by Medina, KT
‘Can I help you?’ From the corridor to the left, a middle-aged Khmer woman had appeared. She was a head shorter than Tess, straight black hair cut into a neat bob and a gentle, open face. She was dressed in plain black shirt and black trousers: practical clothing.
‘Sue-saw-day.’ Tess held out her hand. ‘I’m Tess. Tess Hardy.’
‘Sue-saw-day.’ The woman shook it. ‘My name is Chanthou Long. I run the orphanage.’
Tess indicated Alex. ‘And this is my, uh, my friend, Alexander Bauer.’
The woman smiled and gave a half-nod towards Alex but made no move to take his hand.
‘We just wanted to talk with you, if you have a moment.’
‘Of course. Please.’ She turned.
Tess followed, down a narrow, dimly lit corridor which cut through the centre of the building. Doors opened off either side of it at intervals of a couple of metres, some closed, others ajar. Tess glanced into the rooms as they passed. Four metal-framed bunk beds were laid tightly together in each room, crammed into the four-metre-square space. The beds were mostly occupied, some children squashed together in sleep, others sitting on the floor, playing with plastic toys and chattering. They passed a room full of cots: twenty or more babies lying like little brown dolls, silent and unmoving.
They were quickly encircled by a clamorous pack of little children, in torn, stained T-shirts or dirty sagging shorts, but never, it seemed, both. The children pulled at Tess’s clothing, their little hands finding their way into her pockets, grabbing at her legs, trying to hold her hands.
Chanthou turned and tried to shoo them away, but Tess smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s fine.’
She clasped the hand of one little girl – four or five, she must have been – and the little girl grew a couple of centimetres in height in the short walk down the corridor, swelling with pride at being singled out for adult contact, her face split into a huge grin. Tess smiled down at the others, patted a couple gently on the arms, but kept walking, feeling as if she was pushing through a tide of children. She glanced behind her at Alex; he looked uncomfortable with the attention. He had his hand pressed to his stomach and for a moment Tess didn’t understand why, until she realised he was trying to keep the children from grabbing at his Browning.
The room they entered was large and in contrast to the hall and corridor, the air was cool and fresh. Double doors in the far wall opened out on to a patch of grass behind the building, where Tess could see a plastic swing set and slide, and a large window at the front looked on to the courtyard where they had parked. A few small children played on the slide, while others lolled on the grass in the sun. An elderly white woman was sitting under a tree, reading a book to a group of older children.
‘Please.’ Chanthou sat down behind a large teak desk covered in papers and indicated a chair across from her; it was the only other one in the room. ‘Sit down.’
Tess sat. She could sense Alex hovering somewhere behind her.
‘We don’t get many visitors out here, and particularly not Barang . . . Westerners,’ she corrected. She had a pleasant, almost melodious voice and spoke English virtually without an accent. ‘How can I help you?’
‘This might sound a little strange, but one of my friends met a Khmer woman, Jorani Yathay, in England – that’s where I come from. She’s . . . she’s working there. She said that she had left her son Dien in Cambodia, that he might be in an orphanage. My friend promised her that he would find out what had happened to her son. He asked me if I could look for him, make sure that the little boy was OK.’ Tess slid the printed photograph across the desk.
Chanthou took it. She was silent for a few moments. When she looked back up, Tess saw that her expression had changed.
‘Yes, her son is here. He has been here for a couple of months, ever since his mother—’ She tailed off. ‘His mother . . . she was a young single mother, living in a rural village near one of the huge minefields, out west of Battambang. She left . . . three months or so ago.’
‘Left?’
‘Disappeared. She is one of the disappeared. You’ve heard?’
Tess nodded.
‘Taken,’ Chanthou continued in a murmur. ‘By the . . . by—’
‘By the White Crocodile?’
Chanthou blushed. ‘It is ridiculous to believe these tales in this modern day, but they are buried deep.’ Pressing her hand to her chest, she continued. ‘Somewhere right in here, the heart, not unfortunately up here –’ she raised her hand and tapped a finger on her forehead – ‘where logic and reason would enable us to see sense. Come and I will show you where he is. He is one of my favourites. So little to be left.’ She shook her head. ‘So little.’
Chanthou led them back down the corridor, shooing the children out of the way as she went, and across the hallway into another, almost identical corridor. She walked slowly, reaching back to touch Tess on the arm, talking non-stop about the orphanage, the challenges they faced: the lack of interest from most Khmers in the children’s plight and the lack of money to do anything but keep the children as clean and well fed as they could, and teach them to read and write, little else.
‘We have some Western donors – small charities which support a number of Cambodian orphanages and send Westerners over here to work. And your Bob MacSween, of course. He comes here on a Sunday, once a month or so, to help out with odd jobs. And he gives us what money he can.’
‘MacSween?’ Tess couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘How did you know that we were from MCT?’
‘The Land Cruiser. The MCT logo. MacSween always drives an MCT Land Cruiser when he comes here.’
‘And he’s given you money?’
‘Not much.’ She smiled. ‘But when you have as little as we do, every cent is precious.’
Tess glanced back at Alex, but he didn’t seem to have heard. He was walking a few paces behind, his gaze cast to the floor, his mind somewhere else entirely by the look of him.
She looked back to Chanthou, who had stopped.
‘In here,’ she said, pushing a door open.
This room, like the others, was oven-hot and crammed with small bodies pressed tightly together in a mosquito-bitten, overheated, testy doze. In the far corner of the room, beneath the window, was what Tess thought for a second was a little brown dog curled in sleep. But when she crossed the room, she realised that it was a little boy, limbs curled into his chest, hands pressed tightly together, and twitching slightly as if he was dreaming.
‘That’s him – Dien,’ Chanthou whispered from the doorway. She didn’t seem fazed that he was asleep on the floor and when Tess knelt by the boy she realised why. Though it was dirty, it was also cool – the deep, permanent cool of concrete.
Dien had thought that he heard the dried boards of their hut creaking as they withered and shrank in the heat, but the sounds had faded as he drifted back to sleep. It was only when he heard his mother’s voice calling his name that he opened his eyes. His mother was kneeling on the floor next to him.
Dien sat up. He reached his arms out for his mother.
‘Meak,’ Mummy, he said, and he smiled dozily waiting for her to fold him into her arms, to hug him. Like a cat, Dien, like a cat.
Tess heard his sleepy mumble, watched the range of emotions playing across Dien’s face as he sensed her presence and began to wake: happiness, the corners of his soft mouth tilting upwards, then his forehead furrowed and he seemed to lose himself for a moment in uncertainty. He looked up at her and his eyes, unfocused with sleep, met hers.
‘Meak.’ Mummy. A huge smile spread across his face as he uncurled, his arms stretching out to her. ‘Meak. Meak.’ Mummy. There was something clutched in his fingers, a gold necklace bearing a tiny purple amethyst in the shape of a heart. He was trying to give it to her, she realised. She put her hand out and touched his arm, shook him gently to try to wake him fully.
‘No. I’m not your mummy, sweetheart.’ And she watched as he finally remembered where he was, why he was he
re. Recognised that moment between sleep and full cognisance where the brain was still living in the past – a self-constructed, dreamlike, perfect past – before reality cut in. Saw the joy at believing he was still safe at home with his mother fade into naked fear as reality dawned.
48
Alex turned the Land Cruiser on to the main road. The potholed tarmac felt smooth after the rigid hammering of the track. In the distance Tess could see the white prefabricated terminal building at Battambang airport, shrouded by the trees ringing the runway. She rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Chanthou’s words came into her mind: And your Bob MacSween, of course. He gives us what money he can.
She opened her eyes. ‘Alex, Chanthou told us MacSween gives money to the orphanage. Why would he do that?’
Alex shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t you give them money if you had any to give?’
‘That’s not the point. MacSween is obsessed about mine clearing and he’s always complaining that we don’t have enough money to do the things he wants to do. So why is he giving money away, even if it is for a great cause?’
‘Because he has been there and seen the place. He’s seen the place and he’s human.’
‘But in his mind mine clearing is the most important cause of all. Lots of those kids in the orphanage are only there because their parents have been killed by land mines. It . . . it—’ She tailed off as she remembered more of Chanthou’s words – the Land Cruiser, the MCT logo – and with them rose, unbidden, an image of a little girl standing by a minefield in the fading light, the curtain of her hair falling across her face, whispering something about the Crocodile.
She twisted around to face Alex. ‘The little girl that was killed by the butterfly mine, the one who tried to warn me about the White Crocodile. She was talking about the Crocodile and night-time. But she also used another word that I didn’t understand. I just dismissed her. I said that I was a mine clearer and that I knew what I was doing. But now, I don’t know. She could see that I was a mine clearer because I had my kit on and I arrived in an MCT Land Cruiser. She would have seen MCT mine clearers in that field and would have known that we know about the White Crocodile. She must have been trying to tell me something else.’
Alex glanced across. ‘What word didn’t you understand?’
‘I, uh . . . oh God, let me think.’ Shutting her eyes, she pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead, physically willing the word to come. The little girl whispering: Whie Crocodil, night-night. The curtain of her hair falling across her face. The scars on her upper arm ridged and ugly like elastic. Tess dropped her hands to her lap. ‘Laan something.’
‘Laan ch’nual?’
Tess closed her eyes again, focusing her whole being on an image of the little girl, her lips moving, her voice as quiet as the whisper of wind. ‘Say that word again, Alex.’
‘Laan ch’nual?’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. Yes, definitely. What does it mean?’
‘It means bus.’
‘Bus?’
‘Bus. A large vehicle that carries people.’
‘Yes, all right, ha, ha. White Crocodile – night-time – bus.’ She said the words slowly, fighting for clear thought. They were drawing close to the airport. Just ahead and to the right the thin black line of the runway cut through the trees. ‘White Crocodile bus came in the night-time.’ On either side of the runway the military hardware was rippling in the intense heat, which had not dissipated with the onset of evening. At the end of the line were the two civilian helicopters. Came to do what? – she thought, then a second after – oh, Christ – as clarity flooded the places where a moment ago there had been none.
‘Stop at the airport, Alex.’
‘What?’
‘Stop at the airport. It’s Sunday afternoon. The guy who flies the MCT helicopter got back from holiday last night. I need to speak to him because he answered our radio transmission requesting the emergency helicopter to evacuate Johnny, and he also must have taken the transmission from whoever cancelled it. And the bus, it must be a Land Cruiser. For a child, a Land Cruiser would seem huge.’
He glanced across and she saw the understanding in his eyes. ‘No, Tess. He can’t be the Crocodile.’
49
December 1990, England
The man grabbed the little boy’s arm and dragged him towards the sofa.
‘Hello kitten.’ His mother smiled. She was lolling back on the sofa, naked. There was sticky gunk on her thighs. ‘Were you spying on us?’
The little boy looked up at her, frozen with shock. Tears had made white tracks through the dirt on his cheeks.
‘No, Mummy.’
‘You’re as good a liar as your mum, you are,’ the man said.
‘Mummy,’ he sobbed. ‘Please Mummy—’
The man was very angry and the little boy knew he was also drunk, could smell it on his breath. He knew that drink made people angrier, made them hit harder. The man held him tight by the arm and punched him in the mouth. The little boy’s head slammed backwards and he tasted blood. The man punched him hard in the side of the head, and once more in the stomach. The little boy doubled up, sobbing.
The man was very matter-of-fact about his violence, as if he was used to doing it and it was no big deal. He let the boy drop to the floor, and disappeared from the room. The little boy was on his hands and knees, and he was shaking and crying and trying to crawl to his mother.
‘Mummy—’
His mother reached over and her hands fluttered over his cheeks where the man had hit him. Then she gently smoothed his hair back with one hand. She wasn’t looking at him, the little boy realised, but past him, into the shadows in the hallway, gaze unfocused.
When the man came back in he was carrying the broom handle. He walked over and smacked the little boy in the ribs with it, knocking him flat.
‘Mummy, help me,’ he said, trying to get up, but the man hit him again, knocking him back down, and through his tears he saw her watching, an odd little smile on her face.
50
Those voices. They were ghosts’ voices.
‘You’re going to die,’ they whispered.
Johnny sat up. It had been day, but now it was dark. Night had come. He thought he’d been awake, but he must have drifted off. He was imagining the voices, he knew he was imagining them.
Sitting on the floor, his back to the sofa, he couldn’t keep himself quite upright. He was aware of the smell of vomit and he thought it must have come from him, that he had thrown up, but he wasn’t sure, couldn’t remember. He felt feverishly hot. He couldn’t feel his hand, but his arm throbbed.
‘What do you think happens next?’ the ghosts whispered.
His gaze snapped around him. He felt his lips moving, trying to form words, to answer. Sounds came from his mouth, but something in his brain must have been broken because he couldn’t seem to assemble the sounds into anything sensible.
‘. . . leavemealoneImeanitleavemealone . . .’
He tried to stand but his good leg wouldn’t respond. Didn’t matter, he could still get to the door, check the door was locked. Pressing his throbbing bandaged hand to the floor, biting back the pain, he dragged himself forward. He felt the flesh tearing in his palm, heard the pop of scabs, noticed, in some small part of his rational brain, the stench of decaying meat, but in three pathetic lunges he was there, grasping the door handle, tugging it, checking the lock, drawing the curtain tight. He dragged himself around the rest of the room, reaching up to pull the shutters closed, locking them, lurching from one to the next, checking, checking, frantically checking.
‘We’re already here,’ the ghosts whispered.
Johnny jammed his eyes closed, the darkness in his head flashing and flickering. I’m imagining it. It’s a dream. For God’s sake, leave me alone. Scrabbling for purchase, his good leg cycling manically, trying to get a foothold on the wooden boards, he flung himself blindly bac
k against the sofa. He could hear panting, whimpering. Fumbling around on the floor, he found his pistol, closed his hand around it, felt the pain in his hand, almost unbearable, but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go.
Had to protect himself . . .
Close by someone started screaming something in a thick voice he couldn’t understand. ‘LeavemeleavemealoneImeanitpleasepleaseleavemealone.’
He wrenched in a breath and this time he heard the words clearly. The voice. His voice.
‘Leave me alone, I don’t deserve this, I don’t, please, Jesus have mercy.’
*
As he turned the Land Cruiser into the airport car park, Alex’s mobile rang. Cutting the engine, he pulled it from his pocket. Tess watched his face darken as he listened to the voice – a man’s voice, she could hear from the muffled tone. She could also hear from the pace and the rise and fall in timbre that whoever was speaking was very upset.
‘That was Johnny,’ he said, tossing his phone on to the dashboard. ‘He’s shot his next-door neighbour’s dog. He’s lost it. I have to go.’
*
MacSween sat at his desk in silence, staring blankly at his computer screen, a bottle of Glenfiddich at his elbow. The heat was intense, the pressure in the air made his head throb and he couldn’t get rid of the feeling, no matter how many shots he downed – or maybe, he pondered with a sick dry chuckle, because of them. His gaze drifted down to his blotter, to the note laid on top of it.
Had an email from Huan. Going to meet him. Wasn’t time to radio you, so went alone. Will report back.
It hadn’t been Huan.
‘You’ve got to call the police in,’ Tess had told him. And she had been right, of course. Irrefutable logic. A logic that he had denied for too long, because he had known what would happen to MCT if he acknowledged it.