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Prologue

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You used to have a business. A family business. Successful. Yes. The whole family was educated, clever, proud. Life was good. Really good. Except you only realise how good life was now that you have something dark and hollow to compare it to.

 

You remember how you sat in familiar cafes and carelessly drank coffee as you watched the banal theatre of the pavement tumble by. You remember the stately cypress trees that lined your street. You remember dancing at your wedding. A warped and wistful collage, faded fragments of happiness.

 

You used to know exactly where to go to get the best haircut. You knew the shopkeepers in your area. They called you by name. You wore your place in society like a comfortable coat. Your future was a series of predictable life events that lay before you like gleaming marble steps.

 

And war – when it starts – doesn’t have much of an impact on your day-to-day life. It sends ominous murmurs that echo softly along the outskirts of your reality. But you’re young – and everyone knows when you’re young, you’re immortal.

 

The war grows. It spreads like an insidious disease until there is no part of home that isn’t sick and broken. Until the murmur is a deafening thunder that vibrates beneath your feet and shakes your heart. Until the thunder steals your love and buries him in the rubble of the old souk.

 

You become a numb and scriptless actor in a macabre play.

 

And one day, you must leave. Quickly. Pregnant with your unborn son and small daughter. No baba to hold her other hand. You promise to find the means to send money back to your parents. Soon.

 

You take a journey across land and water that haunts you in your dreams. Sleep becomes a bitter landscape that nightly claims your exhaustion and ambushes your mind.

 

You arrive in a place where people cannot pronounce your name. A cold place. An unfamiliar place. A place where you swallow food, but you never taste it. A place where you don’t know where to find the best haircut. A place where shopkeepers eye you with suspicion. A place where your tongue grapples awkwardly with a language that strangles your expression and renders you a fool. A place where you become a word.

 

Refugee.

 

You sit in a strange cafe and stare sadly at the photos on your phone, twisting the thin gold band you still wear on your left hand. You are overcome by a visceral pull that urges you to walk for as long as it takes to get back to everything that gave you your identity. To the time before you became a word. To a time when you were fully human, pulsing with life, value and meaning. To a time when your future lay before you like gleaming marble steps.

 

You carefully drink your coffee and wonder how such a young body can house such a tired and ancient soul.

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Chapter 1

 

It's three forty-one in the morning. An unbearable stickiness stifles me in its humid embrace. I keep yearning for a merciful breeze to blunt the swampy ambience of the jungle, but the only movement is the listless flapping of my hands as mosquitos whine past me.

 

Two nights ago, I was huddled in the departures lounge at Heathrow, still wearing my winter pyjamas underneath my coat. Burnt out, bubbling with grief and trying to hold onto a kite-mind that was constantly poised for flight.

 

I’m now wearing nothing but a sarong as I droop across the daybed on the verandah of my villa. My skin is oily with the heaviness of perspiration and fatigue. I’ve thrust my heat-damp hair into a messy ponytail. Stray hairs are glued to my face and neck. Even my normally parched lips are blooming.

 

A gecko sprints along the rafters above me. The air is rich with the smell of fermenting undergrowth, warm cloves, frangipani and Nag Champa. It’s the type of smell you forget when you leave Bali, but remember exactly the instant you step off the plane in Denpasar.

 

The white rush of a river in the valley below forms a backdrop to the percussion of a nocturnal choir. The high drilling of crickets bores through the swollen air, competing with the deep pock pock pock sawing of frogs. Somewhere, an industrious rooster clears his throat, and birds are starting to rehearse their dawn serenade.

 

The kite-mind has stalled in the stagnant air. A thin layer of late perimenopausal angst escapes into the moist jungle night.

 

Ubud awaits.

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Chapter 2

 

Outside of the villa, heavy ribbons of rain pound the earth, but I’m eager to explore this afternoon. I pull on my hooded raincape and make my way onto the road that leads to Ubud.

 

As I flop along the pavement, I absorb the textures of Bali life. Intricate bamboo decorations, plaited wheels and fringes shivering in the wind are strung high above the lampposts, forming a gold and crimson corridor above me. Old, carved wooden doorways frame a glimpse of familial temples. Hand-woven baskets, stuffed with fuchsia and tangerine flowers, sit upon moss-kissed stone floors.

 

The traffic goes about its business, immune to the charm of these Balinese abodes. A few minutes into my walk, a local man on his scooter offers me a ride into town for a small fee. Why not? I slide onto the passenger seat and arrange my cape.

 

As we drive through the rain, my driver proceeds to chat me up. Am I married? Where am I staying? Can he visit me at my hotel? I politely push back, a little unnerved by his approach.

 

I ask about the bamboo decorations, and he tells me that people are preparing for a festival called Galungan. Would I like to attend a meal in his family home? He lives in this area. I cautiously agree and accept his phone number.

 

He drops me off in the centre, and I wander through the markets and shops. There is an abundance of carved wooden penis keyrings on stands outside the tourist shops. Throngs of people flow through the hanging air.

 

I do the things that tourists do. Meander, shop, eat. I purchase a ticket to a traditional dancing show and watch it alone. I do not buy a wooden penis keyring. Call me old-fashioned.

 

When I get back to my villa, the rain has long since stopped, but I find it difficult to sleep. The experience with the man on the scooter has left me feeling paranoid. Will he try to find me? What does he want from me?

 

The sharp ‘Fkk you!’ call of a gecko outside ignites my tinder core.

 

***

 

It’s 1991. I have moved to Cape Town and found a houseshare with Matthew and Ed, two easy-going South African guys. It’s a lovely old place at the end of a cul-de-sac with large sash windows, wooden floors, and a garden at the front of the house. The day after my arrival is a Friday. My friend Mel, who lives in Cape Town, comes to visit in the early evening, and the guys leave us for a night out – Matthew cheerfully reminding me to close his bedroom window if we go out. We wave them off with a casual ‘yah yah’, eagerly anticipating our girly night.

 

After making something to eat, we sit on the living room floor, happily engrossed in our reunion and downing mugs of tea. Mel, ever the droll and animated storyteller, thumps her hand on the floor to dramatically emphasise something she is saying. Seconds later, a soft thud is repeated in another part of the house, like an echo. Mel continues with her story for a minute before I interrupt quietly.

 

“Did you hear that sound?”

 

She replies with a cautious nod, her eyes searching mine.

 

“I’ll go and see what it is,” I venture casually, thinking perhaps a neighbour’s cat has snuck in. I rise and make my way down the hall towards the front of the house. Matthew’s bedroom is to my left. His door is ajar, and through it, I can see the forgotten open window, the curtains wafting gently.

 

In a split second I know with a cold certainty that we are not alone in the house. My body freezes as the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Someone is in there. A man. I feel his presence as palpably as if I could see him. I back quietly into the living room.

 

“Someone’s in the house!” I mouth urgently to Mel.

 

Survival instinct zaps out a shared current between us. We tacitly fuse our strategy – a bluff to give us some time to get help. We continue to talk, with false, adrenalised lightheartedness, as we move carefully towards the kitchen, our eyes locked in mutual horror. Mel picks up the phone to call the police, while I creep into the kitchen and grab the largest knife I can find. As Mel waits for the police to answer the phone, she gesticulates furiously for me to cover the knife so that it isn’t apparent to the intruder that we are armed. He could use it against us. In a flash, I find a dish towel and shakily cover it. Any fool could see what I have done, but neither of us can think of a better solution, and neither of us knows what we will actually do with it.

 

The operator answers the phone, and Mel begins to give out our address and explain our predicament. I am standing next to her, holding the knife aloft – the dishcloth fluttering inanely in my trembling hand – when the naked torso of a man suddenly materialises at the end of the hallway.

 

I am so frightened that I don’t even register his features. He is simply a dark, faceless shadow that appears, his back flattened against the wall along the hallway, inching towards the sound of our voices. Time stands still. Mel, in her fright, begins to cackle hysterically, her bizarre laughter filling the room and bouncing off the floorboards. My own response is to flee, but there is nowhere to go.

 

Exit stage left.

 

No.

 

Exit stage right.

 

No.

 

Trapped.

 

Shit, shit, shit!

 

And so I spin in futile little circles, like some type of insane Dervish dancer, the draped knife flapping in my wake.

 

As quickly and silently as he had appeared, the man dissolves.

 

Like a ghost.

 

Like a demon.

 

Like a mirage.

 

He leaves an aura of fear and violation that threatens to engulf us as we wait agonising minutes for help to come. I don’t remember how long the police took to arrive, but when they do, they rap so loudly on the front door that I nearly wet my pants with fright.

 

"Open up! Police!"

 

We hold hands and walk as fast as our wobbling knees allow us. In an instant, we are confronted by a policeman, who has leapt from Matthew’s bedroom into the hallway as we hobble towards the front door. He is crouched and pointing a gun at us. I’m pretty sure I do a backwards somersault, still holding the knife and dish towel. And maybe at this point I do pee my pants, just a little.

 

I vaguely remember yodelling in some foreign tongue and wrapping my arms around the policeman’s legs. Mel opens the front door to admit the second officer as I cling to the first cop, wailing in terror. When I collect myself – aided by some brandy that the policemen insist I have – we recount the story with chattering teeth.

 

The policemen listen sombrely before leading us into Matthew’s bedroom. Cash is lying, untouched, on a table near the open window. The curtains are still wafting serenely.

 

This man did not come to steal, one of the policemen tells us. Robberies, he says, generally happen during the day while people are at work. Thieves don’t remove their clothing, the other policeman adds gravely.

 

***

 

I shudder. I thought I’d dusted this cobweb years ago. Apparently not.

 

I wrap myself in my sarong and creep to the window to peer out onto the verandah. It’s silent. There is no naked man waiting to rape me.

 

Fuck it, Dylan, get your shit together!

 

I turn the fan on and climb into bed.

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Chapter 3

 

 

I’m up early. I ask the driver at the villa to take me to see a Balinese healer. The Balian is a lean, silver-haired man. I patiently wait with the other tourists squatting in front of his chair, hopeful peasants before a king. Behind me is a German family with two young boys. An Australian couple hunker reverently to one side. A group of Japanese travellers is clumped in front of me. Beside me, an Indian woman tells me in hushed sentences that she is here to research an article on travelling as a solo female. I don’t feel reverent.

 

I feel lumpen and sweaty and slightly heathen.

 

The healer sees each person individually. The steaming humidity causes rivulets of sweat that tickle my face and dribble into my cleavage. My buttocks start to cramp. I rise awkwardly to stretch my legs and tiptoe off the platform while the healer attends to a Japanese woman.

 

The younger of the two German children has wandered off into the garden, chattering to himself and collecting twigs and stones that he carefully places in a pattern only a child would understand. I smile at him as I admire his construction. He shyly avoids my eyes and glances back at his parents.

 

I return to hunker down next to the Indian woman. Will I take a video and some photographs of her healing? she whispers as the doctor beckons for her. I nod as she hands me her phone. Finally, it’s my turn. I take my offering of flowers and cash and lay it on a small altar before kneeling in front of the healer. He has humorous, crinkly eyes. What brings me here? I explain that I’m burnt out.

 

He instructs me to lie on a reed mat and begins to prod my feet with a small, chopstick-like implement. It is deeply painful. I squeal and squirm in discomfort. Nobody warned me that healing would be so sharp. Eventually, the torment ends, and he begins to slowly move his hands above my body, Reiki style, before once again prodding acupressure points along my feet and ankles. This time, there is no pain.

 

His prognosis is succinct. I suffer from fear. It will go, he assures me. Take vitamin B12, he says.

 

I'm dismissed with a quick nod, and I gingerly step through the remaining tourists to my waiting guide.

 

I'm in two minds about this experience. A part of me thinks I’ve been given the standard tourist diagnosis. Vitamin B is a disappointingly thin recommendation from a traditional healer. Another part of me clings to a fragment of hope that something mysterious has taken place. That it will all miraculously fall into place and I’ll live happily ever after.

 

A psychologist once told me that there is a term for this. It’s called 'magical thinking', a hangover from childhood. Others might be kinder and call it 'hope'. It’s this fragment that keeps me seeking.

 

In the next day or so, I plan to visit a temple to take the healing waters, but for now I'm heading back to my villa to rest.

 

Back at the villa, I’m lulled into a false sense of security by the apparent isolation of my jungle retreat.

 

On the verandah, I strip off my bra to cool down and give my tits some respite from the sweaty superglue that clamps them to each other and cleaves them snugly to my ribcage. I unpeel them from my chest for a moment and release them with a damp flop.

 

Minutes later, I’m startled by a rustling in the vegetation in front of the villa. To my consternation, a gardener is lethargically digging and plucking out weeds in the jungle garden just metres away from me.

 

Shit. I hurriedly reach for my sarong.