The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

by Stephen Jones (ed. )

  “No. I have to live in Phnom Penh to make money. But my folks are good country people. Modest.” He smiled, embarrassed.

  They’ll have hens and a cousin who shimmies up coconut trees. There will be trees all around but no shops anywhere. The earth will smell.

  Sith couldn’t finish her drink. She sighed and smiled and said abruptly, “I’m sorry. It’s been cool. But I have to go.” She slunk sideways out of her seat as slowly as molasses.

  Walking back into the jewellery rotunda with nothing to do, she realised that Dara would think she didn’t like him.

  And that made the lower part of her eyes sting.

  She went back the next day and didn’t even pretend to buy a mobile phone. She told Dara that she’d left so suddenly the day before because she’d remembered a hair appointment.

  He said that he could see she took a lot of trouble with her hair. Then he asked her out for a movie that night.

  Sith spent all day shopping in K-Four.

  They met at six. Dara was so considerate that he didn’t even suggest the horror movie. He said he wanted to see Buffalo Girl Hiding, a movie about a country girl who lives on a farm. Sith said with great feeling that she would prefer the horror movie.

  The cinema on the top floor opened out directly onto the roof of Soriya. Graffiti had been scratched into the green railings. Why would people want to ruin something new and beautiful? Sith put her arm through Dara’s and knew that they were now boyfriend and girlfriend.

  “Finally,” he said.

  “Finally what?”

  “You’ve done something.”

  They leaned on the railings and looked out over other people’s apartments. West toward the river was a building with one huge roof terrace. Women met there to gossip. Children were playing toss-the-sandal. From this distance, Sith was enchanted.

  “I just love watching the children.”

  The movie, from Thailand, was about a woman whose face turns blue and spotty and who eats men. The blue woman was yucky, but not as scary as all the badly dubbed voices. The characters sounded possessed. It was though Thai people had been taken over by the spirits of dead Cambodians.

  Whenever Sith got scared, she chuckled.

  So she sat chuckling with terror. Dara thought she was laughing at a dumb movie and found such intelligence charming. He started to chuckle too. Sith thought he was as frightened as she was. Together in the dark, they took each other’s hands.

  Outside afterward, the air hung hot even in the dark and 142nd Street smelled of drains. Sith stood on tiptoe to avoid the oily deposits and cast-off fishbones.

  Dara said, “I will drive you home.”

  “My driver can take us,” said Sith, flipping open her Kermit-the-Frog mobile.

  Her black Mercedes Benz edged to a halt, crunching old plastic bottles in the gutter. The seats were upholstered with tan leather and the driver was armed.

  Dara’s jaw dropped. “Who . . . who is your father?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Dara shook his head. “Who was he?”

  Normally Sith used her mother’s family name, but that would not answer this question. Flustered, she tried to think of someone who could be her father. She knew of nobody the right age. She remembered something about a politician who had died. His name came to her and she said it in panic. “My father was Kol Vireakboth.” Had she got the name right? “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  Dara covered his eyes. “We – my family, my father – we fought for the KPLA.”

  Sith had to stop herself asking what the KPLA was.

  Kol Vireakboth had led a faction in the civil wars. It fought against the Khmer Rouge, the Vietnamese, the King, and corruption. It wanted a new way for Cambodia. Kol Vireakboth was a Cambodian leader who had never told a lie and or accepted a bribe.

  Remember that this is an untrue story.

  Dara started to back away from the car. “I don’t think we should be doing this. I’m just a villager, really.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  His eyes closed. “I would expect nothing less from the daughter of Kol Vireakboth.”

  Oh for gosh sake, she just picked the man’s name out of the air, she didn’t need more problems. “Please!” she said.

  Dara sighed. “Okay. I said I would see you home safely. I will.” Inside the Mercedes, he stroked the tan leather.

  When they arrived, he craned his neck to look up at the building. “Which floor are you on?”

  “All of them.”

  Colour drained from his face.

  “My driver will take you back,” she said to Dara. As the car pulled away, she stood outside the closed garage shutters, waving forlornly.

  Then Sith panicked. Who was Kol Vireakboth? She went online and Googled. She had to read about the wars. Her skin started to creep. All those different factions swam in her head: ANS, NADK, KPR, and KPNLF. The very names seemed to come at her spoken by forgotten voices.

  Soon she had all she could stand. She printed out Vireakboth’s picture and decided to have it framed. In case Dara visited.

  Kol Vireakboth had a round face and a fatherly smile. His eyes seemed to slant upward toward his nose, looking full of kindly insight. He’d been killed by a car bomb.

  All that night, Sith heard whispering.

  In the morning, there was another picture of someone else in the tray of her printer.

  A long-faced, buck-toothed woman stared out at her in black and white. Sith noted the victim’s fashion lapses. The woman’s hair was a mess, all frizzy. She should have had it straightened and put in some nice highlights. The woman’s eyes drilled into her.

  “Can’t touch me,” said Sith. She left the photo in the tray. She went to see Dara, right away, no breakfast.

  His eyes were circled with dark flesh and his blue Hello trousers and shirt were not properly ironed.

  “Buy the whole shop,” Dara said, looking deranged. “The guys in K-Four just told me some girl in blue jeans walked in yesterday and bought two home theatres. One for the salon, she said, and one for the roof terrace. She paid for both of them in full and had them delivered to the far end of Monivong.”

  Sith sighed. “I’m sending one back.” She hoped that sounded abstemious. “It looked too metallic against my curtains.”

  Pause.

  “She also bought an Aido robot dog for fifteen hundred dollars.”

  Sith would have preferred that Dara did not know about the dog. It was just a silly toy; it hadn’t occurred to her that it might cost that much until she saw the bill. “They should not tell everyone about their customers’ business or soon they will have no customers.”

  Dara was looking at her as if thinking: This is not just a nice sweet girl.

  “I had fun last night,” Sith said in a voice as thin as high clouds.

  “So did I.”

  “We don’t have to tell anyone about my family. Do we?” Sith was seriously scared of losing him.

  “No. But Sith, it’s stupid. Your family, my family, we are not equals.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference.”

  “You lied to me. Your family is not dead. You have famous uncles.”

  She did indeed – Uncle Ieng Sary, Uncle Khieu Samphan, Uncle Ta Mok. All the Pol Pot clique had been called her uncles.

  “I didn’t know them that well,” she said. That was true, too.

  What would she do if she couldn’t shop in Soriya Market anymore? What would she do without Dara?

  She begged. “I am not a strong person. Sometimes I think I am not a person at all. I’m just a space.”

  Dara looked suddenly mean. “You’re just a credit card.” Then his face fell. “I’m sorry. That was an unkind thing to say. You are very young for your age and I’m older than you and I should have treated you with more care.”

  Sith was desperate. “All my money would be very nice.”

  “I’m not for sale.”

  He worked in a shop and would be sending
money home to a fatherless family; of course he was for sale!

  Sith had a small heart, but a big head for thinking. She knew that she had to do this delicately, like picking a flower, or she would spoil the bloom. “Let’s . . . let’s just go see a movie?”

  After all, she was beautiful and well brought up and she knew her eyes were big and round. Her tiny heart was aching.

  This time they saw Turn Teav, a remake of an old movie from the 1960s. If movies were not nightmares about ghosts, then they tried to preserve the past. When, thought Sith, will they make a movie about Cambodia’s future? Turn Teav was based on a classic tale of a young monk who falls in love with a properly brought up girl but her mother opposes the match. They commit suicide at the end, bringing a curse on their village. Sith sat through it stony-faced. I am not going to be a dead heroine in a romance.

  Dara offered to drive her home again and that’s when Sith found out that he drove a Honda Dream. He proudly presented to her the gleaming motorcycle of fast young men. Sith felt backed into a corner. She’d already offered to buy him. Showing off her car again might humiliate him.

  So she broke rule number seven.

  Dara hid her bag in the back and they went soaring down Monivong Boulevard at night, past homeless people, prostitutes, and chefs staggering home after work. It was late in the year, but it started to rain.

  Sith loved it, the cool air brushing against her face, the cooler rain clinging to her eyelashes.

  She remembered being five years old in the forest and dancing in the monsoon. She encircled Dara’s waist to stay on the bike and suddenly found her cheek was pressed up against his back. She giggled in fear, not of the rain, but of what she felt.

  He dropped her off at home. Inside, everything was dark except for the flickering green light on her printer. In the tray were two new photographs. One was of a child, a little boy, holding up a school prize certificate. The other was a tough, wise-looking old man, with a string of muscle down either side of his ironic, bitter smile. They looked directly at her.

  They know who I am.

  As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she heard someone sobbing, far away, as if the sound came from next door. She touched the walls of the staircase. They shivered slightly, constricting in time to the cries.

  In her bedroom she extracted one of her many iPods from the tangle of wires and listened to System of a Down, as loud as she could. It helped her sleep. The sound of nu-metal guitars seemed to come roaring out of her own heart.

  She was woken up in the sun-drenched morning by the sound of her doorbell many floors down. She heard the housekeeper Jorani call and the door open. Sith hesitated over choice of jeans and top. By the time she got downstairs she found the driver and the housemaid joking with Dara, giving him tea.

  Like the sunshine, Dara seemed to disperse ghosts.

  “Hi,” he said. “It’s my day off. I thought we could go on a motorcycle ride to the country.”

  But not to the country. Couldn’t they just spend the day in Soriya? No, said Dara, there’s lots of other places to see in Phnom Penh.

  He drove her, twisting through back streets. How did the city get so poor? How did it get so dirty?

  They went to a new and modern shop for CDs that was run by a record label. Dara knew all the cool new music, most of it influenced by Khmer-Americans returning from Long Beach and Compton: Sdey, Phnom Penh Bad Boys, Khmer Kid.

  Sith bought twenty CDs.

  They went to the National Museum and saw the beautiful Buddha-like head of King Jayavarman VII. Dara without thinking ducked and held up his hands in prayer. They had dinner in a French restaurant with candles and wine, and it was just like in a karaoke video, a boy, a girl, and her money all going out together. They saw the show at Sovanna Phum, and there was a wonderful dance piece with sampled 1940s music from an old French movie, with traditional Khmer choreography.

  Sith went home, her heart singing, Dara, Dara, Dara.

  In the bedroom, a mobile phone began to ring, over and over. CALL I said the screen, but gave no name or number, so the person was not on Sith’s list of contacts.

  She turned off the phone. It kept ringing. That’s when she knew for certain.

  She hid the phone in a pillow in the spare bedroom and put another pillow on top of it and then closed the door.

  All forty-two of her mobile phones started to ring. They rang from inside closets, or from the bathroom where she had forgotten them. They rang from the roof terrace and even from inside a shoe under her bed.

  “I am a very stubborn girl!” she shouted at the spirits. “You do not scare me.”

  She turned up her iPod and finally slept.

  As soon as the sun was up, she roused her driver, slumped deep in his hammock.

  “Come on, we’re going to Soriya Market,” she said.

  The driver looked up at her dazed, then remembered to smile and lower his head in respect.

  His face fell when she showed up in the garage with all forty-two of her mobile phones in one black bag.

  It was too early for Soriya Market to open. They drove in circles with sunrise blazing directly into their eyes. On the streets, men pushed carts like beasts of burden, or carried cascades of belts into the old Central Market. The old market was domed, art deco, the colour of vomit, French. Sith never shopped there.

  “Maybe you should go visit your Mom,” said the driver. “You know, she loves you. Families are there for when you are in trouble.”

  Sith’s mother lived in Thailand and they never spoke. Her mother’s family kept asking for favours: money, introductions, or help with getting a job. Sith didn’t speak to them any longer.

  “My family is only trouble.”

  The driver shut up and drove.

  Finally Soriya opened. Sith went straight to Dara’s shop and dumped all the phones on the blue countertop. “Can you take these back?”

  “We only do exchanges. I can give a new phone for an old one.” Dara looked thoughtful. “Don’t worry. Leave them here with me, I’ll go sell them to a guy in the old market, and give you your money tomorrow.” He smiled in approval. “This is very sensible.”

  He passed one phone back, the one with video and email. “This is the best one, keep this.”

  Dara was so competent. Sith wanted to sink down onto him like a pillow and stay there. She sat in the shop all day, watching him work. One of the guys from the games shop upstairs asked, “Who is this beautiful girl?”

  Dara answered proudly, “My girlfriend.”

  Dara drove her back on the Dream and at the door to her house, he chuckled. “I don’t want to go.” She pressed a finger against his naughty lips, and smiled and spun back inside from happiness.

  She was in the ground-floor garage. She heard something like a rat scuttle. In her bag, the telephone rang. Who were these people to importune her, even if they were dead? She wrenched the mobile phone out of her bag and pushed the green button and put the phone to her ear. She waited. There was a sound like wind.

  A child spoke to her, his voice clogged as if he was crying. “They tied my thumbs together.”

  Sith demanded. “How did you get my number?”

  “I’m all alone!”

  “Then ring somebody else. Someone in your family.”

  “All my family are dead. I don’t know where I am. My name is . . .”

  Sith clicked the phone off. She opened the trunk of the car and

  tossed the phone inside it. Being telephoned by ghosts was so . . . unmodern. How could Cambodia become a number one country if its cell phone network was haunted?

  She stormed up into the salon. On top of a table, the $1500, no-mess dog stared at her from out of his packaging. Sith clumped up the stairs onto the roof terrace to sleep as far away as she could from everything in the house.

  She woke up in the dark, to hear thumping from downstairs.

  The sound was metallic and hollow, as if someone were locked in the car. Sith turned on her iPod
. Something was making the sound of the music skip. She fought the tangle of wires, and wrenched out another player, a Xen, but it too skipped, burping the sound of speaking voices into the middle of the music.

  Had she heard a ripping sound? She pulled out the earphones, and heard something climbing the stairs.

  A sound of light, uneven lolloping. She thought of crippled children. Frost settled over her like a heavy blanket and she could not move.

  The robot dog came whirring up onto the terrace. It paused at the top of the stairs, its camera nose pointing at her to see, its useless eyes glowing cherry red.

  The robot dog said in a warm, friendly voice, “My name is Phalla. I tried to buy my sister medicine and they killed me for it.”

  Sith tried to say, “Go away,” but her throat wouldn’t open.

  The dog tilted its head. “No one even knows I’m dead. What will you do for all the people who are not mourned?”

  Laughter blurted out of her, and Sith saw it rise up as cold vapour into the air.

  “We have no one to invite us to the feast,” said the dog.

  Sith giggled in terror. “Nothing. I can do nothing!” she said, shaking her head.

  “You laugh?” The dog gathered itself and jumped up into the hammock with her. It turned and lifted up its clear plastic tail and laid a genuine turd alongside Sith. Short brown hair was wound up in it, a scalp actually, and a single flat white human tooth smiled out of it.

  Sith squawked and overturned both herself and the dog out of the hammock and onto the floor. The dog pushed its nose up against hers and began to sing an old-fashioned children’s song about birds.

  Something heavy huffed its way up the stairwell toward her. Sith shivered with cold on the floor and could not move. The dog went on singing in a high, sweet voice. A large shadow loomed out over the top of the staircase, and Sith gargled, swallowing laughter, trying to speak.

  “There was thumping in the car and no one in it,” said the driver.

  Sith sagged toward the floor with relief. “The ghosts,” she said. “They’re back.” She thrust herself to her feet. “We’re getting out now. Ring the Hilton. Find out if they have rooms.”

  She kicked the toy dog down the stairs ahead of her. “We’re moving now!”