Shadow Play (21 page)

“Did you see anyone else around?” Maryam asked patiently.

“There were plenty of people around,” he answered grudgingly. “Dollah was around,” he said pointedly. “This musician's wife was around, his second wife was around. They all had reasons to hate him. I have none, you see.”

Maryam had considered Hassan capable of any mayhem if he put his mind to it, but he had no reason to attack Ghani. Unless, of course, he'd mistaken him for Dollah.

“Why were you at the performance?”

“To watch Dollah play.” He was suddenly wary. “To see how he was doing.”

“And …?” she prodded.

“And to try to get in his way. To leave a
jampi
under the stage so he wouldn't perform as well. To drive the audience away instead of drawing them in. All
dalang
do this, you know. You ask Dollah if he doesn't do it to me, maybe even to others! It isn't murder.”

“If they end up dead it is.”

“Why don't you look for people who wanted this guy dead? One of his wives, for instance.”

“Well, the first wife is dead.”

“Then it's the second wife,” he stated confidently. “It's always the wife, isn't it? They start hating each other and end up hating the husband. He shook his head and leaned back, satisfied he had solved the case for them.

“He didn't die because of some
dalang's
argument,” Hassan added, as though he were musing only to himself. He took another sip of coffee.

Maryam agreed, but remained suspicious of him. “You know,
Abang,”
she began in a conciliatory way, “I think you're right. I do,” she emphasized. “I don't think you really killed Ghani. But I do think you left the
jampi
under my house.”

“I did not! Why would I?”

“Why would you throw me down the steps in front of your house? Why were you so anxious to get rid of me?”

Hassan thought for a moment, as if gauging how far he could go before being caught in a lie. “I wasn't really.” He paused, but neither Maryam nor Rubiah seemed impressed. “It's just none of your business,” he said finally. “I didn't want you involved, and I was right, wasn't I?” He was now picking up steam.

“Look what's happened to me because of you!” He got out of his seat and began pacing. “This is none of your affair. I don't know Ghani, I didn't kill him, I don't think I'd recognize him if he walked in here. And you know that.” Hassan glared at her. They sat silently for a long minute or two.

“Let me tell you,” he came forward on his chair, “If it was Dollah who was found killed, then you'd at least have a right to talk to me. Not,” he added carefully, “that I would ever do anything like that. But this kid? You need to talk to someone else.”

She sat in Osman's office, now morose and clearly upset. “Well?” he asked, interested.

She shook her head. “I just don't think he did it. It doesn't make sense, does it?”

“Not really. I know he's been nasty to you, and to me too, but that's not a crime.”

She tapped her fingers on the table. “I know. And Aisha's death bothers me.”

“Of course; such a senseless loss of life.”

“No,” she shook her head. “No, it's because I can't fit her death in here at all. Why would any of the people who might have killed Ghani kill her? I don't see it.”

“Maybe she knew something,” Osman suggested. “Or saw something we haven't found out about yet.”

“Maybe I'm on the wrong track altogether,” she said distractedly.

“You feel that way because your last conversation was so unpleasant. You'll see, it will come to you later.”

She looked squarely at him. Was he speaking from experience? “I suppose so. You know, some of the other people are so much more likely.” She wondered whether she should list all her favorite suspects, pretty much covering everyone involved in any way.

“Dollah could have done it.”

“Do you think we should talk to him?”

She shook here head. “You can't do that. People will say I
destroyed
Wayang Siam
in Kelantan all on my own.”

Osman stared off to space for a short time. “Leave this to me.”

She nodded absently and stood up slowly. She was suddenly tired, unwilling to concentrate on murder. “I'll keep looking. All the suspects look promising,” she said, spouting unthinking clichés in order to take her leave.

When she was gone, Osman leaned back in his chair. He had Hassan taken back to Kampong Laut. Hassan favoured Osman with a sulphurous look as he left, and Osman had to remind himself once again that being infuriating wasn't yet a crime.

Chapter XXIII

The kids were out; Mamat was probably at the market helping Ashikin get some stock loaded. Maryam stepped out of her clothes and into her bathing
sarong
: a good bath was just what she needed. She stood in a little shed they'd built over a well in the back and began splashing bucketfuls of cool clear water over her head.

She washed her hair, washed herself, and then began the entire process over again, in an attempt to feel cleaner, maybe even purer. Now soaking wet, she put a towel around her hair and turned back towards the house.

Suddenly the geese burst into hysterical honking and scrambling. She peeked around the side of the house, and there he was, Johan. Just as she remembered him: big and square-faced and greasy-haired. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Have you no manners? Get out of here. Walking in on someone bathing, I've never heard of such a thing. Out! Get out of here.” She walked the few steps towards the house.

He was right there next to her, ignoring the geese attacking his ankles. He stood before her calmly. “
Mak Cik
, I've been thinking about this since the last time I saw you. I owe you this.” He swung his arm and punched her as hard as he could in the face. She fell flat on the ground, the pain exploding in her cheek, her jaw on fire. She tried to
take a breath to scream, but couldn't make a sound. “That's what they did to me, the police,” he hissed at her, bending over her. “If you tell them, I'll come back and kill your kids.” And then he was gone.

She lay on the ground for a few moments, in a tangled heap of
sarong
and towel, feeling blood running down her cheek, mixing with tears. She crawled up, and sat, still on the dirt of her yard, surrounded by circling geese. She was dazed, and could feel her cheek swelling. She carefully felt her teeth, to see if any were knocked out, but they were all accounted for.

I must get up, she kept telling herself, but the effort involved seemed far too much for her. I can't just sit here and wait for the kids to find me, she thought. She began crawling back towards the well. I'll just wash up, she encouraged herself; I'll just get myself back into shape. It will be fine. I won't tell the police. On that she was completely clear. She would not put her children at risk.

She dragged herself up by the low wall off the well, and slowly, painfully, began rewashing herself: her hair, her body, her injured face. Her face hurt just to touch it: her newly washed hair was now caked in mud. She's never felt so dirty. Her shoulders ached when she tried to pull up the bucket. She bent over and wept with frustration.

Mamat's motorcycle pulled around the side of the house, accompanied by shrieking geese. She couldn't remember hearing a sound which made her happier. He heard the splashing of water and looked around the back, taking in her filthy
sarong
and dirty towel and the odd way she leaned over the well.

“What happened to you?”

She turned to look at him – crying, with her face swelling larger each moment, her cheek cut, her upper lip already ballooned. He
rushed toward her.

“What happened? Tell me.”

She found it difficult to talk. “Johan. He came here. He hit me, like the police hit him. Then he said if I told them, he'd kill our kids.”

Mamat grabbed clean towels and
sarong
and helped Maryam wash off. He half carried her into the house, put her into bed, wrapped ice on her cheek and filled her with Panadol. She cried softly.

‘I'll protect you,” he told her softly. She nodded, no longer wishing to speak. “I think we should tell the police.”

“No!” she cried. “He'll kill the children. I won't take that chance!” Her words weren't too clear, but Mamat got the gist. He couldn't bear to look at her this way. “He's killed at least once,” he told Maryam, “he might kill again.”

She regarded him silently with tears in her eyes: her lip was now too swollen for her to enunciate, and it hurt to move her mouth. But she was terrified, Mamat saw that.

“Not now,
sayang.
Now you just rest. Don't even try to talk.” He sat with her until she fell asleep, ashamed that he'd failed to protect her.

Chapter XXIV

Pelandok lupakan jerat, jerat tak lupakan pelandok:
the mouse deer forgets the snare, but the snare doesn't forget the mouse deer,” Maryam told Mamat with great resignation, “Someone's trying to kill me.”

Mamat had been thinking about little else since he found Maryam on the ground behind the house. “I won't let it happen,” he soothed her. They sat together on their porch at sundown, caring for Mamat's birds. He raised
merbok
, doves famed for their beautiful singing, and he kept them in elaborate cages hung over the porch. He took them out in the evenings to feed by hand, pet them and generally spoil them, and both he and Maryam took a great interest in the birds. He hoped she would find it calming, holding them in her lap, smoothening their feathers and listening to their gentle cooing.

She held them indifferently, petting them without paying attention, too sunk in her reverie to care. “I feel it coming, but don't know what I can do to stop it,” she told Mamat. “I think I'm going to die.”

Mamat felt his stomach drop as she said it. “Don't be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You're fine. Don't even say things like that.”

“I'm serious,” her head lowered as though speaking to the bird in her hands. “Someone's killed Ghani. Now Aisha's also gone. I've never been punched in the face, ever. I've never felt anything like that in my life. I'm next, Mamat. I'm telling you.” She paused. “And there's
nothing I can do about it. It's my fate.”

“Stop talking like that.” He was becoming agitated, and the birds he held felt it. They began fluttering their wings and crying out to each other. He put them back in their cages; it wasn't fair to upset them like this. He walked nervously under them, watching Maryam sit quietly on the steps, leaning her head against a house post. He sat down next to her again and put his arm around his shoulder. “It isn't as bad as all that,” he tried convincing them both. “I'm right here,” he assured her. “I'll take care of you.”

She turned to him. “Everyone hates me. Dollah hates me, Hassan hates me, Johan hates me. I'm sure Faouda hates me, too. And Mamat, any one of them could have poisoned Aisha. I'm next,” she repeated morosely. “Just look at me,” she reminded him. “In the past couple of weeks I've been face down in the dirt, I've been attacked by
jampi
in my own home… I feel like I'm halfway to dead already.” She put her hands in her face and sighed, almost a sob.

Mamat could not bear seeing her drained of courage. It was made her what she was: her willingness to get things done and not fear the consequences. As her husband, he should have kept her safe. The fault was his. “Come on, get up,” he ordered her, standing himself and yanking her hand. She needed action to regain her balance, and he'd been too passive. They would seize the initiative. “We've got to find out who did it before they can get to you. Come on. It's urgent, Yam”

Aliza had called for her Aunt Rubiah, who immediately bustled over, determined to bring Maryam out of her funk. She'd never seen her so low. She sat down next to her, offering a few cakes she'd grabbed on her way out of the house. “Yam, think! You aren't going to sit on your porch and wait for an attack!” She slapped a cake into Maryam's
hand and gestured with her chin, ordering her to eat it. “It's time to go on the offensive!” She declared. “You have the answer, you just can't,” she hesitated, unsure of the correct word, “uncover it.”

Maryam raised her eyebrows without energy, adjusting a handful of ice wrapped in a cloth against her jaw. It was still swollen and purple, and she chewed the soft cake cautiously. “Osman said,” she said indistinctly, “we had to investigate according to the rules. We couldn't beat people to make them talk to us.”

Mamat and Rubiah had to lean close to try to understand. “But now, I wouldn't want to tell anyone anything. No matter who asked me,” she added. Maryam shifted in her seat, and ran her hands over her face. “Wait, I need to rest for a moment.” She readjusted the ice pack and closed her eyes.

Rubiah drank half a cup of coffee, and then, with a meaningful look at Mamat, prodded Maryam again. “Well?” she ordered.

“I'm going back to the very beginning.” Rubiah nodded approvingly. “It's gotten too complicated,” Maryam continued. “There's too much piled on top of the first crime.”

It took Rubiah a moment to interpret what Maryam had said. “Right,” Rubiah answered. “Go ahead. I'm listening.”

“You know, this may be stupid,” she gave Rubiah a stern look, as though Rubiah had agreed too quickly, “but something's been sticking in my mind.” She looked around at Mamat and Rubiah, and they saw a little of her spirit return. She had bruises all over her body, and her jaw clearly hurt, but as long as she could concentrate on what to do, and order people around, she could come out of the depression into which she'd sunk. She was to be greatly encouraged in anything which would make her feel in control.