The Son Read Online Free Page A

plotting to get back what they couldn’t hold on to in the first place.’
    â€˜We lost the war, Mr Quinn. For a number of reasons, some beyond our control, and I don’t much admire the Americans for the way they let us down in the end. But we lost it. What hope is there to reconquer anything now? It can’t lead to anything. Eric is too good for that, there’s too much talent and promise in him to waste himself that way.’
    She took a long breath, and sat back in her chair.
    â€˜To be honest, I don’t know if they’re thugs or militant anti-communists or just insecure kids playing at grown-ups in a world they don’t understand. But now they’re talking about a large demonstration, some sort of action against a visiting Vietnamese official. I’m frightened. It sounds violent. That’s why I’ve come to you. I don’t want Eric to be mixed up in that kind of world, Mr Quinn. And I don’t know what to do about it.’

    She stopped, and in the silence that followed a rush of memories tumbled into my mind: of David, the last time I’d seen him, his poor mangled features barely recognisable as I held a handkerchief to my nose to keep from gagging, before they closed the lid on his coffin. The local area commander I’d questioned, down to a skinny patrol sergeant and the last outpost he’d checked at before his death. A radiator hose, they’d mentioned, confirmed by a quick inspection of the wreck, a nervous embassy driver at my side. For greater anonymity David had rented a car in Saigon, to avoid using his own – with its diplomatic plates – and he had paid the price. It was clear enough how he’d died. I was beginning to understand why.
    There was Hien too, that pale dim memory, fragile as a ghost. David had failed her, by getting himself stupidly killed, and I had failed her too, through not understanding the depth of her need and her despair. No wonder she had been so desperate to leave, carrying his child, and felt so rejected. Perhaps this was a way to make amends.
    Mrs Tran sat quietly watching me. She looked exhausted, almost gaunt, as if her story had taken too much out of her, yet beautiful still, even desirable in her anguish. Careful, I thought. This was neither the time nor the place. But I couldn’t help feeling a surge of excitement at the way this beautiful, tragic woman had reappeared in my life. It was a long time since I’d had anything to do with Vietnam and its diaspora of struggling, suffering exiles, but one way or another I knew I would have to help her.
    She spoke up, as if reading my thoughts.
    â€˜I know this isn’t your problem, Mr Quinn. You’ve been very patient with me. But I’ll have to go back to England soon, and if I can’t get Eric out of this situation I don’t know what I’ll do. Anything, any advice you can give me, if you can recommend anyone – I don’t have much money, but I’m quite prepared to pay for any help–’
    I held up my hand.
    â€˜That won’t be necessary Mrs Tran. I was just thinking. I still have a couple of contacts in the Vietnamese community, maybe I can find out something about that group of his. But first I’d like to meet Eric. Will he be in the restaurant tomorrow?’
    â€˜Yes, he’s usually there from twelve to three. It’s the Dai Nam, just off John Street.’
    She handed me a photo, of a youth, in jeans and a check shirt too big for him, clowning with a friend in a backyard. Two wings of thick dark hair framing a high forehead, a boyish grin, a strong jaw, the eyes staring at the camera as if issuing a challenge. A handsome face, not yet a man’s, but with toughness in it. Intelligence too.
    â€˜He doesn’t look very Asian,’ I said. ‘In fact he doesn’t even look Eurasian, except for the eyes.’
    â€˜People sometimes think he’s Italian. Apart from his hair he takes