Seven Bullets by Matthew Hattersley

Author:Matthew Hattersley [Hattersley, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boom Boom Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 26

Vinh could sense Acid’s intense gaze on him even though he had his back to her. Despite this, he kept his cool. Busied himself positioning, and then repositioning, the jug of coffee percolating on the stove top. Once that distraction became tiring he moved to the small cupboard above the counter and took down two white china cups. He padded over to the table and put one down in front of his guest and the other at the place opposite. He stepped back a moment, then leaned over and twisted his own cup around so the handle faced the opposite way. After which he returned to the stove.

“Come on, Vinh.” Acid sighed. “Spill the beans.”

He removed the now-whistling coffee jug and carried it over to the table. Picking up each cup in turn, Acid’s and then his own, he poured out the coffee. All the while trying to ignore the palpable impatience and curiosity projected his way. He sat. Took a sip of coffee. It tasted good. Not as strong as he sometimes made, but welcome.

“What do you want to know?” he asked softly.

She leaned over to him. “You can start by telling me how an English teacher takes out a guy armed with a couple of Katana blades. That was bloody impressive.”

Vinh fought a smile. “Tanto blades. Smaller.”

“Semantics. Stop messing around.”

He placed his cup down and moved his chair so he was nearer to her. Then he rolled up his shirt sleeve to show her the tattoo. A star in a circle, surrounded by a laurel wreath.

“You think you’re the only one here with a past?” he told her. “I wasn’t always a teacher.” He traced his finger over the Vietnamese words under the main design. “These words say, ‘Determined to win’. The motto of the People’s Army of Vietnam.”

“I bloody knew it when we shook hands yesterday," she said. "Teacher's hands aren’t usually so rough. I figured some sort of handiwork at first.”

“No, these are hands of war.” Vinh brought them up inches from his face, staring into his palms. “I served with the army from the age of seventeen until I was forty-five. I was involved in many wars. Against China. Against Cambodia. You may have heard these wars referred to as conflicts. But they were not, they were wars. Many men died. My friends, but not me. I killed many. I have much blood on my hands but no regrets. So you see, Acid, we’re not too different, you and me.”

She raised one eyebrow. “So why leave the service? Why become a teacher?”

He took a deep breath, to be able to say what he rarely spoke of. “I was a good soldier. Loyal, brave. After serving for so long they allowed me a month’s leave, to spend time with my family. I’d arranged for us to go on a day trip. To Ho Chi Minh City. District One. The area some still call ‘Sai Gon’. My son was young, excitable. He saw something across the street and ran out without looking.

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