The man took a wad of money from his pocket and handed it to the whiskey drinker. Then he eyed Mya again, eyebrows raised. ‘Can you swim?’ he asked her.
She shook her head, thinking nothing could ever match the horror of the Yangon massacre or the minefield crossing. Or at least that’s what she’d thought earlier. Now she wasn’t so sure.
‘Don’t worry,’ the man said. ‘As pretty as you are, there’ll be no shortage of men prepared to rescue you should you fall in the river crossing into Thailand.’
7
Mae Sot, Thailand.
Mya sat on her bed at the Snake Skin, knees tucked up to her chin.
A banging on the door, and it burst open, ending her memories. Billy J swaggered in spouting his American DVD talk. ‘Easy money tonight, girl, puttin’ in bed time doin’ nuttin’. You got ten minute ta get Gaga back on da payroll. Any questions?’
Payroll: an advanced word for him. ‘No – no questions, Billy J.’
‘Din get yar motor runnin’.’
Motor running too. Almost eloquent (today’s new word for Mya). He’d been spending extra time with his DVDs and MP3 player.
Part Two
8
Karen State, Myanmar. Close to the Thai border and Mae Sot.
Its mottled brown head appeared first, forked tongue flicking below its snout. It came out from under the tree’s exposed roots and moved over dead leaves until it found a pool of sunlight. There it lay, still and flat.
The sunlight got stronger, the viper absorbing the heat until it sensed an object approaching. It coiled and raised its head, tongue flicking again.
The object formed, grew suddenly tall, moved into its light. The viper lunged and struck, then reared back. Sound vibrations: high-pitched in front, thrashing bush from behind. Its head wavering, the viper swung around and targeted a shimmering blade of silver. But the blade flashed down, striking first.
***
John woke no longer shivering. He looked around for Phoe Ni, but there was only his sleeping mat. He looked down his body at his right leg swathed thigh to toes in poultice bandage, thinking, I’m not dead yet. Local antidote must be working. He stared up at the camouflage sheet over him, thankful for his two metres of living space.
With nothing to occupy him, memories of home flooded back. First-year uni holidays. Central highlands. No Maccas, kiosks, meet-for-coffee culture up there. More concerning, no toilets either. Dad dropping him, his bike and gear off in Hamilton, then climbing the Lyell Highway to Tarraleah. After that his choice which hydro road to follow, which lake to fish in, though he favoured that flat run into Lake King William. Two nights there usually enough. Then back to the highway, turn right. Just over an hour the first time, less each time after that, free-wheeling back down to Ouse; the cars, campervans and log trucks passing him only marginally faster. Start using the brakes a kilometre out or he’d blow past Dad and sometimes Ella, sometimes Nick, waiting for him. From Ouse half an hour until debriefing time on the deck, Dad reliving his own highland memories, barbie heating up, stubbies, tinkle of their guitars merging into Dad’s sixties and seventies songs. By second-year uni he knew every back road in the highlands and revisited them in his Suzuki Sierra custom-made for a single driver, passenger seat dog, gear in the back, a kayak riding the roof.
He stared at a patch of sunlight forming on the camouflage sheet, watching it grow. In his mind a circle of candlelight, Lina lifting her head from the pillow and shaking out her hair. Like in that old Kristofferson song his Dad taught him. He whispered it: taking the ribbon from her hair, letting it fall, lying down by his side, helping him make it through the night.
A mossie buzzed his ear. He pictured its sensors and scaly wings working, on the same sweaty-skin approach as all the others before it, and just as blood-hungry. Ah, there it was, touching down on the back of his hand. ‘Are you female, Anopheles and a malaria carrier?’ he asked it. ‘You’re big and black, so I think you must be.’
‘Go.’ He waved his hand and the mossie rose in the air. Moments later the mossie landed on his other hand.
Just his thoughts now: I’m watching you, Anopheles. Find a blood vessel. That’s it. Inject your anticoagulant and malaria parasites. That’s it. Your abdomen filling now, you must find my blood and viper venom to your liking. Hopefully you’ll soon drop dead from your gluttony. But if you don’t, I know this, big, black Anopheles, what you inject and take out will no longer harm me, though it will others you feed on later – poor bastards. You see my liver and blood are already full of parasites, my world reduced to staggering outside to relieve myself, to sips of water and spoonfuls of rice, to your buzzing friends and pain from my snakebite, the headaches, fever and shaking.
But the worst of it was that little girl shot in the stomach, and with nothing left to ease her pain, her moaning and crying just metres away.
John listened for the girl, but couldn’t hear her now.
His eyes grew heavy. He dozed and woke, hand itching. You’re still with me, aren’t you, Anopheles? Congratulating yourself for leaving your mark, and of course your parasites to settle in with all the others. Enjoy your remaining weeks on earth you miserable destroyer of lives. I hope someone rips your bloody wings and legs off, slowly, one at a time, before squashing you flat.
A bony dog rushed in and nosed John’s poultice bandage like it was a fresh bone. Seconds later, a woman entered and grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck.
‘Phoe Ni?’ John asked.
In Karen, ‘Tatmadaw6 close. He go see.’ She dragged the dog back outside.
John lay there, dozing, and woke to people shouting. Moments later came the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons echoing off nearby hills. He watched the flap, wondering who would come in next. Phoe Ni? Karen fighters? Tatmadaw?
Sunlight spread over the tent. It got hotter. Sweat dripped off him.
The little girl started crying and his thoughts turned to death: hers, his. In song he was at heaven’s door again.
Strange how those ancient, dad-taught songs occupied his head now. Bob Dylan; his old sheriff shot down, dying and knock, knock, knockin’ to get in.
He doubted he’d be knockin’. Not after upstairs reviewed his church attendance. So what would happen to his body? Cremated? Or left to rot, the Tatmadaw encircling his remains with landmines to blow up the unwary? Or wrapped in a shroud and wedged between the boughs of a tree for vultures to feed on? It all depended on who came into the tent next.
He waited, his eyelids growing heavy again. Lunacy. At the crossroads of life and death, love and an international singing career, and he couldn’t even keep his eyes open.
He was outside, transformed into a Garuda, creature of the sky, preparing to ride the wind. He ran, spread his wings and rose into the air flying over a battle zone, its flattened trees, a village burning, smoke rising up to meet him. He gained altitude, soaring over a winding river and tree-covered mountains, the Thai border and Mae Sot. He banked right and sped over the green plains of Thailand, its white sand beaches then the silvery blue of the Indian Ocean, its coral islands scattered beneath him, their bays and inlets gleaming like opals. On and on he went towards Australia, Tasmania and home.
9
Gretna, Tasmania.
The valley blazed, flames leaping up and coming his way fast.
Embers blew past. Fireballs landed, igniting the ground, searing his throat, sucking the breath from his lungs.
‘Stay with me!’