by Daniel Mason
He’s telling me that Cambodian gun control dates back to 27 January 1920. Lobbyists for freedom to bear arms argue that if this law had not been in place, the tens of thousands of people would not have been killed during the Khmer uprising because they would have been able to fight back. ‘But,’ he says, ‘that’s just what the firearms lobbyists say about it.’
I nod and smile and tell him, gee gosh that is interesting.
He’s telling me about landmines and guerillas, and he’s asking, ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ He’s looking at me like he knows my face but he can’t quite remember how.
I’m not going to tell him that I’ve been on the television, that I’ve been in the newspapers and in magazines. I tell him, ‘I don’t think so.’
He says, ‘I could swear I’ve seen your face somewhere before.’
I shrug, and after a while I tell him that I can’t be bothered waiting for the bus, I think I’ll just walk instead. I’m hurrying back to the hotel, telling myself I have to get out of this country.
The hotel is about sixty years old, one of those grandiose old buildings with high arches and wide hallways, the outer façade crumbling under the weight of years. I’m led to believe it was once a diplomatic building of some sort, during French occupation. My room has a small balcony that overlooks the crowded street below. If I were to leap from up here, the third floor, I imagine the impact of the fall would be fatal. Several years ago I saw a crime scene photograph, in colour, of a jumper. His bowels had been forced out of his bottom half and spilled all over the street. His joints were skewed: all angles and no direction.
Standing on the balcony, I watch the world go by, cigarette in one hand and nerve-calming drink in the other. Each breath I draw is slow and I close my eyes and listen to the world. I’ve been standing here readying myself for departure. It isn’t that far to street level, really. I’m almost ready to do it when a man knocks on the door of my hotel room.
I know it’s a man because I’ve heard the footfalls in the hall, three sets of heavy feet in fact, and the harsh rapping of knuckles against hard wood doesn’t sound feminine either. A woman would go, tap-tap-tap. A man gives two, maybe three, heavy thumps.
The man’s name is Michaud. He’s a representative of the State Something Department Something Consul Something. He carries himself like a politician. He’s a gangly man with curly grey hair and spectacles. He shakes my hand, of course. He uses a skin cream on his hands, some kind of moisturiser; they are pleasant to the touch.
There are two goons flanking him; one on either side. Big men without names, wearing dark suits and sporting buzz cuts. They’re Secret Service rejects stationed in Cambodia.
Michaud says, ‘Mr Hayes, we have something of a discrepancy.’
I raise my eyebrow in mock shock. ‘Oh? Oh my. Do go on.’
Michaud has furrowed his brow. His spine must be like a ruler because he’s standing so straight. I notice now that he’s carrying a folder of papers and a big yellow envelope. He consults them briefly, and then I’m thinking that he doesn’t seem as much like a politician anymore. Now he’s a cop on a routine interrogation.
‘Well,’ Michaud says, ‘we’ve come across some differences in the statements given by both you and Miss McKinley.’
‘Miss McKinley?’ I ask.
Michaud says, ‘Yes. She’s, ah, changed her story.’
I say, ‘No, no. Who is Miss McKinley? That’s what I’m asking.’
He looks me in the eye as he plays his trump card, and I almost laugh. ‘Miss McKinley. She’s the woman you kidnapped and dragged over the border.’ Michaud is very pleased with himself as he says this, and I can tell he’s been thinking of how to throw this at me.
I act unfazed. ‘You’re talking about Phoebe?’
Michaud nods. ‘Yes, Phoebe McKinley. You didn’t know her surname, did you? She’s telling us now that you dragged her over the border at gunpoint. That you drugged her and coerced her into coming with you.’
‘I knew she’d crack,’ I mutter to myself.
Michaud says, ‘Mr Hayes, you’re under arrest, under suspicion of fraud.’
‘No I’m not,’ I retort, like a child.
Michaud’s goons are making like they’re ready to grab me and pin me down, and Michaud loses that smugness from his face for just a moment and says, ‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said, am I allowed to make a phone call before you take me away?’
‘You can do that once you’re in custody, sir. It’s been explained to me that I’m to read you your rights, and these gentlemen,’ motioning toward the two goons, ‘will take you to a detainment cell at the embassy. We’ll be negotiating with the Cambodian government. I’ll be your liaison, and we’ll be attempting to deport you. There will be no trial under Cambodian law, as yet.’
I smile and say, ‘Well, that’s a relief. Diplomatic immunity.’
I explain to Michaud that I’ll come along quietly, just allow me to gather my things.
I’m pretending to get organised and I’m standing near the phone, so I pick up the receiver and dial 2B swiftly. Michaud says, ‘I didn’t allow you the privilege of a phone call.’ He motions for one of the goons to grab me.
Phoebe answers the phone. I say, ‘Bitch. You said you loved me.’ Like that means anything to me.
She answers and her voice is calm, her brain unencumbered by the cocaine now. ‘I was wrong. I just thought that I did.’
The goon is about to place a hand on my shoulder when I step away and say, ‘Woah. Okay, settle down. I’m coming now.’
But I’m not coming. Instead I’m on the balcony and then I’m over the edge.
What Michaud hadn’t noticed is the surprising lack of sheets on my bed. He doesn’t know that I ordered new sheets this morning and nobody took away the old ones. I’ve taken six bedsheets and tied them all together, making damn sure my knots hold. I’ve tied one end of my bedsheet-rope to the balcony railing, ready for my escape.
What I do when I rush to the balcony is grab the loose end of the bedsheet-rope and then I vault over the railing. I struggle to maintain my grip. I’ve leapt, knowing that the jolt at the end might tear my arm out of its socket.
This is a whole different rush compared to watching a man die or killing a boy. This is something else, hurling yourself through the air and then dropping like a stone. It’s like leaping from the factory window to avoid Interpol, only this time it’s much higher; the danger factor is slapping you in the face. The pavement flies up to you and people gasp below as they see you coming down fast.
I don’t get to see the startled look on Michaud’s face.
I feel myself wrenched to a sudden stop and my grip on the sheets almost fails. The pain in my arm when the rope reaches its length, eighteen feet above the ground, barely registers over the beating of my heart. It’s in my ears like thunder now.
I’m hanging suspended over the street below, swaying back and forth.
Then I hear the sheets begin to tear.
It’s eighteen feet, and then it’s seventeen feet, and then it’s sixteen feet, and then it’s the street. There’s a pain that flares up through my sides as I land on my ankle and fall to my knee. I’m cradling my aching wrist, which has gone almost numb, and it feels as if I’ve torn a hole in my armpit.
I look up to see Michaud staring over the balcony in disbelief.
I’m hesitant to stand but there isn’t a lot of time, so I stumble to my feet. My stomach is probably still somewhere up there on the balcony. My head is pounding. Each step brings me a new sensation of pain.
The people around me have stopped to stare and I walk through them. I’m like Moses parting the sea as they move and stand to the side like statues lining my path. It doesn’t help me to seem any less conspicuous with the bystanders behaving this way.
Above me, Michaud is shouting into the street. I hear him and refuse to turn back. ‘Hey! Somebody stop that man! He’s a wanted criminal.’
I�
��m dragging my ankle behind me and holding my sprained wrist to my chest. There are no taxis but there’s a bus pulling into a stop on the other side of the street. I forget what street I’m in and don’t know where I want to go. In Phnom Penh the streets are named by numbers. Odd numbered streets run east to west. Even numbered streets run north to south.
The traffic in this street is chaos. I limp into the fray and rush for the bus, and I’m nearly collected by a motorcycle, then a pink Cadillac. Horns blare at me and I tell them to shut up, and I’m fingering the gun in my jacket pocket. I’m definitely twitchy. The camera here is shaky, like a warzone documentary shot on video.
The doors to the bus are closing and I use my hand, the one that’s already useless, to stop them from falling shut. The driver looks down to me like I’m some kind of irritant. I give him my best smile and stumble up the stairs and into the bus. There are maybe thirty people seated.
The air inside this bus is fetid and thick with heat.
I go to find a seat and the driver calls out to me because I haven’t paid. I’ve forgotten. I have every intention of pulling some money from my jacket, I do. But I guess my other hand is still clutching the gun, which is what I pull free. The driver sees me and then people scream.
At first it doesn’t even register with me, and then I realise I’m hijacking this bus.
With a shrug, I wave the gun and give in. I can’t think of anything to say, so I settle with, ‘Everybody remain calm.’
I point the gun at the driver and I say, ‘Drive. Drive the goddamn bus, let’s go.’
This is the best way to attract attention you don’t really need, hijacking a bus. I take my gun to the driver and press it against the base of his neck. He’s shivering, despite the heat. I have to cough to clear my throat, and say, ‘Stay off your radio. You understand me? Stay off the radio.’
He nods that he understands.
What I need is to get out of the country.
What I need is to get to a hospital; my ankle is beginning to feel broken.
What I need is to think, but I can’t do that with all of this screaming and commotion around me. I’d fire a warning shot, but what these people don’t know is that there are no bullets in the gun. The bullets are floating around somewhere in one of the pockets of my jacket, and I can hear them jingling like a set of keys when I move. I’m wondering now if there are thirty bullets.
These people are cowering in terror and some of them are crying. I scream, ‘Shut up!’
The bus is ignoring most of the road rules, dodging traffic and rushing through crowded intersections. Horns are blaring at us and the driver honks right back at them. If he weren’t so afraid for his life, I’d almost think he was having a good time.
I look around the bus at thirty pairs of frightened eyes. These are elderly folk and teenagers and young mothers with their children. I say, ‘Don’t anybody be a hero.’
I say, ‘Stay cool and nobody gets hurt.’
I say, ‘You keep this bus above fifty!’
I’ve forgotten to tell the driver where I want to go, and he doesn’t seem to care. He seems to know what he’s doing, and I’m content with that so long as he doesn’t drive me to a police station. There’s a map of the city posted next to the mirror above the driver, but it doesn’t do me any good because I don’t know what street we’re in.
I’m looking through the back window of the bus to make sure we’re not being followed. I will my free hand, the one on the arm that’s been half dead and hanging limp at my side, to light me a cigarette. I’m shaking. If it weren’t for the testosterone, the adrenaline, surging through my system, I’d be on the verge of collapse. I’d be ready to turn myself in, hand myself over to the consulate. With this tumour ticking away inside my skull, I will plead insanity, even though I don’t believe it.
Standing in the aisle of the bus, cruising through downtown Phnom Penh, aiming an unloaded weapon at nobody in particular, I take a lengthy draw on my cigarette and say, ‘Does anybody know how to play Russian roulette?’
This is like the last twenty minutes of Dirty Harry when the horoscope killer hijacks the school bus. Only at the end of the movie, sorry to spoil it for you, Callahan puts a bullet in the baddie. In this scenario I’m the bad guy. And I don’t intend to let anybody put a bullet in me.
I receive a busload of empty stares.
We’re in a street lined with dirty factories and there’s a lot of smoke in the air. I order the driver to slow down. The traffic has thinned here, and we haven’t been followed by police, which is some kind of miracle. I’m at the front of the bus with my gun jammed into the driver, and I tell him to stop right here, this will do. I don’t feel comfortable being on this bus any longer. The door hisses open.
The passengers are getting anxious.
I point the gun at a pregnant girl riding in the front seat. She’s really terrified, clutching her handbag above her bulbous belly. Her big brown eyes remind me of a dog. I’m assuming this girl knows some English, because there are two books on the seat beside her and I can read the covers. She’s a student of some kind.
I say, ‘You, get up.’ I motion with the gun to show her what I want.
She doesn’t want to get out of the seat, but I can’t be sure if she’s frightened or just stubborn.
I tell her, ‘You speak English? You can understand what I’m telling you. I don’t want to drag you out by your hair, bitch.’
‘Don’ take me,’ she begs. ‘I’m pregnan’. Don’ take me. Please?’
I point the gun at an elderly man across the aisle, and I tell the girl, ‘If you don’t get out of your seat, I am going to kill this man.’
She struggles with the weight of her pregnant belly as she gets out of the seat. I grab her by the arm and pull, and she lets out a little yelp before I shove her into the aisle and walk behind her with the gun pressed into her spine. I say, ‘Walk.’
We descend the steps and then we’re out on the street, and I turn to the driver, wave the gun in his direction, and I say, ‘Go. Take the bus away.’
The bus tears out of there faster than I’d have thought it could handle, but I’m not paying so much attention because I’ve grabbed the girl and I’m pulling her along the empty street. It’s a long tracking shot, me with an arm around her neck and the gun pressed into her back, stumbling along the street like drunken dancers locked in an embrace.
I can smell her hair as I whisper in her ear, ‘I’m not going to shoot you. I don’t want to hurt you. But if you don’t cooperate, I’ll make damn sure your baby doesn’t come to term. You got it?’
She nods, her head brushing up and down against me.
I say, ‘Tell me that you understand. I want to hear it.’
She says, ‘I unnersand.’
‘I need to get out of the country,’ I tell her.
‘Then why you stop bus here?’ she’s asking me.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. There didn’t seem to be many bystanders.’
‘This Takhmau dis’ric’,’ she says.
That name doesn’t mean shit to me. Because of the way I’m holding the girl I can’t reach my cigarettes, and I ask her, ‘Do me a favour. Reach into my jacket pocket here, the one on the left. Grab that pack of cigarettes and the lighter and light me a cigarette.’
She says, ‘I’m pregnan’. You ligh’ yo’ own cig’re.’
I jam the gun into her back. She winces. I say, ‘Shut up and light the cigarette.’
She complies, fumbling in my pocket. When the cigarette is lit I pop it between my lips using the arm wrapped about her neck.
I tell her, ‘The best thing your baby can do is die in the womb.’
We walk awkwardly along the street, taking steps at different angles, her pregnant body heavy against me. I’m sweating and dealing with a headache like I’ve never had before. I’m barely capable of thinking my actions through anymore. My body is burning up around me fast and each step on my swelling ankle is agony.
; We stop outside a phone booth and I tell her to stand perfectly still, not to make a move. ‘Stay close,’ I say. I flip through the phone book with one eye on her, looking for the number of my hotel. The girl looks around like she’s considering escape, and I keep the gun on her with one hand. My fingertips on the other are smudged with ink from the phone book.
‘So,’ I say, turning pages, ‘are you a student?’
She nods.
‘Yeah, I thought as much. So, are you married? I don’t see a ring.’
She shakes her head. ‘No marry.’
I raise an eyebrow but she doesn’t see this. I ask her if she has a pen. She fumbles in her bag and hands one to me. I circle the number of my hotel on the phone book, pocket the pen. With one hand I load change into the phone, and with the other I tap her on the side of the belly with the gun, and she flinches protectively. I say, ‘So where’s the father?’
She tells me she doesn’t know. He split.
I say that’s too bad, and dial the number for my hotel, ask to be put through to my room. I imagine by now it’s pretty much a secret agent convention up there.
A voice I’m unfamiliar with answers and I say, ‘Don’t speak. Just listen.’
‘Who is this?’ the voice asks me.
I pinch the cigarette out from my lips and raise my voice. ‘I said don’t speak. Listen. I’ve got a pregnant woman here and I’ll shoot her if I have to, I swear to fucking God I will.’
The voice calmly asks me, ‘What happened to the bus? Is everybody okay?’
I tell the voice, ‘The people on the bus are fine. Don’t worry about them, worry about me. Worry about this pregnant bitch, why don’t you?’ I’m turning to the girl, I’m going to tell her to say something into the phone, to beg for her life, to tell them that I have a gun, something. But she’s gone, I don’t know where. I took my eyes off her for thirty seconds. It’s a shame because I was beginning to like her.
There is nobody visible on the street I’m in.
I’m wondering, just for a moment, if there ever was a pregnant girl, but that’s crazy.