Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

"Why doesn't Dtui ask him herself?"

"She's already made her mind up. Nail!"

"I don't — "

"Siri, concentrate. That was a toothpick."

"Sorry. I don't feel comfortable interfering. They haven't exactly asked for our help, you know."

"Neither did any of the strays and orphans you're putting up at your house free of charge. Neither did Mr Geung or Crazy Rajid who you've probably frightened clear across the river. These are our friends. Nail! They don't always have to ask for help."

"You're right," he said. "I'll invite him out for a few drinks, loosen him up, tell him about the myriad extramarital affairs I'm involved in and he'll feel an instant camaraderie and come out with his story all by himself."

"Now you're thinking. Nail!"?

It was mid-morning and Siri was in the morgue office sitting at his desk with a magnifying glass trying to match the fingerprints on Jim's epee with the very smudged print he'd found on the bottom of the vitamin bottle. All three swords lay parked across his desk. Nurse Dtui was at her own desk studying Russian. She hadn't entirely given up hope that, one day in the future, she might continue her studies overseas. This epee case — three women given scholarships — had caused her to wonder how her own course in the Soviet Union might have been progressing if only…

She'd been on her way, tickets booked, woollen hats crocheted, when, 'wham', hit head-on by events. A little bit of lust induced by a powerful but foolish crush, a determined sperm, rampant biology, and there she was: with child but without mate. Her sperm donor had felt obliged to do the right thing and she'd said 'Yes'. Clearly her mistake. Beautiful baby, womanising husband. One out of two wasn't bad. She was feeling resentment towards the three women who'd studied overseas. It was as if they'd taken her place but not taken full advantage of their good fortune. Wrong and irrational, Dtui, but better to channel your disappointment into three dead people than one live one who, let's be honest, hadn't really promised her that much.

"What are you doing, Dtui?"

"Trying to understand the instructions on all this equipment the Soviets keep throwing at us. The freezer's been here since last year and we still don't know how to turn it down."

"Good. That can wait. Come and take a look at this."

She walked across to his desk and leaned over the magnifying glass Siri held over the vitamin bottle.

"In your opinion," he asked, "is this a thumb-print or a smudged fingerprint?"

"It looks a little…"

"Yes?"

"A little bit like the face of Ho Chi Minh."

"Dtui, I'm being serious."

"It's a miracle. Uncle Ho has returned — "

She was interrupted by the sound of the door banging against the filing cabinet. Mr Geung walked into the office drenched as a water rat, obviously in a poor mood.

"What's wrong, hon?" Dtui asked.

"Nothing," he replied, and slumped down at his little desk in the corner. He shook the rain from his head. His perm looked like a crepe.

"If nothing's wrong," Dtui said, "where are the two cups of coffee you went to the canteen to buy?"

Geung looked at his hands to confirm they weren't holding a tray.

"Oh," he said. He stood, started for the door, then had second thoughts and returned to his seat. He was obviously being pulled in two different directions by the oxen of conscience.

"Mr Geung, did something happen?" Siri asked.

"No!"

"Geung?" Dtui pushed.

"A…a…a…a woman," he said, agitated and animated.

"Yes?"

"In the can, the can…the canteen. She…she…"

"She what, hon?"

"She…she's feeble-minded like me."

"Mr Geung, how many times do we have to tell you? There's nothing feeble about your mind. You have — "

"A condition," Geung cut in. "Called Down's Syndrome. And…and…and she does, too."

"Really?" said Siri. "I wonder what she's doing here."

"Probably a patient," Dtui suggested.

"No, no, no," said Geung. He was rocking so drastically back and forth in his seat he was making the room feel like an ocean liner in a squall. "She's…she's in…in a uniform."

"Well, that explains it," Siri nodded. "She's come to work here."

"I…I…no, no good."

"What are you so mad about, Geung?" Dtui asked.

"It's my hospital," he said. He stood, tapped the desktop four times, and headed off out the door.

Dtui looked at Siri. "He seems upset."

"Who'd have thought Down's Syndrome sufferers could be territorial? You know, it is really condescending of us to think he'd get along with a girl just because she has the same condition."

"Dr Pornsawan said she's got a lovely personality."

"Even so…"

"Doc, we aren't locking them in a room together. It's a big hospital. They don't have to talk. We just arranged a part-time job for a girl, that's all."

"All right, but I don't want you pushing him."

"I wouldn't dream — "

"Who aren't we pushing?" came a voice.

They looked up to see Civilai in the doorway fanning himself with several loose sheets of damp paper.

"Hello, brother," Siri smiled. "What did you bring me?"

"Travel documents."

"Travel…? Oh, shit. Cambodia. I'd forgotten completely."

"It's all official. We leave on Friday."

"This Friday? Oh, look. I'm not sure I can. We're in the middle of this case, and — "

"Afraid you have no choice, old man." He turned back to shake his umbrella in the vestibule and left it standing open there before walking into the office.

Civilai put the papers on Siri's desk. The doctor detected a faint odour of neglect about his friend.

"What do you mean I have no choice?" Siri asked.

"Your boss, Judge Haeng, got wind of our little trip. He was delighted. Said a high-profile visit like this would do wonders for your chances for you-know-what. He's given you four days off."

"I don't want four days off. Not now. Surely, solving this case should take priority."

"He did mention that your role in the epee murder investigation was over, that you are merely a coroner, and that it's all in the hands of the police now."

"He did, did he?"

"We're just humble servants, Siri. Bite the bullet. We pop over for the May Day reception, tour a couple of farms, eat and drink ourselves silly and we're back before anyone's noticed we've gone. I doubt Phosy will close the case in the interim. It'll still be there for us to solve when we come back."

"I thought you said they only had one flight in and out a fortnight?"

"Normally, yes. But this is a special occasion. They've laid on an extra flight from Peking. We'll be going with the Chinese delegation."

"Really? That should be fun," said Siri. "You'll have a chance to tell them what you think of them. When's the orientation?"

"Nothing scheduled yet. Why the panic on getting briefed?"

"I haven't been out of the country for seven years. I'm interested to know what's happening out there in the real world."?

Despite my obstinacy, they continue to bring me my fetid water every couple of hours. Somebody wants to keep me alive — barely. The lights burn on. Time's dragging like a heavy body over rocks. The whole story is crawling along too slowly to be film. In the cinema I would have made my daring escape hours ago. Certainly, for my sanity it helps to see it all as theatre; the screams broadcast from a tape recorder in the wings. The insect bites merely carefully applied stage make-up. A theatrical slap to the face. It's only acting. Don't hide your eyes, son.

The charcoal has helped. I am back in control, if not of the consistency, at least of the timing. I can now wait for the bucket they bring. The boys. The boys with three watches rattling around their wrists like bracelets. The boys not old enough to shave. The clone boys, identical to the one in my dark dream. Playing soldier with live ammunition. A real gun pointed at my forehead. Night after night. That finger, twitching, deciding whether to squeeze the trigger and take this old man out. And some nights he doesn't. And some nights he does. And on those nights when the gun blasts, I find myself walking through what's left of my nightmare with nothing above my frayed neck. But, even on those headless nights I can hear the eerily beautiful singing. It's a dream. Who needs ears? All right. All right. Perhaps I sense the sounds. Would that work? The honey dew voice of a man. The words mean nothing to me but I can tell he's singing to his lover. And each night I wake in a humid inside-the-house sweat and I tell my wife, "Something bad is going to happen." And Madame Daeng brushes back my hair and says, "It's only a dream."