John followed the old man's gaze with his hand. The hair on his head was caked with blood. "Jesus. I thought they'd missed."
The man poured water from his canteen onto the wound and searched through the hair. There was no pain until the brigadier sloshed the wound with a strong antiseptic.
"It must be hair blood. There's barely a scratch on your scalp."
"You'd better check for holes. It could have gone in one side and out the other."
They laughed a kind of delirious, exhausted laugh, collapsed to the damp grassy ground, and leaned against their packs. John looked at the wiry old soldier opposite. His duty done, his work finished, he had changed out of his stealth and power and back into his frailty like a jungle Superman.
"The torch light?" John asked. "How could you have been so sure it wasn't one of your own people?"
The brigadier laughed. "We're Karen, Jim Junior. We aren't so foolish as to light ourselves up while we're under attack. Only an arrogant SLORC would do something like that. And now, no more questions. My old body needs rest." He slid down the bundle to a green mattress of leaves and weeds, and was snoring before John could wish him pleasant dreams.
John found a soft patch and settled down, also. The last thing he remembered was the arrival of the first milky strand of sunlight. It passed like a spear between the branches above his head. It was like a memo from God, reminding him of how narrowly the bullet had spared him. He said thank you, and slept.
32
Bruce stormed out of the tutor's office as he had many times before. He forgot to slam the door, so he went back and did it. The man was a fool. How could you learn from someone too opinionated to open their eyes to alternatives? But, that was the point of formal education wasn't it. If you wanted a sham qualification like a Ph.D. you had to play the sham rules set by sham people. The skill wasn't in knowing. It was in knowing what they wanted. It was in sacrificing pride for long enough to get that shammed-up bit of paper that made everyone suddenly take notice of your alternative opinions.
'Dr. Bruce believes that. . . .'
You have to be royalty to overthrow the kings.
He dragged his overripe and bruised intellect out to the car park and unchained his luminous yellow mountain bike from the “No Bicycles” sign.
The University of Reading campus at Whiteknights had rustically ignored the suburban mess that was already becoming dilapidated. around it. He sped out of one of the back gates into traffic and raised a finger at the Saab that almost smacked into him.
The frantic cycle into town cooled his temper. By the time he rounded the corner into the cul-de-sac behind the old biscuit factory, he was almost charming. He was renting a place in a terrace of houses so narrow it resembled a shelf of encyclopedias. He lived in D to G. There was a pile of circulars on the doormat. Nothing was of interest apart from the postcard.
It had a printed logo and letterhead from Kingston upon Thames Police Station. In neat handwriting, there was a request to contact Inspector Patel as soon as possible in reference to his brother-in-law. Bruce's heart thumped. It could only mean one thing. First their mother, now John. He dialed the number on the card. It was a mobile.
"Yes?"
"Inspector Patel please."
"Ah, yes. Speaking." It was a cultured but unplaceable accent. From the name, Bruce assumed it had Indian origins. He introduced himself.
"Ah, Mr. Fossel. I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you."
"John?"
"I'm sorry to say he has become the latest victim of this maniac. He died this afternoon, horribly."
"Oh Shit. I thought he was overseas."
There was silence for a few seconds.
"Yes. He just got back. He flew in this morning. Do you happen to know where he'd been?"
"Thailand I believe."
"Really? How fascinating. Er . . . we've been trying to contact his sister to inform her. But it appears she's gone away. I was wondering how we could get in touch with her."
Bruce's mind was racing. "With Susan. . . ? Right. That isn't easy."
"Do you have a number for her, or an address?"
"No. But she'll be calling me tomorrow evening. I can tell her."
"Is she in the country? I'm afraid, as the last blood relative, she'll have to identify the body."
"Well, Inspector, I'm sure you realize what danger she's in. She's much safer where she is."
"That's just it, Mr. Fossel. I'm not sure she is. The retired police superintendent who arranged her . . . departure, has also sadly joined the list of victims."
"Jesus."
"There's only one more step to finding her. Believe me, she’d be much better off under police custody. We have a system in place to look after her, and her son, and you too for that matter."
"No. I'm a bit nuts me. You couldn't lock me up. I'd save him the trouble and top myself." And he wasn't exactly sure why he added, ". . . and my French is shithouse." Les Sables was a distraction they’d come up with to confuse outsiders. There was another pause.
"Well. When she calls you tomorrow, I’d be grateful if you could tell her about her brother, and also about the offer of police protection. You may be irresponsible about your own life, but you have a family to consider. Don't gamble with their lives, Mr. Fossel. You know how to reach me. I'm away from the station most of the time, but you can reach me at this number 24 hours. I am so sorry to be a bearer of bad tidings. Good day to you."
A lot of things about the call disturbed Bruce. He went into the one-elbow-room kitchenette and made a pot of tea so he could think. When it was properly stewed, he eased himself into the living room furniture, a black PVC beanbag, and blew across the surface of the Earl Grey.
Inspector Patel, with his lovely BBC-Foreign-Service English. He was indeed a bearer of bad tidings. But he was also one bloody smart detective. How did he find him, this Sherlock of the subcontinent? Nobody had Bruce’s address. He got all his mail sent to the uni PO Box. And how did Patel know that Aunt Maud was helping them? They kept that a secret even from Emma.
He sipped at the tea, put down the mug, and prodded the numbers on his cellphone. He wasn't the mobile type, but John had bought it for him to keep in touch with Susan when he went away. He'd already lost it twice. Just the day before, he'd misplaced it in the library. The librarian had found it buzzing on a shelf. It lately seemed to be losing a number of its functions in his company. He had that effect on all things regimented.
"Call me an old cynic, but you should never trust brilliance in unlikely places," he said to himself as directory enquiries answered.
"Oh, hi. Could you give me the number for Kingston upon Thames Police Station please. . . ."
He wrote it down on the linoleum.
He may have been throwing away his valuable student grant on mobile phone bills, but . . . . “Hello? Kingston Police Station? Could I speak to Inspector Patel please. . . . What. . . .? Oh. When will he be back. . . ? I see. No thanks. I'll call back later."
Well then. That was that.
33
John slept the sleep of a man passed away. Waking should have been like rising from the dead. Except he couldn't exactly rise. He was Gulliver and the Lilliputians had tied his body to the ground with twine.
"I really need to get into better shape," he told himself. After the unprecedented exertions of the previous night, his body was undergoing a muscle-boycott. Nothing he could do would elevate him from the ground. He crunched his neck to the left and right. He was alone. His colleague and their packs were gone. It was overcast late afternoon or early evening. His sky was a dome of leaves. He was surprised to hear a familiar voice at his feet.
"Well, ain't you a sorry sight."
John used his hand to raise his head.
Norbert, propped up against a tree, was smoking something natural. "Excuse me if I don't get up."
"I leave you alone for a day and look at the mess you get yourself into."
"You told me the SLORC don't att
ack in the rainy season." He rolled painfully on to his stomach like a beetle righting itself, and rose into a crouch. From there he was able to creak to a standing position.
Norbert thought this was hilarious. "Boy, I'd like to see you in combat. Two-week campaigns. No sleep."
"I'd adapt." He staggered over to his friend, who handed him some fruit from his pack.
"What happened, Norbert?"
"Nobody understands it. It was totally unexpected. That's why security was so lax. They’d never have got so close so fast in the dry season. It was a crack unit, not your regular teenaged draftees. They didn't open fire until they were spotted, so the theory is they were aiming to get in, do some damage, and get out again without starting a battle."
"So why did we run?"
"Oh, there was plenty of 'em. Once they was spotted, they wasn't about to leave a thank-you note and go home."
"What do you think they wanted to do?"
"They could have been an assassination or a kidnap unit."
"Who do you think they were after?"
"We thought for a while it was you."
"Me?"
"Sure. They didn't know who you are. If one of their spies spotted you, they would have assumed you was a foreign advisor. Good politics to capture a foreigner helping the enemy. It would embarrass the hell out of your government."
"Oops." He leant back against the tree, unpeeled the mystery fruit, and bit into it. "Aaahh! Shit!"
"Watch the stones."
"Now you tell me. Okay. But you're not convinced it was me they were after."
"You ain't completely out of the reckoning. But someone heard something during the skirmish. One of their officers called out for the men not to shoot any women."
"So?"
"Not good cricket, what, old boy. . . ? John your boys might not kill women and children, but the Burmese didn't learn them rules. They slaughter anyone outside a SLORC uniform. So it was weird they should spare the women."
"Rape?"
"It was too far to come for sex slaves; too risky."
"So, was there a woman important enough to stage a raid for?"
"The Karen have been chewing that one over. There weren't any decision-makers out here. No wives of high-ranking officials. You figure it."
John thought about Shirley. But she was just a young doctor. Why would they be after her? The smoke from Norbert's weed wafted up into John's face. It had a sweet, sickly smell.
"Is that an illicit substance?"
"Not in this precinct. Want one. . . ? He opened his pack to reveal several more neatly rolled leaves. He handed one to John and threw his Bic into the air. John's reflexes weren't up to it. It dropped back into Norbert's hand.
"What about your trip? Did you get anything apart from fruit and dope?"
"You bet. I managed to piece together your pa's last mission. I met the guide who took him to Te Pao."
"Good stuff. What did he go there for?"
"That, he didn't know. But we do have a candidate for your nutter."
John sat beside Norbert. "Tell me."
"His name’s General Bohmu Din. ‘Bohmu’ actually means 'major,' but as he earned his reputation when he was a major, I guess the title stuck as a nickname. He was the regional SLORC field commander for the Taungoo area when the Karen were still active up there. He was real scary stuff. Even his own men were afraid of him. He was into everything; no scruples, no morals, no rules. He climbed the ranks from a vigilante unit that terrorized the villages. They tortured suspected KNU sympathizers and their relatives, raped girls, burned crops. You name it."
"The kind of guy who’d be very pissed off if you got the better of him."
"Right."
"But we have no idea why dad went there?"
"None at all. But we are sure the soldiers that delivered Jim's pieces to the Thai border were from Bohmu Din's old unit."
"Bingo. So we have a suspect."
"Well, we don't actually got him."
"Why not?"
"He left the region ten years ago."
"Out or up?"
"Up. The loved him. Or, at least they loved his record. He got recalled to Rangoon. They pinned some shiny frying pans on his chest and drafted him into the machine."
"So, he's in Rangoon?"
"Could be. That's as far as the trail took me. Next part is up to you."
"Me?"
"There's a list of persona no go at the airport in Rangoon. The names on it are so hot, the smiley lady at Immigration would pull out her old .44 and blow off the head of anyone on it. My name's at the top. But nobody knows you there. We're heading back to Chiang Mai in the morning. You can rest up there and fly direct."
"Into the valley of death."
They puffed on their weeds.
"That was probably like a famous English quotation, right?"
"Something like that."
"You Limeys are so cultured." They both laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.
"It's good shit, ain't it."
"Rather."
34
At 7:00 p.m., Susan phoned Bruce from the regular call box on the main road.
"Hi, lover."
"Hello, Mrs. Bruce. How's ’Cognito?"
"Glorious. How's ’Cademia?"
"Excruciating. But one more month of this tutorial hell and I can ensconce myself away with you and Eddo. How's the unborn?"
"She's kicking, Bruce. I think she wants to get out of there. Eddo's having conversations with her already."
"He okay?"
"Are you okay, our son?"
Eddo took the phone. Hello, Bruce."
"Wotcha cock. How's the palace?"
"It isn't a palace. It's a staply home." Susan corrected him. "A stately home. When you coming, Bruce? I've got some great worms."
"I'm envious."
"What's envious?"
"It's like jealous but greener."
"Ow. There's a fire truck. Can you hear it? Gotta go. Bye, Bruce.
"Bye, Ed—"
"Well, there he goes chasing the fire truck."
"He'll probably catch it. . . . Sue, love. Something peculiar happened yesterday."
"Anything bad?"
"It could have been a lot worse. I got a phone call from a police officer called Patel. I have no idea how he found me. He told me some things I didn't want to hear."
"Oh God, Bruce. What?"
"Don't panic. I'll tell you later. The important thing was, I got bad vibes from the dude, so I phoned the station. There really is an Inspector Patel, so I figured it was legitimate. Normally, I would have left it there. But this Pao thing's been spooking me. Some serious paranoia was cast upon me."
"Bruce, get to the bloody point."
"Sorry. So I called back later, and this Patel bloke was there this time. And get this, it wasn't the same guy."
"What?"
"No. The one that phoned me sounded like a BBC newsreader from the sixties. The real Patel has a thick Brummie accent. He's not even on the Te Pao case."
"Damn."
"Exactly. Like, so I tell him the story and he's on to the Yard, and an hour later I've got a house full of real detectives detecting all over the bloody place, drinking my tea, sitting on my chair—"
"Did they get him?"
"No. They called the mobile number on the card, but there was no signal. That was weird too, because he was expecting a call from me. The Old Bill reckon he must have been watching me. So, you won't believe this. They've only put me up at the Hyatt, haven't they. Slept in a real bed last night. It's stimulating in an 'edge of tragedy' kind of way. I guess you don't want to know all the bull he told me to tell you."
"Too right I don't." Eddo was back from chasing fire engines. "Do you want to say anything else to Bruce. . . ? No. . . ? Okay. Give me five minutes. We'll stop off at Big C on the way back and get some Cadbury’s eggs. Bruce?"
"Yup."
Listen, lover, I know you're an independent, stubborn son of a pig, but
do me . . . do us a favour. I can sleep much better if I know you're safe. He's found you once. He can find you again. Stay out of his way. Don't go flashing yourself around Reading like some slice-me-up advert."
Bruce thought it best not to mention he'd spent the day at the library. Or that he rode his bike there. Or that the police were really pissed off that they'd lost him.
"I want my brains tested," she went on. "But I love you I guess. I want to grow old and hairy with you. Promise me?"
"Well, there are only limited supplies in the fridge in the room. . . ."
"Bruce."
"I promise."
"Thanks. I was planning to call Maud after this, but Eddo's getting frisky so I'll hold off till tomorrow."
"Shit." Bruce was hoping not to have to say anything about that. The detectives had followed up on the news about CSI Maudling, and the local police officer had dropped by to find him still hanging from the verandah door. The birds hadn't left much of him.
"Susan."
"Yes, honey? What? What is it?"
"Aunt Maud copped it."
She felt sick to her stomach.
"Mother. That's six minutes," he heard his son say. There was no reply. Bruce waited.
"Sue?"
"I gotta go. I love you. I'll call Thursday." And she hung up.
Bruce dropped the phone into his shirt pocket and slumped onto the bed. He wasn't being much help. Susan was the strongest, the ballsiest woman he'd ever known, but this all had to be getting to her. He decided to stuff the tutorials. When she called back, he'd find out where she was, and go and be with them. It was time to be a husband and a father.
Meanwhile, the room that had been cool the day before was starting to get claustrophobic. It had everything—cable TV, posture friendly mattress, hair-drier—and was all paid for out of the national taxes he'd somehow never got around to contributing to. But it was confinement. The cop downstairs in reception was the lock.
He turned on the TV and took another beer from the tiny fridge that seemed to produce an endless supply. But after ten minutes of Touched by an Angel, he was climbing the curtains: strangled by gratuitous luxury and tasteless entertainment.
Evil in the Land Without Page 14