Circle of Life

Ch 24, in which Lucas meets Josiah Peterson in a Japanese zen garden and the whole writers syndicate meets up.

I arrive at the resort’s yoga space with four other hotel guests wearing loose-fitting clothing. We acknowledge one another with a smile, but it is either too early in the day for conversation or, like me, they have also come here with the intention of losing themselves during the hour-long yoga session, something more easily achieved around people with whom you have no connection.

The room is enclosed on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking palm trees and beyond, the Andaman Sea; any tiredness I felt when my alarm went off this morning disappears with the breath-taking view. I have attended a local yoga class at home with Ann a couple of times, but each time I felt too weighted down by deadlines and impending meetings to properly embrace the benefits. It was Leann who suggested I might fully appreciate this morning’s session, with the trip concluded and my upcoming projects already agreed.

The yoga instructor is a young Spanish woman with a wild mane of dark curly hair, which she has scrunched into a scruffy bun on top of her head. She encourages us to choose a yoga mat while she introduces herself. Her voice is smooth, her accent rolling off the tongue.

The class begins with some easy warm-up exercises. I am so immersed in the gentle manoeuvres and meditation processes that I feel more relaxed than I have since leaving home in Sydney. The memory of my departure is so hazy it might have occurred in a different lifetime. I am aware of the palm trees outside the windows, of the instructor’s graceful body, of her melodic voice, but only as I would be aware of the pillow beneath my head as I drift off to sleep, or the cushion behind my back when I am working on my laptop.

By the time the session concludes, my head feels clearer than it would with the buzz of caffeine, and I am excited to meet up with Josiah Peterson, the remaining syndicate author whose flight from New York should have arrived late last night.

As we are leaving, I peer into the relaxation courtyard. Inside, individual platforms are raised above water and set with comfortable chairs and tiny tables for refreshments. Each platform holds a two-person lounger that allows guests to relax while they dip their feet into the swim-up pool from the secluded, sheltered patio outside, surrounded by the lush vegetation of the rainforest. Intrigued, I enter the courtyard. It is like stepping into a Japanese zen garden which has somehow manifested itself in the middle of the jungle, and I find myself listening for the squawking of wild birds and the chattering of monkeys.

On a platform, a man is sipping from a cup of green tea; he is wearing a fluffy white robe, his feet in slim white slippers. I recognise him instantly: Josiah Peterson.

“Hey there,” he says, glancing up. He sets the cup down onto the low table and rises to shake my hand. “Apologies for missing the meeting yesterday. I was starting to think it would have been easier to leave New York on a camel. Will you join me?”

I accept the invitation and take the seat beside Josiah looking out through the rainforest towards the sea.

I love Sydney. I grew up in the city and cannot imagine living anywhere else, but there is something so invigorating about this vibrant landscape with its hues of emerald, jade, and turquoise, that I can only envisage Sydney now in parched shades of yellow, ochre, and umber.

A therapist attends almost immediately with a cup of green tea which is placed in front of me. I ask Josiah if he has enjoyed a treatment this morning.

“An amethyst body wrap,” he says. “You should try it if you haven’t already. You can’t beat it after a stint in JFK where the seats are designed to keep you gravitating towards the bar.”

As with our previous meeting, I am struck by the author’s larger-than-life persona that seems to fill the platform upon which we are seated, even though he is no taller than I am. It is as though he is fluid, his energy seeping out of his pores and saturating the space around him, crawling through cracks and crevices until nothing has been missed, and returning with snippets of information and eavesdropped dialogue that he then processes for future use. It would account somewhat for his uncanny ability to write flawless bestselling thrillers; this ability to see, understand, and own everything that occurs within his vicinity.

I say that I shall bear it in mind for later this afternoon. I confirm that the other authors are looking forward to being introduced during the mid-morning mangrove river cruise that I have planned.

“Could you have found a more spectacular setting?” He gestures to the rainforest-view from the patio. I laugh and tell him that I try my best. “So, your email suggested that you might have a project in mind for me.”

I had intended to have a private discussion in a small meeting room within the resort later in the day, but there is such an air of untouchable privacy and solitude in this courtyard with its closed doors behind us and the gentle lapping of the swim-up pool beyond the patio, that I am content to reveal my thoughts now with complete confidence that the conversation will not be overheard.

I take a deep breath and suggest that I would like him to work with me on the Lim Kok Thay biography. As expected, his face is expressionless, but still his body language is telling me that this is perhaps not his dream first project as a member of the syndicate. I ask him to hear me out and describe at some length my discussion with the Malaysian billionaire over a game of golf on the course in Gentings. I tell him that, like most wealthy and powerful people and despite his casual golf attire, Lim Kok Thay at first appeared to wear that impenetrable veneer like a fortified wall, but that he very quickly opened up and confided in me with some astonishing family secrets.

Josiah nods and I can tell that I have piqued his interest. “Such as? Let me guess – this involves contested wills and excluded beneficiaries.”

I tell him that he is indeed on the right path and that this must be the downside to being born into a wealthy family. There were at one point four family feuds being battled out simultaneously, all regarding contested wills and alleged forged signatures, and that despite reaching amicable resolutions with his siblings and their children, Lim Kok Thay still felt that there was much that remained unresolved. His reluctance to be vocal on the matter before now, hinges on his determination to preserve his father’s legacy while also protecting his father’s, and his own, reputation.

Josiah sits forward in his seat and finishes his green tea. “Did you get the impression that his father’s reputation was anything less than squeaky clean?” he asks.

I confess that his father’s legacy appears sound. I have discovered nothing to reveal anything other than his father’s dedication to the construction of his dream resort and the community that helped him. However, when pressed, Lim Kok Thay hinted at his fears that his nephews, encouraged by his own cousin, may remain unsatisfied with the outcome.

Josiah stares out across the water. “There would be little point in raising again the issues of forged signatures though,” he says. I can see his brain working through alternative potential legal battles. “So, what could they contest? Company shares? The patriarch’s methods for amassing his fortune?” He senses my smile and raises an eyebrow. “They want to knock him off his pedestal and take Lim Kok Thay down with him?”

I nod. Lim Kok Thay’s concern though, I tell him, is that their methods may be highly undesirable.

Josiah’s smile spreads slowly. “How undesirable exactly?”

I tell him it is likely that any evidence that materialises against the patriarch Lim Goh Tong’s reputation will be fraudulent, as one nephew is known for his tyrannical bullying and diabolical temper.

“Hmm.” Josiah tilts his head from side to side as though easing the tension in his neck and shoulders. “So, extortion, blackmail possibly. How far does he think the nephew will go?”

I say that the way this conversation arose might give him some insight. The golf course at Gentings is known for being tight, surrounded as it is on all sides by dense rainforest. I do not consider myself an expert golfer, not by a long shot, and so after having a dozen balls swallowed by vegetation, I asked my golf partner how many people had potentially disappeared in the rainforest over a given period.

Josiah puffed out his cheeks and whistled. “These must be some high stakes. I’m guessing our man here is hoping that outing the ‘undesirables’ in the biography will pre-empt any future attack and protect the family rep by sowing the seeds. Meanwhile he maintains control of Gentings. Nice going. I’m impressed that you managed to tease this out of him over an impromptu round of golf.”

I suggest that I was fortunate to have the previous evening’s karaoke performance on camera as a carrot to dangle in front of the billionaire when I was questioning him.

Josiah laughs and says, “Sounds like a classic case of blackmail to me. Seriously though, he obviously has his reasons for believing the worst of these family members.”

I bring out the old adage: there’s no smoke without fire.

Josiah shakes his head. “There is often smoke without fire and this is generally because the smoke has been blown off-course to detract attention from the real source of the flames; what you have to work out is, who is pumping the bellows.” He focuses on the palm trees outside, the fronds vibrating in a gentle breeze.

I ponder his process for writing thrillers. He told me during our previous meeting that he concocts the ‘perfect crime’ and works his way backwards, watching the way characters implicate themselves through their individual flaws, and I wonder if this is what he is doing now with what little he knows about the family feuds.

Eventually he says, “The basis of the biography will be what is driving our main man. Once we get a handle on that, we should be able to figure the rest out, and then we can incorporate the skeletons in the closets to his advantage. He’s the one in control, right? What impression did you get? That he doesn’t want to be toppled from his ivory tower?”

I think about the conversation with Lim Kok Thay as we strolled around the golf course surrounded by wispy clouds. He didn’t strike me as a man who felt his position at the top of the tower to be precarious, more a man to whom loyalty and betrayal were of the utmost importance. I explain to Josiah how his body language altered when speaking about the anticipated trouble, how his spine straightened, became that of a knight preparing for battle.

“You know what I think,” says Josiah. “This has Netflix Original written all over it.”

We all meet on the beach at 10am where the boat is picking us up for a trip around the mangroves and the Kilim Geoforest Park. It is the first time all the syndicate members will be together, and I am excited to introduce Josiah to the party. I have a feeling that his somewhat brash confidence will perfectly complement Bonnie’s cool exterior and Leann’s graceful, grounded charm. We each bring something to the mix, and I am proud of the way the syndicate is shaping up and exceeding my expectations.

I introduce Josiah as the bestselling thriller writer who currently has three novels residing on the NY Times bestseller list.

Carol squeals. “I loved your last book.” She steps forward and shakes his hand effusively. “I almost feel like I should be bowing at your feet, you know like in Wayne’s World, when Wayne meets Alice Cooper.” She watches the rest of us, wide-eyed, as if she can’t believe that we’re not overwhelmed by the moment too.

“Thank you,” says Josiah. “Remind me to send you a signed copy when I get back home.”

Roy shakes his hand. “Difficult trip?” he asks.

“Long …” says Josiah. “It’s not so much the waiting around that’s tiring, as trying to utilise the additional time that you hadn’t accounted for, in an environment that’s not entirely conducive to productivity.”

“Still, you made it,” says Roy. “And in such a peaceful setting.”

Leann steps forward to kiss Josiah’s cheek and tell him graciously that it’s a pleasure to meet him. She has temporarily replaced the mask, while she adjusts to her status within the group and accepts that she is as worthy of her place as the other authors are.

Finally, Bonnie shakes his hand. “Hello, again.”

I’m taken aback by the greeting; I wasn’t aware that they were previously acquainted and ask how they know each other.

“We met at a book signing in New York,” says Bonnie. “Josiah signed a copy of his first novel for me.” She smiles at him. “Do you remember what you wrote?”

He nods. “If I remember rightly, I signed it with the words: Promise fulfilled.”

“You see, Josiah wrote to me when he was still querying agents – he’d passed a bookstore that was promoting my latest novel in the window display – and he told me that he was close to taking his family’s advice and giving up. He revealed a little about the storyline and I wrote back that he should persevere because I wanted a signed copy of his first novel, and that I would travel to New York to get it.”

“I still have that letter,” says Josiah.

“And I still have yours,” says Bonnie.

I cannot stop smiling. This is one of the reasons why I established the syndicate, this camaraderie, this overwhelming support from one author to another. The publishing industry is notoriously difficult to break into, and an author’s position equally as difficult to maintain, especially in an age when celebrities are clambering over one another to write the next bestseller knowing that a million Instagram followers will secure them a six-figure contract. Even the most successful authors need the occasional ego boost.

The boat arrives and we all climb aboard, settling into our seats while the tour guide tells us a little about what we can expect to see on the trip.

Once we are moving across the clear turquoise water, the trees embracing us into their lush green serenity, Carol says, “So, time to confess, Josiah. Tell us about your childhood idiosyncrasies. You’re not a fully initiated syndicate member until you do.”

He glances at each of us in turn.

Leann holds up a hand. “I’ve admitted to mine.”

He looks at me and I tell him that it’s nothing to do with me, I’m simply along for the ride.

“Well,” he says, “I used to have an obsession with washing everything. I’d like to say that I loved water, but according to my mom, I went through a bottle of dish liquid a day, washing my toys, rinsing them off, waiting for them to dry, and repeating the process. I would even take my toys apart and wash all the components too.” He shrugs.

“Are you still the same now?” asks Carol.

Josiah offers her his hand. “Feel my hand and tell me what you think.”

Carol strokes the back of his hand and raises it to her nose to sniff. “Yep! Soft as a baby’s bottom.”

We all laugh as the boat proceeds along the river, which is growing narrower, greener, and more winding. The ancient sea stacks rise above the mangroves like crusty dinosaurs. The naturalist talks to us about the cliffs and structures which date back 550 million years. As the boat slows on the approach to a cave, the entrance of which appears in the middle of the mangrove, he tells us that the Kelawar Cave is also known as Bats Cave, due to the hundreds of bats roosting inside. We float gently inside the cave which is filled with stalactites, and he points out the shells encrusted on the cave walls which are said to be around 5000 years old. We are all silent when we notice the bats clinging to the roof of the cave like a hazy black cloud.

We visit several more caves, all of which appear to support bats and shells, including Crocodile Cave, so named because the interior of the cave resembles a crocodile’s open mouth.

Carol is like a child gripping the side of the boat and pointing out animals and fish. “Do you see that monkey,” she says, pointing into the trees. “Oh, I just saw a crab.” She leans over the side of the boat until I am tempted to grab hold of her feet to prevent her from falling in. “This water is so clear,” she says to no one in particular. “I swear I can see right to the bottom. Oh wow, look at that fish, it’s beautiful.” Her eyes are wide, and her cheeks flushed pink.

Josiah is quiet, and I wonder if he is still thinking about Lim Kok Thay and the family feuds that we discussed earlier in the day. Roy and Bonnie are also quiet, in awe of our surroundings. There is something so tranquil about floating along this river surrounded by ancient mangroves, that it is almost like stepping back in time to when women cursed islands and white blood spilled from their wounds.

Leann rests back in her seat, her expression one of calm wonder. Watching her now, I have the feeling that, despite her privileged upbringing, she is at one with nature, as though she understands her precarious position as a human visitor to this planet and is filled with respect for the mysterious creatures and mangroves surrounding us. It is an outlook that I admire and not for the first time on this trip, I wish that Ann were here to experience this beauty.

Leann sits forward suddenly and points out a floating wooden construction in the distance. “I was hoping we would get to see this,” she says. “Look, over there, that hut was constructed specifically for Crazy Rich Asians. It was used for the bachelor party which took place on Langkawi, or Rawa Island as it is referred to in the film.”

“That is awesome,” says Carol. “Not quite the same as a nightclub in Sydney. It’s a shame that Ivana didn’t accompany us today, or has she already seen it a million times?”

“Ivana flew out yesterday afternoon,” says Leann. “She contacted me this morning to send her apologies, but says that she is looking forward to working with you both on her biography.”

“Oh, I can guarantee that she is not as excited as I am,” says Carol. “Do you think we can stop at the hut?”

I tell her that I have a different stop in mind. It isn’t long before we reach the stilts in the water supporting the resort’s Rumah Ikan Fish House. The wooden construction resembles a Chinese pagoda from a distance, and on our approach, I impress the authors by telling them that the only shape I have ever mastered in origami – and it happens to be my party-piece – is a Chinese pagoda.

“There is no end to your talents,” says Leann with a smile.

When the boat pulls up to the stilts, we all climb a wooden ladder up to the Fish House restaurant which sits on a platform above the Andaman Sea, surrounded by mangroves. We are greeted by a waiter who introduces us to Pak Din, a local fisherman who teaches the guests his traditional style of fishing. The naturalist explains that Pak Din will show us how he catches fish and squid using a complex structure created using strips of cloth and splints of wood.

“You can watch,” says Pak Din, “or, if you are feeling adventurous, you can catch your own meal.”

“I’m catching dinner,” says Carol. “My dad will never believe this.”

We follow the fisherman along the wooden walkway which juts out across the sea. We are encouraged to lower long-handled nets into the clear water, which has been netted off according to Pak Din’s fishing methods, and catch our meal, which the Fish House’s chef will prepare and cook for us. When we have all tried our hand at fishing, Pak Din poses with the other authors, while I snap some pictures on my disposable camera.

Inside the restaurant, we sip iced tea and peer out across the Andaman Sea. I explain to Josiah about the projects the authors are currently working on: Roy and Bonnie with their interest in Abe Saffron; Carol who will be helping me write Ivana’s story, while I am also writing Bernard Arnault’s biography; and Leann who has agreed to take on the Cathie Wood biography.

“So, have you discussed your first project, yet?” Bonnie asks Josiah. “Roy and I might run some of the Juanita Nielsen case information by you when we’re ready. It will be interesting to get a thriller writer’s take on the heiress’s disappearance.”

“Happy to help,” says Josiah. “We discussed we’d collaborate on the Lim Kok Thay biography together.”

All eyes are on me, but it is Leann who speaks first. “It is because he expects you to tease some information from between the crevices.”

“What do you know about the man, Leann?” Josiah asks.

“I know what I have discovered for myself,” says Leann. “He is a kind and generous patron who takes the time to understand each one of his employees on a personal level. Treat him with respect and you can expect nothing but loyalty in return.” She pauses and traces the condensation along the side of her glass with a perfectly manicured finger. “But take him on at karaoke and you don’t stand a chance.” She winks at me.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” says Josiah. “You clearly haven’t heard my rendition of ‘Born to Run’ by the Boss, Bruce Springsteen.”

I tell him that we can easily rectify the situation by the end of the day.

He raises his glass. “Cheers to that.”