Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

poor translator reaching this point in the tape and rewinding, and rewinding. Were the two old men speaking in code or were they actually…?
    Sobering up, Siri finally managed to describe his meeting with mass-murderer Neung.
    “Very impressive. He’s either a very very good liar – and don’t forget, psychopaths can convince themselves to believe what they’re telling you, even fool lie detectors – or…”
    “Or somebody really did set him up.”
    “And you believe the latter.”
    “I didn’t say that. But I convinced him…at least I think I did, to tell his story to Phosy exactly as he’d told it to me. He was reluctant. I think Phosy had given Neung short shrift during the interrogation. But I told him Phosy was a friend and a good policeman. Then I woke Phosy and told him to shut up for half an hour and just listen to Neung’s version of events.”
    “Too bad we won’t be back in time for the trial.”
    “No, but we’ll only be away for four nights. We should be back in time for the execution.”
    “Mm. Something to look forward to.”
    “No, I mean it gives us time before the execution to follow up on some of Neung’s claims. I’m hoping Phosy’s sense of fair play might push him to reconsider whether this is a closed case and take another look at the facts.”
    “Good. That’s settled then. And, in the meantime we enjoy a little holiday, drink a bit too much, embarrass ourselves and our country, and take lots of nice tourist shots as evidence that we actually went.”
    “Hear, hear to that.”
∗
    The enthusiastic Lao-speaking guide who’d offered Siri and Civilai fourteen-year-old badminton partners the previous night knocked on their doors at six a.m. He forced them into partaking of a full morning of breakfast, sightseeing, meeting people who didn’t want to be met, and early lunch. The meal was another eight courses with fruit wine which left the Lao delegation so bloated they were certain they’d exceed the baggage allowance on the afternoon flight. Scheduled to leave at three forty-five, the airplane left at three forty-four and, as far as they knew, nobody was left behind at the airport.
    Their fears that Civilai might embarrass the Chinese delegation, and himself, were put to rest when it became apparent the Chinese diplomats were all in the front section of the plane, separated from Siri and Civilai and a number of state media representatives who had the rear all to themselves. A red curtain – polyester rather than bamboo – had been drawn between them even before take-off. The members of the media spoke amongst themselves. They’d brought their own dinners on plates clamped together and tied in cloth. They seemed to know there would be no service, no meal, and certainly no in-flight film. All three lady air cadres were busy in first class.
    When they landed on the bumpy tarmac at Phnom Penh airport, the Chinese left the plane first. Civilai watched through the window. Five jet-black limousines had driven out to meet the plane with their headlights blazing. Three heavy-set Chinese-looking men and two dowdy Chinese-looking women were at the bottom of the portable steps to shake hands and hug the delegation. They hung limp mimosa lei around the visitors’ necks and smiled a good deal. On the short walk to the cars, the Chinese either handed the smelly necklaces to their aides or surreptitiously dropped them on the runway. The cars consumed the guests, turned in formation, and headed in a direction that appeared to contain nothing but the beams of the limousines.
    “Is this our stop, do you think?” Siri asked.
    “I didn’t see a sign,” Civilai replied. “In fact there’s nothing outside the window but blackness.”
    The press corps had fled at some stage and none of the Mao-jacketed stewardesses had brought them barley sugar to suck or little metal aeroplane badges to pin on their lapels. In fact, but for the propellers whirring slowly, there was no sound. The two old comrades laughed.
    “Do you think we should get off?” Civilai asked.
    “I’m not going out there to stand on a dark wet runway,” Siri said. “If they want us, let them come and get us.”
    After five more minutes the pair was starting to believe they weren’t wanted. But then a short man appeared from behind the red curtain. He was dressed in black pyjamas and had sandals made of thick chunks of old car tyres on his sunburned feet. Around his neck was a faded black and white checked