The Second Biggest Nothing

by Colin Cotterill

  The Thai threw the empty fluid can at Siri, and it caught him on the side of the head. The cut bled. Daeng’s tapping grew frantic.

  “I’d like to consider myself something of an expert now,” said the Thai. “Take you for example, old man. You’re the antidepressant type. If things hadn’t gone wrong here I would have had dear Aunt Porn give you antidepressants from her stock. I’d already substituted her low dose with much higher potency pills. After losing those near to you, you’d be distraught. You’d pop paroxetine until they put you to sleep and made you care less. But you’re also an alcoholic. You can’t stop yourself. You’d mix booze and pills and whittle yourself down to nothing, and I wouldn’t have had to do another thing. You’d have been on self-destruct. I’d just check for your obituary from time to time knowing you were spiraling down a toilet.”

  “How did you kill your aunt?” Siri asked.

  Dom smiled. “What makes you think I killed her?” he asked.

  “It’s only logical,” said Siri. “She wouldn’t have just up and left. She wasn’t the type. I’m guessing she found out what you were doing.”

  “The nosey cow went through my things. Found my real passport. With the Mekong pumping away at the rate it is she should be somewhere near Cambodia by now.”

  “So you aren’t as clever as you thought you were,” said Siri. “You’re just a common or garden murderer. There’s nothing smart about throwing an elderly lady in a river or setting fire to an old couple.”

  “That is your fault, Fake Surgeon,” said the Thai. “And I’m in a hurry to get it over with. So if you’d just be kind enough to tell me why your charming wife here isn’t dead in spite of a heavy overdose of methotrexate . . .”

  “Yeah, you know, that wasn’t clever either,” said Siri. “That had nothing to do with existing conditions. Rheumatoid arthritis was never going to kill Daeng naturally.”

  “Whatever! Why didn’t the medicine kill her?”

  “Because she didn’t have rheumatoid arthritis.”

  “Of course she did. I’ve been through her file.”

  “She got over it.”

  “People don’t get over arthritis,” said Dom.

  “My wife did. She’s remarkable. You should have considered that in your flawed plan. She has skills too. Did you know she can whistle?”

  “What?”

  “Whistle. She could whistle the eyeballs off a buffalo.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Go on, darling,” said Siri. “Show the foolish boy how loud you can whistle.”

  Daeng whistled. It was impressive but no world record.

  Dom laughed and he flicked a flame from the Zippo.

  “I’ve got better things to do,” he said.

  He reached behind him for the rolled-up newspaper and lit the end. It took a while to catch. Siri cocked his ear toward the door but there was no sound. He needed a few more seconds.

  “How did you get the Ibuprofen to Civilai?” he asked.

  “Didn’t need to,” said the Thai. A healthy flame had engulfed one end of the newspaper. “His wife came to the clinic regularly. She’d mentioned that her husband couldn’t sleep. I put together a little pill box and delivered it myself when Civilai was away.”

  Siri heard a scamper of footsteps on the landing and suddenly the confused face of Ugly appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello, my friend,” said Dom. “I hope this wasn’t your backup plan. This dog’s loved me from first sight. Sorry, boy. I didn’t bring any cheese today. Amazing how many dogs are cheese junkies. They can’t—”

  Having looked at Siri and Daeng, who were suddenly screaming for help, tears pouring down their faces, Ugly ran full speed at Dom and buried his fangs in the back of his neck. It was the perfect attack spot. The victim couldn’t punch or kick him away. Dom dropped the newspaper, which continued to burn, on top of the skirts which had yet to catch fire, and dragged the dog across the hill of fabric. Despite his prey swinging from side to side, the dog didn’t let go. Dom screamed and cursed.

  “This is stupid!” he yelled. “He’ll get tired. There’s nothing to be gained from this.”

  Siri and Daeng had pushed together into a standing position. Dom continued to scramble around on top of the sins, eventually edging closer to the old couple. Siri leaned forward, and, using their bound wrists as a pivot, Daeng left the ground and swung her legs through the air. Both feet connected to the Thai’s head. The force of the blow shook off Ugly, but it also stunned the killer. Siri and Daeng stood breathing heavily in the cleared space in the center of the room. The newspaper continued to smolder, but the material in the heap was packed together too tightly to burst into flame. The Thai was out cold on the skirts.

  “Nice one,” said Siri.

  He looked around.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” said Daeng.

  “How did you know Ugly would come inside?”

  “Instinct,” said Daeng. “Mine and his.”

  In the distance they could hear the squeak of the hinges on the dog door. Dom began to stir.

  “Merde,” said Siri.

  The boy took a while to get himself oriented, but just as he reached for the Zippo, a dark figure appeared in the doorway—a dark, completely naked figure. Crazy Rajhid was much faster at assessing the situation than Ugly had been. He dived across the skirts, grabbed Dom’s Zippo hand and wrestled him down. Ugly went for the ankle. But the attack seemed to unleash the beast in the intruder. He snarled and flailed and seemed to draw on a pool of strength from deep inside him. Rajhid weighed no more than a Wednesday. Dom threw him off, bouncing him against a wall. The dog got a kick for his troubles and fell into the central clearing where Daeng and Siri stood helpless, back to back. Someone downstairs was banging on the restaurant shutter. It was past noodle time.

  Dom made for the rear window. It was narrow but open, and he was about to dive through, when Rajhid with his second wind made a flying rugby tackle at Dom’s legs. The boy’s chest fell heavily against the window frame. He tried to kick free of the tackle but what Rajhid lacked in bulk he more than made up for in adhesion. He now had an unbreakable grip. But the Thai still had the Zippo. He flipped it open, produced a tall flame and tossed the lighter in the direction of Siri. It landed at the doctor’s feet and immediately ignited the slowly evaporating fluid. The flames engulfed one leg of his trousers.

  Rajhid made the call. He let go of Dom, grabbed the nearest skirt, and threw himself at the fire. He wrapped the cloth around Siri’s leg and smothered the flames. When Siri looked up, he saw that Dom was gone. Rajhid crawled to the window, looked down and shook his head. They’d lost him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Works Like a Charm

  Almost a week had passed. The journalists had departed and the city went back into social hibernation. The border was still closed. At the market, for the equivalent of a dollar you could get a potato or a lifetime supply of marijuana. The appearance of cooking oil caused a stampede. In the end-of-year review, someone calculated that the country had fourteen thousand kilometers of road, most of which was impassable in the wet season. Another thousand cooperatives had folded and industry still comprised one percent of the economy. There were three unexploded ordnance incidents a day, many of them fatal. The schools still had no textbooks, and the teachers were being paid in rice because the budget didn’t stretch to education.

  Civilai would have had some sarcastic comment to make about it all. Nobody of any personal importance to him attended his state funeral. Even Madam Nong had to pull out at the last moment due to a touch of migraine. She was replaced on the bleacher by somebody who looked a little like her. A lot of photographs were taken and there was an article about Comrade Civilai in the Pasason Lao newsletter and a forty-minute special on Lao radio. But the
live turnout was sparse and the sincerity shallow. Civilai had always spoken his mind and socialism wasn’t cut out for such foolishness. That final speech had raised hackles throughout the Party.

  Probably the most pertinent news of the week was that there had been no sign of the murderous Thai. The chicken ropes that crisscrossed Siri’s backyard had broken his fall from the upstairs window. Where he went from there was anyone’s guess. Once Phosy was alerted, every available policeman was on the streets looking for a plump young man, probably hiding his blond hair beneath a cap. He hadn’t turned up for his booked flight on the day he attempted to cremate Siri and Daeng. He wasn’t seen at any guard posts along the roads leading from the city. There were no sightings of him crossing the river. He’d just vanished. Neither had Dr. Porn’s body been recovered. But the Mekong was a huge winding stretch of water with no end of crevices and gnarled roots to trap a body.

  Siri and Daeng fell back into a routine. It wasn’t the first escape from near death for either of them, but they weren’t getting any younger. Survival was hard work and even a week after the incident they were drained. They couldn’t get the scent of lighter fluid out of their nostrils. Both were philosophical about death and had no ambition to claim more life than they were owed. Daeng was probably as pleased to have preserved the antique skirt collection as she was to have preserved herself. They still had their lives thanks to a dog and a naked Indian and for that they would be forever grateful. But, until Dom was caught there could be no rest.

  Siri had packed all of his chicken bones, each one exactly three centimeters long with a yellow stain at one end. He’d had no template for his design but decided it didn’t matter. It was most certainly the thought that counted. Before her sad demise, Dr. Porn had arranged transport for his cargo to three refugee camps on the Thai side. Madam Khunthong, who had taken on the responsibility for this shipment, had called Siri into her office to have him explain once more what it was all about. She hadn’t quite grasped the concept. Khunthong was a jolly, football-shaped woman with no chin and a high forehead.

  “Tell me again what they are,” she said.

  “They are small lengths of chicken bone with dobs of yellow paint at one end of each,” he said.

  “And how many, in total, do we have here?”

  “Twelve-hundred in each box.”

  “And we give them to . . . ?”

  “One to every single man in the camps under the age of twenty-five,” said Siri. “And a handful for families to hand out to single Lao men they meet in the countries they’re accepted by.”

  “I’m assuming we don’t tell them these are chicken bones.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Siri. “These are ancient amulets blessed by generations of shamans. They should find a strong length of string and wear them around their necks. They’re infused with magic. They are more powerful than even the most evil of night seductresses.”

  “Night seductresses?”

  “That’s what you tell them.”

  “But it isn’t true.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You want our people to lie to them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think I can tell them to do that.”

  “Madam Khunthong,” he said. “These boys already believe lies, and those lies are killing them. A silly story becomes a rumor, which becomes a legend, which becomes a reality. Our boys are dying in their sleep, killed by malevolent spirits that take advantage of their naivety and susceptibility. Once you believe enough in something, it becomes real. Believe me. I have inherited a whole dimension through belief. These young men are afraid to go to sleep because, in their dreams, there lurks a woman who can suck out their souls. And in their sleeping hours she becomes real. And in their dreams she kills them. And they believe they are really dead. So they have no option other than to die. Here!”

  He held out one of his bones.

  “This is magic,” he said. “It looks simple but it is blessed. It contains enough karma to ward off any evil spirit woman who walks the night. It’s a false belief sent into battle a false belief.”

  She looked into his eerie green eyes.

  “Are you sure this will work?” she said.

  “I know it will,” said Siri. “There’s only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll have to charge for them.”

  She laughed.

  “I knew it,” she said. “Porn told me it wasn’t a scam but I—”

  “It’s not,” said Siri. “It only needs to be a hundred kip or a baby chick or some embroidery. It’s a token. You can use whatever you earn for any projects you have running. But it can’t be free, you see? Quite rightly, we Lao have learned not to trust anything free. For this to be credible it has to have a price.”

  Daeng awoke with the sky as black as blindness outside the window. She turned around to see a familiar empty space on the mattress beside her.

  “Siri, are you in the bathroom or in the other world?” she shouted.

  There was no answer.

  He was in the other world.

  “You’re a being of extremes,” said Siri.

  “I can’t think what you mean,” said Bpoo. He had finally shed the ‘Auntie’ skin. He was dressed in a man’s three-piece-herringbone suit with a tie and flip-flops. He sat opposite Siri at a metal table in a conventional police interview room. One wall had a long mirror that would have been disappointing if it wasn’t two-way.

  “I suppose I’ll have to take my own credit for getting you out of skintight lamé and unwalkable stilettos,” said Siri. “But now you’re overdoing the macho. I expect you to pull out your rubber hose and start beating a confession out of me. There’s middle ground, you know? I’ll probably miss your elaborate sets and rampant symbolism, but I’d be quite happy to meet you on the bank of the Mekong over a metaphorical baguette.”

  “Do you have a point?” said Bpoo. “I have a darts tournament in half an hour. What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” said Siri. “I thought you summoned me.”

  “Doesn’t work like that. I sense your desire to have a chat and I enable your crossing over.”

  “What? That’s useful to know. I conjure up a desire and you appear? You couldn’t have told me that a year ago? It feels more like the sort of relationship we’re supposed to have.”

  “Do you have a question, Oh Master?”

  “We still need to work on that sarcasm. Here’s the deal . . .”

  Siri told him about his chicken bone project and raised his eyebrows hopefully at the end.

  “So?” said Bpoo.

  “So, I was wondering whether you’d be able to . . . you know . . . bless the bones or something.”

  “Do I look like the pope?”

  “Isn’t there some mechanism over there to promote supernatural activity in inanimate objects? Sprinkle a little bit of fairy dust or something?”

  “You really are bad at this,” said Bpoo.

  “You said this world exists in my subconscious,” said Siri. “I want to explore the outer limits of our relationship. Like the homework I gave you during our last visit two days ago. I bet you haven’t done it, have you?”

  “You see?” said Bpoo. “You don’t even understand what our relationship is. I am not your private detective. I lead you through the labyrinth of your mind; I do not find missing persons.”

  “So, you failed.”

  Bpoo made a furtive glance at the mirror.

  “I’m not authorized to give such information,” he said.

  “Who’s behind there?” Siri asked.

  “It’s just a mirror,” said Bpoo. “I was just checking my hair.”

  “In that case, I desire to go home to bed,” said Siri.

  Bpoo hesitated.

  “There is
one thing I am at liberty to tell you,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  He looked again at the mirror.

  “The person you inquired about is not deceased.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Siri Down

  “Tell me again how you coordinated the escape,” said Nurse Dtui.

  The noodle shop tables had been pushed together, and the usual gang sat around the large square. From left to right there was Dtui and the ever-snoozing Malee, Chief Inspector Phosy, Mr. Geung and Tukta, Siri, Daeng and a large Donald Duck balloon standing in for the absent Civilai. A late evening shower had brought out the fire ants in such numbers Daeng had been forced to close the shutter, turn off the lights and illuminate the table with two temple candles. It gave the gathering the air of a séance.

  “We didn’t exactly escape,” said Siri. “We were just as tied up and incapacitated at the end of it all, but we did organize the whistle for Ugly and we got in one good kick.”

  “It’s called the tap code,” said Daeng. “It’s like Morse Code for beginners. The POWs in the camps developed it when they were banned from speaking. It’s alphabetical. You have a letter grid in your head and you count the number of taps you hear until you’ve spelled out a word. One quiet night Siri and I developed a French language version.”

  “Why?” asked Dtui.

  “You never know when you’re going to be incarcerated and have your tongue cut out,” said Siri.

  “He’s right,” said Daeng, “You don’t.”

  “So Daeng’s there tapping away, and I’m doing my best to keep a count and concentrate and talk to a maniac at the same time,” said Siri. “And after a very long time I realize my wife was putting our lives in the hands . . . the paws of a neurotic mongrel.”

  There came a muted howl from the street.

  “I put a lot of faith in our dog,” said Daeng. “I hoped he might sense our fear. He’d stood looking at the dog door many times, but I’d never managed to coax him inside. I guess a building’s a frightening proposition for a dog that spent most of his life in the jungle.”