The Woman Who Wouldn't Die

7

It had been a long time since Inspector Phosy didn’t have bad weather to grumble about. Drought had given way to monsoons, to flash floods, to dust storms. Crops had been lost to locusts. Plagues of mosquitoes had been unleashed when they flooded the land for the new dam and with the humidity being what it was, dengue, the bleeding fever plague, was rife.

But here they were on a bright Sunday morning chugging along on his lilac Vespa motor scooter. A cool breeze massaged their faces; Phosy, Dtui and Malee. A family outing that didn’t involve digging. Not dirt anyway. They were in no hurry so Phosy sat on 30 k.p.h., which gave him ample time to avoid disappearing into a pit or running into a stray pig or swallowing flies as they sang. Ban Elee, their destination for the day, was forty-eight kilometres from Vientiane off Route Thirteen, an unspectacular straight road passing lookalike villages every ten minutes or so. Once Phosy had read Daeng’s letter, there was no question that he would make this trip. Madame Daeng wasn’t one to waste anybody’s time.

They arrived stiff from the ride and stretched and clicked joints and walked around the bike to get the circulation back in their legs. There was nothing to confirm that they’d arrived at their destination apart from the odometer on the Vespa and the word of a farmer they’d spoken to earlier. There was no signpost and nothing remarkable about Ban Elee to distinguish it from every other village.

‘You lost?’ called a woman who sat on a flimsy balcony threading jasmine on to a garland string.

‘Can’t be lost if you have no idea where you’re going,’ Dtui replied and smiled at her.

This was to be their tactic for the day. Unplanned tourism.

‘From Vientiane, are you?’ asked the woman.

‘How’d you know?’

‘It’s only city people would waste good petrol going on a joyride in this day and age.’

‘We saved up for it,’ said Dtui. ‘We wanted our daughter to see the countryside while there’s still some here to see. Introduce her to some good country people.’

‘And where’s that accent from?’

‘Udomxai. I’m a northerner. I miss the countryside too.’

The woman chuckled. Her large breasts jiggled as she did so.

‘You know? My husband just brought us down some custard apples. Sweetest little buggers you ever tasted. Come up and sample a few, why don’t you?’

Ten minutes later there was a good-sized gathering on that small balcony and Malee was being bounced from lap to lap, showing no preference for stranger or relative. A dozen villagers had naturally gravitated to the lei-threader’s hut and they already knew that Dtui was a nurse, Phosy was a policeman, and Malee would be either a doctor or a psychologist. The latter was something of a gamble as Laos didn’t have a psychologist but Dtui predicted there’d be a huge demand by the time her daughter graduated. This was the village life that Dtui so missed. These people were four hundred kilometres from her own village but they were still her people. There was an old saying: people of a different village are herbs of a different garden. But she knew that wasn’t true. She believed that somewhere in a sixty-people grass hut village in Kenya there was a lei-threader and a bicycle repair man and a seller of zinc watering cans, and if some cosmic lightning strike were to magically transport her there, she’d know exactly how to act and she’d be accepted. Villages were about people.

Phosy was advising some elder about the construction of a dyke. Dtui took advantage of his distraction by leading them in to the investigation.

‘That’s a splendid house up there on the buff,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind living in a place like that. Is it yours, Headman Gop?’

The old man laughed.

‘I wouldn’t want to live there,’ he said. ‘Neither would you.’

‘Why not?’ Dtui asked.

‘It’s haunted,’ said one teenage girl, as skinny as a raindrop down a window.

There were a few nervous laughs. Some looked at her as if she’d spoken out of turn. But Dtui knew they’d be unable to resist the country habit of telling a good yarn.

‘Don’t make fun of me now, girl,’ said Dtui.

‘Do you not believe in ghosts then, Nurse Dtui?’ asked the headman, his good eye attempting to pick her out amid the crowd.

‘I’ve never seen any nor heard a story that could convince me,’ said Dtui.

‘Then hear this one,’ he said. ‘That house you covet up there on the hill, it belonged to a royalist general and his wife. Like most of ’em, the general was more intent on making money than on soldiering. They say he got a small fortune tucked away. All he had to do was stay alive and they’d have enjoyed a very comfortable retirement. But he went and stepped on a mine instead and left the woman a rich widow. He was from here, a son of the earth, but she saw herself being a cut above all us. Plastered her face in make-up just to let us know she could afford it. She lived in that house up there with one live-in girl — hired us to do all the manual work: cut down her papayas, clean her toilet. So we weren’t what you’d call close. Then, three months ago, give or take a week, she got herself killed.’

‘No? How?’ Dtui asked.

‘She’d been away on one of her business trips,’ said the lei-threader, taking over the story. ‘She was gone longer than usual. Wouldn’t have known she was back if it weren’t for that noisy old truck she arrived in. She had a girl working for her at the house. Lived in a single room at the back. She’d be the one come down to do the shopping. But that evening, the girl didn’t come down to get the old lady any food. Just picked up some petrol at the hand pump. So we assumed her majesty had brought something back from the town. We all went to bed, as normal. When the fighting was on we didn’t take much notice of shots in the night. But there were these two shots and we all woke up. It sounded close, you see. We have our own, what you’d call, security force. We take it in turns to patrol with a rifle. We thought it was the guard shooting at something. But one of our lads who was in the military said it sounded more like a handgun.’

‘I knew it was a handgun,’ said the headman.

‘So, we all ask around and see that everyone in the village was accounted for,’ the lei-threader continued. ‘And Ott, who was on duty that night, comes running from the back fields and says he thinks the shot was from the hill. From Madame Peung’s house. So up we all go, none of us in a hurry to run into a gunman. And the live-in girl comes running out of the bushes in a red fit. “She’s dead,” she shouts. “The widow’s dead and they took my pig.” We had no idea why she was going on about pigs but sure enough, there’s the widow’s body lying in a pool of blood on her bed. Hole through her head.’

‘We didn’t catch the gunman,’ said the headman. ‘We assumed it was a burglar. There are a lot of old soldiers begging and living rough. Madame Peung’s house would have been an inviting target, away from the village as it is. We heard the truck drive off so he must have stolen that. We took the widow’s body down to the temple and sent a message on to kilometre fifty-six. That’s the nearest police box to here. What we’d normally do is contact the family of the deceased and get them to organize the cremation.’

‘But we didn’t know anything about her,’ said the lei-threader. ‘There weren’t any papers or identifications in the house. Not so much as a photograph album. So we had to do it all ourselves. We had her laid out for three days in case anyone wanted to pay their respects …’

‘There wasn’t exactly a rush,’ said the skinny girl.

‘Then the boys carried her down to the pyre and up she went,’ said the headman. ‘It was all over. Or so we thought.’

‘It was the next morning we hear another scream,’ said the lei-threader. ‘The live-in girl had stayed on in the maid’s room up there and she comes running down the hill again. “She’s not dead,” she screams. “Madame Peung isn’t dead.” We assumed she’d been hitting the turnip wine early and went about our business. But then, what do we see but this figure walking down the hill. And the closer it gets, the more certainly it looks like the widow.’

‘We all pissed off inside our houses and barred the doors,’ said the skinny girl.

‘I didn’t,’ said the headman.

‘I was so scared my tongue curled back on itself and came out my rear end,’ said the lei-threader. ‘She walked right up here on the balcony. I could see her through that crack there as clear as I’m seeing you.’

‘You’re sure it was her?’ Phosy asked.

‘Not a doubt in my mind,’ she told him.

‘She came to me, of course,’ said the headman. ‘Which was only proper. But I was indisposed.’

‘You were hiding in your outhouse,’ said the lei-threader. ‘I could see you from the back window.’

‘Just taking care of my ablutions, is all.’

‘So, what did she do?’ Dtui asked.

‘She came to me,’ said a wrinkled old woman who had been camouflaged thus far by the grain of the wood. ‘She got her oven charcoal from me. I didn’t mind her, not like this lot. She’d give me a bonus at Lao new year. Nothing wrong with her. And she says, “Bung,” she says. “What’s going on here? Why’s everybody screaming and hiding from me?” Well, I told her, didn’t I? I told her, “Of course they’re scared,” I said. “The men folk carried your body down to the pyre yesterday and we watched you go up in smoke. You were killed by an intruder three days ago. You’re dead, madam.” And, you know? She turned as white as … well, she was really white. Can’t say I’ve been that close to a ghost before but she was so shocked she was dead I even felt sorry for her. She went from door to door calling out people’s names. Insisting there’d been some mistake. That she wasn’t dead at all. She tried for a few days. She was polite about it. Friendly even. But nobody dared come out to greet her.’

‘I would have done,’ said the headman.

‘She seemed really confused,’ said the lei-threader. ‘Like she wasn’t prepared to admit she was dead. And I must say there was a lot about her that didn’t seem dead at all. She could ride a bicycle, for one. I mean, how many spirits do you know that can ride a bicycle? And she could write. She’d pin a note on the central pillar at the market with her grocery list on it. One of the cabbage women would take it halfway to the house and leave it under a tree on a chair. The money would be there waiting.’

‘So, is there no chance it could have been a mistake?’ Dtui asked.

‘Well, that’s what we were starting to think,’ said the headman. ‘That perhaps the woman who was shot wasn’t Madame Peung at all.’

‘It was,’ said the skinny girl. ‘We all saw her.’

‘And something like that,’ said the lei-threader, ‘and word gets around. People from the neighbouring villages came by to get a look at the used-to-be woman: Madame Keui. That’s what we all started calling her. And I suppose it was about a week after she was reborn that this drugged, crazy man staggers into the village holding a pistol. Dirty runt, he was. He stank to high heaven and must have been completely off his head. “Where is she?” he shouts. “Where is the woman who can’t be killed? I didn’t miss, you know? Never miss.” He was a serious gunman, that one. He had another pistol in the back of his belt. He meant business. We reckoned he had to be Hmong with that accent. Lot of Hmong round here.’

‘You see?’ said the skinny girl. ‘Word had reached the bandit who’d shot her in the first place. He’d been haunted ever since he first killed her and he was back to finish the job. Is that creepy or what?’

‘He runs up the hill to the house and we’re all milling about wondering what we should do,’ said the lei-threader. ‘We probably didn’t do as much as we could have to overpower him. We’d seen enough maniacs with guns over the years. But we found the security rifle and some of the younger ones grabbed machetes and we all marched up there. We were about twenty metres from the house when the front door bursts open and there he is with the widow. He has hold of her by the hair and he’s dragging her out to the veranda. She doesn’t scream, though. Very calm, I’d say. “Does this look like a spirit to you lot?” shouts the lunatic. “Do I not have hold of real hair? Is this not a real bruise on her eye? Do you not smell the stench of sweat and fear on her? Why would anyone think I was afraid of this?”

‘We all stood back and watched, not knowing which of them to feel sorry for. “And if she was a spirit, could I do this?” he shouts and laughs like some imbecile and points the pistol barrel to the side of her head. He lets go of her hair and she just kneels there, calm as you like. We knew he was going to do it. We all stepped back at the sound. Bang! Most of us turned away.’

‘I didn’t,’ said the headman.

‘When we turned back we all expected to see her head all over the front step,’ said the old woman. ‘But nothing had happened. She just turned to him and smiled. He tried to scream but nothing came out. Then he was gone. I’ve never seen anyone run that fast in all my days.’

‘Are you sure he didn’t just miss?’ Dtui asked.

‘I saw the bullet hole where it went in her head,’ said the skinny girl. ‘Blood trickling down.’

‘We all did,’ said the headman.

‘How did the widow react when she was shot this second time?’ Phosy asked. Baby Malee had done a complete lap of laps and was happy to suck her thumb against her father’s chest.

‘She just rubbed her temples like she had a migraine or something,’ said the skinny girl. ‘She went to have a lie down. When we saw her next day there were no wounds. It was a miracle.’

‘It didn’t actually bring us closer to her,’ said the lei-threader, ‘but getting killed twice left her with this … this gift. She stands there in the middle of the village and starts telling us about dead relatives who want to get in touch with us.’

‘Claims she saw my wife who still hadn’t forgiven me for a little purported rendezvous I had with a ladyboy down in the capital when I was a lad,’ said the headman. ‘Complete rubbish, of course. But she yells it out to everyone.’

‘But she knew stuff only our dead kin could know,’ said the skinny girl.

‘We couldn’t shut her up,’ said the headman. ‘She went on about a lot of personal things and said if we wanted to talk to our relatives we could go up to the house. I didn’t talk to my wife that much when she was alive so I wasn’t about to go up there and talk to her spirit. I don’t know anyone who’d be brave enough to go up there talking to ghosts. Not that I was afraid, of course. Just not interested.’

‘I went up there,’ said the skinny girl.

They looked at her with shocked expressions.

‘You never did?’ said the headman.

‘Yeah, I did. I wanted to know about my dad.’

‘And could she tell you anything?’ asked Phosy.

‘A lot. She really could talk to ghosts. I guess that’s what she was doing for the strangers too.’

‘Strangers?’

‘We started to get visitors,’ said the headman. ‘They’d get off the bus or walk in or arrive on motorcycles, like you. They’d stay for an hour or so then leave. But they wouldn’t tell us what they’d been doing.’

‘Was there anybody with her up in the house?’ Dtui asked, remembering the note on the back of Madame Daeng’s photos about the mute brother.

‘I don’t recall seeing anyone,’ said the headman. ‘But then again, the live-in girl was long gone before the second killing and none of us went up there. There could have been someone. Could have been a whole coven of witches for all we know.’

‘I never saw nobody when I went up there,’ said the skinny girl.

‘Were there any major differences between Madame Peung and your Madame Keui?’ Dtui asked.

‘The voice was the same, but there was the accent,’ said the old lady. ‘You can’t hide a Vietnamese accent. The district shaman said it was very likely she picked it up in limbo. Lot of Vietnamese stuck in limbo, he says.’

‘Did your shaman have any other comments?’ asked Dtui.

‘He did mention that we might have been the victims of mass hysteria,’ said the lei-threader. ‘That we’d all inhaled some natural gas escaping from the earth or listened to some demon music and … imagined the first murder.’

‘What do you think?’

‘It was her,’ said the old lady. ‘No question. The live-in girl had spent all that time in the house with her. She was in no doubt. It was the same woman.’

‘And where’s the live-in girl now?’ asked Phosy.

‘Long gone,’ said the skinny girl. ‘Probably still running if I know her.’

On the journey back to Vientiane Dtui and Phosy had gone over the story looking for logical, non-supernatural explanations for what had happened. In his pocket, Phosy had the bullet the headman had gouged out of the front post. That was real enough. Their suggestions were even more far-fetched than the events themselves. But, short of the entire village stringing them along in an elaborate joke, there was no explanation. It jarred every joint, nipped at every nerve in his policeman’s body, but Phosy was forced to agree with the remote likelihood that Madame Keui was indeed a born-again medium. It was not an admission he’d be sharing with anyone at police headquarters. And, besides, there were still a number of smaller questions pending that begged an explanation. He often found that pulling on a loose end unravelled the whole story. But, for the meanwhile, the note Dtui and Phosy would be sending upriver with the next boat would be to the effect that, although their investigation had discovered layer upon layer of mystery, they had uncovered no obvious deceit. As far as they could tell, and as bizarre as it sounded, Madame Peung, aka Madame Keui, was everything she claimed to be. As it turned out, it was a note that would never be sent.

The Vespa pulled up in front of the police dormitory where a small throng of uniformed policemen stood. Upon seeing Phosy they hurried over to him. They were supposed to salute a senior officer, even if he was wearing Bermuda shorts and a nylon jacket. They’d had training courses on police etiquette. But this was often forgotten, especially during moments of urgency.

‘Brother,’ said Sergeant Sihot. He was solid as a tank and permanently dishevelled. ‘There’s been a crime committed. Two, if you count them separately.’

‘Sihot, can you not call me brother in front of the men?’

‘What?’

‘The training?’

‘Oh, right. But, someone’s torched Madame Daeng’s noodle shop.’

‘What?’ shouted Phosy and Dtui at the same time. They were too shocked to dismount.

‘It and the buildings either side of it are gutted.’

‘What makes you think it was torched?’ Phosy asked.

‘Strong stink of petrol in the upstairs rooms,’ said Sihot. ‘And, look, Brother Phosy, I … I don’t suppose you know where Dr Siri and Madame Daeng are right now, do you?’

‘They’re off in Pak Lai,’ said Dtui.

‘Oh, well. That’s a relief.’

He turned to smile at his men. They all seemed suddenly delighted that Daeng’s shop had been burned to the ground.

‘How could that be a relief?’ Phosy asked.

‘Because there’s a body in there.’