Free The Darkest Little Room by Patrick Holland

the wind.
    â€˜Joseph.’ She spoke my name like notes of a forgotten song sung by a long-lost sister. ‘Em là cô gái anh đang tìm sao? … Am I the girl you have been looking for?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    We crossed a second bridge and she seemed to talk to the water.
    â€˜Lần sau anh gặp em … The next time you see me will be tomorrow at nightfall on the bridge near Pham Ngu Lao. It will be Friday, the day of Christ’s wounds. Then you will see what you did when you left me alone.’

13
    I sat at the cafe the next day trying to concentrate on a piece I must write on a bilateral trade deal between Vietnam and Thailand when I felt a tap on my shoulder, a thing that always annoyed me but especially given my recent habits of work. I had made two serious enemies that I knew of since arriving in Saigon – Mr Bao and that secretary to the Minister for Culture whose name I had forgotten. Both their faces and the face of the bloated manager of Club 49 flashed in my mind when I turned and saw Hönicke.
    â€˜I’ve got friends in the police force,’ I said. ‘Don’t think they won’t lock you up.’
    â€˜Just let me sit down,’ the German whimpered.
    â€˜Why are you still here? Aren’t you a travelling businessman? Or was that a lie, too?’
    â€˜Every man is a liar to some degree.’
    â€˜To what degree are you?’
    â€˜What I am does not matter. It would not interest you anyway. It rarely interests me. But what I am right now is concerned for that girl.’
    â€˜Drop that will you?’
    Hönicke ran his hand over his grey stubble and sighed. He had the eyes of a man who had not slept in twenty-four hours. The hatchet mouth of a liar. I told him so.
    â€˜But there is one thing I have not lied to you about.’
    He pulled a folded photograph from his wallet and threw it onto the table.
    I picked it up and held it in my palm, as though if I pressed too hard I might aggravate the wounds.
    â€˜The camera was in my suitcase the whole time. I had the picture printed this morning.’
    It was her. How could I mistake her for another? She was beaten and wounded as Hönicke had said … like Christ on the scourging block. Like the girl who had washed up in the dark across the bridge in Binh Thanh.
    I felt ridiculous tears come to my eyes that I was determined not to let fall in front of him.
    â€˜When was this taken?’
    â€˜I told you. Three nights ago.’
    â€˜Have you doctored this, you whoring bastard?’
    â€˜How would I do that?’
    I had seen some pretty sophisticated tampering by news photographers. The lighter the touches the more convincing the result, but after only a few significant alterations pictures began to get a pixelated, plastic look about them. The girl in the photograph was wounded all over and in three dimensions.
    â€˜Why did you pick me?’
    â€˜Why not? I am trying to get help for this girl whom I cannot help. For a variety of reasons, I cannot help her. But you–’
    Relief came to Hönicke’s face now that he had passed on the photograph; as though he had been relieved of the weight of a sin.
    I held up my phone and pretended to answer a call and snapped a photograph of Hönicke in order to show it to Thuy.
    â€˜Excuse me,’ I said, for through the camera lens I had seen Zhuan come into the cafe. He approached our table and Hönicke frowned nervously and left just as soon as he saw I meant to talk to this man.
    â€˜Who is your friend?’
    â€˜No one. A tourist.’
    Zhuan sat down and ordered Pernod and said we must talk theatre: about a new troupe of water puppeteers he had discovered.
    â€˜Flying dragons, dancing girls, wily tigers … We must go!’
    â€˜But not tonight, Zhuan.’
    He saw the concern in my face. He lit a cigarette.
    â€˜You’re not in trouble are you?’
    â€˜No. Only very