Anarchy and Old Dogs

by Colin Cotterill

  Her discovery, her euphoria, her dreams of saving her country, her heartbeat were all interrupted by the sound of a deep male throat-clearing cough from just a few yards behind her.

  The Cardboard Television

  Siri sat in the six-foot concrete pipe section beneath the unfinished Soviet bridge. He was looking at the crayonand-pencil decorations that turned a lump of sewer connection into a clubhouse for two ten-year-old friends. Cracked coffee cups and glasses and little plates piled with river pebbles, a cardboard box with a hole ripped out of it in the shape of a TV screen, a string-and-sardine-tin burglar alarm he’d tripped when he arrived. These were the evidence of happy childhood fantasies, good moments that should never have been erased so suddenly.

  Siri wiped away the tears again and put his hand on the amulet beneath his shirt. It seemed pleased with its beautiful new plaited string but it had nothing to tell him about Sing’s disappearance that day. The boy’s soul was far away, frolicking with the dolphins, but his death remained unsolved and unavenged.

  Siri thought about the little fellow, playing truant from school, sitting here in his clubhouse, looking for mischief. He knew he’d be picked up by some do-gooder if he wandered the streets in his uniform. So, with no choice, he’d hung out here, nothing but a plate of river pebbles to eat, nothing but a cardboard TV to entertain him. How long could a hyperactive imp stand it? Did he get bored and go for a swim, get into trouble? Everyone in the village agreed he could outswim and outdive even the most experienced fisherman. Did he fall and hit his head and drown? There had been no evidence of head trauma or of being snagged on an underwater root or a net. Besides, none of those answers would explain the anomalies: the five-day gap between his disappearance and the discovery, the different rates of decomposition between the top and bottom halves of his body, the splinters, the insect bites.

  There was no doubt this was a small thing. It wouldn’t make a jot of difference to anyone beyond the village. Judge Haeng wouldn’t give him a medal for solving such a case. In fact he’d drag Siri over the linoleum again for wasting his time. But this was one small thing he was determined to do well. Even if the country was crumbling around him he would solve this mystery. He willed himself into Sing’s mind.

  “Think trouble. Think mischief. How would I get the attention I need to bring my father back home? Just how bad would I have to be? It’s midday, Wednesday. I’ve bored myself into a state of unprecedented naughtiness. I need something to boast about at school. ‘You lot wouldn’t believe what I did yesterday, I … ’ Come on, young Sing, tell Grandpa Siri what you did.”

  The sun had burned through the midday cloud and was casting a distinct black-and-white dividing line beneath the half bridge. Siri walked out into the dazzle and shouted, “What can I do to show you all I’m a man?”

  As the blinding light slowly cleared from his eyes and the blur of Pakse all around regained its rightful texture, one large shape on the far bank loomed like a challenge. It said, “I am the symbol of power and affluence. I am better than you and I am invincible.”

  And Siri knew where Sing had gone that Wednesday.

  Brother Fred was all atwitter. The one case he’d accepted personally had grown out of all proportion to have national—nay, international—repercussions. He hadn’t handled it at all well. First he’d lost the woman and then set about finding her. His inborn Catholic pessimism had convinced him she’d met the same horrible fate as her husband. He’d used the collective weight of the organization he represented to have a search conducted. He’d talked by phone for half an hour with the head of his mission in Bangkok. He’d even prayed for their safety. His Thai Christian interpreter had told him, “I admire your concern, Father. But it’s looking more like an affair of the heart than a kidnapping.”

  “How so?” Brother Fred had asked.

  “The chief of that section, Bunteuk, he’s reported his wife missing, too. The rumors on that block are that the new chap had a fling with Bunteuk’s wife and they ran off together.”

  “Oh, I say.”

  “Some believe the fat girl was so distraught she fled the camp, vowing to go home to Laos.”

  It was a story that would certainly have placated the young Irishman had the fat girl and the philandering husband not walked into his office some ten minutes after the interpreter had left. The man, bruised and cut about the face, was carrying a large box full of rolled paper and files. They closed the office door behind them, locked it, and despite being already in a refugee camp they claimed refugee status.

  Brother Fred was flummoxed. He’d never seen his little office as a potential island of diplomatic immunity. But international law wasn’t his forte so he made tea for three and listened to what the couple had to say.

  Dtui had certainly considered her number to be up when she heard the cough. She’d turned slowly, expecting at the very least to see the barrel of a gun pointed at her, at the very worst to hear it go off. But instead, standing between floorto-ceiling stacks of white wood crates labeled TOXIC, was an exact replica of the metal cage in which she’d spent the previous night. And sitting cross-legged on its floor was Phosy. He pointed out where she might be able to find the key to his cell, and while Dtui searched frantically for it, Phosy described his meeting with Bunteuk and his henchmen.

  “I have no idea why they haven’t killed me,” he said. “It appears someone recognized me. If they knew I was a spy, bumping me off would have been the logical move. All I can imagine is that they needed me alive to find out what we already know about their activities. But, I ask you, why not torture me straightaway and have done with it?”

  “I hope you didn’t make that suggestion to them,” Dtui said, rummaging through cupboards and shelves. She came across a bunch of keys in a drawer in a wooden desk and smiled. “Victory.”

  Phosy continued as she worked through them.

  “It seemed as if Bunteuk would have preferred to blow my head off there and then,” Phosy continued, remarkably calmly given their predicament. “But something or someone was stopping him. He made no bones about what he thought of me.”

  The padlock clicked and Dtui pulled open the door.

  Their embrace said everything their mouths hadn’t been able to. Phosy looked over to the stairway.

  “Did you pull the tunnel cover back?”

  “No, I thought I’d have to get out of here in a hurry.”

  “Then we’d better get moving.”

  Despite the urgency of their circumstances, they went first to the office and information corner and looked at all the documentation.

  “Where do we start?”

  Everything they’d collected there now sat on the large meeting table at the back of Brother Fred’s office. Dtui’s faith in the young cleric was based entirely on her intuition. She’d never met an Irishman so she didn’t know whether they were a trustworthy race, but there was something about his eyes that reminded her of a faithful dog she’d befriended when she was little. Phosy agreed he was the best, if not the only, option. They were deep in anticommunist territory. They weren’t about to wander up to a policeman and receive any sympathy. He doubted even Brother Fred would be too distressed about a plot to oust the evil socialists from Laos. But they both knew the church had certain rules when it came to human rights. The only concern was the current Thai refusal to call the Lao “refugees.” It was merely word choice but it prevented the United Nations Human Rights Commission from operating in the camp. Because of this vacuum, the definition of human rights in this case was left to the Thai government, and the Thai military would have every reason to waive the rights of Phosy and Dtui.

  On their march through the camp along the busiest main thoroughfares to the Church of the Christian Brotherhood office, they’d gone through the options for Brother Fred. A Thailand that changed its junta more often than Phosy changed his undershorts wasn’t about to be embarrassed by international community reaction to a little coup attempt in Laos. The UN would issue a strong
written condemnation and someone in Bangkok would light a barbeque with it. No one ever quaked in their shoes when the UN roared.

  No. They could forget political channels. Their priority was to get themselves back to Laos with the information they’d gathered. To that end, they needed access to a telephone line and a car. Brother Fred had one of each, but he was a nervous wreck. While Dtui held Brother Fred’s hand and calmed him, Phosy made several calls. He finally put down the phone with a large smile on his face. Dtui translated that the governor of Ubon was devastated to hear that his province was being used to launch an attack on Laos. She pointed out how much undeclared revenue Ubon was making from illegal logging deals with the Lao military in Champasak. The financial rather than the moral indignation argument made sense to the Irishman and he had no reason to doubt that the governor might want to see the evidence they’d collected for himself.

  Dtui uncrossed her fingers and brought up the matter of transport. Brother Fred had no intention of handing over his mission’s four-wheel drive, but he was prepared to drive them. The white Land Rover, with a logo of a benevolent Jesus surrounded by Indochinese children stenciled on the doors, went in and out of the camp twenty times a day. The gate guards at the permanently up barrier didn’t stop their conversation, or cast more than a cursory glance at the vehicle. If there were two Lao in the backseat, they were meant to be there.

  It was an uncongested ten-minute drive into the city. Dtui gazed out at the magical place and wondered why she couldn’t have been born on this side of the Mekhong. There were public telephones in the center of town just like she’d seen in the 8 mm films of Moscow. Even the sellers of fried grasshoppers looked exotic to her. They’d just passed the teachers college when she felt Phosy squeeze her hand. At first she experienced a brief surge of joy until she recalled it was her signal.

  “Oh, oh, Father,” she cried in obvious distress. The young man’s eyes opened wide as they stared in the mirror.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “I must vomit.” When her pronunciation of the letter v proved too baffling for the priest she put her finger into her throat and mimed for him.

  “No, not in the project car.” He slammed his foot on the brake and skidded to the side of the road. Dtui jumped out and ran back ten yards, where she pretended to throw up several times. Brother Fred could see this in his side mirror. He also got a perfect view of her collapsing dramatically onto the ground.

  “Oh, my God, man. Look!”

  Phosy smiled the smile of a refugee being yelled at in a language he didn’t understand. The priest pointed and shouted again, but when Phosy merely stared at the roof of the car, Brother Fred had no choice but to jump out of the idling vehicle and run back to help the poor woman. What a day it was for him. Heaven and hell had descended upon him and he knew it was a test. The Lord was putting him through it. But if it was truly a test, the last few problems were about to get a lot more complex.

  He knelt beside Dtui and failed to get any response from her. He had little idea where her pulse might be or what exactly to do with it if he found it. And then his four-wheel drive left without him. It did a screeching U-turn, headed off in the opposite direction for fifty yards, then vanished down a side street. This was certainly his “Oh Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?” moment. He hadn’t a clue where to turn—a dying woman, a lost car, an international incident. He recalled that before he’d left his home in County Colraine he’d told his grieving mother he’d just be off for a bit of excitement for a couple of years. Of course, he hadn’t believed that. He was a clerk. If he’d really wanted a life of excitement he could have joined the IRA. He thought Thailand would be hot and dull. He’d been right about the hot.

  There weren’t too many people around and those that were gave a wide berth to the foreign devil in a dog collar leaning over a dead girl. He couldn’t speak a word of Thai and what he needed very badly right now was to communicate. He recalled the sign in front of the teachers college. Someone there was sure to speak English. They’d have a phone, maybe even a nurse. After fleetingly considering carrying Dtui to the college, he left her where she was and sprinted off down the street.

  As he was entering the college gates he looked up to see a white Land Rover with benevolent Jesus doors shoot past him. The driver waved. Instinctively, he waved back.

  Half an Ear

  Siri and Officer Tao knocked at the big wooden door of Prince Boun Oum’s half-finished palace, knowing nobody in there would react to a mere knock. At Siri’s instructions, Tao shouted, “It’s the police. We don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  After a minute, the bolt on the other side slid open and the door was pulled back a crack. Eyes like hyphens peered out, first at the uniform, then at Siri.

  “It’s midday. Haven’t you ever heard of a siesta?” came the screechy voice of the caretaker. She opened the door just wide enough for them to see that she was barely awake.

  “Hello, sister,” Siri said. “Remember me?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “I was here a few days ago with another old gentleman.”

  “We get a lot of visitors.” She didn’t stand back to let them in. “I’m sleeping. What is it you want?”

  The policeman wasn’t as patient or polite as Siri. He walked straight at the woman and into the vestibule, almost knocking her down. “Just come for a little look around,” he said.

  Siri followed him in. “Where’s your brother today?” he asked.

  “I told you. It’s sleeping time. He’s resting. You shouldn’t be here when he’s resting. You might …” “Might what?” She chewed on her words. “Might wake him up.” “We’ll certainly do our best not to,” Siri said. He was doing his policeman stroll, his hands behind his back. “You said a lot of fixtures had been stolen from this place.” “Everything that wasn’t nailed down and half the things that were.” “So you and your brother came along at the right time.” “Yes, we did. What’s this … ?” “You keep a pretty tight ship now, by the looks of it.” “There’s not much left to take, is there?” She reversed toward a door in a makeshift plywood office and carefully pulled it to. “Right, but there’d still be prowlers? Curious people come to take a look? Souvenir hunters?” Tao was standing back, observing like an umpire who’s slightly threatened by the competitors. “Some,” she said, walking them away from the office. “And what do you do?” “Do?” “Yes. How do you keep them away? How do you protect this place?” “We just don’t let them in. It isn’t that complicated. What are you getting at?”

  “Not difficult? You have open windows all over. Anyone with a boat could walk up from the river, and someone who could climb a bit could work his way in.”

  “They don’t.” “Why not?” “They just don’t. They know the place is protected now.”

  “By an old woman and a softheaded retard?”

  Siri noticed the first change in her demeanor. If she’d been a dog, the hairs would have stood up along her spine.

  “You … you have no right to say that.” She turned to Tao. “Tell him! Tell him we have rights.” Tao smiled and kept quiet.

  “I see you haven’t been keeping abreast of the news,” Siri went on. His tone was nasty; his eyebrows formed a bushy v. “We’re an oppressive communist state now. Don’t mind if we go outside, do you?” He led the way to the back balcony that overlooked the Se Don. The river had collected runoff from the hills and was flowing thick as chocolate. From the balustrade he had a clear view of the half-completed bridge.

  “You see?” Siri continued. “Now the fat old royals have fled the scene with their stolen treasures… .”

  “They di—”

  “Did you say something?” She looked at her feet. “No, I didn’t think so. Where was I? Oh, yes. Since the corrupt Royalist lapdogs of the French ran away with their booty, the country has changed hands. We now have people like me who can say what we like, when we like, because we have the power now. Do I make myself clear?”


  “Yes,” she said, unable to contain her anger. “More’s the pity.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I’d hate to have Officer Tao here lock you up for antigovernment rhetoric, forcing you to leave your softheaded brother to look after himself.”

  “He’s n—” She was scuffing gravel beneath her sandaled foot like a flustered mare.

  “And I was just wondering.” Siri gave her no time to interject. “With your brother being as scary as he is, what would little kids make of him? I bet he’d be a good challenge for a dare. Suppose, just suppose one of the local kids accepted that dare and came nosing around inside. Say he pried up one of the floor tiles for a souvenir.”

  “They don’t.”

  “I know. But if one did, how would you and your brother deal with it?” Siri could detect something beneath her anger. She was anxious. A tic had begun in her right cheek and her mouth had risen in to a snarl to counter it.

  “I … I’d tell him to mend his ways and … and send him home.”

  “Of course you would. But let’s not forget—a child isn’t necessarily a ‘he,’ is it? Could have been a she.”

  “Boys are more likely.”

  “More likely to climb in through one of these big gaping windows on the river side and mess around unsupervised. Cause damage. Talk back. Real little bastards, some of these local boys. Right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My word, yes. And they have no respect at all for the royal family.”

  “That they don’t.”

  “They probably hear in school that His Preciousness was making a mint in stolen goods and protection and drugs. Even that he was selling arms to the communists in Vietnam just to make a few more fr—”

  “He never did. That’s all rubbish.” Her fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles were white.

  “Just to make a few more francs for his retirement. When the kids hear that kind of thing, of course they’d repeat it if they met anyone defending the prince. It’s only natural.”