‘I’ve just come to check on my patients,’ he told her with a grin when he arrived. ‘But I see they’re hardly patients any more. Aliza! Look at you!’
Aliza smiled shyly, but with her old spark, and Mamat felt his eyes tear when he thought how close he had come to losing her.
By this point, Maryam had stepped out on the porch to join them.
‘Kakak,’ Pak Nik Lah continued, ‘why are you still wearing that scarf? Is the mark really still there?’
Maryam mumbled something unintelligible even to herself, then backed into the house for the obligatory coffee. She still hated to be reminded of the scar and refused to let anyone look at her forehead. But when she returned, Pak Nik Lah reached over, after apologizing, and lifted the scarf as Maryam froze. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he told her gently. ‘It’s all gone.’ He smiled. ‘You can take it off now.’
She thought to argue, or make excuses to leave it where it was, but then took heart and untied it. Mamat brightened up and laughed with pleasure seeing her without it, and Aliza assured her there was nothing to see.
‘You look so much better this way,’ Yi concurred. ‘You look like yourself again.’ She smiled modestly, and reflexively put her hand to her head.
‘Don’t do that, Mom,’ Aliza chided her. ‘There isn’t anything there.’
She asked Pak Nik Lah if she could discuss the case with him, since he had cured Jamillah as well as herself, and would naturally have an interest.
The three adults drew closer, and Maryam explained about their flock of confessed felons.
The bomoh was startled, having understood the problem was more commonly the opposite—much suspicion and no one coming forward, rather than many coming forward but none, somehow, looking guilty enough. Yet he thought he understood the motivations of each one.
Zaiton could not forgive herself for her pregnancy, and believed it worsened her mother’s condition. Fighting with her mother made it so much the worse.
Hamidah, well, she wanted only to kill Murad, and once he was dead, why not blame him for any other convenient crime? All of these made sense, he announced.
As for Aziz attacking her, it was shameful, but as he had said many times, Aziz was a troubled man. However—and he would not want this misconstrued—Aziz may improve now, with Murad gone. Perhaps he would make peace with his losses and stop brooding.
Pak Nik Lah’s opinion was that his brooding was detrimental to his health overall; weren’t they all familiar with amok? It began with brooding, deep and incessant, and then developed into indiscriminate killing.
They all nodded sagely. Of course, they knew about that phenomenon, but hadn’t thought about Aziz as being on the cusp of any such outburst.
That was the horror of amok, Pak Nik Lah explained, no one knew it was coming until havoc had already been wreaked. Aziz’s foray into wielding the enam sembilan was, in his professional opinion, a minor eruption of the state, one in which the sufferer lost control over his impulses and became murderous.
Maryam and Mamat were sobered by this diagnosis, wondering if Aziz might have had the same problem with Jamillah. As though he read their minds, Pak Nik Lah advised that he thought not. The hallmark of amok was uncontrolled violence; whoever killed Jamillah was controlled, careful and cautious. It had been planned, with a great deal of nerve, he thought, not blundered into in a rage. Therefore, he added, it was far more frightening.
Maryam considered the description just given—it sounded like Hamidah. She ticked off the attributes Pak Nik Lah had listed: nerve? Absolutely. Hamidah was fearless when she was on a mission. Cautious? Life with Murad had made her cautious and cunning, planning for the long term without giving away any clues. The horse mackerel feeds late in the day, but it eats well in the end. Of course, that could also describe Murad, another impassive face on a simmering temper.
But as Maryam believed, Murad channeled his venom through his familiar, to keep his own hands clean. Hamidah wouldn’t mind getting her hands dirty. Pak Nik Lah nodded, and concurred. It made sense.
‘Then do you think Hamidah killed her?’
‘She’s certainly capable of it.’
‘Would she have put the plan together and had Kamal actually carry it out?’
Pak Nik Lah sighed, and leaned back against the porch railing. ‘She might. But she’d never admit it.’
‘Kamal might, if he was involved.’
‘Would it be so terrible,’ Mamat asked diffidently, ‘if Hamidah was guilty? Whether she did it herself or asked someone else to actually do it for her, she was the planner behind it. She admits it. Why not just leave it at that?’
Maryam looked at him sadly. ‘It would be nice if we could just decide who would be the least…destructive. But I can’t.’
‘Kamal makes the most sense,’ Pak Nik Lah suggested gently. ‘He’d do what his mother told him, no matter how odd it might seem. I don’t know how he is now with his wife, but at heart, he’s easily led.’
‘You’ve met his wife,’ Maryam said when she could trust herself not to giggle. ‘I think it’s safe to say he’s easily led there, too. I hope his wife isn’t advising him to kill anyone.’
Maryam and Rubiah were escorted into the Kota Bharu prison by Osman and Rahman. And a good thing, too, since it allowed them to avoid the visitors’ line. The women waiting to visit were much poorer, more ragged than Maryam and Rubiah. Most were painfully thin, wrapped in torn and faded sarongs, with T-shirts rather than formal blouses. They stood with their arms folded, their feet placed far apart in worn plastic flip-flops. Many chewed betel quids, with teeth black and lips stained bright red, leaning over every so often to spit. Indeed, the ground beside the wall where they stood was mottled with old betel stains. A few smoked home-rolled cigarettes. All looked resigned, even hopeless, and shuffled slowly forward as the line moved in infinitesimal increments.
A cottage industry selling snacks and drinks to the lines of visitors waiting there had grown up, mostly on the back of three-wheeled bicycles, whose riders plied their trade up and down the line. The two mak chik drew stares from the rest of the women, but none commented or spoke to them; they remained silent, save for the occasional sound of spit and the shuffling of feet.
The room they were placed in was as horrible as the rest of the prison, and exuded despair and defeat. It was dark, and dreadfully hot, with a thick layer of grime over the stained grey walls and floors. Yet when she was brought in, Hamidah fairly glowed with contentment and smiled as graciously as if she were overseeing a party in her own home.
‘How nice to see you!’ She beamed around the room and patted Maryam’s arm. ‘So thoughtful of you to come to visit. And in this heat!’
Maryam forced a smile. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh fine. Not as nice as being home, of course, but I’m happy enough.’ She certainly looked serene. She lowered her voice. ‘Do you have a cigarette? There are so few little luxuries here! Not that I’m complaining.’
Maryam slid her home-rolled cigarettes across the table, and Hamidah gratefully took one before speaking again. ‘How can I help you? You look like you came here for a reason.’
She may have been crazy, but she wasn’t simple; she could be a formidable opponent, as her husband discovered too late. Maryam tried to tread carefully, and not give too much away. ‘Just seeing how you are,’ she replied. She looked benign, but Hamidah was not fooled.
She smiled at her cigarette, not looking up. ‘Ah, still looking for someone to blame for Jamillah’s death, are you? You don’t like Murad as the murderer? Why not?’
Maryam was flustered to be called out so bluntly. Rubiah answered for her. ‘Kakak, like it or not, I just wonder whether Murad actually was involved in that crime. Not that I’m disagreeing…’
‘But you are,’ she answered sweetly. ‘And he did do it, you know, so I’m wondering why.’
‘No one actually saw him in our village when Jamillah died.’
‘It must have been
such a crowd! And as I told you before, he was clever. Mean, though.’ She looked thoughtful and leaned back in her chair, enjoying her cigarette.
‘Someone saw you, though.’
‘Me?’ She laughed. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘I understand you were.’
‘Kakak, how can it be?’
‘Kamal says you were. He said he followed you.’ Hamidah fell silent, considering how to respond.
‘Kakak?’ Maryam asked, prodding her for an answer.
She lifted up her head. ‘Kamal is mistaken.’
Rubiah shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Kamal is confused.’
‘No.’
‘I know my own boy. He’s confused.’
‘I don’t want to keep arguing this all day. He says you were there, and he followed you there, and he saw you come down from the sill.’
‘Me? ’ She laughed again, a little more forced this time. ‘An old woman like me climbing into windows? It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?’
‘However unlikely, that’s what he says.’
‘Poor boy,’ Hamidah crooned. ‘You must have done some terrible things to him to make him say that.’
‘I did not!’ Maryam was offended.
‘Maybe not you, Kakak,’ she replied, unimpressed by Maryam’s high dudgeon, ‘but someone did.’ She skewed her eyes towards Osman, startled to suddenly find himself in the role of Grand Inquisitor.
‘He didn’t either,’ Maryam retorted. ‘Kakak, if we aren’t getting anywhere…’
‘You mean we aren’t getting where you want to go. However, I understand your frustration. It seems too easy to have Murad be guilty. He is though, more than you know.’
She paused and smoothed her sarong over her knee. ‘Well, I’m in here for murder already, aren’t I? So, you’re right, it was me. I killed her. I jumped in, smothered her, jumped out and went home. You’ve caught me.’ She looked satisfied with her confession.
‘Well now, Kakak, that wasn’t so hard, was it? You’ve got your murderer.’ And to Osman: ‘Can I have a few packs of your cigarettes to take back with me? I’d be grateful.’
Osman opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Hamidah stood up. ‘Thank you all for coming,’ she said, going to each one to formally shake hands. ‘I enjoyed our talk, but now, I think I’d like to go and lie down. Don’t forget the cigarettes, please! Would it be too rude, do you think, if I asked you to give me the cigarettes you have with you now? You must think I’ve totally lost my manners here. I haven’t, really, but I want them!’
With a bright smile, she stood in front of Osman, her hands outstretched to receive the bounty, and he gave her the two packs he had with him.
After she left them, they sat in silence. ‘I can’t understand how we have so many confessions and still aren’t sure about the murderer.’ Maryam was bemused. ‘Soon, people who weren’t even there will start confessing.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Osman commented.
‘You haven’t been on the job that long,’ Rubiah reminded him. ‘Maybe that’s why.’
Maryam sat silent, smoking. She dared not ask for tea or coffee; whatever they had here would be undrinkable, she was sure of it.
‘You know,’ she finally said after several minutes, ‘she thinks Kamal did it. And she’s protecting him. She’s right, she’s already killed Murad, so what’s one more murder charge to her?’
‘So? Isn’t it possible she did it?’ Osman asked.
Maryam conceded it was. ‘It’s possible Murad did it, too. But she’ll do anything to protect her son. Do we let her?’
‘But, Yam,’ Rubiah protested, ‘we came here thinking it would be her, and now she’s said it was. Why have you changed your mind about it?’ Rubiah would have been happy with Murad, but she was ready to accept Hamidah. Why look further?
Maryam struggled to explain. ‘I thought she’d deny it, but I could see in her eyes when she decided to admit to it that she calculated what her confession would be worth. So, I thought, it isn’t so much a confession, but a strategy, and why is that? Because she’s protecting someone else.’
Chapter 32
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, a commotion in the village cracked the silence. There was screaming for help and incoherent shouting. Mamat woke immediately, but Maryam’s dreams incorporated the sounds, which became more like nightmares.
While the sounds were louder, they didn’t get closer, but other voices cried out, and there were men calling to each other. Mamat ran out through the yard and down the path, squinting to see in the darkness. Three men were wrestling someone to the ground—it looked like an indeterminate blur of arms and legs, all flailing.
One man, suddenly recognizable as a neighbor, leapt away with black liquid streaming down his arm, and the man on the bottom was somehow now free again, running like a drunk, out of balance, without direction. With his eyes adjusting to the night, he recognized Aziz, wielding a keris, a wavy-bladed dagger. It was the traditional Malay weapon but was rarely used anymore; it must have been in his family for years. He was shouting, but Mamat could not make out what exactly, and he realized with a start that the black liquid was blood in the moonlight. Aziz was amok!
Maryam came running up behind him and gasped. Both Zainab and Zaiton lay on the ground, unmoving and bloody. Several women were trying to get to them, but Aziz careened around the clearing, ready to kill anyone who came forward. The men tried to corner him, as they would an angry buffalo, careful not to get too close. He was wild-eyed yet unseeing; in the grip of a frenzy. He whirled towards Mamat and Maryam. Mamat stepped back, hoping to draw him in where someone else could grab him from behind.
Dancing back, Aziz followed him, then sliced through the air with his keris, nicking Mamat slightly. With a cry, Maryam moved towards him, and Aziz plunged the keris into her shoulder, burying up to the hilt. She screamed and fell, and Aziz grabbed another woman and stabbed her in the arm. He then stood suddenly still, turned the keris toward himself and fell on it.
The village was in chaos. The ground seemed muddy with blood, and the wounded lay where they fell. Osman arrived with three cars and the ambulance. It looked like a war zone, with dazed survivors wandering around, and others tending to the wounded. He saw Mamat with a clean sarong wrapped around his arm, and hailed him. ‘What happened?’ He could not take in the scene before him.
‘Maryam,’ Mamat half sobbed, pointing down at her. Osman called for the doctor to come over immediately and get her to the hospital.
‘It’s my fault,’ the police chief moaned. ‘I never should have asked her…’
Mamat, who at any other time would have comforted him and told him not to feel guilty, sat in shocked silence, as though insensible to all else going on around him.
Rubiah and her family had come out, as had almost everyone in the village, to help those hurt and try to save them. Both Zainab and Zaiton were hurried off to the hospital, with great concern about their condition.
‘How are they?’ Osman asked anxiously. The doctor merely shook his head sadly, and went to care for others, hurt but still conscious. ‘Why did he do it?’ he asked Mamat, but once again, Mamat sat silent and unmoving.
Maryam had been stitched up, the wound in her shoulder deep and painful, but thankfully, not affecting her vital organs. She was pale, and frightened, and relieved to find herself alive at the hospital rather than dead on the ground in Penambang. She still could not clearly make out what had occurred, or why, though Rubiah sat with her and tried to clarify it.
‘He was amok,’ she told her while plumping the pillows and wiping her face with a cold cloth. ‘I don’t know what pushed him.’
‘Guilt, shame,’ Maryam listed smartly. ‘He thinks Zaiton killed her mother, he attacked me, it’s all too much for him. And Pak Nik Lah did say he could do this.’
‘But he didn’t think it would actually happen.’
Maryam could not shrug, but made a
n eloquent face which was just as expressive. ‘These are things you can never know for sure,’ she said with a certainly she could not possibly possess. However, in the past several hours she found herself a newly minted expert on the syndrome of amok, from a much more intimate perspective than she had ever wanted. ‘I imagine he’d been brooding—remember how dangerous that can be!—and decided he couldn’t take it anymore. What about his girls?’
Rubiah sighed. ‘I don’t know yet. They lost such a lot of blood, Yam. They didn’t look real anymore, so white. Lying there, it seemed they had no blood left.’
Maryam nearly burst into tears. ‘I saw. I don’t know about the baby, how it could survive something like this…’ She plucked at the sheet covering her. ‘Tell me,’ she said slowly, fearing the answer, ‘Were Zainab’s children there?’
‘No, thank heaven,’ Rubiah said thankfully. ‘Zainab was just visiting. The kids were home with their father.’
‘So she’s not divorced yet?’
Rubiah shook her head. ‘No, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Good for her husband, I say. He’s doing the right thing.’
Maryam nodded. ‘And Zaiton’s husband?’
Rubiah shook her head. ‘No sign of him. Not that I’m surprised. He’s gone, that’s all.’
‘Is she…?’
‘I don’t know. But it can’t be good for the baby, her losing that much blood. Even if she’s alright.’
‘I wonder why he isn’t coming back?’
‘He’s a coward,’ Rubiah sniffed. ‘And to think I thought he was such a nice boy.’
‘Not anymore?’
‘Nice boys don’t leave their wives in this kind of situation. Look what’s happened in the end. I know,’ she held up her hand to forestall any comments. ‘No one knew Aziz was about to snap. But a husband shouldn’t just leave his wife like that.’
‘Unless he had a reason.’
‘What kind of reason? How can you justify it?’
Spirit Play Page 18
