrimp farms,' Jayne translated.

Something stirred in Paul's memory. ‘Ask Pongsak what was here before the shrimp farms.'

‘
Pah kongkang
. All this used to be mangrove forest,' Jayne translated as Pongsak spoke. ‘When I was a boy, we used to collect crabs and shellfish from the mangroves for food. The old people, they knew the plants to keep mosquitoes away, to staunch bleeding, to cure a sore stomach. There was a mangrove tree we used to make charcoal, too, though my father was strict about never cutting too much, only what we needed. He said the mangroves were the green fence between us and the sea.'

He paused to swig from the Red Bull bottle.

‘When I was still young, people started clearing the mangroves to build ponds to raise shrimp. Before this time, the villagers raised shrimp in the mangroves. Lots of different fish and animals grew there. But it was small-scale, just for eating. The new shrimp ponds were for export.

‘Big companies came to build the ponds because they could raise many shrimp, faster than in the mangroves. But they had to use lots of chemicals to stop disease and after a couple of years the ponds would die. Then they would clear more mangroves to build new ponds.'

‘Why didn't the villagers stop them?'

‘Some of them tried. They refused to work on the shrimp farms. But the companies just brought workers from outside. Illegal Burmese, who never complain about anything.'

The whisky, the strength of his feelings on mangrove deforestation or both had loosened Pongsak's tongue.

‘My father was a fisherman, but without the mangroves many kinds of fish had nowhere to breed. My father's boat was small and he could not fish deep at sea. In the end he could no longer make a living. He took a job on a shrimp farm owned by a company in Bangkok.'

‘The Thai Forestry Department supposedly owns all the mangrove forests,' Paul said thoughtfully. ‘But it doesn't do much to protect them.'

‘Shrimp farms make a lot of money.' Pongsak shrugged in response to Jayne's translation. ‘I live near Khanom now, but I was born in Kohtang village, south of here. Because of the shrimp farms, we lost the green fence between us and the sea. Now the beach is washing away. No fishermen can moor there anymore. It's a dying beach. And this'—he gestured at the view—‘is a dead forest.

‘I'm sorry you see the Nakhon Si Thammarat countryside now, Mister Porn,' Pongsak added, switching to English. ‘It was much more beautiful before.'

They drove on past more dustbowls.

‘I worked on a report into mangrove deforestation when I first started at TEDO,' Paul told Jayne, ‘but I've never seen the damage firsthand like this. It's a massive problem. Thailand's lost something like sixty per cent of its mangrove forest in the last thirty years—mostly due to shrimp farming. But as Pongsak says, the industry's worth serious money. So the Thai government seems to turn a blind eye to the destruction.'

Jayne gestured out the window. ‘Doesn't the forest regenerate once the ponds are abandoned?'

‘That's just it. The mass shrimp-farming practices—all the chemicals they use and the waste they generate—makes the soil infertile. For decades. The mangrove forests can be regenerated but not without major effort.'

‘Did Pla know about your research into mangrove deforestation?' Jayne asked.

Paul frowned. ‘I might have mentioned it. Why?'

‘I don't know. There's something playing on my mind. Do you still have her notebook?'

‘Yes, but not on me. It's in my pack in the boot. Do you want to stop and get it out?'

‘No, but remind me to check it later.'

She and Pongsak had another brief exchange in Thai. Paul couldn't follow what was being said, but next thing Pongsak had unhooked the chain of amulets from the rear-view mirror and put it around his own neck. He also increased the volume of the music.

‘I just explained the purpose of our visit to Khanom and I think Pongsak's worried about Pla's ghost,' Jayne said.

‘He's not the only one,' Paul muttered.

‘Anyway, he knows the temple where Pla's aunt lives and he's going to drop us there.' She leaned so close Paul could feel her breath in his ear. ‘Now that we've got that sorted, you probably haven't noticed but Mariah Carey is playing on the car stereo. The only way I'm going to get through this last stage of the journey is if you guys share whatever it is you're quaffing from that Red Bull bottle.'

‘How did you—'

‘Apart from the redness of our driver's face and the smell of alcohol overpowering even the awful air freshener? I'm a detective, remember.'

Paul handed the bottle to Jayne, who took a mouthful, making Pongsak slap the steering wheel and laugh out loud.

47

Khanom looked pretty from a distance, nestled in the shadow of forested mountains. Its narrow main street was lined with neat houses of concrete and wood, a Chinese temple on a bend in the road, a bridge over the saltwater canal. Overhanging the water were shabby huts with simple wooden boats tethered to their stilts. All that was left of the mangroves were sparse stalks sticking out of the mud.

Dusk was looming by the time they reached the temple. The courtyard was a flurry of activity. Scaffolds of bamboo and aluminium were being draped with canvas and plastic sheeting, trestle tables were being assembled and vendor carts were parked in neat rows for what looked like a makeshift market.

‘
Ngan wat
,' Pongsak said. ‘Temple fair. For finish Thai New Year.'

Jayne and Paul circumnavigated the mayhem, slipped off their shoes and entered the
wihan
, where the Buddha images were housed. Tidying the sacred bric-a-brac was an elderly monk, whose fine hands seemed made for the task. Careful to keep her head respectfully lowered, Jayne asked after Pla's aunt.

The monk gestured with a dancer's grace to an adjacent pavilion. The old woman was swathed in white robes, grey fuzz like peach fur on her shaved head. As they walked in, she was sweeping the floor with a soft grass broom.

‘
Mae Chi Sudjai
?' Jayne greeted her formally.

The woman looked up, a betel-stained smile exposing sparse, nubby teeth like cogs in her gums. Her eyes were black orbs in twin nests of wrinkles. She parked her broom by a pillar and walked towards them with her hands pressed together high on her forehead, a gesture of humility. Jayne glanced at Paul, saw his jaw tighten.

‘
Sawadee ka
, Sister Sudjai,' she said, returning the
wai
. ‘I am Jayne and this is Paul. We are friends of your niece, Chanida.'

‘
Chai, chai
,' the woman nodded. ‘
Khao jai leow
.'

Jayne felt a wave of relief. ‘You know about Pla?'

‘Her friend phoned me,' Sudjai said, still smiling.

Jayne had forgotten that Pla's flatmate had spoken with the aunt. She wondered how Sudjai would feel to know that Suthita, too, was dead. She decided it was best not to add to the old woman's distress.

‘We've brought Pla's remains home.' Jayne gestured for Paul to step forward. ‘We're so very sorry for your loss and if there's anything else we can do…'

Sudjai's smile stayed in place, though her eyes welled as she took the wooden box from Paul, patted it and placed it on a low table. She seized Paul's wrist and stroked his forearm, fixing her moist eyes on him as she spoke.

‘Sister Sudjai is expressing her gratitude,' Jayne translated. ‘“I feel greatly honoured that you've made the journey to return Pla's remains to her hometown”, she says. “I acknowledge Pla's good fortune in having found such a caring farang friend like you.”'

Paul swallowed hard in response to Jayne's translation. ‘Please tell Pla's aunt it was no trouble. I am the fortunate one to have known Pla. I could have been a much better friend to her. I—I didn't deserve her.'

Jayne recognised what he was doing. She'd done the same thing herself when confronted with the obsequious gratitude of the poor. Perhaps it was a cultural thing, this urge to deflect a compliment. But after years in Thailand, Jayne had learned her role was to be gracious and accept the thanks of people who had nothing else to give.

‘Khun Paul acknowledges your thanks and says he welcomes the opportunity to make the journey,' Jayne said to Sudjai in Thai.

Pla's aunt launched into a litany of blessings.

‘Sister Sudjai hopes good health, good fortune and a long life come to you as a result of your kindness and generosity,' Jayne explained. ‘She will offer prayers for you every day.'

‘Please tell her I wish her the same. Tell her I wish I could do more.'

‘Khun Paul thanks you for your kind wishes and blessings,
mae chi
,' Jayne said.

Sudjai retained her hold on Paul, and continued to stroke his arm, though now she addressed Jayne. ‘I don't know what Chanida could have done in a past life to have such bad luck in this one. First her father, then her mother, then her husband.'

‘Her husband?' Jayne glanced at Paul but he appeared to be scanning the room in search of an escape route. ‘What happened to Pla's husband?' Jayne asked the aunt.

Sudjai whistled through her teeth. ‘They say it was a motorbike accident. But his death was no accident. They killed him.'

‘Who killed him? Why?'

‘Nikom and Pla made many powerful enemies when they tried to organise the villagers against the shrimp farms. After Nikom died, Pla went to Krabi to get away from the danger. But you can't escape fate.'

For the second time that day, the truth taunted Jayne like a fish in the shallows, discernible but beyond her grasp. Was Pla's campaign against the shrimp farms linked to her death? Could someone have followed her to Krabi to kill her?

‘What's she saying?' Paul had twigged to the change of tone in the conversation.

Jayne felt herself blush. ‘She says Pla must have done something terrible in a past life to have such bad luck in this one.'

Paul shook his head, seemingly lost for words.

Jayne wanted to grill the aunt for more information. But clearly the harrowing task of returning Pla's ashes had exhausted Paul. Besides, she suspected he didn't know Pla had been married before and now was not the time to apprise him of that fact.

‘Aunty, we should be going. We've travelled a long way today.'

‘Of course,' Sudjai said. ‘But it would honour me and all the community here at the temple if you would please enjoy the
ngan wat
before you go.'

‘We don't have to stay long, right?' Paul said in response to Jayne's translation.

While she'd cut him some slack as the grieving partner, his sullenness was getting on her nerves.

‘Just be grateful she's not putting the hard word on us to stay for the interment,' she snapped. She turned back to Sudjai and handed over the envelope. ‘From Pla's employer. To help with the burial costs.'

The old woman gave them another crenulated smile and released Paul's hand to take the envelope. Paul quickly stepped out of reach, backing away to the exit. Jayne raised her hands in a
wai
and made her way out after him.

‘You could've been a bit less obvious about trying to get out of there,' she said.

‘Easy for you to say. You weren't the one being fondled like some kind of good luck charm. And why on earth would she send us to the temple fair?'