He shook his head. ‘Thank you, Kakak, I know what you’re trying to do. But it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re finished here.’
‘Is Zainab…?’
‘No, not yet. But the longer this goes on, the more likely it is. Rahim’s parents want him to divorce Zaiton. I don’t think he wants to, but I also think he will…after a while. And why not?’ he asked hopelessly.
‘Do you think she did it, Abang?’
He nodded quietly. ‘I don’t think she meant to, but it happened.’
‘But what if Kakak Jamillah just went to sleep and someone slipped in afterward and killed her? And Zaiton is completely innocent?’
‘I can’t make myself believe it.’
Maryam watched as he seemed to crumble in front of her. The whole family was now in ruins. She could hardly bear thinking about it.
‘Abang,’ she asked suddenly, ‘Have you suspected it might have been Zaiton for a while?’
‘Why?’
‘Did you?’
‘What are you really asking me?’
She wasn’t quite sure how to say it. ‘I wondered whether… you know, when you thought she might have been guilty, to protect her, did you…?’
‘Hit you over the head?’
She blushed. How crude of her, how wrong to ask a man in his situation.
‘Yes,’ he said tiredly. ‘I did it, Kakak. I wanted you to stop looking into this, so I could keep my daughter and grandchild.
‘It was wrong,’ he continued, ‘and it was wrong to ignore Jamillah that way, but I…maybe I wasn’t thinking. In fact, I’m sure of it. I’m sorry.’ He hung his head.
‘Oh.’ She wondered what the appropriate comment for her would be. Never mind? I forgive you? How could you? All would do, and yet none struck her as really fitting. He might have killed her; he certainly wounded her and made her sick for what seemed like the longest time.
She touched her headscarf briefly, when would she be able to stop wearing it? She hated being bound up in it, but feared people seeing the mark and laughing at her. ‘But you really hurt me,’ she blurted out, ‘I still have the mark…’
‘I know.’ He didn’t pick up his head.
‘And with an enam sembilan,’ she continued, picking up steam, ‘which leaves such a bruise. Why would you do that? You’ve known me for how long? And you still didn’t mind nearly killing me?’ Her anger was rising now.
‘You’re right,’ he agreed.
‘You’re not even listening to me now,’ she accused him. ‘You’re just waiting for me to finish.’
‘What can I say? I said I was sorry, and I am. I can’t do anything else.’
She could feel her breath shortening and her face getting redder. ‘This whole thing, this whole case, is about people acting without thinking. Mostly your family.’ She put her hand up to her mouth, that was wrong of her to say. Rude and unnecessary. She apologized. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Please forgive me.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re right, though. But we’re being punished for it.’ He paused. ‘Will I go to jail now?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was no point discussing this any further. It was time for her to go.
Both families were now destroyed. Jamillah and Murad were dead, one mourned, the other not—except for the latter’s sister, who was inconsolable; Hamidah, Kamal and Zaiton were in jail and Aziz probably on his way; Zainab probably divorced, Rahim fled to Semut Api. Maryam tried to fathom how so many people could do so much wrong, or be that thoughtless.
Osman came over with Azrina, to sit on the porch and congratulate Maryam on bringing all these miscreants to justice. Azrina brought a large ripe durian, which Mamat and Yi were currently carving up in the kitchen, and Aliza served coffee.
‘I love your hair,’ Azrina told her. ‘It looks so up-to-date!’
Aliza flashed her a brilliant smile; Azrina was right, the new style suited her and made her look more sophisticated. Aliza unobtrusively sat down just inside the doorjamb, and slowly and silently moved forward to join the group. It was a masterpiece of maneuvering on Aliza’s part. ‘I don’t know how we could have solved it without you, Mak Chik. You were the one…’
‘I don’t know that we’ve solved it at all—yet,’ Maryam admonished him. ‘I’m not sure Zaiton killed her mother—it’s hard to kill someone by turning them over in the bed. It takes determination, and Zaiton didn’t have that.’
‘Do you believe Hamidah?’
‘No, but I wish I did,’ Maryam said regretfully. Mamat arrived carrying a large platter of durian, which was greeted with cries of admiration. Only when the fruit had been eaten, hands washed, and cigarettes lit did the conversation return to the topic of crime.
‘It’s too convenient,’ she told Osman. ‘The murderer is dead, and Hamidah hated him. She’s delighted to blacken his name now—if she knew of any other murders available, she’d accuse him of those, too.’
‘Then it must be Hamidah and her son together,’ Azrina said excitedly. ‘Just like they were trying to get into your bedroom, Mak Chik, they climbed into Mak Chik Jamillah’s before that. She can’t say she never thought of it! And,’ she added practically, ‘she’s crazy enough to do it.’
‘No doubt about that,’ Maryam agreed. ‘You’ve been giving this a lot of thought.’
Azrina blushed and ducked her head. ‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘You know, after I met Hamidah and tried to give her a bath…’ she made a face, ‘I began fitting things together.’ She gave Osman a guilty look. ‘It’s just that…I’m interested in this kind of thing; you know, crime.’
Osman looked surprised.
‘Well, I read mysteries,’ she said, a touch defensively.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Maryam opined.
‘And so when I knew you had this case, I just…thought about it.’
‘Well then,’ Maryam said heartily, ‘tell us what you’ve been thinking about.’
She smoothed her hair back, and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. With a careful glance at Osman, she began.
‘Well, I don’t know everything about it, like you do, but…’
‘The but. I’ve gotten used to it,’ Osman grumbled. Maryam silenced him with a slap on the knee.
‘You see, Hamidah said she was jealous of Jamillah.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Didn’t she say so?’ she asked innocently.
‘And you overheard it.’
Azrina became impatient with his questions. ‘I live there!’ she declared. ‘I hear things when you talk about them.
‘So,’ she continued, ‘if she felt jealous, perhaps she wanted to get rid of Jamillah and take over her life. You know: the husband, the job, the friends. All the things she felt she didn’t have. And so she waited until Jamillah’s house and neighborhood would be crowded with people and no one would notice one more, and then she had Kamal go to the window and smother her.’
‘Why didn’t anyone hear him? There were so many people sleeping in the house!’
‘Because,’ she said triumphantly, ‘he never went in. He hung at the window, over the sill, but never went into the house. He didn’t step over anyone, or walk around the house. I think he was half in the window and his mother held his feet so he wouldn’t slip over. And he smothered her with a cloth, but she didn’t wake because she was so tired and asleep. Maybe he even did it before Pak Chik Aziz went to sleep, so no one else was in the room.
‘It took a lot of nerve,’ she acknowledged. ‘But she had more nerve than most people who aren’t crazy. And maybe Kamal doesn’t do a lot of thinking for himself, but just listens to what his parents tell him to do.’
‘And now his wife,’ Maryam added.
Azrina shrugged. ‘And his wife.’
Maryam nodded. ‘It all makes sense,’ she said approvingly. ‘The only thing to do now is talk to Kamal.’
‘Are you going to want to come to that too?’ Osman asked her.
‘No, it wouldn’t be
right,’ she told him primly. ‘I shouldn’t be there. You do it.’
‘Well, it’s nice of you to leave it to me.’
‘Don’t do that,’ Maryam admonished him. ‘It makes you look mean.’
Chapter 31
WHILE AZRINA WAS BASKING in the reflected glory of her first foray into crime solving, Hamidah had been moved to the Kota Bharu jail—an insalubrious place, dark, damp and hot. It was on the outskirts of town, in the middle of empty fields. There was little thought of rehabilitation here, it was a place of punishment for wrongdoing, pure and simple.
Yet Hamidah seemed perfectly content, even given the quality of her surroundings. She sat in her cell, newly bathed, her hair still hacked and uneven. She wore a standard-issue prison sarong and a clean T-shirt, and sat happily on the bed in her cell, humming Hindi movie themes to herself and smiling at no one in particular.
Kamal was far more unhappy. The holding cells now reeked of bleach overlaying the coppery smell of blood. The walls had been scrubbed so hard the paint had dissolved, turning what had once been a bilious green into its present tone: a vile gray dripped over dirty white. His eyes stung, his throat hurt, and his mind could not take in what had happened right in front of him.
When he lay down, he saw his father hanging there, his hand tangled in his mother’s matted hair, her screaming. If it had been a horror movie, he would have said it had gone too far.
He was stretched out on the narrow cot when Osman came in to get him, lying on his stomach with his head buried in the thin, flat pillow. Even though the door slammed with a loud clang, Kamal didn’t move.
‘Your mother-in-law was here to see you a little while ago,’ Osman told him. Kamal made a sound which could have meant ‘yes’, or ‘no,’ or just a groan of anguish. ‘I won’t let her in to see you.’
For a minute there was no response. Then he lifted his head and said clearly, ‘Thank you.’
Osman sat on the side of the cot, though there was hardly any room, and lit cigarettes for the both of them. Kamal rolled onto his side facing the wall and smoked in silence.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk to me about?’
Kamal looked at him, his face blank. ‘Like what?’
‘Like what happened.’
He sighed; a long, deep sigh for such a young man. ‘What good would it do?’
‘I’m interested.’
Osman pushed Kamal’s legs out of the way so he could lean his back against the wall; it forced Kamal to sit up and do the same. He might not talk, Osman knew, but at least he couldn’t bury his head. The silence dragged on for the length of one cigarette, after which Osman took out two more. He was in no rush.
‘Are you just going to sit here until I say something?’
Osman nodded. ‘Mak Chik Maryam will be here soon.’
Kamal grunted ‘It’s terrible in here. All that bleach hurts my eyes.’
‘We had to get it clean.’
‘I know. But it hurts.’ It was Osman’s turn to grunt.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who killed Mak Chik Jamillah.’
‘How would I know?’
‘Please. Haven’t we all been through enough? I can’t keep up the pretense that you know nothing.’ Osman was prepared to lecture him, but then thought better of it. Perhaps silence would work more effectively than a barrage of words.
Kamal appeared to fall asleep for a few minutes, while Osman contemplated which killer he preferred. Each one had something incriminating speaking against him or her, including Zaiton. But since she was pregnant, he put her last. He was staring dreamily at the wall when Maryam entered, wrinkling her nose at the ammonia which permeated the room.
‘Can’t we talk elsewhere?’ she asked, jerking Osman out of his meditative state, and waking Kamal. They looked at her with the mild surprise of the recently woken. ‘You’re pretty relaxed in here, aren’t you?’ she asked. Kamal rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair, as she ushered them out into the interrogation room. ‘I can’t take the fumes,’ she explained.
‘Neither can I,’ Kamal admitted. ‘It feels so good to get out of there.’
Maryam arranged her cigarettes and coffee in front of her and looked up at Kamal, who sat in his chair, half stupefied, his eyes heavy, his hair disheveled.
‘Tell me, Kamal,’ she began matter-of-factly, ‘was that the first time you climbed through a bedroom window?’
‘What?’ He looked mystified.
‘When my husband caught you coming into our window—was it the first time you’d ever done it?’
‘I’d never been to your house before!’ he protested.
‘That’s not what I’m asking you. Had you ever done something similar? Climbed in through other windows, perhaps.’
He shook his head like a dog coming out of water. ‘No, why?’
‘Was that the first time you went on an expedition like that with your mother?’
He nodded, but seemed unsure of the answer.
‘Alright.’ Maryam had four children and was well-versed in the need to ask a particular question in just the right way so as to get to the heart of the matter. She homed in on specifics, in a way that any of the four children would immediately recognize as trouble.
‘With either of your parents, your mother or your father?’
He looked at Osman for assistance. Osman kept his eyes trained on Maryam.
‘Well, of course, I’d been in Penambang…’
‘Kamal!’ He jumped. ‘You know what I’m asking you, so stop pretending you don’t. Did you go with your father to Mak Chik Jamillah’s house after the main puteri?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ he said firmly, now sure of his answer. ‘I didn’t.’
She backed up, sensing an opening. ‘Did you go to her house at the time?’
He was silent.
‘You did go, but not with your father,’ she surmised. ‘You went with your mother. Your father never had anything to do with this. He didn’t even know about it. I’m right, aren’t I?’
His eyes cast anxiously between Osman and Maryam, as though trying to decide which was safer. He seemed to realize neither was safe, and he began squirming in his seat.
‘Your mother said your father killed Mak Chik Jamillah, but now I’m going to guess your mother went to her house that night. And you went with her, because she asked for your help.’
He looked terrified. ‘I didn’t…’
‘Did your mother?’
‘Did she…what?’
Maryam let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘I don’t mind telling you I’m getting tired of this,’ she informed him. ‘You and your mother are driving me mad. Now answer me, or you can stay in that cell until you’re an old man. It won’t bother me.’
She gave him a minute to digest this threat. ‘Did your mother go to Mak Chik Jamillah’s house after the main puteri? Yes or no?’ They all waited.
‘She may have,’ he admitted. No one moved or spoke.
He then amended that testimony: ‘I think so.’ The silence not only continued, it grew more ominous.
‘You know, she got ideas into her head, and you couldn’t talk her out of them. I had to go to see what she was doing, to protect her from herself, you might say.’ He now examined the plaid on his sarong. ‘I just followed her to make sure she didn’t get into trouble.’
Maryam’s expression plainly read ‘really?’ Kamal gulped and continued.
‘I was behind her. There were so many people, I kind of lost her in the crowd. I walked around the house to see if she was there, and I saw her, she was walking away, on her way home already. So I jumped up onto the sill, just to look in.’
‘And?’ Osman prompted?
‘And Mak Chik Jamillah was lying there facing the wall, and she was already dead. I touched her! That’s how I knew she wasn’t asleep.’
‘So it was your mother who killed her, then?’ Osman asked, relieved at
last to have come to the conclusion.
He shook his head. ‘She was already cold.’
Maryam and Osman exchanged dumbfounded looks. ‘How long had you been in the village by then?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe fifteen minutes or so.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Maybe five minutes more.’
‘Now, were you at home when she left so you could follow her?’
‘I was in Tikat, at my house.’ He then adjusted this statement. ‘No, at Mak Chik Noriah’s house.’
‘And your mother stopped by?’
He shook his head. ‘She didn’t like Mak Chik Noriah.’ This was one of the first truly sane things Maryam had heard about Hamidah.
‘So how did you know she was going?’
‘She’d talked about it before. About watching the main puteri. She didn’t think Mak Chik Jamillah had anything to be sick about. She was kind of angry about it.’
‘Angry?’
‘She thought Mak Chik Jamillah had a pretty good life, much happier than her own. So she envied her, you see, and didn’t, or couldn’t, understand why she wasn’t happy. I knew that; she’d talked about it before.’
‘For a long time?’
He shook his head. ‘Well, a lot more in the last couple of years, I guess. Before I got married and moved away.’
‘And that was the reason you went to Penambang? Because you thought you might find your mother there? So really, you didn’t follow her so much as went to find her there.’
He shrugged. ‘I followed her there. I got there when the main puteri had just ended.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The musicians were still putting their things away. So it couldn’t have been too long, right?’
Now it was Maryam’s turn to shrug.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have spoken with Pak Nik Lah about the case; he was a civilian, though to be fair, so was she, and not privy to the details of crime in Kelantan. But she was impressed with his knowledge of people, and his shrewd assessment of them, and decided that his role as a bomoh offered some privilege of confidentiality.
She watched him on the porch with Mamat and Aliza from inside the house, how his mere presence seemed to put everyone at ease. More than anyone else, he might have the insight to cut through this knot of lies, half-lies and delusions.
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