Anarchy and Old Dogs

by Colin Cotterill

  “It’s slander—vulgar socialist propaganda. Children shouldn’t be told spiteful lies like that.”

  “Who was there to put him right? He only knew what it was like for his family to starve under a Royalist regime while the big honcho got rich and built an obscene palace. He wasn’t here to cause trouble. He just came to make sense of it all.”

  “He had no respect.”

  “No respect for what?” Siri’s volume had risen in tandem with hers to the point that they were a yard apart yelling at each other.

  “For the centuries of proud and noble royal families that have ruled our lands in the south. For the great battles won to protect its people. For the culture they brought to us.”

  “Really? Perhaps he wondered—with all that culture and protection—why he was still living in a wooden hut in the mud.”

  “His kind will always be in the mud. That class of people never seize the opportunities they’re offered.”

  “That class is ninety-five percent of the population. That’s an awful lot of people not seizing opportunities. Perhaps the boy saw himself as their knight. Perhaps he thought by coming here and breaching your castle he could avenge injustices.”

  “Or perhaps he was just a foul-mouthed little tyke out for trouble. Have you considered that?”

  Siri’s volume dropped to a whisper. “And he found it, didn’t he?”

  She fell silent and lowered her eyes. Siri looked at Tao and nodded.

  “We’re going to take a look at your water tower, Comrade,” the policeman said, taking a step toward the looming concrete turret. There was a fire in the woman’s eyes that flashed, first at Tao, then at Siri.

  “This is private property. Get off our land,” she snarled.

  Tao smiled. “This is the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos,” he said. “There is no private property. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to lead the way.”

  They let her climb the ladder first. At the top she stood on the small landing that was barely wide enough for one. Siri joined her there and Tao remained on the fifth rung from the top.

  “Open it,” Siri said.

  The tower was twenty feet deep and had a circumference of about sixty feet. In the wet season it would remain open to the elements to catch rainwater, but in the endless summer a temporary roof was attached to the top. This stopped the water evaporating and kept out thirsty birds who drank so much they often died and rotted right there in the tank. The top of the tower was turreted so that there was a gap of about an inch all around the rim that kept the hot summer water aerated but allowed access to only the slenderest of creatures. There was a hatchway in the roof leading to a removable ladder inside the tank.

  The caretaker lifted the lid and sidled around to allow Siri to look inside. The light from the gap reflected on the still surface of the water below. He kicked off his sandals, rolled up his trouser legs, and clambered over the ledge onto the interior ladder. Carefully, he climbed down.

  “Not a lot of water in here, is there?” he said.

  She looked down through the hatch. “What do you expect? You bastards stole the pump.”

  “So how much would you estimate is in here? About three feet?”

  “If you say so.”

  When his foot touched the warm water, Siri stopped and looked up at the halo of light filtering in around the edge of the roof—a UFO circling above him—and he knew this was the last sight Sing had seen in his short life. He lowered himself into the water and cringed when his foot met the slime at the bottom. He could barely conceive what torture it had been for the boy. How many days had they left him here up to his waist in water? Hungry, eaten alive by mosquitoes, alone and afraid. Overcome by exposure or fatigue, he’d finally slipped below the surface of the water and drowned.

  Siri waded carefully around the wall of the tower until he came to some markings. They were scratched in brown on the gray concrete. Siri visualized the scene: hours of yelling for help, the sounds muffled by the thick walls, desperation, boredom. A river pebble or two in the pocket of his school shorts. Around the second day, trembling from exposure, awful pain in his leg and thigh muscles, he occupies his mind by drawing a masterpiece. The stones aren’t soft enough to be manageable, but over the course of the day he etches a lovely picture—a little girl with a smile half the size of her head. She’s holding hands with a boy who has horns like a buffalo, or a devil. Beneath them a single word: friends.

  The mixed emotions of the previous week welled up in Siri and he leaned his forehead against the concrete and bawled shamelessly. Tao’s voice filled the tank twice before he could respond to it.

  “You all right down there, Doctor?”

  Siri wiped the tears from his face and waded to the ladder. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  When all three were back on the ground, Siri put his face close to the woman’s and drilled his meadow green eyes into hers. His voice was a growl.

  “I’ve never in my life shown violence to a woman,” he said. “Never. But for somebody like you, I could easily break my own rules. You are …”

  He felt an almighty thump against his back and found himself flying through the air. He landed facedown in the mud, and within a split second some snarling and punching creature was on him. It bit into his ear and Siri felt the sharp pain of the membrane being ripped away. He smelled a vile breath and sensed an uncommon, inhuman fury. Only by rolling slightly to one side and digging his fingers into the attacker’s face could Siri make out the identity. The brother, roused and angry, had come to the aid of his sister. His was an instinctive, animal reaction. Lurking inside the frail, silent man was a wild beast. This was the weapon that kept out intruders. They had no need of a gun.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Siri could see Officer Tao locked in battle with the woman. She was scratching and spitting like a cat. The policeman was behind her with his arms locked around her chest but she was more than a match for the overweight cadre. There was no hope of his coming to Siri’s aid anytime soon. Siri had wrestled in Paris, but in the lightest weight class. If his attacker had been more than a skeleton, Siri knew he’d have had no chance. Yet he prayed to summon just a fraction of his former skill to overcome the man who was beating him black and blue. With his fingers still clawing into the flailing brother’s face, Siri rolled and pushed him farther away. The punches no longer landed with their full force, allowing Siri to catch his breath. With one final push he unbalanced the man, who fell sideways onto the damp earth. Siri used this momentum to roll him even further until his back was exposed, then latched onto him. He hooked his arms through the man’s and locked his hands behind the man’s head.

  Pinned but still fuming, the man kicked back violently with his heels. The first blow resounded against Siri’s shin and a bolt of pain seared through his body. The blood from his ear flowed down his face now, blinding him. He managed to hook his own leg around his assailant’s and neutralize him. And there they lay in the mud, locked together like some Indian stone relief from the Kama Sutra. Siri was wheezing painfully, uncertain where he might find another breath.

  “Nice show, Doctor,” Tao said, still locked in his own reverse tango with the sister. His mouth was very close to her ear. “Now, Comrade, if you’d just calm down, we might be able to get some—”

  “I’m not your comrade, you dirty Red son of a whore,” she screeched.

  “Trying to win me over with flattery won’t do you any good now,” Tao said. She back-heeled him and he swore under his breath. To forestall her, he lowered himself to his knees, leaving her in a sitting position. There was a moment or two of peace when only the breaths of the four combatants could be heard.

  “So, Doctor,” Tao said at last. “Any ideas?”

  Siri looked over his shoulder at Tao and the red-faced woman.

  “He did it, didn’t he?” he said. “Your brother threw the boy into the water tower.”

  “I’m saying nothing to you, you communist scum.”

 
; “Listen, you old witch, this has nothing to do with politics. I don’t give a hoot who or what you support or believe in. What I care about is the little boy your brother left to die in that concrete tomb up there.”

  “You have no proof of that,” she said.

  The brother wriggled to free himself but Siri’s grip was vise-like.

  “Oh, but we do,” Siri said. “You wouldn’t believe what technological marvels are available to us at the Forensic Science Institute in Vientiane. I can match up the stones we found in Sing’s pocket with the drawing there in your water tank, for one. Then it wouldn’t surprise me if I found his hairs in the water. And you know what? I bet if we went to the back of the building, we’d find that wooden slide the builders used to dump their waste in the river is made of the same wood as the splinters in the boy’s back. You found him dead, carried him out back, and sent him down into the Se Don like garbage. You’re truly evil, both of you.”

  “It was me,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I did it. All of it. He had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Is that so? In that case, you’d better calm him down before we get to the police station. If you don’t, I doubt anyone will believe that particular version of the truth.”

  “Will he be … if … when they convict me, will he be looked after?”

  “The nice thing about socialism,” Siri said, “is that every-one—no matter what their physical or mental state—gets treated equally.” He didn’t bother to add the word “badly.”

  “All right.” She started to sing. It was an old folk song Siri had heard during his stay in the south. Although the woman’s spoken voice was annoying and grating, she sang beautifully. Siri felt the brother relax in his arms and heard him breathe a deep sigh. When Siri released his grip, the man stayed where he was. Music had indeed soothed the savage breast.

  Toasting the Spies

  At Pakse police station, Dr. Somdy had ministered to the coroner’s wounds and given him some painkillers. Tao saw him to the front gate.

  “Two for two,” he said. “That’s a two hundred percent better record than any of us has ever managed, Doctor. You’re quite the detective. You ever considered joining the police?”

  “You’re just sucking up to me because I threatened to have you transferred to hell.”

  “Well, yeah. I probably wouldn’t bother saying it if I wasn’t a bit scared of you, but it’s the truth. I admire what you did. I know you had nothing to gain by solving this case. I get the feeling you did it just to let the mother have some peace. That’s a great thing.”

  “Concentrate on the small things and do them well.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  They shook hands and Siri walked through the muggy streets to his hotel. The thick cloud had returned, as mean as ever. It was a fitting overhang to his mood. He couldn’t get the thought of wasted life out of his mind. He remembered what Keuk in Khong had said about the bodies they’d pulled from the river after the French reprisals. A mountain of them, he’d said, killed and tortured for loving their country, and what did it achieve? Really, what did those patriots have to show for their sacrifice? Was all this actually worth fighting for? Were his whimsical countrymen worth defending? There he was again—thinking. It never did him any good. It didn’t surprise him at all that the highest doctor suicide rate in the world was among pathologists.

  He took a deep breath before walking into Pakse’s best hotel, his home for over a week. The place was about as sophisticated as fried rice. The receptionist was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the front desk plucking a chicken. He leaned over the counter and she smiled at him. She was in her teens and living proof that guest-relations skills are acquired over time.

  “Oy, old man, what have you been up to? Did you fall off your bike? Your cousin’s been looking for you all day. He asked me a dozen times where you might be, as if I’d have any idea.”

  Siri dispensed with his usual lecture.

  “Is he in?” he asked.

  She looked up at the key rack. It was empty. “Must be in his room.”

  “Thank you.” He put his hand on the large green telephone that sat like a camouflaged armored car on the desk. He’d never heard it ring. “Does this thing work?”

  “The phone? It’s good for local. If you want to call long distance you have to go to the post office.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  On the upstairs landing he stopped outside Civilai’s door and heard what sounded like a party: laughter, cheering, all the sounds associated with celebration. He contemplated going directly to his own room but somehow forced himself to turn the handle and enter. He was astounded to see the array of guests inside. Sitting on the bed were two people so out of place in Pakse he didn’t recognize them at first. Phosy and Dtui both rose to greet his arrival. As they approached him, Siri was able to quickly scan the rest of the throng. Phosy’s soldier friend, Kumpai, sat on the floor beneath the Nordic stags. Governor Katay sat on one of the guest chairs with his hands behind his head, smiling like a happy father at a wedding. Civilai was in his usual seat with his fingers knitted together beneath his chin.

  Phosy shook Siri’s hand and Dtui gave him one of her rapid body-slam hugs before stepping back to look at him. He was bruised and bloodied and his less-than-complete ear was wrapped in a bandage. His clothes were the color of dried mud.

  “Hey, Doc,” Dtui said. “Who beat you up?”

  He smiled at Dtui and finally had a chance to use a line he’d heard many years ago in a movie in France. “You should see the other guy.”

  Dtui clapped and Phosy shook his hand again. There was more commotion and a lot of greeting and laughing, but nobody seemed to want to take the responsibility of telling him what they were celebrating.

  “All right, I give up,” he said, taking a seat on the bed between his friends. “What do you all know that I don’t?”

  “Between us,” Civilai said, “it appears we’ve been able to thwart the coup.”

  One of Siri’s eyes opened wide. The other remained puffy and closed.

  “You what? Why that’s great. How? Tell me all about it.”

  While Kumpai went downstairs to order as much alcohol as the city of Pakse could provide, Phosy and Dtui told of the events leading to their arrival at the land border at Chong Mayk, where they had slipped through a well-used smuggling trail. Escaping into Laos had been easier than escaping out of it. They were met by Kumpai at a predesignated spot and driven to Pakse that morning. The supposed phone call to the Ubon governor from Brother Fred’s office had in fact been to one of Phosy’s contacts on the Thai side. He, in turn, had been able to contact Kumpai in Champasak.

  Dtui, being herself, often found Phosy’s rendition of the facts a little dry so she peppered it with anecdotes to keep the crowd entertained.

  “The mission Land Rover was better than a laissezpasser,” she said. “The checkpoint guards all the way to the border just stared at the diplomatic plates and glanced up at my driver Phosy here, and me on the backseat. I was wearing these very Japanese ambassador’s wife—type sunglasses I found in the glove box. I looked down my nose at these country boys and they stepped back. Some of them even saluted us. I couldn’t believe it. I was heartbroken when our policeman here said we had to leave the car on the Thai side. I wanted to live in the thing.”

  The first round of drinks arrived and Dtui made the initial toast of many.

  “To our republic,” she said, raising her glass. The toast was echoed with resounding enthusiasm.

  As the glasses continued to empty and refill, Siri glanced at Civilai. His friend was celebrating, joining in the festivities and enjoying the jokes. But, like Siri, he didn’t seem to have the same sensation of unbridled relief and joy that the others obviously felt. It was as if they were both pretending. He wondered whether his friend was feeling the same frustration and guilt of failure that Siri felt himself. It was a fleeting moment and one that a
lcohol soon erased. He returned his attention to the party and held out his glass for a refill.

  “I’m still missing facts,” he said. “You’re at the border and Kumpai meets you …”

  “Well, I suppose that’s where I come in,” the governor said. “I’d been summoned for a tête-à-tête with my Vietnamese counterpart. It appears the Vietnamese had become aware of an uprising, either based in or being channeled through Pakse. I was encouraged to round up any outsiders staying in town without official documentation. We began that search a few days ago and who should we catch in the net the day before yesterday but one undercover Lao army officer.”

  “That would be me,” Kumpai said, putting up his hand. Kumpai had been an erstwhile nondrinker who had decided today was a good time to start. He’d begun to slur his words as soon as the cap was removed from the Johnnie Walker bottle (the real thing, not the Vietnamese rebottled variety). “I got caught,” he said and slouched against the closet.

  “We were able to confirm Captain Kumpai’s identity with his superiors in Vientiane, and they insisted he share his knowledge with the Vietnamese security adviser. That’s how we learned that Captain Kumpai was in contact with agents in Ubon.”

  “That would be us,” said Dtui, and she and Phosy threw their hands into the air just as their drunken predecessor had done. They slapped their palms together and whooped. Johnnie worked a lot faster than rice whisky. The governor, relapsing into his schoolmaster persona, told the two to sit down and behave. They obliged, smiling, as he continued.

  “When the captain received his call in regard to Officer Phosy, we sent men to facilitate his reentry into Laos. He and Comrade Dtui were brought directly to my office. Our two rather amazing friends here had no end of valuable information for our attention.” There was another round of applause. “During our manhunt for insurgents, we had also discovered that Comrade Civilai was here in Pakse incognito”—another round of applause; Civilai bowed dramatically.—“Captain Kumpai had told us of his purpose for being in the south, and today we coordinated our efforts with his. He was instrumental in pinpointing various government officials we could trust. We had the Vietnamese advisers share our information with them. Thanks to the broken code, a number of key rebels have already been arrested around the country. Following those arrests, more conspirators were implicated and apprehended.”