A paradise island, two brutal murders, your worst nightmare…
Based on the author’s own experiences as a foreign correspondent in Thailand and inspired by the brutal double murder of Hannah Witheridge and David Miller on Koh Tao in 2014.
Haunted by guilt after a deadly accident, London journalist Dan Young flees to Bangkok, reinventing himself in the city’s expat underworld. But when two backpackers are savagely murdered on a paradise island, he’s drawn into the case – an obsession that only leads him further towards the shadows.
On the blood-stained sands he meets Chalerm, a magnetic Thai drifter whose easy charm hides a predator’s gaze. As the young man pulls Dan deeper into his orbit, loyalties fracture, desires ignite and the island dream descends into a nightmare.
A paradise island, two brutal murders, your worst nightmare…
Based on the author’s own experiences as a foreign correspondent in Thailand and inspired by the brutal double murder of Hannah Witheridge and David Miller on Koh Tao in 2014.
Haunted by guilt after a deadly accident, London journalist Dan Young flees to Bangkok, reinventing himself in the city’s expat underworld. But when two backpackers are savagely murdered on a paradise island, he’s drawn into the case – an obsession that only leads him further towards the shadows.
On the blood-stained sands he meets Chalerm, a magnetic Thai drifter whose easy charm hides a predator’s gaze. As the young man pulls Dan deeper into his orbit, loyalties fracture, desires ignite and the island dream descends into a nightmare.
Dan kicked off his flip-flops, the white powdery sand enveloped his toes, still warm from another sun-drenched day but looking out to sea an inky, eerie black told another story. This was the stretch of beach where the boy’s head had been split in two with a rock and his girlfriend drowned after apparently having her once pretty head held underwater, leaving a bloated, blackened horror.
He bowed his head, shakily lit a cigarette, horrible habit he’d picked up since… well, he didn’t want to think about that, couldn’t. Let’s just say since he jumped on a plane, made Thailand his home for want of a better word. Dan felt about as far from home as possible, looking away from the sea, up at the stars all a twinkle, felt that ache in his gut, bending double, as if paradise was mocking him. The disco thud from the nearby bars betrayed it was no paradise though and he thought back again to the crime scene photos he’d seen of the eighteen-year-old backpackers, Bill’s eyes as if popping out, the purple gash that was like a ravine through the centre of his forehead. And, as for Corrine, well he wanted to forget, delete like a malicious text from an ex but it was always there, that blonde hair streaked crimson, so much blood he could almost smell the butcher’s shop stink.
Dan inhaled the fag smoke as far into his lungs without gagging, batted at the sweat dripping from his forehead, inadvertently looked at his watch. Always the ticking of the clock, digging nails into his palm as the second hand swept round, reminding him he was on someone else’s time, the Bangkok Daily’s. No one in the newsroom had volunteered for the assignment, didn’t want the hassle, so being the cub reporter here he was. And his squat Australian boss, the Little Ignorant Fucker from Oz – Liffo – wanted answers, a splash, told him sex sells but that murder trumped sex every time, especially a “sexy murder” of two nubile young things as he’d so sickeningly put it. But he couldn’t get his head around it as he flopped onto the sand, inches from the water’s edge, gentle lapping of the waves in his ears, even though the boom of the music in the background felt like some ominous warning. Yeah, Thailand was the wild west and Koh Maphraw, or Coconut Island as everybody called it, a bit dodgy but this? He selected the crime scene photos again in his overactive mind, the ones that’d been invading his dreams, despite the cloying heat he shuddered, though as if in tandem a breeze rustled the nearby palms, ushering in coal black clouds that instantly blotted out the moon, the stars.
Dan was shaking as he stood, that wind again, sending goose pimples riding up his arms and he trod back into his flip-flops, looking one way then the other down the deserted beach, a double murder obviously not good for business, though the beat droned on. Cupping his hands he lit another fag, stomping in the opposite direction to the twinkly lights of the bars and restaurants, the guesthouses, though shacks would be a more accurate description but you didn’t need much here, what with the sun, sea and the other, he knew that. But that’s what made Bill and Corrine’s brutal killing so senseless and that’s why he was heading for the scrubby bit of land well away from the picture postcard bit of the island, the scrubby bit of land where the wonderful Thai police speculate the couple were making out, that someone took a liking to the girl and a fight ensued – Dan trying to find an explanation for the inexplicable. But clambering over some rocks, rocks littered with plastic bottles, old beer cans, cigarette butts and other unmentionables the beach cleaners never got to, he knew it’d been no fight, they’d been butchered, hadn’t stood a bloody chance. Why?
The wind had got up and it carried the sound of the music away, just the sloshing of the sea, shards of lightning periodically splitting the sky, like that cracked forehead and he could sense the coming storm. He turned from the water, stared into the treeline about one hundred metres or so up the beach, thick jungle, though he’d seen it in daylight and knew the foliage barely covered all the crap discarded there, basically an unofficial tip, the unloved piece of the island. It was supposedly out of sight, out of mind and he worried that the same could be applied to Bill and Corrine after hearing some of the stories peddled by locals, that they were pissheads or druggies or that just being farang was enough. Yep, farang, that lovely catch-all term Thais had for foreigners, often spat out like an insult as if all tourists were guilty of something.
Thunder boomed and it heralded the first fat drops of ran, while Dan ducked instinctively but his eyes were fixated on the thicket of trees, almost certain he’d seen the red glow of a cigarette, as if he was being watched, followed. His heartbeat thumped in his ears but instead of heading back to where he thought he’d seen the pinprick of light, he quickened his pace, stumbling over rocks as he went, cursing the fact he was in bloody flip-flops, rubber cutting into the between his toes. Breaths coming fast, threatening to overwhelm him, he rounded the corner of a headland but shook his head at a massive wall of rock, absolutely unnavigable, the darkness complete, no welcoming bars or restaurants here, just boulders one way, thick jungle to the left.
“Fuck,” he said, panting, wiping his drenched face, knowing he’d have to go back the way he came, that he’d have to pass the place where he thought he’d sensed someone watching him, sniffing the air like he could smell the tell-tale cigarette smoke.
The message came back to Dan, the words a bar owner – the man with the unblinking eyes – had uttered this afternoon when he’d found out he was a reporter, that it’d be a good idea if he “left the island tomorrow”. He shuddered again knowing that wouldn’t be good enough for Liffo, that the Aussie veteran had demanded a scoop given the Daily would be ahead of all the “foreign hacks”, wanted a page one splash and no excuses.
He turned back, breathing out, tension in his neck finally easing as he saw the lights ahead but then he wondered if that’s how the two backpackers had felt, that false sense of security on this so-called paradise island. The lone figure silhouetted on the horizon closing fast over the sand posed a more urgent question and he zig-zagged round the rocks up the beach into the trees, blundering through vegetation, feeling the uneven floor rip at his feet as he slipped in and out of the flip-flops, over roots, sending him stumbling but just about managing to stay upright. The jungle was weirdly damp and airless after the beach, panicked sound of his breathing, movement amplified but then he detected noise from behind, the snapping of twigs, the trampling of earth, he was being hunted, staggering around in the dark as the evil closed in, like it had for Bill and Corrine. He turned just as a hand caught his shoulder, a powerful wrenching at his arm, whites of eyes flashing in the gloom and Dan went limp, he had nowhere to run, as if his past had finally caught up with him. Was this karma?
He instinctively glanced down at the young man’s hand, holding something but it wasn’t a knife just a torch that he’d obviously used to guide his way, like some always prepared Boy Scout, friend rather than foe. In the charged silence, Dan felt his heart thrashing, gulping back words, mesmerised by the mischievous brown eyes, the goofy smile, the lithe body glistening in the pouring rain and the lad ogled right back, like who was hitting on who. No reason a married man should even be contemplating the possibilities on offer but he felt his mouth go dry as he gently shook, thinking back to Som, the missus, who’d bemoaned the fact he was Awol again, their smiley son Max and he didn’t want to think anymore. He was also transfixed by the tattoo on the muscly neck, so big he’d spotted it way back, a devil with angel’s wings.
“You know you’re just staring at me, right?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I just… I never know what to say when I meet a strange man in the middle of the jungle, a few metres from, you know, a double murder scene,” said Dan breathlessly, frantically wiping the sweat away.
“Man, what are you doing all out here on your own? Chalerm. Lerm for short.”
“Dan. But I could ask you the same question. It’s like I was followed,” he said, idly twisting at his wedding ring.
“Me? You think I followed you? I’m not that desperate.”
“No one else is here but you were headed right towards me. That’s why I ran. I dunno, this place feels plagued.”
“Don’t worry, man. Chill out. I had dinner with a friend, came to the beach for a cigarette. Saw you hanging around. I came to warn you. You’re right, it’s not safe here, especially for farang,” he said, eyeing the ring but moving a caressing hand up Dan’s arm.
And he didn’t brush it off, like he knew he should’ve, felt the thrill of the touch through him like some electric current, hoping the lad didn’t see the goose bumps but then thinking back to Bill, to Corrine, the ticking watch on his wrist, to why he was here, Liffo.
“Do you know anything…”
“Shhh,” said Chalerm, putting a finger to Dan’s lips, the Thai’s eyes boring into his.
He stood in silence, like he was asked, beginning to tremble again, though not from the cold, the heat was suffocating but there was something in the air, that image of Bill coming back to him, the deep blackened gash in the forehead of what had been a handsome, everything to live for kind of face. In that moment, Dan sensed the evil like it was seeping up from the jungle floor, as if the soupy air was infecting his pores and he didn’t have any more questions, his mouth parched, crusted shut.
“Listen, I’ve got to get back to my buddy. He’ll wonder where I’ve got to but put your number in there. I’ll text you once I’m back in Bangkok. But no more hanging around on deserted beaches, you’re not Castaway, you got me?” said the Thai.
Like an automaton, he did as he was told, tapping the digits into the lad’s mobile. Chalerm flashed that smile when he was done, brushed his cheek with the slightest of kisses, almost as if he’d been bitten by an unseen mosquito, the young man jogging back in the direction of the flickering lights.
“Once I’m back in Bangkok,” he repeated to himself over and over like some mad mantra, trying to work out how Chalerm knew, what he knew, as he followed in his footsteps, like it could offer any clue but instead Dan shook his head. Even the lad’s weird American twang, more Keeping Up with the Kardashians than international school, added another layer of unease, intrigue.
He broke into a shaky run, needing to put as much mileage between himself and the murder scene as possible, as much distance from that shameful, cackhanded attempt at flirting by a married so-called straight man with someone that looked fresh out of uni.
****
He put a hand to his throbbing head, sighing as he slid open the raggedy curtains of his rustic beach bungalow, Liffo hardly one to put him up anywhere swanky, though this was Coconut Island, it just wasn’t the kind of place for suitcases on wheels or five star, it didn’t do fancy. The sun dazzled his eyes, he blinked it away, a few mangy street dogs curled up in the shade were the only signs of life, otherwise an empty beach, just some tattered umbrellas rippling in a light breeze.
Dan vaguely remembered he’d got in with a bunch of backpackers last night but had eventually tuned out to the travellers’ tales as the Thai whisky took hold, though that’d been the plan. He was probably ten years older than most of the Gap Yahs but he often felt a generation removed, though how he’d prefer to see things through their less jaded eyes, really hoping he hadn’t come across as too much of a twat with his old Asia hand patter, the cynical hack, which was all a bloody act anyway. No, he’d just done a runner from England, then reinvented himself, like half the newsroom at the Bangkok Daily – an act of cowardice. He’d only gone out last night hoping to bump back into Chalerm but of course there was no sign of the dazzling smile, imagining he’d gone back and dazzled his “buddy” with it instead.
He shambled into what was supposedly town, ducking his head due to the fierceness of the sun, unrelenting light raining down as he crunched along a dirt road. Through the glare, the dust he viewed the concrete slabs of shophouses with corrugated iron roofs, the thick black electricity cabling hanging down, the roaming, snarly dogs all far from the picture postcard Coconut Island but Dan knew this was the essence of it, in fact the essence of Thailand despite all the Land of Smile schtick, the hall of mirrors, none of it could disguise the Third World. People were desperate and they’d do desperate things, thinking back to the so-called fatal fight Bill and Corrine had got involved in. But backpackers from nice homes didn’t come here for a ruck, they wanted all that hippy dippy crap, wielding their Lonely Planets, wanting to broaden their minds sitting on some beanbag looking up at the stars. No, it wasn’t any fight, thought Dan, Billy boy and Corrine were murdered probably just for looking at someone the wrong way. Or just one of them had been responsible for a minor transgression that now counted as disrespect in this world – one that could get you knifed in Peckham and bludgeoned in Paradise Lost.
He reached the police post, neurotically checking his phone as he did so but still no text from Chalerm, wondering if the thing was actually turned on. Disappointingly the cop shop itself was more like a shack than some robust statement of authority, the only sign of officialdom a flimsy sign blowing in the wind out front like some gone to seed pub. Dan rapped on the door, though he’d looked over both shoulders beforehand, still the sense he was being watched, warnings of the bar owner, the Thai boy on his mind but he didn’t want to let the English lovers down, crime scene photos seared into his brain.
“And you are?” said a rotund figure poking a pig-like face out of the door, eyes inexplicably hidden behind mirrored shades.
“Dan. Dan Young. I called yesterday. From the Bangkok Daily. The newspaper.”
“The Bangkok Daily?”
“You must be Police-General Peeklong,” he said, vaguely recognising the gruff, impatient voice he’d got when he called the previous day, hoping he’d uttered the magic words to the head honcho shipped over from Bangkok.
“I don’t like journalists. But I tell you what, this is how I work. I do something for you, you do something for me.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Glad we got that straight, Mr Farang. Come on, I’ve got something to show you,” said the cop, nodding over to a dusty motorbike.
He jumped on the back, noticing the policeman’s patent leather boots caked in mud as he impatiently kickstarted the bike. The dust swirled around Dan’s face, while the rutted road seemed to deteriorate more and more as they picked up speed, his knuckles white as he clung on but it was as though Peeklong was actually heading for the potholes, like a game of rodeo, trying to eject his passenger. He thought back to the accident, to London but then he didn’t want to think anymore, closing his eyes and holding even tighter, the buzz-sawing of the bike screaming in his ears. But he couldn’t stand not to see where he was going, fixated back on the road ahead, the feeling of being totally out of control and the sly little looks over the shoulder from his tormentor, the smarmy smile told him he was being taken for a ride, literally.
The engine strained as they climbed a hill, as though struggling to carry the policeman’s hefty weight and Dan finally had time to take in the surroundings. He shook his head at the approximation of a tropical island because while glimpses through swaying palms offered inviting views of white sands and blue seas, the side of the road, metre after metre, was covered in litter, putrefying rubbish and he knew he was far from the places the tourists were meant to see, the picture postcard fading to black once again.
They stopped outside a temple but not like the grand edifices of those in the likes of Bangkok or Chiang Mai, no, this place looked unloved, forgotten, the stupas a faded nothingness, the once whitewashed walls a sagging grey, emaciated cats roaming around under browning trees. The police-general drew a lighter out of his pocket and tended to a little tumbledown, what looked like shrine, illuminating a pencil-thin candle, even that looking Pound Shop.
“You got to keep the spirits happy. So many spirits out there on this island, bad ones,” said Peeklong, pointing beyond the crumbling walls into the shadows of the jungle beyond.
Dan followed in silence, the policeman wrestling open some wooden doors of one of the squat rooms adjoining the stupas, kicking away at what was an apparently dead cat as he did so, slick innards covering his boots. It took him a while for his eyes to adjust to the dark but the smell hit first, reminding him of when someone in his student house had left a chicken in the fridge over the Easter holidays and they could never get rid of the stink afterwards, like it was still up his nose and he bent over, almost puked, when his eyes latched onto a large table, two lumpy outlines under cheap sacking. He couldn’t not look as like some sick magician, Peeklong wafted away the coverings, Bill and Corrine white as porcelain, though that black ravine ran down the boy’s forehead but it appeared to be moving and when Dan dared look closer he saw it was alive with bluebottles.
“No!” he shouted, running out of the room despite his eyes being blinded by tears, leaning against the wall to hold himself up as the blood thumped in his ears.
“I’ll do whatever it takes, Bill, Corrine, whatever it fucking takes,” Dan rasped under his breath.
Peeklong suddenly barged out, putting a large hand on his shoulder, in his face now, whipping off his sunglasses, black beady eyes drilling into his. “I thought you wanted the facts. They don’t have a mortuary on the island. Here for safekeeping. Just tell your readers we’re not hiding anything. That’s what I want from you.”
“Do I get to ask something now?”
“Try it.”
“I heard they were last seen in Coco Bananas. That bar has quite a reputation, doesn’t it…”
“That’s where this ends, tourist. Or you can walk back to town. Remember you’re a foreigner here, a guest, just a guest. Like they were.”
Thailand, known for its beautiful islands and beaches, is thought as easily accessible if you want a taste of the East on the cheap. But often what is considered idyllic can be too good to be true and that's what Robin Newbold shows in this novel - that what you can see on the surface is most definitely only part of the picture; there is most assuredly something else lurking and it is not smiling at you. In fact, it might be stalking you, after whatever it can get.
When Dan, a reporter, is called upon to investigate the deaths of two young people who have been bludgeoned to death on Coconut Island, we are thrust into a world of corruption and cover-ups. We follow him as he tries to find out the truth of what happens but Dan himself is troubled. Married with a young son, Dan has escaped to Thailand to start a new life but can he shake off the past and is Thailand the best place to begin again?
The ongoing search for the killer, which twists and turns its way through the book, takes Dan deeper and deeper into a seamy world of sex, drugs, violence and exploitation. But Dan is also searching for his truth: his true sexuality and what he's made of in terms of moral fibre, integrity and courage.
Danger follows him throughout the book and Newbold introduces nefarious characters, Dan's meeting with them propelling the action, as Dan follows whatever leads they provide.
What particularly struck me about this book was Newbold's descriptions. He captures Thailand's essence: it is attractive as a holiday destination and a backpackers' dream but it is also a place that is seedy, where constraints on behaviour are either absent, allowing people to be used in the worst ways; or are being enforced by those in power, to suppress those who are fighting for change.
And more than that, Newbold's depiction of Thailand means it dominates like a character of its own; in some ways, with more presence than the hero, Dan. It is that sense of Thailand that I will take away predominantly from this book: of it being a beautiful creature, sleek and attractive, which will beguile you into thinking that it welcomes you and is your friend, only to find out that it has ensnared you and it's ready to wound - or worse.