Shadow Play (24 page)

Ali stayed seated, shocked into silence again.

“Ali,” Maryam begged him, “please try to remember anything else you can about that night at the
panggung.
Was there anyone else there? Anyone at all?

Ali tried to get his emotions under control and ran his hand over his face in a gesture reminiscent of his sister. “Well, after the performance, I waited with Aisha so that she could talk to Ghani. This was after I had the fight with him. So I kept away, you know.

“Aisha was wild.
Air yang tenang jangan disangka tiada buaya:
calm waters don't mean there aren't any crocodiles. She looked quiet and even,” he thought for a moment, “obedient, but she had a lot of fire, Aisha did. After the performance she talked to Ghani again, and they were really going at it.

“Ghani threatened to divorce her, and Aisha was crying on the ground holding on to his ankles. There weren't many people around anymore.” He considered what to say next. “Faouda and her new husband were there, but they'd already left. Aisha wouldn't have a conversation like this in front of her,” Ali assured them.

“He finally ended it and said they'd talk about it when he got home Thursday night. He told her to calm down, everything would be all right, but he made her promise not to see a bomoh about him. I took her home after that. You know, Mak Cik, I was even afraid to take her home on my motorbike: I was afraid she'd fall off, or jump or something. She was still crying when we got home.” He rubbed his face again, and Maryam recalled Aisha doing the same thing.

“I took her to her own house; the kids were with my parents, and I thought she needed to rest first. I made her tea.” He began crying again. “Oh, Aisha!”

“Then what?” Maryam asked, trying to get him past the memory.

“When she felt better, I took her back to my parents to go to sleep. And then in the morning, the police came for her and told her Ghani was dead.” He leaned his forehead on the heel of his hand and wept.

Maryam patted his back as she would a small child. “She loved you, Ali. And you're taking care of her by adopting her children. You've been so loyal to her.” Ali did not stop crying. Maryam looked over at Rubiah, her face creased with concern.

“Ali, listen to me. It's important: did you see anyone before you left?”

Ali shook his head.

“Where did Ghani go?”

“Back into the panggung.”

“And you saw nothing?”

He shrugged. “Maybe someone was awake in the panggung; I thought I saw a shadow.”

“Who?”

Ali shrugged. “I couldn't see. Just a shadow. And I had to worry about Aisha: I couldn't take the time to go into the panggung: not that I would have, anyway. I just wanted to get out of there.”

“Of course, you did,” Maryam agreed. “Anyone would have felt the same.”

Chapter XXVIII

Maryam found a taxi early in the morning while the air was still cool, and watched the now familiar route to Tawang slide by. The winds were changing, and the rains were coming. They couldn't come soon enough for Maryam: she wanted a change of season to seal the end of all this. She banged her head back against the soft seat of the car. She hated going out there again, but if she didn't find out who'd left the
jampi
, she'd be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life.

And who better to help her than the wives of the musicians she'd met? She'd met the ‘boys', and believed their coaching would hold up under cross examination, but their wives … that might be different. She doubted Dollah would have involved the wives in his direction, but they'd hear all the gossip and overhear conversations their husbands had. If anyone could offer new information, it would be these young women, and Maryam was determined to see them.

She found Awang's house first, since it was closest to the road. Like Ghani's, it was small and unpainted. A broken tricycle lay on its side near the ladder going to a porch, and the sound of pouring water came from the back: the kitchen, where the lady of the house was most likely to be.

And there she was, washing out bowls next to a small charcoal brazier heating a large metal pot. She was a plain girl with a no-nonsense
air about her: wearing a simple cotton blouse, old
sarong
and scuffed plastic flip-flops. She looked up as Maryam peeked around the corner of the house.

“Good morning,” Maryam greeted her cheerfully. “You must be Awang's wife.”

“Yes.”

“I'm
Mak Cik
Maryam, and I'm looking into…”

“Oh!” She rose to greet her, drying her hands on her
sarong.
“Awang told me.” She regarded Maryam with interest. “I'm Rashidah.” She gave a quick smile. “What can I do for you?”

“You know, we women hear so much that men don't notice,” Maryam confided, trying to forge a bond between them. “I thought maybe you would know something about Ghani, maybe have heard something.”

The woman looked at her blankly. “Heard about what,
Mak Cik
? I don't know anything about that. Maybe Awang can help you.”

“Well, I just wondered if you'd heard anything about
jampi.
You know, someone put one under my house.”

“Really?” Rashidah breathed. Maryam realized this news would be all around the village in no time. She nodded at the girl. “Have you heard any gossip about it?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing. I mean, poor Aisha, was that part of it?”

“No,” Maryam answered hastily. “No, not that.” This girl really didn't seem to know much – or had been told by her husband to say nothing if asked.

As if she knew what Maryam was thinking, she told her, “I don't know anything about
jampi, Mak Cik.
But anyone who would put one
under your house certainly wouldn't talk about. How would I hear of it?” She shrugged her shoulders and looked Maryam straight in the eye, and Maryam couldn't help but agree. It wasn't going to be widely disseminated. However, the person who did it, and his family, might know and might give themselves away. Maryam gave her thanks, and went to find the next house.

Arifin's house had a tiny, immaculately swept yard. A pretty young woman, with a figure more voluptuous than often found in Kelantan, hung laundry on a line while a little girl held on to her leg. The girl's slightly older brother kicked around a woven palm ball with a friend.

“Hello! It's
Mak Cik
Maryam.” Maryam was again cheerful.

The woman looked up at her, warily. “Yes?”

Maryam introduced herself, while the girl's expression did not change. “I'm Zurainah,” she said shortly. “Why are you here?”

“I'd like to talk to you.” Maryam smiled graciously.

“Why?” Zurainah asked again, making no move to abandon her laundry. “Isn't it all over?” she asked, shifting her eyes back to her wet clothing as she continued to pin it to the line.

“Just a few loose ends,” Maryam explained. “I thought you might have heard something …”

“Why me?” Zurainah seemed angry and Maryam retreated.

“Well, not just you,” she stammered. “The wives of the musicians here.”

“What about us?” Zurainah interrupted. “Why would we know anything?”

Maryam was intrigued by Zurainah's reaction. While Rashidah seemed puzzled, Zurainah seemed furious. “But you see, there was a
jampi
left under my house.” She flicked her eyes up to meet Zurainah's.

“Is that what you came here to say?”

Maryam nodded.

Zurainah sighed with irritation. “
Mak Cik
, what do you want me to do about it?”

“I need your help,” Maryam entreated in her softest voice. “I cannot live with such fear, all the time.” She shuddered to demonstrate the burden under which she toiled.

“Why do you think I could help you? I don't know anything about it.”

“You know everyone involved,” Maryam said quietly, determined to get Zurainah to talk. Perhaps if Zurainah would offer her some coffee, they could sit down and speak more easily to each other. But Zurainah made no move to offer anything, or even to invite Maryam onto the porch. It was growing hotter, and Maryam would have welcomed some shade, but Zurainah remained intent on her laundry. Maryam began to sweat; it would soon become a torrent.

“Everyone involved?” the younger woman repeated. “
I
know them? No, I don't.”

“I thought perhaps you all might have seen things I cannot see.” It seemed unlikely Zurainah would volunteer any information, but she might be willing to lecture if Maryam would allow it. She bit her lip to ensure she stayed in character, inviting Zurainah to scold her.

“You're the detective,” Zurainah muttered before she stopped herself. She seemed determined to keep her temper in check. “Not me.”

Maryam agreed. “Perhaps I shouldn't be. Putting all this together, it's so…complicated. And I'm scared.” She lowered her voice and Zurainah leaned over to listen. “The
jampi
… I'm so frightened. I can't think anymore.” She squeezed a trickle of tears down her cheeks.

“Just leave it alone,” Zurainah suggested bluntly. “Leave it to the police: it's too dangerous for you.”

Maryam nodded miserably.

“You can't just blunder into people's lives,” Zurainah lectured. “You're in a dangerous place.
Jampi
! To an old
Mak Cik
like you.” Maryam grit her teeth and kept quiet.

“Come,
Mak Cik,”
she admonished. “Your time for playing detective is over. The police can do this: you don't have to.”

“But I'm afraid,” Maryam whined. “I must find out who's tried to kill me. Otherwise, what if they do it again?” She sniffed (she hoped) pathetically. “I can't leave it: I have children and I must protect them.”

“You'd protect them better by leaving this alone,” Zurainah told her. “I'm sure if you stay away from this, this murder, there will be no more
jampi.”

“How do you know?” Maryam asked, adjusting her head scarf and wiping her forehead. “I will leave now. If you hear anything….”

“I won't,” Zurainah told her sharply. “I don't know anything about this! I don't know why you came to me, but you ought to take my advice. Stay out of it.”

Maryam nodded her assent, and walked away along the blacktop road shimmering in the heat. Din lived just across it. Her thoughts returned again to Zurainah's face; there was something there, something threatening. She pulled herself up to full height with a sudden jerk. It was her! She was the woman searching for her in the market. Absorbed in this realization, she never saw the push which threw her into the road.

Chapter XXIX

What happened?” she asked, waking as if from a dream. She could barely focus her eyes, and it hurt to talk. “Mamat?”

“Right here,
sayang.
Don't worry,” Mamat soothed.

She sank again under the waves. When she next awoke, she was restless and struggled to sit up. Rubiah was next to her, helping her on to her pillow, and Mamat's anxious face swam into view. She looked around and remembered the dull green walls occasionally revealing their dirty cream undercoat, the Spartan furnishings, and registered the unremitting roar. “Am I hurt?”

“Not so bad,” Mamat assured her, stroking her arm. “Bruises and cuts, a broken arm …”

“What?” Maryam looked at her left arm, motionless in a large white cast.

“You're lucky,” Rubiah told her. “You could easily have been killed, you know. Lucky that car stopped before they ran right over you. You'll be fine! You just need to rest a little. You're going to be very sore,” she warned her, “but fine.”

“Who did it? What happened?”

“Osman's been investigating,” Mamat assured her. He laughed at her raised eyebrow. “Yes, Osman! He got on it right away when he found out what happened to you.”

“It was Zurainah,” Rubiah added somberly. “She pushed you.”

“Why?” Maryam was having a little trouble remembering.

She'd never forgive Zurainah for sending her to this hospital. The room was noisy, the din from the street outside unimpeded by closed windows. To close them was to invite certain heat stroke. Her shoulder hurt. Why did Zurainah want to kill her? Zurainah needed to take care of her children, not end up in jail for murder. No, Maryam at least was still alive. She closed her eyes for a moment, cursing Zurainah, but was too sore to give this string of expletives voice.

“I'll bet she put the
jampi
under the house, too,” Rubiah continued.

Maryam now remembered the
jampi.
She shook her head to clear it, but it hurt.

“Osman's been investigating,” Rubiah informed her. “He's found out a lot.”

Maryam raised an eyebrow. “But why?”

“It's his job!” Rubiah answered sharply. “Why wouldn't he investigate? You can't keep doing everything, you know. We shouldn't be surprised that he's working!”

“No, not that.” Maryam was too tired to argue. “No, why did she push me?”

“Oh,” Rubiah said in an almost disappointed tone as she fussed around the pillows. “I thought you meant … Never mind. I don't know much about what he's found out: I think he wants to talk it over with you.”

Maryam nodded and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the sun slanted low in the windows and it looked about to set. Osman and Mamat were talking softly in a corner of the room, each watching her surreptitiously.

“Here she is!” called Mamat with exaggerated heartiness. “She's awake!” He came over and sat lightly on the bed next to her. Osman walked over shyly and ducked his head. “
Mak Cik!”
he said. “I'm so glad to see you're better.”

She smiled tiredly and nodded again.

“Are you thirsty,
sayang?”
asked Mamat anxiously. “Do you want some tea, or water?”