Colin Cotterill - Anarchy and the Old Dogs

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 everyone-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.

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 pre-designated 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.