They ran into the birdhouse. People were standing everywhere obliterating their view. It was difficult to manoeuvre around the crowd. A sudden movement at the other exit caught their eye. They pushed through the crowd and ran in pursuit. They ran outside, the bright sunlight temporarily blinding them. A sudden stillness seemed to descend on the scene. It was surreal: people moving, laughing and enjoying themselves. Timothy was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 38.

Timothy lay limp in Ahmad's arms. His head lolled like a rag doll. Ahmad ran from the birdhouse. People turned to stare at the little boy, his neck seemingly out of control as his head flopped from side to side on the man's shoulder.

"Dia sakit! He is ill!" Ahmad explained without breaking his speed. "Nak pergi hospital! Orang jahat ikut kita. We need to go to a hospital. Bad people are following us. They did this to my son."

They made way for him, even as they saw Mark and An Mei emerged from the birdhouse. When they saw the desperate face of the young woman and white man, they were torn as to whom they should believe, but the instinct of self-preservation, of not wanting to be involved, prevailed. The child was without doubt not a European they thought. He looked more akin to the man carrying him. So they kept silent and went about their enjoyment as though they saw nothing and in that precious vital few seconds, Ahmad was able to get safely away to the waiting car.

"Drive on," Ahmad instructed the driver, pushing Timothy to one side of the seat and covering the little boy with the blanket he had used during the previous night's vigil when he had sat in the car outside Nelly's house.

Taken by surprise, and frightened, the driver looked uneasily at his rear mirror. He caught Ahmad staring at him. Ahmad snarled, his lips drawn back to reveal his teeth. "Cepat! Quick!"

The driver stepped on the accelerator, sure that something bad had happened, something even worst than he had antic.i.p.ated when he was co-opted into the previous night's watch. He could smell chloroform. He glanced nervously again at the rear mirror and caught the grin of delight on his master's face. He had been driving Ahmad to Singapore almost every month in the past two years and had been sworn to keep the trips a secret. He had no problem doing that. Within a year, he knew all the main underground gambling dens in the island like the back of his hand. He did not care if Ahmad was infringing the rules that he so frequently expounded and preached to others: the evil of gambling. He was paid well for his duties. His duty was to drive and to keep quiet, but kidnapping! That was another matter. What else could it be but kidnapping? He asked himself even as he drove back to his master's house; a house that he was sworn not to tell to anyone about, a house that had to be kept a secret from all.

The car swerved into a yard hemmed in by tall trees and bushes. A bungalow, a bleak functional square building with Bitter-Sweet Harvest 275 shutters drawn tight, stood in the middle of it. There was an air of neglect about the compound and the bungalow. The ground was littered with fallen twigs and brown, spotted leaves tinged in places with yellow and khaki green like a diseased membrane. They blew and swirled in the wind before settling in little heaps only, at the next gust of wind, to be blown to settle elsewhere.

Ahmad threw open the car door and carried Timothy into the bungalow and into a bedroom at the back of it. He laid the little boy on a bed. Despite the dimness of the room, he drew the curtains tight as an extra precaution. After one impatient glance round the room, he closed the bedroom door behind him, turning the key in the lock and pocketing it. He turned to fix his eye on his driver.

"Aquino," he said, "you have been with me for the past three years. Have I treated you well?"

"Yes, sir. Very well."

"I would like you to keep this between us. You will be well rewarded. Remember, I can send you back to where you came from very easily. You do remember don't you?"

Aquino's mouth went dry. He remembered very vividly; the miserable boat journey across the rough South China Sea from Mindanao in the Philippines, battling against the monsoon as the boat tossed and heaved while he clung to his mother and siblings. The horror of seeing his family vanish, swallowed up by the churning waves. He had stayed afloat in the sea for days before ending in the confinement of a refugee camp. He shivered as he recalled his suffering at the hands of the guards and other immigrants. He could feel their hands on him, even after three years. "Please sir. Don't send me back. I will do as you say."

Ahmad swept his eyes over him, a gesture so dismissive that Aquino cringed with shame over his own helplessness.

"Keep guard outside. I will rest now. Make yourself something to eat, but I want you at hand," said Ahmad waving him away. Once Aquino left the room, Ahmad sat down on an armchair. He sat still for a long time, occasionally tugging violently at his beard as if to remind him of pain.

"My poor Shalimar," he said quietly to himself. It was all the fault of that b.i.t.c.h, he thought.

Again an insane rage rose inside him when he thought of An Mei. Even though they had managed to get rid of her, she continued to dominate their lives. "b.i.t.c.h!" he said aloud. He had thought that Shalimar had won Hussein over when he divorced An Mei but, if she had, it was short-lived. Poor Shalimar. He had alternately threatened, cajoled and pushed her to win over Hussein. Little did he expect her to fall in love with him. His face grew thunderous when he recalled her suffering at Hussein's indifference.

He sighed. Shalimar was always weak, even as a little girl. Even so, he did not expect her to die in such circ.u.mstances; die while trying to bring a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child to the world; and spoiling everything in the process. Ahmad smashed his hand hard against the armrest. He was furious, furious with his sister for her stupidity, with her lover who got her pregnant, with Hussein who rejected her, and most of all with An Mei who he blamed for Shalimar's failure to win over Hussein. Following his sister's death, his position in Hussein's household had weakened. Hussein had told him in no uncertain terms that he would not be paying him the retainer Ahmad had thought was his right. And he desperately needed that source of income because the dowry from Shalimar had long been spent to meet his gambling debts.

"So what now?" he asked himself. He had not thought it through when he made the impulsive decision to take the boy. Instinctively, he knew that he could make use of the boy to further himself. He thought of Faridah and her sorrow at the demise of what she had thought was her grandchild. She would probably pay for the boy if he could prove that he was Hussein's child. He had little doubt that the child was Hussein's; he was his spitting image. But it was anger and rage, the desire to punish An Mei that drove him to take the boy. He wanted to make her suffer just as he had suffered as a consequence of Shalimar's death. His mind was filled with plans. He got up and went to the drinks cupboard and took out a gla.s.s tumbler. He poured himself a brandy; inhaled its deep aroma with appreciation before downing it in one gulp.

"Arak! Alcohol! Forbidden pleasures and so much more pleasurable because of it," he muttered to himself as he poured yet another shot of the brandy into his gla.s.s. He walked back to the armchair, sat down and placed both legs on the coffee table before him. He nursed the drink in his hands, his mind plotting his next steps, his facial expression ever changing, reflecting his thoughts.

Chapter 39.

Some eight kilometres away, in a police station, An Mei sat with Mark and Nelly on a long bench that lined one side of a white wall. A policeman in a blue Dacron uniform had directed them to it.

"Wait," he had said before turning on his heels and disappearing into the inner sanctum of the police station. Beyond that single word, he had said little else to them.

An Mei sat cradling her head in her hands. Mark placed his arm around her shoulder and she looked up; her eyes were ringed with fatigue, exhaustion and despair. He kissed her forehead. From the other end of the bench, Nelly looked on. She opened her mouth to speak but could not find words to express what she felt. She blamed herself. Timothy's happy saunter away from her to the sand pit replayed in her mind. If only she had not been distracted ... to say any more would just add to everyone's pain. So they sat waiting. They waited and waited. Minutes ticked by as the slow hand of bureaucracy ground onward. Policemen ambled by; each Bitter-Sweet Harvest 279 time a door opened, they jumped, half-rising in readiness to be invited in only to discover it was still not their turn. Unable to stand the wait any longer, An Mei stood up and walked up and down the corridor. Frustration, despair and panic took hold of her in turn. Mark sat by and watched her, helpless.

Time continued to tick by, oppressive in its slowness. Mark felt his utter sense of helplessness multiply. Finally, a door opened and a policeman appeared. "We are ready for you now. Come with me."

"How did it go?" asked Jane. She stood aside to let her mother Nelly, Mark and An Mei enter the house. "Come, let's go into the sitting room. I have laid out some tea and sandwiches. You have to eat something to keep up your strength." She bustled ahead to lead the way, a baby in her arms.

No one spoke. An Mei sat next to Mark, her face glum. He placed his arm around her and she buried her face in his chest. He could feel a surge of hot tears on his shirt. Her m.u.f.fled sobs tore at his heart.

"We can't tell you how it went," he said. "They took down our details and we wrote a report of the incident. We answered their questions, but we do not have any idea of how it went, or how it will go. It was all very frustrating."

"Did they shed any light on what they intend to do?" Jane asked.

"No," replied Mark, "they said they would do their best and I believe them. It is not good publicity for their growing tourist industry. But what does their best amount to?"

An Mei struggled to a sitting position. "The only lead is that blue Mercedes. I just feel in my bones that it has something to do with this," she said. "And I told the policeman. I wanted also to tell them of my suspicion. I suspect that the long hand of Hussein and his family is involved. I cannot believe that it is a coincidence that someone would choose to take my son out of the hundreds of children in the park."

"And did you tell them?" asked Jane.

An Mei looked at Mark. "I didn't," she replied, her eyes full of guilt. "I didn't in case I was wrong; for if I was wrong, then telling the police would alert Hussein and my former-in-laws to the existence of Tim."

She rubbed furiously at her swollen eyes with the back of her hands, not caring about her streaming nose. "I didn't know what to do. Have I done right?"

"If Hussein and his family are as important as you say, then accusing them without any real evidence is not likely to go down well with the police. We did have one good piece of luck. Remember the little boy, the one who saw Tim being bundled a way? Nelly had the presence of mind to ask him for his name when An Mei and I were busy giving chase. His parents also gave Nelly their address. He would be an important witness; he could identify the kidnapper. His details are with the police now."

"Well! That is important. We can't do much now, so why don't you take An Mei up for a rest. You both look absolutely washed out." Jane placed a hand gently on An Mei's cheeks. "Rest, please rest and you will see things clearer." She was making her way out of the room, when, suddenly, she turned. She looked guiltily at her friend and her hand flew to her mouth.

"I forgot. How could I?" she exclaimed. "An envelope, without any postage mark, was pushed through the post box just before you came back. It is addressed to you," she said to An Mei. "I meant to hand it you immediately but..." She rummaged through the pile of letters at the sideboard and handed An Mei a crumpled brown envelope.

With trembling hands, An Mei took the envelope. She tore it open. A solitary piece of paper was in it. On it was written in block capital letters: I KNOW!

Faridah held the phone to her ear. Joy, surprise and triumph mingled in her face. Her eyes sparkled with wonder. Her bosom heaved with excitement. She spoke little except for the intermittent exclamations of "Yes! Wonderful! Insha Allah!" She returned the phone to its cradle and stood absolutely still. Then she walked quickly towards her husband's office, her beaded slippers slapping on the floor in her haste. A servant followed. She waved her away and pushed open the door without knocking.

"Rahim!" she exclaimed from the doorway, "Ahmad called."

"And?" he asked, laconically. Seated behind a desk and holding a newspaper, he had not bothered to look up. She slipped into the room and closed the door. She looked at her husband, triumphant.

"He said that An Mei bore Hussein a son who she has kept hidden from us. The little boy is a spitting image of Hussein."

Rahim lowered his paper abruptly. The pages crackled and fell on his lap. He did not reply straight away. His face was thoughtful. Then he shook his head in doubt.

"Are you sure that is what he said? Are you sure he is not pulling your leg, punishing you - us - because we stopped his payment."

"I am not deaf and I am certainly not mad! Of course that is what he said. He saw Hussein's son. Unlike you, I believe in Ahmad. I do not know what you and Hussein have against him. He has always been helpful to me. He is always respectful."

"How did Ahmad manage to see An Mei and the boy? Did she not leave the country?" asked Rahim. "It's been some years since she disappeared. From all accounts she is not in Malaysia."

"If Ahmad saw them then it must have been here in Malaysia."

For the first time since his wife entered the room, Rahim began to give the story some credibility.

"If this is true," he said cautiously, "then we can certainly apply to the court for custody. We will have a strong case, at least in our Shariah court, if she is not a practising Muslim. But we are jumping ahead of ourselves. Don't get your hopes too high. It could well be a hoax or Ahmad is mistaken."

"We don't have to resort to the courts. Ahmad has him."

Rahim jumped up crashing his chair to the floor. His hand gesticulated wildly, one finger pointing to his head.

"What!! Are you out of your mind? How did Ahmad manage to get hold of the little boy? Did he take him by force, kidnap him?"

"I don't know the details. All I care about is that he can bring him to us."

"And how much does he want? Where is he now?" asked Rahim. Over the years, he had seen through Ahmad. Hussein had opened his eyes to the cunning and manipulative nature of the man. They had bailed him out one too many times.

"He wants half a million. I don't care about the money. Just give it to him. All I care for is my grandson."

"I can't go along with this. I would love to have my grandson if the little boy is truly Hussein's, but I cannot condone kidnapping. We'll all go down. In any case, it might not be Hussein's son and we would have involved ourselves in a murky deed for nothing if we were to pay Ahmad."

"Adoi! I have waited so long for a grandchild. I had such hopes for Shalimar's baby, but it was not to be. What right has An Mei to deceive us, to cast us out of our grandson's life? I feel nothing for her. I don't consider it as kidnapping because how can we be accused of kidnapping our own blood?"

"Calm down. I don't see it like you do. If Ahmad wanted to help, he would have just told us and we would have got the law to track An Mei and the child down and we would apply for custody. She is now here, not in some far off country where we do not have jurisdiction. I a.s.sume that she is here in Malaysia, even in KL itself," he said.

Faridah shrugged. Ahmad had said very little except for describing the little boy as a lovely child who looked the image of Hussein. After that revelation, all she could think of was having Hussein's son in her arms.

She sat down, dejected. She had not expected such a response from her husband. She should have tried to find out more details from Ahmad, but she was so carried away. Even so she had not expected her husband to be so negative.

"Huh!" exclaimed Rahim, "he has not told you much has he? Typical! All he wants is money. If it were not for him, we would stand a better chance of getting our grandson legally. Now, the boy is being held against his will. Have you thought about that? How frightened your grandson might be, s.n.a.t.c.hed from his mother?"

Rahim's words made sense to her. She now became concerned for the child who she believed with all her heart must be her grandson. "What do we do?" she asked. "Ahmad said he would call us for an answer this evening."

"We must tell Hussein."

"Are you absolutely sure?" asked Hussein. "An Mei made no mention of expecting a baby."

Hussein was elated. Yes, it was possible. He could not be sure, but deep down he hoped that it was true; he wanted it to be true, that he and An Mei have a son. He wanted the connection, the tie between them. Perhaps there was still a chance of reviving their love, now that Shalimar was gone. With a child, his parents might come round. He regretted giving up An Mei. He had not wanted the divorce. His parents' constant urging, his own ambition and temptation for its easy fulfilment, held in front of him like bait, propelled him to write those three words: I divorce you.

It was a moment of weakness, intense selfishness and utter callousness. He admitted to all that. If he could turn back the clock he would. He squeezed his eyes tight to obliterate the shame he felt. Unbidden, he let out a deep guttural groan. It took him by surprise. He sensed his parents looking at him. He pushed the thoughts away, took a deep breath, and the controlled outward face of the politician he had become took over once more. There were more urgent matters to attend to. His son might be in danger. If his mother does not come up with the money, what might Ahmad choose to do, he asked himself. Would he harm the boy? Should they inform the police about Ahmad? Would this provoke Ahmad to take desperate action? Where was An Mei? How did Ahmad get hold of his son? There were so many questions, so many unknowns. He picked up the phone and asked for Ghazali.

"Find out if a little boy of around three-and-a-half years old has been reported missing," he instructed his aide. "I am not sure where it might have occurred. It could be in KL, Malacca or in one of the tourist resorts; it could even be in Singapore. The best place to find out might be the newspapers. Use your contacts with the police. Don't leave any stone unturned."

By the time he had finished his conversation and replaced the phone, his calm demeanour had gone. In its place was again agitation, an agitation that made him scratch his neck until it left streaks of red. Talking about the various possible ways in which Ahmad might have taken his son, brought closer home, the danger he might be in.

"Father, should we report this incident to the police? We could pretend to go along with Ahmad and still make the report. We cannot keep it from the police."

'No!" cried Faridah, "If Ahmad suspects that we have told the police, he would harm my grandson. I cannot bear the thought of it. We cannot risk that."

"If we don't, we will be breaking the law and there is still no guarantee that he would release my son," warned Hussein.

"I doubt this will be Ahmad's last demand; he will return for additional ransom money. The next time it might be blackmail. Once we connive with him, he has his hands round our throat. And, how can we explain the child's presence if we do get him?" asked Rahim. He was determined not to refer to the boy as his grandson. He observed how quickly Hussein was a.s.suming that the boy was his. He did not wish to challenge Hussein. He could well be right. If anyone would know, it must surely be Hussein. But for himself, he felt that he needed to remain detached. Referring to the boy as his grandson would make him emotionally vulnerable. He would be like his wife.

"I think if we do get my son back, we will first have to return him to his mother." Hussein looked from one parent to the other. He was trying to gauge how they would react. Slowly, tentatively, he continued. "Perhaps, An Mei would consider marrying me again. If that were possible then everything could be settled amicably."

"Gila! Mad!" cried Faridah. She could not believe what she had just heard. She appealed to her husband. Rahim, wrapped up in his own thoughts, did not hear what Hussein said nor did he take note of his wife's response.

"Let me get hold of my friend in the police force and asked him for his advice. He would keep it off the record for me, I am sure," he said.

Hussein agreed. "We have to be fast though. We don't have much time. I am sure An Mei will conclude that we have had a hand in the kidnapping and will point the police to us. Then it would look like we are conniving with Ahmad."

The more he thought of his idea, the more convinced he became that it could work. Surely An Mei would be pleased, grateful even, if he succeeded in rescuing the little boy. A son! And to be with An Mei again! His face brightened at the prospect. He was sure that he could bring his parents around to his idea, but now was not the time to push for it.

Mark walked down the lane leading to a row of single-storey shop houses that served the suburban area of Jane's house. He had to get away from the house to think clearly. His head was Bitter-Sweet Harvest 287 bowed down. He was deep in thought. He hardly noticed the people he pa.s.sed nor did he realise that he had strayed off track and was in the back lane of the shops. The sun's piercing heat bore down on him. Perspiration rolled off his neck and his shirt clung, wet to his back. He stumbled on a broken brick, checked his steps and continued to stride on. He felt utterly inept in Singapore. He was among people who spoke English yet he remained a foreigner, a gwei loh! There was little he could do to help An Mei. He had not the foggiest idea on how he could help rescue Timothy. Uncaring and unaware of his surroundings and the heat, he walked on.

The sound of footsteps behind him caught his attention. He turned to look and saw a slender young man, perhaps around 20, walking behind him. He quickened his pace and heard a corresponding quickening of footsteps from behind. Mark turned abruptly around.

"Are you following me?" he said sternly to the young man.

The young man shook his head; his eyes darted left and right. He looked as though he was going to jump out of his own skin.

Mark continued walking. A mad hatter, he thought. Yet the man followed. Impatient, Mark whirled around and walked briskly to the man.

"Look here! Stop following me. Go away!"

"You help me," said the man, "I help you."

"What are you talking about? I'll call the police," warned Mark.

"No! No call police. I help you. You help me." His eyes once more darted from left to right. "I know where boy, you call Tim, is. I lead you to him. You help me. You help me get away. Or he kill me."