Where There's Smoke by Black Inc. Page A

with exertion but steely, the set of his jaw exuberant.
    I turned, breathing heavily, towards the voice. Under the high moon, the river was a trough of light and it was difficult to see behind it. Then I saw. There were two black shapes in the shine. In the darkness opposite there were three more shapes. I soon recognised their voices – the three elder Ngos. They spat and swore into the river.
    â€˜Who are they?’ I asked, pointing to the two black heads bobbing next to each other. ‘Is that Baby’s ex?’
    Thuan nodded. ‘And his brother.’
    The two of them seemed to roll and ride over each other on the same spot of river. Every now and then an arm would flail up. Their occasional cries made no sense.
    â€˜They’re pissed as,’ I said.
    â€˜Swim over here,’ Hai sang out. ‘I dare you, come on.’
    â€˜Jesus,’ I said. ‘He’s got a fucking samurai sword.’
    Instinctively I turned to Thuan and saw, for the first time, his fist gripping a meat cleaver. Looking more closely, I noticed his pants gashed above one knee. His sock beneath that knee was discoloured by blood; on his other foot the sock was white. My lungs filled with air.
    â€˜Please,’ one of the swimmers beseeched. His voice was low and shaky.
    Then, as though they’d just made us out, the two of them began to splash their way towards our bank. My brother looked on impassively. A mist was beginning to settle over the water and the faster swimmer side-stroked awkwardly beneath it.
    â€˜That’s him,’ my brother murmured.
    The swimmer came closer. His mouth was wild above and below the water, his eyes blinking non-stop. Vapour sputtering from between his teeth.
    â€˜Please,’ he croaked.
    I watched my brother for weakness.
    â€˜He can’t swim. My brother can’t swim.’
    â€˜Don’t come any closer,’ Thuan said. ‘You had your chance.’
    â€˜Fuck him up,’ Hai shouted from the other bank.
    â€˜What chance? Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh fuck.’
    The icy water weighted his clothes, forcing him to kick hard to stay afloat. Behind him, his brother moved more erratically. I could hear him hyperventilating loudly.
    â€˜Please,’ Baby’s ex said. ‘Please, he can’t swim. He’s got asthma. Please, it’s enough.’
    My brother shook his head.
    â€˜She’s not worth it, man. Oh God.’
    My brother looked at him again, paying new attention. He murmured, ‘You don’t talk about Baby.’
    Baby’s ex started moaning. He swallowed some water, thrashed around for a moment. Then, lifting his face and staring directly at us, he kicked in our direction, desperately dragging his body to one of the beams supporting the walking path. He clutched the edge, then tried to lift himself up, his eyes wild and goggly. As soon as I saw him close up – the thick, straight hair, the snub face and buck teeth – I knew him, and I knew that I hated him. Jeers and catcalls wafted over through the mist. Thuan kicked at him but Baby’s ex grabbed his ankle. My brother tried to stomp him with his other leg but it was the injured one, and Baby’s ex clung on fiercely, fixedly. Hopping in a weird dance, my brother took a handful of his wet hair in one hand, raised the meat cleaver in the other. He looked at it. Then he looked at me and there was an odd new uncertainty in his expression. I drank in that look. It fed my heart roar, my blood rapids. I was filled with strange rage and I wanted to be as big as my feeling. I accepted the meat cleaver from my brother’s outstretched hand, fell down in a swift crouch, the ground rearing up at my shins, and felt my arm go back and then forward, the blade biting into the wet jacket, and when Baby’s ex released my brother’s foot and hung on to the path’s edge, I worked the blade at his fingers until they too let go.
    They drifted, in a weakening,