Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“My youngest son, Bok,” he told Phosy. “Never been right in the head. Can’t talk.”

“Is this all he does?” Phosy asked.

“He thinks if he can get enough of ’em he’ll be able to fly,” said Ar. “But of course they all die the same day. So he spends all his time hunting for new ones. I tell him he’d need a thousand of them to lift him off the ground but he never gives up. If only we could find something with a longer life span….”

Ar had obviously given the proposal a good deal of thought. It was as if somewhere at the back of his mind he believed that if the insects lifted his son the boy might become normal.

But you can only stand and watch beetles on leashes for so long. Both teams gathered in the meeting room to discuss the next plan. Ar pointed in the direction in which their sorceress had seen the dragon crash into the moon. After lunch they would take a hike across that ridge to the crash site.

“You do realize,” said Civilai, looking off into the distance, “that if the explosion actually took place over there and the tailplane found its way here, the odds of finding even a little piece of this pilot are less than finding a gram of common sense in the Politburo.”

“Not necessarily,” said Lit. “He was in a confined space surrounded by metal. Even if there was a fire there could be some remains inside the cockpit.”

“I don’t know,” Dtui said. “All this expense and bother for one man. It seems unfair to me. These hills are littered with the dead relatives of families who can’t ever hope to reclaim their bodies.”

“Oh, Dtui,” said Civilai, about to launch into one of his famous, “You don’t think….” tirades. “You surely don’t think this is a mission to find a body? This is much more than that. This is the empty coffers of Vientiane cooperating with the bankers of Wall Street.”

“Good, Civilai,” said Daeng. “We’re doing this for the money.”

“Common sense, young Madame Daeng. Because we ride fearlessly on the back of the Vietnamese tiger we have to join them in their condemnation of China. Last month our prime minister stood up in parliament and said that China was a bunch of international reactionaries. As a result we are going to lose one of our most generous benefactors.”

“I thought you hated the Chinese more than anyone,” Siri laughed.

“Not true. I hate all evil-minded usurpers in equal measure. But any fool, even you, Siri, could not fail to notice that with Peking on its way out our beloved leaders have begun making overtures to enemies past. The Thais, a nation of corrupt capitalist pornographers, have suddenly become our useful allies. Cracks have appeared in our resolve and televisions and motorcycles are leaking through them. Cultural exchanges are being arranged. A famous short-skirted pop singer has been invited to sing at our next That Luang festival.”

“Nan … nan … Nanthida, I like her,” said Mr. Geung.

“You be careful, Geung,” said Dtui. “We don’t want anyone getting jealous, do we now?”

Geung blushed the colour of a week-old chili.

“See?” said Civilai. “Corrupted already. And now we’re encouraging a CIA comeback. Next thing you know they’ll bring their Beatles over here to subvert our youth.”

“I think you’ll find the Beatles are English,” Dtui told him.

“All much the same. Cultural terrorism.”

“I hope you had a chance to say all this to the embassy fellow last night,” said Siri.

“Obviously he did,” said Peach. She’d snuck up on them from the American team. “Major Potter was asking whether you might join him at his table for dinner this evening, Uncle Civilai. He’s very interested to hear your theories.”

“Just me and him?” Civilai asked.

“Well, unless you pick up English in the next six hours, or him, Lao, I guess I’m going to have to be there too. Sorry. But I’ll try to be as gecko-on-the-wall as I can. What do you say?”

“Your dream has come true,” Daeng laughed. “One on one with an imperialist tyrant.”

“Tell the major the match is on,” said Civilai.

“That’s good,” said Peach. “In fact, if the guys from the embassy get through to Bangkok you might even have a state senator to play with too. He’ll stay in Vientiane tonight then fly up here tomorrow. I’m sorry we can’t get you the president.”

“Wow, a real senator,” said Dtui in her best American accent.

“Why’s everything suddenly moving so fast?” Daeng asked.

“The discovery of the tailplane, I guess,” said Peach. “The scent of a photo opportunity? The helicopter wreck and a whole bunch of ethnic people gathered around. In a day or two he might even have a skull to put on his lap. All powerful stuff.”

“Wall Street,” Civilai mumbled.

Just a little beyond the village, Auntie Bpoo had laid out her grass mat, changed into her bathing suit, and was attempting to catch some rays. The villagers came to look at her. Some of them believed their sorceress was right. The sky had opened and all the misfit angels had fallen down upon them. But they had nobody to blame but themselves. They should have buried the dragon’s tail while they had a chance.

The best part about being the only living burglar in Vientiane was the fact that the population had become so certain they’d never be robbed that they’d stopped locking their doors. Admittedly, very few had anything worth risking your neck for. These were frugal times and valuables had long since been exchanged for foodstuffs. Eg missed those nights when he’d have to pick a tricky lock or climb into a precariously situated window. He was built for burglary, was Eg. Forty-something with a face so bland nobody could ever identify him. Not even people who’d known him most of his life. He was slim and knotty with muscles, quick and light on his plimsolled feet. His eyes became used to the dark rapidly so he didn’t use a torch, the downfall of many a burglar. Testament to his skill was the fact he’d never been caught. Whereas all the villains with records languished in the prison islands on the Nam Ngum reservoir, Eg had been left to ply his trade in peace. He had to be careful, of course. The PL patrolled with guns and shot at anyone out after curfew.

Some householders made life so easy for him he wanted to chuckle. Take this morning, for example. A padlock on the shop’s metal grille a four-year-old could open and an advertisement, “Madame Daeng will be away until August 31 st. Apologies to our regular customers.” Shops on both sides closed. Nothing but the bloated Mekhong opposite. It was 2:40 A.M. and the street patrols, if they could be bothered, were on the hour. A piece of cake. Eg walked to the side street, hopped over a low wall and crossed the yard abutting that of Madame Daeng. He peeked over the wall. There were a dozen chickens and some big peculiar-looking bird that he imagined would look good on a spit. Obviously somebody came in during the day to feed them all. No dog. No alarm. No problems. And, would you credit it? Leaning against the back wall was a ladder. They wanted him to rob them. It was a community service he’d be providing.

The birds barely squawked when he dropped silently into the yard and edged the ladder across to a window. In seconds he was up and sliding a chisel between the wood and the frame and the window popped open like an old clam. Seconds more and he was inside. There was a musty, schoolroom smell to the place. He closed his eyes tight, counted to five, then opened them. And there they were, all around him-books. More books than they had in the national library. And not just books these, but foreign books with raised lettering he couldn’t read. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the room and grinned. It was his lucky night. Sometimes good fortune just dropped into your lap. Madame Daeng, the spirits bless her, had a whole room full of illegal books. Five to ten years for possession. He knew the Ministry of Culture would be very interested to learn about this. Oh, yes. Eg the burglar was about to embark along a brand new career path.