The Windup Girl

34

“Will you sit down? Your pacing makes me nervous.”

Hock Seng pauses in the perambulation of his hovel to glare at Laughing Chan. “I pay for your calories, not the other way around.”

Laughing Chan shrugs and goes back to playing cards. They’ve all been huddled in the room for the last several days. Laughing Chan is a congenial companion along with Pak Eng and Peter Kuok. But even the most congenial company…

Hock Seng shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. The storm is coming. Bloodshed and mayhem on the horizon. It’s the same feeling he had before the Incident, before his sons were beheaded and his daughters raped senseless. And he sat in the middle of that brewing storm, willfully ignorant, telling anyone who would listen that the men in K.L. would never let what had happened down in Jakarta happen to the good Chinese here. After all, were they not loyal? Did they not contribute? Did he not have friends at every level of government who assured him that the Green Headbands were but a bit of political posturing?

The storm was surging all around him, and he had refused to accept it… but not this time. This time, he is prepared. The air is electric with what is about to occur. Ever since the white shirts closed down the factories it was apparent. And now it is about to break. And this time, he is ready. Hock Seng smiles to himself, examines his little bunker with its stores of money and gems and food.

“Is there any more word on the radio?” he asks.

The three men exchange glances. Laughing Chan nods at Pak Eng. “It’s your turn to wind it.”

Pak Eng scowls and goes over to the radio. It’s an expensive device, and Hock Seng is regretting that he purchased it at all. There are other radios in the slums, but lurking beside them draws attention and so he spent money on this one, unsure if it would even carry anything other than rumor, and yet unable to deny himself another source of information.

Pak Eng kneels beside the thing and starts to wind it. Its speaker crackles to life, barely loud enough over the whine of the crank.

“You know, if you fitted this with a decent gear system, it would be a lot more efficient.”

Everyone ignores him, their attention entirely focused on the tiny speaker: Music, saw duang…

Hock Seng crouches by the radio, listening intently. Changes the dial. Pak Eng is starting to sweat. He winds for another thirty seconds and stops, puffing. “There. That should last a little while.”

Hock Seng works the dial on the machine, listening to the divining winds of radio waves. Twirls across stations. Nothing but entertainments. Music.

Laughing Chan looks up. “What time is it?”

“Four, perhaps?” Hock Seng shrugs.

“There should be muay thai. They should be doing the opening rituals by now.”

Everyone exchanges glances. Hock Seng moves through more stations. Music only. No news. Nothing… And then a voice. Filling all the stations, speaking as one voice and one station. They all crouch round, listing.

“Akkarat, I think.” Hock Seng pauses. “The Somdet Chaopraya has died. Akkarat is blaming the white shirts.” He looks at them all. “It is beginning.”

Pak Eng and Laughing Chan and Peter all look at Hock Seng with respect. “You were right.”

Hock Seng nods impatiently. “I learn.”

The storm is gathering. The megodonts must do battle. It is their fate. The power sharing of the last coup could never last. The beasts must clash and one will establish final dominance. Hock Seng murmurs a prayer to his ancestors that he will come out of this maelstrom alive.

Laughing Chan stands. “I guess we’ll have to earn this bodyguard money after all.”

Hock Seng nods seriously. “It will not be pretty, not for anyone who is not prepared.”

Pak Eng begins pumping his spring gun. “It reminds me of Penang.”

“Not this time,” Hock Seng says. “This time, we are ready.” He waves to them. “Come. It’s time we saw to whatever else we can—”

A banging on the door makes them all straighten.

“Hock Seng! Hock Seng!” A hysterical voice, more pounding from outside.

“It’s Lao Gu.” Hock Seng pulls open the door and Lao Gu stumbles in.

“They’ve taken Mr. Lake. The foreign devil and all his friends.”

Hock Seng stares at the rickshaw man. “The white shirts are moving against him?”

“No. The Trade Ministry. I saw Akkarat himself do the deed.”

Hock Seng frowns. “It makes no sense.”

Lao Gu shoves a flier into his hands. “It’s the windup. The one that he kept bringing to his flat. She’s the one that killed the Somdet Chaopraya.”

Hock Seng reads quickly. Nods to himself. “You’re sure about this windup creature? Our foreign devil was working with an assassin?”

“I only know what it says on the whisper sheet, but that’s the heechy-keechy for sure, from the way it describes her. He brought her from Ploenchit many times. Let her sleep there, even.”

“Is it a problem?” Laughing Chan asks.

“No.” Hock Seng shakes his head, allows himself a smile. He goes and digs a ring of keys out from under his mattress. “An opportunity. A better one than I expected.” He turns to them all. “We won’t be hiding here after all.”

“No?”

Hock Seng grins. “There’s one last place we must go before we depart the city. One last thing to collect. Something from my old offices. Gather up the weapons.”

To his credit, Laughing Chan does not question. Simply nods and holsters his pistols, slings a machete across his back. The rest do the same. Together, they file out through the door. Hock Seng closes it behind him.

Hock Seng jogs down the alley after his people, the keys to the factory jingling in his hand. For the first time in a long time, fate moves in his favor. Now all he needs is a little luck and a little more time.

Up ahead, people are shouting about white shirts and the death of their Queen’s protector. Angry voices, ready for a riot. The storm is brewing. The battle pieces are being aligned. A little girl hurries past, pressing whisper sheets into each of their hands before dashing on. The political parties are already at work. Soon the godfather of the slum will have his own people down in the alleys inciting violence.

Hock Seng and his men make their way out of the squeezeways and pour out into the street. Nothing is moving. Even the freelance rickshaw men have gone to ground. A group of shopkeepers huddle around a hand-crank radio. Hock Seng waves at his men to wait, goes over to the listeners. “What news?”

A woman looks up. “National Radio says the Protector…”

“Yes, I know that. What else does it say?”

“Minister Akkarat has denounced General Pracha.”

It’s happening even faster than he expected. Hock Seng straightens and calls to Laughing Chan and the others. “Come on. We’re going to run out of time if we don’t hurry.”

As he calls to them, a huge truck comes around the corner, engine revving. It is astonishingly noisy. Exhaust trails behind it like an illegal dung fire. Dozens of hard-faced troops stare out from the back as it roars by. Hock Seng and his men duck back into the alley, coughing. Laughing Chan peers out, following the truck’s progress. “Its running on coal diesel,” he says wonderingly. “It’s the army.”

Hock Seng wonders if it is December 12 loyalists, some component of the Northeastern generals coming to aid General Pracha and retake the National Radio Tower. Or perhaps they are Akkarat’s allies, rushing to secure the sea locks or the docks or the anchor pads. Or perhaps they are simply opportunists, getting ready to take advantage of the coming chaos. Hock Seng watches as they disappear around a corner. Harbingers of the storm, regardless.

The last pedestrians are disappearing into their homes. Shop keepers are barring their storefronts from within. The clank and rattle of locks fills the street. The city knows what is going to happen.

Memories peck and swirl at Hock Seng. Alleys running thick with blood. The scent of green bamboo, smoking and burning. He reaches for the reassurance of his spring gun and machete. The city may be a jungle full of tigers, but this time he is not some little deer, running from Malaya. At last, he has learned. It is possible to prepare for chaos.

He motions to his men. “Come. This is our time.”