Restless and agitated, I headed over to the May Flower. Perhaps Kiong had further news of what had happened to Ren. It was nearly noon; the dance hall wasn’t open yet, so I let myself in through the back door and waited in the corridor outside the Mama’s cramped office. It was a squirrel’s nest with a desk piled high with papers, but I knew better than to underestimate her. She was an excellent businesswoman.
Kiong wasn’t around, said the Mama, but she was well aware of last night’s fiasco.
“Is the boy all right?” I asked, unable to hide my concern.
“No idea. But likely he’s still alive since no one’s come to look us up yet. We didn’t get paid, either. Well, that’s why I don’t like doing private parties. I heard you saw the boy who got shot. Was it bad?”
I nodded, not wanting to talk about it.
“Poor child.”
“I don’t think I can work here anymore.”
Now seemed as good a moment as any to quit. I was unlikely to find another part-time job that paid as well, but it wasn’t worth the risk. I’d ask Robert to lend me the money.
She didn’t look surprised. “Thought you might feel like that. Well, I won’t say I’m not sorry—you’re one of my best girls on the afternoon shift. If you change your mind, let me know. Can you pitch in once more next Saturday, though? I’ll be short a couple of girls.”
I nodded. As I left, it occurred to me that this was one of the last times I’d walk down the grubby mint-green corridor. All the laughter and comradeship, the sore feet, and the slapping away of wandering hands would come to an end. Though perhaps it was better this way.
32
Batu Gajah
Monday, June 22nd
Everything is falling apart, thinks William.
It’s Monday morning now, and he’s headed back to the hospital to check on his small victim. For victim is the right word. Over and over, William has replayed the scene from that night: Ah Long taking him aside with the news of the tiger in the garden, the feverish excitement that descended on the whole party, and himself, unlocking the gun closet to get his shotgun. Why, why did he think of that?
It’s not as though William hunts much; the Purdey is another expensive Acton relic, like the good silver and crystal glasses that he’s lugged halfway round the world. Why bother, when his family has as good as disowned him anyway? It’s because titles and breeding open doors everywhere, even if he pretends to scorn them. Perhaps that’s what drove him to get the gun out: thinking it would be a grand gesture to fire a few rounds into the darkness and scare off a tiger. What a fool he is!
All his mistakes have been made when he’s been overly emotional. In fact, he had misgivings earlier that evening, but he’d thought it was about Nandani and how he must disentangle himself from her. When he walked out of the house, the gun under his right arm in the field carry that his father had taught him so long ago, he had another moment of doubt, but it was too late, even though the girl had screamed for him to stop.
How had she known, that girl Louise, that the rustling in the bushes was Ren, and not an animal? If he closes his eyes, he can still see her, running out of the darkness into the pool of light spilled by Ah Long’s lantern. Pale blue dress, face tight with terror. And even then, the dark part of himself that he’s always tried to suppress found her panic alluring, with those slender legs and long-lashed eyes—like a frightened doe.
Thank God he’d loaded it with number-six shot. If it had been buckshot, even at that distance and with the inevitable scatter, Ren would certainly have died. Rawlings said it was one of the messiest injuries he’d seen on a child. One of the fingers on his left hand had been shot raggedly off. The fourth finger, the ring finger. William finds himself wondering illogically whether that means Ren will never get married because there’s nowhere to put a ring. But such thoughts are useless because Ren, inexplicably and despite all the care that he’s had, is dying.
* * *
He can’t understand it. Nobody can. The wounds were cleaned and stitched up. No vital organs were hit. Perhaps it’s the shock. William has heard of men on battlefields who drop dead, their hearts stopped like clocks. Still, it doesn’t explain Ren’s precipitous decline. The fear is sepsis, especially in the tropics where injuries rapidly turn putrid.
“How old is this boy?” Rawlings had asked that night, as they worked on, searching in the bloodied mess for the shot wadding. It was vital to remove as much of it as possible, there being little to combat infection other than rinses of carbolic acid.
“Thirteen, he said.”
“Nonsense! He can’t be more than ten or eleven at the most.”
William felt himself shrink in shame. Of course he should have known. If Ren dies, nobody will really care. William will be made out to be the fool who shot his own houseboy, but it will all blow over because Ren is an orphan with no one to speak for him. Except for me, thinks William.
* * *
When William goes out to the car, he finds Ah Long standing next to it. He’s holding a steel tiffin carrier, the kind they use for packed lunches. The lines on his face look deeper than ever.
“Tuan, let me go to hospital.”
“You want to see Ren?”
A nod.
“All right.” William feels a stab of guilt. Of course the old man must be fond of Ren.
At the hospital, William reviews Ren’s chart. Not good. He’s continued to run a low fever. Worse still, the boy’s face has begun to take on the sunken look that William dreads. Ah Long puts the tiffin carrier on a table and sits by Ren’s bed, speaking to him quietly in Cantonese. Ren doesn’t respond; his eyes are closed and there are blue shadows under them. There’s nothing more that William can do. Irresolute, he stands there wondering what Ah Long is saying.
“Sleeping, is he?” he asks.
“Or wandering.”
William frowns. That makes no sense at all. Ah Long fumbles in his pocket and produces something in a small slim glass jar, the kind that anchovies come in. William looks at it in disbelief. It’s the shattered end of a child’s finger, floating in tea-colored liquid.
“Is this Ren’s?” he says, trying to swallow the bile in his throat.
“Yes. I look for it.”
God. It’s so terribly sad. It reminds him of MacFarlane’s finger, the one he had to amputate because of blood poisoning on that trip they took, but it’s worse because it’s child-sized and preserved in this horrible fashion.
“You do know that we can’t reattach it,” says William, thinking that Ah Long must have spent hours combing the bushes and grass for this one small finger. It’s a wonder that he found it before the crows did.
Ah Long nods. He’s about to set it on the table by Ren’s bed when William stops him. If Ren wakes up, he might be frightened by it. What is Ah Long up to, with his barbaric superstitions? William pockets the glass jar.
“I’ll keep it, just in case.” He turns on his heel, about to resume his duties. “By the way, what’s the fluid?”
Ah Long looks blank.
“What did you preserve it in?” asks William patiently. He needs to know as he’ll have to change the fixative.
“Johnnie Walker, Tuan.”
* * *
When William returns to his office, there’s a visitor waiting for him. With a sinking sensation, he recognizes the tall spare figure of the local police inspector, Captain Jagjit Singh. He hasn’t seen him since the discovery of Ambika’s body in the rubber plantation; there’s been no reason to since Ambika’s death has been ruled a misadventure. But now he’s standing in William’s office as though he belongs there. The same Malay constable is with him.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” says William cordially. “Is this about the shooting? I called it in yesterday, and they said I could just come down to the station and give a statement.”
“I’d actually like to take a statement about something else.”
“A statement about what?” William’s alarm is growing. Is this still about Ambika?
Captain Singh studies William’s face. “So you haven’t heard? About one of your patients—Nandani Wijedasa.”
“Has something happened to her?”
“I’m afraid she’s dead.”
William sinks down. “Dead? How’s that possible?”
“Mr. Acton, when was the last time you saw her?”
William thinks rapidly, his mind scattering and reforming itself. “Saturday night. She came to my house.”
“What for?”
William considers lying, but instinct tells him not to bother. “She wanted to see me before she went away. What happened to her?”
Captain Singh watches William with sharp amber eyes. “Was she upset?”
“Somewhat.” William takes his glasses off and polishes them. “Her father had found out we’d been friendly and he was sending her away. To an uncle, I believe.”