by Lee Stone
And yet somehow, he would have to do it. What other option was there? Someone had killed her sister, and now the very next day she had been pulled by a notoriously corrupt police force. Coincidence? Lockhart didn’t think so. He tried to play his own devil’s advocate. Was there any chance she could have done something wrong? It was possible. She had been with him most of the time, but not all the time. She might have stolen something from the marketplace when she was in town or violated a traffic law on her way to Kep. All of that was possible, even if it was unlikely. But the cops hadn’t arrested her for that. They’d arrested her for witchcraft. And that was why he’d have to get her out. Because how do you play a legal system that arrests people for coming back from the dead?
Lockhart eased the bike to a halt a few meters past the gate, next to a lonely market stall at the side of the road. He could feel the guard’s eyes on his back so he got off the bike and slipped into the shade under the stall’s tarpaulin roof. One side was a tourist trap, packed with charm bracelets and sea shells. The other side was practical. There was gum and coke and beer and a pot of steaming rice. And there was fuel. Everyone had a bike in Cambodia, and the easiest way to fill it up was at the side of the road at stalls exactly like this one. They stored the fuel in filthy blue barrels behind the stall and decanted into one liter containers at the side of the road. Often the containers were soda bottles or used mineral water containers, but in this stall, they used Johnnie Walker whiskey bottles. Behind the red and black labels, the golden fuel looked good enough to drink.
The kid running the stall was sat on a red plastic chair in the shade, rocking back on two of its legs. He was maybe twelve years old, and he looked fairly happy with his lot. Lockhart watched him chewing chicken and tearing small ribbons of flesh from the bone to feed to a mangy dog lying under his seat. Lockhart ducked under the makeshift roof and grabbed two bottles of fuel. He wondered to the other side of the stall behind the shelves and chanced a glance back across the street to the guardhouse. The guard was still watching him suspiciously.
‘What’s in the rice?’
‘Just vegetables,’ the boy said. ‘And spices. You want to try?’
Lockhart nodded. ‘Sure.’
He sat and ate under the tarpaulin, making small talk with the boy and stealing glances over the road to the prison. A second guard arrived in the hut, with a second Kalashnikov. Lockhart was too far away to hear what they were saying, but from time to time they glowered over the road in his direction. The boy spoke good English. When Lockhart asked him who owned the stall, he said proudly that it was all his.
‘Hard work,’ he said.
‘I bet.’
Lockhart took in the kid’s worldly possessions. He owned two chairs, a camping stove for the rice and chicken, a polystyrene box for keeping the beers cold, a tarpaulin roof, and a blue plastic vat full of fuel. One discarded match would have blown his entire empire to smithereens. Even so, it was more than Lockhart had owned at twelve, and he got the feeling that the kid had fought hard for it. The rice tasted good. The pot on the stove looked grim, but the food was steaming and Lockhart had travelled far enough to develop an iron stomach. The kid had learned to cook and learned to trade and learned to survive at the side of the road. It couldn’t have left much time for school.
‘What’s your name?’ Lockhart asked him.
‘Samnang,’ the boy said. ‘Samnang Nye.’
‘Where did you learn to speak English?’
‘From a man who can help you,’ the boy said.
‘I don’t need any help. My English is fine.’
The boy smiled.
‘You need help to find your girlfriend, no?’
Lockhart looked up from his rice.
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
Now Lockhart smiled too.
‘You’re very smart,’ he said. ‘How do you know that?’
The boy shrugged and said nothing. In the silence, the mongrel dog limped out from under the boy’s chair and sidled over to Lockhart, hoping for a few more scraps.
‘She’s called Jorani,’ the boy said. ‘It means jewel.’
It struck Lockhart that the kid was changing the subject. It also struck him that Jewel was probably the least appropriate name imaginable for the flea-bitten mutt. But dogs and kids are the same. They gain their name before they gain their personalities. A name is just an aspiration. It is what parents hope their children will become. And yet how often the name fits, Lockhart thought. Maybe we become what we are expected to be. Maybe we are all hostage to our own destiny right from the very day we are born. Lockhart was no different. He had chosen to travel. He had chosen to be alone. He had chosen to leave behind his previous life, for the sake of everyone he cared about. He had chosen all of that. And yet, what choice had he really been given? Hadn’t his parents encouraged him to ask questions? Hadn’t his bosses encouraged him to take risks? Maybe he had simply become what life had expected him to be. What reporter wouldn’t have chased the big stories? And when the big stories began to change the world, began to make the world just a bit better, just a bit fairer… who wouldn’t have pushed harder and dug deeper? And then, when it all went wrong, who wouldn’t have run? Who wouldn’t have run, if it meant keeping their family safe? Who would have stayed behind, bringing the risk and danger home to the people they cared about? Not him.
‘Jorani had a brother,’ the kid said, bringing Lockhart back to the moment. He tossed his chicken bone to the dog who took it and disappeared back under the boy’s red plastic chair. Lockhart wondered how far the boy had gone to claw his way out of poverty to create his own version of the future.
‘He was called Munny,’ the boy said. ‘It means smart.’
‘What happened to him?’ Lockhart asked.
‘He used to sit under my chair,’ the boy said. ‘And Jorani used to sit under there.’
He pointed to Lockhart’s chair.
‘And?’
‘One day, a man came and stole a bottle of petrol. Munny chased him into the road. Munny was hit by a truck.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lockhart said.
The boy shrugged.
‘It was quick,’ he said. ‘Munny didn’t suffer. It was this one who suffered.’
He pointed at Jorani, who looked up at him.
‘She loved her brother, and he was trapped under the truck. He was dead, but Jorani couldn’t understand. She couldn’t get under the truck to him, so she ran around the truck again and again.’
All the while the boy told the story, he looked at the Jorani, like he was telling the story to her.
‘It confused her. She barked and barked. All she knew was that she and Munny were supposed to be together, and she couldn’t get to him. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Lockhart watched the dog for a minute, swallowing the last of his rice and then bringing his gaze back to the boy.
‘What’s your point?’
The boy pointed at Lockhart’s face.
‘You look like Jorani looked on that day.’
He looked slowly from the prison gates and back to Lockhart.
‘Like I told you,’ Lockhart said, ‘you’re very smart.’
‘The girl in the prison,’ he said. ‘She came just before you. Is she your wife?’
‘No,’ Lockhart said. ‘I hardly know her. Do they often arrest tourists around here?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But not often.’
He reached into his pocket and handed Lockhart a crumpled business card. It was tattered and looked like someone had taped it to a window in the past. On the front, under a filthy smudge, was a single name.
‘What’s this?’
‘A man who can help you,’ the boy said. ‘A lawyer.’
Lockhart eyed him. ‘Are you on commission?’
The boy gave a tiny bow. ‘Of course.’
‘How long do they keep tourists in there?’ Lockhart asked, no
dding towards the gatehouse. He turned the card in his fingers to find a phone number and address scrawled on the back in biro.
‘I don’t know,’ the boy told him. ‘I’ve never seen anyone come out.’
12
From the helicopter, Lim could see the last edge of the sun disappearing beneath the rainforest canopy, and the sky turning pink and blood red on the horizon. He was not used to the view, because it was unusual for him to travel to the camp before darkness had fully fallen. He was much earlier than he had originally intended to arrive, but then so much had changed since his last visit. Rith had lost control and killed the girl before she had told him what they needed to know. Now Rith was dead too, lying in the alleyway with Chhan.
Stranger still was the news about the girl. Lim had sent the cops searching the beach for the man she had been traveling with, but they had returned with tales of witchcraft, claiming the girl herself had returned from the dead. They had taken her to Kampot Prison. In their haste, and maybe fear, they had left her companion behind. All of which left a lot of explaining for Lim to do. He couldn’t help but thinking about the empty chair at Ta Penh’s table, and the bad luck that had descended on them since the package had disappeared. And he wondered - just for a moment - whether the old man’s powers might finally be on the wane.
The helicopter skirted around the peaks of the Cardamom Mountains and eventually set down in the marketplace, just long enough for him to alight. Lim rehearsed what he would say to Ta Penh as he walked through the rainforest. He had dealt with the removal of Chhan’s eye exactly as Ta Penh had instructed; that was good news. And he knew where the girl was, and could send someone to question her. Most likely, he would do the job himself. He hoped that would be enough. The air felt unusually heavy as he moved through the trees, a sure sign that the monsoons were on their way. Maybe tonight, even. All of it left Lim with a curious sense of foreboding as he approached the camp in the heart of the Cardamom Mountains.
The place looked different in the dusky light, and the air was still humming with the noise of toiling machinery. He could see that the fires had been dug into the side of the hill like great ovens, and he could make out the huge wooden scaffolding above them; rough hewn trees trussed together to form beams strong enough to hold the iron chain winches that pulled the heavy Mreah Prew Phnom roots high into the air and then down into the cauldrons for distilling. The ground around the fires was black, where burned wood mingled with the disturbed earth.
Lim did not wait for the welcoming party. Nor did he turn back to them when they called. Ta Penh would understand, when he heard the news. He was halfway to the old man’s house when a shot rang out over his head. He stopped still. The sound of machinery stopped. The four men who had searched him two nights ago were sprinting towards him, AK-47s at their sides. When they reached him, one of them raised his gun to Lim’s head so that the cold metal rested on his cheek, just under his eye.
Lim was no coward. His dislike of traveling through the forest at night was well founded. There were many animals there who could do him harm. And so he was fearful when he had to walk through them. He did it, because that was what Ta Penh required of him. But the fact he accepted the job was a sign of his strong nerve. He was only afraid of one man in this world; and it wasn’t the one who was pointing the gun at him. He looked straight down the barrel, as though for all the world it was him who was aiming it at the guard.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘What’s your name,’ the guard replied. ‘I’m holding the gun, so it’s me who asks the questions.’
‘You know my name,’ Lim told him. ‘They write my name in history.’
He voice was icy and menacing, far from the subservient tone he adopted when he was talking to Ta Penh. He spoke slowly and quietly, so that all the other men fell deathly silent. The guard readjusted his grip on the rifle, but he didn’t lower it.
‘Do you know where this gun comes from?’ Lim asked, and if his voice had been cold to begin with, it dropped a couple of extra degrees.
The guard opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it.
‘It comes from the glorious revolution,’ Lim said. ‘From a time before you were born, when Ta Penh and I fought shoulder to shoulder until we won a great victory. I have killed more people with a gun like this than you can possibly imagine. Thousands of people. Mountains of people.’
The guard pulled the rifle back from Lim’s face slightly, and the barrel shook as his hand trembled.
‘I have fought for so long at the side of Ta Penh, I may take certain privileges. I have killed so many people for our cause and sacrificed so much that I am under no obligation to undergo your schoolboy searches. I choose to submit myself to the humiliation out of respect to Ta Penh.’
All at once, the young man dropped the rifle to his side and stood up a little taller. Ta Penh himself had appeared at Lim’s side. He studied each man for a moment and then nodded to the gnarled old soldier who had followed him across the clearing. Then he put an arm around Lim and ushered him back towards the wooden house hidden under the canopy.
‘Why are you back so soon?’ he asked. ‘Problems?’
‘Developments,’ Lim said. ‘Things that I do not understand.’
They spoke no more until they were inside the house. They sat at a low table in the middle of the room, and Ta Penh poured tea for both of them, and a third cup which he placed carefully in front of the empty chair. When they were settled, Lim pulled the black cloth bag from his pocket and slid it across the table to the old man.
‘Chhan,’ he said.
Ta Penh reached out for it, and Lim noticed the liver spots on his hands and the yellowing of his nails. His own hands were going the same way. He could not hold them quite as steadily as he used to, and the veins were more prominent under thinning skin. They were both getting older.
‘Did he complain much?’ Ta Penh asked. He peered into the bag before folding the material over and placing it to one side.
‘He’s dead.’
Lim recounted the story; the killing of the girl, how Chhan had died in the alleyway after Lim had taken his eye, and how Rith had met a similar fate. Then he told the old man the strangest part; how he had watched the tourist emerge from the alleyway and followed him, and how he had found the dead girl alive in the beach hut.
‘The girl is in Kampot Prison,’ Lim offered. ‘If she knows where the money is, I can make her talk.’
Ta Penh held up his hand.
‘She knows where the money is,’ he said. ‘And in time she will tell us where it is. But the money is not important. Right now I have thirty barrels of sassafras oil waiting to be processed. Each one will make us two million dollars by the time it hits the streets. What’s a million dollars? A million dollars can wait. What we need is the Kun Krak.’
Lim glanced at the empty chair. He knew why it was empty. And it scared him.
‘Yes, my old friend,’ Ta Penh said heavily, seeing his gaze. ‘You can feel it the same as me. Things are happening that should not be happening. Find the Kun Krak, and everything will return to normal.’
‘Should I follow the witch or the tourist?’ Lim asked.
Ta Penh smiled.
‘Are you sure that the girl is a witch?’ he asked. ‘The tourist killed Rith and Chhan. Maybe it is him who raised the girl from the dead? Maybe he is a sorcerer?’
Lim nodded at the old man’s wisdom and drank some tea while he considered this new perspective.
‘Go after the tourist,’ Ta Penh continued. ‘Find out where he fits into all of this. I will go to the jail and pay a visit to the girl. She had a job to do. I will find out for myself why she hasn’t done it.’
Lim put his cup down.
‘You will go?’ he said. ‘Yourself?’
Ta Penh stood up and walked over to the window. The clearing and the trees had faded to the browns and blacks that Lim knew well, and the fires were glowing in the dusk.
‘
Nothing is safe until we find the box,’ he said. ‘We need to take risks to secure our future, just like the old days. Who do we know at the prison?’
Lim thought for a moment.
‘Maybe three of the guards are loyal.’
Ta Penh nodded.
‘Okay. Make sure they are working tomorrow evening, and I will visit once the sky is dark. Nobody will see me, except for the prisoners. I will take my tools with me. It will be like the old days.’
Lim smiled weakly. Most people wanted to forget the horrors of the old days. Most of them, the ones who had made it to Lim’s age, spent long lonely nights trying to justify to their old souls what they had done as young men. But not Ta Penh. He had always had a special taste for their work. And for all Lim had thrown his fortunes in with him right from the early days, he still wondered sometimes if the old man had much of a soul at all.
‘And did you phone New York yet?’
Lim swallowed.
‘With everything else that happened last night...’
Ta Penh held his hand up.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But do it.’
‘As soon as I get back,’ Lim promised, and he turned and headed for the door.
‘Lim?’ Ta Penh called him back. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem,’ Lim replied, trying not to let his surprise show. He couldn’t remember the last time Ta Penh had expressed gratitude for anything. As he walked back through the churned mud clearing, Lim’s head swam. The gnarled old soldier was still outside, tending to one of the ceaseless fires. He was thumping a sapling trunk into the kiln below one of the cauldrons. Some of the branches were causing him trouble, springing back out of the heat each time the soldier jammed them in. It wasn’t until Lim was right next to the fire that he realized the branches had fingers. They were the same fingers that had been on the trigger pointing the Kalashnikov at him half an hour earlier. The guard was blackened and charred, but still clawing at the side of the kiln door to pull himself out. Each time he got close to the fresh air, the soldier rammed him back in with the tree trunk.