Part 19 (1/2)

”Who will kill you? Speak to me. How do you know about Tim? Where is he?” Mark bellowed.

”Shhh! Quiet! Quiet please. I come alone. I am Ahmad's driver.”

Mark stood silent. ”Ahmad!” he repeated. It began to fall in place. It was just as An Mei had believed. No, not quite! She had thought that Hussein was behind this. Was he also involved? He wondered. There was no time to waste.

”Tell me, where is Tim?”

”No! No! Unless you promise you help me get away, find job, have money.”

”You tell me, you lead me to Tim first. We should go to the police with this.”

Aquino took two steps back; with a speed that took Mark by surprise, he ran. He vaulted over the fence that separated the dirt track from the road that ran parallel to it, and continued to run. His legs pumped; his head swirled back to look anxiously at his pursuer. Mark ran after him; his legs flying across the path; he by-pa.s.sed the fence and cut across the field that separated the path from the road. Aquino thought he had lost Mark. He could see the tall gra.s.s move and sway, but there was no sign of Mark. He slowed down to a stand still and leaned over his legs, holding on to his knees, gasping for breath. Mark sprinted forward bringing to bear his years of training as a runner when he was at college, and caught hold of Aquino. Breathing hard, he held on to him.

”Now why don't you tell me everything?”

”Don't hurt me.” Aquino cried out in pain. He held on to his foot. Mark could see that it was bleeding. He relinquished his hold. Aquino shot his foot out, landing it on Mark's face, knocking him over. Mark felt an explosion of red mist; blood streamed down his nose. He bounded up, but Aquino had already sprung up and bolted. He ran, legs pummelling, back towards the path they had left. Mark followed. Aquino picked up speed; he obviously knew the area. Mark saw him disappear into an alley between the shop houses. By the time he reached it, Aquino was nowhere to be seen.

Aquino washed himself, sluicing water over himself, letting the cold water soothe the wound in his foot. Over and over, he dipped his plastic pail into the water urn, a big brown Chinese ceramic barrel that in the past had been used for storing salted eggs. It stood at waist level in the backyard of Ahmad's house; a house that served also as Aquino's lodgings when he was in Singapore. A folding canvas camp bed in the kitchen was all that he called his own. He had nowhere else to go. From a distance, he heard a clock strike. He relinquished the pail, shook his head like a dog, spraying droplets of water all round him, and rubbed himself down with a cotton sarong. He put on his uniform and sleeked down his black hair. He would have to fetch Ahmad from the casino soon. He was told to stay with the boy they call Tim until Ahmad needed him.

In the absence of his master he had taken his chance and stolen out to look for An Mei and the white man. He had wanted to warn them and also to gain their protection. Unfortunately it had all gone wrong. Why did that white man insist on bringing in the police? If only he had not made that threat, he would have brought him here. Aquino walked to the kitchen. He b.u.t.tered two slices of bread with margarine and poured out a gla.s.s of water. He laid them out carefully on the tray and carried it to Tim's room. He fished out a bunch of keys from the chest of drawers and unlocked the door. He stepped into the room as quietly as he could.

The room was stifling hot and dark. The shutters were down and the curtains drawn shut. He could see the small body curled up on the bed; the boy's chest was rising and falling rhythmically. Every so often a small groan or cry emitted from his lips, and he would thrash about as though he was trying to free himself. He saw a wet stain on the bed sheet. It seeped dark on the pale sheet, like the work of a poor artist trying to outline the contours of the boy's b.u.t.tocks on the bed. Aquino's heart went out to him. He had done what he could. He just could not free him or return him to the lady unless they promised to protect and help him. He placed the tray down on the table and shook Tim gently.

”Wake up, you please eat,” he said.

Tim groaned and buried his face into the bed.

”Please eat and drink. No food later.”

Ahmad had been furious the previous evening when he made up a tray for Tim. ”Who gave you permission to feed him? Tak payah beri nya lauk! There is no need to give him food!” He had yelled from the armchair where he was sitting. With one leg flung across the armrest he had waved Aquino away from the door. ”Pergi! Go! Get into the kitchen and stay there until I call you.”

Aquino had hastily backed into the kitchen. He had shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. He had seen how Ahmad had grown agitated and furious after his phone call. He had heard him say the words, Datin Faridah. Aquino knew who she was; a short, dumpy woman always richly clad, a person who Ahmad had visited frequently in the early days of his employment. She was Tengku Shalimar's mother-in-law. In the last couple of years or so, those visits had diminished. He had learnt from the other servants that there had been a fall out between Ahmad and his in-laws. He learnt that Hussein, the rising politician and Ahmad's brother-in-law, was the cause.

All through the night, Ahmad had walked up and down the room like a caged animal, drinking. He had seemed incensed. The conversation could not have gone well and Aquino felt that it did not bode well for the boy. He could feel it in his bones.

Aquino patted Tim on his shoulder. ”Come, sit up and drink, even if you do not want to eat.”

”I want mummy. I want daddy,” Tim whimpered, pus.h.i.+ng Aquino's hands away. Big drops of tears rolled down his cheeks.

”There, don't cry. I leave tray here. You eat, now please,” he pleaded pointing vigorously to the tray and miming actions of chewing. He knew that later in the evening when Ahmad returned, he would not be allowed to bring the boy food.

”Please hide, hide tray after finish. Under bed,” he said lifting the bed sheet to reveal the s.p.a.ce underneath. ”I go now.”

As Aquino turned and made for the door, the boy screamed. He jumped out of the bed and clung to his legs. ”No! Please stay. I want mummy. I want daddy! Take me to them.” He kicked and screamed, tearing at Aquino's clothes.

”Wait. You stay in room. Eat. I come back. I think what to do.” Reluctantly he pushed the boy away and closed and locked the door behind him. He clasped his hands to his ears in a desperate attempt to cut out Tim's screams. Tim reminded him of his young brothers. He had cared for them; they had been in his charge when his parents went to work. He had lost all of them now. He could not bear the thought that Tim might share the same fate.

The room was filled with people, old, young and the not so young. There were Chinese men and women, a few Europeans and some Malays and Indians. They were divided between two round tables, standing cheek by jowl, their attention focused on the croupiers.

The air was dense with smoke. Ahmad sat alone impervious to the fog of grey-blue cigarette fumes that reached into every corner and crevice of the room. He sat in deep concentration with his eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, jaws tight and legs crossed; one ankle resting on a thigh, the foot pointed out, the other foot jiggled and pumped in agitation. He looked so fierce that people skirted around him. Some even made it a point to cross over to the other side of the room rather than venture near him. They knew of his reputation: the man from the other side of the causeway who was not to be messed with. They were all afraid of him, except for the owner of the gambling den, Ah Cheong, so nicknamed because of his lanky body.

Ah Cheong stood in a corner of the room, one hand casually resting on the bar counter, the other hand holding a beer mug. He took a hefty sip from the mug. His eyes swept round the room and settled on the lone figure of Ahmad. The corner of his lips curled up briefly.

”Huh!” he uttered aloud before turning back to the barman. ”Pok kai! Bankrupt!” he said in Cantonese, nodding in the direction of Ahmad. ”Tell Ah Sam, our number three, to put on the squeeze. Make sure he does not leave the island without paying up. Wait until he leaves. He must not be touched in this room.”

He sauntered over to Ahmad and placed a hand on his shoulder. Ahmad could feel the strength of the grip and the menace behind it even as Ah Cheong smiled and said, ”Tak main? You are not playing?”

”Tak! Hari ini saya rehat. No! I am resting today,” replied Ahmad. He attempted a smile.

Ah Cheong punched him playfully on his shoulder.

”Jaga! Careful! You owe us,” he said with a smile that never left his face.

Ahmad knew the odds and had hoped that Faridah would pay up. It did not look like it now. He was angry and frustrated. He had placed such hopes on his phone call to Faridah. He had been so sure that she would come up with the money. Now he was not certain at all. He stared at the departing lanky figure and slammed his fist on the armrest of the chair.

”You will pay for this Hussein,” he growled. He had no doubts that Hussein was behind Faridah's refusal to cough up the sum of money he had demanded. He stood up, brushed the creases off his trousers and followed after Ah Cheong.

Mark hurried back to Jane's house, running most of the way. He banged on the door. Jane let him in.

”I lost him,” cried Mark. He bent over, breathless. His s.h.i.+rt clung wet to his back. His face was red from the exertion and traces of blood stained his upper lip.

”Lost who?” she asked.

”A young man who probably would have led us to Tim.”

”Slow down. Come in. An Mei and my mum are in the sitting room.” He went into the room. An Mei was sat next to Nelly on the sofa. They could tell that something was wrong. Mark was red in the face and looked sheepish, even guilty.

”What happened?” asked An Mei, jumping up at the sight of him.

He stood before them, feeling their eyes on him as he related his tale. A surge of anguish and guilt filled him. He had failed them. He could feel the reproach in An Mei's face.

”How, how could you lose him? How could you let him go? He offered to help!” she asked.

Nelly pulled her down to the seat.

”Mind what you say. Mark did not deliberately lose him,” said Nelly.

An Mei fell back to the sofa seat. Her face was filled with anger one minute and despair the next. Frustration rose like a bitter pill. Their first lead and it had disappeared into thin air.

”You probably frightened him away,” she said, her eyes accusing him.