Lydia nodded. “The food is very good.”
“The Festival committee is run by the local hawkers,” said the medium. “So the catering is not bad. How can I help you, sister?”
Lydia had to pause to formulate her question. Despite growing up in KL she only spoke enough Cantonese to order food and watch subtitled Hong Kong dramas. Her parents had spoken Hokkien, and living in Penang had meant that what little Cantonese she’d had was rusty.
The sentence she produced wasn’t the sentence she’d expected, however. She opened her mouth and heard herself say:
“How did I die?”
The medium blinked. “You don’t know meh?”
“I don’t remember,” said Lydia. “Can’t you tell me?”
The medium looked confused. He took off his spectacles and polished them before putting them back on.
“Sorry ah, sister,” he said. “Usually the living come and ask me questions. The good brothers and sisters just send messages. Advice, life lessons, that kind of thing. You are the ones with the wisdom what.”
“I was only late 20s when I died,” said Lydia. “It was recently only. I haven’t had much time to become wise yet.”
“Ah,” said the medium. He scratched his head. “If sister gives me your name I will try to find out for you how you passed on. I’ll look tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow I won’t be in Kampar already,” said Lydia. Frustration surged in her. She should never have stopped to talk. Every minute she spent here was a minute she could have used to get to Wei Kiat. And she hadn’t even asked the right question. “Never mind. Sorry to waste your time, sifu.”
“That is not a problem,” said the medium. “To contact you is very easy. I am a medium. That’s my specialty. You will know what I find out. That one at least I can promise.”
“Thank you,” said Lydia. She started to get up, but the medium stopped her.
“Wait a minute, good sister,” he said. “I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t have any advice for anybody,” said Lydia.
“No, no,” said the medium. He looked embarrassed. “I just want to know, what’s your birth date?”
THE SIFU’S EYES unfocused, his face twitching. The light of transcendent enlightenment filled his face. His mouth fell open. From the dark depths of his throat issued an awful bellow:
“Eight two one one!”
Even in her impatience this surprised a laugh out of Lydia.
“Oh, 4D,” she said. “So people can buy lottery tickets, right?”
“Chinese like to gamble too much,” said the demon disapprovingly.
The sifu was still shouting numbers to an attentive crowd when they walked away from the lights and smells of the festival.
The demon had parked the motorcycle next to a drain inhabited by bullfrogs, and their importunate moos filled the night air as the strains of Cantopop died out.
“Can we go now?” said Lydia, but suddenly, for no reason, she was afraid.
What would she find when they arrived in Penang? If Wei Kiat no longer lived at their house it would be difficult to find him. He might not even be in Penang anymore. And if he was, would he be different?
The living world seemed suddenly strange, quick-moving, unknowable. Lydia wished the sky was not so large. She wished, for the first time, that she was still safe within the caverns of the netherworld, protected by the rock ceiling from change and inconstancy.
“You’d better sleep first,” said her demon. “If not you’ll be tired. We can leave in the morning.”
“I’m dead,” said Lydia.
“Then there’s no better time to rest, no?”
THE SKY WAS brightening when they set off again, and dawn crept over the country as they sped along the North-South Expressway. Lydia kept dropping off, her face smushed against the demon’s bony back.
Every once in a while she would open her eyes to the landscape of the annual journeys of her childhood. The dark green sea of oil palm trees; massy white cumulus clouds in a harsh blue sky; the narrow barren boles of abandoned rubber tree plantations; the occasional water buffalo standing patiently by the road. They zoomed past orange earth stripped clean and levelled flat, waiting for development; temples with elegant roofs curving towards the sky, roof tiles blinding in the sunlight; billboards advertising herbal supplements and massage chairs.
The shape of the green-furred mountains against the sky brought back an unpleasant memory – the first time she remembered really seeing them and noticing their beauty. She’d been eight and she’d wanted to ask her parents why some of the mountains were red on the inside and some white, but they were fighting in a whisper, believing her asleep.
“I told you to ask for discount. These people want to make the sale, ask only they will give to you one.”
“Haiyah, bought already,” Lydia’s father had said. “At most also won’t save more than RM100 lah. What for heart-pain over a small thing like that?”
“For you maybe it’s not much. Easy lah you, every day come home at five. I’m the one who has to do OT, pay for Lydia’s tuition everything. At the end of the day still I’m the one cooking dinner. For some people it’s very easy!”
“If it’s so difficult marrying a civil servant, why didn’t you marry some tycoon?”
“I’m just stupid lah,” Lydia’s mother had snarled. “That’s why, no?”
Lydia had hunkered down in the back seat, making herself small. It had seemed politic to continue being asleep – absent, unhearing.
“What’s wrong?” said the demon.
“Just remembering,” said Lydia. She told the demon about it. “Dunno why I’m so upset also. They all fought all the time anyway. But Chinese New Year was the worst because they had to be in the same car for five hours.”
“Aiyah,” said the demon. “Be more xiaoshun lah. Your parents what.”
Lydia experienced an unfamiliar spike of outrage. “Aren’t you supposed to be my personal agony? Whose side are you on?”
“Of course I’m sympathetic,” said demon. “But you’re dead liao mah. Your parents also were suffering. Angry for what now?”
SOMEWHERE PAST THE Kedah-Perak border, the demon went off-route. Lydia only woke when the bike started jolting over uneven ground.
They were riding over a dirt track in an abandoned patch of oil palm plantation merging into secondary jungle. It was hot and very, very still.
“What’s happening?” Inarticulate fury rose in Lydia. “Bastard, always delay here, delay there. You don’t realise my time got limit, is it? You think I sold off a year of death to a hell official just to cuti-cuti Malaysia? Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to the place where you died,” said the demon.
They only stopped when they were deep enough that they could no longer hear the noise of traffic from the highway. A heaped black pile of oil palm fruit sat rotting by the path. A lizard ran over the ground by Lydia’s feet, lifted its head as if it heard something, and hurried on.
The demon squatted by a tree and looked at Lydia as if it was waiting for something.
“Why–” Lydia realised she was crying, but it was only her demon, after all – only her personal agony whom she had carried ever since she left the living world, only the part of herself she knew best, and she ploughed on: “Why everything has to be some kind of life lesson? I don’t need to know what. It’s done already. This’s supposed to be a vacation. I’m not trying to find myself or what. I just want to relax and see my husband. What’s so wrong I cannot do that?”
“What’s your agony, Lydia?” said the demon.
“My parents lah!” wailed Lydia. “Ask me something I don’t know! My parents give me headache my whole life. Even after I die also I still have to deal with them. But I can’t forgive, OK? You think I didn’t try? I wanted to be a good daughter. I sent them money everything. But you can’t control how you feel.”
“You’re wrong, Lydia.”
&nbs
p; “What do you know? You’re just a demon,” said Lydia. “You can’t force yourself to love somebody.”
“Not that,” said the demon. “You’re wrong about the agony. Look around. You sure you can’t remember?”
Lydia looked, but the tears in her eyes had turned the world into a brilliant blur. Shapes lost their meaning. She only saw blotches of vivid green, black shadow, blinding patches of sunlight.
“I don’t know–” she started to say, but she felt a warmth in her hand. She looked down.
An orange light was kindling within her palm. As she watched, the flame crept outwards, forming a thin ring of fire. Within it unfolded a scrap of paper. The fire flickered out.
It was a newspaper clipping, its edges burnt black. Lydia had never received a burnt offering before, but she remembered the kind uncle’s face, turned to her in puzzlement. The medium in Kampar. He had sent her a message after all.
At first she thought he’d wasted his time. She couldn’t read it. It was a Chinese newspaper clipping, and Lydia had gone to a government school. Her Malay was pretty good, her written Chinese non-existent. But she didn’t need it in order to understand the picture.
It was a picture of Wei Kiat. She recognised him at once, even though he’d ducked his head to hide his face from the camera. The photograph was familiar – the stern figures of police officers flanking the sullen convict emerging from the court room. She’d seen dozens of such pictures in the newspapers in the course of her life. She’d never known anyone in them before.
“You want me to translate?” said the demon.
Lydia shook her head.
“Do you remember now?” said the demon.
She looked around that buzzing empty space. The only noise was the whirr of insects’ wings. You wouldn’t hear anything from the road.
It was a good place to have done it.
“No,” she said, but there was a hollowness inside her that contradicted the denial. The knowledge settled into her. Lydia knew how it had come to be that she was dead.
She sat down.
“Why did he kill me?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said the demon.
“I thought he loved me.”
“Yeah.”
“I loved him so much.”
“Yeah.”
Lydia stared at her hands. “My family was so... like that... I thought I was so lucky to find Wei Kiat. He was my chance. Before I never knew what it’s like to be happy.” She looked up. “You really don’t know ah?”
“I don’t have any answers,” said the demon.
“You know how to ride motorbike and read Chinese.”
“I’m what you need to find your hunger,” said the demon. “Doesn’t mean I know anything important. I’m just your sadness. I’m just the fact your true love betrayed you.”
“You didn’t have to say it like that.”
She sat with her head bowed, weighed down with grief, and it seemed as if a very long time had passed when the demon’s voice broke in on her sorrow. It was as if the voice was merely another strand of her own thoughts; it was a song playing soothingly at the back of her head. It said:
“Now you know. What does it matter? In the next life you won’t remember this sadness. You’re already dead. Let go lah your attachments.”
Lydia lifted her weary head. “Why are you saying all these pointless things to me?”
The demon fell silent. Then it said, “What do you want to do now, Lydia?”
Lydia scrubbed her eyes, but instead of a scathing rejoinder, what sprung to mind was a vision of the sea. A blue-grey expanse seen over the low wall that bordered Gurney Drive. The waves glinting so brightly in the sun that they almost seemed made of metal. Around the bay the dark green hills rising, and against them the prosaic white and grey forms of condominiums and office buildings.
She saw her bougainvilleas crowded together in her little garden, their delicate petals shivering at the touch of the breeze. Her heart clenched and relaxed.
“I want to go home,” she said.
“Penang?”
“Yeah,” said Lydia. The bougainvilleas, and the sea.
“Not a bad idea,” said the demon. “They should still be celebrating the Festival. Penangites really know how to layan ghosts. At least the food will be good.”
“Is food the only thing you think about?” said Lydia.
“Somebody has to remember you’re a hungry ghost,” said the demon with dignity.
IT WAS GETTING on for the evening by the time they got to Penang Bridge. The time of what her mother called falling light – the sky a mellow orange-tinged grey, the harsh light of the sun softened by dusk. Over the demon’s shoulder Lydia could see the lights running along the bridge, the red backlights of the cars drawing away, the dark mass of the island rising ahead of them. And on the further shore, the lights of home.
DRIVER ERROR
PAUL MELOY
Every time we get in our car and make a journey we’re taking a risk. The nature of that risk is laid bare on the news with alarming and stark regularity. Paul Meloy’s story takes that thread of true horror and blends it with a metaphysical terror that will stay with you long after you have read the last word.
I WAS IN the car. I was driving down a country road and I had to swerve out of the way of a vehicle coming around a bend towards me on my side. I kerbed the Vectra and felt the car drag left as the tyres bit into the verge and began to pull me into the thick row of bushes lining the road.
I flashed my lights and after a moment of disorientation remembered where my horn was, and leant on it. I got the car under control and felt it slide through the mud. Branches raked the side of the car and clattered against the passenger-side windows and then I was back on the lane. I glared into my rear-view mirror and watched the taillights of the car as it disappeared around the bend. I was raging.
I was on my way to pick my daughter up from a friend’s house. Another party, another Facebook crash and another mass fight; and me out after midnight to evacuate Carla from the wreckage.
And then I came fully around the bend heading onto where the road opened out onto the bypass and saw why the car had been on my side of the road.
I slowed; I had no choice: there were bodies in the road.
I STOPPED THE car and sat there for a moment looking at the dead boys. I had a mobile, but my brain wasn’t doing much at that moment other than trying to process the stuff that was going into my eyes, which was awful.
The road was dark. The streetlights didn’t start for another half mile or so. My headlights provided adequate illumination. They splashed across the tarmac, throwing the three bodies into relief against the potholed road. They lay, all three on their backs, each with a slick of shadow cast behind them. Their bikes had somehow ended up in a tripartite mangle at the side of the road. A couple of the wheels were still revolving, winding down like the mechanism inside some kind of wrecked and unshelled clock. It was as though they had been riding single file, close together, and had been hit and driven into each other and then passed over and mashed by the wheels of the car.
I glanced into my rear-view mirror again. Nothing coming behind me. All clear ahead. Apart from the bodies in the road. I could drive on. I thought about it.
My mobile rang. I had it rigged to hands-free, plugged into an attachment on my dash. I took a breath and looked at the screen. Carla.
“Hello.”
“Dad. Where are you?”
“On the way.”
“It’s all kicked off here again. I’m scared. Morgan’s covered in blood. I think his nose is broken.”
“I’d love to do something about that, Carla. I really would.”
“Dad? Are you okay?”
I looked through the windscreen at the dead boys in the road. The one nearest me was casting a shadow towards the car as though in defiance of the laws of physics. Blood, pooling around his head. I thought about driving on. I really did.
I wish I had.
“I’m fine. I’ll be there in a while.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Hurry up.”
The connection died.
I OPENED THE door and got out. I was alone on the road. I looked both ways, but there was nothing coming. This was a well-used road, linking two major towns, and it would normally be carrying a regular freight of late-night traffic. Taxis, lorries on midnight legs, drunks hoping for a cautious run home well below the speed limit. If I hadn’t been standing in the headlights of my own car on a country lane at one in the morning looking down at the corpses of three young boys I might have thought that odd. But as it was, I was experiencing a kind of trauma drift, the sort of brief psychic harmony that kicks in for a spell and allows you to process and function in the moments following a major disturbance in the force.
The boy nearest me had been about seventeen. He had probably been at the head of the file. The reason I thought that was that he seemed to be the least damaged, as though the two behind him had been driven into him and had sprung him away from the crush of bikes. He had come down on his head. No helmet. How would a layman like me describe what I could see? I could see his brain. I hadn’t been expecting to see someone’s brain tonight, that was for damn sure. Dreadful sentiments came to me; the last thing he’d expected as he’d set out tonight for a ride with his mates was that some stranger would be looking down at his brain tonight; whatever his intelligence, whatever his dreams, whatever his future might have held was bulging lifeless from the top of his head; his catalogue of memories, his personality, his character was as void as the time before all time.
I was starting to panic. My breathing was coming too fast, too shallow. The psychic harmony was fading to be replaced by numbness and dread. I stepped past the boy. His face was pale, bloodless. His eyes were open and he stared at the stars that had made him with terrible, determined senselessness.
The Future of Horror Page 72