by Yangsze Choo
I didn’t think he’d go for it, but he said in that terrifyingly conversational way, “I’d overheard him arranging to meet that Englishwoman, Lydia Thomson. It was to do with the fingers, though I don’t know what he thought she knew about them. Always a pigheaded idiot, Y. K. Wong. Anyway, he was getting dangerous, so while they were talking, I went up to the second floor, picked a roof tile from the stack in the corner, and dropped it on his head.”
“What if it had struck her?”
“Didn’t matter. Simple is best.”
We’d reached the top of the stairs, and opened another door. Dazzling sunlight hit us. It led to a flat roof that you could walk on. “Used for drying things,” said Koh Beng cheerfully. “There aren’t many two-story buildings here.”
In that instant, I knew exactly what he was going to do and why he’d had no qualms cutting me in the side. Wounds like that wouldn’t matter if my body were splattered all over the ground.
He must have seen it in my eyes, because he said, “I wasn’t lying, you know. You really are my type. But it would have been better if you were a little more stupid.”
47
Batu Gajah
Monday, June 29th
Ren’s eyes snap open. He’s been dozing, waiting to be discharged later today, but there’s a jolt. Something terrible is happening to Ji Lin. Ren sits up. Dull ache in his side. In fact, the only place that doesn’t hurt is his elbow, which is pale and cold. The nurses have remarked on that unusual blanched patch on his skin. They talk about it when they think he’s sleeping. Doesn’t it look like a hand? says one with a shudder. But none of that matters now.
Frantic, he looks around for a nurse. Tells her, stumbling over the words, that she has to look for a girl.
“What girl?” she says, annoyed.
“The one who came to see me on Friday.”
“Oh, a visitor, is it? I’m sure she’ll come soon.”
No, Ren tries to explain. She’s somewhere in the hospital. Over there, beyond the other building. The nurse sighs.
“When she comes, we’ll let you know. Now don’t get out of bed!”
In despair, Ren’s eyes squeeze tight, tight. If he grasps the white mark on his elbow, putting his fingers exactly where Pei Ling put hers in his dream, his cat sense grows stronger. He doesn’t like this new feeling, a dull heavy buzz that makes his teeth chatter, the bones of his skull ache. His lips move as he concentrates. Where are you?
Maybe it won’t work, she’s not Yi, but he thinks it will. It must. His fingers dig into that ghostly handprint on his arm. Dizzy, he holds his breath, calling.
And then it comes.
Blood rushes in his ears, his heart thumps wildly. It’s not Ji Lin; it’s the other one. Drawing nearer and nearer with long strides. Shoulders tense, he watches the open ward door like a small animal. It’s a young man in a white uniform. Ren has never seen him before. Definitely not, because he’s someone that you’d remember. Ah. It’s you, Ren wants to say. His cat sense blazes up, an electric burst of relief, but his throat is so dry that nothing comes out.
“Ah Kor,” he says. Older Brother.
The young man’s eyebrows go up. Then he gives a rueful smile. “Awake, are you? She’ll be happy about that.”
Who is she? But Ren already knows. This is the other half of his girl in blue. The two of them a matched pair, like Yi and him. And Ren recalls that tall lean shape in the doorway of the pathology room, the one that he thought was Dr. Rawlings but wasn’t.
“You must be xin,” he says, excited.
Surprise, or is it a flicker of discomfort? “Yes, I’m Shin. Did Ji Lin tell you?”
Ren shakes his head hurriedly, “I’ve met the other ones. There’s you, and me, and her, and my brother, Yi. And my master, William Acton. That’s five of us.”
Shin looks as though he’s about to say something, but merely tousles Ren’s head. “I came by yesterday but you were sleeping. We’ll talk more when you feel better.”
Urgently, Ren says, “No, you must find her—she’s in danger!”
“Who?” But Shin already knows, his sharp eyes searching Ren’s face.
“She’s in the hospital. Someone’s hurting her!”
“Where is she?” On his feet now.
“Beyond that building. On the roof.” Ren points from the window to the spot that draws him like a tightening line. Is it his imagination, or can he feel a thin, soundless shriek? “Hurry! It will be too late!”
48
Batu Gajah
Monday, June 29th
Koh Beng marched me across the flat roof, the tip of a scalpel shoved into the soft spot under my jaw. I opened my mouth to scream, but even if I did, no one would see us all the way out here, facing the jungle trees. They’d just hear my shriek cut off as I fell off the roof. Instead I went limp as if I’d fainted.
Koh Beng bent over instinctively to grab me, and as he did so, I yanked viciously at his knees, pulling him off balance. He fell, cracking his shoulder on the cement. Slammed into me. Rolling. Elbow in my face as I struggled to get up. “Bitch!” he hissed, grabbing my hair, but I scratched and bit and then we were twisting, struggling. As he dragged me towards the edge, the roof door burst open behind us. Koh Beng’s head swiveled in surprise, but he’d no time to react before someone hit him in a low tackle. The breath was knocked from my body.
“Shin!” I screamed, but no sound came out. He fell on me as Koh Beng slashed wildly. I felt Shin gasp, jerk back as we rolled into the sickening emptiness at the edge of the roof. There was a dizzying instant when I saw the ground far below. Then my head smacked the gutter as we went over.
* * *
I must have hit my head hard enough to black out, for this time I fell into the world of the unconscious with a terrific bang. I knew exactly where I was, right down to the polished wood of the deserted ticket counter. The waiting room for the dead. There was a hushed expectation in the sunlight glinting off the train tracks.
“Yi,” I said.
He stood up. He’d been kneeling behind the counter, a child playing hide-and-seek, but he didn’t look happy to be found. In his sad stare, I could already find the answer to my question.
“Why didn’t you run away?” he said.
I should have, even at the risk of being stabbed. It was my curiosity, that foolish thirst for knowledge that had delayed me, wanting to hear the answers from Koh Beng. And now it was too late. “Am I dead?”
“Not yet.” Yi’s eyes squinted past me, as though he was looking at something far away. “But any moment now—you’re dangling off the roof.”
“Is Koh Beng going to kill me?” That would be like Pei Ling, shoved down the stairs. Or Y. K. Wong, crushed by a falling tile. Simple is best, Koh Beng had said in his frighteningly efficient way. “What about Shin?”
“He’s grabbed you, but the other one is trying to kick him over.”
“Please, not Shin!” Bitterly, I sank to my knees, pressing my forehead against the cool wood of the ticket counter. You’ll regret it, Shin had said that morning, lying in the hotel bed. And I did. A vast, furious ocean of regret. I should have given myself to him while I could. Tears ran down my face.
“Get up!” said Yi. “It’s not over yet!”
“What do you mean?”
“Choose!” he said. “Who will it be, you or Shin?”
“You mean which one of us will die now?”
“Yes. I told you, from this side, I can shift things. Just a little bit.” He screwed up his small face with effort. “Like the accidents that happened to Ren.”
“But that’s wrong!” If Yi had any kind of immortal soul, I was certain this was absolutely forbidden.
“It doesn’t matter!” he shouted. “I’ve already been left here so long. Right now, you’re going to die. But you can choose him instead.”
“You mustn’t do this!” I said desperately. “It’s meddling—like the fifth one you said was rearranging things.”
“Li?”
he said. “Li has nothing to do with this!”
“Then who’s the fifth one of us? Is it Koh Beng?”
“Why are you so blind?” Yi’s face was red, as though he was about to cry. “Of course it isn’t him; the other one is still dangerous. Hurry—time is running out! Choose or I’ll do it myself!”
The station shook. There was a deep rumbling, a tremor that jolted me to the core, and I had the sudden, terrified sense that time was moving in this place again. A train was arriving, or was it departing? Whichever it was, the narrow gap of opportunity was closing.
“I’ll stay with you, Yi!” I screamed. “Let Shin live!”
“Do you mean it?” Yi’s face broke into a strange little smile. “You’d really stay with me?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t forget me.”
* * *
Bright. It was too bright and my head ached. Voices. People talking. I struggled, thrashing my arms. Why was I still alive? Yi had tricked me.
Hands steadied me, examining my body. “She’s lucky to have survived that fall. The other chap didn’t make it.”
“Shin,” I said thickly. My throat was painfully dry, but that was nothing compared to the panic I felt. I forced myself to sit up.
“Don’t move.” They were checking my arms and legs, asking if I could move my neck, but I didn’t care about myself. Terror filled me.
“Where’s Shin?”
“He’s right here.”
And he was. I stumbled up, off the gurney, for that was what I’d been lying on, despite their cries of alarm. Shin lay on the other bed in the room. His face was pale, with a chalky shocked look, and there was blood on his arms and shirt. When I came over, he opened his eyes.
“Why can’t you listen to what the doctor says?” he said, ruefully.
Sobbing and laughing, I held on to him.
* * *
It turned out that all three of us had fallen off the roof. It was a miracle, they said, but I was uninjured except where Koh Beng had sliced me in the side and neck. Shin had a fractured arm and cuts on his forearms—defensive wounds, as the local doctor pointed out with interest. And Koh Beng had broken his neck.
Bystanders, drawn by the shouts, had seen us struggling. By all accounts, I should have fallen first, then Shin, for Koh Beng had clearly been in a better position. But he’d suddenly and strangely plummeted past us in a tangle of limbs, breaking our fall. There was no explanation for it, other than missed footing. Or perhaps he’d intended to kill himself, as some were already whispering.
A chill of wonder and unease seeped through me. From the other side of the river of death, had Yi swapped Koh Beng and me around like pawns in some game, bringing me back from the dead by stealing a life? If so, what had happened to Yi—and was this, then, his dark gift to me? I began to tremble uncontrollably.
49
Batu Gajah
Thursday, July 2nd
In the airy bungalow, where the sunlit leaves outside dapple the whitewashed rooms a pale and luminous green, Ren sits in the kitchen with Ah Long, stringing beans. Ah Long is pleased that he’s back and has made clear chicken soup especially for Ren to drink, though he pretends gruffly that it’s for William. It’s been three days since Ren’s sudden recovery and discharge from the hospital. Three days of stillness and rest, and wondering what happened to his girl in blue.
She’s alive; he knows that. There’s been much talk, even scandal, about what happened at the hospital on Monday. Rumors about ghostly curses and stolen body parts. The neighboring servants buzz with gossip, asking Ren if he heard anything while he was in hospital. He tells them truthfully that he didn’t see anything, though that doesn’t stop him from worrying. The person who knows the most is William, but he won’t say much other than that Louise is perfectly fine and there’s no need to worry.
“Louise” is what William calls Ji Lin, and when he says her name, Ren senses a gnawing guilt. It’s something to do with what Dr. Rawlings said that tumultuous Monday, coming into the ward later as William was checking Ren out, and drawing him hastily aside. Ren overheard snatches of conversation: missing body parts … scandal … say nothing until the Board sorts it out. From which he gathers that there’s a secret, like a white and yeasty maggot, which threatens to undermine the neat and orderly life of the hospital.
Whatever it is definitely bothers William. He spends his free time gloomily sitting on the veranda, as though he’s waiting for something to happen. When Ren asks if he’s feeling all right, he says he needs a drink to fortify his stomach.
“Cheh! What stomach?” says Ah Long contemptuously. “Ice is bad for his digestion. And not so much,” he warns as Ren makes another whisky stengah. Johnnie Walker is running low again; there’s only an inch left in the bottle. “Miss Lydia is coming today.”
It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and William is home early from work. Instead of putting on a cotton sarong, he’s remained in his stiff-collared shirt and trousers, and now Ren understands why. If Lydia is coming, of course his master can’t lounge around in native dress. For teatime, Ah Long prepares bite-sized balls of onde-onde, a treat made from glutinous rice flour and chopped palm sugar rolled in fluffy grated coconut.
Guiltily, Ren remembers the vial of tea-colored liquid that he promised Lydia he’d give to Ji Lin. He hasn’t had a chance to do so and is worried that she’ll question him about it. Fetching the bottle from his room, he slips it into his pocket. If Lydia asks, he’ll show it to her to prove he hasn’t been careless or lost it.
The doorbell rings. Ren gets up slowly. His wounds are healing astonishingly fast, but he’s still not used to the loss of his fourth finger. The stump aches and the grip of his left hand is less sure, though it hasn’t stopped him from doing most things. Losing the thumb would have been far worse, as Ah Long dourly pointed out.
Voices in the hallway. Lydia sounds subdued, yet there’s an underlying current of excitement that Ren picks up from her. He remembers the thin sticky filaments that clung to her in the hospital and peeks worriedly out. Is she still in danger? The slanting afternoon sunlight casts patterns of light and dark in the hall. Lydia takes off her sun hat and a trick of the shadows makes it look as though she has long dark hair. Ren stops, surprised. The open doorway, the woman standing in it. For a fearful instant, he’s reminded of the pontianak, that vengeful female spirit that comes calling at the doors and windows. Instinctively he starts forward, although it’s already too late. William has let her in. You’re not supposed to let them in. But these are foolish thoughts that his master would be offended to hear. Perplexed, Ren blinks. The dimness in his head recedes; his cat sense is fading and maybe that’s a relief as well.
Lydia hands Ren her hat and parasol and smiles benignly at him. William shows her into the sitting room with its bent rattan furniture moved back into place after the party. Normally he entertains male guests on the veranda, but with Lydia he’s stiffly courteous.
“What can I do for you, Lydia?”
Ren admires how his master gets straight to the point, no beating around the bush. Lydia parries with small talk about the weather and the terrible tragedy at the hospital.
“I heard that you made a statement to the inspector,” she says. “Did you really see someone on the second floor?”
“I can’t discuss that right now,” says William. “But the police have a suspect.”
“Won’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands.”
She seems dissatisfied at this. “What did you tell the police about me?”
“That you’d called and asked to meet me. And when I arrived, it looked like you had a prior meeting with that orderly, Y. K. Wong. Why did you want to see me that morning, anyway?” he says. “They wanted to know about that as well.”
“I’m afraid I told a little untruth.” Lydia shifts uneasily. “I said that you and I were in the habit of meeting because we were secretly engaged.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. It was all I could think of at the time.”
William gets up and walks to the other end of the sofa. Ren, still standing quietly in the hallway, can tell that he’s agitated, even furious.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because it looks bad for me. You know, meeting men before dawn in a deserted place. And a Chinaman, too.”
“Lydia,” William presses his side as though it pains him, “you’d better tell me the truth.”
Ren doesn’t hear what she says because at that moment, Ah Long calls him into the kitchen. The tea tray is ready, steaming and fragrant, the sweetmeats delicately arranged on patterned porcelain plates.
“Can you manage?” says Ah Long.
“Yes,” says Ren proudly. Still, Ah Long helps him bring the tray in, setting it on the sideboard.
Ren sneaks a glance at William and Lydia. Their heads are bent together. He can’t see Lydia’s face, but William looks upset. Bad digestion, too much stress, Ah Long had said, and Ren remembers the time, right when that poor lady’s body was found half eaten by a tiger, when William could only eat omelets, not meat. But William never takes medicine, only Johnnie Walker.
Hesitantly, Ren takes out the vial of liquid that Lydia gave him. Stomach medicine, she’d said. Very mild. I take it myself. It’s almost exactly the same color as the tea, and Ren pours it into William’s cup. There. If Miss Lydia asks him if he’s put her medicine to good use, he can answer her properly. She likes William anyway, so she’ll be delighted if it cures him.
Carefully and proudly, Ren places the teacups on the table.
* * *
“Well?” William’s voice is calm but inside he’s seething. “What exactly happened on Monday morning, that you couldn’t tell the police?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Ren pour the tea at the sideboard before placing it on the coffee table. This is the wrong procedure. Tea should be set on the low table for the host or hostess to pour, but that’s something local servants never seem to understand. William forces his mind away from irrelevant thoughts like this. Lydia. He has to manage her.