Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

"As a medical person, I'm predicting we'll catch pneumonia if we sit up here in the rain for much longer," Dtui told him.

"That's all right. We can share a bed in emergency. Joint drips."

"That's so sweet. I think I'm going to like this new romantic Phosy."

"Don't get your hopes up. If this conversation gets out to anyone else, you and the orphan are on the street. Get it?"

Dtui put her arm around his neck.

"I think we owe Siri and Daeng a meal, don't you?"

"We would have sorted this out eventually."

"Probably. In two or three years?"

"You're right. When the good doctor gets back from his trip we'll take them somewhere nice. I'll start saving."

"Good. Phosy?"

"What?"

"Can we have sex tonight?"

"Dtui!" The policeman blushed the colour of a rat-excrement chilli.

"What? We're married, you know."

"A lady doesn't…"

"Sorry."

They looked out into the vast darkness all around them.

"Phosy?"

"What?"

"Can we?"

"Absolutely."?

It was some two, perhaps three hours later that Phosy, wearing only a loincloth and a grin, brought his papers into the police common room. He tugged on the bobble chain that clicked on the light bulb. He had a report to write about the three-epee case. The commissioner of police had been very pleased with the thoroughness of the investigation and was optimistic as to how the police would look in the eyes of the public once the trial was over. He had mentioned over tea that afternoon that, as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. All he needed was the final report. The trial, he conceded, was just a bit of trumpet blowing from Justice. Phosy didn't have to be involved in all that. He didn't even need to put in an appearance.

Phosy had been confused. He'd asked how they could have a trial without the arresting officer present. How would they present the evidence he'd collected? The commissioner had smiled and leaned close to him, even though there were only the two of them in the office.

"They'll read out your report," he said.

So, pressure was on to have the report finished to read in evidence the next day. He opened the case of the portable typewriter and clicked his fingers. He had to get his spelling right. He'd have Dtui read through it in the morning to be sure the grammar was…Or perhaps not. She'd ask questions and the report would never be delivered. She'd ask questions like, "What kind of trial doesn't allow the defendant's representative to cross-examine the investigating officer?" She was like that. Logical. He looked at the folder with all his hours of interviews and communiques from Europe. He stared at the pile like a writer with a block. Apart from Dr Siri, everyone had decided Neung was guilty. It didn't matter what the accused said or did during the trial. He was a dead man.

Phosy put a sheet of paper between the rollers and held his fingers over the keys. They hovered there for a minute playing air keyboard, before he brought them down all at once. The keys wedged together and remained stuck, handprints in metal. What had Siri asked? "What does your instinct tell you?" And Phosy's instinct told him a lot. Nothing about Neung suggested the man was a mass murderer. Everything about this case was weird. There were more questions unanswered than answered. Ignoring them didn't make the inconsistencies go away. The trial would go on for a day or two. There was time for just a little more police work.?

Comrade Civilai sat on the end of the bed in House Number Two waiting for the guide to escort him to the ball. Anywhere else and he would have had two or three drinks beforehand to numb the forthcoming pain. He'd represented his country at numerous events such as this. Over the last five years he'd begun to wonder if it was the only thing he was good at, pretending to have a good time. The more objectionable he'd been in the cabinet meetings, the more overseas missions they sent him on. Anything to get him out of sight. There was nothing those politburo boys liked less than having someone disagree with them. Politics had changed him. He probably couldn't tell a plough from a shear these days but he could name any cocktail from a hundred metres.

And then came the retirement. It had been touch and go for a while whether they'd put him out to pasture or wrap a blindfold round his head and shoot bullets at him. Both had their good points. But thanks to Siri his fall from grace had one or two padded cushions beneath it. And here he was, a year later, still upsetting everyone. Making a nuisance of himself. And still they had him handshaking, head-nodding, gorge rising on the cocktail circuit. He hated it. But, at least he had Siri with him. Nothing ever seemed so dark when friend Siri was around. He could have used the old boy's sunshine to brighten up the dull afternoon at the state farm.

"This is an orange," the commentary had begun. "It achieves its bright orange glow from the combination of fish entrails mush and fertilizer blended from our own chicken manure. The orange, a tropical fruit, originated in…et cetera, et cetera."

They'd given everyone a slice of orange to suck on. In spite of all that shit blending and offal mushing, it had tasted like any common or garden bloody orange. And Civilai had looked along the rows at all the bananas and papayas and mangoes and lemons and pomegranates and jack fruit and star fruit and he knew what a lot he had to look forward to and how much more fun this fruit cocktail party would have been with his brother at his side. And would that he were with him now. There was something sinister about this country. It wasn't a comic parody of a socialist state, it was a deadly serious parody. It was as if they believed that this was how it was supposed to look. They'd read the Communist Manifesto and missed the point. Just as Christian and Muslim extremists found hatred and vengeance that didn't exist in their respective manuals, these Red Khmer believed Marx and Lenin had called for the obliteration of personality and pleasure and free thought. Believed that blind allegiance was the only way to proliferate their doctrines. Civilai had never read it that way because that wasn't how it had been written.

So far, he'd only seen what they wanted him to. Yet, instinctively, he knew that something unpleasant lurked below the surface. He felt it in his heart and he wanted to have Siri around to talk through his theories. He wanted to know what the little lunchtime drama had been about, whether Siri had learned anything more about this weird place. But, most of all, he wanted to be sure his friend was safe. As far as Civilai was concerned, their departure the following day couldn't come a moment too soon.

He was startled by a knock.

"Siri?"

There was no answer. Civilai hurried to the door and threw it open. Comrade Chenda stood there, pale and flustered.

"It is time to go down," he said.

"But what about Siri?"

"Comrade Siri might join us later."

"Where is he?"

"He's…It's time to go."

"What is it? What are you not telling me?"

"It's time to go down."

"You've already said that. Now perhaps you'd do me the courtesy of telling me what you know about — "

But the young guide had turned on his heel and was heading back towards the staircase.

"Everything will be explained," he said. "In due time."?

Phosy had spent the day interviewing, phoning, knocking on doors. He had all his notes spread around him on the floor and sat at their centre like a frog on a white lily pad. He had become more confused as the day progressed. Malee lay on the bed gurgling and laughing at the stars-and-planets mobile circling above her head. Her parents noticed she was particularly fond of Pluto. Phosy crawled across to the bed and took hold of his daughter's hand.