The Windup Girl(71)

She hesitates. Her fear is obvious. "Is the farang near?"

Hock Seng glances at the clock on the wall. Six o'clock. "He shouldn't be here for another hour or two. He is seldom early."

"Please, if you could just come."

So this is the way it will be. He nods shortly. "Yes, of course."

He stands and crosses to her. Such a pretty girl. Of course they would send a pretty one. She looks so harmless. He scratches at his back, lifting the loose hem of his shirt and slips the knife out, holds it behind his back as he approaches. Waits until the last moment-

He grabs her hair and yanks her close. Presses the knife against her throat.

"Who sent you? The Dung Lord? White shirts? Who?"

She gasps, unable to free herself without cutting her throat. "No one!"

"Do you think I'm a fool?" He presses the knife home, breaking skin. "Who is it?"

"No one! I swear!" She is shaking with fear but Hock Seng doesn't release her.

"Is there something you wish to say? Some secret you must keep? Tell it now."

She gasps at the pressure of his blade on her neck. "No! Khun! I swear! No secret! But… But…"

"Yes?"

She sags against him. "The white shirts," she whispers. "If the white shirts find out…"

"I'm no white shirt."

"It's Kit. Kit is ill. And Srimuang. Both of them. Please. I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose the job. I don't know what to do. Please don't tell the farang. Everyone knows the farang might close the factory. Please. My family needs…Please. Please." She is sobbing now, sagging against him, begging him as if he might be her savior, mindless of the knife.

Hock Seng grimaces and pulls the knife away, suddenly feeling old. This is what it is to live in fear. To suspect thirteen-year-old girls, to think that daughter mouths intend your death. He feels sick. He can't meet her eyes. "You should have said so," he mutters gruffly. "Stupid girl. These are not matters to be coy about." He lifts his shirt and slides the knife back into its sheathe. "Show me your friends."

She carefully wipes her tears away. She is not resentful. She is adaptable as young people often are. With the crisis past, she obediently leads him out of the office.

Down on the factory floor, workers are beginning to arrive. The great doors rattle wide and sun pours into the huge hall. Dung and dust motes swirl in the light. Mai leads him through the fining room, kicking through pale dust residue and on into the cutting rooms.

Overhead, the screens of algae fill the room with the sea reek of their drying. She leads him past the cutting presses, and ducks under the line. On the other side, the algae tanks sit in silent ranks, full of salt and life. More than half of the tanks show signs of reduced production. Algae barely covers their surfaces, even though the skim should be more than four inches thick after a night without harvesting.

"There," Mai whispers, pointing. Kit and Srimuang both lie against a wall. The two men look up at Hock Seng with dull eyes. Hock Seng kneels close, but doesn't touch.

"Have they eaten together?"

"I don't think so. They are not friends."

"It couldn't be cibiscosis? Blister rust? No." He shakes his head. "I'm a stupid old man. It is neither. There is no blood on their lips."

Kit moans, tries to sit up. Hock Seng flinches away, fighting an urge to wipe his hands on his shirt. The other man, Srimuang, looks even worse.

"What was this one's responsibility?"

Mai hesitates. "I think he fed the tanks. Poured the sacks of fish meal for the algae."

Hock Seng's skin crawls. Two bodies. Lying beside the tanks that Hock Seng himself brought back to full production for the benefit of Mr. Anderson, rushing to please him. Is it coincidence? He shivers, eyeing the room from a new perspective. Overflow from the vats dampens the floor and pools near the rusting drains. Blooms of algae decorate the damp surface, feeding on left-over nutrients. Vectors everywhere, if there is something wrong with the tanks.

Hock Seng instinctively starts to wipe his hands, then stops short, skin crawling anew. The gray powders of the fining room cling to his palms, marking where he pushed the curtains aside as he passed through. He's surrounded by potential vectors. Overhead, the drying screens hang suspended, their racks filling the warehouse dimness, bank after bank, smeared with blackening skim. A drop of water falls from a screen. Spatters the floor beside his foot. And with it comes awareness of a new sound. He never heard it when the factory was full of people. But now, in this early morning quiet, it is all around: the gentle patter of rain from the screens above.

Hock Seng stands abruptly, fighting rising panic.

Don't be a fool. You don't know it is the algae. Death comes in many forms. It could be any sort of disease.

Kit's breathing is strangely ragged in the stillness, a panting bellows as his chest rises and falls.

"Do you think it is pandemic?" Mai asks.

Hock Seng glares at her. "Don't say those words! Do you wish to bring demons down on us? White shirts? If news gets out, they'll shut down the factory. We'll be starving like yellow cards."

"But-"

Outside, in the main hall, voices echo.

"Hush, child." Hock Seng motions her to silence, thinking furiously. A white shirt investigation would be disastrous. Just the excuse the foreign devil Mr. Lake would need to shut the place down, to fire Hock Seng. To send him back to the towers to starve. To die after coming so far, after coming so close.