Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

have – ”
    “A condition,” Geung cut in. “Called Down’s Syndrome. And…and…and she does, too.”
    “Really?” said Siri. “I wonder what she’s doing here.”
    “Probably a patient,” Dtui suggested.
    “No, no, no,” said Geung. He was rocking so drastically back and forth in his seat he was making the room feel like an ocean liner in a squall. “She’s…she’s in…in a uniform.”
    “Well, that explains it,” Siri nodded. “She’s come to work here.”
    “I…I…no, no good.”
    “What are you so mad about, Geung?” Dtui asked.
    “It’s my hospital,” he said. He stood, tapped the desktop four times, and headed off out the door.
    Dtui looked at Siri. “He seems upset.”
    “Who’d have thought Down’s Syndrome sufferers could be territorial? You know, it is really condescending of us to think he’d get along with a girl just because she has the same condition.”
    “Dr Pornsawan said she’s got a lovely personality.”
    “Even so…”
    “Doc, we aren’t locking them in a room together. It’s a big hospital. They don’t have to talk. We just arranged a part-time job for a girl, that’s all.”
    “All right, but I don’t want you pushing him.”
    “I wouldn’t dream – ”
    “Who aren’t we pushing?” came a voice.
    They looked up to see Civilai in the doorway fanning himself with several loose sheets of damp paper.
    “Hello, brother,” Siri smiled. “What did you bring me?”
    “Travel documents.”
    “Travel…? Oh, shit. Cambodia. I’d forgotten completely.”
    “It’s all official. We leave on Friday.”
    “This Friday? Oh, look. I’m not sure I can. We’re in the middle of this case, and – ”
    “Afraid you have no choice, old man.” He turned back to shake his umbrella in the vestibule and left it standing open there before walking into the office.
    Civilai put the papers on Siri’s desk. The doctor detected a faint odour of neglect about his friend.
    “What do you mean I have no choice?” Siri asked.
    “Your boss, Judge Haeng, got wind of our little trip. He was delighted. Said a high-profile visit like this would do wonders for your chances for you-know-what. He’s given you four days off.”
    “I don’t want four days off. Not now. Surely, solving this case should take priority.”
    “He did mention that your role in the épée murder investigation was over, that you are merely a coroner, and that it’s all in the hands of the police now.”
    “He did, did he?”
    “We’re just humble servants, Siri. Bite the bullet. We pop over for the May Day reception, tour a couple of farms, eat and drink ourselves silly and we’re back before anyone’s noticed we’ve gone. I doubt Phosy will close the case in the interim. It’ll still be there for us to solve when we come back.”
    “I thought you said they only had one flight in and out a fortnight?”
    “Normally, yes. But this is a special occasion. They’ve laid on an extra flight from Peking. We’ll be going with the Chinese delegation.”
    “Really? That should be fun,” said Siri. “You’ll have a chance to tell them what you think of them. When’s the orientation?”
    “Nothing scheduled yet. Why the panic on getting briefed?”
    “I haven’t been out of the country for seven years. I’m interested to know what’s happening out there in the real world.”
∗
    Despite my obstinacy, they continue to bring me my fetid water every couple of hours. Somebody wants to keep me alive – barely. The lights burn on. Time’s dragging like a heavy body over rocks. The whole story is crawling along too slowly to be film. In the cinema I would have made my daring escape hours ago. Certainly, for my sanity it helps to see it all as theatre; the screams broadcast from a tape recorder in the wings. The insect bites merely carefully applied stage make-up. A theatrical slap to the face. It’s only acting. Don’t hide your eyes, son .
    The charcoal has helped. I am back in control, if not of the consistency, at least of the timing. I can now wait for the bucket they bring. The boys. The boys with three watches rattling around their wrists like bracelets. The boys not old enough to shave. The clone boys, identical to the one in my dark dream. Playing soldier with live ammunition. A real gun pointed at my forehead. Night after night. That finger, twitching, deciding whether to squeeze the trigger and take this old man out. And some nights he doesn’t. And some nights he