her room, tangled up in the thin cotton blanket. The sun streaming into her room was high and hot.
“You fell out of bed, having a nightmare,” she said. “Thrashing and crying about someone named Yi. I was afraid to wake you.”
Chinese people have an aversion to suddenly waking people from sleep, in case the soul separates from the body. I hadn’t thought that Hui would be so superstitious, though I was grateful for it. Who knew where I’d been wandering?
I sat up groggily, my thoughts a nest of ants. I had the feeling that I’d almost managed to grasp something slippery, the tail end of an idea that had vanished with a flick, just as Yi’s crying face had.
“What’s wrong?” said Hui.
I glanced at the blue dress I’d worn last night. Still neatly rolled up on a chair, just as I’d left it. I didn’t want to tell Hui about the finger in its glass bottle. It would only upset her. There were other, more pressing worries. Like whether Ren had survived the night, and what to do with the slim glass vial wrapped in my bloodstained dress.
* * *
And so, the finger had returned to me. I examined it with a feeling of inevitability and horror when Hui had gone off on an errand, after lending me a frock. It was the same, down to the number on the lid and the slight dent on the metal screw top.
Dr. MacFarlane’s finger, Ren had said before he ran out into the night. How had it found its way from the pathology storeroom, where I’d left it, to last night’s party? I felt sick. If only I’d stopped Ren from rushing out. Or if I’d shouted louder as William Acton walked purposefully out of the house with his shotgun tucked under his right arm. The trail went round and round, the finger appearing and reappearing—yet I had the dim sensation that there was a pattern to all of it. When I’d asked Yi what to do with it in my dream, he’d seemed strangely uninterested. Do what you think is right, he’d said. But perhaps it was just because all he really cared about was Ren. And Ren, as we both knew, was dying.
* * *
Restless and agitated, I headed over to the May Flower. Perhaps Kiong had further news of what had happened to Ren. It was nearly noon; the dance hall wasn’t open yet, so I let myself in through the back door and waited in the corridor outside the Mama’s cramped office. It was a squirrel’s nest with a desk piled high with papers, but I knew better than to underestimate her. She was an excellent businesswoman.
Kiong wasn’t around, said the Mama, but she was well aware of last night’s fiasco.
“Is the boy all right?” I asked, unable to hide my concern.
“No idea. But likely he’s still alive since no one’s come to look us up yet. We didn’t get paid, either. Well, that’s why I don’t like doing private parties. I heard you saw the boy who got shot. Was it bad?”
I nodded, not wanting to talk about it.
“Poor child.”
“I don’t think I can work here anymore.”
Now seemed as good a moment as any to quit. I was unlikely to find another part-time job that paid as well, but it wasn’t worth the risk. I’d ask Robert to lend me the money.
She didn’t look surprised. “Thought you might feel like that. Well, I won’t say I’m not sorry—you’re one of my best girls on the afternoon shift. If you change your mind, let me know. Can you pitch in once more next Saturday, though? I’ll be short a couple of girls.”
I nodded. As I left, it occurred to me that this was one of the last times I’d walk down the grubby mint-green corridor. All the laughter and comradeship, the sore feet, and the slapping away of wandering hands would come to an end. Though perhaps it was better this way.
32
Batu Gajah
Monday, June 22nd
Everything is falling apart, thinks William.
It’s Monday morning now, and he’s headed back to the hospital to check on his small victim. For victim is the right word. Over and over, William has replayed the scene from that night: Ah Long taking him aside with the news of the tiger in the garden, the feverish excitement that descended on the whole party, and himself, unlocking the gun closet to get his shotgun. Why, why did he think of that?