Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

in his book of torment was the fact that Comrade Phat, the Vietnamese advisor, had moved upstairs also. Haeng had shaken off his albatross and was free to make wrong decisions  and  screw  up  projects  without  assistance.  His paperwork had to pass ‘upstairs’ but as Manivone did most of it, he didn’t have to worry.
    “Call him in,” Siri heard from inside the room and the door to the office opened and a young man with a cherry tomato nose stepped out. His eyes watered and his expression was strained as if he had several sliced onions concealed in his undershirt.
    “Dr Siri?” the boy said, looking left and right, although there was only one potential Dr Siri sitting directly in front of him.
    “That would be me,” Siri said.
    “The judge will see you now.”
    “You work here?”
    “Just started.”
    “Do you have a cold?”
    “Sinuses,” said the boy.
    “I could give you something for it. I work at the morgue – ”
    “You think it’s that serious?”
    “No. I’m a doctor. The morgue is irrelevant. I was just telling you where to find me.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Not a problem.”
    It always helped to have an ally in the enemy camp. Since his arrival from Moscow, Judge Haeng had been a concrete block set around the doctor’s ankles. He’d barely spoken one civil word to Siri in all that time, which was why his reaction on this occasion came as something of a surprise. The spotty-faced judge rose from his desk with his hand extended. So unexpected was this gesture that Siri instinctively looked across the room to see what the man was pointing at. When he turned back the hand was still there so he shook it limply. It was as damp as he’d always imagined it to be.
    “Siri, Siri, Siri, my old friend,” said the judge.
    Siri quickly scanned the judge’s head for lumps or other evidence that he’d suffered an injury.
    “You want something?” Siri asked.
    Haeng laughed. He reached beside him for his walking stick and hobbled around to the other side of his desk. Siri still marvelled at how quickly the infection had spread from the judge’s imagination to his perfectly healthy leg.
    “Don’t be silly, Siri,” he said. “Two old comrades getting together for a chat. Why do we need a reason?” He cast a sideways glance at the young clerk now ensconced at the advisor’s old desk. Siri was about to take his place on the wonky interrogation seat but Haeng waved him away.
    “Let’s get comfortable,” he said.
    He gestured to the vinyl couch and the uneven tin coffee table where a bottle of Cola and two glasses sat in expectation. Siri, more nervous with every revelation, edged to the sofa and sat. The springs played a short tune of welcome. They played a different tune entirely when the judge joined him and he poured them both a drink. Siri hated Cola. Even when it became a luxury item the taste didn’t improve. It was still heavily sugared engine oil to Dr Siri.
    He was closer to Haeng now but still couldn’t see the wound on his head that had caused this sudden change in personality. Perhaps it was his thyroid. Glands had been known to bring about mood swings. Haeng raised his glass and expected Siri to do the same. It was too creepy, even for a man who spoke to ghosts.
    “All right, I give up,” Siri said. “What’s happened?”
    “Siri, Siri. You! You’ve happened. You don’t suppose that little bit of news wouldn’t somehow find its way to my office, do you? I can’t begin to tell you how proud we are.”
    At last, Siri understood. “The hero shortlist.”
    “I can’t tell you what a boon it would be for the Justice Department if one of its own was selected,” said Haeng.
    “How could it have any effect on the credibility of a ministry?” Siri asked, bemused.
    “Do you need to ask?”
    Siri was distracted momentarily by an old lady who had come to sit at the judge’s desk. She had a face that defied guesswork as to her age and wore the traditional clothing of a country woman. Her mouth was a splatter of betel nut. He knew the old lady well even though he didn’t recall meeting her when she was still alive. She’d been with him from time to time, just sitting, just there, never speaking. A monk had once hinted she might have been Siri’s birth mother, but there was no way of confirming or denying it. He called her his ‘mother angel’ anyway, just in case. Of all the visitations he experienced from day to day, his mother angel was the one he most felt a