Where the Sunrise is Red

by Chan Ling Yap

  Chapter 4

  Kuala Lumpur

  IT WAS ALMOST nightfall when the bus approached Kuala Lumpur. “Go to the hotel opposite the railway station. It is called The Majestic,” Bill had advised. “It is better than the Station Hotel. Planters go there. You are bound to meet someone who might help.”

  “Very good hotel,” the Indian lady said flashing a bright smile when Ruth mentioned it. “For white people, rich people,” she added wagging her head, like a doll’s head pivoting on its neck, tilting to the right and then left and back again. “Other hotels not good, too low class for a lady like you.” She looked Ruth up and down. “Maybe dangerous even.”

  The Indian lady draped the end of her sari around her head and whispered conspiratorially. “Not many hotels in town. Nice ladies stay with friends or relatives. No stay in hotels.” She looked pityingly at Ruth, her gaze on Ruth’s ring on her fourth finger. “Where is your husband? No meet you?”

  Ruth pretended not to hear. Well the Majestic it has to be, she thought. She just needed to have sufficient money left over to go to Mark.

  “Don’t worry, Ma’am. I show you the way. Not far from bus stop. We get there before dark. Everyone knows the railway station. It’s beautiful like a palace.” She rolled her kohl-lined eyes in an exaggerated fashion.

  Ruth thanked her. She looked across. The man was not there. A woman sat where he had been.

  ***

  It was half past nine in the morning when Ruth arrived at Mark’s firm in a trishaw.

  A group of young women giggled and spoke amongst themselves the minute she stepped out of the vehicle. Some eyed her with open astonishment. Blood rushed to Ruth’s cheeks turning it an even brighter red. She should have expected that. The hotel footman had tried to persuade her against the use of a trishaw. “No, Madam, no good. Trishaws not for you.” His eyes darted to the left and to the right and his voice dropped to a whisper. Apparently no self-respecting women, certainly not a European woman, used trishaws to travel, a privilege reserved principally for ladies of the night.

  Ruth had refused to budge from her decision. She thought of the bill she would have to pay staying at the Majestic. She had to make economies. Now, confronted by smirks, she was not sure she had taken the right decision. She put on a brave face and hoped that her nervousness was not obvious. She had travelled all that distance to be with Mark. She was not going to be defeated by a bunch of ridiculous young women. With a pounding heart, she climbed up the flight of steps into the reception area and declared her desire to see Mark. “I am his wife, Ruth Lampard,” she added.

  Behind the thick black spectacle frames, the receptionist’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait please,” she said and rushed out from behind the desk. Within minutes she was back with a grey haired gentleman in a dark suit.

  “Mrs Lampard? I did not expect you. Welcome to Harrison and Crosfield. I am Andrew Clark, the Manager.”

  Ruth took his extended hand. It was clammy. She noticed the nervous tick at the corner of one of his eyes. “I am sorry. I didn’t call. I wanted to be here first thing in the morning.”

  “Come with me to my office. This way.” Ruth felt his hand on her elbow, urging her along the narrow corridor. They went into a large room with maps and photographs on all four walls; he motioned her to take a seat. They sat facing each other, he behind his desk, she in a high backed chair. Between them stretched a vast expanse of dark wood. A young attendant brought tea. Ruth wondered at his agitation. She waited impatiently for the girl to set the cups in place. The process seemed to take an infinitely long time. The manager coughed discreetly and waved the girl away. Once she left the room, he began rubbing his temple. He wouldn’t meet Ruth’s eye. His reticence alarmed her.

  “Is anything wrong? Where is my husband? Can I go to him? Today if possible.”

  “Umm!” His eyes met Ruth’s for the first time since they entered the room. “You should stay in Kuala Lumpur for a few days. It can be arranged.” His voice was grave. His eyes darted to the door as though he wished to make his escape. Andrew Clark was sure that Ruth would not last in the heat and certainly not out in the remote area of Tanjong Malim. He thought her completely unsuitable for a life in the tropics: her slenderness, her paleness with the dusting of freckles across her nose and total naivety. The receptionist had told him about Ruth’s mode of transport. Certain standards of decorum had to be maintained as a planter’s wife and she had shown her total ignorance of it. There was no way he could tell her that, not with the bad news he was about to deliver.

  Through the gap of the slightly open door, Ruth saw the receptionist pass by.

  “But I am not interested in staying in Kuala Lumpur,” she said. Her voice cracked and she crinkled her forehead in exasperation.

  “You must. Rather you should. The Majestic is a pleasant retreat for most of our staff. Planters and their families use it. You will be comfortable there.”

  “Why can’t I go to my husband? I was told that he is in a place called Tanjong Malim. You mean he is here in Kuala Lumpur?”

  Ruth recalled the anxious looks of people at the hotel when she mentioned Tanjong Malim. She hadn’t given it much heed then. She had been too awed and surprised by the hotel the previous evening after the uncomfortable bus ride. She had never come across anything like The Majestic before. In the dining room, white-uniformed waiters scurried between potted ferns and tables laid out splendidly with silver cutlery, fine porcelain and crystal glasses. She had never seen so many starched white tablecloths. Suspended from high ceilings, fans whirled slowly forming a backdrop to the clinking of glasses. Piano music floated across the room to mingle with the modulated voices of well-dressed women and men in evening attire. The scene dispersed the sense of danger she had gathered from fellow travellers on the ship. Bathed and changed from her travel-worn clothes she had felt a new person last night. Her sense of well being, however, was now fast dissipating. She watched the beads of perspiration gather on Andrew Clark’s brows.

  “Is something wrong?” she repeated.

  He took both her hands in his. “The telegram we sent you obviously did not reach you before you left. I am sorry,” he said, his eyes looking right into hers. “You have to be strong. Mark is missing.”

  Chapter 5

  Tanjong Malim

  “MADAM, WE ARE TO return to Kuala Lumpur immediately after you’ve seen the bungalow. We have to be quick. We can’t stay here. Please,” the driver’s voice was almost pleading, “nightfall is just a few hours away. We are not allowed to travel once it gets dark. I am to take you to a rest house if we can’t return to Kuala Lumpur.”

  “A rest house?”

  “There are no hotels in the area.”

  The driver held open the door for Ruth. A guard with a pistol in the upholster on his hip and a rifle over his right shoulder, stood just two feet away from the car. His eyes roamed the surrounding area.

  She stepped out. For a moment, all she could do was to stare at the bungalow in front of her. Mark’s bungalow. The windows were open. There was a desultory air about it, as though it was lost and did not know what to do with itself. Like me, Ruth thought, a disembodied spirit. She made herself walk towards the bungalow, one foot forward then the other. Her legs were heavy. She turned back to look at the driver. He stood as still as a rock. The expression on his face was unreadable. She turned once more towards the bungalow. A curtain lifted. She saw a movement behind them. Mr Clark had mentioned that there was a cook and a housekeeper. Ruth quickened her footsteps. Perhaps they could tell her more. She would like to know everything, even things not directly connected with Mark’s disappearance. She wanted to know how Mark lived, the food he ate, the things he liked; little things that she would be able to connect with. It had been so long since she had seen him. Had he changed? It was suddenly important to know how he was before he was captured; she needed the threads of normality she could cling to.

  She pushed open the door. It swung open, its hinges creaking
in protest. There was no one in the hallway. Sunlight streamed in from windows on all sides of the bungalow. She had noticed, when she was driven here, how houses had big open windows, quite unlike those in England where thick walls and closed windows were needed to keep the warmth in and the cold out. Here windows were flung open to the elements, open windows, however, that were heavily barred.

  She stepped into the house. It was cool relative to the scorching heat outside. A woman, small like a gnome, appeared. She spoke with her eyes cast down. The words tumbled out in rapid succession. Ruth did not understand her. She turned and was relieved to see the driver behind her. He must have changed his mind and followed her into the bungalow.

  “Can you tell me what she just said?” asked Ruth.

  “Ma’am, she is Fu Yi, the cook and general housemaid. She said no one else is here. Everyone has left, even May the housekeeper.”

  “Tell her please that I would like to go round the house alone. Then I would like to speak to her. Would you help interpret?”

  “Yes, Ma’ am. I can do that. Fu Yi speaks English though you might not understand her. She spoke English just a moment ago. I’ll wait outside. Call me when you’re ready.”

  Ruth waited until they left. Her head throbbed. There were so many questions she would like to ask. She switched from fear for Mark to sadness and disbelief. She did not know which came first. How could it have happened? Of all the things she had thought could happen, this was not one of them. She walked further into the house. The hallway led into a living room. It was sparsely furnished, like a bachelor-pad. A rattan sofa and a couple of armchairs, a coffee table and a side table were all there was in the room. She saw a photograph. It was the one taken by Mark of her when they were in Brighton. It seemed a lifetime ago. She walked quickly towards another corridor that branched off from the living room. It led to a bedroom. The door was ajar. She pushed it open. A bed stood in the middle. Over it was a mosquito net, coiled into a loop. She went to the bed and stood hovering above it. She did not know how long she stood there before she sat down on its edge. The mattress sank slightly under her weight. She ran her fingers along the bed sheet, smoothing it as she did so until she reached the pillow. It still had the imprint of a head on it. With a sob she clasped the pillow to her. She held it to her face and inhaled. She could smell Mark; she recognised him just from that. She clasped the pillow to her chest and rocked, finding comfort that it was Mark’s pillow, her connection to him. Yet as she breathed deeply into it, there was something else, an undercurrent scent that was undeniably feminine. She dropped the pillow. She was imagining it, she told herself. She got up and went to the adjoining bathroom. She turned on the light switch. A flourescent strip sprang to life. A shower, a washbasin and a toilet occupied three corners of the tiny area. By the basin were a shaving kit and a bar of soap. She caught her breath at the sight of them. Her chest felt so tight, she had to concentrate on each breath.

  Listlessly she opened the cabinet over the basin. A jar of Ponds cream stood in solitary isolation. She closed the cabinet door quickly. In its mirror she saw a face so pale and drained that she could hardly recognise herself. Behind her stood the lady who had greeted her earlier. Before Ruth could speak, the woman had rushed out.

  ***

  “Ma’am, Fu Yi says she knows nothing. She just cleans and cooks. It is May, the housekeeper, who manages the house. The master gives his instructions through May. She does not know where May is. In fact the police have been. They too asked for May. Perhaps they might know a bit more.”

  Ruth tried to catch Fu Yi’s eyes but the cook refused to look up, leaving Amat to translate.

  “Does my husband have any friends around here? Surely he must have some friends?”

  Ruth was desperate. She had learnt no more than what she had gleaned from Andrew Clark. As yet there was no ransom note, no body. “If he was dead, we would know,” Clark had said. “Insurgents normally make an example of their captives to drill fear into people.”

  “Who was the last person to see him?” she pressed.

  “The cook said that the master left with his driver to see Major Hugh Anderson.”

  “Then take me to him.”

  “Ma’am, we don’t have time if we are to return to Kuala Lumpur today. Rest houses are not safe. I much prefer we return to Kuala Lumpur. Mr Walker, one of the company’s manager was killed in this very state at his plantation.”

  “I am not going anywhere until I see the Major. I must know what is happening. No one seems able or willing to tell me anything.”

  From behind the kitchen door, May heard everything. She slipped out of the back door and hurried out through the backyard.

  ***

  “Mrs Lampard, Mark and I spoke just minutes before the incident. He was here in this very room. The thing is I can add little to what you have been told.”

  Hugh closed the file. He sat down to face Ruth. He could see the desperation and sadness in her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. He could not make himself add to her grief by repeating his conversation with Mark. Mark had only spoken about his concern for the girl May. He had made no mention of his wife during it. Now May, it would seem, had run away and left no trace. Was she involved in Mark’s disappearance? Or did she take flight because she was frightened? Hugh did not know the reasons for her disappearance and would not judge without further investigation. However, as it stood, it certainly did not look good for the girl.

  “There was a housekeeper, May,” said Ruth breaking into his thoughts.

  “May?” he asked as though he did not know the name. “Ahhh! May! What do you want to know?”

  “Can I reach her?”

  “We haven’t been able to find her. We thought she might have gone back to her family. Apparently they have not seen her either.”

  “How strange that she had not made contact with them. Her husband and children must be worried,” Ruth was of the impression that May was a middle-aged woman. The word housekeeper conjured up such an image in her mind. She had not known many housekeepers in her life except Mrs Lawn in the neighbouring farm and she certainly was middle-aged. “If only we can find her. She could tell me more about Mark’s friends, acquaintances, perhaps even enemies. Is Mark in dispute with any one? Could his kidnap be an act of vengeance?”

  “This is nothing to do with dispute. It is an act of terror. Planters are easy targets. We are searching the jungle for Mark. A helicopter is surveying the entire forest even now as we speak.”

  “About May,” Ruth persisted.

  “I’ll take you to the settlement. You can meet her parents. She is not married.”

  Ruth looked past him. The wall behind was plastered with notices and photographs. A picture of a young woman caught her eye. Next to it someone had penned in a big question mark in red. Below her picture was one of Mark wearing a hat and leaning on the bonnet of a jeep. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he had a grin on his face. He looked happy.

  Hugh turned and followed her gaze. He cursed himself. He should have removed May’s photograph.

  “When was that taken?” Mark seemed so carefree and happy. Ruth had not expected that. From his letters, she had imagined that he hated it here in Malaya. That was the impression he had given when he told her not to come. The photograph showed a completely different Mark.

  “That was taken when we first recruited May.”

  Ruth’s eyes darted back to the photograph of the young woman. She had meant Mark, not the girl whom, until then, she had not associated with May. Her eyes were drawn initially to the picture because of the big question mark. Ruth leaned forward, her chest touching the edge of Hugh’s desk to take a closer look at the photograph. The woman was beautiful, more beautiful than anyone she had met since her arrival in Malaya.

  “Yes,” she said, “I would like to meet May very much. If not her at least her parents.” Ruth took a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to slow down. She clenched her hands hard, so hard that her nails
bit into her palms. She felt her scalp tingle. She recalled the jar of cream she had seen and the scent on Mark’s pillow.

  “Very well, we’ll arrange a meeting with her parents,” Hugh relented, not quite meeting Ruth’s eyes. Ruth was bound to find out about May and Mark sooner or later. He told himself that he was not going to be the one to tell her. She had to find out for herself. “Stay at the rest house tonight. I’ll arrange for you to be picked up tomorrow morning.”

  He stood up and walked round to her.

  “Stay within the rest house compound. Do not walk on your own, even in the garden.”

  “Has it always been like this?” Ruth asked as she rose to her feet. “The tight vigilance, the danger and the sense that one is being watched all the time?”

  Hugh shook his head. He looked out of the window. It was lush green outside. Picasso would have found it a painter’s paradise. Wooden houses on stilts dotted the landscape. A wild orchid plant hung from a tree. Below it grew red cannas and hibiscus. It was hard to imagine that a war against communist insurgents was being fought.

  “No!” he replied. “I was here before the Japanese occupied the country, as was Mark briefly. Malaya is beautiful. It gets under your skin like a drug, heady, exotic. Like the toddy that people drink. Mark loves it here. When we parted company before the Second World War, he vowed to come back. He did not expect,” Hugh sighed, “we did not expect to come back to a country beset with problems.”

  He turned to face Ruth. “The Japanese occupation tore the country apart. It split the population. While we won the war in Europe, we did not quite do the same here. We were routed. After the war, the Malayan people’s view of us changed. As their colonial masters, we had promised them protection and safety. We failed. We left the fight against the Japanese to the Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army. That army was principally filled with ethnic Chinese. They went underground to conduct guerrilla warfare against the Japanese. I suppose it was not unlike the French resistance army in France, except that when the war was over, the MPAJA was not given the recognition it sought. These are the people we are fighting now. People we had trained and who had supported us during the war. No doubt they had their own agenda in doing so. Many owe allegiance to China. Their aim being to bring the whole of Malaya under Communist rule and to oust the British. Malaya is now in a state of turmoil. Mark’s disappearance is a drop in the ocean of carnage and bloodshed that now afflicts the country.”