Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

returning squid boats in the distance and the pre-dawn rehearsal of the cocks. I turned on the bedside lamp and looked in the mirror. I was still stupid. I had a shower, dressed, and went to make an early start with breakfast. It was still dark and I was using a crack of shimmering gray at the bottom of the sky to see by. I was about to turn on the light in the kitchen when I saw a dark figure walking along the beach toward the resort. It was wearing baggy dark trousers and a black windcheater with the hood up. The lower face was obscured by a mask. There was something ominous in its heavy footfall across the sand. I took a step back behind the customer toilets, hoping I hadn’t been seen.
    I could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel and there was no mistake they were heading directly toward me. I ducked inside the toilet block and hunted desperately for a weapon by the glow of the little red nightlight. Bathrooms are notoriously poor arsenals. There was a toilet brush, a plunger and a bunch of aromatic plastic tulips. None of these instilled in me the confidence to step outside and confront our invader. Then I found my weapon. Leaning against the far wall was a meter section of PVC piping. It was solid enough to bang an intruder over the head but light enough not to bring me up on a murder charge.
    I took one step outside with my pipe raised and there, facing me like a mirror image, was the dark ninja with a block of beach bamboo hoisted. I screamed. She screamed.
    “Mair?” I said.
    “Jimm?”
    We dropped our weapons and embraced, mainly to bring our respective shakes under control.
    “Child, what on earth are you doing hanging around the public toilets at this time of the morning?”
    “I woke up earl – No, wait. Never mind me. What are you doing creeping along the beach dressed like a bun-raku puppet master?”
    She pulled down her mask, lowered her hood and looked down at her costume.
    “Oh,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “I got dressed in the dark. I had no idea I was wearing black. And besides, these trousers are navy blue. You’ll see when the sun comes up. And this?” She pulled the surgical mask up over her head. “Chicken flu.”
    “Chicken flu?”
    “From the poultry manure. Very high incidence of chicken flu from dung. It’s airborne.”
    “Where exactly do they sell black face masks?” I took it from her.
    “There are so many viruses around you can buy almost any color. It’s become a fashion statement.”
    “Mair, this is a regular surgical face mask colored in with a black felt pen.”
    “Really?”
    “All right. Enough.”
    I led her by the arm to the nearest table and sat her down. A puddle of pink was leaking out through the gap at the bottom of the night. The sun was rising somewhere beyond the Philippines and our sky was rushing through the dark tones in an effort to find something suitable to wear for the new day.
    “Mair, what have you done?” I asked, staring her straight in the eyes. She stared back and slipped on an entirely different skin.
    “Nothing to be ashamed of,” she said. “And I’m your mother. And I remind you that I am the breadwinner of this family and the day you go out and earn a salary, then, and only then, will you have the right to criticize your mother. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
    She stood and huffed away from the table with an indignant gait. She walked toward the shop but realized that wasn’t where she’d intended to go and retraced her steps toward her hut. I watched her march. I knew that walk and that speech well. All of us did. Eight-year-old Jimm had heard it a thousand times. On every occasion Jimm junior complained about having to clean her room or do her chores she’d had to sit through that same rant. Mair was in a dangerous altered state and wherever she’d been that morning I needed to know before the police found out.

Thirteen
“ They misunderestimated me .”
    —GEORGE W. BUSH, BENTONVILLE, ARKANSAS, NOVEMBER 6, 2000
    G randdad Jah and I had arranged to meet Lieutenant Chompu at the Northeastern Seaside Restaurant overlooking the concrete battleship. Arny had wanted to take the truck to his gym and he sulked so much when I challenged him that I finally relented. He wouldn’t even tell me why he needed it so badly but he was dressed up: long-sleeved shirt, jeans with a crease, real shoes. I tried to joke with him about a date and he turned the color of ripe chili.
    That left me with a new problem. I had to