Bali (Photographs)

They still come to me at night: Helen and Zoe.

They hover on the edges of dreams, lingering in the shadows so that I never quite see them, but they are there.

They show me blood red hibiscus, languid orange sunsets or the lazy whiteness of a foreigners smile. Perhaps they don’t want to show themselves to me. After what happened, maybe they would rather I didn’t see.

When I think about it, perhaps, this is for the best.

*

Helen has the idea to go travelling.

Tall, ferocious Helen, who always craves adventure, sits us down in the Miners Arms, over pints of beer and cigarettes.

“Ladies” she says waving her hands in the air, like a magician. “I’ve had an idea.”

Her eyes glint as she peels the back off a beer mat and draws a shape.

“What’s that?” Zoe asks, cocking her head to the side, trying to work it out.

“That,” she said pointing to it with her cigarette “Is where we are going. Bali.”

She sits back, triumphant and pleased with herself.

*

“That’s different,” my mother says later, over the top of her newspaper “How long are you going for?”

I share our plans. Three months of paradise, trailing off the list of names Helen has seduced me with: Denpasar, Lovina, Ubud and Kuta.

She listened, nods and then returns to her newspaper.

“Exams first, Caitlin.” she says.

*

Late June, at one of the first Barbeques of the summer, we make plans at Helen’s parents’ house.

Zoe counts things off on her fingers that needed doing. She wants highlights, a manicure and needs at least three new bikinis.

“Have you had your jabs yet?” Helen asks, looking up from her lists.

I sip my bottle of beer. “I have” I said, pleased with myself.

*

A package arrives three days before we fly.

I see a Milton Keynes postmark and recognise familiar handwriting.

I take it to my bedroom, away from my Mother and I open it.

Three hundred pounds and a note, I hold the cash in my hands and open the note.

Caitlin,

Just in case.

Be safe.

Dad x

*

We take off, clink cans of beer together and watch the UK shrink away and then disappear behind thin British cloud.

“Fucking brilliant” says Helen from the window seat.

*

Helen, first in line at passport control, stands fearless waiting to be officially welcomed into Bali.

“Reason for visit?” she is asked by smiling officials as we wait our turn behind a dusty white line.

“Pleasure” she says nonchalantly with that hurry up look she can give you.

Zoe is next, pinning her hair back with sunglasses and smiling.

And finally, my turn: “Travelling” I say before following the others to baggage reclaim, marvelling at the new inky stamp in my passport.