Rush (12 page)

Above me, Michaud is shouting into the street. I hear him and refuse to turn back. ‘
Hey! Somebody stop that man! He's a wanted criminal.
'

I'm dragging my ankle behind me and holding my sprained wrist to my chest. There are no taxis but there's a bus pulling into a stop on the other side of the street. I forget what street I'm in and don't know where I want to go. In Phnom Penh the streets are named by numbers. Odd numbered streets run east to west. Even numbered streets run north to south.

The traffic in this street is chaos. I limp into the fray and rush for the bus, and I'm nearly collected by a motorcycle, then a pink Cadillac. Horns blare at me and I tell them to shut up, and I'm fingering the gun in my jacket pocket. I'm definitely twitchy. The camera here is shaky, like a warzone documentary shot on video.

The doors to the bus are closing and I use my hand, the one that's already useless, to stop them from falling shut. The driver looks down to me like I'm some kind of irritant. I give him my best smile and stumble up the stairs and into the bus. There are maybe thirty people seated.

The air inside this bus is fetid and thick with heat.

I go to find a seat and the driver calls out to me because I haven't paid. I've forgotten. I have every intention of pulling some money from my jacket, I do. But I guess my other hand is still clutching the gun, which is what I pull free. The driver sees me and then people scream.

At first it doesn't even register with me, and then I realise I'm hijacking this bus.

With a shrug, I wave the gun and give in. I can't think of anything to say, so I settle with, ‘Everybody remain calm.'

I point the gun at the driver and I say, ‘Drive. Drive the goddamn bus, let's go.'

This is the best way to attract attention you don't really need, hijacking a bus. I take my gun to the driver and press it against the base of his neck. He's shivering, despite the heat. I have to cough to clear my throat, and say, ‘Stay off your radio. You understand me? Stay off the radio.'

He nods that he understands.

What I need is to get out of the country.

What I need is to get to a hospital; my ankle is beginning to feel broken.

What I need is to think, but I can't do that with all of this screaming and commotion around me. I'd fire a warning shot, but what these people don't know is that there are no bullets in the gun. The bullets are floating around somewhere in one of the pockets of my jacket, and I can hear them jingling like a set of keys when I move. I'm wondering now if there are thirty bullets.

These people are cowering in terror and some of them are crying. I scream, ‘
Shut up!
'

The bus is ignoring most of the road rules, dodging traffic and rushing through crowded intersections. Horns are blaring at us and the driver honks right back at them. If he weren't so afraid for his life, I'd almost think he was having a good time.

I look around the bus at thirty pairs of frightened eyes. These are elderly folk and teenagers and young mothers with their children. I say, ‘Don't anybody be a hero.'

I say, ‘Stay cool and nobody gets hurt.'

I say, ‘You keep this bus above fifty!'

I've forgotten to tell the driver where I want to go, and he doesn't seem to care. He seems to know what he's doing, and I'm content with that so long as he doesn't drive me to a police station. There's a map of the city posted next to the mirror above the driver, but it doesn't do me any good because I don't know what street we're in.

I'm looking through the back window of the bus to make sure we're not being followed. I will my free hand, the one on the arm that's been half dead and hanging limp at my side, to light me a cigarette. I'm shaking. If it weren't for the testosterone, the adrenaline, surging through my system, I'd be on the verge of collapse. I'd be ready to turn myself in, hand myself over to the consulate. With this tumour ticking away inside my skull, I will plead insanity, even though I don't believe it.

Standing in the aisle of the bus, cruising through downtown Phnom Penh, aiming an unloaded weapon at nobody in particular, I take a lengthy draw on my cigarette and say, ‘Does anybody know how to play Russian roulette?'

This is like the last twenty minutes of
Dirty Harry
when the horoscope killer hijacks the school bus. Only at the end of the movie, sorry to spoil it for you, Callahan puts a bullet in the baddie. In this scenario I'm the bad guy. And I don't intend to let anybody put a bullet in me.

I receive a busload of empty stares.

We're in a street lined with dirty factories and there's a lot of smoke in the air. I order the driver to slow down. The traffic has thinned here, and we haven't been followed by police, which is some kind of miracle. I'm at the front of the bus with my gun jammed into the driver, and I tell him to stop right here, this will do. I don't feel comfortable being on this bus any longer. The door hisses open.

The passengers are getting anxious.

I point the gun at a pregnant girl riding in the front seat. She's really terrified, clutching her handbag above her bulbous belly. Her big brown eyes remind me of a dog. I'm assuming this girl knows some English, because there are two books on the seat beside her and I can read the covers. She's a student of some kind.

I say, ‘You, get up.' I motion with the gun to show her what I want.

She doesn't want to get out of the seat, but I can't be sure if she's frightened or just stubborn.

I tell her, ‘You speak English? You can understand what I'm telling you. I don't want to drag you out by your hair, bitch.'

‘Don' take me,' she begs. ‘I'm pregnan'. Don' take me. Please?'

I point the gun at an elderly man across the aisle, and I tell the girl, ‘If you don't get out of your seat, I am going to kill this man.'

She struggles with the weight of her pregnant belly as she gets out of the seat. I grab her by the arm and pull, and she lets out a little yelp before I shove her into the aisle and walk behind her with the gun pressed into her spine. I say, ‘Walk.'

We descend the steps and then we're out on the street, and I turn to the driver, wave the gun in his direction, and I say, ‘Go. Take the bus away.'

The bus tears out of there faster than I'd have thought it could handle, but I'm not paying so much attention because I've grabbed the girl and I'm pulling her along the empty street. It's a long tracking shot, me with an arm around her neck and the gun pressed into her back, stumbling along the street like drunken dancers locked in an embrace.

I can smell her hair as I whisper in her ear, ‘I'm not going to shoot you. I don't want to hurt you. But if you don't cooperate, I'll make damn sure your baby doesn't come to term. You got it?'

She nods, her head brushing up and down against me.

I say, ‘Tell me that you understand. I want to hear it.'

She says, ‘I unnersand.'

‘I need to get out of the country,' I tell her.

‘Then why you stop bus here?' she's asking me.

I shrug. ‘I don't know. There didn't seem to be many bystanders.'

‘This Takhmau dis'ric',' she says.

That name doesn't mean shit to me. Because of the way I'm holding the girl I can't reach my cigarettes, and I ask her, ‘Do me a favour. Reach into my jacket pocket here, the one on the left. Grab that pack of cigarettes and the lighter and light me a cigarette.'

She says, ‘I'm pregnan'. You ligh' yo' own cig're.'

I jam the gun into her back. She winces. I say, ‘Shut up and light the cigarette.'

She complies, fumbling in my pocket. When the cigarette is lit I pop it between my lips using the arm wrapped about her neck.

I tell her, ‘The best thing your baby can do is die in the womb.'

We walk awkwardly along the street, taking steps at different angles, her pregnant body heavy against me. I'm sweating and dealing with a headache like I've never had before. I'm barely capable of thinking my actions through anymore. My body is burning up around me fast and each step on my swelling ankle is agony.

We stop outside a phone booth and I tell her to stand perfectly still, not to make a move. ‘Stay close,' I say. I flip through the phone book with one eye on her, looking for the number of my hotel. The girl looks around like she's considering escape, and I keep the gun on her with one hand. My fingertips on the other are smudged with ink from the phone book.

‘So,' I say, turning pages, ‘are you a student?'

She nods.

‘Yeah, I thought as much. So, are you married? I don't see a ring.'

She shakes her head. ‘No marry.'

I raise an eyebrow but she doesn't see this. I ask her if she has a pen. She fumbles in her bag and hands one to me. I circle the number of my hotel on the phone book, pocket the pen. With one hand I load change into the phone, and with the other I tap her on the side of the belly with the gun, and she flinches protectively. I say, ‘So where's the father?'

She tells me she doesn't know. He split.

I say that's too bad, and dial the number for my hotel, ask to be put through to my room. I imagine by now it's pretty much a secret agent convention up there.

A voice I'm unfamiliar with answers and I say, ‘Don't speak. Just listen.'

‘Who is this?' the voice asks me.

I pinch the cigarette out from my lips and raise my voice. ‘I said don't speak. Listen. I've got a pregnant woman here and I'll shoot her if I have to, I swear to fucking God I will.'

The voice calmly asks me, ‘What happened to the bus? Is everybody okay?'

I tell the voice, ‘The people on the bus are fine. Don't worry about them, worry about me. Worry about this pregnant bitch, why don't you?' I'm turning to the girl, I'm going to tell her to say something into the phone, to beg for her life, to tell them that I have a gun, something. But she's gone, I don't know where. I took my eyes off her for thirty seconds. It's a shame because I was beginning to like her.

There is nobody visible on the street I'm in.

I'm wondering, just for a moment, if there ever was a pregnant girl, but that's crazy.

The voice at the other end of the line is asking me what I want and I'm muttering, ‘Fuck.'

The voice is asking, ‘Are you there? Hello? What is it you want?'

I say, ‘I'll call you back.' I hang up, tearing out the page from the phone book, and then I run, before the pregnant girl can find a cop. I run like a spastic, my wounded ankle dragging behind me.

This street is empty like a ghost town and it gives me the creeps now that I'm alone. The gun is safely in the pocket of my jacket, concealed. I feel like there are eyes on me from the empty warehouse windows looming over the street. Sounds of traffic float in the air from blocks away, and a lone car turns onto the street at the end of this block, heading toward me.

There's a vacant lot encased in a wire fence, brown weeds growing rampant within. The car passes me without slowing. I pause to catch my breath and finish my cigarette.

On the next block I limp into a phone booth, pushing an elderly woman out of my way. She cries out as she falls to the ground. I'd kick her, if I had the time.

Back at my hotel room a new voice answers the phone. I clear my throat and say, ‘I want safe passage out of the country. No bullshit.'

The voice is saying, ‘Excuse me? Who is this?'

I say, ‘Who the fuck is
this
?'

The voice tells me, ‘I think you have the wrong number.'

I'm telling the voice the name of the hotel, and my room number.

The voice says, ‘Yes, that's the right number. But I think you've been given the wrong information. Whoever you're looking for isn't here, I'm sorry.' And then the bastard has the audacity to hang up on me.

I redial the same number that I circled on the page and I say, ‘I'll start shooting people, you bastard.'

Whoever is on the other end of the line, some new voice, some new creep, says to me, ‘You start shooting innocent Cambodian citizens and you'll never leave a cell in this country when they finally catch up with you.'

I speak very slowly. ‘I want immunity.'

‘Hard luck,' the voice replies.

‘I let the pregnant girl go.'

‘Good. That's a start. Now where are you?'

‘I wouldn't tell you, even if I knew.' I'm standing in the phone booth and I decide to start loading bullets into the gun with the earpiece pressed against my shoulder.

‘You're making this unnecessarily difficult, Mr Hayes.'

‘I can make it more difficult, if you like.' I'm sliding the second bullet into the next chamber and watching passersby on the street; they pay no attention to me. ‘I'm going to hang up and call you back later.'

As they're telling me on the other end that I should wait and talk this through, I hang up. It's time to get moving again. I've seen enough movies about fugitives to know you never stay in the one place for too long, and you always keep your phone calls short.

On the next block I limp into another phone booth. I flip through the book searching for Pochentong Airport. I can't find it. It's not in the English language section of the book. I'm cursing and I lean out of the booth and tap a young man on the shoulder as he walks by. He turns to me. I say, ‘English? You speak English?'

He gives me a vague shrug. I wave him away.

I lift the receiver and put it to my ear. I dial zero and hope I get an operator. Somebody starts jabbering in the earpiece. I say, ‘English, I need somebody who speaks English.'

More jabbering.

I say, ‘Fuck. English. Speak
English
.'

They don't understand a word I'm saying. Feebly I ask, ‘Pochentong Airport?'