Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

It was less a bang, more a … a thunk. Like a punch. Loud, it was, and final. But not the boom you’d expect. There was no scream because bombies were renowned for their suddenness. By the time the shock had washed over you, screaming was the last thing on your mind. If your mind was still attached to your skull. Everyone wondered which of the escapees had been taken, but the thought was fleeting, because the second thunk seemed to leave a whistle in the air like a high-pitched ricochet.

Everyone agreed that being black had not distracted John Johnson from being a very fine helicopter pilot. He’d ignored the ban on flying during heavy smoke cover, hotwired one of the helicopters in the yard, and had so far made two trips to Muang Kham beyond the smoke zone. Siri and Auntie Bpoo sat on the broken steps of the Friendship Hotel waiting for the third shuttle.

“So. Mission accomplished,” Siri said.

“I’d been hoping for something more exciting,” Bpoo confessed, rethreading a necklace that had been broken during the troubles. “Thought I might have to drag you from beneath the wheels of a rapid locomotive.”

“In a country without a railway?”

“It was a fantasy, old man. In a fantasy you can construct whatever damned engineering infrastructure you please.”

“Ear-fingering was no less dramatic. And for that I thank you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Now, is there any way I can return the favor?”

“No.”

“Not even if you told me what’s wrong with your health?”

She glared at the doctor with eyes wide as melon slices.

“What makes you think there’s something wrong with my health?”

“I can see the future.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You can barely see the present.”

“Conceded. But I am rather good with the past, and I recall seeing you together with Dr. Yamaguchi at every opportunity.”

“He’s a passionate man drawn to glamor. What can I say?”

“He’s also a very fine researcher.”

“The helicopter’s late.”

“I’ve been through his CV. Oncology.”

“I think I’ll complain to the airline. Get my money back.”

“You’ve been asking him how long you have left.”

“Do you ever stop being annoying-and wrong?”

“So, tell me.”

Auntie Bpoo searched the sky for the return of Sergeant Johnson.

“I’m a fortune-teller,” she said. “I don’t need to ask when . I can give you a date and an exact time. I could sell admission tickets.”

“So?”

“So annoying.”

“Bpoo?”

“So, I want to know-”

“If it’s preventable.”

“Stop it, will you? I detest it when people finish sentences for you. It’s very-”

“Frustrating.”

Siri was smiling. Bpoo had to laugh.

“If I thought there were any way it could be cured I’d talk to a surgeon,” Bpoo said softly. “Not a coroner. Yamaguchi’s a pathologist. A doctor of the dead bits. I wanted to understand what it looked like. I mean, after it kills you. After it’s done its evil work. Does it gloat? Does it swell up and boast of its ominous power, ‘Look what I’ve done’? Or is it exhausted, embarrassed, full of remorse?”

“I doubt Yamaguchi’s ever had to face questions like that before.”

“I don’t have the technical vocabulary. I could only ask in emotional, human terms like that. You see? I can live these last few months better if I don’t hate it. If I don’t take it personally. I want to love my tumor. I want us to go together, each playing his or her part. Partners walking hand in hand over a steep cliff.”

“Hm. What did he say?”

“He ignored the question and counseled.”

“Good for him. Was coming up here to save my life part of all this?”

“In a way.”

“Do you want to explain why?”

“You’re the only person I know who sees the dead.”

“And?”

“If you were dead too you’d be completely useless to me.”

“If I…? Oh, my word.”

“See?”

“Please tell me you aren’t planning to haunt me.”

“Guide, Siri. Ghosts haunt. Spirits guide. I’ll never be forgotten in your mind. We’ll be together always.”

She started to sing. It was the Thai version of “Auld Lang Syne.” Siri put his fingers in his ears and hummed.

“That won’t help you any more,” she shouted.

Siri removed his fingers and took her hand. She let him.

“I could really use a poem right now,” he told her.

“No. Not in the mood.”

The ceremony was scheduled to commence at 2:00 P.M. It was three fifteen. According to the Americans present, the minister was late. According to the Lao, if he got the day right it was a good sign. Apart from Major Potter and Ethel Chin, back in the States now and probably in the ground, and Senator Vogal who was still a little scattered, all the guests from the Friendship Hotel were in attendance. Gordon had spent a week in Bangkok writing reports and explaining things to committees. But he had returned for this special day. He confirmed that Senator Bowry had been arrested and that the CIA had solemnly sworn to conduct a full inquiry into the manufacture and use of this mysterious super napalm and other illegal activities during the last few years of the war. Dr. Yamaguchi had delayed his return flight in order to have a holiday and to attend today’s splendid affair. Rhyme had stayed on because he needed these photographs to complete his Pulitzer piece.

The award would be presented on the small stage in the corner of the canteen at the Ministry of Education. Under normal circumstances, the Civilian Medal for an Outstanding Contribution to the Security and Development of the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos: Second Tier, would be handed over by a member of the Politburo in the public gallery at government house. But given the short notice and the “delicacy of the matter,” none was available to preside. The ministers of Justice and Information and Culture had refused point-blank and only the Vice-Minister of Education had wisdom enough to see value in the exercise. But even though he’d agreed to present the medal he had insisted on no more than two photographs. Neither was to appear in a publication available inside Laos.

John Johnson and General Suvan were in full military dress uniform. Of the two, the American looked less like a postal worker. Siri and Daeng, Phosy and Dtui, Civilai and his wife Mrs. Noy were in a cluster. Each held but did not drink from non-matching glasses with tissue paper jackets. The vessels contained some unlikely glow-in-the-dark Agent Orange concoction. Auntie Bpoo, dressed like a respectable lady undertaker, joked with Dr. Yamaguchi. Also in uniform was Commander Lit who, Dtui pointed out to her husband, looked particularly dashing. He’d done something to his hair to make it slick back and he’d left his glasses in his top pocket, which might have explained why he was constantly bumping into everyone.

“He looks a lot like Payao Poontarat today,” Dtui said.

“The bath water salesman?”

“Olympic boxer. Very elegant.”

“You’re right. He does have that beaten and bruised look about him.”

“I don’t see Peach around anywhere,” said Dtui, scanning the room. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Siri and Civilai exchange a glance. It was enough to make her aware that, not for the first time, she was trailing behind the herd.

“What? What happened to her?” Dtui asked.

“Ooh, nothing, I expect,” said Siri.