Bible of the Dead Page 4

  The rain was heavy, the thunder rumbling. Julia felt the blackness closing in, on all her dreams. Her wild dreams of yesterday. The Find of the Season. The Justification for Everything.

  ‘But this was my find! This is unfair! Ghislaine, you know it is unfair.’

  ‘Pfft. Your discovery is mediocre, and indeed it is shit.’ Ghislaine’s black hair was damped by the rain, his leather trousers were smeared with mud, he made an absurd yet slightly menacing figure.

  And now Julia found herself backing away. She was alone here, in the emptiness, not a farmer for miles, all the villages abandoned: alone with Quoinelles. And she had the horrible sense of physical threat. His angry finger was jabbing the air.

  ‘What do you know? You learn in your American colleges and yet you have not heard of these things? You know nothing. The skulls and skeletons are just typical. Typical shit. Shit. Just shit. I expect you to return your carte d’identite tomorrow.’

  He turned and walked sternly to the car, once again. She watched as he strode the path; he didn’t seem at all absurd any more.

  Julia stood in the rain. Her own car was the other way. She had to trudge through the drizzle, carrying the weight of her disappointment, her crushing let-down. She wouldn’t be able to call her father, or her mother, and vindicate her decision to go to Europe; she wouldn’t be able to tell her friends, her colleagues, the world, about her discovery. She felt like a teenager disappointed in love, she felt like an idiot.

  She had been chucked.

  Julia walked. Her bleak route took her past a steel cowshed, a run of barbed wire, and the very loneliest of the standing stones. And there, despite the pelting wet, she paused, and looked around, feeling her anger and anxiety evolve, very slightly: as she surveyed the stones.

  Truly, she still loved this place – for all its saturnine moods. It was somehow bewitching. The ruined landscape emptied of people. This place full of legends and megaliths. This place where the werewolves of the Margeride met the elegiac Cham des Bondons.

  The rain fell, and still she lingered.

  The megalithic complex of the Cham des Bondons was one of the biggest in Europe, only Carnac was bigger, only Stonehenge and Callanish were more imposing – yet it was virtually unknown.

  Why was that? She could think of several answers. The remoteness was surely crucial. Plus the fact that many of the stones had been toppled in the nineteenth century – and had only recently been re-erected. But maybe there was something else – maybe the atmosphere of the Bondons had something to do with its lack of fame. The dark, brooding, mournful ambience. The way the stones stared down at the ground.

  Like sad soldiers guarding the catafalque of a beloved king, their heads bowed in regret.

  A flash of insight illumined her thoughts.

  Could it be?

  Fat raindrops were falling quickly now. Yet Julia did not feel the cold. This sudden idea was too exciting: it was a long shot, fantastical even, yet sometimes in archaeology you had to make the intuitive connection, the leap of faith, to arrive at the new paradigm.

  Hell with Ghislaine. This was still Her Find. She would find a way to investigate, to research, to get at the truth.

  She walked briskly to her car, fumbling with her keys. She had an intuitive lead. The stones were troubled. Like the moai, the great and tragic monoliths of Easter Island: huge statues erected by a violent and dying society?

  Her mood accelerated. The dating of the Cham des Bondons was late Neolithic. The dating of the skeletons was Neolithic. They came from the same long era of human history. Could there be some link between the Bondons and the strangeness of those bones?

  There must be a link between the stones and the bones. And the link was that echoing sense, that chime of insight. The fact that she got from the skeletons underneath her feet, down there in the cave, the very same emotional sense she derived from the stones.

  Guilt.

  Chapter 5

  The hours following their discovery of the dead Cambodian, Doctor Samnang, were grisly and exhausting; the hotel manager panicked as soon as he was informed. Innumerable messages were sent, anxious calls were taken. A grey ambulance hurled itself into the hotel car park, lights and sirens wailing, accompanied by doctors and nurses, and followed by half a dozen policemen in two new but very dirty white cars. Tou was searched for, and not found. Eventually Jake collapsed onto a bed in a spare room for a few minutes of sleep.

  And then the police returned, just after dawn, to snatch Chemda and Jake and take them to the station – for the questioning.

  The interview took place in the Ponsavanh police office, another anonymous yet menacing concrete block in this anonymous yet menacing concrete city. The young Lao officer who had collected them was polite enough. Just enough. He spoke English. He led them through corridors of dusty policework to a stuffy room. His desk loomed large. Handcuffs and truncheons hung from a hook. Jake wondered what tools they had in the basement.

  The room was also decorated with a huge red flag adorned by another hammer and sickle. Oppressively boastful. This was, presumably, just in case no one had noticed the three other communist flags hanging at the front of the building.

  So many flags? They seemed to imply a rather defensive insecurity. This was a nervous place. The flags said: We are communists, definitely. Ignore the rampant capitalism everywhere. Look instead at all the flags. Jake wondered again how many people were taken to the basement. Such a big concrete building would definitely have a large and chilly basement.

  For five hours Jake and Chemda were quizzed by at least four policemen, all working through the one young, distantly smiling English speaking officer. The policemen had guns in shoulder holsters. The smell of male sweat in the hot stuffy room was distinct and intense. The questioning became more aggressive.

  Why were Jake and Chemda here? Who was the dead man? Why had Tou disappeared? Why had Tou telephoned them last night? Why would anyone kill a harmless old historian? Why were they looking at the Plain of Jars? Who had given permission? What did they expect to find? What could be interesting about a bunch of old jars? What? When? Where? How? Why were they here?

  At a signal, they were both asked to stand. The policemen were separating them. They were going to be questioned individually. Chemda gave Jake a long glance as she was led away, and she reached and subtly grasped Jake’s hand. The touch was like the glance of a mild electric shock. Then she let go.

  Jake stared at her. She was turning now, and regarding the smiling, faux-polite cop: her regal Khmer expression was proud, uptilted, daring the police to do their worst.

  He admired her stance, her confidence. She was beautiful in her defiance.

  The door closed; he was alone with the thinnest cop with the sweatiest shirt of faded blue, and a red-and-gold hammer-and-sickle badge on his lapel. He had a conspicuous shoulder holster. The policeman’s face was thin, everything about him was thin, the nylon on his clothes, the plastic of his shoes, he was thin and angry and fifty and sweating hatred for everything Jake represented: money, the West, youth, privelige, the English language – all the western kids puking on the steps of the temples of Vang Vieng, all of the westerners polluting beautiful ancient Laos. Jake almost wanted to say Sorry.

  He said, ‘Sorry?’

  The man shook his head angrily, and spat out a question; but he spoke barely any English. He stood and he shouted at Jake, incomprehensibly. What was he shouting? It was all said in Lao. They were alone. Jake tried not to cower in his chair. He got the sense the policeman was a millimetre away from whipping out his gun and slapping it across Jake’s face, breaking his nose like balsa, squirting blood onto the desk. Was that already a blood stain? On the wall?

  Jake stayed mute. Staring ahead. Meek and polite – and mute. That’s what he had always been advised. Say nothing. But this was nasty. Jake had heard vague stories of western journalists being flung in jail in Laos, for going where they were not wanted: flung in jail and tortured, by a prickly, defen
sive, wary communist regime, a cornered country, now surrounded by capitalists. He’d seen men on the terrace of the FCC in Phnom Penh with limps and bruises and lucky-to-be-alive expressions: I just got back from Luang, where the beer is good and the girls are cute, but man oh man . . .

  The door swung open. Chemda stepped through, followed by the policeman who spoke English. The policeman looked half-satisfied. The questions were over? Chemda lifted her cellphone and explained:

  ‘I got hold of people in Phnom Penh! They confirmed it all . . . our presence in the Plain of Jars. We’re OK, Jake, we’re OK.’

  It was true. The mood had altered. Significantly. It hadn’t entirely improved. But it had changed. Apparently some temporary satisfaction had been achieved. The thin officer sat back, and stared angrily but quietly through the grubby window. Chairs were set back. Hands were cursorily shaken.

  The English-speaking officer escorted them from his office. As he did he told them they were free to go, but only free to leave the police station. He wanted them to remain within Ponsavanh itself, until his initial investigations were concluded.

  At the door to the street the English-speaking policeman rewarded them with a terse and sinister grin. ‘So. I think your bus tour is over. This is a murder case. I believe you do well to remember this. Laos is not Cambodia. Sabaydee.’

  After six hours of questioning, they walked down the police station steps, into the dusty whirl of Ponsavanh.

  Muddy pick up trucks were ferrying sandalled farm workers down the main street. Girls with inclined eyes, wearing brightly coloured jerkins adorned with silver coins on chains, were smiling at shops full of Chinese snacks and tiny bananas; ‘I need a coffee,’ said Jake, ‘Jesus Christ. How much do I need a coffee’.

  Chemda nodded. ‘There is a cafe down here, in the market.’ They crossed the whirling main street; the shattered concrete of the roads and pavements led to a carless square – full of people. And tables. And chattering traders. And flies.

  Many of the tables and counters were shaded from the sunshine by battered roofs of zinc; the tables were laid out with local food and game: dead wildcats, owls, strangled stoats, and small jungle dogs, their teeth wild and snarling even in death; there were bottles of yellow-and-black hornets pickled in vinegar, stinking riverfish on counters of blood-tinged ice, and piles of slaughtered field rats. Jake was used to the extraordinary fecundity and exoticism of Southeast Asian eating habits; he had never seen piles of rats before.

  Chemda sat down at the rickety market cafe table, and glanced at Jake, as he gazed across the market aisle at the heaped-up piles of brown rats.

  ‘Field rats,’ she said. Her voice was thick with exhaustion. ‘They are famous here. I mean, as far as rats go, these are top notch. You can’t get a better rat in Laos.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Jake, smiling at her brave if tired attempt at humour. But the blood in the muzzles of the slaughtered rats reminded him of the blood on the floor, the blood of the dead Cambodian still in the tread of his boots. Ghastly.

  ‘What just happened? Did Tou really kill him? I don’t get it.’

  She stared down at the grain of her elegantly narrow indigo jeans, now dusty and smudged. She shook her head, and hid her eyes with a poetic gesture, like the cultured shyness of an Angkor princess.

  At last she dropped her hand, and spoke.

  ‘Can we sit in the sun?’

  They shifted down the pewlike benches of the cafe into the light; the sun, Jake noticed, was actually strong, sharpened by upland cold – but strong. Healing. Warming. They both turned their tired faces to the heat and said nothing for a second, absorbing.

  Then she said:

  ‘It can’t be Tou. It just can’t. He was, ah, part of the team.’

  ‘But he’s run away.’

  Chemda shrugged. She had taken off her grey and tailored leather jacket, he noticed the slenderness of her topaz brown shoulders.

  ‘He’s scared. He is Hmong.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘And he has contacts with other Hmong of course, which is why we employed him. The Hmong have been helping us. Because this is Hmong country: they know the Plain better than anyone. They farm the rice paddies, they slash and burn the forests. They also know which areas are, ah, too risky, too saturated with unexploded ordnance. Of course that is – that was – pretty important for our work.’

  ‘He rang you last night – trying to get through. But why . . .’ Jake was trying to puzzle it out. Something was jarring, incongruent. A shard of memory like a piece of grit in a shoe. Chemda interrupted his thoughts:

  ‘They really don’t want us here Jake. As I said. And a murder case gives them a great excuse to make things extremely uncomfortable. It took the UN ages to get permission for this investigation in the first place. Now they have the whip hand. You noticed they didn’t take our passports? It’s because they want us to quit, to go. To give up and fly home. That was his hint about Laos – you heard it? “This is not Cambodia”. Ahh.’ Her sigh was brief. And unsentimental. And somehow undefeated.

  Jake sat back. Their coffees had arrived, two chipped little cups of thick blackness, plus a tin of condensed sweetened milk already pierced and bubbling. Jake dribbled the viscous milk in his coffee; Chemda wanted hers black.

  They drank, quietly.

  A man across the market was holding a chunk of honeycomb. It looked like a thick slice of intensely rotted wood. The man was digging into each cell of the hive-slice with a finger, and retrieving a wriggling blob of whiteness. A larva. The man popped the white living larva in his mouth, munching and smiling, chasing it with slugs of Doctor Pepper from a can. Then he winkled out another, and ate it.

  Something slotted in Jake’s mind. He looked at Chemda, and said:

  ‘You think they did it. Don’t you? The cops.’

  Her eyes met his, halfway.

  ‘Yes.’ She frowned: ‘Because of the way he died.’

  ‘Why? It was a brutal death. But how does that prove it was the cops?’

  ‘You never read the stories, of what the Khmer Rouge did in Tuol Sleng?’

  ‘S21.’ He said. ‘The torture garden. Absolutely. I know the history. Horrific. But maybe I missed . . . some details.’

  She gazed across the cafe seats. The market was closing up; dried rats lollipopped on wooden sticks were being piled in cardboard boxes. Then she spoke:

  ‘I have read two accounts of some experiments there. Accounts verified by the guy who ran the camp.’

  ‘Comrade Duch.’

  ‘Yes. Comrade Duch. Apparently, in Tuol Sleng they used to tie prisoners to iron beds, and they would attach pumps to them, and then drain every . . . drop of blood from their bodies. They wanted the blood for Khmer Rouge soldiers, but they turned it into, ah, a form of torture, a sadistic game.’

  Jake was sweating, the sun was directly overhead, the hard plateau sun. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, as she elaborated.

  ‘They drained all the blood from these chained prisoners, just to see what would happen. Over many hours they took out all the blood until not a drop was left, the prisoners would writhe and gasp, someone described them as sounding like rasping crickets at the end, gasping, stridulating, croaking like insects as they died.’

  Chemda looked briefly away, gazing at two barefoot boys sucking on the bloodstained ice from the fish counters; then she turned her dark serious eyes on him.

  Jake spoke:

  ‘Grotesque. Truly grotesque. But why repeat that experiment on Samnang?’

  ‘It’s a message. Someone is giving me, us, ah, a message. To scare us or warn us, or remind us of the horrors of Pol Pot. I don’t know. But Tou wouldn’t know any of this, and anyway if he wanted to kill Samnang he wouldn’t do it so bizarrely. But it surely cannot be coincidence: no one dies like that, as horribly as that, for no good reason. They are trying to scare me away. Ah. Because they know what I do – investigate the Khmer Rouge and their barbarities. They want me to give up. But
I’m not giving up.’

  Her expression was dark.

  Jake felt a need to move:

  ‘OK. Let’s go for a walk, Chemda. Somewhere with fewer rats.’

  They stood and stepped from the market, paced through a busy side road, into the main street. It was more crowded and hectic than ever. And it was obviously full of Hmong people now: many of the women were dressed in the most splendid finery.

  For several moments Jake and Chemda observed, together and silent and alone. They stared at the passing people: the cavalcade of girls, twirling delicate silken umbrellas, escorted by proud young men in ill-fitting suits. She answered his question before he asked.

  ‘No, they don’t always dress like this. It’s the Hmong New Year. The most important three days, when people meet their future husbands.’

  ‘So . . .’ ‘They are fiercely traditional. Animist . . . but – wait – is that – over there?’

  She was pointing, and trying not to point. Jake scanned the scene: the parasols and the pick ups, the Chinese potnoodle trucks and the silver jangling coins on summery dresses.

  A small figure was discreetly waving at them, down the road, half hidden between two large jeeps:

  ‘It’s Tou.’

  Jake marvelled. This was Tou? He was barely more than a boy. And this was the crucial figure? Their all-important guide? This was the chief suspect in the homicide of Samnang? It was indeed a ludicrous concept: this boy looked more street urchin than murdering villain.

  Tou’s smile was broken; his shirt was grubby and worn; his face was young and brave and eager and frightened.

  Glancing either way, Tou slipped into the shadows, then seconds later he reappeared, directly behind them, speaking quick, anxious, and fairly articulate English:

  ‘Come, please, quick, Chemda – Come!!’

  His nervous glance flickered over Jake.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Chemda. ‘It’s OK. He’s a friend, he’s with me. What is it? Are you alright? I know the police are –’