He remained silent.
‘Mr King, my friend checked in at Heathrow airport in a coffin this morning. If you know something and you really were a friend to my father then I’d invite your conscience to tell me now.’
King looked at the shoreline inscrutably. ‘I can’t. I’m over my head as it is.’
‘Look, you accidentally mentioned a cult yesterday. If you’re that scared of these people then why are you still in Hanoi? Shouldn’t you be running?’
Darkness fell across the horizon of villas and magnolia trees as the old soldier rowed back in silence. As the boat hit the rotten struts of the jetty, King looked back at me. ‘First thing is this, Alain - when darkness falls, it can get you anywhere, Long Beach or Long Binh, it don’t make no difference to them. When your number’s called, they’ll come... There aint no sense in running.’
‘Please, let’s just rewind a minute. We’re talking about some kind of mafia here, a secret society – or rather that’s what Maybury was saying. It’s called the ‘Darkness’? And you mention this Carabas man – was he running it? And if he’s dead, who’s running it now? And where do I fit in?’
King smiled wearily. ‘I guess you journalists go to school for a reason - you just made the connection, kid. And ‘darkness’ is a fair definition of these people but the name is Jai-Dam,’
‘Jai-Dam?’
King shivered, caught my glance and smiled a beaten smile. ‘It means black heart.’
- 18 -
They left as the sun was sinking into the South China Sea, the air cool and salt-bitten. As the Huey rotors were building for take-off, the rectangular form of the Colonel leapt from a jeep and darted into the cockpit next to the pilot. Three birds rose into the saffron sky, the ocean flats far below. They cut across the coast to what remained of the fishing village of Lang Co, now razed to the ground by napalm. As the bird landed on a plateau overlooking the cove, the scene beneath Jacques looked like the dissolution of Sodom and Gomorrah. No signs of VC tracers; but for the movement of a B-52 emptying its final payload, the village was motionless. Carabas put down his binoculars and scowled.
Jacques led the first squad through the tombstones as the Shark’s Mohican-shorn squad appeared close by. The Frenchman pulled the pin from a smoke grenade and tossed it into the entrance. Then a body pushed past and stopped him dead. The Shark’s eyes looked like knife trails in mud, coruscating as they leaned in close and urgent, ‘Fucker.’
Jacques pushed him away and carried on in a dogtrot. Something else was bothering him, something Maybury had said just as he was getting ready to leave. The Australian ducked his head in to Jaques’ room without knocking and shut the door behind him, speaking in a low whisper. ‘Thought you should know something. I just found out the Shark was trained by Carabas. He’s one of the Colonel’s boys.’
Jacques tried to hide the shock in his gut. ‘So I’m walking into the fire. Thanks ami.’
As he reached the steps at the end of the corridor leading to the basement, a faint smell of the sea drifted toward him; he remembered clocking it the night before. The building was eerily quiet, no one had fired a single round yet. On the wall of the basement he caught an image of the Virgin Mary, her eyes distant and turned away. The air hung with the scent of fear, inside Jacque’s fatigues sweat ran down his thighs and as he inched forward, the tunnel seemed to amplify his movements and quicken his breathing.
Alone, he shone his torch around the interrogation room. Perhaps the Lady Virgin had heard his prayers for it was littered in empty crates as if someone had left in a hurry. All around him the smell of the sea, he could almost hear it below him, though he knew it was far away. Then everything went black.
He was on the floor, blood gushing from his mouth, his tongue feeling the jagged molar smashed by the butt of a gun. The shooting pain in his jaw deadened as the shape stepped toward him. They said his night vision was strong… I didn’t even hear him coming after me. He tried to touch his mouth but his hands were cuffed, he felt the steel links – American issue. The Shark kicked him savagely in the balls. He fell back to the floor and the blade of a hunting knife flashed before him. ‘Nobody ever knocked me down before.’
‘You belong is an asylum with your mentor. Or a freakshow.’
‘Say goodbye Frenchman, you shoulda left Vietnam when you was a hero, not a burnout.’
Jacques remembered himself as a child in Paris, his mother holding a cake with six candles; his first glimpse of Penny sat with a sketch pad set before her on her easel, sunlight playing on her blonde hair… the sound of the river barges puttering down the Seine, and he realized his life actually meant something to him.
‘They’ve sanctioned your death. They don’t want you anymore, you’re bad press and they’re going to take you out,’ Jacques spat a glob of blood from his mouth. ‘Why do you think they never prosecuted me for putting you in the infirmary? They were hoping you’d die.’
The knife paused before his face. He tasted acrid breath. ‘We all meet the reaper, nice try Deschamps.’
‘You’ll die in your sleep, don’t you want to know who’ll pull the trigger?’
‘Like I said I don’t care, I aint never going home.’ The blade cold on Jacque’s throat, it remained a second before it fell and with it the body of the Shark.
‘So, we are now what the Americans call quits.’ spoke someone in the dark.
He knew the voice but couldn’t place its owner. He was sure he’d heard it more than once before; all day its soft cadence had haunted him like an elusive dream. The VC stepped forward, rifling deftly through the pockets of the Shark until he found the key to the handcuffs.
‘Why did you help me?’ asked Jacques, limbering his wrists.
‘You know I prefer you without the whiskers.’
‘I know you?’
The Vietnamese was on his knees pulling at a ring in the floor. ‘Help me with this please.’
As they pulled the trapdoor free, the sound of the waves far below rushed up to meet them. Now Jacques remembered, the Ferryman from the rubber plantation, he’d seen him with Leclos.
‘Why was this man trying to kill you?’ asked the VC
‘We had a difference of opinion, they called him the Shark.’
‘Then we must return him to his natural environment.’
They listened as the body of the American bounced down the walls of the chamber, its echo replaced by the sound of boots crunching down the tunnel.
‘Good luck phantom, we won’t forget you.’
Phantom?
A flashlight strafed across the wall of the tunnel. The footsteps drew closer as the Vietnamese slid behind the crates. Jacques walked swiftly back up the tunnel. ‘Anyone down here?’ said Carabas.
‘No, we’re too late.’ said Jacques emphatically.
‘No-one huh?’ Carabas shone his flashlight at Jacque’s eyes, ‘What happened to that face of yours?’
‘I fell down the steps.’
The Colonel’s beam fell to the ground, Jacques noticed him standing in his own pool of blood. ‘Ok boys, move on out.’
The grunts filed out of the room and Carabas switched off his light. Alone in the dark with him Jacques felt the queer, enveloping presence, as if somehow he was stood beside someone not all together human.
‘I think our yellow neighbors were wise to us, think someone tipped them off.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know yet, but it doesn’t matter, we’ll find out. See, we got ourselves a souvenir, some old girl who refused to leave her family shrine.’
‘What did she say?’ The darkness was crowding in on him, Jacque’s left hand curled around the pistol in his holster.
‘Said they had a visit last night and the local VC pulled out this morning.’
Slowly he eased back the
safety clip, ‘And?’ asked Jacques, as they made for the tunnel. They were midway through it when Carabas paused and put a finger to his lips, ‘Ssh.’ He turned on his heels and slid silently back down the tunnel.
‘There’s nothing there, I’ve already looked.’ called Jacques impotently.
The Colonel ignored him. Jacques heard the metallic click of an M-60 switching to ‘automatic’, followed by the deafening sound of splintering wood and rapid fire. His heart slumped as two figures came toward him; the Vietnamese with his hands held above his head, and the American beside him.
‘Look what the tide washed up.’
Jacques walked briskly away before they could see him, glancing at the Virgin Mary on the wall and smashing her with the butt of his pistol.
- 19 -
Giselle and I met in a place called Lenin Park as the light was fading from violet to ink. There was something sad and decrepit about it; aged hawkers sold people-shaped sweets on sticks, bunting fluttered listlessly from the Soviet-style entrance. I walked down a path weaving through rows of gnarled trees and sat on a bench opposite an old boy wearing a hunting hat with ear-mufflers. I felt ragged inside, desolate; I fancied I could still taste the Sang Thip whiskey I’d drunk in Bangkok. I was on my third Salem when she finally emerged from behind a tree, gliding toward me like a verse of poetry.
‘Cold isn’t it? I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said rubbing my hands.
‘How are you feeling?’
Time to come clean. If she couldn’t handle it it was a litmus test to get shot of her. ‘I’ve been better, my friend’s being buried in England today.’
Her eyes widened and she stopped short as if pinned to the spot. ‘I’m sorry… you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if you want to I’m here. You should have said something.’
I didn’t want to talk about it; at least not in detail. I just wanted to give her some explanation for my lack of charm and gloomy expression. And beautiful as she was, now that we’d met I didn’t want to be here and she didn’t deserve to hear about Skip. So why mention it? I was ashamed of myself for even coming. ‘Let’s keep moving,’ I said, ‘A husky could catch a cold here.’
We walked past another lake, by children playing on a rusty climbing frame. The Ice Museum was more like a warehouse, a man gave us quilted red coats that ran down to our shins more befitting Genghis Khan. It was freezing inside, coloured lights played across thick blocks of ice fashioned in the shape of famous Communist buildings. Around all of it spanned the Great Wall of China.
‘Reminds me of something you’d find in Moscow.’ I said vaguely.
‘It’s sort of dated isn’t it?’ she said.
We wandered on through an arch of ice, embossed in the walls were the figures of warriors holding spears. I wondered if Vietnam had always been at war.
‘How did your pictures go?’ I asked.
‘Oh fine,’ she said casually. ‘I took a ride on a junk and shot some of the karsts around Halong Bay.’
‘Weren’t you going to the north?’
Giselle looked at me quizzically, ‘No, Halong Bay. What’s with the Spanish Inquisition, Sherlock?’ And then, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.’ Her cheeks flushed red and I fancied I saw the freckles change colour. Then I watched her walk off to run her hands along the Wall of China. I was crap company, maybe it would be better to head back to my room or go and see Gerald again. I followed her, ‘Giselle, I didn’t mean to sound like I was catching you out…’
She turned around. ‘That’s okay, I’m really sorry about your friend. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?’
I wanted to burden her with some of the conundrums haunting my thoughts, but I couldn’t, it was my problem and no one else’s. ‘I’ve had some pretty odd experiences since I arrived in Asia, some horrible things happened and I’m not myself. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.’ I walked off leaving her stood there.
I should have returned to London. If I’d tried a bit harder the Embassy could have found me a flight. Who was I to think I could achieve anything against a group of unnamed killers? It was foolhardy, deluded and I was out of my league. Like a middleweight who defeats all comers and then thinks he’s ready to try his luck among the heavyweights, I was Roberto Duran fighting a dozen invisible Marvin Haglers.
‘Alain, wait. Maybe we were supposed to bump into each other like we did? Maybe I’m here to listen, I mean, life has a funny way of giving us the things we need. You want to keep schtum well that’s fine, we can just walk, conversely if you want to let it out, I’m here for that too.’
‘It’s a long story.’
She arched an eyebrow, ‘Well I’m not going anywhere, at least not yet, so you can tell me when you want to. Every traveller needs a friend.’ She shivered and blew a tube of steam toward me. ‘God, I’m freezing!’ She laughed and grabbed my hand, ‘Shall we get out of here?’
Outside the air rang with the bicycles as thousands of commuters crossed the city on their way home. Women waddled with yokes over their shoulders laden with cherry blossom and apricots. As we walked through the park I felt as if in a dream, that anything - no matter how terrible or beautiful - was possible.
We stopped in a clearing. I took her hands in mine and squeezed them, held her cheeks in my freezing palms and kissed her softly on the mouth. In turn her arms encircled my neck and pulled me closer, her lips warm, her tongue searching and powerful.
That night we walked around Hoan Kiem Lake and took in a show at the Puppet Theatre. I thought about what Gerald King had said, that ‘they’ could get you, wherever and whenever they wished, absently wondering if they were in the theatre among the rows. The same ‘they’ perhaps who might have taken both my father and best friend. But I still had no idea of the connection between a war that ended over three decades ago and the present tense, and more importantly - any sense of motive. Only that it might involve a man called Carabas who was long dead.
As I watched the puppets, memories returned like shifting patterns on a kaleidescope. I was on a red bicycle and Dad was supporting me down a gentle slope. I must have been about four. He used to make an eye with his fingers as a gesture that I’d done something good; his thumb and index finger together, his other fingers fanned out. I think I rode unassisted for a few feet and he was making that sign and smiling. I felt like the safest, most loved little boy in the world.
We were living in a house in Richmond, the house my mother still lives in. The walls were sparse, hung with Oriental wallhangings and Mum’s artwork. I suppose there wasn’t much furniture in the house because they were short of cash. Dad’s face was blurry as I tried to picture him; eyes older than their years, the colour of stone. I remembered the hard cast of his chin and little scars on his hands and among his eyebrows, like white webbing. I know Jacques came back from the Vietnam War in ‘69 while it was still raging, I suppose it had something to do with my being born and him deciding his time was up as a soldier. I know Mum visited him in Bangkok when he had some leave and that disgusting, corrupted city is near the island where I was conceived.
When she became pregnant he came home, stayed with us for four years and apparently, despite the pleasure of being a father, it wasn’t easy. After being a crack soldier he was reduced to a stream of menial jobs that drove him mad, made him smoke continuously and play his Dizzy Gillespie records too loud. When he was depressed he became quiet and he’d listen to Brell, always that song ‘Amsterdam’; it reminded me of pirates and raucous inns full of sailors with monkeys on their shoulders. I still can’t listen to it today.
As a fresh act began with sequined snakes and dragon puppets, I remembered the towpath leading from the bridge to nearby Twickenham. Some days he’d ride me on his shoulders all the way to the ferryman who smoked roll-ups. I think they used to fight a bit, my pa
rents. He talked to my mother about going back to do something that had to be done, something that would make things easy for us. It was that summer, the door was shut on me for the evening - I was told to go and draw while they talked in the lounge. They were at it for hours, twilight bled into night and the birds stopped singing outside my bedroom window. Despite his being around for the whole of my life, I knew he was going before they even sat on my bed the next morning and tried to explain that everything would be fine: he was going away for a little while but he’d be back in time to take me to proper School, which was due to start the next month. He promised me. The rest is history. I started school on my own, watching other boys and their fathers as if I’d been betrayed, as if I were somehow responsible for the melancholy that swept about our house.
I sat back in the theatre chair. You don’t indulge your fancy in beautiful women when your friend is spending his first night in the earth. My skin started burning in an uncomfortable rash, spider legs tracing patterns beneath my clothes. I whispered in her ear, ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’
She followed me on the street to a café. I ordered a coffee and double whisky, my hands shaking badly, throat so tight I couldn’t breathe. Giselle sat by me rubbing my shoulders and whispering it was alright. She didn’t once try and stop me drinking, it wasn’t her job to manage my sobriety. Outside, the streets of the old quarter were silent but for the occasional rattle of a cyclo.
She lit one of my cigarettes and placed it in my mouth. ‘Don’t think much of the coffee here, it’s like back tar.’ she said, trying to change the subject, ‘I got a thing about shitty coffee, they have that horrible carnation milk here and it just doesn’t taste right, it all sits at the bottom. My dad was the same, he…’ she stopped short of telling her story.
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