The Night Tiger

by Yangsze Choo

  * * *

  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?”

  “No.” Koh Beng gave me a shrewd glance. “Did he want something?”

  All I wanted was to sit down quietly somewhere until my hands stopped trembling. Should I report Y. K. Wong? He might claim it was a prank, or that I’d lured him into the storeroom to seduce him. In fact, broadcasting that I worked at a dance hall was enough to discount my testimony. If Shin found out, there’d be trouble; for all his cool quietness, he had an explosive temper. Distracted, I said, “He was looking for a package.”

  “Was it Pei Ling’s? I saw the two of you talking right before her accident.”

  “She wanted some help.” Not that it had done much good. “What sort of person is Y. K. Wong?”

  “He’s an awkward fellow. Tight with Dr. Rawlings, the pathologist. He’s done a lot of work for him.”

  Rawlings was another name on that list—was that why Y. K. Wong had the storeroom key? I frowned, thinking hard.

  “So what was in that package?”

  How much could I trust Koh Beng? He seemed to know a lot about the goings-on in this hospital. I said slowly, “Lists of names and numbers. But please don’t tell Shin about today. It’s a private matter.”

  Koh Beng said sympathetically, “Don’t worry, you can count on me.”

  He seemed pleased that we shared a secret, and recalling his talk of skulls and weretigers, I asked, “Do you know any superstitions about fingers?”

  “Well, the Malays say that each finger has a personality: the thumb is the mother finger, or ibu jari. Then you have the index finger, jari telunjuk, which points the way. The third finger, jari hantu, is the ghost finger, because it’s longer than the others. The fourth one is the ring finger; in some dialects they call it the nameless one. The little finger is the clever one.”

  The idea of fingers having personalities troubled me, as though they were five little people. Koh Beng gave me a sideways glance; I was sure he knew that I was hiding something. But he only said, in his friendly porcine way, “Pei Ling was a good friend of mine. I’d like to help. Those lists of names—can you bring them in to show me?”

  I nodded. If he could make sense of them, I might have some bargaining power to deal with Y. K. Wong.

  36

  Batu Gajah

  Friday, June 26th

  In the hot, stifling afternoon, Ren continues to sleep. Pushing past the veil of fog that drifts and numbs him. He has to get through, to the other place. That bright, feverish place where everything is clear as glass and sharp as stone. It takes every bit of his strength but suddenly, there he is. The long bleached grass, the low tangled bushes. There was a tiger here before, he remembers, but it’s nowhere to be seen now. He casts around the muddy ground. What was he doing that was so important? Yes. Nandani. He has to find her.

  William said that she made it home safely that night after the party, but Ren doesn’t believe him. She’s not in Batu Gajah. She’s here. He’s sure of it.

  In that burning, dreamlike landscape, Ren follows the footprints in the soft earth. They lead onward, the left foot dragging, through the waist-high grass towards the train station that he glimpses in the distance. They must belong to Nandani, he thinks anxiously. Ever since he saved her leg that day, he’s felt responsible for her, even though she’s older than him. For some reason, Dr. MacFarlane’s words come back to him, that affectionate reprimand. Kindness will be the death of you, Ren. But that’s not true, is it?

  Doggedly, he follows the footsteps. The trail wavers, as though whoever made it has become weaker along the way. His cat sense prickles, trembling in a single direction, only to be met by a high blank wall as vast as the sky. Beyond that, lies Yi.

  Ren plods on, the brilliant light burning the landscape into his squinting eyes. The railway station draws steadily closer. It’s the same direction as the wall that separates him from Yi. For some reason, a girl in blue comes to mind. What was her name again—Ji Lin? His thoughts flicker in and out. William dancing with her. Her eyes op
ening wide as she sees Ren. Running around the house in the dark, checking the windows for Nandani, or is it some other pale chill creature who might be peering in from the windows? The vengeful long-haired women, cheated in love. And at last, the roaring flash that breaks the night—but he can’t recall any further. This is reality now, this bright sunny land that quivers with unknown expectation.

  The footprints lure him onward, around a shrub with waxy dark green leaves. Oleander, he thinks, looking at the frothy blossoms, though he can’t recall who dislikes it so much. An old Chinese man, wiping his hands on an apron and saying disapprovingly that the master should cut it down. Ren blinks and the memory is gone.

  As Ren goes around the bush, he almost stumbles on her. She’s sitting on the ground, nursing her left ankle. Her long dark hair is tangled, and when she raises her face to him, Ren has a terrible shock. It isn’t Nandani at all. In fact, he’s never seen this woman before.

  They stare at each other in silence. She’s Chinese, with a pale, rabbitlike look. Her eyes are pink at the corners, as though she’s been crying, and when she stands up awkwardly, she’s not much bigger than Ren. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ren.”

  She stares at him. “Are you a real person?”

  “Yes.”

  Unexpectedly, she grabs him by the elbow. Her touch is icy cold, and Ren gives a cry of surprise.

  “You’re warm,” she says. Bending over, she clutches her ankle. “I can’t walk well. I must have sprained it.” With a grimace, she straightens, and now Ren can see there’s something wrong with her. One arm is bent, her shoulder set at a strange angle, as she shuffles forward. She looks broken, a puppet whose strings have been cut.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks.

  “Not really. I’m a nurse,” she says. “So I think I might have broken my arm or dislocated my shoulder.”

  “Can’t you remember?”

  “It was a fall.” She frowns. “My head hurts. Anyway, it will all be better once we get on the train. Yours, too.”

  Ren glances down and realizes that he, too, is injured. His left arm and side are wrapped in bandages, and he has the uneasy feeling that he ought to remember why, although he doesn’t. They walk around the oleander bushes, and from here, there’s a clear view of the train station. Ren’s companion seems to take heart at the sight.

  “Where did you come from?” she says.

  “I don’t know.” He looks behind him, but there’s nothing but waving grass.

  “Come on,” says his companion. “We need to get going.”

  37

  Falim/Ipoh

  Friday, June 26th

  Shaken, I took the bus to Falim. If I closed my eyes, I could still see Y. K. Wong’s crooked jaw, that instant, calculating look right before he’d locked me into the storeroom. I wondered what expression he’d have when he returned to find me gone. Certainly, I’d have to deal with him soon. Courage, my girl, I thought, squeezing my hands against the rising anxiety in my chest.

  I spent a quiet evening in the shophouse helping my mother. Observing her frail figure, I thought of Ren. I had a terrible suspicion he was dying; the greyness in his face had frightened me, his eyes shut like a soul unmoored. What could I do for him?

  “Don’t worry,” my mother’s voice broke in. “It will be all right. He likes you.”

  My heart gave a startled leap. But she was referring to Robert, of course. I listened with half an ear as she chattered on about how kind he was.

  “Yes,” I said nodding, thinking that I’d have to rely on that kindness quite soon. Shame flooded me. Surely Robert wouldn’t turn me away if I asked to borrow money? It was quite different from accepting a pot of chicken soup. So many things had gone wrong recently that I felt sick with worry. And what had Ren meant by only two days left?

  * * *

  The next morning, I let myself quietly out and returned to Ipoh, explaining to my mother that I was helping Mrs. Tham finish a dress. “A rush order,” I said, though the real reason was that I’d promised the Mama I’d sub in for a last shift at the May Flower.

  It was past lunchtime by the time I reached Mrs. Tham’s. “So here you are!” she said, without any preamble. “I thought you were going to be in Falim all weekend.”

  “I’m helping a friend out,” I said guiltily.

  Luckily Mrs. Tham wasn’t interested as she was bursting with news of her own. “Your brother came looking for you. Him and also that young man.”

  “What young man?”

  “The one who drove you home the other night. Robert, you said his name was.”

  Why on earth were Robert and Shin looking for me? They were an unlikely pair; they didn’t even get along.

  “First your brother stopped by and then as he was leaving, that Robert came too. I told them you’d gone back home.”

  “Did they say what they wanted?”

  “No, your brother said he had to meet someone.” Mrs. Tham drew a little closer. “Are you going steady with that Robert?”

  “We’re just friends.”

  She gave me a disbelieving look; I could hardly blame her. Robert and his enormous boat of a car attracted attention. Most girls in my position would probably be over the moon.

  “If I finish early, I might go back to Falim tonight,” I said.

  “All right.” Mrs. Tham waved cheerfully as I left. That was the advantage of having two places to stay over—you could always claim you were somewhere else. I needed at least a day or so if I was going to do what I had planned.

  * * *

  In the dim back corridor at the May Flower, the Mama stopped me and pressed an envelope into my hand. It made a lovely fat crinkling sound. “They paid up for the private party. Well, Kiong went to collect it from that red-haired doctor. It’s your share, plus the back pay that you’re owed. Cleaned out your things already?”

  “Almost.”

  I kept a spare frock in the dressing room, which I planned to wear today. All of us girls did, just in case there was a rip or spill. Feeling pensive, I hurried down the corridor with its peeling mint-green paint. Hui was in the dressing room patting rouge on her cheeks. She did Saturdays from afternoon all the way through the evening shift.

  “You on today?” She looked surprised.

  “She asked me to help out,” I said, struggling with my dress.

  “Here, I’ll help you.” Hui deftly unhooked me. I must tell her soon that I’d quit, but it didn’t seem like the right time now, not when we were rushing to get ready.

  * * *

  I’d never worked a Saturday afternoon before; it was crowded and the band played more local dances like joget. The music was cheerful, and forgetting my worries briefly, I quite enjoyed it, though I didn’t see any of my regulars. I’d miss this: the waxed dance floor, the sweating faces of the band members whom I now knew well enough to nod and smile at as we went by. The smell of cigarettes and sweat, my aching calves, and Hui’s bitingly funny remarks. As I slid into the cordoned-off dancers’ pen after a turn with a plump government clerk, I felt a stab of regret. Perhaps I shouldn’t quit after all.

  I knew only a few of the other girls today since we were usually on different shifts, but Anna had come in. I hadn’t seen her since the night of the private party.

  “I saw something good just now.” Anna always had a sleepy, heavy air about her and today it made her tall figure somehow more voluptuous.

  “What?”

  “A really handsome fellow. He was waiting outside for a friend. I made him promise to dance with me when he came in.”

  The other girls giggled. I listened with half an ear.

  “What do you mean by really handsome? You’re always saying that!”

  “But he was! He might be an actor from Singapore or Hong Kong.”

  There was a lot of eye-rolling, but we were all rather curious, myself included. Many Chinese opera stars were bombarded with love letters, home-cooked meals, and money from frenzied female fans. The only pe
rson I knew who looked as though he ought to be in pictures was Shin. Then a dreadful thought occurred to me: perhaps it was Shin.

  “He was tall, with nice shoulders. Narrow hips,” said Anna, “And he had this northern Chinese look, with a high nose and cheekbones.”

  Alarm was spreading; a swarm of fire ants pouring down my back.

  “Look, there he is!”

  My stomach plummeted. It was indeed Shin—and with him were Robert and Y. K. Wong. The three of them threaded their way through the crowd, Y. K. Wong leading them. His narrow face with its elongated jaw was alert as he searched the faces of the girls. Our eyes met. I had nothing, not even a fan, to block his triumphant gaze from where I sat, a large rosette and number pinned to my breast, like merchandise for sale. Panicked, I willed my frozen legs to jump up. A dull roaring rose in my ears as they came closer. Even if Y. K. Wong had spotted me, it meant nothing as long as Robert and Shin didn’t. Run!

  With a gasp, I was out of my chair, stumbling past the other girls with their cries of surprise. Y. K. Wong grabbed my wrist. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  I stared past him at Robert’s shocked face. I couldn’t bear to look at Shin. Robert’s eyes were wide, showing the whites around them. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Ji Lin—are you working here?”

  I dropped my head wretchedly.

  “You’re really working here? Like a prostitute?”

  His voice was incredulous. Too loud, like a slap in the face. Time slowed to a nightmarish crawl. I saw Shin’s jaw tighten, the telltale shift of his shoulders. I knew the danger signs when my stepfather snapped. Could see the future unravel in a gritty, jumping newsreel: Shin would hit Robert in the mouth, break his teeth and nose, and go to prison all because of my stupid, stupid choices.