Slash and Burn

by Colin Cotterill

  There appeared to be no end to the American rations. This evening’s meal was some sort of instant lasagna—tasty but a test for false teeth. There were ever-present bottles of Johnny Red but even Civilai was slowing down on the alcohol input. Too much of a good thing.

  “Where’s our Major Disaster tonight?” Daeng asked.

  “Probably double-checking his dynamite stock,” Phosy told her.

  “I rather suspect he’s avoiding the senator,” Siri added. “I know I would if I were in his boots.”

  “Do you think he’s all right?” Dtui asked. “I mean, what if he’s had a heart attack? He’s normally really fond of his food. I think someone should go and take a look.”

  Civilai got to his feet.

  “Bravo, mon frère,” said Siri.

  “I was just going to the bathroom,” said Civilai. “It could be quite a while. My bladder has a mind of its own these days.”

  “At your age you should be grateful for a mind wherever you can find it,” Siri laughed.

  Civilai walked through the diners and did a little dance to the Carpenters soundtrack for the benefit of the Americans. They clapped. Most of the guests had gravitated back to their own kind. In fact the only mixed grouping was Auntie Bpoo and Dr. Yamaguchi who were engaged in an intimate discussion on a rear table. She’d finally got him alone and he didn’t appear to be too fazed by the attention.

  When Civilai returned to the table he seemed somewhat distracted.

  “How is he?” Dtui asked.

  “What?”

  “The major,” she reminded him. “You were going to knock on his door.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re right. I was, wasn’t I. I … damn. I completely forgot.”

  “Bananas,” said Madame Daeng.

  “Eh?”

  “They’re good for the memory.”

  “Yes. Yes, right,” he said, and sat down with no apparent inclination to go back and rectify his lapse. Siri noted his friend had returned from the bathroom a slightly different man to the one who had left them a little while before. Something was wrong.

  As a good deal of Johnny Red was called for to wash down the chewy lasagna, everyone drank more than they needed to that evening. After an hour, the major still had not emerged. Dtui went to knock on his door but got no answer. In Siri’s mind, something profound was happening. Time appeared to be changing pace, a gallop here, a legless drag there. As they got closer to the dark hours after 9:00 P.M., everyone seemed to drink faster and speak like chipmunks. He felt as if he was the only constant amid all this stop–start action. He was unnaturally alert. The whiskey wasn’t having its usual effect. There were times when he felt as if his chair was a meter higher than all those around him. He scanned the dining room and could see everything in great detail. The white talisman vibrated against his chest. He didn’t need to turn around to know that Auntie Bpoo was staring at him from the rear table. There was a sudden connection between them as if she were holding a rope, the end of which was tied around his waist, tugging. He wondered whether this was the moment of his demise; perhaps a strip of lasagna had wedged in his throat and choked him. If so, it was a calm death; one observed rather than experienced. He turned to look at Bpoo but she shook her head. “Not yet, Siri. Not yet.”

  When he turned back to the table, a remarkable thing had happened. It was as if the restaurant had been edited. The film had skipped several dozen frames and jumped from a full, noisy dining room to a room half-empty. He had no recollection of how and when the majority of the guests had left but only a few stragglers remained. The head table was empty now and most of the Americans had gone. Daeng sat beside him and the diehard Lao opposite. He turned to see the empty table where a few seconds before he’d shared a moment with Auntie Bpoo.

  “Are you all right?” Daeng asked him.

  Her hand was on his. Dtui was laughing at something Phosy had said. Civilai was showing Geung a fork trick. Siri couldn’t organize his thoughts. His lungs were heavy as if he’d undergone some physical exertion. His fingers were cold and he had a peculiar scent in his nostrils. What was it? Turnips?

  “I think so,” Siri told her.

  “You’ve been very quiet,” she said.

  “Daeng?”

  “Yes, my husband?”

  “I’m going to ask you an odd question. I don’t want you to be surprised.”

  “It’s the lack of odd questions that disorients me.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She assumed a serious expression.

  “Have I been somewhere?” he asked.

  She looked into his watery green eyes and understood he was having a Siri moment.

  “You excused yourself for half an hour,” she said. “You’ve just this minute returned.”

  “You saw me come back? I mean, on foot?”

  “As opposed to…?”

  “Reappearing out of thin air.”

  “Is something happening?”

  “I’ve just lost that half hour. One minute I was here enjoying the evening in a crowded room then—cut to now—sober and lost. Did I happen to mention where I was going?”

  “No. You headed in the direction of the bathroom. When you didn’t come back I assumed you were still having problems with your insides. After a while, Geung went looking for you but you weren’t there. You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

  “I feel as if I’ve been on a tiring journey. I feel a sense of … loss.”

  “Never a dull moment with you in my life, Dr. Siri.”

  “Oh for a dull moment.”

  They had five minutes before the generator shut down for the night; five minutes to shower, shave, clean their teeth, find sleepwear and get under the covers to ward off the bitter night air. Despite this mad rush, the loose generator washers continued to rattle and the electricity did not cut out on the stroke of nine. It gave them an unnecessary seven-minute bonus. Siri could feel the anticipation all around. He lay awake, wheezing, searching his memory for his lost half hour but nothing came. And when the din of the generator finally subsided and the lights all died, there was a massive silence. It was as if they’d reached the end of the story and someone had shut the book on them.

  He was awoken by the panicked screams of a bird; one he’d encountered many times in his jungle days. It was brown and unkempt like a feather duster and it had a voice to wake the dead. In all those years he’d never learned its real name, only that any day heralded by the feather-duster bird would be an awful one. And, seconds after the bird’s ominous fanfare, there was a frenzied banging at his door. It may have been morning. There was barely enough light to see the shape of his alarm clock and certainly not enough to make out the time.

  “What is it?” he called.

  The words he heard from beyond the door were in Hmong and they carried a good deal of urgency.

  “Yeh Ming, are you awake?”

  It was uncanny how many Hmong knew of Siri’s connection to the ancient shaman he hosted, and in moments of urgency it was Yeh Ming they called upon, not Siri. Madame Daeng stirred from her deep sleep.

  “What do they want?” she asked.

  “Help from the ancestor.”

  “Can’t they just take him and let us sleep in?”

  “I’m afraid we come as a set.”

  Siri crawled from beneath the cover and was slapped by the morning cold like a man caught in a snowball ambush. He grabbed his topcoat and jogged to the door. The air smelled of soot. Manager Toua was standing in the shadows beyond the doorway. His face was as pale as crêpe batter.

  “Can you come please, Yeh Ming,” he said. “There’s been a disaster.”

  Siri had never studied the Hmong language but one day he’d woken up to find himself fluent in it. It was a skill that came and went and he suspected his resident shaman had a hand in flicking on the switch in times of need. He returned for his trousers and slipped into his sandals. By the time he re-emerged through his door the manager had gone. Siri didn’t know wh
ich direction to head in so he opted for the dining room. As he felt his way along the corridor he became aware of the flicker of paraffin lamplight in the distance. The old parquet rattled underfoot. Toua was on the far side of the dining room beckoning him on toward the far west wing. They arrived at the last door which stood slightly ajar. The manager pointed to the gap and his finger shook. A familiar smell hung at the doorway.

  “He always ordered coffee for six thirty,” said Toua. “My wife found him.”

  Siri pushed at the door but it was obstructed by something heavy on the far side. He pushed again. Still he made no impression. He had no choice but to attempt to squeeze through the gap. He wedged in his shoulder and his head followed. His chest was more of a challenge and before it was halfway through he felt totally stuck. But he could see into the room now. The curtains were pulled and the large windows wide open. Dawn was struggling to make an impression on the morning outside. A grubby khaki daylight bathed the room blurred by the ever-present mist. On the ground low to his left were two fat bare legs, toes up, pointing away from the door. He squeezed further and the obstruction gave a little until he was inside and had an unrestricted view of the body that hung suspended from the door handle in a sitting position. Siri was not the type to be easily shocked. He’d seen his fair share of bizarre deaths but he’d never witnessed anything like the sight of Major Potter hung by the neck. A macramé twine was wrapped twice around his throat and tied to the handle. He wore nothing but a pair of woman’s knickers, crimson with black lace trim and far too small for him. They cut into his fat like a tourniquet. A post-mortem erection lurched upward from beneath the elastic waistband. His lips were daubed with lipstick and what at first appeared to be an insect on his cheek turned out to be a beauty spot, the type favored by madams at high class brothels.

  Although it wasn’t necessary, Siri felt for a pulse. There was none. The body was cold and the smell of death was prominent. He took hold of the major’s fingers and worked the arm back and forth. He had to make allowance for the low temperature but the rigor mortis suggested the man had been dead for six to eight hours.

  “Oh!” came a voice.

  He looked up to see Madame Daeng’s head peeking through the gap beside the door. She was visibly shocked.

  “Now that is weird,” she said. “Is he…?”

  “Very much so.”

  Dr. Siri and Madame Daeng sat on the edge of the smelly bed and looked at the body hanging from the door handle opposite. They were a couple not renowned for silence but this one lent itself most splendidly to speechlessness. They took in the too-red lipstick and the too-tight underwear. They breathed the whiskey fumes and the scent of vomit diluted with disinfectant.

  “Well,” said Daeng at last, uncomfortable in the early morning quiet. The foggy mist rolled in through the window and rasped the inside of her throat.

  “Well, indeed,” agreed her husband.

  “This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Dr. Siri.”

  “Me? I didn’t do it.”

  “No. Not it exactly. It you didn’t do, I grant you. But the consequences that led to it. They’ve got your fingerprints all over them.”

  “Madam, judging from the evidence in front of us, I’d say this would have occurred whether we were here or not. And it didn’t even have to have happened here. This was a tragedy begging to be let out of the bag.”

  “Again, you’re right. But if you hadn’t volunteered yourself, volunteered us all, we’d be at home now beside the Mekhong eating noodles in relative peace. We wouldn’t be in this room with this particular body, about to be embroiled in an international scandal. This would be someone else’s problem. Someone in good health capable of handling it. But, oh, no. One last adventure before I retire, you say. What can go wrong? you say. Everything’s perfectly safe, you say. And look at us now. Five weeks ago we were perfectly content and now we’re up to our necks in dung.”

  “Come on, Daeng. Be fair. What could I have done to avoid it?”

  “What could you have done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Torn up the note.”

  “I think we need to wake up Inspector Phosy,” Siri said. “I’ll stay with the major. And perhaps you could ask the manager to rouse Second Secretary Gordon and Dr. Yamaguchi.”

  “Right.”

  And she was gone.

  Siri walked around, being careful not to disturb anything. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the room was full of inquisitive people. Once that happened it would be too late to spot any of those anomalies that make a difference to an inquiry. The room was very much like his own in the far wing. There was a strong scent of alcohol with a trace of vomit but there was no evidence that the major had thrown up. At the small carved dressing table he saw the lipstick and an indelible felt-tip pen. The bed was unmade but tidy as if someone had lain there but not slept. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side on the floor. There was no cap. Beneath the bed was a crate with eight more unopened bottles and four empty slots. Not bad, Siri thought, after only three nights. On the table beside the bed was an open thermos of cold coffee and a used cup.

  He only had time for a cursory look into the bathroom. The alcohol and vomit smells were much stronger in there. There was a small pile of clothing below the shower head and what might have been a short rug. They looked as if they’d been doused with water. He heard voices outside the door. He turned around and a shudder ran along his spine. The sight of the dimly lit room gave him a profound attack of déjà vu. He didn’t know when or how, but he’d been in this room before—after dark.

  Inspector Phosy had barred all but Second Secretary Gordon, Dr. Yamaguchi and Peach, who was needed for her linguistic skills, from entering the room. Peach had taken one look at the corpse and run into the bathroom to throw up. They often forgot how young she was. But she composed herself and, by keeping her gaze fixed out of the window, assured everyone she’d be able to translate. Judge Haeng, who was technically everybody’s boss, had barged his way into the room past one of the two old guards they’d posted there. He’d insisted on conducting a search of the major’s bags and drawers and even lifted the mattress to see if there was anything concealed beneath. Once satisfied—exactly of what they weren’t sure—he’d retired and left them to it. Senator Vogal had made a brief appearance in the doorway, paled visibly and quickly taken Mack Gordon off for a briefing.

  Siri and Yamaguchi had unfastened the major from the door handle, a feat made easier by a slip knot device tied into the rope. This should have been the major’s escape route; a tug on the loose end and the noose gives way. But, on this occasion, the old soldier hadn’t been fast enough. They enlisted the aid of Phosy to lift him onto the bed. He was as heavy as a jeep. As the erection had failed to go away, they covered the body in a sheet for Peach’s benefit. All the indicators pointed to death by hanging. There was a clear ligature impression between the chin and the larynx. The face was pale and the eyes protruding. Saliva had dried around the mouth. As for the erotic element to the death, both Siri and the American had seen such a thing before. Siri had witnessed it only once; the death of a deviant neighbour in his Paris apartment. A middle-aged man, dressed in pajamas, had hanged himself from a coat rack in a closet. The rail had given way and he had fallen to the floor, waking everybody up. Yamaguchi, it turned out, had seen post mortem autoerotic accidents on numerous occasions, making them sound as common a pastime in Hawaii as Frisbee. Siri decided Western perverts had too much time on their hands. Although he was convinced that the major had accidentally killed himself, there seemed to be something troubling the American. Yamaguchi retreated to his room to look through a reference book he’d brought along for a little light reading.

  Breakfast was laid out on the tables as usual but after the events of the morning few people had an appetite. Sergeant Johnson and Gordon went into town on Toua’s ponies to phone the consulate and inform them of events. Judge Haeng, not about to trust his fate to a wild beast,
had them send back one of the trucks so he could be driven comfortably into town to pass on the disturbing news to the ministry. At the Friendship, word had spread rapidly and the buzz around the hotel was that this tragedy would surely mark the end of the mission. They knew that as soon as the smoke cleared they’d be on their way back to Vientiane. Only Auntie Bpoo saw the major’s demise as “a heroic way for a pervert to go.” Other opinion ranged from disgust to pity. Civilai arrived late for breakfast, weighed down with a thunderous hangover and oblivious.

  “He what?” he said, after receiving a rushed description of the death.

  “I doubt he intended to kill himself,” said Siri. “He was involved in a session of autoeroticism.” (He’d resorted to French as there was no Lao equivalent for such a concept.) “You do know what that is, I assume?”

  “Of course I do,” Civilai replied. “It’s when you make love to your car. I’m quite fond of my Citroën.”

  “Civilai!” said Daeng.

  “Sorry. Bad time for a joke. Bad joke for the time.”

  “Tact has never been your forte,” said Siri.

  “But I very much doubt the major was capable of anything erotic last night,” Civilai said. “Sex, even with oneself, is an act of passion. I’m scouring my memory here but I seem to recall it comes at a time of heightened awareness. You become stimulated to the point when you need release. When I saw him he was dead to the world, snoring like a wild boar.”

  “When you saw him where?”

  “In his room. I went there last night.”

  “You told us you’d forgotten,” said Daeng.

  “I had to say that. I could hardly announce that the head of the mission was so drunk he couldn’t unlace his own boots. That he’d thrown up all over the floor.”

  “You cleaned him up?”

  “And took his boots off.”

  “How did you get in the room?” Siri asked.

  “The door wasn’t locked. I knocked and tried the handle.”

  “Are you sure he was drunk and not ill?”

  “Come on, Siri. I know what drunk looks like. He smelled like a whiskey distillery. He looked a lot like you the night Madame Daeng accepted your proposal of marriage.”