Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater

man, he tried to kill him with a hammer, the last hammer in the village. Tep hit the man in the face, again and again, but he would not die. Tep began to sweat. Maier stood next to Tep. He was sweating as much. He was witness. He couldn’t stop a thing. The younger daughter stood a little to the side. She wore her hair short and like the rest of her insignificant family, wore black pyjamas. She was a product of Angkar and had grown up in a children’s commune. She hardly knew her father. She was a child of Angkar.
    â€œWhat is your name?” Tep smiled gently at the girl.
    â€œMy name is Kaley.”
    â€œYour father is an enemy of Angkar, Kaley. He works for the CIA.”
    The girl smiled and looked down at the broken man, who lay beside her, breathing in hard spasms. Tep handed the hammer to the girl. She might have been twelve years old. After she’d done as ordered, he shouted for his men to cut the man open and devour his liver.
    The older girl had run and reached the edge of the forest beyond the paddy fields. Maier was also running. The teenager had left her younger sister behind, a daughter who had stayed next to the father she had just killed. Maier looked back across his shoulder.
    Tep’s men were queuing up to rob the little sister of her innocence, life and liver. Some had leathery wings and hovered above their victim like attack helicopters. Flap-flap-flap-flap.  
    A white spider, as tall as a house, appeared on the edge of the village. The men shrank back and made a tight circle around the girl and her dying father. The white spider moved slowly towards the circle. It did not hesitate, it just took its time. Maier ran on, his mind locked in terror. He no longer dared to turn. The fire rolled across the family, the village and the land. Maier’s tears were not sufficient to put out the flames.
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    â€œMaier, are you crying in your sleep? Have you missed me that much or did you go soft back home in Deutschland?”
The morning breeze ran coolly across his sweat-soaked back and he crept deeper into the arms of the girl who’d become a woman. Carissa lifted her head, her white hair alive like the tufts of the Medusa.

 
    SELF-DEFENCE
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    Pete’s hair looked more fiercely red in bright, merciless daylight than it had in the damp flickers of the Cambodian night. It didn’t look natural. The Englishman was just devouring his very English breakfast at the Pink Turtle, a pavement restaurant on Sisowath Quay – scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, toast and grilled tomatoes, all of it swimming in a half centimetre of fat.
    Despite the previous evening’s shooting and a royal hangover, the dive shop owner was in a good mood. A can of Angkor Beer sat sweating next to his delectable culinary choice.
    â€œSo this French guy walks into a bank the other day. The newest bank in town. Just opened. Air-con and all. And he walks up to the cashier and pulls out a shooter. There are three security guys in this bank, armed with pump actions. But they don’t know what to do, they’re so fucking surprised. A barang robbing a bank? How mad is that? But then the French geezer makes a mistake. As the cashier hands him a bag full of dollars, he puts his gun down on the counter. He just lost it for a sec. That’s when they jump him. It’s just too easy. Fucking prick’s in jail, looking at twenty. Had gambling debts and they threatened to cut his girl’s throat, only she was in on it. Great Scambodian fairy tale, so fucking typical.”
    Carissa ordered two coffees. Pete was on a roll.
    â€œThe dive business is going good, mate, it really is. We have great dive sites a half hour from the beach by long-tail boat. Our customers get to see turtles and reef sharks, and there’s plenty of titan trigger fish and large barracuda out there. As long as they don’t overdo the dynamite. But I’m an optimist. We’re searching for new