How not to lose someone in Bangkok

The night before, on Kaoh San Road

I lift an eyelid, then two. My eyes don’t seem to work well, and my throat is made of sand paper with a hint of dust. As my vision is attempting to come back to normal, it’s now my nose that is awaken by a strong mix of spices and sweat, and my ears are being attacked by non-stop honking on the streets and loud tacky dance music. I finally see clearly. I’m in my guesthouse room, in Kaoh San Road, Bangkok. The walls are yellow with patches of rotten moisture. It’s worthy of the start of The Beach. But I’m not alone. I turn my aching body to my left. I am alone. I should not be. 

Next to me should be emerging from the cover some bright ginger hair belonging to my best friend Liz Bell.

We have been on the road with me for over four months, across South-East Asia. To be fair I could not have done without her, she’s been making sure I don’t lose any of my belongings (or my mind for that matter), reminding me in her very articulate English accent that I started to copy “Ally Cat, have you forgotten something again?”. Yes, I probably did, I always do. But I had my role in this partnership as well, because with her perfect English rose look, the white pale skin, the golden red hair, there was never a day without a full tube of suncream to be applied.

Liz and I, last day in Sydney, months later.

And right now, she is not here. I try to put my thoughts together, I stand up, I look around. Her bag is not here. She is not here. At all. The hammer pounding on my brain is not helping. Think fast, faster. Get up, get dressed.  I run down the stairs on to the street. I catch a glimpse of someone’s watch, 9.30. It’s already hot and sticky, and the street is filling up with backpackers walking with their dead tourist eyes, woman with fake tribal hats and food stalls displaying spring rolls from the night before, fried bugs and cheap pad thais.
As I grab a bottle of water, I make a conscious effort of remembering the night before.