by Claire Gray
The van pulls away, and I realise that I can breathe again. That night is over. Some stars are peeping out of the sky, no smoke, no helicopters passing by, and I see a star reflected in the windows of that building over there, the building that people say you can buy opium in if you go up to the lady and say the right combination of words. I stare up there and wonder, as I always do, if the story’s true. I might like some opium.
I take a deep breath and go back inside.
Chapter Forty-One
‘There’s a chance this is going to turn into a happy ending,’ I say to Maliwan the following morning, as we put away a tower of breakfast bowls that we’ve just finished washing. ‘The terrorist has been caught, apparently, and Pamela Shuttleworth is almost certain to be arrested. I bet she won’t have a good time in prison at all. And you and Dolph can get back to, you know, whatever it is you want to do.’
‘She’ll be tried for murdering her husband, not for what she did to us.’
‘Yeah, but it would get very murky if we tried to get her charged with that. We’d have to mention you hitting him. I think it’s better to stay out of it.’
‘What sort of journalist are you?’ Maliwan says, dropping a handful of spoons noisily into the cutlery drawer. ‘Isn’t the truth important to you?’
‘Sure,’ I say, feeling my face flush. ‘But I don’t think it’ll help anyone if you guys go to prison. You didn’t mean to kill him. You didn’t kill him, in fact. He upset you and you hit him, spur of the moment. She deserves to go to prison for what she did. I don’t think it’s significant that it started with what you did. She finished it, right? They’re saying she tortured him and ran him over with her car. And then she tried to kill the three of us. Four, if you count the baby, which we should, of course.’
‘She did kill the baby. The baby’s dead,’ Maliwan says. She looks at me with a challenge in her eyes.
‘You don’t know that,’ I falter. ‘Dolph was talking about taking you to see a doctor, wasn’t he? I’m sure the doctor will say everything’s fine.’
‘I could tell I was pregnant the second it happened. And now I know for certain that I’m not,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to kill Pamela anymore. You’re right. They will find her guilty and she will hate prison. That will be worse than death for her. But I wish I could have one chance to talk to her. I want to tell her about the baby. I want to make sure she understands what she did.’
‘Maybe you’ll still get a chance to do that,’ I say.
‘No. It’s over. Wouldn’t you have liked to ask her why? Why she did it? You could have interviewed her for your newspaper.’
‘She must really have hated him,’ I say, watching as Maliwan spins a copy of the Koh Star around on the work surface, her wet fingers soaking the paper and staining it dark.
‘I never hated him,’ Maliwan says. ‘I hated what he did to me but I didn’t hate him.’
Steve walks in then, clattering through the front door holding a cardboard box filled with bottles of beer.
‘Hello, hello,’ he calls.
Maliwan dries her hands on a dirty looking dishcloth and hangs it on a hook at the side of the oven. She goes outside without saying anything and sits beside Dolph, who is petting the stray cat that always seems to be here now.
‘How did it go? Any news?’ I ask. When I woke up, I found a note on the bed from Steve saying that he had gone to the police station to find out what he could about the bomber. I slept later than usual, having tossed and turned all night; I can’t get used to sharing a bed with someone, even if I am cocooned alone in the sleeping bag.
The capturing of the bomber has become official, but we scoured every news outlet we could think of last night and couldn’t find any real information other than what we already knew; he has been arrested in Australia.
‘Not a thing. They’re being very secretive. It’s true that they’ve made an arrest. Everyone seems happy about it, of course. I couldn’t corner Kadesadayurat to speak to but I’m sure he’ll get in touch with us as soon as he’s able.’
‘I don’t feel like I can relax until I know everything,’ I say.
‘Things are working out though, aren’t they? I mean, obviously, things are still horrible and people have died. But, we’re going to get some sort of closure soon...’
‘I was starting to think the same thing,’ I say, but as I look outside at Dolph and Maliwan, crouched together on a stone step, I’m really not sure closure is a word we ought to be using.
‘You know what we should do?’ Steve says. ‘Go back and interview the owner of the scrapyard. It’s a shame not to talk to him, and maybe by the time we get back into town there’ll be more information about the bomber.’
I agree. We tell Dolph and Maliwan that we need to work and then we leave them at Steve’s place. They’re committed to keeping a low profile for now, afraid that Pamela Shuttleworth might still tangle them in the web of her husband’s death. We let them keep my phone so that we can get in touch with each other if we need to.
Chapter Forty-Two
We go to the car hire place at the edge of town. We pick out a black SUV; Steve says that it’s the kind of car he’s always wanted to own. He drives for once because he’s excited about the car, and I’m glad of this because my head hurts and I keep drifting into a state not too far from sleep. Pot holes have the car rattling, and I feel each tremor in my skull. I’m afraid that the adrenaline I’ve been running on is beginning to dry up; I lean back into the seat and half close my eyes.
And then, rounding a corner, we narrowly miss hitting a van which has stopped crookedly in the middle of the road. I snap fully awake as we brake. It’s the kind of van that has an open bed in the back. It’s filled with sacks and boxes, some of which have spilled out onto the road.
‘What is this now?’ Steve says. ‘It looks like the opening scene of a zombie movie.’
‘There’s no one around,’ I say, looking into the fields on either side of us.
‘I could probably squeeze past and keep going.’ Steve twists in his seat, taps his fingers on the wheel and sighs. ‘No, we should check it out.’
We climb from the car and immediately hear voices. Circling the vehicle, we come upon an elderly couple standing together by the cab. They’re pointing into the trees a little further up the road, where shadows move and everything still looks moist from the recent heavy rain.
Steve asks them, in his slow, careful Thai, what is going on.
They speak quickly, over the top of each other, and Steve does his best to translate for me.
‘They nearly hit someone,’ he says to me, still looking at the couple as he speaks. The man wrings a hat in his hands, dust coming off it. ‘She was lying in the road with something pulled over her. They just managed to swerve in time. She ran away after that.’
The old lady points into the trees again. I strain my eyes but can’t see a thing. I feel dizzy from staring too hard and shake my head to clear it.
‘They need to leave. I’ve said we’ll help them with their things,’ Steve says. Going to the rear of the van, we lift everything back inside while the old couple talk together, too quickly for me to understand anything. The sacks smell of raw meat and petrol. I feel grease on my hands afterwards.
They thank us and continue on their way, apparently happy to hand over all responsibility for the situation to us. I concentrate on the sound of their engine until it disappears, and then it’s just the birds and the insects singing from the fields.
‘What do you think?’ I say to Steve.
‘I honestly don’t know. I don’t see anything, do you?’
‘Why would someone be lying in the road? The tarmac would be hot enough to make your skin bubble.’
‘People kill themselves that way, sometimes. They wait for a car to crush them. It’s definitely not a way I would choose,’ Steve says.
Imagining how that would feel, I look into the trees again, and this time, amongst the knotted plants, a figure i
s standing, hunched over and wrapped in something like a cloak. The shape is grey and fuzzy, and swaying just a little. The harder I stare, the harder it seems to sway. I think they’ve been there all this time but, like in a magic eye puzzle, I couldn’t see them until I looked from this angle, with my eyes tilted this particular way.
Steve sees the person too. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says, in a voice that chills me somehow and makes the skin on my arms tighten. And then we start towards the trees, feet sinking through pale mud, huge flies smacking against our faces.
The person is facing away from us and doesn’t turn around.
‘Hello?’ I shout. My own voice makes me uneasy. We get closer and see that it is a woman; her short hair is plastered to her skull, and a piece of dirty rag or carpet hangs from her shoulders. She slowly turns in our direction but stares right through us, to where the car is sitting with its engine ticking, although I’m not sure if she’s even focusing on that. And then I recognise her.
‘What happened to you?’ I say, the words just falling out because I don’t have time to think. To Steve, I whisper: ‘It’s her.’
‘Shit,’ Steve breathes beside me. He stares at Pamela Shuttleworth and reaches slowly for my hand.
I look around for back-up, but the road is empty in either direction for as far as I can see. She’s only small. If we can bring ourselves to touch her it should be possible to get her to the car. But then what? We know about the things she’s supposed to have done to her husband and I can see the truth of it in her face; the way her cheekbones jut and the way her eyes don’t blink.
Steve says to her: ‘Did you just get run over, almost?’
She draws the rag tighter around herself. ‘It turns out,’ she says in a croak, ‘that drinking yourself to death is quite difficult. And pills don’t seem to work, either. I’m starting to think that I must be invincible.’
‘You shouldn’t be out here on your own. We can drive you back into town and make sure you’re looked after,’ Steve says, and I’m amazed by the warmth in his voice. He sounds like someone she can trust, like someone who doesn’t think she’s going to kill him.
When Pamela Shuttleworth does nothing, just stares, Steve takes a step closer, lifting his arms slowly, the way I would if approaching a timid animal. I move with him but stay slightly back. She’s old and small but she tried to kill me yesterday and my body feels heavy in her presence. Up close, she smells awful; dirt and alcohol. I can see her clothes beneath the cloak; they were probably fine and expensive once, but now look grimy and misshapen. Steve takes hold of her arm and he nods at me to take the other. I don’t want to, and as I reach out to touch her there’s an awful moment where I think I’m going to throw up. I breathe in hard, close my throat and grab onto her. Her arm is surprisingly wiry. I wonder if she can feel my trembling. Steve and I begin steering her towards the road. She lets us do this, and I bite on the insides of my cheeks, trying not to be sick. It takes a while. When we reach the car, she peers at her reflection in one of the windows, her lip curling.
‘I’ve slept outside for one night and aged twenty years,’ she says. ‘But, then again, perhaps that wasn’t what aged me.’
‘Let’s get you some help,’ Steve says.
‘Help with what? I’ll either go to prison or die. I’d rather die, and I can do that by myself. Probably.’
‘Get in the car,’ I say in a voice that shakes, opening one of the rear doors. ‘Please.’
‘I’d like a coffee actually.’ She stumbles against the side of the vehicle. She is very drunk, I think. Very, very drunk. Her pupils are huge and black. She looks like a shark or a pointy headed alien. She’s all teeth and eyes and bones. She doesn’t seem to have recognised me, but I doubt she’s able to focus at all.
‘I’ll buy you a coffee,’ I say more brightly. ‘We’ll go past a stand. But you have to get into the car first.’
Making a noise like a chuckle, Pamela slips towards the ground. Steve catches beneath her armpits and manages to heave her onto the back seat, where she slumps with her head in her lap. As he slams the door I skid around the vehicle, my fingers brushing against the hot metal, and jump into my seat. Steve rushes in beside me and twists the key in the ignition.
‘Jesus Christ, let’s go, let’s go,’ he says.
After making a U-turn, he accelerates so hard that the semi-conscious woman slides about noisily. In this confined space, the stench of alcohol is strong enough to make my eyes water.
‘Can we lock the doors?’ I say, running my fingers along the dashboard and trying to understand the cryptic symbols and dials.
‘Maybe this?’ Steve says, fumbling with a button. The locks click a few times, and something beeps.
‘I’m not sure. But she doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere anyway, does she?’ I whisper.
‘I hope not. Where’s my phone? We should call ahead to the police.’
‘Are we taking her straight to the police?’ I hiss. ‘What about Dolph and Maliwan?’
‘If she tries to implicate them, I’m not sure anyone will believe her. It seems like she’s incriminated herself really well. And look at the state of her. What else would you suggest we do?’
‘I know. You’re right. But I think they wanted a chance to ask her why. She might have killed their baby. I just think it would be nice of us to give them a chance to talk to her.’
‘I’m really not sure about that,’ Steve says. ‘I don’t think that’s a sensible idea at all.’
‘I’m going to send a text to my phone. If they see it then good. If not, at least we tried.’
‘I don’t know, Lucy,’ Steve says, frowning at me. ‘How about you just tell them to wait at the police station. They can talk to her as we get her from the car to the building.’
‘Okay,’ I agree. Steve passes me his phone and I concentrate on keeping my hands from shaking as I text. I hope that they see the message. Maliwan’s certainty that she has lost her baby has left me feeling a grimy sort of guilt; I know that if I think about it too hard I’ll be able to blame myself for everything bad that has happened lately. I’d like to be able to help her in at least this one small way.
‘Are you awake? Are you okay back there?’ Steve asks over his shoulder, but there’s no reply.
‘It’s better if she’s unconscious,’ I say. ‘I keep expecting to feel her hands closing around my neck.’
‘Me too.’
‘You know who I am. You know what I’ve done. Don’t you?’ she says then, her voice a growl. I sneak a look and see that her head is tilted back, revealing the roof of her open mouth, and I can see up her little, dark nostrils. Steve jumps and swerves across the road, but there are no other cars so it’s okay. Still, my heart flutters.
‘Yeah, I’ve heard bits,’ Steve says, after a pause. ‘I’m a journalist, so...’
‘Do you know he has twelve children, and not a single one with me?’
‘Oh?’ Steve squeezes the steering wheel hard. I’m holding my breath and can’t seem to stop.
‘The thirteenth was on its way. But the mother’s dead. The baby too, of course. So, it’ll never be born. Unlucky for some, like they say.’
‘What happened to them?’ Steve asks, although of course he knows that Maliwan is safe inside his home right now. Pamela Shuttleworth doesn’t answer.
The air in the car is too cold and I’m beginning to shiver; I slap at the vents on the dashboard, desperate to shut them off. Steve is driving faster than I have ever known him to drive and part of me hopes that he’ll swerve off the road and kill our passenger, who has no seatbelt on and would probably smash through the windscreen. I’m afraid to look at her. Every time I do she seems larger, closer. But, still, I keep looking. I can’t help myself.
‘I know you,’ she says, the next time I look around. ‘I know your face.’
I shudder and turn away towards the windscreen, digging my fingertips hard into my knees. I hear her beginning to laugh behind us; Steve and I glanc
e at each other, our eyes wide.
‘So, what do you want?’ Pamela says then, exasperated all of a sudden, like we’re wasting her time.
‘We’re just getting you back into town, we’re just…’ Steve says.
I interrupt him; a rush of energy has all the hairs on my arms standing on end: ‘Why did you do it? Maliwan was pregnant. You knew that. How could you?’ I stare at her over the back of my seat, trying to meet her unfocused eyes, and then trying not to look away from them in fear.
‘They made their own choices.’
‘But they were having a baby,’ I say. I can smell the alcohol all around her. It’s hurting my throat.
She laughs. ‘Oh, they weren’t having a baby, you silly girl.’
‘What?’
‘It was his! Of course it was! That’s what this is all about. Don’t you see? He offered her an abortion and she hit him. She was hoping for money.’
‘His?’ I say, not following her for a moment. But then I think of Bernard Shuttleworth, the way he crunched on his ice cubes and leered at me.
‘But they’re all dead now, so what does it matter,’ she says with certainty. Neither of us correct her. She sighs, like she’s satisfied with her plan and the way it all worked out. It doesn’t seem to bother her that I’m here, seemingly okay.
‘And your husband’s dead too,’ Steve says quietly, holding onto the steering wheel with two tight fists.
‘Gosh, he took a long time about it,’ she says with another of her dry laughs. ‘I thought he was going to die fifteen years ago when he had his first heart attack, but he just kept hanging on and having a wonderful time. I’m not sure he was even dead when I threw him into the river. I had so much more planned for him.’
‘What happened?’ Steve asks, staring at the road ahead.
‘I just wanted a child.’
‘So, you…’
‘He tried to escape. I had to run him down and then it all just felt a bit flat after that. It was time to get rid of him.’
