this room is very orderly. Late shafts of sun slant in, although there’s a growing dimness in the corners, as though tiny unseen creatures are gathering in the shadows.
Ignoring the faint buzzing in his ears, Ren steps farther in. This is the room he imagined, when the task of finding Dr. MacFarlane’s missing finger fell upon him. This room, with its rows and rows of specimens in every conceivable kind of glass container. Next to the tall windows is an empty box and a step stool, as though someone has just left it. The impression is so strong that Ren can almost see a slim figure unpacking the last box. No, the way the stool is positioned makes him think that it was used to place something high up on a shelf.
The finger is definitely here; he only has to close his eyes to feel the tingle. High on that shelf. He pushes the stool closer and climbs up. Past the bigger containers with their hideous, floating contents, past a jar with a two-headed rat in it. It’s hard to feel with his cat sense now, there’s too much static. He never imagined there’d be so many specimens. Straining precariously on tiptoe, Ren’s eyes are barely level with the shelf he wants.
He moves a few of the bottles, peering behind them. The light is fading fast now, lavender and grey. Ren has the feeling that he isn’t alone. “Yi,” he says aloud. The sound of his voice hangs in the air and there’s an expectant hush, as though fine pale grains of silence are trickling through a giant hourglass.
Fighting anxiety, Ren patiently shifts the glass specimen jars to peer behind them. They clink softly; it’s on this shelf, or maybe the next one. He can’t quite tell. He slides his hand in and scrabbles around. His cat whiskers twitch hopefully. Pulling his fist out, Ren opens it to find a glass vial. Inside is a finger, dried to a blackish color like a twig.
Heart pounding with mingled relief and horror, Ren climbs down and examines his prize. It’s almost exactly the way that Dr. MacFarlane described. “Preserved in salt,” he’d said. “It will likely be the only one of its kind—the other specimens should be in alcohol or formaldehyde.”
Ren stuffs it in his pocket. It’s the first act of theft he’s ever committed and he mumbles a guilty apology under his breath, though he’s not sure whether it’s to God, or Yi, or Dr. MacFarlane for taking so long to find the finger.
The shadows are darker now, heavy as though a veil has dropped on the room. The stolen finger is a dead weight in his pocket. He’s outstayed his welcome. Furtively, Ren shuts the door behind him, skin prickling, the short hairs standing up on the back of his neck. Once outside, he walks, then trots, and finally, when no one stops him, breaks into a run all the way back, down the covered walkways and long corridors, as though he’s fleeing for his life.
18
Batu Gajah District Hospital
Saturday, June 13th
“So, out of all the specimens in that room, only the fingers are missing,” I said.
After returning the bucket and cleaning rags borrowed from the janitor’s closet, Shin and I cut back between some angsana trees with their falling gold petals.
Shin frowned. “How many fingers were on the original list?”
“Fourteen.”
I didn’t want to say it was a bad number. Shin had no patience for things like that, but I could see from the brief twitch of his jaw that it had, of course, registered. For Cantonese speakers, thirteen was a good number. Sup sam sounded a lot like the words sut sang, which meant “always survive.” Fourteen, on the other hand, was terrible because it sounded like “certain death.”
“I should inform Dr. Rawlings,” said Shin. “It’s bizarre to have so many missing fingers.”
An orderly in a white uniform emerged from a distant building, carrying a tiffin container. Turning, he shielded his face against the low-setting sun. Something familiar about his gait and angular figure made my throat constrict. Nearer and nearer the white figure came. When he was about forty feet away, he lifted the hand that was shielding his face to squint at us. My heart sank as I recognized the slant-jawed man from the dance hall last night: Mr. Y. K. Wong himself.
Maybe he really was a demon, doubling himself so that everywhere I went, he followed me. But no—it was coincidence, a stroke of bad luck. Besides,