The Woman Who Wouldn't Die

16

Nurse Dtui had an hour before her Intermediate Russian class. An hour seemed barely enough time to thank someone for two lives. Barely enough time to explain how everything from that moment in the morgue had been a gift. How long would it take to say that every second until those two lives met a more natural end would be dedicated to that good Samaritan?

But what a revelation it had been. Not until her conversation with Dr Siri the previous evening had the possibility crossed her mind. Of all the men in Vientiane, he would have been the least likely. She’d never heard him speak and, although Inspector Phosy and the others claimed to have heard him utter a few words on one occasion, she doubted he had the ability to conduct a conversation. But Dr Siri was adamant. On the day he deposited Ugly the dog at the Happy Dine Restaurant, he’d taken Crazy Rajid to one side and entrusted him with a task. The Indian was a young man who spent his life wandering the streets of Vientiane. He walked endless circles around the Nam Poo fountain and slept beneath the stars.

Siri had told him, ‘If you see a tall Westerner, an old man with a star over his right eye — don’t let him out of your sight. Don’t let him see you but don’t lose him. He’s up to no good and you could be the only person around to stop him doing harm.’

When he had spoken those words, the doctor hadn’t been certain the young man had heard him. Nor had he realized how true the prophesy would be. At some point, Crazy Rajid had found the Frenchman, probably too late to prevent the fire. He’d followed him to the morgue. He’d heard the threat and he had acted. The young man was no mute. His was a psychological silence caused by a family disaster. Inside his troubled head was a poet, a linguist, a mathematician, and a hero. The gun? Perhaps a result of his fascination with fireworks. A Chinese cracker or two? Again, who would know? But Siri had been certain of one thing. It was Crazy Rajid who’d saved the lives of Dtui and her daughter.

The nurse parked her bicycle in front of the Happy Dine Indian Restaurant and removed Malee from the sizeable shopping basket. The restaurant owner was gushingly polite until he realized she wasn’t there to eat. But the restaurant was empty so he had no excuse not to point her to the kitchen. Mr Bhiku, large and shirtless, sat on an upturned bucket reading an ancient copy of Bangkok World. When he saw Dtui he dropped the paper and crumpled into a deep nop. He was a man who considered himself to be every other man’s inferior. Dtui returned the nop and pulled the old chef to his feet. Malee reached out to him and he wrapped his dark fat fingers around her light, tiny ones. His smile lit up her face.

‘Hello, Mr B,’ said Dtui. ‘I’m looking for Jogendranath.’ Crazy Rajid’s actual name.

‘Oh, goodness. What has he done now?’ asked Mr Bhiku.

‘Well, I believe he might have saved the life of me and my daughter here.’

Mr B’s face gave off a glow like a two-bar electric heater.

‘If that is so, I would be most delighted,’ he said. ‘Most delighted indeed.’

‘Have you seen him lately?’ she asked.

‘Sadly, not for four days. He was given to sleeping here in my open-air kitchen but I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since Sunday.’

Crazy Rajid’s walkabouts were legendary so this was not a matter of concern to either of them.

‘When he gets back, could you tell him that Malee and I would really like to see him.’

‘I most certainly will,’ he said. ‘And how is your handsome and hardworking police husband?’

‘He’s fine. He’s off training the untrainable in the north-east. Should be back in a day or two.’

‘Give him my regards.’

It wasn’t until she was almost back at the nursing school that a thought entered Dtui’s head. One that she couldn’t shake away. Nobody had seen Crazy Rajid since Sunday. Sunday was probably the day that Herve Barnard had crossed into Thailand in order to enter Sanyaburi from the rear.

Could Rajid really have followed the Frenchman across the border? And if so, what chance of survival would a mentally disturbed Indian have on the Thai side?

Siri and Daeng were actually living in Siri’s allotted house at That Luang. Daeng’s restaurant was a shell but it was a tough shell and somehow the block had held up. There was no roof, of course, and they had no money to begin refurbishing, but there was promise. Of Siri’s splendid library there was no trace. In Phnom Penh, he had shed tears at the sight of all the tomes from the national library ruined by rain and smoke. But that had been a premeditated act by the Khmer Rouge. The books had been the enemy. His own library was an innocent bystander shot with a stray bullet. It wasn’t the same. His books died loved. There would be more.

The house refugees had started to filter back. Pao and Lia were already in their room. Comrade Noo, the Thai forest monk, had reclaimed his wooden cot on the back balcony. With the position of Head of Housing Allocation currently unfilled, and the file of Dr Siri temporarily sequestered by the police investing Comrade Koomki’s death, there was every hope that the Siri residence would soon dance to the tune of companionship once again. But, this night, it was just Siri and Daeng sitting alone on the front step.

‘So?’ said Daeng.

‘So what?’ said Siri.

‘Why haven’t you said anything about my book?’

‘I said it was good.’

‘You said it was good that I’d finished it. I’m still waiting for the review.’

Siri looked at the stars that dotted the tarpaulin of night above his head.

‘It’s history, Daeng. A personal historical document. I’m not about to make fun of your spelling and grammar.’

‘I don’t want you to. I want to … to know how it made you feel.’

‘As in …?’

‘As in … Damn it, Siri. I’ve confessed to … to using intimacy to extract information. I’ve slept with men I didn’t love. Men I hated.’

‘A lot of women sleep with men they hate. But they’re usually related.’

‘Siri!’

‘What?’

‘How can you be … be near somebody like me after you’ve read all that?’

‘You know? I’ve been thinking about it.’

‘And?’

‘Did you always hate it?’

‘What?’

‘Was it always really awful or did the thrill become a drug?’

Daeng lowered her face from the freckled night sky and stared at her husband.

‘Siri …’

‘You’re a passionate woman, Daeng. My goodness, do I know that. Once you realized you held that weapon, and that you could use it on any one of those faux empereurs and destroy them any time you liked, that’s an awful lot of power to hold in your gut. Oh, you must have been full of that power. Bursting. I wouldn’t be surprised if the adrenalin channelled itself right to your pleasure nodes.’

‘I didn’t …’

‘And, as a result of that, I wonder if in subsequent years you didn’t sit on your noodle stool after the lunchtime rush and start to feel guilty about it all. Not the lies. Not the subterfuge. Not even the killing. That was all unavoidable. But the fact that you enjoyed it. The fact that there were times you took pleasure from those men. That your work had given you an excuse to break out of your culture and be promiscuous. There was even something about the awful times that made you happy, because you could always see the final scene played out in front of you. You knew your victims would suffer one way or another. And, Daeng, I tell you, if the French army had been all female, I would have been at the front of the queue of volunteers.’

She laughed.

‘I doubt you would have been recruited,’ she smiled.

He leaned away from her.

‘Madam, are you casting aspersions as to my prowess on the mattress?’

‘Not at all. You’re a veritable gymnast. But women like to look up at their men. French military Amazons would tower over you, my husband. You’d need stilts just to dance with them.’

‘I’d win them over with my boyish charm. We’re all the same height lying down, you know. And, no matter how ugly they were, I would engage them boldly for the nation.’

‘Now you’re making fun of me.’

‘No I’m not. I’m just telling you I admire you for what you did. That, if roles had been reversed …’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re a man, and men are lauded in our society for the number of times their pestle hits the mortar. I’m a Lao woman. Do you honestly believe if that document were published, there wouldn’t be an outcry about my morality? That mothers wouldn’t tell their daughters, “If you continue with your loose ways you’ll end up a Madame Daeng”?’

They were silent for a long time. They both knew she was right. He took her hand and massaged her palm with his thumb.

‘So you wrote it for me,’ said Siri.

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Siri?’

‘Yes?’

‘What was so funny about my spelling and grammar?’

It was the night of Auntie Bpoo’s Phasing Away party. Siri and Daeng had debated not going. It seemed … weird. Were it a wake, at least you’d know what to wear. Everybody had a white or black wardrobe for such occasions. But to arrive at a party knowing that the host-cum-hostess would be kicking the bucket sometime in the middle of it all, made you want to take your funeral clothing in a plastic bag and change when the time was ripe. But Siri was concerned that nobody would show up at all. That Auntie Bpoo would die alone and friendless — a lonely, wandering spirit for eternity. And so Siri and Daeng spruced themselves up and decided to make the best of it. And there was one more reason for attending. Inspector Phosy had been off in Vieng Xai since before their return and would have arrived back in Vientiane late that afternoon. They’d all bullied Nurse Dtui to drag him along. There were numerous questions about his investigation of Madame Peung that still had no answers.

Auntie Bpoo had told them to meet her at the Russian Club at six. The Russian Club was neither Russian, nor a club. It was one of the few surviving nightlife venues in Vientiane still standing on the bank of the Mekhong. It was a large wooden restaurant whose only walls surrounded the kitchen. The rest was open to the elements. It held on to its licence and its profits by catering to the large Eastern European expat community. It had an endless supply of beer and other more expensive tipples such as vodka, leading one to believe that the owner had friends in high places. The restaurant was always full and it often stayed open after curfew. Siri had bemoaned the choice of venue.

‘I doubt she’ll even be able to book a table,’ he’d told Daeng.

It was therefore not a total surprise when they arrived at the club fashionably late to be met by military guards in full uniform including holstered weapons. They were standing out front checking invitations. There were large placards in Russian and English apologizing to esteemed regular guests for the fact that the restaurant would be closed this evening as it had been booked for a private function.

‘See? What did I tell you?’ said Siri. ‘That really stuffs up Auntie Bpoo’s plans. I bet she didn’t know about this. You’d think a fortune-teller would have predicted it.’

‘Don’t you be so hasty,’ said Daeng. ‘Who’s that sitting over by the railing?’

Siri looked up to see a table of friends waving; Phosy, Dtui, Mr Geung and his fiancee Tukda, Civilai and his wife, Noy.

‘How the hell did they get in?’ Siri asked.

‘I’d say this is Auntie Bpoo’s party,’ said Daeng.

‘Don’t be … How could she?’

Siri walked up the steps where he found a large hand on his chest. He looked up into the face of a middle-aged man in uniform.

‘Invitation,’ said the soldier.

Daeng followed demurely behind her husband.

‘Take your hand off my chest, son,’ said Siri. ‘Do you honestly believe I’d be here without an invitation?’

‘No. But if I don’t see it, I don’t believe it,’ said the military bouncer.

‘You obviously don’t know who I am,’ said Siri.

‘You’re Dr Siri,’ said the soldier. ‘You took a chunk of shrapnel out of my knee once.’

‘Well then.’

‘No invitation, no entry. Sorry.’

‘If I ran past you, do you think you could catch me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the operation was a success.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then?’

Madame Daeng laughed and produced her invitation from her sequinned soiree bag. The soldier looked at it and nodded for her to pass.

‘Where’s mine?’ called Siri.

‘You threw it in the bin, remember?’ Daeng told him. ‘Said it was ridiculous to take an invitation to a funeral.’

She walked to the top of the steps, turned around to see the sad sight of her husband behind the barrier, then relented. She returned to the guard and produced a second invitation.

‘I rescued it,’ she laughed.

The place was crowded. The tables were full and others stood around. In 1978 Laos, it was rarely necessary to raise one’s voice. There were the late insect choruses and monsoons on tin roofs and thousand-amp speakers at large gatherings but being heard at social events had hardly been a problem before this. There was no music in the Russian Club that night but everyone was shouting. There was a selection of beverages on each table and an open bar for those who had nowhere to sit. There were spirits and, to Daeng’s delight, red or white wine. They had asked a passing waitress whether she might open a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon for them. She produced a beer bottle opener and left it on the table for them. Fortunately, Civilai remembered that his Swiss Army knife had a corkscrew attachment.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ Siri asked.

‘Auntie Bpoo’s last stand,’ shouted Civilai.

‘Has anyone actually seen the party girl yet?’ Daeng asked.

‘Not a sign,’ they shouted.

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Inspector Phosy. ‘She’s a street fortune-teller. She reads the cards at five hundred kip a pot. Where did the money come from for all this?’

‘She obviously has other resources,’ said Dtui.

Daeng stood up.

‘Look,’ she shouted. ‘How about we wander down to the river’s edge with our respective bottles so we can actually hear ourselves speak?’

‘We … we might lose our table,’ said Geung.

‘Look at us,’ said Civilai. ‘Do you think anyone would dare take the table of such a scary group?’

Mr Geung laughed and they upped and followed the narrow dirt path to the water. There was a concrete foundation down there for what was once a boat landing. It made a perfect seat.

‘That’s better,’ said Civilai. ‘Who are all those people up there?’

‘It would appear Bpoo has more friends than we thought,’ said Daeng. ‘And it’s invitation only so they aren’t all freeloaders.’

‘And who would have expected all this anyway?’ said Dtui.

‘All right,’ said Siri. ‘While we have a few minutes of quiet, let’s listen to what Phosy has to say about his investigation of the Vietnamese and Madame Peung. We’ve all been on the edge of our seats these past few days.’

In fact, the only person even vaguely likely to fall off his seat had been Siri. It had been a difficult few days for him. He’d done everything Madame Peung had suggested: the breathing exercises, the yoga, the cat’s whisker grass tea. He’d been patient with the spirits he saw. He’d tried not to judge. Not to tell them to their faces that they were scientifically impossible. As the witch had told him time and time again, he had to be an empty house with a sign out front saying VACANCY in large letters. He’d done just that but nobody had knocked on his door. He’d constructed no end of mental devices to lure them inside. He’d even strewn mental nails across the road out front so that souls passing on motorcycles might have a flat tyre and come in to use the telephone. Nothing had worked. But most frustrating was the fact that the used-to-be woman had not made an appearance. He was beginning to have doubts, and Phosy’s findings would help a great deal to maintain his faith.

Phosy had brought along his notebook but he rarely referred to it. He took a sip of his whisky and coughed.

‘Madame Peung,’ he began, and coughed again, ‘was everything we’d heard about her. The wife of a general who got rich by diverting United States funding to his own projects. She was wiser than her husband it seems because she could see the direction this country was headed. Without his knowledge she contacted the Pathet Lao and provided them with donations to fund their underground operations. As a widow, once the PL took over the country, she was on their list of wealthy sympathizers. She made numerous trips to Hanoi and was responsible for a number of profitable deals. Everything seemed to be running as regular as clockwork until this past July when she went missing for eighteen days. I patiently awaited my turn at our central post office and talked to the manager at the hotel she always stayed at in Vietnam. We have a Vietnamese translator at HQ.

‘When she turned up after her mysterious disappearance, she’d told the manager that she had no idea where she’d been. She said she’d woken up in a small clinic somewhere and they told her she’d suffered a brain aneurysm and had been in a coma. The doctor had been very pleased with her recovery and released her. She paid her hotel bill in full and returned to Laos. That night, she was killed.’

‘Sounds like just a little too much of a coincidence to me,’ said Daeng.

‘I talked to her live-in girl about that night,’ said Phosy. ‘She said that Madame Peung had arrived late that afternoon with a truck and a driver. The driver had his hat pulled down over his eyes. There was a crate on the back of the truck. The girl came out to help carry it but Madame Peung called to her from the passenger window and told her to go down to the village and bring ten litres of petrol for the truck. She didn’t know why the truck driver couldn’t go down there himself but she wasn’t one to question orders. By the time she’d lugged the container back up the hill, the truck was gone. Either the crate went with it or it was in the widow’s room, because the girl didn’t see it again. The door to Madame Peung’s room was shut and when the girl asked if she wanted dinner the old lady declined. But it appears that Madame Peung often went to sleep early after a long journey so the girl thought nothing more of it. She went to bed at about nine and, the next thing she knew, she was woken by a shot. She’d been in a deep sleep so she wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed it. But the second gunshot most certainly came from inside the house. She wasn’t particularly fond of the job or the widow but she heard footsteps running away so she took a look at the widow’s room. That’s when she saw the body. She ran out the back door and hid in the bushes until she heard the villagers arrive.

‘There were a couple of things she mentioned to the young officer but that he didn’t consider important enough to add into his report. One was the fact that, when she came back to the house with the petrol, one of the piglets was gone. The sow had given birth three days before and had stopped giving the babies milk. The girl had been weaning them by hand. They were penned up so it couldn’t just run off. She wondered whether a crow had snatched it. Then there was the fact that when she was hiding in the bushes she thought she’d heard a truck starting up down on the main road. Sound carries at night in the countryside and road transport is so rare you tend to notice. She admitted she didn’t know if it was the engine of the truck Madame Peung had arrived in.’

‘So, do we know who the driver was?’ Civilai asked.

‘Now I do, but that was a breakthrough that came as a result of the photographs of Tang and Madame Peung that you sent me, Madame Daeng,’ said Phosy.

‘You sent photos?’ Siri asked.

‘I thought it might help,’ she smiled.

‘I’d sent them to the Vietnamese Intelligence Unit with my request to speak to the Hanoi cops,’ Phosy continued. ‘When I received their official response, there had been no mention of the photographs. I assumed nobody had recognized them. But then I was cornered one night by a shadowy character who’d been watching too many spy movies.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Civilai.

‘To cut a long story short, he had a gun and I beat him up.’

‘My brave policeman husband,’ said Dtui.

‘I don’t like guns,’ he said. ‘So I had this fellow at police HQ and he insisted on making a phone call to his Vietnamese buddies. I reminded him whose country he was in and how unlikely it was he’d ever see his homeland or his family again.’

‘You bully,’ said Civilai.

‘He was an arrogant little runt,’ said Phosy, by way of explanation. ‘But once he believed I was out of control he became very chatty. It turned out that he was a minor official at the Vietnamese Intelligence Unit. They’d sent him to extract the location of the character in the photograph from me. They must have thought I’d see the gun and blurt out where he was. They had every reason not to do all this through official channels, you see. Although it took me a while to get the whole story out of him. Your widow’s supposed brother, Tang, had been an agent at the Vietnamese Intelligence Unit. A very senior agent, in fact, and, by all accounts, a genius. He went AWOL. Hadn’t reported for duty for six months. Nobody knew where he was. His superiors were anxious to trace him. He’d been the head of Data Analysis. Name of Tang Cam. Before his disappearance he’d been working on French and American aerial photographs of the Mekhong River. But he had maximum security clearance to all the top secret files both in Vientiane and Hanoi.’

‘I’m certain they’d have files on all of us tucked away in Hanoi,’ said Civilai.

‘Together with witness reports and family history and psychological examinations,’ said Daeng. ‘I was one of their agents towards the end. They’d know more about me than I do. And with the recent agreement they’d have a share of all the files on our side too. They’d know about the minister’s background and his brother.’

‘All the things Madame Peung plucked out of the air,’ said Civilai.

‘I … I have a fffile?’ said Geung.

‘You’re technically a government worker, Geung,’ said Civilai. ‘They’d know everything about you.’

‘That’s … rude,’ said Geung.

Siri had remained quiet throughout this exchange. He was a stubborn man but he never ignored the facts. And they were stacking up against Madame Peung.

‘And the woman?’ he asked.

‘He wasn’t so certain about her,’ said Phosy. ‘But some of the operatives suggested there were similarities to a female officer who had once been Tang Cam’s mistress. Her name was Nguyen Hong Be. Vietnamese father; Lao mother. She had retired from the propaganda division after reaching the rank of colonel. But she’d spent most of her career directing entertainments for troops. They staged dramas for the villagers. She was-’

‘An actress,’ said Siri.

Madame Daeng squeezed his hand.

‘A very competent one too,’ said Phosy. ‘If things had been different she might have become famous. But the wars and …’

‘No, wait,’ said Civilai. ‘This is ridiculous. They find a Lao businesswoman and he gets this actress to impersonate her? Who’s going to be stupid enough to fall for that?’

‘No. I think it was the other way round,’ said Phosy. ‘Tang Cam had the actress already. All they had to do was wait until a Lao of similar appearance turned up. She didn’t have to be rich at all, or a businesswoman. A government official would have worked just as well. A visitor. A maid. Anyone single or widowed. Tang Cam would have access to the files to know who was unattached. Who lived in a remote area. All the spirit mumbo-jumbo would play into the hands of we ignorant Lao country folk.’

‘Am I the only one who doesn’t see the point of all this?’ said Nurse Dtui.

‘It’s complicated,’ Phosy told her.

‘Could I try to explain it?’ asked Daeng.

‘Be my guest.’

‘This is how I see it,’ she began. ‘A senior official at the Vietnamese Intelligence Unit with an interest in Lao history hears the legend of the French pillaging the treasure from the Royal Palace in 1910. He has an ancient mandarin concept of what treasure is: riches beyond dreams. He studies the French and American aerial photographs of the Mekhong and he sees it: the shape of the gunship that went down. With instruments he can measure it categorically to prove that it can only be that boat. There he is, a senior clerk earning twenty dollars a month and he knows his future would be assured by salvaging that vessel. But how? There are no Vietnamese projects in Sanyaburi. He doesn’t have clearance to travel in Laos. But he is a clever man and he comes up with a complicated but brilliant plan. He contacts his old lover who’s living in a dingy one-bedroom retiree’s apartment in Hanoi and together they hatch a plan. If it all works out they won’t need to recruit any other people. All the work will be done for them.’

Ugly growled and licked his balls.

They all laughed.

Daeng continued.

‘Somehow, they drug and kidnap Madame Peung and set up a hospital room to keep her in,’ Daeng continued. ‘She believes she’s had an aneurysm. Tang Cam is her doctor, Hong Be, her nurse. I would imagine they used a combination of drugs and hypnosis to learn about her village and the people who lived there — a way to recognize them. Under hypnosis it’s difficult to extract secrets but remarkably easy to draw out gossip and anecdotes. They would have kept her half-in, half-out of consciousness, Colonel Hong Be, her best friend, joking with her, learning her mannerisms and speech patterns.’

‘Does any of this have a factual base?’ Civilai asked.

‘None,’ said Phosy, ‘but circumstantially I’d say we’re heading in the right direction. We found the booking on Lao Aviation. Madame Peung was in a seat beside someone called Nguyen Be, a Vietnamese nursing sister whose paperwork said she was headed to hospital forty-nine. They’d never heard of her.’

‘Then, lead on, madam,’ said Civilai.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if one other seat on that flight was occupied by our friend Tang Cam,’ said Daeng. ‘The Vietnamese secret service produce their own passports.’

‘I’m seeing the how,’ said Dtui, ‘but I’m still missing the why.’

‘The why is that the Vietnamese secret service knew all about the Minister of Agriculture and his relationship with his nutty wife,’ said Daeng. ‘The upper class Vietnamese community in Laos is very close. They would have known she was concerned about her brother-in-law and was looking for a medium. If they could convince her that the brother was in a boat, submerged in the Mekhong, he would have the resources to dig it out. And because it was a spiritual matter, he wouldn’t have told too many people. But they had to establish Madame Peung’s reputation in a hurry. News of a reincarnation would spread like a forest fire. The fact that the widow had been reborn with the gift of finding the dead was exactly what the minister’s wife was looking for.

‘And with all that success, the minister’s wife hears of the witch in Ban Elee and seeks her out,’ said Daeng. ‘And the actress uses the knowledge accumulated by Tang Cam to convince her to dig up the river. She was a very convincing liar.’

She looked into her husband’s green eyes.

‘So how … how did they achieve this miracle?’ Siri asked.

‘Well, from the fragmented parts, I’ve put together a scenario. If I’m correct the whole thing was a remarkable example of sleight of hand. You see? Madame Peung was already dead when she arrived back in the village. Her body was in the trunk on the back of the truck. The driver, Tang Cam, had been forced to stop at a checkpoint on the outskirts of Vientiane. The officer there noted it down in his ledger. It appears it’s easier to travel in this country if you’re dead. I have no idea when they killed the poor woman. She was listed under cargo. Hong Be used Madame Peung’s laissez-passer. Tang Cam must have used whatever ID was in the truck they stole and played mute.

‘While the maid was in the village getting the petrol, the Vietnamese set up the killing in the widow’s room using blood from one of the piglets. Hong Be waited in the room and Tang drove the truck down and parked it in the forest off the main road. When it was dark he came back. The first of the two shots was not into the widow’s head but into the veranda post outside. I saw gunpowder burns on the wood which indicated that it was fired at point-blank range. That first shot would have woken the live-in girl. If she’d come to investigate straight away she would have caught Tang Cam firing the second shot into Madame Peung’s head. But it didn’t matter that she took her time. Tang and Hong Be had fled to the truck by the time the villagers came to investigate.

‘I’m guessing that Tang Cam and Hong Be camped rough in the truck for three days to let the natural process of the cremation and the investigation run its course. When the widow was good and burned, Madame Peung, aka Madame Keui, aka Hong Be, made her astounding reappearance. This was where the acting experience kicked in. She had the mannerisms and the voice down. The right make-up and a knowledge of everyone in the village. Who would ever doubt that this was Madame Peung reincarnated?

‘The second shooting had already been set up. One of the languages Tang Cam spoke was Hmong. His Lao wasn’t fluent but it was easy enough to convince the villagers he was an addict from one of the district’s Hmong communities. He did the crazed assassin thing in front of the villagers and ran up to the house to have a second shot at the widow. Once the villagers had built up the courage to follow, he dragged Hong Be out to the veranda, and pretended to fire at her head. The gun he used wasn’t loaded and the bullet was already embedded in the post. He knew he couldn’t use a blank because at point-blank range the wadding would be as lethal as a real bullet. So, he had two weapons. The sound they all heard was Tang Cam firing a second gun into the porch steps unseen from behind his legs.’

‘What about the wound?’ Dtui asked.

‘There would have been some paint or something on the barrel of the unloaded gun to leave the trace of a wound when it was pulled away. That pretty much convinced everyone that Madame Peung had joined the ranks of the living dead. Evidence and twenty witnesses. The live-in girl had run off and nobody was bold enough to visit the house, leaving Tang Cam free to move in. Word spread and the visitors started appearing. I located some of the families who went to consult with Madame Peung,’ said Phosy. ‘There’s a police registry of people who have reported family members missing in action. By working down that list it wasn’t long before I came across families who had contacted Madam Peung. They had all received anonymous notes telling them the story of the medium in Ban Elee and that she had been visited by their deceased relatives. She knew where the bodies were buried. In fact these were ex-servicemen whose remains had been discovered by local headmen in remote provinces. The details were on a government list that had not yet been released to the relatives. The VIU would have had access to that list. Madame Peung directed the relatives to the grave sites just as she directed the minister to his brother.’

‘And, the engineers being Vietnamese …?’ Siri asked.

‘I asked my new friend from Vietnamese Intelligence,’ said Phosy. ‘That unit had orders to be in Vientiane. Nobody seemed to know the origin of those orders. So it looks like Tang Cam had worked some more magic there too. The VIU had the power to relocate Vietnamese personnel. When the minister returned to the city he was looking for a unit of army engineers. It just so happened that this group was sitting around doing nothing. So they were immediately dispatched west. No time was lost at all.’

‘My word,’ said Civilai. ‘Incredible. And it worked.’

‘It would have if he hadn’t been so blindly led by his lust for wealth,’ said Daeng. ‘What kind of a man can convince his mistress to join in such a venture then toss her off the back of a boat without any conscience? She’d served her purpose and he didn’t need her to share in the spoils. Two dead women and nothing to show for it. With a mind like that he could have done some good in the world. Brilliance is wasted on men.’

Nobody disagreed. They hated the pair for killing the old widow but, deep down, there wasn’t one of them who didn’t have a touch of admiration for them. It was an incredible achievement that so nearly paid off. Tang Cam could hardly have figured the malevolent spirits into his plans. It was something they didn’t teach at spy school.

A loud cheer echoed down from the Russian Club. It could only mean one thing. Siri and his friends scurried back up the bank and entered the restaurant from the rear. A few dozen people were sitting at their table but it didn’t take much to shoo them off. Siri played the ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ card. More full bottles had appeared at its centre since their departure, along with various food plates. The Russian Club always did a remarkable job of turning empty markets into tasty food. But there was some commotion near the kitchen and none of the other guests seemed in the mood to eat. As they couldn’t see over the sea of heads, Siri and his team sat and tucked into the food. It was a feast that wouldn’t have been out of place in a good hotel in Bangkok. They were on the third course when the noisy commotion finally reached their table.

Auntie Bpoo burst from the crowd like a brassy lion through a paper-covered hoop. She wore a silver cocktail dress with a train, shoes that Imelda Marcus would have died for and a gold scarf that covered her bald head. Mr Geung stood for her. She caressed his cheek and dropped on to his seat. She looked around at the guests and sighed. Nobody knew what to say.

‘So, you all came, then,’ said Bpoo.

‘We’re all naturally attracted to death,’ said Siri by way of an ice-breaker. His relationship with the transvestite had never been that relaxed or natural. She’d saved his life perhaps but she hadn’t made it easy to thank her.

‘So, this is it,’ said Dtui.

‘Looks like it,’ said Auntie Bpoo.

‘I’ll miss you,’ said Dtui.

‘We all wwwill,’ said Geung.

‘We all will,’ said Tukda, who had taken to repeating her fiance’s words.

‘What about you, Siri?’ Bpoo asked. ‘Will you miss me?’

‘I’ll miss beating my head against your front door,’ said Siri.

‘You don’t know where I live,’ she reminded him.

‘I was speaking metaphorically.’

‘Now, sweetheart. You know I’m too dense for metaphors.’

She called over a waitress and said something into her ear. The tones around them had become more hushed since Bpoo’s arrival. It was possible to talk now without yelling. The waitress returned a few minutes later with a bottle of champagne and a dozen fresh glasses. Bpoo popped the cork and poured.

‘Are you sure you should be drinking while you’re transcending?’ Civilai asked her.

‘What can they do to me?’ Bpoo laughed. ‘Revoke my dying licence?’

‘How long have you got?’ Daeng asked.

Bpoo looked up at the large clock over the kitchen hatch.

‘Half an hour,’ she said.

‘Are you afraid?’ Dtui asked her.

‘No more than I was about being born,’ Bpoo replied. ‘It’s all part of the natural equation. Ashes to ashes. It’s just that when you leave, you have some say in your wardrobe.’

‘You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was some elaborate hoax to confirm how popular you are,’ said Siri.

‘There,’ said Bpoo.

She stood and raised her drink.

‘That’s the cynicism I’ve been waiting for,’ she continued. ‘Let’s all drink to that. The elaborate hoax.’

They all downed their champagne. Even Geung and Tukda, who usually didn’t, but thought, under these circumstances, they should.

‘Ahh,’ said Bpoo, smacking her lips. ‘Seven thousand kip a bubble but worth every pop.’

‘Did you win the Thai lottery?’ Dtui asked.

‘Yes,’ Bpoo replied matter-of-factly. ‘Three times, in fact. You’d be surprised how many trips I had to make to Udon Thani before I could find the winning tickets.’

They all glared at her.

‘You really …?’ said Dtui.

‘Of course,’ said Bpoo. ‘I see the future. How else do you think I could have funded all this debauchery? The Thai lottery sellers have their tickets laid out so, if you have a little good luck, you can select the winning numbers. A platoon of uniformed soldiers doesn’t come cheap, you know?’

‘I thought you weren’t allowed to use your gift for personal gain,’ said Siri.

‘I didn’t,’ Bpoo smiled. ‘This is all for you lot. It’s a thank you for not being cruel to me. You see gathered around you all the people I met in my life who treated me fairly — showed me some kindness. It wasn’t a common occurrence, let me tell you. But I don’t forget integrity. This is my present to them — to you.’

She walked around the table doing one unsteady pirouette as she went. It allowed everyone the first sight of the porthole at the back of her dress exactly the size of her naked buttocks. Mr Geung covered Tukda’s eyes with a napkin as she passed. Nobody else appeared to be shocked. This was Auntie Bpoo who flashed habitually. Anything less would have been a disappointment. She stood behind Dr Siri and put her hands on his shoulders.

‘And, for you, doctor,’ she said. ‘I have an even bigger surprise.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never been kind to you.’

‘No. You never talked down to me, either. Never treated me like an idiot. Admittedly you were never that polite but you inadvertently showed kindness from time to time. And, to be honest, there’s nobody else I can give this gift to. It wouldn’t fit anybody else.’

‘It’s pyjamas,’ guessed Mr Geung.

‘It’s pyjamas,’ said Tukda.

‘No, my little nincompoops, nothing like that,’ said Bpoo. ‘But, first things first. I have other people to toast. More champagne bubbles to inhale. So, goodbye my friends and good fortune. And here, at last. A poem.’

Siri groaned.

And we are dead

Fed to worms Underground

Then we’re found

And we can speak

Not with groans

Our history revealed In our bones

Initially

Squishily

Doctors Never Appreciate

And, with that, she melted back into the crowd.

‘Did that mean anything?’ Civilai asked.

‘Not to me,’ said Phosy.

‘Her poems never have meant anything,’ said Siri. ‘She just wants us all to go insane trying to work it out. Like this gift idea. She thinks I’ll lose sleep over what it is she’s going to give me. I’m used to her little tortures.’

They drank some more and picked at the food but they couldn’t ignore the purpose of the evening, which had permeated their moods. They tried to have fun but they continually eyed the clock that ticked towards nine p.m.

With two minutes to go, there was a gunshot and everyone fell silent. By the kitchen door, a soldier with his pistol held aloft stood beside the transvestite. Two more soldiers wheeled in an aluminium dolly — not unlike the one from the morgue.

‘If I didn’t know better …’ Siri began.

‘She did ask nicely.’ Dtui blushed. ‘And the morgue is officially shut so it wasn’t being used. And she offered to pay for the rental.’

‘Never mind,’ Siri laughed.

Four soldiers lifted Auntie Bpoo into the air like a singer in a musical and laid her on the trolley. She had nothing more to say. She waved like the Queen of England, north, south, east then west and lay her head back on the bright pink Hello Kitty pillow and sighed. Everyone watched the second hand of the clock.

‘Twenty,’ shouted Siri as the hand reached eight.

‘Nineteen,’ shouted Daeng.

By seventeen, everyone in the Russian Club was shouting down the seconds like the old royalist crowd at the Nam Poo fountain on New Year’s Eve. At nine exactly there was an almighty cheer.

Then silence.

‘Do you think she’s really dead?’ asked Daeng.

But Siri couldn’t hear her. He had static in his ears. Some radio ham seemed to have made contact with his mind and was surfing for a channel. The screech made his teeth tremble. The talisman around his neck burned his skin. His missing earlobe tingled. Then, words filled his head.

‘TESTING.

‘ONE, TWO, ONE TWO.

‘TESTING.’

‘Bpoo? Is that you?’ Siri asked, causing Daeng to look around.

‘Well, that was much easier than I’d expected,’ came Bpoo’s voice as resonant in Siri’s head as his own thoughts.

‘Are you my …?’ he began.

‘It’s dusty in here.’

Unseen by the guests, a length of bamboo floated towards the bank. Its pilot — naked as the day he was born — smiled to be home. Crazy Rajid had returned.