The Windup Girl

18

The rumor travels like fire in the dead timber of Isaan. The Tiger is dead. Trade is in ascendancy for certain. Hock Seng’s neck prickles as tension blossoms in the city. The man who sells a newspaper to him does not smile. A pair of white shirts on patrol scowls at every pedestrian. The people who sell vegetables seem suddenly furtive, as if they are dealing contraband.

The Tiger is dead, shamed somehow, though no one seems to know the specifics. Was he truly unmanned? Was his head truly mounted in front of the Environment Ministry as a warning to the white shirts?

It makes Hock Seng want to gather his money and flee, but the blueprints in the safe keep him bound to his desk. He hasn’t felt undercurrents like this since the Incident.

He stands and goes to the office shutters. Peers out to the street. Goes back to his treadle computer. A minute later, he moves to the factory’s observation window to study the Thais working on the lines. It’s as if the air is charged with lightning. A storm is coming, full of water spouts and tidal waves.

Hazards outside the factory, and hazards within. Halfway into the shift, Mai came again, shoulders slumped. Another sick worker, sent off to a third hospital, Sukhumvit this time. And down below, at the heart of the manufacturing system, something foul reaches for them all.

Hock Seng’s skin crawls at the thought of disease brewing in those vats. Three is too many for coincidence. If there are three, then there will be more, unless he reports the problem. But if he reports anything, the white shirts will burn the factory to the ground and Mr. Lake’s kink-spring plans will go back across the seas, and everything will be lost.

A knock comes on the door.

“Lai.”

Mai slips into the room, looking frightened and miserable. Her black hair is disarrayed. Her dark eyes scan the room, looking for signs of the farang.

“He’s gone to his lunch.” Hock Seng supplies. “Did you deliver Viyada?”

Mai nods. “No one saw me drop her.”

“Good. That’s something.”

Mai gives him a miserable wai of acknowledgment.

“Yes? What is it?”

She hesitates. “There are white shirts about. Many of them. I saw them at the intersections, all the way to the hospital.”

“Did they stop you? Question you?”

“No. But there are a lot of them. More than usual. And they seem angry.”

“It is the Tiger, and Trade. That is all. It can’t be us. They don’t know about us.”

She nods doubtfully, but does not leave. “It is difficult for me to work here,” she says. “It’s too dangerous now. The sickness.” She stumbles on her words, finally says, “I’m very sorry. If I’m dead…” she trails off. “I’m very sorry.”

Hock Seng nods sympathetically. “Yes. Of course. You do no good for yourself if you are sick.” Privately, though, he wonders what safety she can really find. Nightmares of the yellow card slum towers still wake him at night, shaking and grateful for what he has. The towers have their own diseases, poverty is its own killer. He grimaces, wondering how he himself would balance the terrors of some unknown sickness against the certainty of work.

No, this work is not a certainty. This is the same thinking that caused him to leave Malaya too late. His unwillingness to accept that a clipper ship was sinking and to abandon it when his head was still above the waves. Mai is wise where he is dull. He nods sharply. “Yes. Of course. You should go. You have youth. You are Thai. Something will come to you.” He forces a smile. “Something good.”

She hesitates.

“Yes?” he asks.

“I hoped I could have my last pay.”

“Of course.” Hock Seng goes to the petty cash safe, swings it open, reaches in and pulls out a handful of red paper. In a fit of reckless generosity that he doesn’t quite understand himself, he hands the entire wad over to her. “Here. Take this.”

She gasps at the amount. “Khun. Thank you.” She wais. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Save it. Be careful with it—”

A shout rises from the factory floor, then more shouts. Hock Seng feels a surge of panic. The manufacturing line stalls. The stop bell rings belatedly.

Hock Seng rushes to the door, looks down at lines. Ploi is waving her hand toward the gates. Others are abandoning their posts, running to the doors. Hock Seng cranes his neck, seeking the cause.

“What is it?” Mai asks.

“I can’t tell.” He turns and runs to the shutters, yanks them open. White shirts fill the avenue, marching in ordered ranks. He sucks in his breath. “White shirts.”

“Are they coming here?”

Hock Seng doesn’t answer. He looks over his shoulder at the safe. With a little time… No. He’s being a fool. He waited too long in Malaya; he won’t make the same mistake twice. He goes to the petty cash safe and begins pulling out all the remaining cash. Stuffing it into a sack.

“Are they coming because of the sick?” Mai asks.

Hock Seng shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Come here.” He goes to another window and opens the shutters, revealing the blaze of the factory rooftop.

Mai peers out over hot tiles. “What’s this?”

“An escape route. Yellow cards always prepare for the worst.” He smiles as he hoists her up. “We are paranoid, you know.”