Best British Short Stories 2020 by Nicholas Royle (reading books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

I swallowed hard and went back for seconds, taking several long gulps through the straw. ‘That’s the “spirit”,’ she said, and winked. When I could take no more I shoved the bucket away, almost spilling the contents. She laughed, lifting the bucket to her face and sucking on her straw till she became hollow-cheeked. When she finished she was flushed red and clearly out of breath, though she tried to hide it. She set the bucket down, smacked her lips a few times and said, ‘Might be cheap that stuff, but it certainly does the job.’

I was already feeling tipsy. ‘You trying to get me drunk?’

Kelly smiled and said, ‘And I thought I was being subtle.’

I couldn’t work out how long I had been asleep, but it must have been a good few hours because when I opened my eyes dawn had broken, the light penetrating the room and throwing its scuzzy décor into even sharper relief. Kelly was nowhere to be seen and I immediately knew she had gone. The fact that all her things were missing confirmed my suspicions. I stood up, swooned, had to sit down again. I felt dreadful. My head was pounding. My neck and back were stiff from resting against the wall for so long. My throat was parched. Desperately, I swallowed some saliva, but it had little effect. With considerable effort, I started hauling on my trainers and just then I heard movement in the bathroom next door, followed by the sound of running water. Kelly?

I laboured to my feet and shuffled to the door to check, but when I opened it I saw a short, fat Thai man come out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, his dimpled gut hanging over the top. He hadn’t seen me, so I pulled my head back into the room, closed the door quietly and tip-toed back to the bed. For some reason I felt safer on that side of the room. For a while I just stood there looking around, as if I couldn’t quite believe Kelly had gone. I walked over to the chest of drawers and opened them one by one. Empty. What was I hoping to find? Feeling sorry for myself, I realised it was time to leave. I didn’t have a clue what part of the city I was in, so I decided I would hail the first taxi I saw and get it to take me to The Grace, no matter the cost. As soon as I thought that my heart sank. I didn’t need to check my bumbag to know Kelly had stolen my money.

The taxi driver clearly didn’t believe my story. When we got to The Grace and I asked him to wait outside while I went in and got some money from the safe in my room, he insisted on coming into the hotel with me. I was offended by his mistrust, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. At the reception desk, he satisfied himself that I was a guest then waited in the lobby while I went up to my room on the sixteenth floor to get his fare. When I entered the room, I resisted the urge to throw myself on the bed. It looked so inviting, so luxurious. My anger at being robbed was already beginning to subside, mostly through exhaustion, but also because, having had the chance to think about it, I realised it could have been a lot worse. I had lost about two hundred pounds worth of Thai baht, but my credit card, passport and the rest of my cash were tucked away in the hotel safe. Still, I decided that I would report Kelly to the police. I knew she would never be caught. Her description would probably fit dozens of women in the city and I doubted whether Kelly was even her real name, but it was the principle of the thing.

Back downstairs I paid the driver, tipped him for waiting, and told my story to a smiley receptionist whose face was caked in skin-whitener. She listened patiently then got on the phone. Within minutes a young policeman arrived, wearing a brown, skin-tight uniform with his shirt tucked into his trousers. He was from the tourist division and just happened to be in the area. Sitting next to me in the bustling lobby, near a large bay window with tinted windows, he used a small notepad and pencil to take down the particulars of the theft. When he’d finished, he scolded me for not taking Kelly back to the hotel. He said that all guests, even casual visitors, had to register with reception and must give a valid form of ID. His advice made my hairs stand on end. Before leaving the bar, I had suggested to Kelly that we go back to my hotel but she had refused, saying she would feel more relaxed at her place. That may well have been true, but she obviously wanted to avoid detection. The policeman confirmed that it was unlikely she would be caught but commended me for reporting her. He said it would help when it came to compiling criminal statistics and that it gave the local authorities useful anecdotal evidence of what he called ‘inter-tourist crime’. Apparently, it was quite common.

After I’d given my statement, I went into one of several massage parlours that operated in the hotel lobby and treated myself to a rejuvenating back, neck and shoulder rub. Throughout the treatment, I thought of Anna. It had only been a few weeks since we’d split and there’d been no contact at her insistence. I yearned to hear from her, and actually got out my mobile with the intention of sending her a WhatsApp, but thought better. She was unlikely to reply and a snub was the last thing I wanted. After the massage, I went to a nearby travel agent and booked a flight to Koh Samui, scheduled to leave in