The Little Boy With a Gun

The Little Boy with a Gun

John Helden

Bavet is a sparse, dusty town in South East Cambodia, right on the Vietnamese border. The only reason to visit is to try your luck at one of the casinos that run off either side of Highway 1. In one of the rooms above the casino in the Cobra hotel, Sara had been waiting for about three hours for her mother to return. She has heard terrible stories about the casinos in Cambodia so when the key turns in the lock, she leaps off the bed hoping that she will soon be home. Her mother, Thanh, appears flanked by two bulky Cambodian men. She’s in her forties, five-foot tall, slim, black hair that reaches down to her shoulders. She would have been pretty if she hadn’t been worried since she was about five years old and today her face is as pale as milk.

“Mamma?” Sara says, in her native Vietnamese.

“Listen, darling. Here, sit down next to me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, everything’s fine.”

“But you look…”

“Hush, hush,” says Thanh, “There’s nothing to worry about. Listen to me, I’ve got to go back to Saigon. I had a bit of bad luck, and I have to go and see Uncle Loc. Just to get some money.”

“What? Well, how much money? You know Uncle Loc…”

“Hush, hush! Yes, I know Uncle Loc is very rich and kind. He’ll give me some money and you’ll be home in no time. Look, these men will look after you until I get back.”

The taller of the two is surprisingly bulky for a Cambodian with a round double chin and belly to match. The other one is smaller, stocky. He stands shoulders back with his legs apart, like he is daring a truck to try to run him over.

“My name is Sorya,” he says in English, jabbing at his chest. “Sorya.”

Sara ignores him.

“But mamma, how much money?”

Thanh kisses Sara on the cheek and leaves, followed by the two men. Her daughter remains sitting on the edge of the bed terrified. Uncle Loc’s seafood restaurant went out of business months ago. She knows that he can barely afford a bag of rice.

Two days later Frank Jackson arrives in Saigon on the 5:00 PM flight from Bangkok. Late thirties, six foot, well built, short brown hair, pale blue eyes. By nine o’clock he is sat with Sara’s father, Allen who is Franks polar opposite. Late fifties, wiry, gaunt, with thin greying hair, eyes that threw in the towel long ago. They are next to the bar in Number 5, a large ex-pat pub on Pasteur in District 1. Ten tables and chairs are set out about the room, a fifteen-seat horseshoe bar in the middle. Smells of food, cigarettes, stale alcohol. An occasional whiff of supermarket perfume adds to the mix. Classic rock fills in the gaps in the background.

“Calm down, Al, we’ve been mates for fifteen years. Have I ever let you down?”

“You don’t know them, Frank. She’s fifteen years old and last month they took some kid in Phnom Penn and his family didn’t cough up quick enough, so they sent them back his finger. His finger, for Christ’s sake. And that was over four grand. These bastards want seven.”

Frank signals to the bar girl, scarlet mini-dress, matching lips, for another Bacardi and coke.

“Why would your ex-wife take her daughter to a casino?” he says, flatly.

“I’ve told you before, Thanh just doesn’t think.”

Diamond Dogs makes way for Sweet Jane.

Frank looks away, changes the subject.

“How long did they give you to get the money?”

“Another two days.”

“And how much have you got so far?’

“Just short of two grand but that’s it. Tops. So, what happens now?”

Frank lights a Marlboro.

“I need a car,” he says, “a legal one.”

“Ok, I’ll borrow Carl’s. What else?”

“I had a couple of lads in Cambodia check out the hotel already. They keep the girls on the first floor. The windows are all sealed but on the second floor they open. If I can get a room there, I reckon I can get her out. You still in touch with the old bloke on the border?”

“Mr Bao? Yeah, I can find him.”

“OK, tell him there’s a night’s work for him. I’ll give you the details tomorrow. Pick me up at Huong Ve at five. And I’ll need a new set of clothes for Sara. Something simple. Jeans and a T-shirt or whatever. Decent pair of trainers. That hoodie if she’s still got it.”

Frank takes his wallet out, leaves two, half-million dong notes on the counter. About fifty US dollars.

“Finish that off, mate. And get yourself something to eat. You look like dried up shit. Get some shut-eye and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Allen nods his thanks.

Outside a tropical storm has just kicked in. Huge drops of rain pound the pavement like stray bullets. Frank jumps in the first Mai Lin taxi he sees, hands the driver the address of the Alien House hotel in Bui Vien.

A few hours later Frank is lying on his bed waiting for the ceiling to blink. The rain pounds down on the corrugated rooftops like machine-gun fire but that’s not the problem. Ever since he got the phone call from Allen, he’s had a bad feeling. It’s like something dark has crawled up from somewhere in his head and it’s scratching at his skull trying to get out. He falls in and out of a chaotic sleep until about three o’clock when he jerks awake, drowning in sweat, his body as stiff as an iceberg. He lies there a few minutes, paralyzed. It’s like the thing is out there in the room with him, lying there next to him on the bed.

He snaps himself back to life, gets up, takes one of the insoles from his shoe. He un-picks the stitching, retrieves a gram wrap of heroin. He opens up his fake diabetes kit, takes out the syringe, already filled with clean water. He puts half of the smack in a spoon, adds the water, boils it up with his lighter. He takes off his belt, wraps it around his arm. He draws the mixture up through a cigarette filter, pricks through a blue line in his arm, pulls in a trickle of blood and shoots the heroin deep into his vein. With the devil back in its hole he manages to space out until the dawn.

Next day, the sun has almost set, slashing the sky with streaks of deep red, when Frank and Allen get to within sight of the Cambodian border. Allen pulls up about a hundred feet away leaving Frank with a short walk. He passes through both checkpoints into the land of the Khmer. The road on either side is packed with building materials, cement mixers, piles of bricks. Huge cranes scowl down on him, aiding and abetting the grim rise of yet more Chinese casinos, filling the landscape like so many angry tombstones.

The man at the reception of the Cobra Hotel is lost in his phone. Frank brings him back to life with a couple of raps on the desk bell. The man drops his Samsung on the counter, a momentary scowl quickly replaced by his corporate smile.

“Hello, sir. Welcome to the Cobra Hotel. You have reservation?”

“No, no reservation. I want a room for one. Second floor if possible.”

“Yes sir, I’ll see if…”

“Around the back. I don’t want to look out onto the street.”

The man looks puzzled. Frank smiles.

“The noise,” he says, “I’m a light sleeper.”

The room is what you would expect from a fifty-dollar room in a mid-range hotel. Frank locks the door, checks the window on the back wall. It’s about three-foot by two, slides open easily. He pops out his head. No sign of life. A few dried-up bushes, a pile of plastic bags scattered about, stray dogs the likely perps. The room below in darkness. Hopefully unoccupied. He closes the window, goes down to the casino.

About thirty punters are milling around the various tables amongst the smell of Marlboro and faded carpets, the soundtrack a mixture of Chinese and Vietnamese chatter backed by traditional Cambodian music. Mostly old couples. A young Chinese girl, arm around her ‘uncles’ waist, giggles with excitement as the roulette wheel spins. The old man leans in to snatch a kiss, her head instinctively leans away. Frank turns to the bar and orders a Bacardi and coke. HHHHHhh He is just starting his second when a Cambodian man appears at his shoulder, introduces himself, in surprisingly good English, as the casino manager. Says his name is Sorya.

“Where you from sir?”

“England.”

“Ah, England, very good. You here with family?”

“No, just me.”

The man exaggerates a frown, shakes his head.

“No good.”

He moves in closer. Frank can smell tobacco, whiskey and fish sauce on his breath.

“Maybe sir lonely tonight?”

Frank turns to look at the man, then looks away.

“Maybe.”

He finishes his drink, nods at the Cambodian, leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, goes back up to his room. A few minutes later he hears a soft tap on the door, opens it to Sorya straightening his tie.

“Sorry to disturb. I think maybe sir would like girl. We have nice girl for gentleman like you. We have Cambodia girl or Vietnam girl.”

Frank steps into the corridor, checks they are alone. He looks in Sorya’s eyes, then to the side.

“How about a small girl?” he says, “Not too old. I don’t like the old girls so much.”

Sorya nods his head slowly.

“I understand. We have small girl, very new, expensive. Vietnam girl. Very beautiful.”

“She knows what to do?” asks Frank.

“Oh, yes sir,” Sorya smiles, lowers his voice. “I teach girl myself sir. She wild, like animal. She, how you say? She wiggle.”

“Wiggle?”

“No sir, not wiggle.”

He smiles, embarrassed at his vocabulary. He tries to claw back some face.

“How I say? She move like dying snake. You cut off head, snake move, how you say, snake…

“Wriggles” Frank says coldly, “you mean she wriggles.”

“Yes, wriggles,” he repeats, relieved. “She big fun sir she…”

Frank cuts him off. Gets him to describe the girl, it must be Sara. He agrees to pay five hundred dollars for the night, an extra hundred if he leaves any bruises on her face.

Ten minutes later, another tap on the door. Frank recognizes Sara, her appearance stirring up the bile in his stomach. Like many fifteen-year-old Vietnamese girls, she could pass for twelve, but not today. She’s painted up from her eyelashes to her toes. Hanging off her shoulders, a tiny, purple, fifteen-dollar dress that would make a pimp blush. Eyes as empty as an open grave. She glances up at Frank, returns her gaze to the floor. Sorya ushers her through the door. Frank hands over five hundred-dollar bills, promises another hundred if they are left uninterrupted. Sorya smiles, hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle, closes the door. Frank locks it, listens to the sound of footsteps fading away. He crosses the room to where Sara is sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, shaking slightly, eyes still fixed to the floor. He pulls up the chair, sits opposite. She flinches.

“Sara, it’s alright, look at me. I’m not gonna hurt you. Do you remember me? I’m a friend of your dad’s.”

She stares at the grubby floor. Frank makes his voice a little firmer.

“I need you to look at me. We met in Pham Nhu Lao once, at Huong Ve. I’m a friend of your dad’s. We had a pizza, the three of us. You like pepperoni, don’t you? Then you had some ice-cream. With your dad, Allen, remember?”

He smiles, softens his voice a little. “Seriously, I thought you were gonna puke all over the place.”

She picks up her eyes, a smile cuts across her face, vanishes just as quickly. She springs forward, puts her arms around him and squeezes. After a few seconds he eases her back onto the bed.

“Now listen carefully. I need you to go to the bathroom and wash that stuff off your face. Here’s some clothes your dad gave me.”

He hands her the rucksack. She holds it against her cheek, the first tears appear, threatening a flood.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no time for that just now. Quick as you can.”

He eases her off the bed, walks her to the shower, closes the door behind her. He looks out the window, checks the room below and to the sides, all are in darkness. He secures the end of a length of rope to one of the legs of the bed, throws the lose end out the window.

Sarah is first to the ground followed by Frank. He listens. Just the crickets and the drone of Vietnamese pop music leaking out from a nearby karaoke bar. They make their way across the wasteland behind the hotel until they come to a small fence, with the sounds of dogs barking somewhere in the distance. They follow the fence for about ten minutes, over a shallow stream, back towards Vietnam. The pace is slow in the half-moon light. He hears the sounds of creatures he doesn’t recognize. Could be insects, maybe frogs. Eventually they come to the silhouette of a building. A small figure emerges from the darkness, like one of the bushes had come to life.

“Mr Frank?” the figure asks.

“Yes, Frank. Mr Bao?”

“Yes, Mr Bao, good. Sin Chao. You come.”

Franks eyes adjust. The old man is thin, tiny head stooping forwards. He turns around, walks into the building, Frank and Sara following. Frank sees that it’s a large barn, a dim light coming from a small paraffin lamp on a table just inside the door. The barn smells of cow, but there are no animals in sight except for a mob of geckos chasing each other about the walls like tiny ghosts. Opposite the table, on the back wall, lies a wooden platform of old pallets covered in a layer of straw. A blanket lies in a heap next to a pillow. In one corner sits an aged armchair that could have been left by the Americans in seventy-three. Frank gives the old man two hundred dollars. He smiles, revealing three lonely front teeth set in a gaunt, wizened face. He lowers himself down into the armchair, closes his eyes. Sara lies down on the straw bed, curls up into herself. Frank lays the blanket on top of her. He sits at the table. Next to the lamp is a half–full bottle of Vietnamese vodka. He unscrews the top, takes a deep swig, winces at the bitterness. He considers another shot of smack but thinks again. Needs his wits about him for the next few hours. He drinks from the bottle again, puts his head down on the table. He drifts into a half dream, the noise of small branches brushing against the side of the shed metamorphosing into

the scratching of the tiny feet of a rat as it forages across the floor of the cellar and there is the thick, green stench of damp walls and rotten wood. He hears the sound of the door creaking open, tugs at the rope around his ankle that cuts into him and fastens him to the bed. Once again, it’s too late. The silhouette of a giant of a man appears against the sunlight and every muscle in Franks little body tightens. He thinks of the monsters he’s read about in books. Ogres, trolls, orcs. The man closes the door and everything goes dark. Frank scurries up into the corner of the damp walls, like a puppy expecting a whipping.

“Not again … please.”

He pushes harder as he feels the man’s body lower itself down next to him on the bed.

Frank wakes, stares into the darkness, clinging to his chair like a life raft, transfixed by the shadows that the lamp’s flickering flame is painting on the walls. The vice on his forehead squeezes tighter and tighter until something snaps and, after all these years, he knows. He knows why, whenever he takes a woman to bed, there is always a third creature in the room. He knows why his flesh feels so grubby afterwards. He knows why, when the light is out, sometimes he can feel claws, scratching into his arms, his belly, his thighs. He reaches for his phone, goes outside, the night filled with a warm breeze and the sound of a thousand crickets.

“Yes, she’s fine, still asleep. Slept all night. Allen? You there …? No worries … yeah, the drinks are on you. Listen, can Bao get me a gun? … No, no Sara’s fine. It’s got nothing to do with her. Al … Allen … look … look, can the old man get me a fuckin gun or what? OK. And a dozen rounds. A pistol though, not a shotgun. And pay him as much as he wants ... No, what do you mean, I’m fine. Never felt better. Just get me the gun. I’ll put him on.”

Frank goes back inside, wakes the old man, hands him the phone. He talks to Allen for a few minutes then passes the phone back to Frank.

“Good man. Five hundred, US, up front. Ok, no problem. Cheers Al. See you in about an hour.”

Frank hangs up, opens his wallet, gives Mr Bao five hundred-dollar bills. The old man returns an hour later with an old Colt Commander and sixteen rounds. Frank strips the gun to the bone, makes sure every part is clean, ready for work. He is snapping it back together as Allen pulls up to the barn. He puts the pistol in his rucksack, wakes Sara. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes, sees her father, runs over to hug him but pulls back after a few seconds. She smiles apologetically. He looks like he wants to say something but all he can do is ruffle her hair, then he ushers her into the back of the car.

With the sun reclaiming the skies they drive a couple of kilometers towards Saigon, stop at the first idle taxi they see. Allen tells the driver his address, gives Sara a million dong for the fare. He gets back in the car, drives towards Thanh’s house.

“What you doing Al?”

“Phoning Thanh, tell her what’s happening.”

“No, leave it. They won’t be there yet.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“You worry too much, Al. Put the phone away.”

“I don’t know, mate, I think we should…”

“Just put the fuckin phone down.”

Allen vanishes into a wounded silence.

Frank takes a few breaths, softens his tone.

“Look, I’m gonna close my eyes for a while. Wake me up when we get there.”

Frank feels a hand on his shoulder, blinks himself awake. Allen points to a characterless house in an ordinary Vietnamese street.

“It’s that one there.”

Frank looks around. The street is dead apart from a skinny dog sleeping in the shadow of a dried-up tree while an early morning breeze tries to kick up a bit of dust.

“You sure they have this address?”

“Positive. They wouldn’t have lent her a dime without seeing all the paperwork.”

About an hour later, a black SUV, tinted windows, Cambodian number plates, appears in the rear-view mirror. The men sink down into their seats. When they look up, they see two men standing outside the car. The stocky one is on his phone while the fat one scans the area. The stocky one puts his phone in his pocket, knocks on Thanh’s door. It opens and both the men vanish inside.

“So, what happens now, mate? We go get her, yeah?”

“No mad rush, is there?”

“No rush? Jesus, Frank, they could be kicking her to death in there. What’s wrong with you?”

Frank ignores the anger in his friend’s eyes, leans over, takes the pack of cigarettes out of Allen’s shirt pocket.

“I’m gonna chill for a few minutes. If that’s not quick enough for you, there you go.”

He puts the pistol on the seat by Allen’s side, lights up a cigarette, ignoring the hurt look in his friend’s eyes.

Silence.

“Why the fuck would she take a fifteen-year-old girl, her own daughter, into a casino in Cambodia? What do you reckon, Al?”

Allen takes a cigarette, lights it with a shaky hand, says in a small voice.

“She’s just dumb. She doesn’t think.”

“Whatever.”

Frank smokes his Marlboro down to the butt, stubs it out in the ashtray, picks up the pistol. He tells Allen to keep the engine running, gets out of the car, walks to Thanh’s front door. He knocks on the door, stands off to one side, his back against the wall. The fat Cambodian opens the door. Frank puts the gun in his face, backs him into the house, kicks the door closed behind him. He hears the sound of a woman whimpering as Sorya appears from the living room, splashes of blood on his white t-shirt. Frank points the gun at one then the other.

“Put your hands up, turn around, both of you. Tell him,” he says to Sorya.

The stocky man says something in Khmer. Both of them turn around slowly. No guns. Frank ushers them into the living room. Thanh is on all fours on the floor, part of her hair stuck to her forehead with blood, one eye already starting to close. He turns the stereo up to maximum volume, puts a bullet between the fat man’s eyes, shards of brain and bone flying out onto the wall behind him. He hits the floor, an expanding puddle of blood quickly forming beneath his head. Frank turns to face Sorya, puts a bullet into one of his kneecaps. He slumps down against the wall, trying not to look at the hole in his leg, as though that will make it go away. He has a strange expression on his face. More shock than pain. Frank puts a bullet into his other kneecap. Now Sorya’s eyes are howling like he is being stabbed with a hot poker. He starts to whimper like a seven-year old alone in a graveyard at midnight. Like a little boy in a shed with a monster. Frank bends down, prods both of Sorya’s knees in turn with the barrel of the gun. Sorya twists, winces, groans.

“Well, will you look at that, eh?” says Frank, “Who’d have thought it? You having big fun down there, wriggling around like a dying snake?”

Frank puts his boot on Sorya’s chest, the gun hanging by his side. He looks into his eyes, but he doesn’t see anger or pain. He sees a longing, an ache, like a tiger sick of blood. The eyes scream,

“Mercy, brother. I didn’t choose the cards I was dealt. I just did what I had to do to get by. You can understand that. I’m sorry for everything, but you’ve got to believe me. It wasn’t my fault. Now all I want to do is sleep, brother. All I want to do is sleep. Will you do that for me brother? Will you do that?”

Frank hits the ground hard. He tries to get up, feels another whack on the back of his head, stars dancing in his eyes. He fights the urge to pass out, senses Thanh’s presence next to Sorya, hears her say something to him. He replies in slurred English. Thanh stands up, walks to the window in front of Frank, one hand on her hip, the other one holding the phone to her ear.

“Allen, yes, is me…. Everything OK…. Yes, Frank OK. Everything OK. How Sara....Good, and where she….at your house? Yes, so I come get Sara, take her my mother house. They no find her there…. Yes Ok…. Yes, I know …. me too. See you soon. Tell Sara I miss her, tell her Momma come soon.”