Read Online The Dying Beach by Angela Savage - Free Book Online Page B

whisking the cushion out from under his own knees just in time for the older monk to sit on it.
    â€˜My name is Phra Ubol,’ the old man said. ‘And I will see to it that chanting is offered for Khun Chanida over three evenings at Wat Sai Thai.’
    Jayne bowed her head. ‘ Khop khun na ka, Phra .’
    â€˜The cremation will take place on the third day, Thursday, at five o’clock in the afternoon. But you’re welcome to join us for the chanting any evening beforehand.’
    â€˜We will try to come Wednesday—’ Jayne began. But Phra Ubol’s attention had shifted. People were starting to arrive, drifting through the dining area towards the assembly hall. ‘I think we should go.’
    As they backed away, Jayne overheard Phra Ubol instruct the younger monk to distribute the three orange buckets to the oldest monks in the care of the temple.
    When Othong saw the woman, he couldn’t believe his luck. There she was by the side of the road—white skin, black curly hair, in-between age, in-between height—studying a map. She had a small pack on her back and a bottle of drinking water in one hand. He drew up alongside her on his motorbike.
    â€˜Do you speak English?’ she asked.
    Othong nodded, though he understood very little and spoke even less.
    â€˜Oh, thank heavens. I think I got off the bus too soon.’
    Most of this went over Othong’s head. But her next question was music to his ears.
    â€˜Wat Sai Thai,’ she said, spinning her finger in the air. ‘Is it near?’
    This was the woman, all right. She was on her way to the Sai Thai temple where the girl’s body was to be cremated, a piece of information he’d extracted by chatting up a nurse at Krabi Hospital earlier that day.
    Othong made a show of looking where she pointed on the map. ‘Very far,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You come my motorbike.’
    â€˜Oh no, I couldn’t possibly impose—’
    â€˜You no money,’ he added.
    This seemed to make his proposal acceptable. The farang woman climbed on the pillion seat, clutching him around the waist as the motorbike surged forward. Othong knew of a dirt track less than a kilometre along the road, which led to an abandoned rubber plantation. It was the perfect setting to persuade the farang woman to give him the material she had taken from the girl’s room. She would hand it over and he would deliver the goods to Uncle Bapit, who might even compare Othong favourably with his cousin Vidura for a change.
    At the very least, his face would be restored.

13
    Jayne dropped Rajiv off in Krabi town and returned to their guesthouse in Ao Nang, misleadingly named the Sea View, to get to work translating Pla’s notes. Braving the heat, she set herself up at a table on the veranda of their bungalow, which, though failing to deliver a view of the sea, overlooked a lush garden.
    She suspected the garden owed its fecundity to poor plumbing—she heard water hit the ground below the bathroom floor whenever she took a shower or used the basin—but she wasn’t complaining. The guesthouse was cheap and clean, and the manager required only a modest bribe to let them register without their passports.
    There wasn’t enough of a breeze to lift the pages of Pla’s notebook as Jayne worked her way through the translation. With the aid of her dog-eared Thai–English dictionary, it took her the better part of three hours, pausing only to order coffee and replenish her supply of drinking water from the guesthouse café. When she finished, she lit a cigarette and read back over her translation.
    Her first instincts proved to be correct. Pla’s notes were transcripts of meetings with villagers in relation to an unnamed project in locations she referred to only by initials, the equivalent of ‘Village P’ or ‘Village LK’. The records detailed the villagers’ concerns and the