Chapter 9- Pattya Beach, Thailand. 1980.
Ali sits dripping on the sweltering beach, shivering miserably in the 32C sunlight. The waves have already erased the evidence of his emergence from the water and passing joggers stare at him in disbelief.

He sees no one. He 's aware of nothing except the pain, the continual agony of the vacuum inside that sucks dry his humour even as the sea has just robbed him of his body warmth.

Somewhere beyond the reach of the most well-meaning surgeon, Ali has a hole: A vortex inside that is the legacy of being ripped wide open when his life was torn from him and he was cast adrift and alone. The hole cries for nourishment and feeds upon the wash of tears, guilt and insufferable lament that take turns at tormenting his heart. This is punishment. If he has sinned then he's sure in hell now. He needs no army of devils with sharpened sticks to torture him; he's doing a fine job by himself.

He had bounced down to the sea a couple of hours before the dawn, having finished his rounds of dancing at the clubs. He'd foolishly allowed some of the nightlife gaiety to infect him with an optimism that maybe, just maybe he might have reached some sort of turning point in his misery. Light at the end of the tunnel? He swam out for an hour or two with invigoration and presented his new-found joy to the ocean as he might introduce a new girlfriend to his parents.

He was not met with approval. Every wave and splash of salt that could be mustered ganged up on Ali to beat the living shit out of him. Every hope that he held up as proof of his recovery was swiped from his hands. Backhanding waves slapped him back to reality. He could not believe it could all be so cruel. Out at sea, with nowhere to hide, he was forced to see the apparent truth on all sides that he is utterly alone. After 44 years on the planet he has nothing to show for it, all the evidence having fled from him as fast as it could.

Even as the sun came up the endless horizons sat in judgement upon this floundering blotchy body that dared the depths. Did he imagine that his past could be wiped from his soul by the power of meditation? Did he not understand that though he may forgive he will never be able to forget?

When he returned he was hardly sure if the sands would accept him as he stepped out of the water, dripping with wretchedness. But gravity proved as impartial as usual and he came to crouch in a quivering wreck, impervious to the tropical heat.

He would prefer not to move. Only the mean heat about his scalp motivates him to do anything at all. He lost his skullcap out in the water somewhere. Others might protest too loudly if he wears his swimming trunks on his head and so he's dimly forced out of his inertia in search of shade. Raising himself, he ignores the jeering ache assailing his muscles and makes eye contact with none as he picks his way through the beach mats back to the road. Babylon looms ahead and it occurs to him that he really does live in a shit hole.

Today is in fact his birthday. He doesn't generally pay these things much mind though he does intend to take the acid that D left for him upon his altar without a word. Even his shadow looks tired as he drags himself back home along the dusty tarmac road with small stones that jam themselves into the sensitive areas of skin on his feet. His throat has been complaining for some time and he realises that he hasn't drunk anything since the previous sunset.

His eyes follow a balefully straight line and his focus clings to this with all the strength it has left. Each blinkered step is one closer to get home and fall into unconscious collapse. Straight, straight ahead, not focusing on anything, not even on that dollar bill rustling by the roadside. What! Ali jerks to attention and finds that yes, there really is an orphaned one dollar bill in the dirt looking for a home. He plucks it and sees that it has a brother just a few yards further up.

Passing cars beep their horns and swerve around the alarming visage of a middle-aged bald man weaving by the side of the road like an insane turkey, pecking down every few seconds to grab something excitedly to his chest. Weren't the police supposed to have cleared out all of the fringe cases? They're a damaging advertisement to the blossoming development of Patya's tourist industry!

Ali picks up note after note in disbelief and keeps checking his new stash to see if they've dematerialised into nothing yet. In all he gathers 85 dollars which about doubles his current savings. In a possession of the little clarity he has left, Ali understands that whilst he may be required to forsake everything, he will never be forsaken by Those On High. Life goes on after all.

With long bamboo flails the fruit sellers at the market languidly shoo away the flies from their produce as customers come to inspect their arrayed pastille of oranges, bananas, papayas and pineapples. They spot Ali instantly and they are just as swift with their tongue-clicking disapproval and scorn.

"Here he comes - anyone like to bet what he buys?"

"What are the odds like on bananas?"

"Ooh, pretty good - but what colour? The green? The yellow? Or the - wait for it…" Ali comes stumbling up.

"Uh, do you have any black bananas?" The vendors giggle in contempt at the economic shortcomings of this dumb American. Ali is taken around to the side of the stall where last week's prize produce is now starting to ferment in dark, syrupy slivers that are ripe for Ali's tastes and his rock-bare budget.

A few kilos of these are wrapped up in plastic so that the flies can't attack the pulp seeping out of the fissures in the flesh. Ali moves on to complete his shopping. He buys three kilos of sugar and five litres of soya milk. He now has all that he needs for the next week or so, not counting cigarettes.

He climbs the spiralling, rusty staircase to his little apartment on the top floor with exotic views of the traffic jams below. He closes the front door with his heels and ducks under the absurd hangings of string with miscellaneous pieces of plastic bead and stuff attached to the end. One bobbing cork catches his ear and he swivels on the spot to stab it with a straw he grasps from a side table - In doing do he almost drops the soya milk and he's reminded that his games can wait until later.

He has just one room for living and a tiny bathroom. Against the centre wall sits an altar of various statues, symbols, souvenirs, photographs, pieces of cloth and plastic, and an egg cup enthroned upon the whole rising structure. In this sits B's birthday present of 1000 mikes of acid wrapped up in cellophane.

Ali sets down the groceries and takes out a clean two litre jug for mashing up the bananas. Five minutes later, with his shirt discarded, a sweating Ali has succeeded in making banana mush. He throws in a measure of 250 grams of sugar and then fills up the rest with the milk. Then he sets his arm on hydraulic and whisks up a milkshake that he holds aloft and drains in less than a minute.

Throughout this nine year period Ali consumes nothing else. Not bread, not rice, not beans, not spirulina. He has struck upon the ideal diet for to sustain his physical regime without clogging up his awareness with the sleepy dullness of digestion. His disdain for solid food is such that when he sees others eating their three solid meals a day it seems to him that they hold their dinners close to them like pillows for reassurement: There, there, it will be alright - Now won't you take another spoonful?

On his intake of black bananas, soya milk and white sugar Ali lacks for nothing in the way of energy and his physique is outstanding for someone of his age. His teeth aren't quite so happy about it, though and voice their protest by withdrawing from his nutrient-starved gums which have been swelling painfully in recent weeks. When he opens his mouth women scream. Whatever he was going to say is drowned under a barrage of requests that he wear a veil or something over the cavity battlefield of his mouth.

Pain is a regular visitor these days and doesn't bother to knock before making its dazzling, excruciating entrances. Ali can't always afford the necessary morphine nor the dental treatment even if he was inspired to seek help. Maybe at the back of his mind he has a distant hope that all of his teeth will just abandon ship and leave him to suck milkshakes for the rest of his life in peace.

The sun is climbing high outside and Ali feels like a sailor fallen overboard, washed-up on a friendly shore after a hellish storm.