by Mark Green
The final series of rooms contained only freestanding Perspex-clad noticeboards. Each section contained row upon row of faded A4 size, yellowing, black and white photographs. Haunting portrait images of the head and shoulders of men, women and children, all tortured here before being put to death in the notorious killing fields. The photographs’ existence, a haunting sepia roll-call before execution, meticulously and macabrely documented. Further into the exhibition, a large black leather-bound log book lay open, on display. In it, a detailed list of all those pour souls who had trudged relentlessly through the school’s barbed wire gates, never to return.
Bozzer began to tremble. He clenched his palms together, linked his fingers, entwining them in a firm grip, squeezing the tremors away from his arms, forcing them deeper inside his chest. The expressions of each person in the photographs looked distressingly familiar: solemn, fixated furrowed brows, confusion cloaking the as yet unknown fear that no doubt would have followed soon after – their appearance chilling – their final humiliation. At the end of the long rows, a cluster of photographs on one of the last noticeboards drew Bozzer over. The ghostly pale, almost transparent complexion of European and white-skinned faces stared back at him. The international admissions to this place, also forever lost amongst their Cambodian comrades.
Bozzer blinked rapidly, trying to stem the moisture from misting his vision, unable to prevent the itchy, head-spinning sensation prickling behind his eye sockets as he stared at one particular photograph.
No …
He tried to stifle a sob, barely succeeding. Tears fell freely now, breathing erratic, his entire body shuddering as he gasped for breath. He wiped the droplets away from his eyes and stepped forwards to read the short sentence:
Scott Barry Johnson. Australian. Born 15 September 1946. 32 when he was killed.
Other people filtered past, maintaining a respectful distance around him. Some exchanged fleeting eye contact with each other, others hurried through the room, away from Bozzer’s living, breathing, exhibition of personal loss.
He gulped in stale air, fighting to control his hyperventilation. Unmanly, this reaction, he chastised, yet raw, uncontrollable … truthful.
A slim hand tentatively reached out, placed a warm palm on his quivering shoulder. He flinched at the unexpected contact, half-turned. She stepped up to his side, lay her arm across his shoulder, her fingers lightly squeezing.
‘Hello stranger …’
Bozzer stepped back, shock creasing deeper on his red, tear-smeared face. Jody held his bewildered gaze. She reached out, her palm cupping his hot cheek, smoothing her thumb across the wetness, smearing his tears away, like a miniature windscreen wiper.
‘What are you doing here?’ Bozzer croaked. His voice was fractured, devoid of energy and enthusiasm.
‘I’m with my friend. It’s the last day before we move on.’ Jody paused, casting her eyes over the photograph. ‘Is this him?’
Bozzer nodded, his breathing heavy but calmer, steadier now. He turned back to face the image of his grandfather, traces of his tears gradually evaporating.
‘Meet me tonight, for a drink,’ she said. ‘Message me later.’
Bozzer eased his gaze away from his grandfather’s grainy photograph. He watched Jody leave, then turned back to the display. He allowed his gaze to linger, before he bowed his head and allowed his eyes to drift on, around the room, absently, until … there.
He stopped his rotation, backtracking. Maddie stood at the far end of the room, observing him. She attempted a sad, awkward smile as their eyes connected. They held each other’s gaze for an endless moment, before he acknowledged her with a faint nod. He dropped his eyes to the floor briefly, then swept his gaze back up to the photograph.
Maddie glanced again at the open doorway, off to one side, then slowly walked past it, towards him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said softly, stopping short six feet away. An appropriate distance?
He nodded, his head barely moving.
‘I’ll leave you … to some quiet time.’ Her footsteps retreated, seeking the reassurance of the sunlight that bathed the doorway’s threshold.
Bozzer weighed the camera’s bulk in his hands, alternating his gaze between it and the photograph. He glanced behind him, saw Maddie step out into the light. He hesitated, then raised the camera, twisting the lens, focusing on framing his grandfather amongst the periphery images of his fallen Cambodian brothers and sisters.
Shh-clitch.
Bozzer tweaked the focus and gently squeezed the button again, capturing another shot.
• • •
‘I need a smoke, but I can’t light up in here.’
Maddie shielded her eyes from the sunlight peeking above the concrete school house, squinting at Bozzer as he stepped out of the doorway into the courtyard. She asked ‘Would you prefer to be alone, or …’
‘I’d prefer to avoid bumping into Jody again, so some company would be great. If that’s okay?’
‘Of course.’
Maddie accompanied Bozzer through the museum entrance, into the dusty side street. He struck his lighter, waved it under the roll-up clenched between his lips. She watched him take a deep draw, pause, then blow smoke through his nose. He stared off into the distance, shaking his head in slow motion, eyes glazed, his normal sparky enthusiasm lost in a heavy straightjacket of suffocating despair.
‘Why …? Why such barbaric, horrific violence … the complete and utter obliteration of humanity. So fucking senseless.’
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured.
He looked away, concentrating on smoking for a while.
‘He’d come to photograph the truth … tell the world what was happening here. And they killed him for it. No confiscating his camera, no asking him to leave the country. Instead … this place.’ He flicked his cigarette at the museum entrance, watched it fly through the air, bounce off the overhead sign and land in a puff of sparks. ‘Sheez.’
He hesitated then sighed, shrugged the camera bag off his shoulder, laying it at Maddie’s feet. He walked over to the roll-up, picked it up and stubbed it out on his tobacco tin, then deposited it inside, snapping the lid shut. He walked back to her, hoisting the camera case strap over his shoulder. ‘I can’t wake up tomorrow knowing I’ve got to go through this again. I need to finish the day with all the awful, tragic, destructive stuff left behind. I’m going to go to the other place, where they took him after here.’
‘Okay … you going alone?’
He frowned, contemplating. ‘I’m not going with Jody, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I didn’t mean … well, okay, I did wonder, having seen her in there. But I meant, do you want some company?’
‘I’m surprised she even came here. It’s not her scene at all.’ He took a final look up at the sign over the Tuel Sleng museum and began to move away. ‘If you’re coming too we need to go now, to have some time before it closes.’
Maddie watched him shuffle away. ‘Okay,’ she said, jogging to catch up. ‘How’d you get here?’
‘Took a moto. We can get a ride on the main street—’
‘No need, Rico can take us.’
She guided him left, down a side street where Rico lay stretched out on the tuk-tuk’s back seat, staring at his mobile phone. He looked up and grinned as they approached.
• • •
The tuk-tuk bounced and swayed as it left the relatively smooth tarmac road, rumbling onto a dusty track of compacted mud and gravel. They began snaking past ramshackle buildings, less frequent now, the random structures eventually petering out completely to leave long periods between isolated clusters of houses in small villages.
Maddie peered through the dirt cloud billowing behind them, clasping her fingers around the tuk-tuk’s carriage framework as it jolted and swayed on the loose shingle. Bozzer rocked with the motion, tensing and relaxing his muscles to brace against the sporadic rhythm. He drew his eyes back from looking outside, focusing instead on her profile. She t
urned back into the carriage, caught his eye.
‘What?’
‘Something different about you today. Something … missing.’ Bozzer dug into his pocket, pulled out a clenched fist and held it out. ‘I believe these are yours,’ he declared.
Maddie frowned, prompted to hold out her open palms by his raised eyebrows and nodding gesture. Bozzer used his spare hand to lift her hands up, guiding the small tissue-wrapped package into her open palms. She leant forwards and carefully unwrapped the gold-encased diamond studs.
She shot him an accusing look. ‘How did you get these?’
‘From Victoria and your slimy shadow.’
‘What?’
‘She pinched them from your room while you were sightseeing, this morning. There was always something odd about those two, the way they assessed other travellers. Took me a while to work out they were scoping us out, as potential targets. I had a feeling they had history – their body language suggested they were together, yet they made out they were both single. Got me curious. So I followed Charlie to his hotel and staked out the lobby. Figured sooner or later Victoria would show up, could tell me where you were. I got lucky with the earrings. Here’s a photo of her showing them to Charlie.’ Bozzer tabbed through the menu on his camera and turned it around to show her the screen. ‘She was about to try them on when I stepped in.’
Maddie alternated her gaze between the earrings in her hand and the photograph on his camera. ‘Cheeky cow!’
Bozzer chuckled. ‘Yep. All those warnings in the guide books about scams in foreign countries, and it turns out the biggest threat is from your fellow travellers.’
‘Yeah, how ironic is that.’ Maddie’s gaze clouded over. Concentration lines crinkled her forehead. ‘These were a gift, from Rupert.’
‘An anniversary?’
‘Sort of, but more important …’ She closed her hand, then opened her shoulder bag, removed her purse and carefully tucked the earrings into the coins section. ‘Thank you for getting them back,’ she said. She slipped her sunglasses over her eyes as she looked away, out over the lush green rice paddies.
‘No problem. Charlie and I had a manly chat. I let him know how much you disapproved.’
Maddie turned back towards him. ‘You punched him?’
‘Not that satisfying – kneed him in the nuts. He’s probably still digging them out from behind his eyeballs.’
She sniggered, starring at him. ‘You didn’t …?’
He shrugged. ‘Figured those two had fleeced loads of other travellers. There’s a code about that sort of thing, y’know. So I made it count.’ Bozzer grinned, then looked away, sensing the tuk-tuk begin to slow. He swivelled his body forwards as they passed a road sign: Choeung Ek Genocidal Centre.
His smile sank, amusement drained from his face, replaced by a serious, tight-jawed expression.
Maddie turned to look past Rico as he turned the tuk-tuk into a busy gravel car park, bordered at the far end by a tall, imposing main gate and surrounding fence. Rico eased the tuk-tuk to a stop under the shade of a small bushy tree. Bozzer placed his hands onto his thighs and scrunched fingers into his muscles. Dust from the dry, gritty car park swirled and settled around them.
‘You okay?’
‘Yup. You step out, I need a moment.’
Maddie edged out of the tuk-tuk carriage and stepped down onto the gravel, turning to survey the entrance.
‘I wait, no problem,’ said Rico in a subdued tone.
Bozzer joined Maddie, walking silently with her across the gravel, heading for the entrance. She stole a sideways glance at him, something niggling her. That song. So haunting and ambiguous … what was it? A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum. She stared at Bozzer’s complexion, swallowed and forced herself to look away. Their footsteps slowed, scuffing wispy puffs of dust as they filtered through the pedestrian entrance. Next to them were a set of double gates beneath a multi-tiered gable roof, coloured terracotta, gold and cream. Beyond the entrance, a modern building sat at the head of a lush green area. Adjacent to the thick-stemmed grass, a light grey and white block path led to a white stone and glass stupa, its square spire a focal point. The interconnecting pathways emanated from it, neatly segmenting the manicured lawns surrounding its imposing and poignant presence.
‘Brace yourself …’ Bozzer said quietly, turning to face her, his eyes lacking any trace of his normal spark. ‘This is likely to be a distressing experience.’
Maddie nodded, following him to the ticket counter.
‘My shout,’ he said gently, paying the entrance fee. ‘I got you the audio tour.’ Bozzer handed the tickets to a young Cambodian museum curator, standing beside a row of headphones and control sets.
Maddie frowned and glanced at the other visitors not part of an official guided group, most of whom wore identical headsets. She nodded her thanks to the museum curator and slipped the headphones around her neck, holding the control box as she studied the instruction leaflet. ‘You’re not doing the same?’
He shook his head. ‘I did a lot of research about this place. The audio tour is definitely the way to go, to try and understand what it must have been like. It’s professionally produced, by all accounts. But it’ll be too raw for me … I need to be with my own thoughts here, because … this place, it’s very likely where my grandfather was brought after being tortured at Tuol Sleng. He probably died here. So you take your time, follow the tour. I’ll catch you at the end, in a couple of hours …’
Maddie watched him open up the killing fields exhibit pamphlet. He studied it for a moment, then ambled away. She continued to watch him for a little longer, then dropped her eyes to the audio control and pressed play.
Thirty-Five
Maddie listened attentively, proceeding to the first of nineteen walking stops that followed an anticlockwise route around the memorial site. The first narrator described the historical and political rise of Pol Pot, the head of the Khmer Rouge regime and their march into Phnom Penh, seizing power on 17th August 1975. The voice described how new arrivals were greeted by Him Huy, the Khmer Rouge guard and executioner. He processed them through the dark and gloomy detention building on their way to the first mass grave, less than one hundred yards away.
Maddie followed the meandering path through the exhibits at crawling speed, her feet shuffling on the shiny path. She passed the executioners’ office building and chemical store room location to a mass grave, containing four hundred and fifty people. Here the narrator described how victims were killed using an array of crude implements, ranging from farm tools and machetes to the butt of a rifle, smashed into the back of the victims’ heads. Every year after the heavy rains, more clothing scraps, bone fragments and teeth would be unearthed in the mud, which were carefully picked out by the site wardens and displayed in glass cabinets beside each shrine. It was estimated, the narrator stated, that approximately twenty-five per cent of the Cambodian population were slaughtered in killing field sites like this one, which were located throughout the country.
One person in four … exterminated.
Maddie halted beside the waist-height rectangular fencing beneath a pitched bamboo and reed roof. She stared down at the fine soil, a spike of pain stabbing her tummy. She glanced to her left, reading the information sign.
Four hundred and fifty men and women, slain here.
Maddie lifted a hand to her forehead, slowly shook her head, the number replaying in her mind. She slumped down and rested her hands on the bamboo fence, steadying her trembling limbs. The narrator described how loudspeakers strategically placed around the site would play loud Khmer music and repetitive propaganda speeches, twenty-four hours a day, to hide the sounds of killing – masking yet another poor soul departing this world. All this horror, while yet more truckloads of victims arrived.
Maddie focused on her white knuckles, clenched on the fence. She summoned all her strength to prise them away, moving on to the next exhibit.
• • •
Did they bring you here, all those years ago? Beneath the screeching tannoy, spewing incoherent bullshit propaganda? Bundling you out of a truck in the middle of the night, into this hell? How did they finish you – was it quick? I doubt it, judging by Tuel Sleng … this wasn’t your fight, Gramps. Not your concern. But you came anyway, to try and tell the world. But did the world care? Did it give a fuck, then – does it give a fuck now? Rhetorical question. Ridiculous, stupid fucking question. Are you in there, Scott Barry Johnson …?
Bozzer craned his neck, staring up at the glass windows in the sides of the memorial stupa. Inside, within the tiered glass sections, lay row upon row of neatly stacked human skulls.
His shoulders quivered, muscles cramping. Unable to hold on any longer, he sank into a crouch, flopping down the last few inches onto the grass. His hands draped between his thighs, head sagging over his crumpled, trembling body.
Where is the dignity, the humanity … justification for this end? You tried to live your life honourably, respecting your fellow man. So why did you have to die like this? Why was I denied my memories of who you were …? You lived your life, your tragically short life, as if you had nothing to lose. Yet you had so much at stake. Your photographs could have jolted people back home – around the world – so much sooner, had you not perished here. Those in positions of power, able to influence and sway governments into action, could have stopped this evil. You tried to make a difference, with your photographs – but nobody intervened. Nobody stopped this madness. By capturing the reality of what was going on here, you wanted to show an ignorant world the truth about this country, the barbarism its people waged against their own. Because you believed in your heart that it mattered. But was it worth it … your wretched, wasted life?
