The Weight of Our Sky(49)

She nods. “The mob ran past where I was, shivering with fear in the outhouse, trying my hardest not to scream. I heard them shouting, ‘Who is that?’ ‘What is she up to?’ I tried to see what was happening, but I couldn’t. After a few minutes, everything was silent again.” She half smiles. “That outhouse stank of piss and shit, but I stayed in there for what seemed like hours, even though I couldn’t breathe without feeling like I was going to vomit. When I finally worked up the courage to open the door, I made my way to the main road and managed to hitch a ride here.”

She falls silent then, her fingers spreading out and smoothing the little square of cotton over her lap, seemingly determined to rid it of every single blemish and wrinkle, and I stare down at my own feet and concentrate on tapping each of my big toes in counts of three, starting on the right, the better to swallow back my own tears.

“I’m sorry.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, barely above a whisper; she’s still looking down, and I see her hands tremble as they worry away at the little pink handkerchief. “She saved my life, and I have no idea where she is or what happened to her. I’m so sorry.” A single tear falls onto the hankie, and as the Djinn screams obscene thoughts of my mother’s death in my ears, I watch the moisture creep slowly across the fabric, rendering it sheer and fragile-looking—as thin as a spider’s web.





CHAPTER TWELVE


IN THE CORRIDOR OUTSIDE THE hall, where brightly painted murals gambol across the walls in lurid technicolor, I sit with my back against a scene depicting a traditional Malay dance and try to capture the thoughts flying in all directions, like pieces of paper in a storm, and pin them down. Every once in a while, the Djinn waves his arms about, trying to distract me from the process. But I ignore him.

I think about how it felt to help Roslan back to his kampong, how it felt convincing those soldiers to help Jee. I try to remember what it felt like to be courageous. I beat the Djinn before. I can do it again.

I need to focus.

At this point, I decide, my options are:

A. Stay here, where it’s safe and there’s food and water readily available, or

B. Leave the guaranteed safety of this place to find Mama.

Any sane person would choose A. Any sane person would reason that Mama, knowing those who are left without homes or places to turn to, would come here. Any sane person would opt to stay safe rather than take on gangs, soldiers, and who knows what else in the streets outside. Choose A, Melati.

Then again, any sane person doesn’t spend sleepless nights counting in groups of three, go into conniptions at being unable to tap things, house djinns in their bodies, or imagine their own mother’s death.

The only way I know I’ll feel better is by being with Mama. And if out there is where Mama is, then I guess I’ll just have to head out and find her.

B it is.

The decision made, I do my best to quash down the wave of panic and endless questions the Djinn starts firing into my head—How? Where? What if you get hurt? Who will help you? over and over again, like an increasingly screechy tune—and try to concentrate on formulating a plan.

I wish Vince were here.

So you can watch him get hurt again?

I tap quickly on the cold concrete floor to appease him. Think, Melati, think. The thoughts come sluggishly, as if they’re swimming to the surface of a sea of sludge. I get up and start pacing, as though to help jog them along. How to get around the city? No buses. I can’t drive. A bicycle, then. I’ll commandeer a bicycle.

Good. Next step. Where to go? I frown, tapping my fingers incessantly against my left wrist, trying to concentrate, capture every thought. Mama was going from the hospital to Kampung Baru, from Kampung Baru to Petaling Street. Our home was burned down, and nobody saw her come back, so she must have headed to the cinema.

Okay. So that means that Mama is somewhere between home and Petaling Street.

Sure, the Djinn says agreeably. Lying stiff and cold on the ground somewhere between home and Petaling Street.

Shut up, I tell him fiercely. Shut up. And before he has the chance to say anything else, I head quickly for the door.

Time to steal a bicycle.

? ? ?

As it turns out, stealing a bicycle proves to be harder than I thought. Most people were shuttled over to the stadium in cars, ambulances, buses—safe, covered vehicles that made it harder to be pierced by blades or bullets.

Fair enough. But it does mean that I lack options.

I lean back against the wall, feeling defeated. Thwarted before you even begin, the Djinn says tauntingly. Why not just head inside, curl up into a ball, and think about how you just let your mother die?

I shake my head to shut him up, then grit my teeth. Fine. I’ll walk.

The straightforward route along Davidson Road won’t do—the FRU soldiers are everywhere, patrolling along with their helmets and truncheons, and I can’t take the risk of running into anyone. So I decide to cut through the smaller roads toward Chin Woo, then work my way around it and onto Petaling Street.

Okay. Deep breaths.

I wait until the guard patrolling the outside of the stadium turns the corner before dashing quickly across the parking lot, ducking behind trucks and cars as I go, my heart pounding in my ears, convinced I’m going to hear shots whizzing through the air at any minute. I have one big road to cross before I can get to Chin Woo; I can see the round building in the distance, the streetlights glinting on its many windows. You’ll never make it, the Djinn whispers, but I quash him back down. I’m too busy for his nonsense right now. I need to focus.