Colin Cotterill - The Woman Who Wouldn't die

The recently departed king’s face hogged the screen. He spoke. Siri heard nothing. But this was not the usual contact where the spirits came into the doctor’s world through his head and spoke using his voice. This was more a portal that he was being invited to step into. He had no idea how. He wanted to get closer but this was a dream. There was no actual television. No sofa. No living room. The king raised his voice. There was something. It was faint, like listening to the neighbour through a drinking glass pushed up against the wall. He couldn’t make out words but there were sounds. This was a breakthrough. But the king soon became frustrated as he realized his words were not passing over. He stepped back and considered the situation. He then held up one finger. Then nine, one, and then he formed a zero with his index finger and thumb. 1910. It was a year. Siri committed it to memory. Before the king turned back into the blizzard, there may have been a roll of the eyes, a dip of the head. The gestures a schoolmaster might make in the presence of a remedial pupil.

When he woke that morning, Siri had prodded his wife’s shoulder but she was already awake. He’d asked her, ‘Daeng, what happened in 1910?’

She’d smiled and turned to him.

‘Most women are awoken first thing on a Sunday morning with erotic requests and all I get is a history test.’

‘Consider the erotic request the first prize for the first person in this bed who can tell me what happened in 1910.’

‘Siri, I don’t know. I wasn’t born yet.’

‘Damn. I need an historian.’

‘You’ve had a dream.’

He sat up on one elbow.

‘Just once,’ he said. ‘Just once I’d like to decipher the dream clues before I’m forced to resort to my huge intellect. Because it won’t be very long before my intellect goes the way of my ebony-black hair and rock-hard pectorals. Life would be so much easier if I could just wake up with the answers.’

So, Siri had told Daeng all about the frozen Frenchmen and the king. They wracked their brains as to how this might be connected to their latest mission. And, leaving Daeng to discover what had happened in 1910, Siri had departed for his helicopter flight. But then it was, with the helicopter swinging back and forth like a fat sailor on a hammock in a high sea, that Siri recalled one other memory from his dream. One that had remained suppressed during his discussion with Daeng. There hadn’t been six Frenchmen but seven. One sat to one side just as naked as the rest and he’d borne a remarkable but incongruous resemblance to Comrade Koomki from Housing.

Siri was snapped from his reverie by the sight of Madame Peung slapping the young pilot on the back and pointing. The pilot panicked and threw the craft into a rapid spiral descent they all doubted he’d pull out of in time. Miraculously, at the last second, he had the beast under control and hovered a few metres above the bank. The sound of sighs could be heard over the growl of the engine. But Siri was trying desperately to recall what it was that had transpired just before the shoulder slap. There had been a gesture, a moment between Madame Peung and her brother. It was something that looked trivial but Siri’s instinct told him that it was significant. But, there and then he wasn’t able to untangle it from his dream recollections. It would come to him, he was sure.

Despite its gentle hover at two metres, the Mi-2 dropped so heavily to the ground it bounced, not once but three times. Had Siri’s teeth been false they would now be embedded in the inside of his skull. The minister swore like a twisted bantam but Madame Peung squealed with delight. They alighted, all but the chastised pilot, on to a patch of grass on a bank that dived steeply down to the water. There were hills on both banks and a sharp turn that threw the mighty Mekhong into a wall of rock.

‘It’ll be deep here,’ said the minister, once the engine noise had been extinguished. ‘The river has nowhere to go but down.’

‘This … this is where it happened,’ said Madame Peung. She walked down the slope to the water’s edge and closed her eyes. A breeze off the water sent ripples through her loose-fitting satin trouser suit. ‘Major Ly is here. He’s so pleased to feel your presence, Minister.’

The minister stood beside her and looked out at the swirling water.

‘Prove it,’ he said.

His tone was sceptical but Siri knew he’d been convinced long before this.

‘I know,’ said Madame Peung, but not to the minister. ‘So give me something.’

She raised her head and listened to the Mekhong. Siri fancied he could hear voices too but it was likely just the swirl of the water through the rocks.

‘Minister,’ said Madame Peung. ‘Are you sure you want to test him here, like this?’

‘Yes.’

‘In front of strangers?’

‘I have nothing to … Why? What did he say?’

‘You and your brother had a tent when you were young. It was pitched in the back yard. One game you played was called Arabia.’

‘How …?’

‘You would take it in turns to be the erotic female dancer. You would tuck your-’

‘Enough. All right.’

He looked around. Four of the five litres of blood in his body had found their way to his cheeks. Only Siri had been close enough to hear. The doctor filed it away.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said the minister. ‘But, well I suppose we might as well get on with this. Hey, you.’

He called to the mechanic. The young man jogged down to the group.

‘You told me you could swim,’ said the minister.

‘Like a fish, Comrade.’

‘Right. Let’s hope you swim better than your pilot flies. Get yourself in the water down there and see what you can find.’

The boy stripped off his shirt and boots and confidently dived into the choppy flow. To everyone’s surprise, Tang, the witch’s brother, strode down the bank, peeled off his long robe and jumped into the water also. Siri and the minister looked at Madame Peung incredulously.

‘He looks unathletic,’ she smiled, ‘but he’s a remarkable swimmer.’

The doctor and the minister exchanged another look but the brother did indeed appear to be very happy in the water. He it was who reached the middle first and his was the first duck-dive sending him deep into the river. Madame Peung walked over to sit on a large boulder that hung over the swirl. It was an idyllic spot surrounded by thick jungle and probably inaccessible by land. Siri thought it would be a great location to photograph a Biere Lao advertisement or a pornographic movie. He clambered over the smaller rocks and sat next to the medium.

‘Ah, Siri,’ she said. ‘You are full to bursting with questions.’

‘I could burp them out one at a time,’ he told her.

‘Keep a cool heart, Doctor. There’s no hurry. Why were you so reluctant to hear from your first wife?’

‘It seemed … I don’t know … disrespectful to Madame Daeng.’

‘Aren’t you curious at all?’

‘I’m …’ Siri reached for his missing earlobe. It was a habit he’d developed whenever verging on the supernatural. ‘I’m so curious I could scream. You probably know about my shaman-in-residence, Yeh Ming?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, whether I like it or not he’s in me somewhere. But, for reasons I don’t really understand, he’s putting down barriers between me and the departed. I know they’re there. I see them. But I can’t talk to them.’

‘What can I do for you, Siri?’

‘Teach me.’

‘To make contact?’

‘Yes.’

She smiled.

‘Can you teach somebody not to be colour-blind?’ she asked. ‘To not grow hair out of their ears?’

‘I’m not sure what that means.’