Six and a Half Deadly Sins

by Colin Cotterill

  “Who are you?”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t Madame Daeng. Madame Daeng has always encouraged us to take up a weapon and make a stand. To attack.”

  “Oh, her. She’s having the night off. I’m the rational, logical Daeng.”

  “No, she’s here. But she’s afraid she can’t give her full attention to the war.”

  Daeng looked away, but Chanta leaned forward so she could see the face of the doctor’s wife. She could see the old lady’s eyes welling with tears. Her hands were trembling.

  “She’s here loving her husband,” Chanta continued. “She’s the Daeng who wants a hospital close by. A pharmacy. She’s a Madame Daeng who’s afraid of the end of a dream.”

  “Don’t talk such utter rot. How dare you?” Daeng got clumsily to her feet, still not looking Chanta in the face. “I brought you here to compliment you,” she said, “and you dare talk to me like this? Do you have no respect?” She hobbled off.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Chanta. “He’s lived a good life.”

  “Bitch!” was the last word she heard.

  “You have to tell them, you know.”

  “I don’t think it would help, Bpoo.”

  “They have a right.”

  “They’d just worry. Make it all messier.”

  “Then Daeng, at least. You owe her that.”

  “That’s funny. You giving me advice on dying with dignity. There’s only one way. Neat. Sudden. The world shocked that there’s no more Siri in it, a brief intimate ceremony and we can get on with the next act.”

  Siri and Auntie Bpoo were sitting on a telephone wire, looking down at the Mekhong. They were on the Thai side, and they could see the sleepy village of Vientiane opposite. One red moon set over Bangkok to the south, and another, even redder, set beyond the Chinese border to the north. A flock of chickens flew beneath them, skimming the surface of the river and squealing with delight.

  “This is another dream, I presume,” said Siri.

  “As opposed to …?”

  “Premature reincarnation.”

  “Are you in such a hurry to be dead?”

  “I thought this might be—you know—orientation.”

  “You really want to come back as a blue tit?”

  “The flying part appeals to me. Holding on to a live wire with my toes is a challenge. It hurts. And I mean, how does one balance? Birds have little heads and unusually cumbersome bodies. The fulcrum is somewhere around their bladder.”

  “For a dreaming person, you really are investing far too much time on details.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you tried them yet? The wings?”

  “Should I?”

  “No better time for a metaphor.”

  “I just …?”

  “Step off the wire, spread those glorious wings and trust to fate.”

  Siri threw caution and himself to the wind, shouted “Yee-haw!” and dropped like a turd. Nothing he attempted would keep him airborne. He sighed and landed with an inevitable scatological splat on his bedroll. He had the taste of his own feathers in his mouth. He had a hand around his throat. It didn’t belong to him.

  The hand that was not wrapped around Siri’s throat held a machete that glinted gently in the starlight. To his right he could see that Daeng had a knife to her throat. They had a brief moment to exchange a this could be worse, but just in case it couldn’t, you know how much I love you glance.

  Daeng was sure that if her husband had been in better shape, she could take on her assailant and have faith that he could hold off his own attacker. They both knew that a machete was a poor tool for a midnight assassination. It needed a backswing, which always gave the victim a chance to defend himself. A short, sharp blade did the job far more economically. All of which assured Daeng that they were being abducted rather than murdered.

  The invaders used powerful flashlights. There were numerous beams scything back and forth on both sides of the river. From the direction of the light, it appeared to Daeng that most of the villagers were being herded upstream. There were shouts at one stage, then gunshots and screams. Then … silence.

  Only one or two beams converged onto the track along which she was being dragged. In front of her she could see Siri, a man on either side of him, his feet barely touching the ground.

  When they arrived once more at the schoolroom, it was lit by lamps in four corners. An insignificant-looking man sat at the teacher’s desk, poring over documents. He seemed too shabby to be a bookkeeper. Beside him stood a man whose bulk suggested an enormous sack of onions. The lamplight reflected off the sweat on his dome of a head.

  Neither man looked up when the captives were dragged in and perched on the benches. Besides Siri and Daeng and Civilai, the invaders had singled out the village headman and every one of the adults who had attended the afternoon session. The insignificant man looked up from the sheets in front of him, and his smile was like an invitation into an unlit tunnel.

  “I am Goi,” he said.

  Daeng was disappointed that a man with less style than a vagabond could be the scourge of the north. Even history’s most evil men were not averse to grooming. With his money he could have bought himself some teeth, had a haircut, found clothes that fit. Then again, some people were naturally dirty.

  Goi looked up at his henchman, who went to the window and turned his flashlight on and off three times. They all heard bloodcurdling cries from the distance. Then more silence.

  “The sounds you just heard,” Goi continued in Lao, “were those of your entire village community being beheaded. Or at least those whose throats weren’t slashed in their beds.”

  The deputy headman had understood the words. He got to his feet and was shot dead before he could take a step. The bullet that killed him passed through the arm of a woman in the second row. She screamed, and there was a brief moment of panic amongst the prisoners. Goi rode it out.

  Daeng knew that the guards had orders to kill anyone who moved, so she remained rigid in her seat, her eyes locked on the foreman. Across the room, Siri nodded drowsily, apparently unaware of what had just taken place. The Lu sat with their heads buried in their hands, tears washing their cheeks. The fire of that afternoon had been doused in their chests.

  “See what a mess you old people have made of all this?” said Goi. “So much unnecessary violence. What a lot of mayhem you’ve caused in such a short period of time.”

  He looked down again at his notes. “So,” he read, “it appears you are going to defeat me with the coordination of the police in Vientiane. This force will be led by one … Inspector Phosy.”

  Daeng closed her eyes. He was reading from her notes of the afternoon meeting. There was a spy in their midst. The foreman’s network was indeed far-reaching.

  “Problem is,” said Goi, “Inspector Phosy had a small drowning accident. He can’t even coordinate shit to come out of his own arse anymore.” He laughed at his joke.

  An involuntary tic passed up Daeng’s leg and caused her knee to hit the underside of the desk. Two gunmen raised their weapons but didn’t know who to shoot. Daeng was sucked dry by the news of Phosy. Disaster was clawing at her from every direction, and she had no control. No plan. And already she feared for another of her friends. In a situation like this, Civilai would find it impossible to keep his stupid mouth shut. But for the moment, Goi’s attention was focused on her.

  “You, you old bag,” said Goi. “What a riot you are. I was thinking some daring gang of bandits had stolen my product. But then I heard of this stoned old bird at the market who had clearly been sampling my wares. I sent idiots to retrieve the stash, and they got what they deserved. I take my hat off to you, grandma. If I’d known who you were, I’d have gone myself. Believe me, I would have cut that smirk off your ancient face. I probably will anyway. And you even managed to turn one of my most loyal workers. Remarkable. And there I was, thinking I was such a caring employer.”

  He called
out again in Lu, and two guards escorted Daeng’s thug into the room. He was howling with pain, staggering on their arms like a child taking its first steps. Tears carved channels down the dirt on his cheeks. He had no feet.

  “He won’t run away again,” said Goi, and produced that obscene toothless laugh that made Daeng want to get just close enough to shut him up. She’d met lunatics aplenty, but nobody had ever matched this. The various mafiosi resorted to cruelty to establish dominion, yet few would take a pleasure in their necessary work. Goi was depraved. She could tell he loved the brutality. Who would wipe out an entire village to teach someone a lesson?

  She knew the plan. She and Siri and Civilai and all but two or three witnesses would be eliminated that night. The surviving witnesses would tell the tale, and Goi’s reputation would be enhanced. And the worst part was that she could truly do nothing about it.

  The escorts threw Daeng’s thug on the dirt. Goi pulled a pistol from his belt and shot him in the throat. She knew it was all part of the show.

  “One more small matter to clear up before we say good night,” said Goi. He pointed at Civilai. “You are …?”

  “I’m what?” said Civilai. The old politician had come to the same conclusion as Daeng. Nothing mattered.

  Goi pointed the pistol at him. “Your name,” he said.

  “Paul,” said Civilai. “It’s biblical. My mother worked with Mother Theresa.”

  Goi was uncertain how to react.

  “So, Paul,” he said, “you and that dying old man over there took a jeep to Muang Xai. You stopped at the post office. One of you used the telephone to call Vientiane. What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Hello. Hello. Can you hear—’ ”

  Goi shot the weaver from Muang Sing dead and leveled his gun at the next in the line.

  Civilai began to shake. He put his hands together. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “I told them that in 1976, seven work crews were murdered in cold blood,” he said, staring Goi directly in the face. Wondering whether he’d hear the shot before he felt it. Daeng lowered her head. “I told them the men were buried in pipe segments sealed with concrete. I told them that the men worked under a foreman by the name of Guan Jin, alias Goi. That they’d trusted him. They thought their lives and their savings were safe.”

  Civilai was addressing this directly to the guards who stood around the room. “But Goi had no respect for his fellow man,” Civilai continued. “No respect for life. And as was his habit, he had his men killed.”

  Goi smiled.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “I’m afraid it might not be so easy to turn my guards against me because they don’t speak Lao. But now I know what you know. Except my instinct tells me you didn’t work all that out until after your visit to the camp at Seuadaeng. That means you were still clueless when you last phoned Vientiane. So …”

  He leveled his gun at Civilai, who smiled and shook his head.

  “I am tempted to shoot you,” said Goi, “but then I’d never get to enjoy the torture while we find out where you put my stash. We did check out the clinic, of course. Awful waste of baking powder, that. We have some fun ways of getting information up here. I was expecting a bit more fight from your doctor friend. No fun at all hammering nails into someone who can’t feel it. What’s wrong with him?”

  He leveled the gun at the top of Siri’s head.

  “Jet lag,” said Civilai, and stood up.

  “Old age,” said Daeng, and she too got to her feet.

  The guards didn’t know who to shoot first. Madame Chanta stood up. “He sleeps a lot,” she said.

  “Well, let’s wake him up,” said Goi. He closed one eye for effect and squeezed the trigger.

  “No!” cried Daeng.

  The sound of the shot seemed to disorient the guards. It was quieter than Goi’s two previous kills, and the old doctor’s hair was unruffled. There was no sign of a bullet hole. Instead it was the guard at the blackboard who fell. Goi looked at his weapon as if it might have misfired. But then there was a second shot, and a second guard dropped to the ground. The gunfire was not coming from the schoolroom but from outside.

  “Get down,” shouted Daeng. She waded through the tables, grabbed Siri by the waist and wrestled him to the ground, then lay on top of him. The chaos increased all around as first one, then another, of the lamps was shot out.

  From then on everything happened in shadows. Distant flashlights sliced through the night. The gunfight had a feel of desperation with everyone shooting at ghosts. Guards ran away without knowing where “away” might be. All around were the sounds of death and the wails of those begging to be finished off.

  But in the melee, Goi and his henchman had crawled through a blind gap in the bedlam and found themselves beyond it. They climbed a heavily vegetated rise behind the school. Silo walked in front, breaking branches to clear the way for his boss. “Are you hit?” asked Silo.

  “No, I’m not hit, stupid,” said Goi. “Shut up and run.”

  Silo made it to the top of the embankment and had broken off half a bush so Goi might climb to the summit. He stood mesmerized as he looked back down at the sight of all the huts set ablaze. It was hypnotic. There was less gunfire, fewer cries, and suddenly the hell from which they’d escaped had become a beautiful spectacle. He could feel the warmth from the fires, see the smoke curl up and vanish in the stars. So pretty.

  Goi, wheezing and clutching at his chest with his left hand, reached out with his right. He had just a few more paces to go. “Come on, stupid,” he spat.

  But at that second, he witnessed a phenomenon that few men experience. He could clearly see the fires reflected in Silo’s eyes, burning in stereo, full of life. Then a hole appeared like a Hindu tilak on the man’s forehead, and the fire lights went out in his eyes. And he was dead. Even so, he took a step forward before tipping over onto the slope he’d just climbed. And there he lay at Goi’s feet. Useless.

  The foreman used him as a step to climb the final meter, then rested on a flat patch of grass to catch his breath. To regain his thoughts. He had escaped. Was free to rule again. But who? What rival band had launched this attack? Or by some freakish chance, had some gang chosen that night to raid the village? Whoever they were, he’d find them. Let their god help them when that happ—

  He sucked in his breath and threw himself onto the grass. The image of Silo’s death had replayed in his mind’s eye. The bullet hole. The blood and debris on his forehead. An exit wound. An exit wound. He had been shot from …

  Goi turned to see a single flashlight buried in the dirt some twenty meters away across the flat top of the hill. Its beam was directed toward the sky. He’d been holding his pistol all this time, and he rolled onto his stomach with both hands in front of him. He shimmied backward until he dropped beneath the rise. He lay there, breathing heavily, hiding behind his gun.

  “Whatever you’re earning, I can pay you ten times more,” he shouted. “Money’s no object. Let me pass, and your family’s taken care of for the next five years. Think about that.”

  Silence but for the crack of burning bamboo from the gulley.

  He tried the same line in Lu, and in a variety of local languages. He even threw in English for good measure.

  Silence.

  He looked at the black forest ahead of him. Left. Right. Once he was in the woods, he’d be safe. They’d never find him in there.

  He took aim at the flashlight, and the bullet smashed it into hundreds of pieces. But it made no difference. The stars and the fires had turned late night into day. He scurried to his left behind the crest of the rise to be closer to the trees. All he needed was permission from the sniper.

  “All right,” he shouted. “What is it you want? Trust me. Whatever it is, I can make it happen.”

  Again he worked through his languages. Again he was met by silence.

  He crawled up behind a patch of shrubs and had a view across the clearing. Nothing moved, but he was aware tha
t whoever attacked the village might send men up to find stragglers. He didn’t have all night.

  A figure moved across the way. Goi fired three shots. He was certain two of them had found their target, but the figure didn’t drop. The foreman squinted and realized his target had no head. It was a shirt on a wooden cross. Guttural marbles of laughter rolled across the clearing.

  “That’s a revolver,” said a voice in Lao. There was something familiar in the tone. “Nice piece of equipment, but it only has six bullets. You’re out. And for future reference, you really didn’t need to scramble up here through the jungle. There’s a path. Much easier.”

  “Good,” said Goi. “Very good. I could learn a lot from a man like you. Seriously. Let me hire you. What are you earning?”

  “Thirty-two dollars a month,” came the voice.

  “I’ll pay you a thousand,” said Goi.

  “That’s very generous.”

  “Is it a deal?”

  “You just tried to kill me.”

  “That happens in the heat of battle. In times of stress. But you’re an intelligent man. You understand that. We don’t have any personal grudges.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Come out of the shadows there, brother. You’ll see I’m a common man just like you. A soldier in a fight that’s none of our business.”

  “You aren’t. You aren’t a common man, and you are nothing like me,” said Inspector Phosy.

  He took a few labored steps forward and was illuminated in the glow from the burning village.

  Goi got to his knees. “No,” he said. “Not possible.”

  “Then I must be a ghost,” said Phosy. “Which would you prefer?”

  “How could you …?”

  “I’m not a big one for making villains feel better about themselves by explaining things before I kill them. This is just a showdown. It’s the moment I was waiting for—dreaming of in those hours spent in your tomb.”

  “So you’ll shoot me?” said Goi. “How satisfying would that be after all that time of plotting revenge?”

  “Not satisfying at all,” said Phosy. He held up his gun and tossed it back over his shoulder.