The Windup Girl

22

The white shirts are everywhere: inspecting passes, stalking through food markets, confiscating methane. It’s taken hours for Hock Seng to cross the city. Rumors say that all the Malayan Chinese have been interned in the yellow card towers. That they’re about to be shipped south, back across the border to the mercy of the Green Headbands. Hock Seng listens to every whisper as he scuttles through alleys on his way back to his cash and gems, sending native Mai ahead of him, using her local’s accent to scout.

By the time night falls, they are still far from his destination. SpringLife’s stolen money weighs heavy on him. At times he fears that Mai will suddenly turn on him and report him to the white shirts in return for a share of the cash he carries. At other times, he mistakes her for a daughter mouth, and wishes he could protect her from everything that is coming.

I’m going mad, he thinks. To mistake some silly Thai girl for my own.

And yet still he trusts the slight girl, the child of fish farmers, who previously proved so obedient when he still had a scrap of managerial authority, and who he prays will not turn on him now that he is a target.

Darkness falls completely.

“Why are you so frightened?” Mai asks.

Hock Seng shrugs. She does not-cannot-understand the complexities swirling around them. For her it is a game. Frightening, to be sure, but still a game.

“When the brown people turned on the yellow people in Malaya, it was like this. All at once, everything was different. The religious fanatics came with their green headbands and their machetes…” He shrugs. “The more careful we are, the better.”

He peers out into the street from their hiding place and ducks back. A white shirt is pasting up another image of the Tiger of Bangkok, edged in black. Jaidee Rojjanasukchai. How quickly he falls from grace, and then rises like a bird to sainthood. Hock Seng grimaces. A lesson of politics.

The white shirt moves on. Hock Seng scans the street again. People are starting to come out, encouraged by the relative cool of the evening. They walk through the humid darkness, coming out to do their shopping, to find a meal, to locate a favorite som tam cart. White shirts glow green under approved-burn methane. They move in teams, hunting like jackals for wounded meat. Small shrines to Jaidee have appeared before store fronts and homes. His image surrounded by flickering candles and draped with marigolds, displaying solidarity and begging for protection against white shirt rage.

Accusations fill the airwaves on National Radio. General Pracha speaks of the need to protect the Kingdom from those-carefully unnamed-who would topple it. His voice crackles over the people, tinny from hand-cranked radios. Vendors and housewives. Beggars and children. The green of the methane lamps turns skin shimmery, a carnival. But amongst the rustle of sarongs and pha sin and the clank of red and gold megodont handlers, there are always the white shirts, hard eyes looking for an excuse to vent their rage.

“Go on.” Hock Seng prods Mai forward. “See if it is safe.”

A minute later Mai is back, motioning for him, and they are off again, threading through the crowds. Knots of silence warn them when new white shirts are near, fear sending laughing lovers silent, and children running. Heads duck low as the white shirts pass. Hock Seng and Mai work their way past a night market. His eyes rove over candles, frying noodles, cheshire shimmers.

A shout rises ahead of them. Mai darts forward, scouting. She’s back a moment later, tugging at his hand. “Khun. Come quickly. They’re distracted.” And then they’re slipping past a clot of white shirts and the object of their abuse.

An old woman lies beside her cart, her daughter at her side, clutching a shattered knee. A crowd has gathered as the daughter struggles to drag her mother upright.

All around, the glass cases that held their ingredients are shattered. Shards glitter in chile sauce, amongst bean sprouts, on lime, like diamonds under the green light of methane. The white shirts stir through the woman’s ingredients with their batons.

“Come Auntie, there must be some more money here. You thought you could bribe white shirts, but you haven’t done nearly enough to burn untaxed fuel.”

“Why are you doing this?” the daughter cries. “What have we done to you?”

The white shirt studies her coldly. “You took us for granted.” His baton crashes down on her mother’s knee again. The woman shrieks and the daughter cowers.

The white shirt calls to his men. “Put their methane tank in with the rest. We have three more streets to go.” He turns to the watching silent crowd. Hock Seng freezes as the officer’s eyes travel across him.

Don’t run. Don’t panic. You can pass, as long as you don’t speak.

The white shirt smiles at the watching people. “Tell your friends what you see here. We are not dogs you feed with scraps. We are tigers. Fear us.” And then he raises his baton and the crowd scatters, Hock Seng and Mai with them.

A block later, Hock Seng leans against a wall, panting with the effort of their flight. The city has grown monstrous. Every street holds hazard now.

Down the alley, a hand-cranked radio crackles with more news. The docks and factories have been shut down. Access to the waterfront is restricted to those with permits.

Hock Seng suppresses a shiver. It’s happening again. The walls are going up and he is stuck inside the city, a rat in a trap. He fights down panic. He planned for this. There are contingencies. But first he has to make it home.

Bangkok is not Malacca. This time you are prepared.

Eventually the familiar shacks and smells of the Yaowarat slums surround them. They slip through tight squeezeways. Past the people who do not know him. He forces down another rush of fear. If the white shirts have influenced the slum’s godfathers, he could be in danger. He forces the thought away, drags open the door to his hovel, guides Mai inside.

“You did well.” He digs in his bag and hands her a bundle of the stolen money. “If you want more, come back to me tomorrow.”

She stares at the wealth that he has so casually handed her.

If he were smart, he would strangle her and reduce the chances that she will turn on him for the rest of his savings. He forces down the thought. She has been loyal. He must trust someone. And she is Thai, which is useful when yellow cards are suddenly as disposable as cheshires.

She takes the money and stuffs it into a pocket.

“You can find your way from here?” he asks.

She grins. “I’m not a yellow card. I don’t have anything to fear.”

Hock Seng makes himself smile in return, thinking that she does not know how little anyone cares to separate wheat from chaff, when all anyone wants to do is burn a field.