Colin Cotterill - Killed at the Whim of a Hat

“Which one?”

“He’s only got the one. The gay one.”

“Don’t be silly, child. Ed has three sisters, all happily married. Something like ten children between them. And I have noted that not one of them looks a bit like Ed. A little bit of extra-domestical hanky-panky in their history I wouldn’t be surp — Where are you going?”

I handed her the box.

“Pump some more hope into this one, will you,” I said. “I’ll be back for him later.”

I left her standing bemused on the beach and strode to the bicycle. Had it been physically possible, flames would have been spewing from my nostrils. I knew Ed’s house. It was just off the road and impossible not to pass on the way to and from our place. In the past, I’d always turned my head away when I got close so as not to seem rude, but today I rode directly down their dirt drive and skidded in front of the open front door. His mother, a large jovial woman with sun-damaged skin, pointed me toward the southern bay.

“He’ll be down with his boat,” she said.

“He’s got a boat? I thought he was a grass cutter.”

“Not much my Ed can’t turn his hand to,” she boasted.

Although there’s probably some nautical expression for it, Ed’s boat was parked on a grass bank about a kilometer down the bay from our place. The craft, a typical, modest five-meter squid boat was upside down on blocks. Ed was planing, or some such woodworking venture. His top was off, and the torso that I’d imagined being ribbed like plates on a rack was, in fact, all muscle. Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t steak. He was skinny but not bony. The silvery sweat clung to him like dew on a gristly vine. I threw down the bicycle and paced to the boat. He ignored me. I knocked loudly on the far side of the hull. He looked up and had the audacity to smile at me. I put my hands on my waist.

“I have come to tell you that I do not appreciate being lied to,” I said.

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“OK.”

I think he was about to return to his planing.

“And you lied to me,” I said. “You told me you had a sister who didn’t like the company of men.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t.”

“Nope.”

“So why did you tell me you did?”

“Because you were rude.”

I was stunned.

“Ha. So, how was I rude, exactly?”

“When someone comes to visit down here, you don’t treat them like a servant. You don’t keep them waiting or snap at them. You show manners.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, excuse me for not knowing I was in the good manners capital of the country.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank…? What for?”

“Your apology.”

“I did not…I…” I could feel my aplomb slipping. “And, while we’re on the subject, don’t you think you might be considered rude in some circles for making fun of lesbians?”

“No. I don’t know any lesbians.”

“Really?”

“Hmm.”

“Why on earth would one who wasn’t one, pretend to be…one?”

“To keep men off.”

“Is that so?”

“Hmm.”

I was tangled in a net I hadn’t seen myself stepping into. I suddenly wished his boat had been seaworthy and that he’d been out ahoying in the depths of the Gulf. Then I might have had more time to compose myself. I could have jousted with him with the cool head of a seasoned journalist. Instead I said, “I hate you, Ed.” And he repulsed my thrust with a gorgeous smile. I retreated to my bicycle and untangled it from the tall weeds. Once it was finally upright and I was ready to ride elegantly away, I looked back at him. He was leaning against the naked wood of the boat watching me.

“One last question,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you really come to see me that day?”

“I was going to tell you I like the way you look. I was planning to invite you for lunch.”

“Ha!” I said, pedaling frantically to get up the grass slope without having to dismount. “Little chance of that.”

A victory, at last. I had swung Narsil, the sword of Aragon, one last time and wounded the beast in the heart. Yet, when I looked at the blade, the blood I saw there was all mine.

Three weeks had passed. The deckchair insurgents were repainting and decorating Government House in sunshine and mimosa tones. They’d planted rice in the ornamental ponds. They were not fooled by the subterfuge of replacing the drinking buddy of the wicked satellite dish czar with the czar’s brother-in-law. So they dug themselves in and began evening classes in the art of producing Ping-Pong ball smoke bombs. The country trembled at their awesome power.

The monsoons weren’t far away, but nobody knew when they’d arrive. Captain Kow said the locals could no longer predict the weather. He said there’d been a time when every fisherman could read the signs: when the crabs left the sand, how high the beetles built their nests on the trees, when the terns migrated. But now they’d all listen to the radio like the city folk. The world was messed up. And if there were storms coming, the sea wasn’t giving anything away. It was almost impossible that such a vast body of water could be so polite. I could hear the hushed whispers of the embarrassed tide arriving and departing on the fine gravel. “I’m here, shhh.”

“No, I’m over here, shhh.” Then a long empty pause before the next whispers. I admired the vastness of the scene all around me and remained in awe that I could make out the join where sea met sky. You never actually saw the horizon in Chiang Mai. You thought you did, then one day the dirty air would clear and there’d be a hulking great range of mountains looming up in front of you. But in Maprao with the Gulf stretching deceptively away from you, you knew that line — the one you had to stretch your neck to see all of, left and right — that was the edge of the world. You could sit on your back balcony and watch a hurricane pass over Cambodia, see giant cruise ships shrivel to nothing, view the creamy pink sunrise a whole continent away.

Something had changed inside me. I began to understand why everyone within a twenty-kilometer radius was an idiot. It was for the same reason that you could live in a condominium room for years and not know that your next door neighbor was stacking body parts in his refrigerator. Ignorance breeds ignorance. If you want the world to be as narrow as your mind, you can make it so. I’d assumed I was superior to everyone in Maprao so I hadn’t seen a need to confirm my status by actually talking to people. The odd thing was, once you got to know them you realized there was more common sense around you than in a whole city full of educated but suffocating people. Certainly more than in a barrel-load of monkey politicians. Living their lives wasn’t desperation for the Mapraoans, it was a sensible choice for a very proud people.

I was a celebrity for a while. We had three national TV stations down here interviewing me about my role in solving the abbot’s killing. The event might have slipped by unnoticed but for the bizarre demise of Mika Mikata. The self-filmed video of her suicide was on automatic feed to her Web site, and its popularity on YouTube was unprecedented. Mikata had no intention of being taken alive. With her chest-mounted cameras and her spectacular orange hat, she was dispatched by jet-propelled hang-glider to the top platform of the Tokyo Tower, the world’s tallest orange structure. There, she gave a heartrending but virtually incomprehensible speech and flung herself over the parapet. Viewers were able to make out the strains of ‘Killing Me Softly’, in Japanese, as she somersaulted through the air. But, as both the still and video cameras were destroyed as she bounced off the overhanging observation deck, her actual death was not recorded, which would have been a major disappointment to her fans. However, live coverage or not, Mika Mikata’s death had been as colorful as her murders.