The Edge Of Darkness

4. Into the Heart of Darkness-2

The old man had got up. Pete threw him a few clunky chunks of Khmer. The son had also stood up, showing off the pistol in the belt of his low-slung ghetto pants. The older man bowed slightly.

“My name is Tep. I am number one in Kep. My friends call me Tep.”

Maier couldn’t imagine that this man had friends. The handshake was soft and moist, like creeping death.

Maier extrapolated a little – the man had Khmer Rouge and g******e written all over his face. Had some of the old comrades of the politburo, those who had survived the vagaries of history, become investors? Was that the price of peace?

The younger man with the g*n didn’t introduce himself, but that was OK.

Tep smiled silently at Maier. The sonic sins of a Britney Spears song hung suspended between the two men, creating a strange, cheap, disposable mood. What was a man like that doing in a place like this? Tep should have died in the jungle a long time ago.

“I run a few businesses in Kep. I can help you if you need anything in Kep. Come to visit on my island. And bring your girlfriend.”

The old man’s English was simple and barely understandable. Carissa pulled at Maier’s sleeve, as the detective tried to look as uninformed as possible.

“Beer?”

Pete had already ordered five cans of Angkor Beer and banged them on the table. Tep sat back down, a shadow of irritation shooting across his face, and turned to Carissa. The antipodean journalist was waiting for him.

“Aren’t you a former Khmer Rouge general? Aren’t you the guy who blew up the Hotel International in Sihanoukville? Perhaps you remember, a tourist from New Zealand died in that attack, General Tep?”

For a split second, the old man’s eyes burst into flames.

Pete laughed nervously, “Wow, Carissa, babe, Carissa, we aren’t here to reheat old rumours, are we? It’s great to see you, babe.”

Pete, Maier decided, was capable of balancing a tray full of landmines, which was just as well in this place, at this moment.

Tep didn’t get a chance to answer. A young Khmer with a shaved head, dressed in an immaculate white silk suit, dead drunk and sporting a slight similarity to the bust of the god-king, had pulled his g*n at the next table. A flat-footed tourist had just stepped on his brand-new, imported Nikes. Enraged the young Khmer had spilt his beer onto a row of green pills he’d lined up in front of him, which he now tried to rescue from the ash-sodden slop on his table directly into his mouth. The hapless tourist had already disappeared into the throng.

There’ll be trouble in a minute, was the only thought that came to Maier’s mind.

The bald playboy swallowed his last pills and got up to scan the crowd for a likely scapegoat who was going to pay, one way or another, for someone else’s clumsiness. Someone would have to pay. With a theatrical gesture he whipped his g*n from his belt and waved it around the room.

Sometimes things happened quickly. The skinhead climbed onto his chair and began to scream hysterically. Tep nodded to his son and turned to Maier, “Don’t make any problems in Kep. Investors are welcome, snoops and stupid people are not. You see.”

The first shot, the one to drive up the courage, went straight into the ceiling. The Heart stopped in its tracks. The DJ cut the music. The house-lights flashed on, illuminating a hundred twisted, strung-out faces in mid-flight. Carissa grabbed for Maier’s shoulder and pulled him to the sticky ground. Pete had already vanished. Punters rushed for the exit. The old general made no effort to move. His son got up and slunk behind the rebel in the white suit who stood on his chair, turning around and around, levelling his g*n towards the surrounding tables.

Pop, pop, pop

The tourists screamed in panic. The playboy skinhead was dead by the time he hit the table in front of Maier, which collapsed in a hail of bottles, cans and cigarette butts.

Tep’s son had shot him in the back.

That’s how easy it was to die in Cambodia.

The boy helped his father get up and made a path for the old man to get behind the bar.

“Follow them.” Maier grabbed Carissa, “There must be another exit.”

The muggy night air felt good after the two beers Maier shouldn’t have drunk and a murder he hadn’t wanted to witness. But outside there was only Cambodia. Shots rang down the street. Car windows smashed. A small g**g of motodops raced down Rue Pasteur, into the darkness. Girls screamed. Saturday night in Phnom Penh.

“So, this is the most popular nightclub in the country,” he said, more to himself than anyone around him.

The windows of the police station that stood hidden behind a high wall directly opposite the Heart, remained dark, despite the gunfire. No policeman who earned twenty dollars a month would get involved in this weekend orgy of adolescent violence unless there was extra money to be made. The situation would eventually bleed itself to death.

The general pulled his polo shirt straight and stared down the road, an expression of faint amusement on his flat features. The old man didn’t seem overly concerned about his son’s state of mind, after the youngster had just killed a man in cold blood in front of several hundred witnesses.

“Thanks, Mr. Tep, your son saved our lives.”

The general looked at Maier, his eyes fixed and devoid of message.

“Kep is a quiet town. You can relax. Come and visit on my island. Ask local fishermen how to get to my villa on Koh Tonsay. Germans always welcome. And forget what happen here tonight.”

His car pulled up.

Carissa had freed her 250 from the chaos of parked bikes in front of the Heart and Maier lost no time jumping on the back. A few seconds later, they crossed Norodom Boulevard.

“f*****g hell, Maier, as soon as you turn up, the bullets start flying. The article I’m going to write about this tomorrow will be sensational. Son of former KR general shoots son of oil executive in Cambodia’s most cosmo nightclub. That’ll make waves. You’ll have to drink beer without me tomorrow.”

“I don’t like beer.”