Black Buddha

by Richard Waters

  I swallowed hard, the sun was beating down and I felt pathetic, the rank taste of tobacco and alcohol in my throat, ‘Do you know the owner?’

  He looked at me quizzically as if I wasn’t making any sense. ‘Actually there are two, one’s rumoured to be a westerner, the other’s Lao. Vong, I think they call him, he’s the front man.’

  ‘And the other’s a westerner?’

  ‘Like I said I’ve never see the other one.’

  So now there were two people to think of, but at least my yellow-skinned Grendel had a name - Vong.

  Some of his Danish pastry was caught in his beard. ‘You want to tell me where you’re heading with this?’ He said fixing me with a stare. He had soft grey eyes, skin that had shrunk in the sun. I hoped to hell I could trust him. ‘I’m in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you.’ He motioned for me to continue with open palms. I buried my head in my hands, the heat so strong my shirt was soaked and sticking to my back. Lou called inside to the owner, ‘Get this boy a double espresso, and make it strong.’

  I sparked up a cigarette, gave him one and cast about, rubbing my head to sober myself up. The coffee arrived a moment later and I took a lug of it. ‘I don’t know where to start,’

  ‘Stranger in a strange land… but I can’t help you unless you tell me what you got yourself into. Drugs, whores?’ He tugged on his beard and his gaunt face reminded me of Gandalf from Lord Of The Rings, I wished he could wave a wand and I’d be back in my dull, safe life in London. I’d never complain about a dishwater-grey sky again.

  ‘The owner of the Ravens Bar or someone connected with it,’ I began, ‘may have murdered my Grandmother, then my friend. I know, it sounds ridiculous but-‘

  ‘Slow down a sec, you think Vong killed your Grandma? He works for the Forestry Commission - in fact I think he’s the First Minister. I don’t think you’re going in the right direction, I mean sure, the Government’s always been crooked… but murdering Westerners? No, I don’t think so.’ He looked as if he was about to laugh. ‘It’s more than the economy’s worth.’

  ‘So I keep hearing. And Lucan Maybury, Vong may have killed him as well.’ I said.

  Lou’s forehead knitted in lines, ‘The guy in the Bangkok Post, the lifer from Bang Kwang?’

  I nodded, ‘You read about it?’

  ‘Hard to miss a story like that, Special Ops vet too… it was a horrible way to die. How’s this tie in with your friend and your grandmother… she was living in Bangkok too?’

  ‘No. Paris. But whoever paid her a visit left this,’ I produced the book of matches, ‘it’s what brought me here.’

  ‘I’m still in the dark.’ he said.

  I blurted an abridged, info-thin version of my story while Lou twiddled his moustache and smoked two of my cigarettes.

  ‘So presuming Vong is involved with this and he was the man you saw at Chattuchack market - and I very much doubt that - how does it tie in with you?’

  ‘You remember talking to me about the disappearances of kids when we were at That Luang temple two nights ago?’ He nodded. ‘Well, that’s why they want me. I’m linked to it somehow.’

  In the distance I could hear the drums starting up again; another night, another procession into the realm of spirits.

  ‘Ok,’ he said objectively, ‘let’s rewind a second. So what connects you to the disappearances?

  I sighed, ‘I did a little poking around after what you said. A guy at the Vientiane Times says Black Dragon Mountain is on private property, an Nationally Protected Area which is closed to the public.’

  Lou looked confused, his old mind working around the obstacles I’d placed before him, ‘And you’re saying the disappearances are linked to Mr Vong?’

  I shrugged, ‘I don’t honestly know, but it strikes me as strange kids have disappeared in the area clearly marked on an old map - strikes me they want to keep people out of there. Either that or give the impression this ancient cult is still alive and kids are being zapped from their beds.’

  His hooded eyes opened a little, ‘So you’ve heard of the Jai-Dam?’

  The alcohol haze had cleared, the coffee cleaning it out with fluid efficiency. ‘Yes. Don’t you see, it makes perfect sense now - the owner of the Ravens Bar is the Forestry Minister, presumably the same person responsible for policing black Dragon Mountain in this private national park.’

  He rubbed his chin, ‘All sounds a little too neat for my liking.’

  ‘Some stories are more evident than others,’ I said, knowing he was probably right. Against my better judgement I disclosed a little more, ‘And as to your dragons, a reliable source told me the child they found was eaten by some kind of reptile…’

  ‘Your tale’s getting darker than a witch’s crotch and I’m getting spooked.’ He made a noise like a ghost. ‘You’ve been here less than three days and already you have a story on your hands. Me? I’ve been here for over three decades and never come across anything more interesting than a brothel being opened or a village shaman sacrificing a few chickens. It aint fair.’

  I had to go and find Giselle, if Vong knew I was here already it wouldn’t take his henchmen long to find us.

  ‘You still haven’t explained your role in this play, Alain. What’s the connection between the dead kids and the murders in Bangkok?’ said Lou.

  I looked back at him blankly and got up to leave. ‘I’m sorry to get you involved in this.’

  A procession of monks shuffled by, fanning themselves with palm leaves as they headed toward the river. The afternoon heat placed invisible hands around me, my mind in a funk of fear. We had to get out of Vientiane this afternoon.

  ‘Leaving?’ he said looking up as I made to leave. ‘You haven’t finished your coffee. What does your girlfriend think of this?’

  ‘Oh she’s not my girlfriend, we’re just travelling together. Goodbye Lou.’ I held out my hand to shake his. ‘I can’t thank you enough for listening to me.’ I left some Lao notes on the table, enough to pay for his food and the coffee, and then I left.

  ‘Nice looking girl, I’ve seen her before.’ He called after me, as if he hadn’t noticed the conversation was over.

  I turned on my heel, ‘I don’t think so, she’s only been here once and that was years ago.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’re mistaken. I’ve seen her… quite a few times in fact and recently. First time in Luang Prabang, then around town -’

  Panic fingered its way up my spine. ‘Where?’

  ‘Here in Vientiane, I’m certain. Hell, I’m not so old I don’t notice a girl with legs on her like that – Jees, they go up to her chin! And those eyes,’ He laughed, not realising the impact of what he was saying.

  I was on my feet rushing toward the guesthouse and trying hard not to listen to my intuition. I raced through the doorway past the owner sprawled on his mattress watching TV. ‘Mister,’ he said calling after me, ‘message for you.’ But it didn’t register till I was putting the key in the lock and stepping inside.

  - 24 -

  I went back down and took the package from the hotel manager. It was wrapped in brown paper hastily secured with gaffer tape. Something inside it knocked against the sides as I made my way upstairs again, a dull thropping sound. At first glance the room looked no different – white walls, armoire, blue curtains - but then my eyes began to adjust to the changes. The cupboard door was open and bare; her neatly hung linen t-shirts and blouses gone. I felt a lump in my throat and the floor began to warp, so I steadied myself and sat down on the edge of the bed. The sheets were rifled free of the mattress, she’d obviously searched beneath it. On the other side of the bed I saw my clothes disrespectfully scattered across the floor, my rucksack scavenged on its side.

  Betrayed… I felt like the fool on the Tarot deck,
the hanged man. I lay on the bed lost in conflict between wanting to cry and hit a woman for the first time in my life. How had I been so stupid? Then again, I tried to reassure myself, I could be barking up the wrong tree; what if Giselle was taken by my assailants and they’d gone through the room against her will? Against my better judgement I secretly hoped this was the case. A simple question to the manager downstairs would solve that – if she’d left the package and left of her own free will, then I had my answer.

  I thought about going to the Police, but I’d heard they were bent and barely spoke English, so that would be a waste of time. Most Asian cops are crooked, that’s not a racist statement it’s a matter of fact. And who can blame them, a little extra to supplement their kids’ schooling, to pay for their mother in law or brother’s opium habit. And besides, even if they did speak English and gave a shit, what would I say to them? That I’d been left by a girl I barely knew – Christ I didn’t even know her surname - who might just belong to a revived 6th Century cult who stole kids and opened up ribcages? And more pointedly – that one of their senior political figures was a serial killer. It was laughable.

  The shock of my altered situation came back to me with cruel transparency; I wasn’t in the lead any more, they were, and they knew exactly where I was at this precise moment. Giselle had been their plant and what mark could have naturally refused her? Someone who’d been listening less to his selfish primal urges and more to his voice of self-preservation, might have been a start. For some reason I thought back to her strange sexual commands on the two occasions we’d been intimate… they were so odd I’d cast them to memory: I want you to think of cold stone in the dark. I want you to focus on the dark… Fuck me as if you were going to die. It made my blood run cold. It wasn’t erotic it was weird. Fucked-up weird.

  I thought about our brief time together, how considerate in Hanoi she’d been when she heard about Skip’s funeral; how I’d wanted her but tried to stop myself. It had all been a sham - I doubted if any of it had been true; her struggles in Bangkok, Time magazine, her upbringing in the States… Maybe I deserved it, you don’t screw around when your friend’s just died. And I was on the sauce again, twice in a week after seven months’ abstinence and control. Was that her fault? No, of course not. My life felt like it was imploding with the certainty of a tsunami following an earthquake. Despite the impending danger I lay down, gathering the sheets about me for protection.

  There was something hard, like cardboard, underneath the linen. I leapt up and wrenched the sheet away. It was a paper wallet of photos. In her haste she must have left them. I wanted to throw them away, hide from the next layer of onion that was about to be forcibly removed and spoon-fed to me by my tormentor. For a few seconds I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. I lay on the bed a minute longer, knowing I couldn’t, shouldn’t, and that I should start running that moment if I wanted to live to see my mother again. The light was slyly changing its colour on the wall as the sun shifted position. I opened the envelope and what I saw brought a stream of bile retching up my throat. I ran to the toilet and vomited.

  There were no pictures of the Perfume Pagoda, nor her fictional trip to Halong Bay in Vietnam. Instead, a perfectly documented case of my own travels was presented frame by frame; it began not in Hanoi, but the moment we’d stepped into the Bangkok night as we queued for a taxi - my face ashen and spent, Skip smiling like the Cheshire cat. The next blurry shot was a covering shot of the doorway of Luckies Guesthouse on Khao San Rd; then another of us outside the Silver Lotus Bar followed by one of the Thai men as they entered to find us. My heart beat quicker as I leafed through the efficient chronology, dreading what lay ahead.

  And then I saw it - a grainy photo of Skip lying foetally in his clothes, presumably after they’d injected the heroin. There were people around him, their faces unclear. The second in this series must have been shot on very quick camera speed - rather than opt for a surgical white flash, Giselle had chosen to remain true to the light - three different hands, two brown, one white, laid their palms and fingers across Skip’s wiry chest, the top one sporting two snakes wrapped around a triangular mountain. Jai-Dam. Giselle was a Blackheart and these were her brothers; brown hands and white. So now it was Westerners I had to mistrust as well as Asians.

  I had to get to the airport and try and fly somewhere – anywhere - out of here. Instead I kept looking at the photos. The next one made me retch again. Skip was lying in the gutter, clutching his naked body in pain, his face scared and uncharacteristically ugly. Maybe Giselle’s tale about tsunami portraits was true; she had an eye for human suffering, even when the subject had had his ribs prized open. The light in the penultimate shot was so poor it took me a while to make out what it was. Then I puked into my fist. She’d taken a close up of his lungs wrapped around his ribs like butterfly wings. It looked more like something you’d see at ‘Bodyworks’.

  The final frame was of King and I speaking in his doorway, the deadfall of flame leaves blowing about us as we set off for the Ho Tay Lake at sunset. She’d been there after all… I had seen her moped among the other commuters. My heart sank with pity as I pondered King’s fate. They’d known all along, played me like a marionette… the symbolism mustn’t have escaped Giselle as we sat close, our naked arms touching in the theatre.

  I found the map under the armoire, it must have been too heavy for her to lift and judging by the disarray in the room, she’d obviously left in a hurry. The key was hidden in its ivy nest outside the window; clearly she lacked the imagination to find it. I still had what they wanted and that gave me some currency so long as I never kept them on my person, but currency in what nation? I was stranded in an alien place. So what if I was a travel writer, what use was my knowledge of Peru or Guatemala in Laos? I didn’t know its geography, language or customs any more than the next farang. In fact less, ironically, I didn’t have a guidebook.

  Two options: find my way to the US embassy (there wasn’t a UK one) before it shut, or head deeper into the puzzle and make for Luang Prabang. Why they hadn’t tried to get to me sooner I couldn’t understand - surely they hadn’t needed Giselle and her subtle romantic act, why not just take the key by force? The more I thought about it, the more sophisticated this unknown force became. Then it occurred to me as I began unwrapping the parcel left at reception, that whoever was behind this had waited an awfully long time, over thirty-five years for their clever little scheme to start turning its course. Of course they were subtle. Refined even.

  I abandoned the package, instead stuffing it in my day bag till later; I had to move, get out of there while I still could, find a dark corner and rethink my options. I packed my t-shirts and jeans then I went downstairs to pay the bill.

  ‘No need, sah, lady she do it already.’

  So you go through my clothes, fill me with falsehoods, take photos of my friend being butchered, then pay my hotel bill? I shook my head in confusion, ‘Who left the package, please?’

  The manager looked away and made a polite wai with his hands as if to paper over the question. Then he handed me a folded note. Outside, day was caving in to brief twilight as if the darkness was impatient to stake its claim. I didn’t know where to go, but I had to get out of the city tonight, of that I was certain. I lit a cigarette, heaved my sack on my back and headed to the tuk-tuk drivers huddled like a murder of crows in the corner of the square.

  Her writing was childish, not the precise strokes I’d expected:

  “Take the key and map to the Ravens Bar tonight, leave it on the bar in an envelope, they’ll be expecting you. The armistice extends as far as the end of the night - no one will harm you. Just do it and get on with your life. Take any more time and you’ll be going back to your mom in a body bag. And don’t try and find us, nor our meaning, it only gets darker.

  G”

  I hated her and myself even more for being such a fool. No wonder she’d been hap
py to come with me to Laos. But how had she known it would fit so carefully to plan? If I’d decided to stay in Hanoi, would they have lost patience and sprung me there? The evening was cool, almost breezy, the sky a rich amber over the river. The drums I’d grown accustomed to now sounded dirge-like, I listened to them with a prescience of dread. I doubled back and looked for Lou at the Scandinavian Bakery but it was shut, the lights turned off, the circle silent and devoid of punters. I had to move quickly.

  Don’t try and find us, or our meaning, it only gets darker.

  “Our meaning”… How many of you are there? I cast about for faces in doorways and parked cars, determined to keep myself hidden as I caught a tuk-tuk. Maybe it would have been easier to go straight to the Ravens Bar, drop their precious goods on the counter, bow to Vong and leave straight for the airport. Looking back, I know they would have killed me anyway. I tried to place myself in my tormentors’ shoes. But how do you second-guess a cult of lunatics.

  So where are you going - north, south, or west to Bangkok? I asked myself. They knew I wouldn’t head there with my tail between my legs, that I had nothing to lose, and they were right; somehow they had a fairly accurate psychological profile of their prey. I wasn’t about to run anywhere.

  Lucan Maybury would have been buried by now, I imagined the mortician trying to push his prized ribs back in to place, as had been the case with Skip. I wondered if they took Maybury’s heart too. And what had they done with Skip’s? The taxi bumped across the city the short ride to the Morning Market, a maze of stinky stalls and accompanying labyrinth of clothes vendors. Memories of the Bangkok night drifted back as the driver dumped my rucksack rudely on the floor and drove away toward the arch.

  Logistics: there were regular flights to Luang Prabang, but I’d missed the last evening flight. And besides, they’d probably expect me to fly there so I figured I’d get make them sweat a little. Perhaps that’s what I needed to start doing, start becoming a little less predictable. I found the bus station at the market’s rear, a man on a stool wiped his eyes and looked sluggishly at a time-table, ‘Ah… Luang Prabang, next bus two hours, single or return?’