The Devil's Circle Read online

  Voices were raised. The three women apparently were quarrelling over the boy, who looked uncomprehendingly from one to another. He clung close to his amah, who shielded him with her body. Some of the more timid — or sensible — mourners decided that it was time to leave. Fists were balled. I thought I saw the glint of steel. George pushed forward to the boy, dragging me with him against my better judgment. He held up his hands.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “ we represent the estate of the deceased Lao Leong Ann. We’ve been appointed to protect the interest of Gim Huat, who is the only heir.”

  June had moved to take custody of the boy, daring the others to come near with her flashing eyes. The amah was holding him in her arms, but relinquished his hand when June put hers out to take it. I positioned myself near them, trying to look menacing but not provocative. My palms were sweating.

  George was assailed from three sides by the women, all speaking at the same time. He shook his head at them. “Can’t understand a word, ladies,” he said, “not a word.” He turned to me interrogatively. I shook my head and looked to June.

  “Why you look at me?” asked June, holding the boy, “You know my Hokkien is half-past-six.”

  “I speak English,” said a young man who materialised at June’s side. He seemed to be about my age, but thin and tough. His clothes were worn and patched.

  “Good,” said June, “what is the problem?”

  “The three woman are the boy’s mother.”

  “What do you mean that the three women are the boy’s mother?” asked George.

  “They all say they are the boy’s mother. She want to take him. The other one say no. Then that one also say she take the boy.”

  A lightbulb flashed in George’s brain. “Aha, I get it,” he said. “They’ve all realised that he’ll inherit the lot. So now they all claim to be his mother.” He turned to our newly-found interpreter. “Tell them that we’ll take custody of the boy. They can all turn up at our office to make their claims.”

  A hubbub greeted this announcement. George motioned to June, “Take the kid and let’s get out of here before things turn nasty.” She nodded and started leading Gim Huat away. He held on to her with one grubby paw and to his amah with the other. People may have been unhappy, but no one made a move to stop us. Evidently, each faction thought it preferable to have Gim Huat taken away by us than by any of the others. The chanting continued, undisturbed by the worldly commotion.

  WHEN we got back to the office we discovered that we had managed to pick up not only the boy but also his amah, who displayed a tenacious adhesive quality. Gim Huat apparently could not be physically separated from her. She held on to his hand even when he was passed around by June to me while she went off to get some food.

  “You do realise that we’ve deprived Lao of his chief mourner,” I remarked to George, looking dubiously at the boy. He didn’t seem to be about to burst into tears or chew my finger off or do something unspeakable which my dhobi would regret, but one never knew.

  “Not to worry,” he rejoined, “the old reprobate isn’t going to miss him. From what I could see he had mourners enough. With his kind of money he isn’t going to lack for people to weep and wail at his wake. I’m sure it’s all been taken care of.”

  This was true. If a man’s passing did not evoke the proper amount of grief amongst his relatives, friends and hangers-on, professional wailers could be hired by the dozen, as befitted the rank and prestige of the dearly departed.

  June returned with British Army-issue oatmeal biscuits, which she passed around. “Let’s take stock,” said George. “We have one child, of tender age and doubtful hygiene; one amah, who apparently cannot be removed from the said child except by surgery; three mothers, each of whom seems to have a gang of goons to back up her claim. It looks like it’s up to the two of us to sort out this tangle, as usual.”

  June interjected, “What about me? You think I am here only to get biscuits or what?”

  “Correction, we three,” conceded George graciously. “The first thing is to find out exactly what is going on.” He turned to our impromptu interpreter, who had somehow contrived to attach himself to our party when we left the wake. “And your name is …?”

  “Yeo Eng Tong,” he replied shortly. ““You have work for me?” he asked. “I need work. I can do many things.”

  “I haven’t any doubt of that,” replied George. “How many dialects can you speak?”

  “Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese,” he replied. “Little Malay, Japanese.”

  “What were you doing at Lao’s house?”

  “I work for Towkay Lao,” he replied. George raised his eyebrows interrogatively. Eng Tong continued, a little reluctantly, “When people owe Towkay money, I collect. Sometimes I have to persuade them to pay.”

  I looked him over. He wasn’t very large, but he was tough and taut as a spring. His arms were tanned and sinewy. He seemed to be quite the persuasive sort. I could imagine that few debtors would care to argue with Eng Tong, especially in a dark alley.

  “Right,” said George, “you’re hired. We need an interpreter. You’re it. Now, tell us what’s up with this lot. Who is the boy’s real mother?”

  Eng Tong, it transpired, helped with old Lao’s accounts but was not privy to any family secrets. As far as he knew, young Gim Huat was Lao’s son. It had come as a surprise to him to discover that the boy had been adopted. It was only when Lao died that this had become an issue. He and his wife had no other living children. They adopted Gim Huat legally just before she passed away, as we already knew. Everything would go to the boy, but someone had to look after him and the estate until he came of age. This was when things got interesting. First the woman Ah Moy had appeared claiming to be his mother. She was followed in short order by another one, Ah Kwan, and then by a third, Ah Siew. Each of them was supported by a group of Lao’s business associates. It wasn’t entirely clear what business they and Lao were associated in. Eng Tong heard that they had secret society connections, but he knew better than to evince an unhealthy curiousity. Curiousity of this sort didn’t kill only cats.

  In the absence of any kin, Lao’s clan association had taken care of the last rites. Normally, this would have been the prerogative of the widow and the eldest son. The three claimants didn’t qualify, since Lao hadn’t taken any of them as a secondary wife. The only hold that they each had was a personal one, as supposed mother to his heir. The Clan ignored this, totally irrelevant as it was to the funeral arrangements. They would in due course adjudicate on the merits of each claim; or more precisely, submit the matter to the courts when they re-opened. In the meantime each mother watched the others warily, jostling for advantage, trying to win the boy’s confidence. This had gone on too long for some. Tempers were fraying. A lot of money was at stake. It was only our fortuitous appearance that had prevented the jostling from turning into something far more physical.

  “So what’s next?” I asked when Eng Tong had finished.

  “So we get the three women here and thrash it out. Figuratively speaking, of course,” said George.

  3

  THE meeting of the three mothers was duly called for the morrow. Simon, as senior partner ad interim decided that he should preside. George was to interview the elders of the Clan Association. I half suspected that Simon did not feel entirely secure about his position and needed to exert his authority over George, whose attitude towards him was subtly dismissive without being overtly offensive. Besides, Simon laboured under the delusion that his forensic skills could break the hardest case. Unfortunately, he had a mind like a bowl of spaghetti; strands kept getting tied up in knots and falling in a mess all over the place. I wasn’t sanguine.

  It had been decided that the boy and his amah should stay with us in the meantime. I don’t recall having been consulted. June more or less took it as a given. We had a biggish house in Cavanagh Road, with empty rooms. May had escaped with her baby and husband. We didn’t speak of Julie and her husband. The last news we had was that they were somewhere in the vicinity of Nagasaki. Even now Mak nursed the hope that by some miracle they had survived the Bomb. The end of the war was for us a very mixed blessing.

  Our appearance with the child did lighten Mak’s mood. It had been a long time since there had been children in the house. Gim Huat was shy and the amah reticent. We entrusted them to the care of our own black and white amah, Ah Sum. Mak and my eldest cousin Gek Neo soon had them in hand. June fussed around too, her mother-hen instincts having been thoroughly aroused. Only my youngest cousin Augusta remained unmoved. She and Julie had been very close. Since the end of the War she had retreated to her room and stayed there. The appearance of new people in the house did nothing to draw her out.

  Since I was very much superfluous, I wandered out into the garden to check on the plants. Like everyone else, we had been forced to grow our own food. The ubiquitous ubi kayu or tapioca filled up much of the space. We also had sweet potatoes and yams, besides fruits from our mangosteen and nangka trees. Generally, we were well off as far as food supplies were concerned; and the neighbours muttered darkly that my job with the Japanese helped. This was a sore point with me, but d’Almeida had sworn us to secrecy about our wartime activities. It rankled nonetheless to be thought of as a collaborator, though the people that counted knew the truth. Unfortunately, the people who didn’t count spread malicious tales, which grew more lurid in the re-telling. I tried not to think about it and threw myself into the work of keeping the vegetable beds in good order. Food was still scarce, and our garden provided us not only a supply for the table but also a welcome income.

  The whole economy had reverted to barter. One of the first acts of the incoming military administration was to declare the Japanese currency valuel
ess. Inflation had already made it practically worthless; especially as the Japanese seemed to have no idea about fiscal discipline. They just kept printing the notes as if there was no tomorrow; perhaps they already knew something even then. A kati of pork which had cost 30 cents pre-war was going for $1,500 in banana money at the end — assuming of course that any was to be had. Prices had fallen since the re-occupation, but even with food control the official cost was some 40 per cent higher than before the war. The official fixed prices were ignored by hawkers and market vendors right from the start. It was a matter of take it or leave it. Most had to leave it. Few had any savings left. Malayan notes were just coming back into circulation. Cigarettes were used as currency instead. People would price goods in cigarettes, which was fine with me. The returning soldiers were liberal with their ration of tobacco and we got a steady supply from Ralph. Since I didn’t smoke, I was thankfully spared the temptation of burning the currency of the day.

  We had a frugal dinner, enlivened by the company of Gim Huat. The boy had thawed out somewhat. He had hardly been let out of the house when his father was alive. Apparently, old man Lao feared that someone might kidnap him for ransom. He hired Ah Moy’s lot as a sort of informal bodyguard. This information had been gradually prised out of Ah Fong, the boy’s amah, by the combined efforts of June, Gek Neo and Ah Sum. She was more closed-mouth than an oyster and uncomfortable to be in strange surroundings. Gim Huat on the other hand bounded up and down the stairs, poking himself in all the little nooks and crannies. I looked at him with pity. He hadn’t had much of a childhood, a virtual prisoner cooped up in that dank terrace house with his father. He romped around like any other five-year-old, totally unaware of the storm that was brewing around him.

  MY confidence in Simon’s abilities was fully justified. June gave us the gory details. She had been present at the meeting as Gim Huat’s chaperone. He seemed to have taken to her. “All three say they are the mother. They showed photographs. No one could recognise him. It is hard to tell one baby from another. They called him baby names. They tried to take him. He did not want to go to any of them. Everybody was shouting at the same time. Poor Mr Simon could not make his voice heard.”

  “What did poor Mr Simon expect?” said George scathingly. “That two of them would back out gracefully and toddle off home quietly?”

  “We’re just lucky he didn’t suggest cutting the boy into thirds,” I said gloomily. “Anything from the Clan?”

  “No, not much,” reported George, giving us a quick run-down. Ah Moy had turned up claiming to be Gim Huat’s real mother. A meeting of the elders had been called, at which it transpired that there was another claimant, Ah Kwan. The elders could not come to a decision. Some were for Ah Moy but a significant group felt that Ah Kwan had the better claim. A couple of days later Ah Siew’s bunch turned up. This was too much for the elders. They washed their hands of the matter. Let the civil courts decide.

  “This doesn’t get us anywhere,” I said.

  “It is worse,” added June. “By the end all three were so angry they almost fought in the office. Eng Tong says that there will be trouble.”

  “Trouble?” asked George.

  “Eng Tong says that now each gang wants to take over everything,” explained June. “They are not going to share. They will fight.”

  “Well, too bad for old Simon,” said George, “he’s welcome to the whole mess and jolly good luck to him.”

  “Mr Simon said to tell you that you should look after Gim Huat,” said June, with an impish twinkle in her eye, “since you are the one who took him here. He will send the file back.”

  George promptly detonated. “It will not be so bad,” said June imperturbably. “He is a nice little boy. We can do it. We must get him ready for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” asked George, “What’s going on tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is the funeral,” replied June. “He is the eldest son. He will lead the procession.”

  George let out a growl of untranslatable swear-words.

  LAO LEONG ANN’S funeral procession stretched a quarter of a mile along the road. It was an impressive sight, with a brass band, wailing mourners, chanting priests, beating gongs and masses of hangers-on along for the spectacle. Despite petrol rationing, his elaborate wooden coffin was borne in state by a lorry decked out with a gigantic confection topped by a lion. Lao was being sent off in real style, the like of which had not been seen for the last four years. In front of it all was the little boy, walking hand-in-hand with June on one side and his amah on the other.

  George had decided that he would keep the lorry driver company. I was consigned to keep an eye on the heir. The three mothers and their groups were engaged in a sort of slow race, each trying to get in front of the others. They elbowed the clan elders out of the way, much to the annoyance these august personages. There seemed to be an unseemly grunting and cursing just behind me, but I didn’t look back. I steadfastly refused to give way and kept my eye steadily on the chief mourner and his two escorts.

  The day was hot and the walk to the cemetery took forever. It was out in the far west along Jurong Road. I was fainting with thirst and fatigue by the time we got to the gravesite. Lao had a premium spot on a hillside with a view of the sea. Not a bad place for a house, actually. The priests renewed their chanting and clanging and sprinkling, while the paid mourners intensified their wailing in counterpoint. There wasn’t much shade. I placed my handkerchief on my head and kept it in place by putting my hat over it; not the most elegant of funeral costumes but it kept the sun off. After what seemed a lifetime, the din reached a crescendo and they finally lowered the coffin into the grave.

  We started back. I found myself among Ah Moy’s group, which had managed to push its way to just behind Gim Huat. It was only after we had left the cemetery that I really looked around. I had a strange sense of déjà vu. It was with a shock that I realised I had been this way before, back in ’42. I’d attached myself to Dalforce, a last forlorn hope of Chinese volunteers whose job it was to keep the Japanese off the island. It was here that we had taken our positions to repel the invasion. Dalforce was decimated. I survived only because I had the good luck to have had a grenade chucked at me by someone with a grudge. The grenade killed the man next to me but I came out of it with only concussion, which got me transferred to a hospital before the balloon went up. Good thing too. The Japs overran our positions and wiped out the Chinese volunteers almost to a man. I was still thinking of grenades when I heard a metallic clang and a small oval object bounced onto the road right in front of me and Ah Moy.

  “Grenade!” yelled someone. My mind went numb as I braced myself for the explosion. Without thinking, I kicked it as hard as I could. It bounced down the road and clattered to a stop. I threw myself down. The seconds went by. Nothing. Next thing I knew I was being hauled to my feet and patted on the back. June was hugging me. “So brave! You saved us!”

  The hubbub was intense. A crowd had gathered round the grenade, which just lay there looking dangerously inert. George came panting up. “That was a damned stupid heroic thing to do. What were you thinking?”

  “Heroic be damned,” I answered shakily. I still hadn’t recovered the use of my vocal chords. Some idiot started prodding the grenade with a stick. “Tell them to get away,” I croaked, “and for heaven’s sake stop fooling around with the damned thing. It could go off anytime.”

  Eng Tong, who had found his way to us, translated and the crowd melted away like magic. I saw Ah Moy being led off by her people, looking fiercely around for the other two groups, who seemed to have vanished completely.

  “I didn’t think it would come to this,” I said when we’d gotten to a respectable distance. “Trying to kill a little boy. We’re dealing with some pretty nasty types.”

  “Not the boy,” said George grimly. “You were walking with Ah Moy’s gang. That grenade landed exactly where it was supposed to. We’ve got a war on our hands.”

  4

  LAW and order in the Colony were precarious at best. Most of the old Sikh police had gone over to the Japanese. When the British got back, they packed the lot off to India. The Malay policemen had made themselves scarce the moment the Japanese surrendered, not wanting to tangle with the MPAJA. They barricaded themselves in their barracks and stations and waited until the Allied troops turned up. The British had troops stationed at strategic spots all over the Peninsula, but there weren’t enough of them and their main priority was to deal with the repatriation of the white former prisoners. The Japanese had been herded into holding camps, where they waited impassively to hear what their fate might be. The last thing that the authorities would bother about was a little gang war among the Chinese.