Colin Cotterill - The Coroner's lunch

These were streets that used to ignore time. Clubs and bars that closed only when the last drunk fell out into the street. Whores and addicts had littered the sidewalks. He’d heard about that other extremity, and here he was at this one. He couldn’t bring himself to believe there wasn’t something safe and joyful between the two.

Even before he reached his lane, the dog howls struck up. After the quiet of a Vientiane night, he felt responsible fordisturbing the peace. The uneven surface of the unpaved road caused him to stagger once or twice. The rum had affected his balance. He wanted it under control before Miss Vong spotted him from her curtain observatory. He turned onto his front path, where Saloop crouched, growling, in front of him.

The curtain quivered.

“Good night, Miss Vong.”

There was no response. He looked down at the dog. Perhaps if he made an effort, perhaps if he could befriend this mangy critter, word would get around the neighborhood that he wasn’t such a bad human after all.

Instead of walking around the animal as he usually did, he stepped directly toward it. He uttered soft sounds to calm the beast. For every step Siri took forward, the confused mongrel took one backward. It was scared, but it growled on. This tango continued until Saloop was backed right up against the front door.

Not wanting to lose a finger, Siri cupped his hand as if he were holding a treat and crouched down to offer it to Saloop. Instantly the dog barked, and there were two sharp cracks like the sound of a whip. Siri looked around, not sure where the sound had come from, and the dog used the diversion toscurry off into the vegetables.

Siri stood, looked back toward the pitch-black lane, then back up at the house. The only light came from a gas lamp in an upstairs window. There was nothing to be seen but shadows. Something unnerved him about the sound, but there was nothing he could do. He walked inside and closed the door.

With his alarm clock set for four-thirty, Siri showered and went to bed early. Even before the musty smell of the kapok pillow reached his nostrils, he was asleep.

Tran, Tran, and Hok were walking with him along a busy city street. It was the West: an English-speaking country. There were cars and throngs of impatient people. It was evening, and the neon lights all around flashed and glowed, spelling out words he couldn’t read.

The three Vietnamese were huddled about him like security guards around a corrupt president. Whenever someone from the street tried to approach Siri, one of the men would step between them and push the person off roughly. Even though many were twice the size of the little Vietnamese, they yielded to the bodyguards.

Every now and then, Siri recognized passersby and tried to greet them. There were friends from the north, colleagues, even Dtui and Geung were walking along that street. But he was embarrassed, because every time they came to say hello, the Vietnamese fought them off. Tran, Tran, and Hok looked as they must have looked in life. They seemed happy, enjoying their rude work. They didn’t speak, just shielded Siri and hurried him along the road.

A child in the crisp elementary-school uniform of the republic stood in front of them. He looked nervous and held a pencil in one hand and a pad of paper in the other. Even though Siri’s entourage could have trampled over him, he bravely stood his ground and held out the pad. He wanted Siri’s autograph. The four men stopped.

The doctor reached forward. He cupped his fingers as if he were holding a treat and crouched down. The child smiled; what teeth he had were red with betel nut. He took a step forward, but before Siri could take the pencil from him, the Vietnamese pounced on the child and beat him. They kicked and trampled him. Siri was appalled. He tried to pull the men off, but they had immense strength.

Through the hole that passed through Hok’s chest, he could see the boy’s face. He was dying, but he was changing also. The childlike face peeled away to reveal the face of an old man. The guards stood back and the man, now dressed in the uniform of the People’s Liberation Army, lay dead in a pool of blood. Beside him was a broken syringe; Siri had mistaken it for a pencil. The acid it contained bubbled and hissed on the sidewalk. A crowd had formed of the people who’d passed them earlier. Each of them held a syringe that dripped with acid.

Siri snapped awake from his dream and was suddenly fearful of the silence and darkness around him. There was no moonlight. Although he could see nothing, he had a feeling there were people in the room. He could sense their movements.

“Who’s there?”

There was no answer. He pulled his mosquito net to one side and held his breath. He concentrated on the blackness, trying to pick out familiar shadows in the room, movement, but he couldn’t even see the outline of the window.

The dog chorus rose gradually in the distance, pained, high-pitched howls. And out of that chorus came the voices. He knew whose they were. There were three, speaking Vietnamese. Chanting, rather: “The black boar is still here. The black boar is still here.”

And Siri woke again. This time the alarm clock yanked him conscious. It was still dark, but some dull natural light now bled through the window. The luminous dials of the clock confirmed that it was indeed four-thirty. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. The mosquito net was off him, and the insects had feasted on his blood.

He dressed clumsily, grabbed his bag, and walked downstairs in some sort of trance. He used his flashlight to illuminate the way. The front door creaked open, and he shined the beam out along the path. Saloop wasn’t on duty, and the house seemed oblivious to his leaving. He closed the door and used the light to inspect it. It was about twelve centimeters thick and must have been magnificent when the house was still loved and the hinges oiled, the panels varnished. Now it was clumsy and crooked.

He felt a chill when the light of the torch found the two bullet holes at chest level. There was no question what they were. The shells hadn’t been able to pass through the solid teak. If Siri hadn’t bent down when he did, he was certain those two shells would now be in him.

The Yak-40 lifted uncomfortably, like an overfed goose. Like the two Soviet pilots sitting at the controls, it wasn’t pretty to look at. Siri couldn’t imagine what deal had been struck to make this clumsy airplane and its original crew available twenty-four hours a day to Lao VIPs. Neither could he think what the pilots must have done wrong to be punished so. But for six months it had ferried generals and ministers around the country, courtesy of the Soviet Union.

Siri was the only passenger. The co-pilot pointed to a bench seat and the safety harness when he came aboard, and grunted. That was the end of the in-flight service. But he was glad to be alone. He needed time to think. He’d been in battles, been shot at often enough. But assassination was a different matter altogether. It was personal and rude. He was more angry than afraid.

On his way to the airport he’d made two stops. He’d awakened Nguyen Hong and warned him to be careful. He suggested he write down everything they knew and leave it in an envelope at the embassy, to be opened in case of any “accident.”

Then he’d stopped at Dtui’s. She was already awake. Her mother was in a bad way. Neither of them had slept. This was hardly a time for more bad news. He didn’t mention getting shot at, but he told her if anyone came by to ask, she should deny all knowledge of any case having to do with any Vietnamese. She was a cleaner and Geung was a day laborer, and they wouldn’t know a head from a pair of feet. From his tone, she could tell he was deadly serious.