Zero Days, page 13
Tun Zaw asked a nurse for Doctor Shwe, and she pointed to a door at the top of a cracked staircase. The door opened before they reached it and a middle-aged man stepped out.
‘Doctor Shwe?’ said Tun Zaw.
The man looked over, slightly startled.
Tun Zaw handed him the letter, which the doctor read. Taking his time. He glanced at Drayton, but quickly looked away. He began talking in Burmese, which Tun Zaw translated.
‘He says Doctor Shwe isn’t here.’
‘So when will he be back?’
‘He says he doesn’t know. Maybe he won’t be coming back.’
Then Drayton pointed to the name tag on the doctor’s coat. It said ‘Doctor Ko Shwe,’ and it was in English. The doctor spoke a few more words in Burmese. Rapid, nervous words. Then he went back into the office, Doctor Shwe’s name on the door, which he locked behind him.
‘He says if we don’t leave he’ll call hospital security.’
Tun Zaw suggested a change of strategy. One that didn’t include Drayton. He asked the American to leave, to let him make some enquiries on his own, saying he’d meet him at a coffee shop across the road, by the market.
Tun Zaw joined him there after half an hour. ‘You shouldn’t think badly of the doctors. They’re frightened.’
‘Of what?’
‘The military ran Burma for a long time. It’s hard to shake off the fear, especially for older people. Answering the wrong question. Having opinions. That could get you into trouble. And talking to foreigners. That could be dangerous too. Many worry that the recent changes are not so real.’
‘So what did you learn?’
‘He says he knows nothing about the autopsy.’
‘And the body?’
‘The body was sent to a temple. I have the name. It’s close by.’
‘Why did they send it to the temple?’
‘It was what his family wanted.’
‘But I am his family, for fuck’s sake. I mean, I represent his family.’
Tun Zaw just shrugged. ‘We can talk to the monks.’
This temple was more modern, a compound containing a small, scruffy office block and several pavilion-like buildings. The compound was empty, the monks escaping the early afternoon heat. A few dogs lay around. One of them stood, though it seemed a struggle. It looked at Drayton, growled and then barked half-heartedly before slumping back down, scratching itself and going back to sleep.
‘This monk remembers the professor,’ said Tun Zaw, emerging from the office block accompanied by a tall monk wearing a flowing and slightly soiled saffron robe. ‘He dealt with the body.’
‘That’s great. Fantastic,’ said Drayton, feeling a surge of relief. Progress at last. ‘Where’s the body?’
They followed the monk to a raised pavilion, where they climbed to a platform surrounded by a small fence, with a solid-looking cylindrical structure in the centre of it. The structure had a metal table in front, hard up against a big metal hatch.
It looked like a pizza oven.
‘That’s where they cremated him,’ said Tun Zaw.
‘They cremated him?’ said Drayton. ‘Why?’
‘Because he was dead,’ said Tun Zaw. As if it was obvious.
Drayton took a deep breath and ran a hand through his thick hair, his face reddening with anger and frustration, which he was struggling to contain. He kicked at a dog that had followed them to the platform. It yelped and retreated back down the steps.
The monk spoke some more, Tun Zaw translating, saying the ashes had been scattered in the Irrawaddy River. All as the family wanted. He turned back towards the steps.
‘Wait, wait,’ said Drayton. ‘I am the family. I am the fucking family. Or as close as you’re gonna get. Ask him about the professor’s belongings. What happened to them?’
The monk spoke some more in Burmese.
‘He says there was a case and a backpack.’
‘And?’
The monk nodded towards the furnace that looked like a pizza oven, then went back down the steps.
‘But there must be paperwork,’ Drayton shouted after him.
The monk just kept walking, back to his office block, not looking behind him.
Drayton slumped against the small fence. Then he saw the monk again, standing in the shadows close to the entrance to the compound. He was waving some papers.
Drayton and Tun Zaw ran across the yard, and the monk gave the papers to Tun Zaw. They were in Burmese. Tun Zaw talked some more with the monk, and then said to Drayton that it had been a simple Buddhist ceremony. As the family wanted. That ten monks had been involved and it took them twenty minutes.
‘And?’ said Drayton, getting impatient again. ‘Who authorised it? What does the paper say? What is it?’
‘It’s the bill. Four hundred dollars. For the coffin and the cremation. The family never paid.’
*****
Drayton just wanted to crawl away into some dark corner. Or else find a wall to bang his head against. Tun Zaw suggested lunch, and they bumped back along the pot-holed road into old Bagan. Racing against the rain as dense black clouds advanced from beyond the temples.
Tun Zaw chose a small restaurant in the shadow of another big red-brick temple opposite a small guest house, set slightly back from the street. It was dark and damp, around a dozen wooden tables under a thatched roof, from which hung red decorative umbrellas. The walls were of bamboo, and two big, industrial fans creaked and hummed near a bar.
The place seemed popular with travellers, since most tables were taken by young westerners. Tun Zaw ordered soups and vegetables. Local specialities, he said. Drayton said he needed the bathroom, but stopped before reaching it. Stopped dead in his tracks, staring at a noticeboard covered in photographs.
‘It was a great night,’ said a young Australian, who introduced himself as the new owner. He said the pictures were from their opening party, a couple of months ago, and he began pointing things out for Drayton. A band that was awesome. Dancers that were phenomenal. And the booze. Man, what a night.
But Drayton was focussed on just one picture. In the foreground was a young traveller, standing and downing an enormous jug of beer, but behind him, almost out of frame, was somebody else. She was sitting alone at a laptop, and the photo caught her looking up ever so slightly, the flash lighting up her blue eyes. But most striking of all was her hair, shaved on one side, long on the other. And purple.
As Drayton bent closer to the photo, the Australian followed his gaze. ‘Someone you know?’
‘Is she a regular?’ said Drayton.
‘She used to come from time to time. Striking looking chick, yeah? Just sat there in the corner working mostly, on her computer. But not for a while now. Why?’
‘Well, you see, she’s my daughter,’ said Drayton. ‘We were travelling together, but had a bit of an argument. Big falling out actually. You know how these things can be?’
The Australian nodded, like he knew where Drayton was coming from.
‘I’ve been trying to find her. You know, patch things up.’
Tun Zaw had now joined them. ‘Your daughter? You never told me. She doesn’t look like you.’
‘She’s got her mother’s looks.’
The Australian said he’d ask around, and would get his Burmese staff to do the same. It was a small town. Somebody might know where she’d gone. Drayton said he really appreciated that, and gave his number, Tun Zaw’s as well. If anybody knew anything about the girl, they might feel more comfortable telling him. That was one thing he’d learned from the morning.
Tun Zaw dropped Drayton back at his hotel, where he called room service and ordered a beer, the Mandalay brew with the temple on the label – ‘The coldest in your fridge, please.’ A server brought a lukewarm bottle with a glass of ice. But it was still the most welcome temple he’d seen since he arrived in Bagan. He fell asleep before he finished, a deep sleep. He wasn’t sure for how long, but was woken by the ringing of the hotel phone, reception telling him there was somebody waiting to see him, and that it was urgent.
It was Tun Zaw, looking excited, telling Drayton he’d found somebody who might be able to help him find his daughter. Across the muddy road in front of the hotel stood a cart tethered to two large white bullocks with enormous humps. An elderly man wearing a big straw hat was crouched behind them. He glanced at Drayton and then tapped the bullocks with a whip-like stick, urging them forward. The cart began to move.
Tun Zaw fetched his motorbike.
‘Get on,’ he said. ‘The old man wants us to follow him.’
*****
The old man didn’t make a lot of sense, at least not at first. He didn’t get down from his cart. Just sat there buried under his big hat. He spoke in short mumbled bursts, punctuated by the grunts and snorts of his bullocks. Even Tun Zaw struggled to understand him.
Drayton and Tun Zaw had followed him out of town and down a narrow path to the bank of the Irrawaddy River, where they stopped next to the remains of three small temples and two white bell-shaped stupas, which sat on a raised piece of ground beside the path. The temples had been badly damaged by the earthquake, and a pack of dogs scrapped amid scattered heaps of red bricks.
‘The old man says it happened a couple of months ago,’ said Tun Zaw, translating. ‘He was on his way back from his field, when he passed two people standing at the edge of the path. It was dark, and he didn’t see them clearly. As he passed, there was a scream and somebody fell in front of his cart. There was a loud bang. Really loud. His bullocks went crazy and bolted down the riverbank.’
The old man pointed into the distance.
‘He was way, way down there before he could bring them under control,’ Tun Zaw said.
Drayton slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his neck and kicked at a dog that had come sniffing around his boots. His attention was starting to drift. The old man’s story didn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Then Tun Zaw said, ‘It was only when he came back that he found your daughter. She was in a bad way, losing a lot of blood.’
Drayton took a couple of steps closer. ‘Go on,’ he said, now a good deal more interested.
‘He says that after he calmed his animals he came back to look for some bags that had fallen off his cart. Tools and things like that. That’s when he found the girl, lying by the edge of the path, semi-conscious and covered in mud and blood. It was a struggle, but he managed to lift her onto his cart and took her back to his village. His neighbour, the village doctor, treated her. She refused to be taken to hospital.’
Drayton asked about her wounds, and the old man said they were mostly superficial. She’d been lucky. She had some nasty cuts. An arm and thigh had been grazed by bullets. It was messy, but not serious.
‘After two weeks she was able to leave,’ said Tun Zaw, still translating.
‘Who else knows about the girl?’ Drayton asked.
‘Just a handful of people in the village. She never said much, and they never asked her what happened. It was better that way. They decided to tell nobody.’
Drayton felt the old man’s caution and fear. The paranoia that still existed in a country only beginning to emerge from a dark past. Only this time he was grateful for it.
‘He says the girl appeared to be worried, agitated at times.’
‘Why’s that?’
There was a lot of back and forth between the old man and Tun Zaw, as if he was struggling to find the words. Then he raised his hands and made like he was playing a piano. Or maybe at a keyboard.
‘Something about a computer?’ Drayton said.
And Tun Zaw, said, ‘Yes, yes. That’s what he’s trying to say. Your daughter was upset because she’d lost her computer.’
‘Where did she go?’ said Drayton.
The old man spoke a few more words, waving his arm towards the river this time.
‘Mandalay,’ said Tun Zaw. ‘She took a boat to Mandalay.’
Then the old man turned to Drayton, the first time he’d addressed him directly.
‘He says he hopes you find your daughter. That she was a nice person. He says she has a good heart,’ said Tun Zaw.
Then he tapped his bullocks with a long stick and the cart’s wooden wheels creaked and began to roll, the cart lurching forward and back along the path, the humps of the bullocks swaying in unison.
Drayton began to descend the steep, muddy bank. It was a long shot. She most likely lost her computer here, running. Trying to stay alive. Maybe it was swept away by the river. Or taken by those trying to kill her.
It was dusk, and the light was fading fast. He used the torch on his smartphone to guide him towards the river, but kept slipping, grabbing at scraggy bushes. The river grew louder, rushing below him. The mud became deeper and he fell, sliding towards the water’s edge. He managed to hook his arm around the trunk of what used to be a tree, but had mostly been swept away. It protruded from the mud like the thick arm of a man being sucked under. He hauled himself back up, then began to pick his way slowly back towards the path above.
He slumped to his knees at the top, covered in mud and breathing heavily. Exhausted. Relieved to be away from the river, but angry with himself for being so stupid as to go down there.
Tun Zaw sat beside him. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ he asked. He was holding a dark and muddy plastic-like case. It was about the size of a laptop. He said he’d found the case near the top of the bank, trapped under a bush and half buried by mud.
Drayton was too exhausted to speak. He wiped the mud from his hands, and opened the case, which was secured by two clips. It was one of those cases designed to take knocks and a bit of water. But after several weeks? Mud and water had seeped inside, but not as much as he’d feared. When he tried to turn it on, it didn’t respond. He closed the case and pulled himself painfully to his feet.
‘And Mr Chuck,’ said Tun Zaw. ‘I’ve checked the boats. There’s one leaving tonight. For Mandalay.’
*****
What Tun Zaw didn’t tell Drayton was that the boat to Mandalay had been waiting for two days, sheltering nearby in a bend of the river, the water too high and the current too strong for it to attempt to moor at the small port that served Bagan. That afternoon, the water level eased slightly, and the captain managed to tether his boat to Bagan’s rickety wooden pier. He was desperate to leave before the river surged again, ripping him from his mooring.
Drayton had just enough time to write a message for the Berlin Group email account, keeping it brief, sparing the detail. He said he’d located Dmitry and found the office of Digital Futures, but the place had shut down. ‘Met a Grom and a Ghoul in a bar beneath, and I think a Phreak, Bubblegum and a Tox had been there too. Neo even, though I can’t be sure. Now up-country, heading to Mandalay on a tip-off, to try and locate the hacker called Punch. Will tell you more when I can.’ He saved it to the drafts folder along with a copy of Dmitry’s application form from the Yangon International Business Club.
He never mentioned Cullen.
It took a while for Drayton to spot the boat, since it sat so low in the water, a dark brooding shadow, straining at its ropes. Tun Zaw helped him across the muddy quagmire of a path to the pier, over a narrow wooden gangplank, and onto the slippery deck.
‘I hope you find your daughter,’ Tun Zaw said. ‘Family’s important.’
Drayton offered a hundred dollars towards the computer course. The Burmese boy refused the money, saying it was the least he could do, to help Drayton, to help the professor, who was a good man. And anyway, five hundred would be better. Drayton gave him three.
‘Keep in touch,’ Drayton said. ‘Tell me if you learn more, then maybe I can help some more.’
The boat described itself as the Irrawaddy Super-Deluxe Express. It spluttered to life, then struggled to get up to speed, straining as it fought against the current. The sky was low and dark, without moon or stars. The water was pitch-black, just one vast empty expanse. Drayton could see no other traffic. The only light came from beyond the distant bank, where thick storm clouds flickered with lightning, the thunder drowned out by the boat’s thumping, straining engine.
He was one of only three passengers, the others a pair of young European backpackers who’d gone ethnic, with plaited hair and local dress. They sat on the fading canvas seats of an airless passenger compartment that reeked of oil and stale tobacco, holding each other close.
Drayton remained on deck, where a young Burmese boy stood beside him, looking up from a game he was playing on his cell phone. He name was Zeya and he told Drayton the boat was taking the safest course, hugging the shore, where there was less current. He said the shifting sand banks made the Irrawaddy especially treacherous at this time of year. That, and the wrecks. There were a lot of wrecks. But he said his father, the captain, knew the river well.
Drayton glanced at the captain. He was on his smartphone, scrolling with his left hand, while resting his right on top of the wheel, looking up from time to time, making small adjustments to the wheel and then returning to the phone. The boat was a family business. Zeya’s mother was sitting on a tall stool beside her husband. She was playing on her phone too, some game that made lots of pinging sounds. A sister was sleeping, her phone still in her hand.
‘We’re the only boat making the journey at this time of year, and we don’t get too many passengers,’ Zeya said, which came as no great surprise to Drayton. Drayton asked about Punch, showing Zeya the photograph on his cell phone, but thinking it was still a bit of a long shot.
The boy smiled. ‘Sure. Hard to forget. Looking like that.’
He said she looked like a character out of one of his video games. ‘She borrowed my phone. To play some games, since she’d lost her own. The scores she got. She was incredible.’
‘I can believe that,’ said Drayton. ‘She’s always been good on computers.’
They passed beneath a metal bridge, so wide that Drayton couldn’t see where it ended on the far shore. The near side was dotted with the silhouettes of yet more temples. Temples and cell phone towers. Both reaching to the heavens. Drayton pointed to a particularly tall bell-shaped pagoda, towering over their boat. ‘I guess they bring a bit of spiritual comfort during these rainy months.’
