Bitter Sweet Harvest Part 23

An Mei pressed her fist between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She needed the physical pressure to relieve the pain building within her. "I am all muddled up. Deep down I know Mark loves me. I trust him. He would not betray me like Hussein has done. And I do love Mark. I will not trade him for Hussein. Believe me. Now I have hurt Mark. He knows that I am keeping something back from him. I did not tell him about Hussein's proposal that we get back together. If I tell him now, he will be suspicious; he will think I am contemplating that possibility. I have made him distrust me by holding back information from him."

Nelly walked round the bed to face An Mei. "I think you have to be clear and truthful to yourself. Love is not just s.e.xual love; it goes deeper; it is about friendship and trust as well. The first may decline with time. Friendship and trust, however, last and will stand the test of time."

Chapter 43.

Hussein marched, with Ghazali close on his heels, into the Detective Superintendent's office without knocking. He went straight to the desk. He spread his arms out wide and gripped the edge of it. His knuckles, little bony protruding hillocks, waxed white with the hardness of the grip. He stood for a moment bent over the desk, shoulders hunched up, aggressive, his eyes glaring at Kam's bowed head. Kam looked up in surprise. Before he could say anything Hussein sat down; one leg crossed over the other to reveal the sharp crease of his trouser leg; his elbows resting on the armrest, hands linked together in front. He looked in utter command of himself. He wanted to convey that message. He wanted Kam to know that he expected him to obey his commands.

Kam's displeasure was thinly veiled. He made no effort to get up from his desk. He knew that he should have stood up to acknowledge the presence of a Minister, even if this was an unofficial visit. Resentment made him pose a counter argument. Hussein was a Minister but not in Singapore; he had not made any attempt to follow any rules or code of behaviour and could not swagger in and expect everyone to be at his beck and call. He reflected on his conversation with his superior. He had said, "Grant our neighbour help, of course, but I leave it to you to show judgement. On no account, should you give the impression that our police force is subservient to theirs."

Kam knew that relationship between Singapore and Malaysia had its up and downs. He knew that in the past month, it had soured somewhat. He knew also that this decline was transitional and would pa.s.s, just as in the past. Singapore had made rapid progress in its manufacturing industry and its northern neighbour remained a major source of raw materials. It also provided a major market for the manufactured products. In fact, it was impossible not to be aware of the ties of geography, economics and kinship. Even his Prime Minister, Lee Kuan Yew, had made reference to it. Yet, his resentment at being treated like a flunky clouded his thoughts, even though he knew that his job could be at stake if he made an undiplomatic blunder. No wonder, he mused. His thoughts strayed to what Nelly had told him about An Mei and his sympathy for her became doubly reinforced.

Kam nodded to the police officer in the doorway, indicating that the situation was under control. It was necessary. He had lost face even in his own office. The officer had hurried after Hussein in an attempt to stop him from barging into Kam's office and had witnessed his superior's helplessness in handling the situation.

Hussein fumed, impatient with Kam's slow acknowledgment of his presence; he was taken aback by what he considered a lack of courtesy. Over the past few years, he had grown accustomed to having his words hung onto by all and sundry.

"You have found my son?" he growled.

"We have found Tim, the little boy."

"Why was I not informed immediately?" Hussein glared at him.

"We informed our Malaysian counterpart, the police, immediately. We would have called you this morning but you have already pre-empted us." Kam looked at his watch to ill.u.s.trate the earliness of the hour. It was, after all, only just after eight in the morning and he had been up all night.

"Where is he now?"

"With his parents."

"Mind what you say!" Hussein's voice grew louder. He half rose from his seat and wagged his finger. "Mind what you say. I am the father. You remember that."

"Sir, Datuk," said Kam, his tone conciliatory, reasonable, "all I know is that I returned the child to the mother. The mother says that the father is Mr. Hayes. I am not here to judge. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hayes reported the kidnap to us and we, the Singapore police, executed the rescue successfully. You, sir, reported that someone called Ahmad had kidnapped a child, whom you believe is yours. You have not met this said child. The mother has said it is not yours. We are in the process of interrogating the two men found holding the child. We will report to you the progress we make in the case. If there is a link between the two men and Encik Ahmad, I will keep you informed."

Kam stood up. He extended his hand.

"Sir! Datuk Hussein! Thank you for coming to our office."

"I have not finished with you," growled Hussein. "Who are you to keep my child from me. Why was he not returned to me?"

"Sir! It is not my position or responsibility to return the child to you. It is a matter for a court. And now, if you will excuse me, I have to attend to the matter of the two men we caught. I am sorry I cannot be more helpful; it is not my intention to offend."

Kam bowed briefly and walked to the door. Hussein got up crashing the chair behind him and brushed pa.s.sed Kam without a glance, leaving Ghazali to pick up the chair.

They marched through the long corridors flanked by security guards. People stepped aside as Hussein's men barged past them, an early morning throng of people who were arriving at the station: officers reporting for duty, people coming in to report all and sundry, cleaners, clerks, secretaries, drivers. They looked on in astonishment and pressed against the wall to free the pa.s.sageway. Some clucked their tongues and wagged their heads in dismay. "Disgraceful!" they said. "Who is he?" they asked of his departing back. Someone whispered in Cantonese, "Gon mmn cheet, hui san fun! Hurrying to his graveyard!"

Hussein ignored their talk. He stepped out on to the pavement. His car was waiting; his driver held the door open and he slipped in followed by Ghazali. The car rolled smoothly forward. Ghazali stole an anxious glance at his boss.

Some twenty minutes into the ride, Hussein sighed, "I behaved badly, didn't I? I shouldn't have gone in and made all those demands. No way to conduct diplomatic relations or to gain the help of the other party." He glanced at his secretary, huddled in a corner, holding his brief case. "You are free to speak. Tell me the truth."

"No sir! You would not have done this in the early days." Ghazali reflected on Hussein's early days of political campaigning. Young and old had warmed to his charm. He showed care and respect for all who he met.

"What has happened to me?" Hussein said to his reflection in the driver's rear mirror. "Too much power," he said to himself, grimacing at his own image. The anger lines seemed engraved on his face, making deep grooves from the side of his nose to the corner of his lips. He looked again and saw the furrows on his forehead. He knew the answers. It was this big, big void, this emptiness that was eating him up. It had grown steadily since he divorced An Mei. He had filled it with political success. He had almost got used to this void until Ahmad's call. Remorse and regret gnawed at him afresh. He wanted to make amends, ask her to have him back. He thought he would win her back by rescuing their son. Her denial that the boy was his was bad enough; then to find that she had remarried! He winced. Her rejection, especially her off-hand dismissal of his overtures, offended him. He could not let her go. He must see this boy to verify for himself if there was any truth in Ahmad's claim.

"Turn around," he instructed the driver.

Chapter 44.

The field was parched dry, more yellowy brown than green. An Mei ran down the slope, ignoring the sharp blades of lalang, and their plumes of dried seed heads. They brushed against her, leaving fluffs of seeds, whispery white trails of cotton that dotted her long indigo-blue skirt. Lifting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the dazzling sun, she looked towards the river. No one could be seen. She quickened her footsteps; her sandals crunched against the dried stalks of gra.s.s, flattening them to the ground. Until the monsoon breaks, the heat would continue to build. She felt the trickles of sweat on her body; her face burned with the heat. She placed both hands around her mouth and hollered, "Mark, Mark! Where are you?"

Her voice echoed across the field, and then tailed off with the wind; hushed whispers that had no form, just resonance of sound. The maid had told her that Mark went out by the side gate of the back garden. She waited and waited for his return and when he did not come back, she grew alarmed. She decided to go in search of him, leaving also by the side gate, fighting her way through the undergrowth that had choked the narrow path leading out to the fields beyond. She remembered Mark asking her if the path was equivalent to public footpaths in England, which would end up normally in good walking grounds. She had laughed. "People," she had said, "do not usually walk for pleasure in Singapore. It's the same in Malaysia and I daresay elsewhere in the region. It is too hot."

She did not know if the fields were good for walking. Jane had mentioned that they used to be divided into vegetable plots. A few families had planted and tended them with care, growing vegetables for the local market. Each morning would find them watering and hoeing the ground, their faces hidden under wide woven hats, making ridges of rich black earth from which would sprout delectable greens, choi sam, mustard greens, kai lan, kale, and fat Chinese cabbages, their white tubular forms and wrinkly lime green leaves, bursting from the earth ready for harvesting. Now, the fields were barren, left unattended, wild, waiting for another residential housing estate to be built on the land.

She made her way down the gentle slopes to the river. It was brown and in places, almost silted up. Dry outcrops of rock stood at the side. Many days had pa.s.sed without a single drop of rain as the season built up to one giant ball of heat before the onslaught of the monsoon. She looked to the left and right of her. Which way? she wondered. She turned to the right and broke into a run. She followed the dirt path, kicking up dried earth as she ran. Soon her skirt was plastered with pellets of brown earth. She rounded a bend, following the lazy meandering of the river and came to a stop. For there, seated on a rock, was Mark.

He saw her and waved. Her heart lifted. He was not angry with her. She smiled walking up to him and he returned it with a tiny quirk of his lips, but as she got closer, she could see the wariness in his eyes. She guessed he was expecting her to say she wanted to leave him for Hussein and he was steeling himself to take it on the chin. She could see his hurt. She ran, ignoring the dirt, her skirt trailing, and her sandals, their straps slipping down on her heels and becoming unfastened under unaccustomed use. She reached him. She looked at him for a second and then put out both her hands and took hold of his and hauled him up. Then she kissed him, a gentle kiss that grew in intensity, murmuring all the while that she was sorry. She told him of her dilemma, of Hussein. He listened. When she finished, he asked, "Are you sure? Are you sure you wish to be with me?"

She buried her head into his chest. She had thought and thought the whole morning. She loved Mark. Hussein was the past, a love that she had imagined to be more than it had proved to be.

Hand-in-hand they walked, retracing their steps along the river, up the gentle slopes of the brown fields and onto the main road. They saw Jane's house from afar, a white detached house with a portico and a white gate on a tree-lined road. An ice-cream van was parked at the top of the road. She could see Nelly coming out with Tim, making their way to the van. From across the road, someone came out of a parked car. He headed towards Nelly and Tim. An Mei broke into a run, followed by Mark.

"No! No!" she cried.

Mark picked up speed, his legs moving fast, sensing danger. "Nelly!" he shouted.

Nelly looked up. Hussein waylaid her. He stood in her path. "Ah! The dependable aunt!" he mocked. "And ... my son?" he asked raising his eyebrows like a question mark and looking at Tim.

"No! I am not your son," said Tim looking up, his eyes wide, appraising this stranger. He stuck a finger in his mouth, withdrew it and, with a gravity that both pained and captivated Hussein, said, "My mother said I am not to talk to strangers. We are going to get an ice cream." Nevertheless he smiled, his little teeth, white against his brown skin, proud that he remembered his mother's instructions, delighted that he was going to get an ice cream because he had been bored staying in the whole morning. "Daddy says it is very important to listen to mummy," he added.

Hussein looked at the little boy. Such a beautiful boy! He had an overwhelming desire to pick him up and claim him as his own there and then.

"What's your name?"

"None of your business. Will you please stand aside?" demanded Nelly. She tried to shield Tim from Hussein.

"Go in Tim," said Mark, arriving with An Mei closed at his heel.

"No! No! I want an ice cream." He struggled flaying his arms as he tried to free himself from Nelly's hand and run towards the van.

"We'll get it for you. Just wait a little," coaxed Mark. He squatted down on his haunches and patted Tim on the head.

Nelly gathered the struggling Tim to her and retreated back into the house.

Hussein could hardly contain the jealousy that surged within him. His face turned pale with anger: to witness the authority that this, this mat salleh, dared to wield over his son. His thoughts became incoherent. Grudges that had no connection with the present, flashed through his mind. Mat salleh! A white man, no better than the mad sailor boys arriving in the past at our sh.o.r.es to wreak havoc on our women. It reignited his anger against those who had been responsible for Malaysia's past subservience as a colony. He had not felt like this when he was a young graduate in Oxford. Since taking up politics, however, it had grown like a boil in his gums, fierce, ready to burst. He glared accusingly at An Mei, "So this is him."

"I know who you are," said Mark, moving protectively to An Mei's side. "An Mei has told me about you. I do not know why you are watching our house and stalking us, but I would like to make it plain that we do not wish you near us and our family."

The two men glared at each other.

"Please leave," said An Mei, appealing to Hussein.

"Leave?" Hussein asked. "He is my son. You need only to look at him."

"Please leave. He is not your son," An Mei insisted.

Hussein stood still. He stared at her, ignoring Mark's presence. The air was filled with all the recriminations that though unsaid were omniscient and real.

"You'll hear from my lawyers," Hussein said quietly and confidently. He turned and returned to his car. An Mei reached for Mark's hand and he took her trembling hand into his own.

She sat on the floor, legs tucked beneath her, her skirt spread out. The blotches of dried earth stood out from its indigo blue like giant disfigured poker dots. On her lap lay Tim's head, his little body curled up on the floor, his knees to his chest, deep in sleep. She had one hand protectively on him while the other brushed the tendrils of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Now and then she would stroke his cheek, marveling at its smoothness. I cannot lose him, she thought, looking down at his small defenseless body and instantly panic engulfed her. Hussein's threat! She recalled how he had looked at her, stripping her naked, forcing her to bend to his will, to reveal her soul. The hammering in her chest increased. Her eyes sought Mark's.

"We must leave," she said, "I am frightened of what Hussein might do."

Mark turned to look at her upturned face. He wanted to be strong for her, but felt nothing other than frustration and a sense of helplessness. "Yes!" he said, "the problem is how to do it? We have this unfinished business with the police. Kam has warned us not to leave. I might still be charged for obstructing the police."

He dropped to his knees beside her. "What we need is good legal advice; not only with regard to the police, but also with respect to Hussein's threat. Are we dealing with Hussein's bluff or can he build up a real case against us? Can he prove Tim is his own?"

"The solicitor I saw for my divorce," said An Mei. Her face brightened. "Mr. Tan. Jeremy introduced him to me. We could talk to him."

"Unfortunately he is in Kuala Lumpur. It is of the utmost importance that we do not go to Malaysia. It will make it easier for Hussein. I think he would find it easier to serve a writ against us."

He slipped both hands under Tim and stood up, cradling him. He walked to the bed and laid him down. An Mei watched him tuck the bedclothes with care around Tim and she felt a calm descend on her.

"The best thing we could do is leave now for Rome," he said, turning around to face her, unaware of being appraised.

"Shall I call Kam? At least we would know where we are with respect to the police."

"Yes! And we should call Jeremy to ask if he knows anyone in Singapore who could explain the legal system and advise us on what to do. I wonder if Jane knows any one?"

Mark looked through the gla.s.s window into a small cell. It was stripped of everything except for a table, with a recording machine set on one side of it, and some chairs. A guard was posted at the door. One of the two men who had been apprehended by the police commandoes was in it. He sat in a chair; his elbows on the table with his hands laid cuffed in front of him. Mark recognized him as the one with the tattoo who had emerged from the hut for a smoke and who had jumped carrying Tim bundled in his arms. He looked nervous and agitated. His eyes were sullen and defiant. Across the table, two men sat facing him.

"Come," said Kam, "let us adjourn to my office and leave my officers to their work. I am sure we can break him; the other has already confessed. My men are already out there looking for Ah Cheong. And through him, we should be able to get to Ahmad."

He went ahead, leaving Mark and An Mei to follow. Mark wondered at the methods they might use to break a person under interrogation. In this case, the detainee was a criminal, caught red-handed. Yet he wondered how he, himself, might be questioned. An Mei sensed his anxiety and squeezed his hand.

They walked through the maze of corridors and eventually found themselves back once more in the Detective Superintendent's office. Kam took his time going round to his desk before indicating that they should be seated. He sat and rifled through his notes; his movements were slow, keeping them in suspense.

"Detective Superintendent Kam," said Mark, "are we free to go?"

Kam looked up, seemingly surprised by the direct question. He took time considering it, looking from one to the other. An Mei, who had earlier relinquished Mark's hand when they sat down, reached out for it again. Kam saw her anxiety. He chose, however, to ignore her, turning his full attention on Mark.

"Why are you in such a hurry to leave? Are you not interested in catching the culprit, the man behind the kidnap?"

Mark racked his brain to compose an answer that would be the least compromising. Kam did not give him a chance to reply.

"Then there is still the question of your attempt to withhold information from the police." Kam tapped his mouth with his pen; his lips pressed tightly together, the lower lip jutted slightly forward in bemus.e.m.e.nt. "You have also not asked after Aquino."

They look guiltily at each other at the mention of Aquino. They had forgotten him again in their anxiety and they looked ashamed. They had promised him their protection. All they had been thinking about since Hussein's threat was to secure their own escape.

"Where is he?"

"In one of my cells."

"Please would you treat him with leniency because without his help we would not have found Tim. He placed himself in great danger to help us," said Mark.

"Ahhh!" Kam seemed to be enjoying their discomfort. He leaned back in his chair, still tapping the pen on his lips. "You know as well as I do, he also played a part in the kidnap. He was the driver; he was with the boy in the house and therefore an accomplice in holding the child there. So on those grounds we can continue to detain him. If he had been innocent, then we would, of course, let him go free."

Kam leaned forward and gripping his pen between his index and middle finger, twiddled it on the desk to emphasise his next words. "You see, like the laws of your own land, we cannot detain people beyond a certain number of hours, in our case 48 hours, without a charge. We are not uncivilized. However, we will charge him although, at present, I cannot tell you what exactly the charge will be."

Mark felt himself being toyed with and he did not know quite how to respond. Why, he wondered, had Kam felt it necessary to compare the two countries? He had been warned that in his travels to former British colonies he was likely to encounter two very different types of people. Those very compliant and respectful of people from the west, because they believe them to be powerful and superior, a remnant of a past when the white men, or orang puteh as they called them in this part of the world, were their colonial masters. Then there were those who would be resentful of anything that might remotely remind them of the colonial past. This second kind of person would not miss any opportunity to demonstrate they were equal if not better than their former colonial masters. Mark pushed aside these thoughts. He might be oversensitive himself. In any case for the sake of Aquino, he would not rise to the bait if it were one. Instead, he asked, "Can you release him on police bail?"

"And who would stand bail for him?"

Mark looked quickly at An Mei. "Us?" he asked.

"Ahhh! To be a bailer, you have to be a Singapore citizen or at least a permanent resident."

"Aunt Nelly!" said An Mei. "Jane," she added.

Mark looked doubtful at committing the two ladies without asking their permission but he did not want to leave Aquino in the lurch, not after all his help. He was convinced that the young man was not a willing partner in the crime; he was just a victim of the situation. He leaned over to An Mei and told her they needed to discuss this alone and consult with Nelly and Jane.

"Can we get back on this matter? We need legal advice and, of course, we need to discuss it with our Singaporean relatives," Mark said.

"Fine! I can do that. Let you have a bit more time."

They look expectantly at Kam.