The devils circle, p.3
The Devil's Circle, page 3
After that first attack, Ah Moy’s group lay low. She had the smallest and weakest faction, and evidently thought that they would come out third best in any trial of strength. The same couldn’t be said for the other two. As far as we knew, Ah Siew’s gang had struck first. It started with a backyard ambush. Heads were broken, limbs were hacked. In retaliation, Molotov cocktails were thrown into her den. Blood called for blood. Each attack had to be repaid with interest, in the time-honoured tradition of vendetta. There were enough weapons lying around to fuel prolonged hostilities. Casualties started piling up with disturbing regularity. But in the general confused state of affairs, no one else took much notice, least of all the British.
“This has got to stop,” said George firmly after about a week of bloodletting and a dozen casualties, “before someone gets killed.”
“How?” I replied morosely. “They’re not going to see sense. Life is cheap and Lao’s fortune will buy a lot of lives.”
“If we find the real mother,” said June slowly, “will the others stop? I do not think that any of them is Gim Huat’s mother. They do not care for him, only for the money.”
“Why should they stop?” I responded. “After all, if it’s the money they’re after, they aren’t likely to quietly let the real mother take the whole lot.”
“No, no, June’s got something there,” said George. “Right now, their only claim to the fortune is through Gim Huat. If the real mother were to turn up, that would destroy any legal basis to their claims. Killing the mother won’t get them the money. We’d just get a guardian appointed. They may be ruthless, but I don’t think they’re stupid.”
“So, how do we find the mother?”
“Is her name in the files?” ventured June.
“Bright girl!” said George. “Off to the archives!”
We spent the whole afternoon going through the archives. The only one who really understood the filing system was Moraiss, and he was off in the ulu — assuming that he was still alive. More by divine providence than skill, we managed to track down the original adoption documents. There was a name, barely legible.
“Chan Sew Neo,” read June. “Is it Ah Siew?”
“It could be anyone,” I rejoined. “The name’s no good without the Chinese characters. There’s nothing to go on here, no address, no details.”
“We’ll just have to find her,” said George.
“You want us to go out and find one Chinese female on Singapore island with just a name and nothing else?” I responded. “Talk about looking for a noodle in a haystack!”
“Ah, but we do have something,” said George. “According to this note here, Cuthbert went to fetch the baby.”
“Cuthbert’s away upcountry,” I reminded him, “and by the time he gets back we’ll be neck deep in bodies. It’s a miracle that no one’s been killed yet.”
“But Cuthbert didn’t go alone, did he?” responded George. “He would have been driven.”
“Ahmad!”
“Yes, Ahmad. He’ll be able to tell us where they picked up the goods,” said George. “We’ll find your noodle, just you wait.”
AHMAD had been with the d’Almeidas for years. He was the faithful syce, who drove Clarence d’Almeida all over the island and the Malay states. Clarence d’Almeida had “retired” to do a little clandestine intelligence work just before the War. Cuthbert had then taken Ahmad over. When the British surrendered the shutters came down on the firm. Cuthbert told him to look out for his family. No one had seen him since. We found that people’s knowledge of the private lives of others was lamentably sketchy. Most of the staff of the firm were old-timers. They had been together since heaven-knows-when. But when they left the office at five, off they went in their different directions to their separate lives. All that anyone knew of Ahmad was that he lived somewhere out west, in a kampong near the sea and next to a school. We got general directions and a description of the landmarks to look out for.
Armed with this rather meagre information, June and I set out on our journey to the west in search of the elusive Ahmad. The STC trolley buses ran to limited destinations, fanning out from Finlayson Green to Geylang, Katong and Paya Lebar. In the west only Tanjong Pagar was served. The old Chinese bus companies had yet to get back on their feet. Taxis were virtually non-existent given the fuel situation. The one useful innovation that the Japanese had introduced was the trishaw. In place of the old burly rickshaw pullers, they had cobbled a bicycle to the frame of a rickshaw. This was the only practical way to get around.
It wasn’t difficult to find a trishaw rider willing to undertake the long journey out of town. Money was scarce and a man had to eat. We paid him with cigarettes and a handful of kangkong. The trishaw rider looked like an articulated skeleton. I cast a doubtful eye over him. He didn’t look like he would make it to the foot of the hill where we lived, much less into the countryside. I said so to June. “When he cannot ride any more, you can take over,” she responded unsympathetically.
We passed the old docks, looking much the worse for wear. The Japanese had bombed them mercilessly when war broke out. During the Occupation, it was the turn of the Americans. B-29 Superfortresses from India had come over during the last years of the war and unloaded their bombs on the harbour. From the ground, they were little shining specks of silver, contrails streaming through the rarified air. The Japanese fighters would scramble hoping to catch them, but the Oscars didn’t have the speed to reach the Superfortresses. These raids had buoyed our spirits, even though a misplaced bomb-load meant death to the onlookers.
After an hour and a half we finally came to a lone concrete pillbox commanding a long stretch of sand. A stream met the sea at this point. A couple of hundred yards beyond it was a one-storey school building. This was the landmark that we had been looking out for.
“Stop,” said June to the trishaw rider. “Go back to the stream. We get out there. You wait for us.” The trishawman nodded and settled his frame comfortably. He took a cigarette and lighted it. A look of contentment suffused his face. We could take our time.
The path followed the small stream. It was sandy underfoot, bordered with nipah palms. Scrawny chickens scampered out of our way. We crossed a plank bridge to the kampong itself, a cluster of wooden huts in the usual Malay style, on stilts with attap roofs. There were no fences as such but the tapioca plants formed hedges around some of the houses, with flowering hibiscus shrubs among the coconut palms and bamboo groves.
June called out to a young Malay woman who was doing her washing on the banks of the stream. Her Malay was much better than mine. People said that I spoke with the accent of an Orang Puteh, which either provoked merriment or hostility depending on the audience.
“Good afternoon kak,” said June politely, “we are looking for Enchik Ahmad.”
The young woman ceased her work. Drying her hands, she came up. “There are many men named Ahmad in the kampong.”
“Ahmad bin Johari,” June continued. “the syce. He worked for a lawyer in town until the War. Then he went back to his kampong.”
The woman nodded her head in affirmation. Gesturing to us to follow, she led the way through the maze of little paths. There were no road signs or house numbers. It was a postman’s worst nightmare. No stranger would have had a chance of finding anyone who didn’t want to be found. Small children peeped from the doorways, eyeing us curiously.
After about ten minutes, we reached a small surau surrounded by a hedge of hibiscus. Our guide paused in front of one of the houses next to it and called out. “Pak Chik, you have visitors.” An old man emerged onto the anjung. He blinked at us shortsightedly.
“Enchik Ahmad,” I called, “it’s me, Dennis Chiang. You remember? I worked with Mr d’Almeida.”
Recognition came and he beamed at us. “Tuan Dennis, apa khabar? It has been a long time.” He invited us to come up. We thanked our guide, who left us snickering under her hand at my accent. Slipping off our shoes, we mounted the steps to his anjung. The house was typically Malay, raised off the ground on stilts. Underneath were neat piles of firewood. Chickens wandered around scratching for worms. Ahmad’s house was comparatively larger and better built than the others. He was considered affluent, having worked for the d’Almeidas for so long. His house had had a zinc roof at one time; the remnants of it poked through the attap. During the War many people sold their zinc roofs to make money and re-thatched in the traditional way with the fronds of the nipah palm. The kitchen abutted the house at the back. This was domain of the womenfolk. They gathered there during the day ostensibly to cook, but it was the place where all the village gossip was exchanged. Kampong folk were naturally sociable. There were no locked doors. The women kept out of sight when strangers were around, so we had no inkling of how many wives or children Ahmad might have had. Guests were received in the anjung, sitting cross-legged on mats laid on the bare wooden planks.
When we were comfortably ensconced I made the introductions. He had never met June of course, since she had joined the firm during the War. We Babas have all sorts of words to describe relatives down to the Nth degree of affinity and consanguinity. There is a proper term for the wife of an elder second cousin once removed, and woe betide the careless Baba who forgets. The Malay language doesn’t bother with such niceties. One is simply either abang or adek, depending on who is older. Anyway, to avoid a long convoluted explanation about my rather eccentric family structure, I introduced June simply as my adek. She frowned and nudged me in the ribs. June is actually a couple of months older, as she constantly likes to remind me. But I ignored her and proceeded to explain our errand. Ahmad listened intently. His English was as basic as my Malay, so it took a while before we were sure that he understood. At length he nodded.
“I remember Tuan Cuthbert went to fetch a baby,” he said slowly, “before the Jepun come.”
“Yes, that must have been it. Do you recall where?”
“Telok Paku,” he replied, his brow creased with the effort, “where the road turns to Changi Point.”
“Can you take us there?”
He nodded. “I can drive if there is a car. I cannot go so far by bicycle. I am too old and my muscles are weak.”
This was an unanticipated spanner. It was six miles at least from Ahmad’s kampong back to the city and maybe ten miles beyond that to Telok Paku. Our sturdy trishawman wasn’t likely to take kindly to a journey of that length, whatever the price might have been. In any case, we couldn’t have made it before dark. It wasn’t wise to stay out late anywhere on the island. While the Japanese were in charge crime was practically unknown. You could leave your front door wide open and no one would dare take anything. Thieves literally lost their heads. The return of the British unloosed a tidal wave of crime, petty and worse. Fear had kept people’s baser instincts in check; that fear had gone. The order of the day was survival, and woe to the weak.
“I know where there might be a car,” said a soft voice.
Startled, I looked up. A young girl dressed in a baju kurung was serving us tea and kueh. I hadn’t been paying attention. She had a tudung over her head, but the hair underneath was blond. And the eyes that gazed at me were sky blue.
I BLINKED. “You’re English?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied, hesitantly. “It’s been so long since I spoke English.”
“What is your name?” asked June gently.
“Margaret,” she answered in a barely audible voice, hesitating as if uncertain of the words. “Margaret Barron. They used to call me Marge.”
Ahmad broke in. “She is Mariam.” He continued in Malay, his English having given out. This further explanation flew right over my head. June gave me a running commentary.
“Mariam is his … how you say? His ward?”
“Ward?” I asked. “You mean he’s her guardian?”
“Not guardian, wali. I think there is no proper word for it in English. He is her ... her protector,” explained June, fumbling for the words. “Pak Chik’s mother worked for her family. When the Japanese bombed, they were killed. She was a young child then. They brought her here.”
Ahmad’s mother worked as a washerwoman and nanny for her family. Marge and her brother knew her as Nenek. A stray bomb destroyed her house. Nenek had pulled her from the wreck, nursed her back to health and kept her all these years in the kampong. She was one of the family now, Mariam and no longer Marge. There were too many of them, these waifs of war. At least Mariam had a family who clearly cared for her. My thoughts went back to poor Gim Huat, who was a rag-doll to be fought over by the dogs. I was determined that we would find his real mother for him.
Mariam had retreated into the doorway, as befits a proper Malay girl. Ahmad beckoned and she approached shyly.
“You said something about a car?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s one in the belukar up the hill. We … me and the other children … we found it when we were playing. I don’t know if it’ll still run though.”
I turned to Ahmad for his permission to let Mariam show us the car. After a short hesitation he agreed. I told June to stay behind, but she put on her “don’t-mess-with-me” face and insisted. I knew better than to argue. We set off with one of his strapping sons as company.
The path followed the lower contours of the ridge until it met a metalled road which snaked its way steeply to the summit. Mariam skipped along like a mountain goat, while I puffed my way up. June was having a bit of difficulty too. I felt furtively satisfied at that but refrained from rubbing it in. We followed the road upwards, past a couple of derelict bungalows. They looked like they had been occupied by Europeans rather than Asiatics. At one of the turns of the road there was a small flat area, overgrown with wide-leaved shrubs, the sort they use to wrap rojak in. Mariam pushed her way through the tangle, which gave way with surprising ease. Behind the undergrowth, covered with coconut fronds, was a red and black Morris Eight.
We stripped away the camouflage. The owners had taken great pains to keep it hidden it from prying eyes, meaning no doubt to come back for it some time. Evidently they hadn’t. The Morris had seen better days; three and half years in the jungle doesn’t do much for a car’s resale value. We lifted the bonnet. As far as I could tell all the necessary bits were there. A quick fumble in the glove compartment produced the key. I turned it in the ignition. Not a peep interrupted the creeking of the cicadas.
“Dead,” I said.
“Maybe it needs petrol?” ventured June.
I rubbed my neck. “Worth a shot. But petrol’s not easy to come by. We’ll give it a go tomorrow, if we can lay our hands on the stuff.”
Carefully, we replaced the foliage over our new treasure, ensuring that it was not visible from the road. We covered our tracks meticulously and rearranged the vegetation to hide the traces of our visit. The idea that we were actually taking somebody’s prized possession never crossed my mind. My one thought was to make sure no dishonest blackguard stole the car from us.
5
“A WHITE girl? Are you sure?” asked Simon. I had reported the result of our search for Ahmad to him as instructed. Simon liked to foster the illusion that he was in charge.
“Yes, quite sure,” I said, trying to keep him focussed on the immediate problem. “We’ll need petrol if we’re going to carry on the search for Gim Huat’s mother. You’ve got friends who’ve got cars. Can you get them to spare us a couple of gallons?”
Simon made a gesture as if brushing away something irritating. “A white girl. Does she have a name?”
“Her name’s Margaret Barron. They call her Mariam now. What about the petrol?” Trying to keep Simon to the subject was like trying to trap mosquitoes with one hand.
“We should do something about it,” he said.
“Yes, we should,” I replied exasperatedly, “but we need petrol.”
“I meant the girl. We should do something about the girl.”
“Don’t need to. Her family’s dead. She seems quite happy and well-adjusted. We need to get on with the search for the mother.”
“The mother? I thought you just said that her family’s dead?” asked Simon, puzzled.
I was on the verge of throttling him. “I meant Gim Huat’s mother. For that we need petrol.”
“No, I haven’t any petrol,” said Simon absently. “Singham might be able to help. He seems to have a knack for getting things. But we must do something about the girl.”
I fled before my head exploded.
GEORGE as usual managed to tap his sources for a couple of gallons of petrol. I never asked where it came from and he never told. It was better that way. Knowing too much about George’s sources of supply was apt to lead to sleepless nights and nervous glances over the shoulder. Next morning bright and early we were back to resurrect the Morris. Eager with anticipation, I turned the key and hoped for the best. Nothing. “The battery is dead, Tuan,” said Ahmad. “We must push.”
Push we did. There was a gentle slope from the road to the car’s resting place, hardly anything when walking. But getting the thing up the slope onto the road was quite another matter. There was just me and Ahmad’s son Karim. The old man had volunteered to help, but June insisted that he stop. As she put it, he was the only one who knew the way to Chan Sew Neo’s place and it wouldn’t have done to have him drop dead now. Besides, she said I needed the exercise.
We finally moved it the twenty yards upwards and over the ditch at the side of the road. My lungs were bursting with the effort. Karim hardly sweated. He earned his living with the pukat tarek, the long beach seine net that fishermen used to catch the shoals of ikan bilis close inshore. They pulled the heavy net through the water to scoop up the catch. His arms were sinewy and thick as an old bamboo. Hauling motorcars was nothing to him.
