Shadow Play (26 page)

The driver fell out of his seat, staring at two injured men on either side of his car. “I didn't do anything!” he wailed at no one in particular. He ran to Arifin first, who was no longer conscious, lying on his back in the street. A crowd had gathered: “Don't move him!” someone shouted, and the driver backed away, turning now to Rahman. He too lay silent in the street, his head bleeding badly, his breathing rough.

His colleagues arrived soon after, now racing down Jalan Temenggong, sirens bleating, lights flashing. Osman ran to Rahman. “Wake up,” he whispered, as though it would lift Rahman out of his faint. Osman was becoming frantic: Rahman was still breathing, but … “Get an ambulance!” he croaked to the police crowded around, but it wasn't necessary. They had already called for one, terrified to see one of their own so still and pale.

Their suspect was out cold, with one leg clearly broken, his head bleeding, his cheek already swelling where it hit the pavement. Osman stood over him, overcome with the desire to pound his head into the street, his fists clenched and neck muscles bulging. No one moved to help Arifin: they either ignored him completely or looked as though they might spit on him.

The ambulance arrived, surprised to find two men in the street, one surrounded by concern, the other left to survive as well he could. The doctor looked unhappily at Rahman as they prepared to lift him, softly touching his head, and trying to open his eyes.

“What is it?” Osman demanded, feeling near tears. The doctor said nothing, but put a sympathetic hand on his arm, and silently climbed into the truck behind Rahman.

Chapter XXXI

The Kota Bharu hospital was crowded with police, as it had been for several days while Rahman lay still under a tangle of wires and tubes. It was the first time in recent memory an officer had been downed in the line of duty, and Osman felt personally responsible for Rahman's injuries. He replayed the incident constantly, changing it in his mind to another, happier ending.

Rahman's parents, his brothers and sisters and what appeared to be his entire extended family took turns sitting by his bed, willing him to wake up and come back to them. They did not answer the police who spoke to them with more than monosyllables, though his mother would occasionally burst out to describe a pain she could hardly bear. “He hasn't even been married yet,” she told one of the older policeman, while looking right through him. “His life is still ahead of him!” The older man nodded quietly, his eyes full of feeling for her. There was no answer necessary, and none he could give anyway.

Maryam dragged Osman away from Rahman to see Arifin, who lay conscious in another room with a police guard who neither spoke to him nor responded to his requests for drinks or help with sitting up.

Osman set a rapid pace down the hallway, anxious to return to his vigil, and Maryam was breathless when they arrived at Arifin's room. Osman pushed the door to the room open wide, revealing a much
bandaged Arifin and a weeping older woman sitting beside him.

Maryam smiled at them, trying to be sympathetic but failing, keeping in mind she may have been smiling at a murderer of two people. Arifin had broken his cheekbone in the fall: his face was puffed and swollen, turning all shades of purple and yellow. His head was covered in white linens; his right arm was in a cast as was his right leg. He looked defeated.

“How are you feeling?” Maryam asked politely, though coldly. He didn't answer, nor did the woman cease crying. Hoping for better luck, she turned to her. “Have you been here long,
Kak?”

She nodded dully. “Since the police called me,” she said, sniffling.

“He'll be all right,” Maryam assured her.

“Nothing will be all right,” the woman answered, her voice hoarse from crying. “What will happen to the children? Both the parents in jail! Never in my life would I have thought such a thing would happen.” She swallowed and leaned her head on the iron bedstead. “I'm his mother,” she added unnecessarily. “You're the one my daughter-in-law had … the accident with, aren't you?”

Maryam nodded. It was no accident, she wanted to tell her: Zurainah tried to kill me. She didn't care to argue the point with her, especially with a mother looking into as bleak a future as this one was.

“Can you talk?” Maryam leaned over Arifin. He shook his head and closed his eyes. “Would you like to talk about what you've done?” she pushed. “We know what it is.” Arifin glared at her, but refused to speak.

“You killed Ghani, didn't you?” Arifin closed his eyes again. His mother watched Maryam nervously. “After you ran like that, it was obvious, wasn't it? By the way, Rahman, the policeman who chased
you, is in the hospital here right down the hall. Only he isn't awake,” Maryam informed him tersely.

Arifin mumbled something, but Maryam didn't catch it. “Ghani came back into the
panggung
after Aisha left,” she continued, baldly laying out the facts as she'd put them together. “He must have been drained; it was such an emotional argument. He still carried the
golok
to protect himself from Ali, even though Ali had already left. Was he afraid Ali would come back?” She paused, in case Arifin cared to answer. “Well, you must have just lain there quietly, waiting for him to go out. Was it all jealousy, Arifin? Did you really think there was anything between Ghani and your wife?”

“Who knows?” His mother answered for him, “I've seen a side of Zurainah I never thought I would. I would never have believed, never, that she would try to push you in front of a car,
Kak
.” And yet…” she paused, thinking. She shook her head almost absently.

“You have a family,” she explained to Maryam. “Your kids are married and have their own kids. You think you know them, both your son and your daughter-in-law. But you don't.”

She gave Arifin a hard look, but after all, he was her son. Of course, she'd want to blame someone. and Arifin was her own boy.

“Whatever Arifin did — may have done,” she corrected herself, “it was because of her,” She finished with an air of satisfaction, as though she had set the record right. “This was all in Arifin's mind,” she put her hand on Maryam's arm to ensure her attention. “You should believe me when I tell you.”

“Maybe,” Maryam tightened her lips. “But no matter what may have pushed you,
Che
Arifin, you still killed a man who had done nothing to you.”

Arifin's mother jumped in immediately as counsel for the defense. “Nothing? First
Kak
,” she held up her finger. “I'm not saying my son has actually done anything. We don't know, do we?” Maryam gave her a rather cynical look, but stayed quiet. “But even if he did, and again, I'm not saying he did, it certainly wouldn't be considered nothing if Ghani interfered with Zurainah. That's a serious crime, even a religious crime. You can't just wish that away.” There was a battle light in her eyes as she rode to her son's defense. Maryam knew she would object to almost anything she said, but she plowed on.

“That's what made you kill him, wasn't it? He was teasing you and you let yourself get that jealous. It's hard to believe you killed someone for something so meaningless.”

She let her words hang in the air, listening to the muted noise from outside.

“You're being charged,” Osman added from his corner, “for Ghani's murder.”

His mother gasped and put her hand over her mouth, her tears starting again. “You can't,” she cried. “You don't know what happened, and besides,” she looked around frantically, “there are children to consider here. Children without a mother!”

“I guess it's over,” Arifin lisped through his swollen lips. His mother let out a long, low moan and buried her head in her hands.

“Never mind,” he said vaguely. “He always made me think it could've happened with Zurainah. That night was awful. Poor Aisha! She was there with her brother, and there's Ghani threatening to divorce her.” He paused to recover his energy. He could barely be understood through his broken face, but they all listened intently. “I thought he said that because he wanted to marry Ainah. That's what I really thought.”
His mother continued her keening.

“He came back into the
panggung
after Aisha left, crying so, and lay down with his
golok.
‘I can't take any more,' he said. Mahmud, the
serunai
player, told him to shut up. ‘You've put her through hell,' Mahmud told him. ‘It wouldn't hurt you to go through a little yourself.' Ghani tried to answer him, but then everyone told him to shut up, so he went to sleep.”

He stopped and panted. He was clearly tired. “I lay there thinking about all those things he'd say about Ainah, getting madder and madder. Then Ghani got up to go outside. Everyone was asleep, I thought, and I followed him out. He put the
golok
on the ground and I grabbed it and killed him. It was so quick,” he marveled. “So quiet. I couldn't believe I'd done it. I stuck the
golok
back in the ground and wiped my hands with his towel.

“When I turned around, I bumped right into Dollah. ‘What the hell have you done?' Dollah asked me. I didn't need to explain.”

He panted again and gestured toward a glass of water on the bed table. Osman held the straw for him to take a drink. He nodded and breathed with his mouth open, deep gasping breaths. “Dollah smacked me across the face and told me to get back into the
panggung
and keep my mouth shut. He came in and we both lay down. You saw us in the morning.”

“Why would Dollah protect you?” Maryam was shocked to hear this.

“Don't know.” Arifin was falling asleep. “Doesn't matter. What can you do?”

“What will we do?” his mother plucked at Maryam's sleeve. “What will happen to him?”

“Jail, I guess,” Maryam shrugged. She looked at Osman, who nodded.

“But, can't you … I mean, look how ill he is,” she babbled. “Don't you think it would be better just to let him go home?”

“You mean to just forget about it?”

She nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Of course, he'd never do anything like this again!”

“No,” Osman shook his head slowly. “I can't do that. There's also the police officer in a coma, damage your son caused.”

“   “But the children!” she reminded him, clearly not listening to anything he said. “I think it may have been Zurainah at the bottom of it all,” she continued, speaking faster with each succeeding word, “I don't think Arifin really knew what was happening, you know. I think…”

“
Mak Cik
,” Osman said calmly, implacably, “murder is murder.”

Chapter XXXII

I didn't think it would be Arifin,” Maryam confided to Osman over a large iced tea at Rubiah's stall. The upper floor of the market was empty now, in the quiet between the high tides of morning and afternoon shoppers. “I really thought he was killed because he took a second wife. I didn't dream it wouldn't have anything to do with that at all. It was just a schoolyard fight, if you ask me.”

Rubiah leaned her elbows on the counter, flicking a dish of cakes towards Osman with a meaningful look. “He killed Ghani because Ghani teased him. They're just boys! Never grew up.”

Maryam lit a cigarette and passed them around. “How can you explain something like that? A young man losing his life for really no reason at all. At least if there was something beneath it all. But no! Nothing at all, not even something going on with Zurainah. And now he's dead, and Arifin, well, I suppose he's as good as.” She looked over at Osman who had a mouthful of cake.

He swallowed guiltily, as though he'd been caught stealing. “He'll be in prison for his whole life, unless he's hanged.” He stopped. Perhaps that wasn't the right thing to say in front of ladies. These ladies, however, took it well; they had suspected such an outcome all along. “You're right,” he hurried to agree. “He hasn't got much of a life in front of him.”

“The poor children,” Maryam sighed. “I feel so sorry for them. And they're so young. They'll never remember their parents.”

“I guess they'll grow up in their grandparent's family,” Rubiah said briskly. “And do the best they can. What else is there to do?

They nodded as Osman chose another cake. “At least now I know why Zurainah pushed me. It made no sense if it wasn't to protect her husband. But,
Che
Osman, what about the
jampi
at my house?” Maryam asked. “It wasn't Arifin. Someone tried to kill me,” she reminded him. “Whoever it is, he's still out there. It's dangerous!”

Osman nodded. “And there's one more piece to be fitted into this puzzle.”

Maryam feared her calmness misled him into thinking it wasn't terribly serious. “This has to be solved. It isn't funny, and it isn't a small thing.” She paused, thinking. “Who do you think did it?” she asked Rubiah.

“One of the
dalang,”
Rubiah answered evenly, her eyes on the counter. “It makes the most sense. Besides, I'm concerned about what Arifin said about Dollah.”

“Me, too,” Maryam nodded. “He saw Ghani was dead and went back to sleep? And then pretended the next day he knew nothing about it? What do you think about that?”

Osman could think of nothing to say. ”You know,
Mak Cik,”
he began, “I just can't think clearly about Arifin just now. I'm so worried about Rahman, still unconscious. I mean,” he continued, struggling to describe exactly what he felt, “It just seems to matter less to me. I don't care what happens to this guy.”

“I know,” Maryam sympathized. “But we can't just stop. We've got to finish this up.” She put her hand on Osman's arm, pulling his
attention back to the matter at hand. “Could it have been he wanted him dead?” Maryam continued. “We've got to bring him in.” She turned to Osman. “Or should we go to his house and see him there? He's always turning up at my house to hand out misinformation. Maybe we should do the same.”