‘It’s Ang,’ Elliot said. ‘I’ll catch you later.’
Slattery disappeared towards the lifts. Ang rose and held out his hand as Elliot approached. Elliot sat down without taking it. Ang’s smile of greeting faded and he resumed his seat. ‘Do you have the stuff I asked for?’ Elliot said.
‘Yes.’ Ang lifted a large buff envelope from the seat beside him. ‘The daily routine and layout of the commune near Siem Reap. It was not easy to come by, Mistah Elliot.’
‘Is it accurate?’
‘As accurate as the recollection of half-starved refugees can be.’ Ang paused. ‘The money has been lodged and credited to the account number you gave me.’
‘I know,’ Elliot said. ‘I checked.’
‘The second payment will be released just as soon as my wife and family are delivered safely to me here in Thailand.’
Elliot looked at Ang with ill-concealed contempt. He remembered the story Chan Cheong had told him in that stinking hut in Mak Moun. He remembered the dead look in the eyes of the refugee. Eyes that had watched his wife and children bayoneted to death. I cannot say I am free. I cannot say I am alive, he had said. And here was a man who had left his wife and family to their fate. Here was a man who was free, who was alive, who had the money to buy off his conscience and the memory of his betrayal.
‘Will there be penalties?’ Elliot said. ‘If I don’t come back with a full complement.’
‘I don’t think I understand, Mistah Elliot.’
‘I mean, are you paying by the head? A third each for your wife, your daughter and your son? After all, we’re not even sure where your son is.’
Ang faced out Elliot’s contempt impassively. ‘They paid you by the head in Vietnam, did they not?’
Elliot was momentarily taken aback. Ang had done his homework. The little Cambodian pressed home his advantage. ‘I’m paying you to try, Mistah Elliot.’ And a moment of pain flitted across his face. ‘If you succeeded in bringing only one...’ But he shied away from the thought.
Elliot said, ‘I wouldn’t raise your hopes, Mr Ang. It’ll be a miracle if you see any of them alive again.’
III
Slattery lay back in the darkness of his room and felt the pain spreading from below his ribs. He imagined the cancer inside like a giant crab gnawing away at him, growing fat as he grew thin. He had taken some painkillers and knew it would pass. But he knew, too, that it would return, again and again, with ever-increasing frequency, stealing the life away from him. The worst part was that he didn’t want to die. He looked back with a bitter irony over all the years he’d thought he hadn’t cared, the risks he’d taken, the life he had laid on the line time and again. But then, death had never been a certainty as it was now. Death was what happened to the other guy.
He screwed his eyes tight shut and knew he was only feeling sorry for himself. And he despised self-pity. It could turn a man, change him, make him afraid. He’d never been afraid of anything or anyone in his life. And he didn’t want to start now. Didn’t want to become a man he would not recognize. It was too late to start trying to come to terms with a new self. He’d had enough trouble with the old one. His only regret was that he’d never had children. Then, perhaps, some part of him might have lived on. After all, that’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? Procreation. Go forth and multiply, said the Lord.
He smiled wryly to himself. Well, it hadn’t been for want of trying. And he felt better knowing that in the midst of all his self-pity he could still smile. The old Mike Slattery was still there somewhere. Shit! He wasn’t going to let this bastard cancer beat him without a fight.
A soft knock at his door startled him. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Elliot.’
‘Come on in, chief.’ Slattery sat up on the bed self-consciously, as though Elliot might have been listening in on his thoughts, like a conversation overheard in the dark. He turned on the bedside light as Elliot entered. ‘What’s the score?’
Elliot looked at him curiously, and Slattery felt uncomfortable. ‘You mind if we talk?’
Slattery knew he wasn’t being asked. ‘Grab yourself a chair.’
Elliot pulled a seat out from the dresser and sat down. ‘Got a cigarette?’
‘Sure.’ Slattery tossed him one and lit another for himself. He knew Elliot only smoked when he felt stressed.
Elliot lit his cigarette and watched the smoke rise gently in the stillness. ‘It’s hot in here. Air conditioning broken down?’
Slattery shook his head. ‘Naw. Can’t sleep with it on, chief. Dries me out.’ He paused. ‘Something on your mind?’ Why did he feel that Elliot knew exactly what was going on in his?
‘Been worrying about you, Mike,’ Elliot said at length.
Slattery smiled unconvincingly. ‘No need to worry about me, chief. You know that.’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, I mean, why would you?’
‘You’ve lost weight. You’ve been behaving — oddly.’ Slattery said nothing. ‘I made a couple of phone calls last night, Mike. Mutual acquaintances Down Under.’
The skin tightened across Slattery’s scalp. ‘You know, then.’
Elliot nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have taken me with you if I had?’
‘No.’
‘That’s why I didn’t tell you.’
‘I don’t like being lied to, Mike. Especially by a friend.’
‘I never lied to you, chief.’
‘By omission. It comes to the same thing.’
Slattery looked away. ‘I couldn’t face dying in a beach house somewhere. Just wasting away. Not me, chief. Not after what I been through.’
They were both silent for a long time. Then Elliot said, ‘I didn’t take you on so you could go and get yourself killed. I need you, Mike.’
‘I won’t let you down, chief. Honest I won’t. I’d just rather take the chance of dying like I’ve lived, you know? Rather than the other way.’ He looked directly at Elliot. ‘You’re still taking me with you, chief, aren’t you?’
Elliot seemed to look right through him. He drew slowly on his cigarette, then said, ‘Sure I am, Mike.’ He paused. ‘But I’m bringing you back, too.’
Slattery nodded. ‘You want a beer?’
Elliot smiled and drew a half-bottle of whisky from his back pocket. ‘The real MacKay,’ he said. ‘I thought we might get pissed.’
Slattery grinned.
Chapter Fifteen
Ny lay awake on the hard wooden floor with dread and hate in her heart, listening for the footfall of the young cadre on the steps of the hut. Perhaps tonight he would not come. The pain and discomfort of her period had been a merciful release from his nightly visits, and she had told him it was still on her for several days after it had passed. He would know it must be over by now, so she expected he would come. All the other women, her mother as well, were asleep. Escape for a few brief hours from this living death. At the far end of the hut one of the women moaned in her shallow slumber. Perhaps she was dreaming of how life used to be. Or perhaps her dreams were of soldiers in black pyjamas and red-chequered scarves, and Angkar, and fear and death. Perhaps, for some, even sleep was no escape.
She heard a creak on the wooden steps and tensed. He had come for her, and from somewhere she must summon the strength and courage to face again the shame of his sexual gratification. But she wondered how much longer it would be possible. She had known others to take their own lives, but she did not think she had the courage for that.