Bible of the Dead by Tom Knox Read Free Book Online Page A

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 –’
    ‘Chemda I have seen what they were looking for.’
    ‘What?’
    Tou gave his anxious reply. ‘The stripe Hmong! One of them come to me yesterday, old Hmong man. And he told me – he told me stories of the Khmer Rouge came here, in the 1970s. And others. That’s what I tell Doctor Samnang last night. That’s what I try to tell you on the phone. Then Samnang he got sad, crying, and I ran away –’
    ‘What? What stories?’
    ‘Chemda. I show you. We must to be quick, but . . .’ He lifted a finger, invoking their silence, and their discretion. ‘ I can show you .’
    ‘What do you mean? Show me what ??’
    ‘I can show you what the Khmer Rouge found. Many many years ago. On the Plain of Jars.’

Chapter 6
    ‘Chemda, why are you taking this risk? Why not just give up? And go home?’
    She didn’t answer. Jake wondered whether to try again. They were speeding south, jeeping into the heart of the Plain, with Tou and the old Hmong man, Yeng. They were taking a terrible risk, disobeying the cops, quitting Ponsavanh, going to see what Tou had discovered.
    Yeng had swiftly agreed to help them, as he had already helped Tou: he apparently hated the Pathet