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  Chapter XIV

  The trap was set at the market. Ashikin asked Rosnah to stop in and pick up some cloth there, ostensibly a gift to her mother. Azmi was coming to help his mother on her second day back at work. It was a godsend, really; working to get Azmi married had distracted the women of the family completely. Maryam stopped worrying about the case, Aliza about her hair. They were all locked in strategy for bringing the couple together while Azmi was in Kota Bharu.

  Maryam now concentrated her energies on directing Azmi to accidentally run into Rosnah. As he ambled through the market carrying some stock, Ashikin grabbed his arm and swung him around to face Rosnah, introducing them

  ‘Rosnah! Do you remember my brother Azmi?’ she trilled, avoiding Azmi’s eyes. ‘You haven’t seen each other for ages. Azmi’s on leave from the army!’Ashikin then grabbed the package and called, ‘Excuse me! I’ve got to help’ and disappeared.

  Rosnah smiled shyly at Azmi. ‘She’s really busy,’ she said of Ashikin. ‘How long are you back for?’

  Azmi admired her smile. ‘Just a few days on leave. I’m stationed in Kok Lanas.’

  ‘Oh, not too far,’ she replied, twisting her handbag slowly. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy yourself at home.’

  Azmi smiled back at her. ‘Yes, I am, though this’ – he gestured at the hubbub – ‘is a bit crazy.’

  She nodded and agreed. ‘Yes, but it’s how we make a living, isn’t it?’

  He kept smiling. She excused herself and ducked away, not wanting to prolong her first meeting with him. Though she hadn’t been told, she knew the introduction was not random. She was of an age where everyone was trying to find her a husband, and any man to whom she was properly introduced was a prospect.

  * * *

  Osman met his Thai counterpart at the border town of Sungei Golok, across the river from Kelantan. He’d brought Zainab with him, in case they actually found Zaiton; as her older sister, no doubt she had some influence over the girl and would help bring her back. Rahim he would handle himself.

  The Thai policeman, whose name he stumbled over every time he tried to say it, seemed bored and removed from the project. His Malay was non-existent and his English spotty, so communication between the two was difficult. Luckily, however, Rahim’s family had finally disgorged information on their relatives here, and he had the name of the kampong. He also had Zainab to speak Kelantanese if necessary – the dialect in this very Malay part of Thailand was even thicker, if that was possible, than in Kelantan.

  They were driven through Sungei Golok, the neighbourhood Sodom, where all manner of sin existed, many of which did not – or were not supposed to – exist in Kelantan.

  During the day, it looked like any other market town, with stalls sprawling throughout, packed with Thai goods ranging from durian (the ‘durian Bangkok’ widely believed to be the best variety ever) to kitchenware. In the evening, it would shimmer with lights: neon for the bars, strings of Christmas lights for the brothels, bare light bulbs and paraffin lanterns illuminating the night market.

  The kampong in question was more utilitarian and a bit more run down than those in Kelantan, with houses closer together and less effort spent on flowers and keeping the yards clean.

  Osman showed a picture of Rahim to everyone they met, asking if they knew where he was. Most of the villagers were wary of the police, and even warier of turning someone in to them, and it appeared that no one had seen him, or knew of him, or anyone related to him.

  This area, Osman realized belatedly, was considered a hotbed of separatist activity, its inhabitants anxious to leave Thailand and join, or rejoin, their fellow Malays in Malaysia. They’d probably seen a good deal of the Thai police in recent years, and had learned to stay as far away as possible.

  Zainab, however, had broken away from officialdom and had gone on her own to ask, telling everyone that she was looking for her younger sister who had run away from home with Rahim and how much she wanted her back. This, at last, was something everyone could understand, and Zainab was taken to the home where both Zaiton and Rahim were staying.

  Zaiton greeted her with open-mouthed shock. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I had to come all the way here to look for you! What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m here with Rahim!’ she answered defiantly.

  Rahim sought to defuse the situation. ‘It isn’t what you think, Kakak,’ he told her.

  ‘Really? What do I think?’

  ‘That I meant to, you know …’ he blushed and looked uncomfortable. ‘Because I didn’t.’

  ‘We’re married!’ Zaiton announced proudly.

  ‘What?’ Zainab screeched.

  Rahim’s relatives gathered around her to calm things down, several explaining at once that Rahim’s intentions were entirely honourable, and marriage was a respectable state, and they had witnessed it, and it was all legal. They had even given a small kenduri, a wedding feast to celebrate the occasion, so that Zainab would see this was no backstreet abduction, but a real and official wedding. Congratulations were in order!

  Zainab took a firm hold of her sister’s blouse and steered her rather roughly into a bedroom, pushed her on the bed and stood in front of her, arms akimbo, chin thrust forward and patience exhausted. ‘Start talking,’ she ordered.

  ‘We’re married,’ Zaiton said firmly, but her defiance was already melting away. She twisted her hands, and then looked imploringly up at her. ‘I had to, Kakak. I’m having a baby.’

  Zainab suspected this might be the case from the moment Zaiton had gone missing. ‘Astaghfirullah,’ she moaned. ‘How could you?’

  ‘Mak knew.’ Zaiton now began crying, but found absolutely no sympathy. ‘I told her, just before the main puteri.’

  ‘Our poor mother was already sick, needing to be cured, and you dropped this in her lap?’

  ‘I had to tell her, so she would understand. She said we would organize the wedding right after the ceremony. She said she was sure she would feel better afterward, and be ready to help me. I know she was angry, but not that angry. She understood.’

  ‘Understood?’

  ‘I know it was a mistake, really, I do. But now it’s been made good. I’m married, we’re in love,’ – here Zainab rolled her eyes and considered slapping her – ‘and it will be fine. I’m not very far …’

  ‘Everyone will know anyway,’ Zainab informed her. ‘Running away to Golok to get married. People aren’t stupid, you know. Just you,’ she added under her breath.

  Now it was Zaiton’s turn to stick out her chin. ‘I don’t care. I’m married now. Rahim’s parents know. We can live with them for a while.’

  ‘And leave Ayah all alone at a time like this?’

  ‘Well,’ she said doubtfully, ‘I guess we can stay with him if he’d like. I’m afraid he won’t want us. But I’d like to stay with Ayah if I could. I could help at Mak’s stall, we can do it together.’ She smiled tremulously, on the verge of crying again.

  Zainab could see the advantage in that. Of course the two of them could take over their mother’s business, it was only right as daughters that they do so. And if Zaiton and Rahim lived with their father, he wouldn’t be lonely. When the baby came, he’d be with his grandchild and would no doubt love that. He’d get used to the fact that Zaiton (idiot!) had run away to get married – at least she’d gotten married.

  Still, she deserved some punishment. Zainab suddenly leaned over and gave her foolish younger sister a hard smack across the face. Zaiton gasped and cried, holding her hand up to her cheek.

  ‘That’s for getting pregnant before you were married. You know better than that! We’ll make the best of it, we have to and we will. But aren’t you ashamed?’

  She nodded silently, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I am. I’m ashamed I worried Mak the way I did. And now Ayah too, and you. I’ve been terrible.’ She cried into her hands.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ Zainab said tiredly, her mind already running over how to put it to t
heir relatives and neighbours in the best possible light. She wondered if, according to religious law, the child would still be considered illegitimate. Maybe, but once it arrived, everyone would probably forget how it was conceived and Zaiton would be just another young wife and mother.

  She’d missed out on a wedding, which every girl looked forward to. The bersanding, the sitting-in-state in the splendour of songket, with attendants fanning the new couple, the highlight of every wedding, would never be hers. But that was her choice, and she’d have to live with it. Maybe they could get a picture taken of them in rented finery so they’d have something to show their children.

  ‘Come on.’ Zainab yanked her arm and pulled her to her feet.

  In the living room, everyone looked relieved when the two came out. It was clear that everything would be alright. Even though Rahim’s relatives knew the whole story, Zainab was reluctant to tell it to Osman with a full audience, and she pulled him, together with the young couple, over to a corner of the room. The rest of the family tactfully withdrew outside, or into the kitchen, to give them some privacy.

  Osman’s face creased with concern as he heard the story. Would it be a motive to kill Zaiton’s mother? If she already knew, and Zaiton was telling the truth, then there was no reason. However, if her story was now a convenient whitewashing of the truth, then it might certainly push one or the other, or both together, to murder. Still, Osman could not bring himself to consider that this girl would kill her own mother. It was unnatural, and he hated to even consider it. He looked at them both, trying to divine from their eyes whether they could really be that wicked. He wanted to see that it was impossible, but the policeman in him wouldn’t allow it.

  Chapter XV

  Though back at the market, Maryam was still not herself. She tried to think about the case, but her mind was still blurred, and she became easily tired and even more easily irritated. Mamat had suggested she stay away from the market for a while: ‘Let Ashikin handle the stall – you know she’ll do a great job.’

  Maryam erupted in fury. He’d never seen her like that, and everything he said in an attempt to pacify merely seemed to stoke her rage. He tried to keep the children out of her way. Aliza was still delicate, and needed tender care. He worried about her. Whenever he looked at her, without her curly hair, her eyes huge in her face, he cursed himself for not protecting her, for not protecting all of them.

  Yi was home now, and just a kid, and frightened by this new side of his mother. He sent them both to stay with Maryam’s brother Malek and his family, confident they would be comfortable while Maryam had a rest, while he could devote his time to her recovery. After all, without her in the centre of the family, everything would fall apart.

  He tried to talk to Maryam as she prepared dinner, hoping to draw her out. She was pale lately, and haggard. Really, she should have been resting, but she refused. Rubiah tried to bring dinner over every night, but Maryam wouldn’t have it, and Rubiah would leave without comment.

  Maryam squatted on the floor of the kitchen, chopping onions and garlic with a will so vicious Mamat flinched every time her knife hit the board. ‘So, what have you heard about the case?’

  The knife hit even harder, threatening to break the board.

  ‘The case,’ she answered bitterly. ‘Well, Zaiton ran away to Sungei Golok to get married to Rahim. I understand she’s having a baby. Her poor mother.’

  Whack! The onions were already pulverized and she put them in a pan to fry. Now she brought out a coconut grater and began using it. Bits of coconut were spraying around the kitchen. He feared she would hurt herself, but knew if he said anything, she’d probably throw the whole thing in his face.

  ‘Now, would a daughter kill her own mother so she could get married sooner? It’s unnatural. And I thought Rahim was a nice boy, but now I’m not so sure.’ She began squeezing out the milk from the grated coconut, with a gusto which made it look like she was strangling someone.

  ‘And you know what else I think? That wife of Murad is crazy. All her answers are like a code, if only I could figure it out.’ She stopped for a moment, and reflected.

  ‘There’s something wrong there. Though, of course, being married to Murad could probably make anyone crazy.’ She resumed throttling the coconut.

  * * *

  Mamat made the trip to Bacok while Maryam was busy at the market, so she wouldn’t know he’d gone. Rubiah had also urged him to go to Pak Nik Lah, and ask what could be done for her. Perhaps Maryam needed a main puteri as well – something was changing her, and it wasn’t healthy. Mamat prayed the bomoh could give him some hope of a cure; he was out of ideas, and felt increasingly helpless watching his wife sink further into unhappiness.

  Pak Nik Lah greeted him with professional courtesy, and Mamat could see immediately why people trusted him with their problems. He was grave, yet easy to talk to, infinitely sympathetic, yet practical too. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Mamat unburdened himself completely, telling him all that had happened and why. The bomoh offered him a cigarette, his wife laid out coffee and fried bananas, and for the first time since the attack, Mamat felt a solution might be found.

  Pak Nik Lah leaned over, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes kind.

  ‘It’s a great burden for her, I can feel that,’ he told Mamat. ‘She came to see me, with her cousin, was it? And I thought then, what a brave woman! And smart, too, I could see that.’

  He sighed, and took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Often it’s the people who are the smartest who suffer the most, you see. Other people don’t notice things, or they don’t always know what things might mean. But someone like your wife, she’ll take it all in. She can’t pretend she doesn’t know. And then, too, she’s used to running things.’ He smiled at Mamat in brotherhood, and Mamat could not help smiling back.

  ‘My wife’s the same. And then, when she feels she’s fallen down on the job, she’s very hard on herself.’ He leaned back against the cushions, and took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Spending time thinking about murder, it can’t help but upset you. Your energy, your semangat, it’s bound to be badly affected, and I’m afraid that’s what may have happened. She’s open to bad influences, and perhaps some jinn has taken advantage of that. It’s made her angry, or rather, I should say, it’s the jinn you’re hearing when she’s angry, not her. The cure would be to get rid of these influences, these jinn, so her own soul can come back in balance.’

  ‘And how …?’

  ‘A main puteri, I would think.’

  Mamat looked glum. ‘I don’t see her wanting the whole kampong attending something like that. She’d be uncomfortable.’

  They sat silent for a moment. ‘We could try to do a small one,’ the bomoh suggested, a touch doubtfully. ‘I can think about it. I see what you mean, but you need the music and all that. You can’t do it quietly.’

  ‘I see.’ He really did, but feared bringing it up to Maryam.

  ‘Let me come and talk to her,’ advised Pak Nik Lah. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

  Mamat agreed fervently. ‘Yes, let’s. Tomorrow? I’ll try to get her home from the market early.’ He wrung Pak Nik Lah’s hand gratefully, and walked down the stairs feeling better, hopeful that now it was possible to have things improve, and maybe everything would indeed turn out right.

  The next afternoon saw Pak Nik Lah at their house, with Rubiah, Ashikin, Malek and Aliza in attendance for moral support. Maryam served coffee and snacks, cigarettes were passed around, and Pak Nik Lah smiled encouragingly. Maryam looked, and felt, suspicious and uncomfortable. Something was up.

  ‘Kakak, I’ve heard about your injury, and yours, Mek,’ he smiled at Aliza, who smiled shyly back, ‘and I’m sorry for it.’ Maryam murmured something polite but unintelligible.

  ‘I see you’re tired and tense. I don’t think that’s like you.’ Maryam shot Mamat a look, but said nothing. ‘Such a strain you’ve been under lately: investigating murder, which is bound to upset a
nyone, and then this terrible attack. It’s no wonder you’ve been nervous.

  ‘And, of course, Kakak, being nervous, you’ve been weakened. It happens all the time. I’m so sorry to see you suffering.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said curtly, rubbing her hands on her sarong.

  He smiled at her again. ‘Those close to you are worried about you. They can see how you’re trying to be strong for your family, but they can be strong for you, too. They can help you. You don’t need to bear it all by yourself.’

  Maryam watched him warily. The others watched Maryam.

  ‘Perhaps there is something we can do to ease the pressure on you, Kakak. To make you feel more like yourself.’

  ‘Adik,’ Malek said softly, ‘I’m worried about you. You’re too thin, too tired. You’ve been through too much. I feel I must do something.’

  ‘About what?’ she answered quietly. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘A cure. A clearing of your heart of this trouble. A rest for your injury, and for Aliza.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Rubiah chimed in. ‘This has been so difficult for you. Such an injury! Such a case!’

  Maryam looked slowly around the circle of her family. ‘You all believe this?’

  They nodded – even Aliza, frail as she still was.

  To Mamat’s consternation, and the surprise of everyone else, Maryam began to cry: heavy sobs which seemed torn out of her. They crowded around her, stroking her arm, her back, her hair; assuring her it was alright to cry, and she need not be strong always.

  They urged her to let them help her, to regain her strength and her equilibrium. It could be done; hadn’t Pak Cik Lah done it for others? And weren’t they much better afterwards than they had been? To regain one’s peace of mind was the main thing, and then Maryam could continue on as she had been – the mainstay of her family, an admired businesswoman and the saviour of the Kota Bharu Police Department.

  Rubiah wiped Maryam’s face with a cold, wet cloth when she had stopped crying, and Ashikin sat behind her to rearrange her hair. Mamat looked relieved as he held her hand, and Malek beamed and held Aliza in his lap, though she was really too tall for that. Pak Nik Lah smiled beneficently upon them all.