Colin Cotterill - Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

Civilai sighed and slouched back on his seat.

"You think Siri found this note somewhere?" Daeng asked.

"So it would seem. And thought it important enough to risk his life getting it out of the country."

"But Siri couldn't read Khmer," said Mrs Nong, drying her tears with a tissue. "He wouldn't have known how significant it was."

"He would," Civilai and Daeng said at the same time.

"It's possible somebody gave it to him to pass on," Daeng told her. "But my husband had instincts other men don't possess."

Of course she'd meant to say 'has'.

Time has lost its meaning. Misery has lost its edge. The sounds I hear no longer bear any human elements. They are ornaments. They are jingles. They are pleasant, almost enjoyable bursts of spontaneous birdsong. My clarity has become a giddy drunken clarity. I see everything as a joke. A funny thing happened to me on my way to the cemetery clarity. As Civilai liked to point out, my smart-arse thyroid is playing up again. Somewhere inside I'm aware this is a symptom, the result of endless light and lack of sleep and poor nutrition. But there's really nothing I can do about it. I'm experiencing madness and it's funny. Move over Rajid.

What good has all this conservation of energy done me? I mean, honestly. What can I do? When they nabbed me leaving Civilai's room at the hotel, that was my chance. I had stashed my evidence and was on my way down to join the party when the black-suited monkeys were on me. I didn't see them coming. But I was fit then, still burning calories from Peking. I could have done a James Bond. There were only two of them. Thugs, perhaps, but I could have felled them with well-placed karate chops. A sprint and a dive headlong through the window at the end of the corridor. Parallel-bar routine through the branches of the strangler fig tree and head for the border. Blew that one.

Very weak now. Perhaps they'll do me the favour of killing me quickly. Perhaps they'll tire of the toenail-plucking and eye-gouging and just put a bullet in me. That would be nice.

And where have you lot gone to? One by one you lost souls drifted away, off through the walls, east, west, north or south. No direction. No leadership. See if I don't desert you some day, you traitors. But, dear ma, you're still with me, my sweetheart. Too bad mothers have no choice. Even if they can't see a hope in hell for their offspring they have to sit it out till the bitter end. Isn't that right, my mother angel? Yes, chew your betels. Spit your blood. Perhaps we could chat about the old days when I come acr -

A key in the lock. Why do they…? Never mind. And there you are, the dungeon keeper. Thirty-six, thirty-seven? Either way, half my age but skinny. Skinny as the Chinese ideogram for tree…written in biro. I could take you, you poorly written character. How dare they toss a twig into the lion's den? No, Siri. Badly mangled metaphor. What would a lion care of a twig? I'll work on that. But meanwhile you walk into my lair with your pail and your tin mug. It's quiet beyond the door, and black. Are you the night watchman? What are your orders, twiggy? Keep him alive till morning. We'll kill him properly then. How hard can that be? Feed me and keep me away from sharp objects. But you don't look that bright, do you?

So I lie still and I stare. I stare into the hypnotic glare of the strip light. My tongue lolls from my mouth like that of a sleeping sloth. My breathing stops. I am clearly dead. Call me a liar. Yes, you dare speak to me. Your words sound like 'Is a saucepan under a yellow?' in my language. You dare. You dare come near enough to look into my cloudy eyes. You dare lean close to my face to hold the back of your hand against my nose. And I have you. Snap. I grab hold of your head and I pull it into my stomach. No pain from my broken wrist, just a disorganised out-of-order feeling. I grip you with my arms and legs and I use what strength I have to hold you there. I am a vice. You writhe. You kick and punch. But you're in no position to do me any damage because — you seem to forget — I am dead.

It feels like a lifetime that I hold you to me. Two weak men in a macabre horizontal tango of death. I imagine the music. I think of fresh baguettes. And at some stage during these reveries, you have withdrawn from the dance. You are a bolster in my grasp. But I hug on. I hug until every last memory is squeezed from you because I know one day you will seek the man who took your life. With luck you'll understand I had to…I had to. But I lose consciousness and the bats and the moths come flocking.

I come round some time later. I feel like death but, presumably, I'm still alive. But not you, twiggy. You lie across me in a show of post-mortem affection. You seem heavier without life as I push you off. I apologise to your mother. She probably had something better in mind for you. I search you and realise you have no pockets. What type of fashion would leave a man nowhere to put his handkerchief, his pen, his keys? I look around to see if you dropped them in our little tug of death. And then I see them. They are three metres away, dangling in the lock of the open door. Where is a plan B when I need one?

It's been ten minutes and nobody has come so perhaps there is nobody. I have been brooding over the dilemma of keys out of my reach. Even by extending my chains to their fullest and my joints to beyond their limit, I am still two metres from the door. It's the funniest thing. I wipe sardonic tears of mirth from my eyes. Why do I never have a long pole with a hook on the end when I need one? I shall make a point of including one in my travel kit on my next journey. You have no belt, my jail keeper, but you have a standard issue black and white checked scarf. It's almost as poor quality as you. I rip it into strips and tie them together all the while trying to recall the movie that taught me the skill of lassoing. It doesn't come to me. I am amazed at how complicated it is to tie knots with one hand. I attach your tractor-tyre sandal to the end of my rope and I toss. Half a dozen times I toss and my aim gets more wayward and my laughter becomes more manic. If anyone were outside the-room they would have heard me by now.

Then I catch me a key. The cloth snags on the bunch and I have a victory of sorts. Except the key is at right angles to me and no end of tugging will remove it from the keyhole. So I work up a rhythm and swing the whole kit and caboodle — door, keys, sandal — left and right, left and right until I'm certain the lasso will slip its mooring. But the keys drop to the tiles with a mighty clang they could hear half a kilometre away. I sit and wait once more for the invasion of guards. And again it doesn't happen. So I cast my line towards the floor-bound keys and I drag them to me. A bunch worthy of a Dumas dungeon. Door keys, cupboard keys, keys to some ancient vehicle, but nothing small enough to unlock me. Then I see it. A little black hex key. Annoyingly simple. I could have fashioned one myself out of my own shin bone after a year or so. If only I can keep my hand still enough to…and it clicks open. And the same key unfastens the chain at my ankle. I could probably open every door and safe and heart in the world with this cunning metal L.?

Twenty minutes have passed. I couldn't stand. My knees had become welded lumps. I had to massage the life back into my legs. I had the option of crawling out on my hands and knees but that lacked…dignity. I wanted to make my escape attempt at least look like that of a biped rather than a tortoise. The feeling slowly came back to me and I staggered through the door and onto an open balcony. The night air was like a blast of freedom. Below was an overgrown stretch of grass that had perhaps hosted football matches in better times. It was illuminated by the odd electric bulb strung along a wall. But, beyond that was a sea of black. My school was the only lit building. I might have been at the end of the world.