Hugh searched out the man who had spoken and asked if he could elaborate a little more. The man shrugged and looked away. Absolute silence followed.
“There goes Reid’s theory that the war was won. We have certainly not won people’s hearts and cooperation,” Hugh muttered. He shook his head in exasperation. There was a distinct dichotomy in views between those at the central office and those in the outlying offices as to the dangers still posed by insurgents. It was true that the threats posed by them had declined. But speaking to men at the grassroots, it was obvious that the danger was diminished, not obliterated. The new Prime Minister’s withdrawal of the offer of amnesty five months after its initiation had led to a stalemate. The Prime Minister would not meet the insurgents for negotiations without their complete surrender. The insurgents would not surrender unless they were guaranteed that they would not be punished. They demanded that they be given the privileges of other citizens.
Hugh realised that no more could be gained from continuing the meeting. The more he pressed them, the more reluctant the people would be to divulge any information. They would have to be questioned on their own, free from the presence and pressures of their peers. He made a note of the last speaker. He would deal with him later and in private.
“You may go,” Hugh announced to the inscrutable faces staring back at him. He turned to an accompanying officer and pointed to a box filled with films. He was reminded of Reid’s instructions. “Before I forget. These are for them. Pass it also to the people in the village. These films should keep them entertained and out of mischief.”
“Sir?” The man looked confused.
“They are a series of ten films called the Adventures of Yaacob.” Hugh smiled apologetically. “We have been instructed to distribute them. They are anti-bandit stories modelled on Tarzan films that Malayans seemed inordinately fond of. The films apparently had a positive impact on efforts against insurgents. The tactic was used in the war against the Mau Mau in Kenya. They persuaded people to join the counter insurgency movement and to make heroes of themselves. So the instruction is to introduce them here.”
“You think it will work?”
Hugh kept his doubts to himself. “It is good entertainment for the villagers and keeps them happy. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “After they have disbanded, I should like you to question each of them separately. Perhaps someone would tell us more about Mark’s disappearance. Make it casual. Get your local counterpart to accompany you. They might tell more on their own when I am not around.”
He watched the people disperse. He had lost a day. How could Mark disappear without a trace? If Mark had driven the jeep, he must have been instrumental in his own disappearance. Hugh made his way back to his own vehicle. Where had Mark gone, he wondered. Did Ruth know that Mark was missing? Had she been told? Should he speak to her?
Chapter 23
WAVES LAPPED ON to the sandy seashore leaving a trail of bubbles on the golden sands. Over and over again they came to shore, only to withdraw back into the deep sea, each time scattering seashells in their wake. Ruth bent down to pick up a shell; she held it to her ear and then popped it into the little cloth pouch she carried. She would give it to Libby. Libby was with a friend, a one-night sleepover that had extended to the entire weekend. With Mark away, Ruth decided that she would take the opportunity to get away from Kuala Lumpur. Libby was growing up fast and did not want her constant fussing. The two days spent apart would be a good thing for the both of them. She had not been good company for her daughter. She knew her anxiety coloured her behaviour, often prompting Libby to look at her with brown eyes full of unspoken questions.
She drove to the one place that she knew and had found comfort in when she was last in Malaya – Port Dickson. She had not told anyone where she was, not even Libby. Let them worry about her for a change. In any case, she doubted that anyone would miss her. Mark was not due back until next week and Libby was too wrapped up with Nina, her new friend. Nina’s mum had promised to keep a close eye on the two girls and Ruth had promised to call. She did not have a contact telephone number to leave behind. She didn’t know where she would be staying. “Go! Do what you need to. The girls will be fine with me,” Nina’s mum had assured her.
Ruth walked barefoot, relishing the feel of the warm sand slipping between her toes and the sun on her bare shoulders, arms and legs. Sun kisses! A sun that warmed her skin and reminded her of hot toast dripping with honey. The wind whipped up her hair. She closed her eyes in bliss. Coming to Port Dickson was a good thing. For the first time since arriving in Malaya, she felt at peace. She quickened her footsteps and walked inland, up a slope of fine white sand riddled with runners of exotic blooms, the colour of violets. Beach Morning Glory, they call it here, and they were indeed glorious. Ahead of her, wedged between two rows of hibiscus plants with nodding blossoms of scarlet, was the hut she had been loaned. She had driven to Port Dickson on impulse. It was uncharacteristic of her. She was not an impulsive person. Perhaps acting on impulse was something she should do more often. Already her spirit was lifted. She smiled. She had gone straight to the coffee shop where she last met Hugh and asked for Fatty, the proprietor. He emerged from the coffee shop attired just as before, in white cotton shorts and a singlet stained with black sauce. The aroma of fried garlic mingled with the salt-scented air. Not much had changed from when she was last here, just an older Fatty. His welcoming grin and laughing brown button eyes were the same. He remembered her. She asked where she could stay. He replied instantly that he had a fisherman friend who owned a hut adjacent to his own. He let it to backpackers. It was basic. The fisherman’s wife would lend a helping hand in the kitchen if needed. She would take care of Ruth. Ruth did not need further persuasion.
Ruth’s feet sank deep into the sand as she neared the hut. An urn of water had been laid out for her. She dipped the coconut ladle into the urn and drew water to wash her feet. She sluiced the cool clear water on to both her feet and then dried them with a rag of old sarong left by the side of the urn. The fisherman’s wife Fatimah had explained that it was customary to remove footwear before entering a house. Maintaining clean feet before entering any household was sacrosanct. She walked up the flight of wooden steps that led to the balcony of her little hut. The door was thrown wide open. Through it was the one room that served as kitchen, dining, living and bedroom. A kapok fibre mattress was rolled up in one corner.
Ruth was not ready to go into the hut. It would be an hour or so before darkness settled in the sky. She returned to the top of the flight of steps and sat down, anchoring her feet on the rung below her. From her perch she watched Fatimah. Dressed simply in a sarong tied above her bosom, her brown arms bare and her feet shod in a pair of red wooden clogs, Fatimah was cooking dinner alfresco. A clay pot was bubbling on one charcoal stove and on the other she wielded a deep wok. The aroma of mixed spices wafted to Ruth; shallots, chillies, turmeric, galangal and fermented shrimp paste. Ruth found herself transported to the time she first set foot on these shores. Fu Yi had used the same ingredients, frying the paste until it was aromatic before squeezing tamarind juice into the mixture. Fatimah dropped handfuls of fresh prawns caught that day into the medley of spices, letting it bubble until the prawns turned pink. Then she sprinkled a big pinch of salt and sugar into it. “Mari,” she said with a wide smile, her hand waving Ruth over. She took a scoop of rice from the pot and ladled the prawns on to the rice, adding a pile of freshly sliced cucumbers. “Makan!” She mimed with her hand scooping imaginary morsels of food into her mouth.
Ruth hurried down the steps stopping to slip on a pair of flip-flops before heading towards Fatimah. By the time she reached her, Fatimah’s three little children, a boy and two girls, were already sitting cross-legged on a mat laid out on the grass. All three had plates of rice heaped with cucumbers and a tiny scattering of prawns. They sat, waiting patiently for Ruth to eat before tucking in. Ruth ate, dipping her fingers into the spicy prawns and moulding the rice i
nto little portions before dropping them into her mouth. The children giggled to see specks of rice rolling off her fingers and the tears in her eyes. Her lips burned from the spice. They licked their fingers and Ruth did the same. It made them laugh. Ruth felt at home and at one with this family whom she had just met. Their generosity touched her. No wonder Mark loved Malaya. Mark! She realised that she had not thought of him since she had arrived. She had become obsessive about him, about the wrong he had done and the wrong she had done. If only she was free like the people around her.
She shifted on to her knees and breathed in, deeply inhaling the scented evening air. Everything would be fine; she could feel it in her bones. She looked at her watch. There was no telephone around. She would call Libby first thing tomorrow morning. For tonight, she would be selfish. She would sleep and let the peace of the night and of this gentle family cocoon her.
***
May returned the phone to its cradle. Hugh’s message rang deafeningly in her head. Mark was missing! She sat down. How could it be possible? she asked herself, silently mouthing the many questions that sprang to mind. Could it be coincidence? Chun couldn’t have been instrumental in Mark’s second disappearance. Although Chun’s body had never been found May was sure that he was dead, like the many found burnt to cinders in the black crater left from the British army’s bombing.
Memories of charred bodies, burnt faceless heads, bodies with broken limbs, some flung far away, tormented her. They had taken her to identify the corpses after the bombings. She couldn’t recognise them; she didn’t know which of the corpses could have been Chun. She could merely recount what Chun told her and confirm his involvement in the kidnapping of Mark. Yet the nightmare of faceless, limbless charred bodies haunted her. Her mind went blank for days. Then one morning, she felt a stirring of life in her body. She opened her eyes and was temporarily blinded by the shaft of light seeping through the bars in her cell. An omen! The baby! Mark’s bequest. A life born of love. She told herself that she must live. And Hugh came to her rescue, a devoted, loyal Hugh who worked day and night to prove her innocence. He had nursed and cherished her, loved her. He had made her what she was now. Above all he loved Craig as his own. Craig was their secret. Fu Yi was wrong to think that she could still be in love with Mark. Her feelings towards Mark were those of guilt. She was guilty of denying Mark his son; she was guilty of stealing Mark away from his wife, Ruth. She had been callous. At seventeen, all she had thought of when Mark wooed her was that she was in love. She had not known about Ruth. When she did, she had still no thoughts about Ruth. She had been too deeply in love. She had justified her love by assuming that Mark was unhappy with his wife and that their marriage was over.
May walked to the French window. Out in the garden bamboos shifted and swayed in the breeze; their bright red stems in stark contrast to the verdant green of the leaves. Now older, she was wiser. Whether it was from the folly of youth or not, she was guilty of causing grief to Ruth. And now Mark was missing again. She must help Ruth.
***
Ruth’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment she did not know where she was. She sat up and pushed aside the mosquito net draped around the makeshift mattress on the floor. Last night’s dream was still with her. A smiling and indulgent Mark was playing with Libby and Ruth was looking on. It was a wonderful dream; the first happy dream she has had in years. Outside, a cock crowed and birds warbled their morning song. Sun poured into the hut, bathing it in a warm honeyed light. She remembered where she was and what she had to do. She rushed down the flight of steps to the urn of water. There was no one about. Fatimah must have gone to meet her husband; she had mentioned that he would be bringing in the night’s catch at the break of dawn. He had gone fishing for squid; they called them sotong, fish with just one bone. Hastily she sluiced water over herself as she had seen local women do. That would have to suffice as a wash. She shivered. The water was cold. She must drive into town and borrow Fatty’s phone. She would call Libby. She wanted to let Libby hear her happy self. She would be the mother that she had not been for a while.
The road was clear. Few cars were around and the road-check was brief. The policemen waved her through immediately when they saw her; white people were not under suspicion. Fatty was sliding open the metal door of his coffee shop when she arrived at the town’s market square.
“May I use your phone?” she mimed with her hand, dialling an imaginary phone and putting the receiver to her ear. He waved her inside. Once in the hallway of the half-opened premise, she took up the phone and dialled. She was excited. It might be too early to call but the maids would be up. She could persuade them to call Libby to the phone.
The phone rang. To Ruth, the ringing seemed prolonged and infinite. Then a voice answered. An English voice.
“May I speak to Libby?”
“Who is this?”
“Ruth.”
“Thank God you called. This is Hazel, Nina’s mum. Libby is distraught. We have been looking for you. You have to come back immediately. Your husband is missing. He disappeared with his driver, Din.”
Chapter 24
THE BED WAS littered with papers and clothes. Hugh gathered the papers together and packed them into his briefcase. Then he crammed the clothes into a holdall, unmindful of whether they were dirty or clean. With a grunt, he zipped up the bag. He was glad to be heading home to May. From outside, raised voices, excitable shouts of Tuan, Tuan, cut through the air. They came nearer and nearer, followed by footsteps. Looking out from where he stood, he saw a group of men marching towards the building. They were pushing someone along. Hugh rushed out of the rest house.
“Din! Din! We found Din!” The man they called Din fell to the ground. He lay there in a heap, chest heaving, his shirt torn and trousers ripped.
“Send for the doctor,” Hugh commanded. “Quick!” He knelt down and cradled Din’s head. Someone placed a bottle of water in Hugh’s hand. He lifted Din and placed the bottle to his lips. Din drank in great gulps, spilling some down his chin and onto his chest.
A motley crowd gathered around them. The babble of voices rose again. Malay interspersed with a smattering of Chinese and a sprinkling of Hindu and English. All venturing their account of how they had spotted Din. Hugh silenced them with a wave of his hand. “Let him speak!” he said in response to Din’s hoarse attempt to talk. Hugh placed his ear near Din’s lips. “Where is Tuan Mark?” he asked.
“Tuan Mark,” Din whispered through cracked lips. Fine lines of blood mingled with dry white scabs. “I don’t know where he is. We drove to Tanjong Malim. He asked me to drop him off and to drive back on my own to Kuala Lumpur. He didn’t say where he was going. I think he was going to take a train.”
“What happened? Where is the vehicle?”
“I met with an accident during my journey here,” Din replied, his face ashen with fatigue. His lips twitched nervously. “I drove into a ditch and lost a wheel. I tried to get a lift; no one would stop. People are too frightened to stop for strangers. I walked all the way here.” Din prayed that no one would ask him why he had not used the spare wheel or why he had abandoned the vehicle. He had failed to check the jeep before they left Kuala Lumpur. He had not remembered that the spare wheel had been taken out for repair. He would probably lose his job for this negligence.
Oblivious of Din’s worries, Hugh rose and stepped away. “What could Mark be up to? Has his memory returned? Why did he decide to travel by train? Where did he go?” Hugh asked himself. He grimaced. He returned to his room and picked up his holdall. The driver had given little away so far. This did not mean, he thought to himself, that he had no more to tell.
The telephone rang. He picked up the phone. He listened intently, nodding at intervals, his forehead creased by a web of lines. He placed the receiver down. Mark was back in Kuala Lumpur. He had turned up at his office as though nothing had happened. Well not entirely, Reid had explained. Apparently Mark had regained his memory.
Hugh rushed out to his
car. He must hurry back to May.
***
Hugh was lost in deep thought as he drove. He normally loved driving through the Malayan countryside. He loved the neat plantations interspersed with clusters of Malay wooden houses on stilts with brightly coloured washing hung out to dry in the front-yards. Often, villagers would display fruits from their garden on wooden stalls. The smell of jackfruit, ripe papayas, rambutans and even durians, the thorny fruit that smelt of sewage to some and glorious richness to others, would permeate the air. Often he had to wind up his window to stop the car interior from being flooded with their hot heady scent. This time he saw nothing. The trees whizzed passed. Miles and miles of rubber trees, planted in straight lines like a never-ending grid. Plantations he had helped to develop. All he could think of was May and what they would have to do if Mark were to come to see them. Would Mark suspect that Craig was his? He could no longer push such worries aside. The return of Mark’s memory was a reality, not a possibility.
Darkness fell and still he drove at reckless speed. It was nearly midnight when he turned into the driveway of his house. The lights were still on. May must be waiting up for him. He stopped the car and switched off the ignition. He sat for a while staring at the lit-up windows. He saw May standing in one, her slender silhouette dark against the glow of light. She put up a hand to wave and then she was gone. He could imagine her footsteps running down the stairway and out to the front porch to greet him. He had called before he left for Kuala Lumpur; he had not been able to reach her. He had left a brief message. Hugh got out of the car and, sure enough, May was already by the front door, her long skirt billowing in the breeze. He went to her and gathered her in his arms. “May,” was all he could say. They stood locked in embrace, each feeling the tenseness of the other.
Where the Sunrise is Red Page 15
