The Son by Marc Santailler Page B

fury. I rolled over, and the chair which had been lying on me fell off with a clatter. Painfully I sat up. My eyes had puffed up, all I could see were two slits of light, and there was a thumping in my head.
    Later I pulled myself up, bending over to ease the pain in my side. I was cold and my legs were starting to seize up. I fumbled my way to the wall and switched on the light. The room was a shambles, and my office next door wasn’t much better. Everything that could be moved had been upended, the filing cabinet lay on its side, the records I’d spent the afternoon sorting out lay strewn about on the floor. Even the screen of Viv’s PC had been smashed in. Only the pot plant on the window-sill had been spared, but the jug had been thrown at the wall and water had soaked into the carpet.
    I tried to go to the washroom outside but had to sit down again. There was no way I could make it home on my own. I thought of who I could ring: Vivien, Quang, or Hao? There was really only one person I wanted to see.
    Dimly I groped for the phone with my good hand. The plug had been ripped from its socket and it took another bout of groping to put it back in. By some miracle it still worked. I rang her number. After ringing it all day it was burnt into my brain. After a long while one of the cousins answered.
    â€˜Hurro?’
    For some reason when they said hello it always sounded ‘hurro’.
    â€˜Who that? What you want?’
    â€˜Hao,’ I managed to say, between a gargle and a croak. My mouth was swollen, I had difficulty moving my lips. ‘Please. I must speak with Hao. Mrs Tran. Urgent. It’s Paul Quinn. Very urgent.’
    â€˜She in bed. Already late. She leave tomorrow.’ He sounded angry. I had no idea of the time.
    â€˜Please. I must speak with her. Emergency.’
    Oh God, I thought. Let her answer, let her come to the phone, let her not be too angry with me for waking her up on her last night here. I need you, Hao.
    â€˜Wait!’
    I waited, for what seemed an age. Finally she came to the phone.
    â€˜Paul? Is that you?’ Her voice was cold and distant. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
    â€˜Sorry. Can’t tell,’ I mumbled. My watch was broken, the hands stuck on nine.
    â€˜It’s after ten! What do you want? You really shouldn’t have gone to see Eric last night! I’ve spent all day calming him down.’
    â€˜Explain later. I need help.’
    I felt myself slipping.
    â€˜Are you drunk?’ I heard the disbelief in her voice.
    â€˜No! Not drunk! Hurt. I need your help, Hao! Please! No choice. I can’t move.’
    Something in my voice must have got through. She was silent for a second or two, then when she spoke again it was in a different tone.
    â€˜Where are you?’
    â€˜My office. Can you come? Please? Just you. No one else. Take a taxi. I’ll pay.’
    She was a practical woman. When she realised I couldn’t talk much she asked no more questions, simply said she’d come at once. I had to stop her before she set off, to give her the code to the street door downstairs – otherwise she wouldn’t get in.
    While waiting I tried to clean up the mess. I managed to close the venetian blinds – I didn’t want curious looks from across the street the next morning – but moving about was too painful, and after righting a couple of chairs I turned the lights out and sat down again on the floor. I wanted to sleep. But I forced myself to think.
    There had been three of them. Three dark shapes, their faces covered in scarves or handkerchiefs, dimly glimpsed in Vivien’s darkened office before they struck me down. I wouldn’t be able to identify them, but I knew by their shape and their way of walking that they were Vietnamese, and the accent in those words had left no doubt. Perhaps one of the young men at Eric’s house had been among them. They must have come in earlier, before the front