Shadow Play

by Barbara Ismail

  “I have her in custody, of course: it’s attempted murder. I’m trying to put it together myself though, and I think you’re getting very close to the truth here and she’s threatened by it.” He looked at Maryam, but she didn’t respond.

  “Arifin was there at the murder, though I can’t prove he held the knife. But there must be something to it: Zurainah isn’t going to push you into a car for no good reason. It isn’t just meanness.”

  “It could be,” murmured Maryam. “What about the jampi?”

  He shook his head regretfully. “No, nothing yet. Mak Cik Rubiah thinks it’s Zurainah, and it would make sense, but I don’t know yet.

  Maryam considered him silently. He seemed to have grown up a little, grown into his job. Maybe all he needed was her encouragement and guidance, and then she needed to get out of his way.

  As though he heard her thoughts, he said, “I’m trying only to keep things ready for you, Mak Cik, when you get back to work. I can’t let the case grow cold while I wait for you.” He smiled sweetly, and Maryam laughed at his flattery.

  “You’ve really taken this over now, haven’t you, Cik Osman?” Such a long sentence made her head ache again. “You don’t need me at all.”

  “How can you say that? I’m lost without you!” He stood up. “You need your rest, Mak Cik. I’ll leave you to sleep for a while.”

  She was already asleep. He passed Mamat in the hall as he left. Mamat carried a plastic bag with sweet iced tea, “Leaving already, Cik Osman?”

  “I’ll be back,” he promised. “She needs her rest now.”

  Chapter XXX

  Maryam held Rubiah’s arm as they walked into Osman’s office. Even the short walk from the car seemed unending, and both Osman and Rahman were assisting her. “Let’s sit down. I’m exhausted. So much misery.” She sighed.

  “How are you?” Rubiah asked anxiously. “Are you too tired to be out here?” Rubiah was already looking toward the nearest chair, planning the shortest route to it.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Maryam assured her, although she was not so sure herself. She felt increasingly fragile these days.

  Osman placed her carefully in her seat, and arranged the room fans around her.

  “Sit down,” Rubiah ordered. “I’m getting some coffee.”

  “It’s done,” Rahman assured her, as Maryam stared moodily around the room. She was depressed by Aisha’s death more than she could express.

  “What are you thinking about?” Osman softly interrupted her reverie. “Here, drink this.”

  Maryam took a sip of coffee. “About Aisha. Her husband as good as killed her himself.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Rubiah commented.

  “It is,” Maryam agreed, “but it’s the way I feel. Ghani helped kill her himself.” She put down the cup. “But who killed Ghani?” She paused for effect. “It’s Arifin,” she announced. “I’m really beginning to think it is.”

  “Of course, it certainly would explain what happened, but,” Osman held up a finger, “let’s just think first. Did she push you because she put the jampi under your house? Or was she protecting her husband?”

  Mayam looked at him sharply. “Both,” she answered, and looked at her coffee as though the answer was written in it. “Think about the shadows,” she instructed. “Only the performing troupe sleeps in the panggung, no one else goes in after it’s all over. There isn’t enough room for anyone else, and they’d be thrown out anyway.”

  Osman nodded. Rahman listened raptly.

  “Only Dollah and Arifin could have been shadows. And if they were up, I think they could have followed Ghani outside.”

  “Couldn’t Johan have been there also? He could have been sitting in the gloom, waiting, like a spider,” Rubiah suggested.

  “He could have, but I think they’d already left. Aisha would never talk in front of Faouda. How humiliating would it be? Dia tak berlaga angin: they can’t even breathe the same air! It’s impossible to imagine.”

  Rubiah grudgingly agreed. “I guess she wouldn’t.”

  Maryam made a face of disbelief. “You guess? Aisha must have been sure Faouda wasn’t around.”

  “OK, I agree.”

  “So the only people left are Dollah and Arifin,” Maryam’s logic was inexorable. “And after what Zurainah’s done, it’s Arifin. I’d swear to it.

  “Haven’t you already spoken to Arifin, Mak Cik?” Osman asked.

  “I spoke to all of them,” Maryam answered crisply, “and heard nothing but lies. I wasn’t sure he had anything worth hearing, but now I think he’s the killer.”

  “I’d have to agree. Why else would Zurainah try to kill you?” He lit a cigarette. “Alhamdulillah.” He beamed at Maryam. “I’ll pick him up right away and we can get his confession.”

  “One minute, Osman!” She began to waver, “Maybe it isn’t him. Maybe Dollah was the one …

  Osman stood behind his desk, clutching his hat to his chest. “Well, at least we have it down to two suspects. Now we have to find out which one is the killer.” He waited for a brief moment. “I think we’re done.”

  On his own, not surrounded by friends, Arifin was visibly nervous. Maryam confronted him sitting at the table in the room she took for her own, playing with his tea, lighting a second cigarette before he’d finished the first. He was awed by the police station and officialdom in general, and his portrayal of earlier profound repentance was nowhere in evidence.

  She let him feel the strain of silence while Osman sat quietly next to her, watching. She deliberately positioned her tea and her cigarettes, put the curry puffs on a plate, and even unpacked a few of Rubiah’s sweet cakes. At last, satisfied with the arrangement, she looked up at Arifin with a smile both regretful and understanding.

  “So, here we are again, Che Arifin,” she began. “I’m sorry this had to happen, but I didn’t think we got very far in our last talk.” She waited to see if he had anything to say, but there was only silence. “I wish you’d been more honest with me before, but maybe you didn’t feel you could with Pak Cik Dollah there. Was that a problem? I’m sorry if it was.” She paused. Arifin stared at his lap and fidgeted with his cigarette. “Was your wife angry at you for talking to me?”

  He looked frightened when she asked a question. “Um, no.” He fidgeted for a moment. “She’s sorry, you know, Mak Cik. She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “No? That’s good! I’d hate to think she did this on purpose. Can you explain why she might have done it?” She paused, but Arifin sat staring at the floor “You’re really in love with your wife, aren’t you?”

  He looked puzzled. Maryam laughed at him. “Don’t look so confused! It’s a wonderful thing for a husband to love his wife. It doesn’t happen often enough, I think,” she congratulated him. “I just got the feeling, you know, talking to you and talking to her, you two are so close. And so in love.” She smiled approvingly.

  “I guess,” he mumbled.

  “A bit jealous, too” she teased him. “I can see that, too.”

  He nodded. He was wary, unsure of where this was going, but positive she hadn’t called him here to tell him how much she admired his marriage.

  “Now Ghani, he was a good-looking man. I’m old enough to be his mother, and I could still see how good-looking he was. Just the kind of looks women go for. You grew up in the same kampong: you must have seen it all your life: the girls going for Ghani. Is that the way it was?”

  He shrugged.

  “Did he ever court your wife, Zurainah? When they were younger, I mean, before either was married, of course.”

  He spoke carefully. “Ghani flirted with all the girls. I don’t think he courted her, no.”

  “I think it’s something you should know. A man prone to jealousy often forgets what his wife is really like. He’s jealous so he thinks she’s provoking him. I’m telling you: Zurainah isn’t doing that at all. You ought to appreciate it.” She swallowed hard to prevent herself saying what she really thought
about Zurainah. There would be nothing gained by it.

  He nodded.

  “Have you?” She asked him, speaking in a near whisper. “Have you appreciated it?”

  He twisted his hands together in his lap, afraid to speak, afraid to stay silent. “I, I haven’t trusted her as much as maybe I should have.” His voice was tense and tight. “I was suspicious of Ghani. That’s why we argued a lot. But you didn’t know Ghani: he’d never say anything like ‘I’m not interested in Ainah, or ‘She isn’t interested in me.’ He always pushed it. ‘Your wife’s really pretty, great figure,’ he would say. Or, ‘I saw her at the market, looking terrific. She’s so easy to talk to.’ He used to say things like that all the time when we were performing.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly. “That isn’t right for a married man, or any man, to say about a decent married woman. It just isn’t right. I doubt Ainah gave him the time of day.” Maryam leaned back in her chair and watched Arifin. “Did you fight with her about Ghani?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes.”

  “And you really suspected her with Ghani?’

  “Yes and no,” he answered, now ready to talk. “If I thought about it, I could see she wasn’t unfaithful. You know, she was never gone where I couldn’t find her, she never stayed out late, she took good care of the house and our children. I’ve heard when women are fooling around, these are the signs. My mother talked to me about it: she said if anyone suspected a daughter-in-law, it would be a mother-in-law, and she thought Zurainah was a good wife and good mother.”

  ”Absolutely!” Maryam agreed. “If there was anything wrong going on, your mother would be the first to see it. If your mother didn’t even believe it, it’s because there was nothing happening.”

  “I know.” He looked close to tears. “I know. But sometimes I just couldn’t help myself. I’d suspect something, and when I did, Ghani was always there to make it worse.”

  “He was just teasing you,” Maryam said firmly.

  “Maybe.”

  “The two of you acted like you were still in Standard Two,” she said, becoming exasperated with him. “You react, so he teases you. Really, for two grown men…”

  Arifin lit another cigarette. “Maybe,” he answered morosely.

  “Did you have a fight with Zurainah before you started performing at my house?” she asked gently.

  He sat smoking for a long moment. Maryam feared he’d forgotten where he was.

  “Arifin?”

  He didn’t answer. He took a long drink of his tea, and continued smoking silently. She sat back to wait it out. He stood up. “I’d better go home,” he said. “Not yet,” Maryam advised him. “You aren’t finished here.”

  “I am.”

  “No!” Maryam ordered him.

  Before Osman could stop him, he’d fled out the door and past the shocked policemen.

  “Catch him!” Maryam screamed at them, “Hurry!”

  Two police piled into a car, but Rahman and Osman took off after Arifin, running after him on Jalan Ibrahim, threading the busy sidewalk and outrunning the stalled traffic. Arifin ran like a man possessed, but Rahman stayed close behind. The siren blared as the police Land Rover tried to get past afternoon traffic at the circle, and cars tried unsuccessfully to move out of the way. Osman stopped finally, his hands on his knees, gasping for air. His head was pounding, he thought he’d faint on the street. He watched Rahman run with undisguised admiration.

  Rahman chased Arifin as he ran toward the market and the thicket of taxis and trishaws around it. The crowd would make it impossible for the police car to get near him in time: it was up to Rahman alone to catch him. He wanted to call out to passersby to stop Arifin, but he didn’t have enough wind to do it while running, and if he stopped, he’d lose him. Arifin seemed to fly though the streets. He ran straight toward the market and cut through the fishmonger’s area in the middle of the building. It would bring him to the other side of the pasar, beyond the ability of the car to make it, and if he could make it to the kampong on the other side of Kota Bharu, he could hide in the sprawl and get away.

  The floor was wet and slippery, and Arifin missed his footing, sailing into a stall head first, scattering fish and ice everywhere. He lay for one paralyzed second on the floor, festooned with silver scales. Rahman made a flying leap at him, landing across his legs, holding on to his ankles. In a moment, Arifin kicked Rahman off him, hitting him hard in the temple, knocking his head on the concrete floor.

  Arifin scrambled frantically to his feet, wiping his shirt as he did, leaping across the street on the other side of the market, onto the hood of a passing car. He tumbled off the other side of the car: Rahman stood up, determined to keep running even after his head had taken such a beating: he couldn’t see clearly, but lurched in the direction Arifin had taken. He never saw the car: he hit it shoulder first, head down, bringing the full force of his body as he slammed against it. The pain was excruciating, and he collapsed against the tire, unable to breathe or even remember where he was.

  The driver fell out of his seat, staring at two injured men on either side of his car. “I didn’t do anything!” he wailed at no one in particular. He ran to Arifin first, who was no longer conscious, lying on his back in the street. A crowd had gathered: “Don’t move him!” someone shouted, and the driver backed away, turning now to Rahman. He too lay silent in the street, his head bleeding badly, his breathing rough.

  His colleagues arrived soon after, now racing down Jalan Temenggong, sirens bleating, lights flashing. Osman ran to Rahman. “Wake up,” he whispered, as though it would lift Rahman out of his faint. Osman was becoming frantic: Rahman was still breathing, but … “Get an ambulance!” he croaked to the police crowded around, but it wasn’t necessary. They had already called for one, terrified to see one of their own so still and pale.

  Their suspect was out cold, with one leg clearly broken, his head bleeding, his cheek already swelling where it hit the pavement. Osman stood over him, overcome with the desire to pound his head into the street, his fists clenched and neck muscles bulging. No one moved to help Arifin: they either ignored him completely or looked as though they might spit on him.

  The ambulance arrived, surprised to find two men in the street, one surrounded by concern, the other left to survive as well he could. The doctor looked unhappily at Rahman as they prepared to lift him, softly touching his head, and trying to open his eyes.

  “What is it?” Osman demanded, feeling near tears. The doctor said nothing, but put a sympathetic hand on his arm, and silently climbed into the truck behind Rahman.

  Chapter XXXI

  The Kota Bharu hospital was crowded with police, as it had been for several days while Rahman lay still under a tangle of wires and tubes. It was the first time in recent memory an officer had been downed in the line of duty, and Osman felt personally responsible for Rahman’s injuries. He replayed the incident constantly, changing it in his mind to another, happier ending.

  Rahman’s parents, his brothers and sisters and what appeared to be his entire extended family took turns sitting by his bed, willing him to wake up and come back to them. They did not answer the police who spoke to them with more than monosyllables, though his mother would occasionally burst out to describe a pain she could hardly bear. “He hasn’t even been married yet,” she told one of the older policeman, while looking right through him. “His life is still ahead of him!” The older man nodded quietly, his eyes full of feeling for her. There was no answer necessary, and none he could give anyway.

  Maryam dragged Osman away from Rahman to see Arifin, who lay conscious in another room with a police guard who neither spoke to him nor responded to his requests for drinks or help with sitting up.

  Osman set a rapid pace down the hallway, anxious to return to his vigil, and Maryam was breathless when they arrived at Arifin’s room. Osman pushed the door to the room open wide, revealing a much bandaged Arifin and a weeping older woman sitting beside him.

&nbs
p; Maryam smiled at them, trying to be sympathetic but failing, keeping in mind she may have been smiling at a murderer of two people. Arifin had broken his cheekbone in the fall: his face was puffed and swollen, turning all shades of purple and yellow. His head was covered in white linens; his right arm was in a cast as was his right leg. He looked defeated.

  “How are you feeling?” Maryam asked politely, though coldly. He didn’t answer, nor did the woman cease crying. Hoping for better luck, she turned to her. “Have you been here long, Kak?”

  She nodded dully. “Since the police called me,” she said, sniffling.

  “He’ll be all right,” Maryam assured her.

  “Nothing will be all right,” the woman answered, her voice hoarse from crying. “What will happen to the children? Both the parents in jail! Never in my life would I have thought such a thing would happen.” She swallowed and leaned her head on the iron bedstead. “I’m his mother,” she added unnecessarily. “You’re the one my daughter-in-law had … the accident with, aren’t you?”

  Maryam nodded. It was no accident, she wanted to tell her: Zurainah tried to kill me. She didn’t care to argue the point with her, especially with a mother looking into as bleak a future as this one was.

  “Can you talk?” Maryam leaned over Arifin. He shook his head and closed his eyes. “Would you like to talk about what you’ve done?” she pushed. “We know what it is.” Arifin glared at her, but refused to speak.

  “You killed Ghani, didn’t you?” Arifin closed his eyes again. His mother watched Maryam nervously. “After you ran like that, it was obvious, wasn’t it? By the way, Rahman, the policeman who chased you, is in the hospital here right down the hall. Only he isn’t awake,” Maryam informed him tersely.

  Arifin mumbled something, but Maryam didn’t catch it. “Ghani came back into the panggung after Aisha left,” she continued, baldly laying out the facts as she’d put them together. “He must have been drained; it was such an emotional argument. He still carried the golok to protect himself from Ali, even though Ali had already left. Was he afraid Ali would come back?” She paused, in case Arifin cared to answer. “Well, you must have just lain there quietly, waiting for him to go out. Was it all jealousy, Arifin? Did you really think there was anything between Ghani and your wife?”