Part 18 (1/2)

They ran into the birdhouse. People were standing everywhere obliterating their view. It was difficult to manoeuvre around the crowd. A sudden movement at the other exit caught their eye. They pushed through the crowd and ran in pursuit. They ran outside, the bright sunlight temporarily blinding them. A sudden stillness seemed to descend on the scene. It was surreal: people moving, laughing and enjoying themselves. Timothy was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 38.

Timothy lay limp in Ahmad's arms. His head lolled like a rag doll. Ahmad ran from the birdhouse. People turned to stare at the little boy, his neck seemingly out of control as his head flopped from side to side on the man's shoulder.

”Dia sakit! He is ill!” Ahmad explained without breaking his speed. ”Nak pergi hospital! Orang jahat ikut kita. We need to go to a hospital. Bad people are following us. They did this to my son.”

They made way for him, even as they saw Mark and An Mei emerged from the birdhouse. When they saw the desperate face of the young woman and white man, they were torn as to whom they should believe, but the instinct of self-preservation, of not wanting to be involved, prevailed. The child was without doubt not a European they thought. He looked more akin to the man carrying him. So they kept silent and went about their enjoyment as though they saw nothing and in that precious vital few seconds, Ahmad was able to get safely away to the waiting car.

”Drive on,” Ahmad instructed the driver, pus.h.i.+ng Timothy to one side of the seat and covering the little boy with the blanket he had used during the previous night's vigil when he had sat in the car outside Nelly's house.

Taken by surprise, and frightened, the driver looked uneasily at his rear mirror. He caught Ahmad staring at him. Ahmad snarled, his lips drawn back to reveal his teeth. ”Cepat! Quick!”

The driver stepped on the accelerator, sure that something bad had happened, something even worst than he had antic.i.p.ated when he was co-opted into the previous night's watch. He could smell chloroform. He glanced nervously again at the rear mirror and caught the grin of delight on his master's face. He had been driving Ahmad to Singapore almost every month in the past two years and had been sworn to keep the trips a secret. He had no problem doing that. Within a year, he knew all the main underground gambling dens in the island like the back of his hand. He did not care if Ahmad was infringing the rules that he so frequently expounded and preached to others: the evil of gambling. He was paid well for his duties. His duty was to drive and to keep quiet, but kidnapping! That was another matter. What else could it be but kidnapping? He asked himself even as he drove back to his master's house; a house that he was sworn not to tell to anyone about, a house that had to be kept a secret from all.

The car swerved into a yard hemmed in by tall trees and bushes. A bungalow, a bleak functional square building with Bitter-Sweet Harvest 275 shutters drawn tight, stood in the middle of it. There was an air of neglect about the compound and the bungalow. The ground was littered with fallen twigs and brown, spotted leaves tinged in places with yellow and khaki green like a diseased membrane. They blew and swirled in the wind before settling in little heaps only, at the next gust of wind, to be blown to settle elsewhere.

Ahmad threw open the car door and carried Timothy into the bungalow and into a bedroom at the back of it. He laid the little boy on a bed. Despite the dimness of the room, he drew the curtains tight as an extra precaution. After one impatient glance round the room, he closed the bedroom door behind him, turning the key in the lock and pocketing it. He turned to fix his eye on his driver.

”Aquino,” he said, ”you have been with me for the past three years. Have I treated you well?”

”Yes, sir. Very well.”

”I would like you to keep this between us. You will be well rewarded. Remember, I can send you back to where you came from very easily. You do remember don't you?”

Aquino's mouth went dry. He remembered very vividly; the miserable boat journey across the rough South China Sea from Mindanao in the Philippines, battling against the monsoon as the boat tossed and heaved while he clung to his mother and siblings. The horror of seeing his family vanish, swallowed up by the churning waves. He had stayed afloat in the sea for days before ending in the confinement of a refugee camp. He s.h.i.+vered as he recalled his suffering at the hands of the guards and other immigrants. He could feel their hands on him, even after three years. ”Please sir. Don't send me back. I will do as you say.”

Ahmad swept his eyes over him, a gesture so dismissive that Aquino cringed with shame over his own helplessness.

”Keep guard outside. I will rest now. Make yourself something to eat, but I want you at hand,” said Ahmad waving him away. Once Aquino left the room, Ahmad sat down on an armchair. He sat still for a long time, occasionally tugging violently at his beard as if to remind him of pain.

”My poor Shalimar,” he said quietly to himself. It was all the fault of that b.i.t.c.h, he thought.

Again an insane rage rose inside him when he thought of An Mei. Even though they had managed to get rid of her, she continued to dominate their lives. ”b.i.t.c.h!” he said aloud. He had thought that Shalimar had won Hussein over when he divorced An Mei but, if she had, it was short-lived. Poor Shalimar. He had alternately threatened, cajoled and pushed her to win over Hussein. Little did he expect her to fall in love with him. His face grew thunderous when he recalled her suffering at Hussein's indifference.

He sighed. Shalimar was always weak, even as a little girl. Even so, he did not expect her to die in such circ.u.mstances; die while trying to bring a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child to the world; and spoiling everything in the process. Ahmad smashed his hand hard against the armrest. He was furious, furious with his sister for her stupidity, with her lover who got her pregnant, with Hussein who rejected her, and most of all with An Mei who he blamed for Shalimar's failure to win over Hussein. Following his sister's death, his position in Hussein's household had weakened. Hussein had told him in no uncertain terms that he would not be paying him the retainer Ahmad had thought was his right. And he desperately needed that source of income because the dowry from Shalimar had long been spent to meet his gambling debts.

”So what now?” he asked himself. He had not thought it through when he made the impulsive decision to take the boy. Instinctively, he knew that he could make use of the boy to further himself. He thought of Faridah and her sorrow at the demise of what she had thought was her grandchild. She would probably pay for the boy if he could prove that he was Hussein's child. He had little doubt that the child was Hussein's; he was his spitting image. But it was anger and rage, the desire to punish An Mei that drove him to take the boy. He wanted to make her suffer just as he had suffered as a consequence of Shalimar's death. His mind was filled with plans. He got up and went to the drinks cupboard and took out a gla.s.s tumbler. He poured himself a brandy; inhaled its deep aroma with appreciation before downing it in one gulp.

”Arak! Alcohol! Forbidden pleasures and so much more pleasurable because of it,” he muttered to himself as he poured yet another shot of the brandy into his gla.s.s. He walked back to the armchair, sat down and placed both legs on the coffee table before him. He nursed the drink in his hands, his mind plotting his next steps, his facial expression ever changing, reflecting his thoughts.

Chapter 39.

Some eight kilometres away, in a police station, An Mei sat with Mark and Nelly on a long bench that lined one side of a white wall. A policeman in a blue Dacron uniform had directed them to it.

”Wait,” he had said before turning on his heels and disappearing into the inner sanctum of the police station. Beyond that single word, he had said little else to them.

An Mei sat cradling her head in her hands. Mark placed his arm around her shoulder and she looked up; her eyes were ringed with fatigue, exhaustion and despair. He kissed her forehead. From the other end of the bench, Nelly looked on. She opened her mouth to speak but could not find words to express what she felt. She blamed herself. Timothy's happy saunter away from her to the sand pit replayed in her mind. If only she had not been distracted ... to say any more would just add to everyone's pain. So they sat waiting. They waited and waited. Minutes ticked by as the slow hand of bureaucracy ground onward. Policemen ambled by; each Bitter-Sweet Harvest 279 time a door opened, they jumped, half-rising in readiness to be invited in only to discover it was still not their turn. Unable to stand the wait any longer, An Mei stood up and walked up and down the corridor. Frustration, despair and panic took hold of her in turn. Mark sat by and watched her, helpless.

Time continued to tick by, oppressive in its slowness. Mark felt his utter sense of helplessness multiply. Finally, a door opened and a policeman appeared. ”We are ready for you now. Come with me.”

”How did it go?” asked Jane. She stood aside to let her mother Nelly, Mark and An Mei enter the house. ”Come, let's go into the sitting room. I have laid out some tea and sandwiches. You have to eat something to keep up your strength.” She bustled ahead to lead the way, a baby in her arms.

No one spoke. An Mei sat next to Mark, her face glum. He placed his arm around her and she buried her face in his chest. He could feel a surge of hot tears on his s.h.i.+rt. Her m.u.f.fled sobs tore at his heart.

”We can't tell you how it went,” he said. ”They took down our details and we wrote a report of the incident. We answered their questions, but we do not have any idea of how it went, or how it will go. It was all very frustrating.”

”Did they shed any light on what they intend to do?” Jane asked.

”No,” replied Mark, ”they said they would do their best and I believe them. It is not good publicity for their growing tourist industry. But what does their best amount to?”

An Mei struggled to a sitting position. ”The only lead is that blue Mercedes. I just feel in my bones that it has something to do with this,” she said. ”And I told the policeman. I wanted also to tell them of my suspicion. I suspect that the long hand of Hussein and his family is involved. I cannot believe that it is a coincidence that someone would choose to take my son out of the hundreds of children in the park.”

”And did you tell them?” asked Jane.

An Mei looked at Mark. ”I didn't,” she replied, her eyes full of guilt. ”I didn't in case I was wrong; for if I was wrong, then telling the police would alert Hussein and my former-in-laws to the existence of Tim.”

She rubbed furiously at her swollen eyes with the back of her hands, not caring about her streaming nose. ”I didn't know what to do. Have I done right?”

”If Hussein and his family are as important as you say, then accusing them without any real evidence is not likely to go down well with the police. We did have one good piece of luck. Remember the little boy, the one who saw Tim being bundled a way? Nelly had the presence of mind to ask him for his name when An Mei and I were busy giving chase. His parents also gave Nelly their address. He would be an important witness; he could identify the kidnapper. His details are with the police now.”

”Well! That is important. We can't do much now, so why don't you take An Mei up for a rest. You both look absolutely washed out.” Jane placed a hand gently on An Mei's cheeks. ”Rest, please rest and you will see things clearer.” She was making her way out of the room, when, suddenly, she turned. She looked guiltily at her friend and her hand flew to her mouth.

”I forgot. How could I?” she exclaimed. ”An envelope, without any postage mark, was pushed through the post box just before you came back. It is addressed to you,” she said to An Mei. ”I meant to hand it you immediately but...” She rummaged through the pile of letters at the sideboard and handed An Mei a crumpled brown envelope.

With trembling hands, An Mei took the envelope. She tore it open. A solitary piece of paper was in it. On it was written in block capital letters: I KNOW!

Faridah held the phone to her ear. Joy, surprise and triumph mingled in her face. Her eyes sparkled with wonder. Her bosom heaved with excitement. She spoke little except for the intermittent exclamations of ”Yes! Wonderful! Insha Allah!” She returned the phone to its cradle and stood absolutely still. Then she walked quickly towards her husband's office, her beaded slippers slapping on the floor in her haste. A servant followed. She waved her away and pushed open the door without knocking.

”Rahim!” she exclaimed from the doorway, ”Ahmad called.”

”And?” he asked, laconically. Seated behind a desk and holding a newspaper, he had not bothered to look up. She slipped into the room and closed the door. She looked at her husband, triumphant.

”He said that An Mei bore Hussein a son who she has kept hidden from us. The little boy is a spitting image of Hussein.”

Rahim lowered his paper abruptly. The pages crackled and fell on his lap. He did not reply straight away. His face was thoughtful. Then he shook his head in doubt.