The Night Tiger(88)

Thank God he’d loaded it with number-six shot. If it had been buckshot, even at that distance and with the inevitable scatter, Ren would certainly have died. Rawlings said it was one of the messiest injuries he’d seen on a child. One of the fingers on his left hand had been shot raggedly off. The fourth finger, the ring finger. William finds himself wondering illogically whether that means Ren will never get married because there’s nowhere to put a ring. But such thoughts are useless because Ren, inexplicably and despite all the care that he’s had, is dying.



* * *



He can’t understand it. Nobody can. The wounds were cleaned and stitched up. No vital organs were hit. Perhaps it’s the shock. William has heard of men on battlefields who drop dead, their hearts stopped like clocks. Still, it doesn’t explain Ren’s precipitous decline. The fear is sepsis, especially in the tropics where injuries rapidly turn putrid.

“How old is this boy?” Rawlings had asked that night, as they worked on, searching in the bloodied mess for the shot wadding. It was vital to remove as much of it as possible, there being little to combat infection other than rinses of carbolic acid.

“Thirteen, he said.”

“Nonsense! He can’t be more than ten or eleven at the most.”

William felt himself shrink in shame. Of course he should have known. If Ren dies, nobody will really care. William will be made out to be the fool who shot his own houseboy, but it will all blow over because Ren is an orphan with no one to speak for him. Except for me, thinks William.



* * *



When William goes out to the car, he finds Ah Long standing next to it. He’s holding a steel tiffin carrier, the kind they use for packed lunches. The lines on his face look deeper than ever.

“Tuan, let me go to hospital.”

“You want to see Ren?”

A nod.

“All right.” William feels a stab of guilt. Of course the old man must be fond of Ren.

At the hospital, William reviews Ren’s chart. Not good. He’s continued to run a low fever. Worse still, the boy’s face has begun to take on the sunken look that William dreads. Ah Long puts the tiffin carrier on a table and sits by Ren’s bed, speaking to him quietly in Cantonese. Ren doesn’t respond; his eyes are closed and there are blue shadows under them. There’s nothing more that William can do. Irresolute, he stands there wondering what Ah Long is saying.

“Sleeping, is he?” he asks.

“Or wandering.”

William frowns. That makes no sense at all. Ah Long fumbles in his pocket and produces something in a small slim glass jar, the kind that anchovies come in. William looks at it in disbelief. It’s the shattered end of a child’s finger, floating in tea-colored liquid.

“Is this Ren’s?” he says, trying to swallow the bile in his throat.

“Yes. I look for it.”

God. It’s so terribly sad. It reminds him of MacFarlane’s finger, the one he had to amputate because of blood poisoning on that trip they took, but it’s worse because it’s child-sized and preserved in this horrible fashion.

“You do know that we can’t reattach it,” says William, thinking that Ah Long must have spent hours combing the bushes and grass for this one small finger. It’s a wonder that he found it before the crows did.

Ah Long nods. He’s about to set it on the table by Ren’s bed when William stops him. If Ren wakes up, he might be frightened by it. What is Ah Long up to, with his barbaric superstitions? William pockets the glass jar.

“I’ll keep it, just in case.” He turns on his heel, about to resume his duties. “By the way, what’s the fluid?”

Ah Long looks blank.

“What did you preserve it in?” asks William patiently. He needs to know as he’ll have to change the fixative.

“Johnnie Walker, Tuan.”



* * *



When William returns to his office, there’s a visitor waiting for him. With a sinking sensation, he recognizes the tall spare figure of the local police inspector, Captain Jagjit Singh. He hasn’t seen him since the discovery of Ambika’s body in the rubber plantation; there’s been no reason to since Ambika’s death has been ruled a misadventure. But now he’s standing in William’s office as though he belongs there. The same Malay constable is with him.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” says William cordially. “Is this about the shooting? I called it in yesterday, and they said I could just come down to the station and give a statement.”

“I’d actually like to take a statement about something else.”

“A statement about what?” William’s alarm is growing. Is this still about Ambika?

Captain Singh studies William’s face. “So you haven’t heard? About one of your patients—Nandani Wijedasa.”

“Has something happened to her?”

“I’m afraid she’s dead.”

William sinks down. “Dead? How’s that possible?”

“Mr. Acton, when was the last time you saw her?”

William thinks rapidly, his mind scattering and reforming itself. “Saturday night. She came to my house.”

“What for?”

William considers lying, but instinct tells him not to bother. “She wanted to see me before she went away. What happened to her?”