CHERUB: Shadow Wave (15 page)

BLUEMAN 69 says - I’ll try and send you some books. And see about publicity. Someone MUST be interested in what happened to your village.

Aizat FIGHT THE POWER says - Thanks. Got to log off. Only 52 seconds left and no more money.

BLUEMAN 69 says - When will you be on MSN again?

Aizat FIGHT THE POWER says - Hard 2 say. But I try to get online once or twice a week when I’ve got the money. Web cafe shows football, so usually whenever Arsenal play.

BLUEMAN 69 says - Goodbye.

Your last message was not received. Aizat FIGHT THE POWER has been disconnected.

Kyle’s brain started working as soon as he got the disconnection notice. He wondered when Aizat would be online again, he wondered where he’d put the piece of paper with Aizat’s details on and he started trying to think of ways to help Aizat out.

Kyle began by typing a few search terms into Google.
Tsunami victims
was too vague, bringing up thousands of links to news stories about the disaster.
Tsunami forced evacuation
was no more helpful. Then he tried a different tack and typed in
Hotel developer land theft.

The first few links on the results page were to construction companies and some news stories about American legal disputes between property developers. The fifth link seemed more useful, bringing up a PDF version of a report written by the United Nations entitled
Costs and Opportunities in Global Tourism.

The report was 226 pages long and contained pages of graphs, statistics and densely written text. Kyle saved the document on his hard drive, but decided to try and find something more easily digestible on Google before attempting to read any of it.

However, as he was about to close the report he noticed
Appendix H — Non Governmental Organisations specialising in tourism issues.
The first listing was for a charity called
Guilt Trips —campaigns for sustainable tourism and indigenous populations threatened or undermined by tourist developments.
Below this were contact details and a web address.

Kyle opened a new tab in his browser, typed in the Guilt Trips address and arrived at a disappointingly crude website that looked as if it had been designed as a school homework assignment. But while the site wouldn’t win any design awards, Kyle became fascinated as he clicked on a world map and read reports about the damage done by tourist developments around the world.

According to Guilt Trips, giant French hotel chains had deprived Indian farmers of water, Romany people had been thrown off land used to build a theme park, a Florida wildlife park led to the local extinction of several endangered species and dozens of other atrocities were committed in the name of global tourism.

The most relevant link was to an article in a Canadian newspaper about Thai fishermen who’d been kicked off their land after a cyclone three years earlier.

On another page he read an article written for the Guilt Trips website on the tsunami.

While the world mourns the deaths of more than half a million people, the Boxing Day tragedy represents a boon for construction companies, landowners and property developers who stand to make huge profits from redevelopment. Few of these plans represent the best interests of poor and desperate tsunami casualties and in many cases, land is being compulsorily purchased and parcelled out to government officials and their cronies at the expense of victims.

Kyle had hoped he’d be able to contact a group like Guilt Trips or a journalist and whip up a storm of outrage. But Aizat’s fate seemed to be a common one for poor people all over the region. He was actually luckier than most because on Langkawi the government had been planning to evacuate the villagers before the tsunami and had pre-built somewhere for displaced people to go.

Kyle felt depressed, but he liked Aizat and didn’t want to let him down before he’d at least tried a few more options.

Over the years Kyle had made money on a variety of scams, including selling pirate movies and video games on campus. The least he could do was use some of his ill-gotten gains to send Aizat the books he’d asked for, and maybe throw in a few quid from his savings to help him out.

*

Kyle had a maths class first thing the next morning. He avoided James, who was in an absolutely vile mood after the four-two defeat. Kyle had a free second period and while he didn’t hold out much hope, he went to his room and called the number for Guilt Trips’ London office.

The woman who picked up was called Helena Bayliss. She’d written several of the articles Kyle had read on the website the night before, and sounded much younger than he’d imagined her being.

He told Helena what had happened during and after the tsunami, though for the purposes of his explanation he said he’d been holidaying with a youth group rather than conducting a training exercise for a top secret organisation.

‘There’s nothing particularly unique about Aizat’s situation, sadly,’ Helena explained. ‘There’s not been much media coverage of the tsunami’s effect on Malaysia, but obviously there isn’t going to be when the damage in other places was so much greater.’

Kyle sighed. ‘That’s pretty much what I thought you were going to say.’

Helena laughed. ‘Let me finish. The one thing that makes your case interesting to me is that you said your friend Aizat was willing to start some sort of local campaign and that yourself and perhaps some other members of your youth group might be willing to give him help and some financial support. Guilt Trips is a small charity with limited resources. We can’t launch a major campaign on your behalf, but we’d certainly be willing to offer support and advice to any activists who want to start their own campaign.’

Kyle smiled. ‘That does sound quite useful. I mean, I want to help and Aizat says he’s got a group of friends together who want to try doing something on Langkawi. The trouble is, none of us have a clue how to go about it.’

‘I think we should probably meet,’ Helena said. ‘I’d be willing for either myself or one of our volunteers to come and give a talk to your youth group. And I can get in touch with Aizat directly.’

Kyle smiled at the thought of Helena turning up on CHERUB campus.

‘Your offices are in London,’ he said. ‘I’m down that way on Saturday. I was thinking I could meet up with you somewhere and we could talk about this. Sort out a strategy, both for here and some things we can do to help Aizat.’

‘Let me check my diary,’ Helena said. ‘Yes, looks like I’m free any time up until 4 p.m. Will you be able to find your way to our offices? Or I could meet you at the station.’

‘I’m only
slightly
stupid,’ Kyle replied, with a laugh. ‘I’m sure I’ll find my way.’

Helena Bayliss was twenty-three years old. She had the tall slender figure of a fashion model but a beakish nose and squeamishness about having it doctored ensured that she’d never become one. She’d studied law at university, but found it boring and now lived an impoverished existence writing one-off articles on travel and environmental issues for newspapers while working part-time as a campaigner for Guilt Trips.

Shortly after meeting Kyle she’d called in a favour from a friend who worked on a national newspaper, securing herself an invite to the official opening of the Regency Plaza Hotel on Langkawi. The flight from London was on a luxury 737, accompanied by thirty journalists, golf pundits and travel industry professionals.

Helena’s editor at the newspaper gave a simple brief: a thousand words on the newly opened resort, and she’d been enrolled in a beginner’s golf package in order to give the story an interesting angle.

The newspaper travel supplement had just inked an advertising deal with Regency Plaza Hotels and Tourism Malaysia, so the piece had to be upbeat. She might be allowed a few jabs about towels in the room, or mediocre restaurants, but demolished villages and refugee camps wouldn’t do at all.

*

The brochure Helena had been handed by a Tourism Malaysia official had promised year-round hot weather and the sun seemed to be delivering. The tarmac steamed in the aftermath of a tropical storm as she walked down the aircraft steps, behind the boss of Britain’s biggest online travel website and a man of unknown origin who’d tried chatting her up three hours into the flight.

A VIP channel was opened through customs for the distinguished guests. Documents weren’t checked and bags travelled unmolested from the aircraft hold to a luxury coach. Within an hour of touching down, Helena had showered and lay on a king-sized bed in a soft hotel robe.

Her room was huge, with a balcony overlooking the ocean. There were three gift baskets: one hamper of chocolates and champagne, a bigger one packed with Malaysian produce from whisky and luxury toiletries to native carvings, and a final basket holding a huge spread of flowers in a cut-glass vase. Slid underneath was a letter and a CD-ROM containing a press kit of information and photographs about Malaysia and the hotel.

Dear Miss Bayliss,

Regency Plaza Hotels and Tourism Malaysia would like to welcome you to our new Langkawi Golf Resort & Spa.

As a VIP guest, you are welcome to use any of the hotel’s restaurants, spas, golf courses or other facilities. Mini bar and all other in-room facilities are also complimentary, including your Regency Spa robe.

You are also invited to our hotel’s official spectacular opening dinner at 8 p.m. on Saturday. Our roster of special guests will include Langkawi governor Tan Abdullah, celebrity entertainment and a surprise appearance by one of the world’s most distinguished golf professionals.

Our staff is available twenty-four hours a day, so please get in touch if you require any assistance, or would like us to put together an itinerary for you to explore Langkawi island.

We hope you enjoy your stay,

Michael Stephens

European Director for Tourism Malaysia

Helena brushed her face against the soft robe, and thought it would make a great replacement for the scrappy towelling rag she had in her London flat. She also remembered how excited she’d been, aged ten, staying in her first ever hotel. Sharing a room with her older sister and getting yelled at by their dad because they’d drunk Sprites from the mini bar without realising they were $7.50 each.

This hotel was far more luxurious and a part of Helena wanted to spend her three days eating, boozing and indulging every whim, just like she’d wanted to do when she was ten. But the slogan at the bottom of the letter snapped her out of the fantasy:
Tourism Malaysia — forging onwards.

The bland slogan was a subtle reminder that Malaysia was doing fine, while most rival destinations in the region were rebuilding after the tsunami.

Helena felt a surge of anger as she looked around her opulent room and thought about all the resources that had been used to put all this luxury in a remote corner of Langkawi island, just so that some rich people could sunbathe and play golf.

Steel and cement from China, carpets from India, towels made in Vietnam, flowers from Saudi Arabia, TV and surround sound system manufactured in the Philippines. On top of that were the enormous amounts of energy used to keep the vast hotel building lit and air-conditioned, huge quantities of water and sewage and jet fuel burned to fly tourists in and out.

Helena dreaded her golf lessons most of all. She’d always hated golf, but a golf outfit had been provided by the newspaper and a fashion photographer was travelling from the mainland to take her picture. Helena might not have been up to catwalk standard, but she wouldn’t have got this assignment if she’d been short and dumpy.

The mix of awe and horror at her surroundings made Helena want to lob something breakable at the wall. She didn’t because her mess would only create work for some underpaid chamber maid.

But Helen wasn’t just here for a thousand words on the joys of massage and golf lessons in Malaysia’s newest resort. She perked up as she took her mobile phone from a glass-topped desk, stepped out on to the balcony and dialled a stored number as she looked out to sea.

‘Hai.’

‘Aizat, hello!’ Helena said cheerfully. ‘I’m glad I could get through.’

Aizat laughed. ‘The only good thing about the new hotel: mobile reception around here is great now. How are you? Was your flight OK?’

‘Not too bad,’ Helena said. ‘Comfy plane, so I slept for most of the flight. I’m in my room and I’ve got a few hours free. I’d really like to meet up somewhere and chat. Are you busy?’

‘Just a few things, but nothing I can’t interrupt,’ Aizat said.

‘I’d also like to take some pictures for the Guilt Trips website,’ Helena explained. ‘Showing where your village used to be, and where you live now. We’re putting together an educational resource pack on sustainable development. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to record a short video interview with you.’

‘Make me famous if you like,’ Aizat answered. ‘How about I meet you where my village used to be. It’s beyond the hotel, near the breakwater.’

Helena looked along the golden sand. ‘I see it,’ she said.

‘After that I’ll take you up to see the camp and you can meet the other members of our campaign. Does that sound good?’

‘Perfect! When do you want to meet? I’ve got to unpack my camera and things and get dressed, but apart from that I’m free.’

‘Five o’clock then,’ Aizat suggested. ‘Do you have a flash? It might be getting dark by the time we get back from the village.’

*

Helena had been on all-expenses-paid junkets like this before and knew that the people running the trips liked to keep a close eye on their pampered guests: a journalist getting mugged, or stumbling drunk into a storm drain doesn’t make for good press coverage.

To deflect attention from her exit, Helena dressed in Lycra and running shoes, with just a water bottle and camera in the small pack on her back. She set off at a jog from the side entrance, unnoticed by hotel employees and Tourism Malaysia officials.

Aizat sat in the sand by the breakwater less than two hundred metres from the hotel. He was muscular, good looking and surprisingly well dressed, in counterfeit Nikes, cargo shorts and a linen shirt. It seemed like he’d put on his best clothes, which was disappointing. Helena could have done with someone more desperate in her photographs.