So, Lydia knows about Iris. He should have seen it coming. Had, in fact, been struck by their resemblance. It doesn’t matter whether they’re second or third cousins once removed, or whatever Lydia said. He’d been too taken aback to pay attention.
And now, what should he do? What does Lydia want? It will be trouble. Lydia, with her bossy, well-meaning attitude. She’s exactly what he hates. William wipes his mouth. Before they meet again, he must uncover every bit of information that he can about her: whatever secret from her past that’s exiled her in Malaya for more than a year with no husband, no job, and nothing to do besides play tennis at the Club and volunteer. Know thy enemy, he thinks.
And then, in a spasm of furious anguish, he wishes Lydia would just disappear.
35
Batu Gajah
Friday, June 26th
In a few short days, Ren had lost a shocking amount of weight. Hollow cheeks, blue veins showing through papery skin. A faint, hoarse voice, as though every word was a struggle. But he looked happy to see me.
“About the finger you gave me,” I said hesitantly, when Lydia had gone. I didn’t want to bring it up but was afraid he’d be worried about it. “I kept it for you.”
A spasm passed over his face. A look of alarm, or was it urgency? “Two days left,” he whispered. “Put it back. In his grave.”
I bent over, trying to catch his words. There was a grey, glazed look on his face.
“What do you mean?” I asked, but he didn’t hear me. Ren’s eyes had closed. There was nothing but his frail light body, the husk of a grasshopper, left behind in the bed. For an instant, I was terrified that he’d died. I touched his hand. Cold, yet the narrow chest rose and fell unevenly. The nurse had said that Ren wasn’t doing well, though they couldn’t find a cause and I’d best not tire him. She was right; there was something very wrong with him.
“Are you a relative?” she’d asked.
“No. Why?” I said anxiously.
Her eyes darted past me uncomfortably. “Well, if you know any of his relatives, tell them to come and visit. Soon.”
* * *
I left the ward with a sinking feeling. There were still so many questions that I had for Ren: how the finger had ended up buried in the garden and why he’d wanted me to put it into a grave. Unsettling thoughts, moving like shapes underwater. I’d asked the nurse whether Pei Ling had recovered from her fall yet, and she’d shaken her head. She hadn’t regained consciousness. The nurse gave me an odd look, as if wondering why I was connected to all these unfortunate people.
Afternoon was waning, and people were beginning to leave. I couldn’t shake Lydia’s strained warning out of my head. What had she meant by telling me to stay away from William Acton? The way she’d lowered her voice as though afraid of being overheard made me wonder what she was worried about. She’d mentioned luck as well, which reminded me of the salesman. When people talked about being lucky, perhaps they simply wanted to feel powerful, as though they could manipulate fate. Like the gamblers who were obsessed with lucky numbers, or bought lottery tickets according to the number of colored scales on fish. It all seemed like a bad idea to me.
Turning a corner, I recognized the spot outside the cafeteria where I’d last spoken to Pei Ling. If I kept following this walkway down the hill, I’d pass the place where she’d had that disastrous fall. Here. She’d fallen from the stairs and landed quite a distance from the bottom. The sturdy handrail on each side of the narrow stairway reminded me of Shin’s observation. If she’d stumbled, it was odd that she hadn’t managed to break her fall. She might well have been pushed.
I glanced up, alerted by a sudden movement. A dark head had poked over the top of the stairs, but the late afternoon sun was in my eyes. There was a flash of white uniform, and for an instant, I thought it might be Shin, come to find me with his long stride. But whoever it was disappeared. Time to get going. The shaded walkways were empty as I cut round the side of the hospital. Passing the familiar door to the pathology storeroom, I paused. What if the finger from the salesman was still there, and the one that Ren had handed me was a doppelg?nger, born like a worm, from the dark earth he’d dug it out of? It was such a disturbing thought that I felt I must see for myself. I tried the handle. Unexpectedly, it turned.
Inside, all was much as Shin and I had left it. I dragged the step stool over to the specimen shelf. Reaching up, past a kidney, then the jar with the two-headed rat. I peered behind. Nothing. The space where the small bottle had stood, containing a dried and blackened finger, was empty. So it hadn’t multiplied itself like a nightmare. Thank goodness. I was about to step down when the door opened.
* * *
It was Y. K. Wong. I should have known it would be him. He was like a bad dream, appearing everywhere I went. Pulse thudding, I held my breath as he shut the door behind him, very deliberately.
“Looking for something?” he asked. “Like a finger?”
“There aren’t any fingers on this shelf,” I said defiantly.
“I know. I had a look the other day.” He circled closer and I eyed him nervously from my perch. “Does Shin know about your job at the May Flower?”
So he’d recognized me at the hospital the other day, despite my attempts to hide my face. I felt absurdly vulnerable standing on the step stool, like a victim for a hanging.
“Let’s start again,” he said. Forced smile. The glimpse of a sharp canine tooth. “You lied to me about that finger. Were you one of Chan Yew Cheung’s girls from the dance hall?”
“No—I picked it up by accident.”
He gave me a disbelieving look. Another step, closing in. “Then what about Pei Ling? I heard you asking about her. Did she give you anything?”
What had Pei Ling said? That the salesman had a friend she didn’t like at the hospital; who she was afraid would get his hands on her package. The lists, I thought. Those lists of doctors and patients and sums of money written in another hand. I was still standing on that ridiculous step stool and it occurred to me that if he shoved me backward, I’d crack my head open. Like Pei Ling falling off the stairs.
Half turning, I reached behind. My hand scrabbled over the glass jars. I hurled the jar with the two-headed rat at Y. K. Wong. It smashed open against his arm in a spray of foul liquid. A cry of disgust as he doubled over. Then I was leaping, the biggest jump of my life, trying to get past him, but he caught me by the wrist. No breath to scream, I could only grit my teeth and yank hard. Slipping on the wet floor, he slammed past me into the door. For an instant he stood there, face tight as though he was making up his mind. Then with a twist of the handle, he was out and had locked the door on me.
“Let me out!” I shouted, banging on it.
He put his mouth against the door. “Think about what I asked you,” he said. “I’ll be back for an answer.”
* * *
I yelled until I was hoarse, though by that time, Y. K. Wong was long gone. It was Friday evening; there’d be only a skeleton staff for warded patients over the weekend. Panicked, I tried the windows. They were very tall and most of them had been painted shut. The only open window was a transom that flipped open horizontally across the top. The type that needed a long hook to unfasten. But it was so high up.
Dragging the table over to the window, I climbed up. Not quite high enough. I set the step stool on top. The fumes from the spilled formaldehyde made my eyes water, even as I averted them from the two-headed rat splayed on the floor. I was going to have nightmares about that. Up I went, feeling the double wobble of the step stool and the table, afraid to look down. I stuck my head out through the transom. Eventually someone would find me, though I feared Y. K. Wong might return first if I screamed. Taking a deep breath, I dropped my basket through the opening and heaved myself up. It was tight, even as I wedged myself sideways. Too tight. I was stuck, eight feet off the ground. Please, I thought, I’ll never eat another steamed bun again. A ripping sound as my skirt caught in the hinge. The top of the window scraped my back, then I was through, scrabbling madly at the sill, legs dangling.
I lost my grip in a slithering crash. Sharp pain in my ankle as I landed, palms stinging from scraping against the wall. Running footsteps round the corner. I froze, terrified that it was Y. K. Wong returning, but it was only Koh Beng. I was glad to see his friendly, porky face.
“I heard a scream,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I twisted my ankle.”
Fortunately Koh Beng seemed more interested in looking up my skirt, which I yanked down with a glare, than asking questions about how I’d managed to fall over behind a building.
“Did you see Y. K. Wong on your way over?”