The ragged police line covering the entrance to the Tax plaza broke. The outnumbered police retreated into the plaza. The crowd surged around them like it was the climax of 'Custer of the West.'
Tim took a few hurried photos before retreating up the escalator two steps at a time. Half way up he passed the suited man tumbling down the adjacent escalator.
The surge slowed once the rioters were inside; apparently there was no immediate plan beyond gaining entry. A shirtless man displaying a sinewy torso rushed up the escalator. Not wanting to take a chance, Tim hit the emergency stop button. The sudden jolt caused man and the three following him to fall to their knees. Tim decided not to be there when they reached the top.
The first floor was made up of expensive brand shops- most of which had a security grate pulled down over the entrance like a portcullis against the siege. A pair of youths were creating a din by striking the grates with a metal pole and an aluminium waste bin.
Tim scrambled up the next escalator to the second floor. He found a pair of youths examining a silver plaque which listed all the businesses in the tax plaza. One of the men stabbed his finger at one of the names on the plaque, then they rushed to the escalator.
Tim walked to the plaque. The youth had pointed to the name 'Ping-An insurance group'. He looked down the list of shops, businesses and banks. Four more sounded Chinese. They were all located on floors 17 and 18, where it seemed most of the financial services companies were based.
Deciding to take a different route to the youths, he pressed the elevator button. He wondered what he'd do if it opened full of angry Vietnamese. He was relieved to see from the digital display that the lift was coming down from floor 21. The adjacent lift was at the ground floor. There were undoubtedly rioters ahead of him, but hopefully few enough that he'd not have missed much. With a 'ping' the elevator door slid open. He stepped inside just as the shirtless rioter reached the top of the escalator. He hammered the door button.
'Hey!' the skinny rioter sprinted toward the lift, holding his palm out like a keystone cop ordering a thief to stop. Tim kept pressing the door button; willing it to close faster. The rioters may be after the Chinese, but it could expand to include him if he was seen to impede their progress. The rioter slammed into the door a moment after it closed. A second later the lift began to move. Tim flopped against the mirrored wall with a deep exhalation.
His eyes wandered to the flat screen TV above the door showing an advert for some Vietnamese soft drink; twenty-somethings in bright, colourful clothing and unbelievably white teeth posed on a perfectly trimmed lawn around a fountain while they enjoyed soda drinks with gasps of delighted surprise. They reminded him of Nancy. He hadn't expected the protest to become a riot. She would know to stay out of trouble... unless she decided to come after him.
When the lift neared floor 17 he held his camera ready; pointing the lens downward the way a cop in a movie would hold his pistol as he searched room to room.
He stepped gingerly from the lift. Noticing sliver cylindrical waste paper bin nearby, he picked it up and placed it between the lift doors. Adjacent to the lifts were the fire escape and toilet facilities. Frosted glass walls lined either side of a wide corridor. Air conditioning purred and the smell of newly shampooed carpet hung thick in the air.
Voices were coming from one of the offices along the corridor. Realising his silhouette would be obvious through the glass, he strode directly to the entrance. A smartly dressed young woman stood behind a desk, talking heatedly down a telephone while simultaneously texting on a mobile phone with her other hand. She didn't notice him right away. The room; apparently the reception, was a sterile mix of cream sofas and carpet and passionless watercolour paintings. Voices carried from through a double door beside the reception desk.
He cleared his throat. The receptionist didn't spare him more than a glance before returning her attention to her cell phone. A plaque on the wall behind her identified the company as the Ping-An insurance group. With the receptionist apparently preoccupied, Tim shrugged, heading toward the office beyond.
'Excuse me, Sir!' she called out. Tim kept walking. 'Sir!' she insisted.
He pushed through the doors into an open plan office. Empty desks stood in symmetrical rows. A clear glass door led to a small board-room with a long table surrounded by high backed chairs. A pair of men paced the board-room, gesticulating wildly, shouting into their mobile phones. A blue-uniformed security guard in a baseball cap stood in the doorway with his back to Tim.
The receptionist’s high heels thudded across the carpet until she appeared beside him. Tim noticed her painted red lips which stood out like a rose on snow against her skin.
'Please sir, we are closed. If you have an appointment, you must return. Now is trouble outside.'
'Yeah, it's hot on my heels. You should clear out,'
The Security guard turned. His expression hard on his weatherworn face, his gaze unblinking. He advanced in strides and took Tim's arm firmly in his hand. 'Sir, it's not safe. We will all leave together.'
Tim’s forearm was pinched white around the guards' grip.
'I'm with the press. The mob will be here shortly. You should make your way out. I'll be okay.'
The guard frowned, then releasing Tim he returned to the board room. After a short exchange, one of the suited men darted out with a sharp look over the rim of his glasses at Tim. He set his briefcase down on a desk next to a pile of discs, memory sticks and papers which he hurriedly tossed into the case.
The receptionist waited by the door, her forehead creased with worry. She kept glancing toward the main entrance. Deciding he was wasting time, Tim decided to leave. He nodded to the secretary as he passed. Perhaps he could get some good photographs from the plaza rooftop.
'Hey!' The security guard called out.
Hearing the guard's hurried footfalls, Tim quickened his pace. He was almost at the door when the guard caught hold of his arm and spun Tim around to face him.
'You wait! Too dangerous!' the guard's spittle landed on Tim's shirt. He thrust his face close so Tim had to look into his angry, wild eyes. The peak of his cap a centimetre from Tim's forehead.
'Alright, alright!' Tim held up his hands.
The guard stepped back. He stabbed his telling-off finger at Tim’s feet. 'Stay!' he said, butting his chin forward in warning.
'Calm down. It’s the Chinese they're after, I'm British,' Tim jiggled his camera, 'photographer.'
The businessmen shouted commands while the receptionist aided their hurried packing of documents. Her lip trembled. Tim thought to walk to her, but sharp turn of the guard's head put him off the idea of moving from the spot.
'Hey, dear. You're Chinese?'
She shook her head no, but pointed to the two suited men.
'Well lass, your bosses are going to have unwelcome company any moment. So they better light a fire under packing this crap.'
'We're ready!' snapped the bespectacled man. He stood straight with his suitcase at his side as if he were about to march a 'changing of the bureaucratic guard' parade.
'Good,' Tim said, 'most of the crazies are too busy smashing up the first floors. That won't last.'
'Why are you here?' the businessman's eyes narrowed at the westerner. Tim held up his camera in answer.
The guard waved the group toward the exit. He tutted when the receptionist paused to lock the office door.
'If they want in, that isn't going to hold them, lass,' Tim offered helpfully.
Looking toward the elevators, the guard mumbled something in Vietnamese. The doors of the elevator were sliding shut then meeting the resistance of the bin before jerking open again.
'Oh, I put that there.' Tim tipped an imaginary hat.
The guard allowed Tim a curt nod. He pointed to a fire-escape sign above a doorway to the left of the elevators. He ushered the group toward it.
Following last, Tim slowed his pace as they descended the stairwell. He looked down stairwell; the lower
floors seemed clear. Shrugging to himself he reasoned that they should be able to find their way out safely enough. They probably had a car waiting at the basement level anyway.
He ran back up the steps, through the fire escape door and to the elevator. He kicked the trashcan into the lift. The lift doors slid shut muffling the tinny rattle of the punted bin. Immediately the lift descended. He moved to the toilets. It wouldn't be long before troublemakers arrived. Three of the businesses listed on floor 17 had Chinese-sounding names. The toilet entrance was in a good position to photograph them without having to be directly in their path.
It wasn't more than a minute before the sound running feet pounded the floor, from the opposite end of the corridor. Had the rioters found their way up via another elevator? He knelt with his camera raised to his eye. He focused the lens down the corridor which split either side of a wide central pillar.
A wiry youth with a mop of black hair, a basketball vest and torn jeans appeared from around the pillar. He brandished a two-foot silver pole which he'd likely prised off of something- a handrail? He stopped in his tracks when he saw the flash of Tim's camera. He remained rooted to the spot until Tim lowered the camera. Perhaps realising him as a westerner the youth diverted his attention, running into the nearest office.
Three more appeared brandishing makeshift weapons; a brick, a hammer, and the third made do with a broom. Tim decided to hold back. He watched them run into their nearest office where he listened to their rage against inanimate objects. Deciding they were preoccupied with their destruction he crept to the entranceway of the office. He peered around the doorway finding a reception area almost identical to the Ping-An offices. Debris littered the carpet; a monitor, lamp, stationery and scattering of glass. He stepped inside.
From the main office beyond the reception, sounds of deconstruction continued; thumping and smashing accompanied by the shouts of the raiders. Then a new set of footfalls rushing up behind him.
Tim stepped back into the corridor to be immediately confronted by a tall, thin man who just managed to slow his charge to avoid them colliding. His face was gaunt which made his eyes seem to bulge from his head, he cried out in surprise- showing a mouth missing half its teeth.
Letting his camera hang from around his neck, Tim held up his empty palms. The gaunt man blinked once, then grabbed hold of Tim's camera- pulling while shouting in Vietnamese. Tim pulled back with one hand, with his other hand on the man's chest he shoved as hard as he could. This two-bit thug wasn't going to get an £800 camera. Tim was assaulted by the stench of rotten breath. A spindly arm swung around Tim's neck trying to force him to the ground.
More running feet thundered down the corridor. Tim pulled desperately at the camera and shoved his shoulder into the robber's ribs knocking him off balance, but pulling Tim down with him.
Their legs tangled as Tim struggled to scramble away. He was sure the approaching mob would give him the beating of his life. The skinny man flailed too, but neither of them got off the floor. Then the new attackers were on them. Tim shielded his head with his forearm and closed his eyes with an expectant wince.
The anticipated blows didn't fall. He lowered his arm. It took a second for his mind to register the blue and tan coloured uniforms. A pair of policemen dragged robber backwards, his feet thrashing in protest. Another in the Dark blue trousers and light blue shirt of a security guard, knelt beside Tim, pulling him into a sitting position. A further half dozen police and security officers charged into the besieged office.
The guard helped Tim to his feet. Brushing down the back of Tim's shirt he smiled encouragingly. Tim smiled weakly and allowed himself to be guided to the elevator. They passed the gaunt man, who glared up at Tim while being handcuffed by the two officers. Tim showed him his middle finger and shot two pictures of the arrest as he passed by. The arresting officers looked up; one shouted something in Vietnamese while pointing at the camera. The guard accompanying Tim gestured for him to hand over his camera. Tim shook his head no. The guard looked back to the police officers. The one who seemed to be senior barked his orders. Again the guard motioned for Tim to hand over the camera.
'I'm a journalist. Do you speak English?'
The guard put his hand on Tim's camera, giving it a small tug. Realising he wasn't going to win, Tim flicked open the side of the camera- removing the memory card and offering it. Satisfied with that, the guard handed it to the Policeman who then turned his attention back on his arrest.
The guard escorted Tim to the elevator. Tim listened as the vandals and police clashed. The crashing and shouting only abated when the elevator doors slid closed and the lift began to descend.
When the lift doors opened on floor 3, they were met by more police accompanied by a man in sunglasses, jeans and a red polo shirt, with an ID tag clipped to his belt which Tim was surmised identified him as a Police officer.
Handcuffed prisoners were filed into the lift. The officer clapped each of them on the shoulder, counting them in before stepping in himself.
'American?' croaked the plain clothed officer.
'British, actually.'
'Yah, yah.' The policeman nodded, as if it confirmed what he already knew.
The prisoners stared at their feet; seemingly only now ashamed. There was no conversation. The doors opened into the parking sub-level. The group were escorted past rows of motorbikes and scooters and up the entrance ramp into the street.
Dozens of armed police officers lined the street. The prisoners were prodded into the back of a flatbed truck which was already loaded with a half dozen men with arms cuffed behind their backs. The plainclothes officer waved at Tim to go.
Tim emerged from the parking lot realising he was on the north side of the mall, on Le Loi street. Remembering Nancy, he headed back towards Nguyen Hue on the East side of the mall.
The police presence outside the main entrance was even heavier. Dozens of Police vehicles were parked outside; mostly large bulky white Police bikes. Most of the crowd had dispersed, some banners littered the street and small groups hesitantly loitered until shooed away by Police.
A crying woman was escorted from the plaza by a man in a ripped shirt. Medics attended a half dozen people who sat outside the plaza entrance nursing cuts. Tim approached the entrance. He was intercepted by a small moustached policeman who stopped him with a hand on his chest.
'I'm trying to find my friend,' Tim said.
The officer shook his head firmly.
With shoulders slumped he plodded toward to the restaurant they’d dined at. He looked through the glass doors hopefully; the place was empty, the security grate pulled down over the entrance.
Tim sat on the pavement. Taking his mobile phone from his pocket. He usually kept his phone on silent. He had fourteen missed calls from Nancy. He propped his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands and let out a long sigh. She'd be pissed.
Tuấn
3rd March, 17:15
'Hello, nephew.'
Tuấn closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh. 'Hello, uncle.'
Uncle Thành kicked off his flip flops into the small pile of shoes and sandals inside the doorway.
Tuấn returned his attention to the TV. His portly uncle’s bare feet slapped the polished tiles. His breathing came as a phlegmy rattle. His meaty hand grasped Tuấn's shoulder.
'You're growing big and strong. You'll be a man soon!'
'I'm twenty-two.’
Thành’s chortle was followed by an outburst of coughing. 'What are you watching, nephew? Shouldn't you be studying?'
Tuấn put thumb and forefinger under his glasses to massage his eyelids. 'I was watching the news.'
'Oh yeah. A smart boy. Learning all about the world, eh? Don't get too smart for your own good.' Chuckling, he squeezed Tuấn's shoulder.
Shrugging free of his uncle's grasp, Tuấn stood. 'Grandma's taking her nap.' His gaze remained fixed on the TV screen.
'Look at you! Bigger every time I see you. My broth
er raised a smart and tall boy. I never see you at your parents' house.'
Tuấn blinked and straightened his glasses.
Thành’s feet made a sticky sound on the tiles as he walked to the foot of the sharply ascending staircase. 'Mama, it's me! Are you awake?'
'She's sleeping. She's been doing the laundry.'
'Mama?' Thành shouted.
'How much money do you want today?'
Thành scowled before softening into an ingratiating smile. 'I just want to visit Mama. I keep watch on her better than her other children.'
Tuấn’s cheek twitched as he struggled to contain an outburst.
'Is that Thành? I'm coming down.' Gran called down the stairwell.
Tuấn flicked the TV off. He could hear Gran's old bed frame creak.
'See. She's awake,' his uncle said.
Tuấn dragged the tall fan from the corner of the room to beside Grandma's armchair. He activated the fan which slowly whirred to life and adjusted the setting so that the fan remained fixed rather than rotating. He inched the base around with his toe so the breeze directed at Gran's chair.
Grandma hobbled off the bottom step with a toothless smile to her son. Her long, thin fingers patted his arm in greeting. She wore her paisley patterned đồ ngủ; the pyjama-like attire popular among older folk. Her greying hair was tied in a bun while loose strands hung down the nape of her neck. Her kindly, creased features displayed an ever present hint of a smile like she was amused at the world. She took her seat with a wink to her grandson.
‘You look well, Mama,’ Thành enthused as he took Tuấn’s seat. ‘I had such a trouble getting here. My bike has broken down! The mechanic quoted $200 to repair it.’
The March of the Dragons Page 4