White Crocodile by K.T. Medina Page B

months by then and he didn’t know him any better than the first day they’d met.
    Got the cork jammed in too tight , was what Johnny said about Luke.
    Alex had turned then, and gone back to the Land Cruiser; found the second sign that they’d left on the passenger seat and shoved it in his bag, so that they would only put one up.
    Luke, drunk, out of control. Johnny, laughing and laughing.
    Midnight. He should have knocked it on the head then: tossed the bottle of Johnnie Walker in the bin, had a shower, tried to get a grip. But he hadn’t. Instead he’d headed straight to the Bamboo Train to grab a pizza and shoot some pool with Vannak, the restaurant’s owner and one of Battambang’s characters, who always had good stories to tell, none of them tethered in reality. The rest of the evening – morning – spent at Paradise Night Club, sinking Johnnie Walker and chatting up the bar girls, who were sweet and beautiful and tempting, and would do pretty much anything for a price, but that was one promise to himself he wasn’t breaking, irrespective of how drunk he was, and how shit he felt. He couldn’t even remember why he hadn’t just driven home, but it was probably because the hospital was only a couple of minutes on a straight road from the nightclub.
    Dawn was spreading across the sky as he climbed out of the Land Cruiser: the buildings and trees in the hospital courtyard diverging in the gathering light. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the tailgate. He was apprehensive, he realised, and that realisation caused a twinge of guilt. He didn’t want Johnny to be conscious – couldn’t yet face the overwhelming devastation Johnny would feel once cognisant of his injuries – knew that he would enter that hospital building only out of a sense of obligation, rather than a desire to see his friend.
    The lights from the common room behind him lit his way as he walked towards the dark hospital building. He stepped on to the veranda. Deserted. As he reached for the door, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye: someone was standing in the shadows at the far end. The figure’s head tilted to follow his movements. Unhurriedly, Alex opened the door. In the reflection from the glass, he saw a shadow flit between the posts holding up the veranda roof and approach from behind. Footsteps coming. He paused with the open door clasped in his left hand and counted slowly to three. With his right, he reached for the Browning tucked into the front of his belt. Letting go of the door, he spun around, reaching out in one smooth movement with his left hand, catching the figure by the neck, dragging him sideways, slamming him against the wall and thrusting the muzzle of the Browning into his cheek.
    ‘Were you waiting for me?’
    Alex’s captive tried to free himself. But he was tiny, much smaller than Alex, and after a few moments of futile squirming he gave up.
    Slowly, Alex’s vision grew accustomed to the half-light. A skinny young Khmer boy stared up at him, winded and shocked. His ruined hands were clamped defensively in front of him; Alex glanced down, saw the stumps of fingers, gnarled skin, withered thumbs, and recognition dawned. He let go quickly, stepping back.
    ‘Ret S’Mai,’ he managed. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry.’
    Ret S’Mai remained rigidly against the wall, as if still held there. He reminded Alex absurdly of one of those old-fashioned china dolls he used to see in the posh shops of Sarajevo before the town was trashed in the conflict – almost unreal.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Alex repeated. ‘I didn’t know it was you. I’m just jumpy at the moment.’ Looking down, he realised his hand, still gripping the Browning, was shaking. Shoving the gun back into his belt, he pulled his shirt over it. ‘Did you want to talk to me?’
    ‘Yuh.’ There was a thin, shrill tone in Ret S’Mai’s voice.
    Reaching out, Alex touched his shoulder. Ret S’Mai jerked his head up. Alex almost took a step back: the