Colin Cotterill - The Woman Who Wouldn't die

‘That one over there,’ said the old man, pointing at one of the dancers. ‘She arrived yesterday. She’s a beauty. I get to interview them all, if you know what I mean. She’ll be raking it in once she gets the countryside out of her skin.’

Siri breathed. Relaxed. Paid attention. He looked around for clues. Why was he here? Madame Peung had told him to take charge of moments like these. Not to sit and watch the show but to direct it. So he left his seat. The scenery had trouble keeping up with him as he walked to the stage. Here and there he’d see a gap into the next dream. Fat men lined the bar like brooding chickens in a coop. Young girls, fresh from the farm, massaged the fat thighs and squeezed the fat cheeks. He looked at their faces. Did he recognize anyone? Would somebody pass him a note? What was the message here? He turned back to look at his seat and the old man in the white shirt sitting beside it. He was sipping his Coke through a straw. The strobe lights lit him in blues and reds and blinding whites and in one of those flashes, just for a second, there was something familiar about him. Where had he …?

Siri smiled. He went to a vacant stool in front of the stage and watched the dancers. He had his answer. There was nothing to do now but enjoy the show. Or so he thought.

He felt a tap on his shoulder — another new dream experience; touch. He turned to see Comrade Koomki of Housing with a beer in his hand. Only his head looked different somehow, as if it had been reassembled without care: a puzzle whose unmatching pieces had been forced to fit together. He had a marvellous suntan. Siri, for want of a better response, gave him a polite nop . It was courtesy. It seemed likely, having seen the comrade in two spirit dreams now, that the poor man was dead. Koomki did not return the nop . In fact he took a mouthful of his beer and spat it at the doctor. If it had ever been wet it was no longer so when it reached Siri.

‘I’m here because of you,’ said Koomki.

Siri didn’t immediately see the problem. He was in a bar full of beautiful women and he had a cold beer. It was hardly purgatory. But, as yet, Siri couldn’t tell him so. With every second that passed, Koomki’s tan grew darker. It was currently burnt sienna heading towards oak. Siri willed himself to speak.

‘How did you die?’

But nothing came out.

‘They say I have to tell you this,’ said the diminutive comrade. ‘They say it might chalk up a few points in my favour. You see? I might have inadvertently been responsible for something that will happen to Madame Daeng. I’m not particularly sorry but I put one of the living angels of hell on to her. He’ll be-’

They were interrupted by an elderly woman in a miniskirt who asked whether either of them would be interested in the ‘special show’ that was about to start upstairs. Siri declined and she started to lick his nose. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience. Comrade Koomki was indigo and the bar had started to smell of hay. Ugly’s tongue was as soggy as an overripe durian. When Siri opened his eyes the dog stopped licking.

‘I got sound,’ Siri told him.

Siri arrived at his room at six to find the door open, the floor littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts, and Civilai sleeping peacefully in the bed beside a rather good-looking man with a moustache. Both were, fortunately, fully dressed. There was no Madame Daeng to be seen but Siri wasn’t overly concerned. She had set out the night before with two more bottles of Mekhong whisky to lure the cruiser captain and his mate into a confessional. She had a way with sailors. Siri took his toilet bag down to the communal bathroom to shower and freshen himself for what would likely be a full day. When he returned to the room, Civilai was sitting up in the bed rigid as an old hinge, eyes bulging, with a ghastly pallor on his face.

‘Good morning,’ said Siri. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your boyfriend?’

‘Siri,’ said Civilai, ‘Madame Daeng’s shop has been burned down. Everything in it has been destroyed.’

Siri stared at his friend, wondering whether he’d just returned from a frightening dream. He sat on the edge of the bed and tightened the cap of his toothpaste before returning it to the pink plastic container Daeng had bought for him.

‘I should have told you when I arrived,’ said Civilai. ‘God, how many days ago was that? I should have grabbed you both and taken you back to Vientiane on the ferry. I forgot all about it. I don’t know what they gave me on that boat but … Siri?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you in shock?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘You don’t seem that upset.’

‘If it’s true …’

‘It’s true. Phosy phoned me before I left Luang Prabang.’

‘Well, then it’s just a building. It wouldn’t be the first building I’ve lost. Do you know if the chickens got out all right? That’s the first thing Geung will ask.’

‘Siri, are you mad? All your papers. Your books.’

‘Just things. They came to me by chance. They left me by chance. Madame Daeng is safe. As long as nobody was hurt.’

‘Siri … there was a body in there.’

Siri bowed his head and nodded.

‘Comrade Koomki.’

‘Good Lord. How did you know …?’

‘I had a visit last night. In a dream,’ said Siri. ‘I imagine he set fire to the place. Can’t say I blame him. He probably lost his job because of me. I’d most likely set fire to your house if you ruined my life.’

‘That’s good to know. But listen. Dtui did an autopsy on the-’

‘She did? That’s excellent. Good for her.’

‘But she seems to believe the little comrade was beaten to death before the fire was lit.’

‘Ah. Then it’s true.’ Siri nodded.

‘What’s true?’

‘The Frenchman.’

‘What Frenchman?’

‘The one who came looking for my wife.’

‘That Frenchman?’ said Civilai. ‘Last thing I knew, that Frenchman was an old flame.’

‘Yes. It appears it might be a little bit more complicated than that. There’s a chance he might be here to … hurt her. If Dtui was right, and I’m certain she was, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Frenchman was responsible for both the fire and the death.’

‘You’ve been holding something back, haven’t you?’

‘I did a touch of research. My good lady wife has a file at the French embassy as thick as an Angkor lintel. Or, rather, the mysterious Fleur-de-Lis has a file. In all that time nobody linked Daeng to the famous spy. It was astounding how much chaos one woman can cause. I was barely twenty pages into the file and she’d already reduced De Gaulle to tears.’

‘Wait! How could you do research at the French …?’

‘The mind is such a terrible thing to steep in alcohol.’

‘That’s where you put them, you sly old bastard. That’s where you hid all your housemates. Slap in the middle of the city.’

Civilai started to laugh but his throbbing head caused him to stand down.

‘My goodness, how I love you,’ he said.

At this point the hungover bed mate slipped from the mattress, nodded and fled for the door.

‘I hope I haven’t come between you two,’ Siri laughed.

‘So, the files,’ said Civilai.

‘I had nothing to go on, really. I looked for the name Herve Barnard. Nothing. I’m sure there’ll some day be a way to cross-reference piles of paper without licking your forefinger so many times you become dehydrated. I spent most of the night in the archive room. It was quite by chance that I found the letters. I didn’t want to waste time reading other people’s private correspondence, but there was one box file full of letters all from the same person. They dated back to 1956. His name was Olivier Guittard. The earliest was sent from Saigon and it asked casually whether the French post in Pakse had garnered any more recent intelligence on the person they referred to as the Fleur-de-Lis . I didn’t go through the whole lot but those I scanned read like a growing obsession. This Guittard character seemed to have been seeking out French officials and military personnel who were, or had been, stationed in the south of Laos. Even back then Guittard had started to collect reports and anecdotes. He’d taken it upon himself to reinvestigate every case that was attributed to Fleur-de-Lis .