Zachary dug his knuckles into his eyes, in an effort to erase these images, trying all the while to hold on to everything he knew to be true: which was that the fugitives had died soon after his last glimpse of them. It was impossible for a craft like the longboat to survive a storm of such violence, he was sure of that — and besides, had he not seen proof of their drowning? The boat itself, upended, with its bottom stove in?
It struck him that the fumes from the boiling opium might have disordered his mind: everything around him seemed uncanny, hallucinatory, alien. He extended a hand towards his host, as if to make sure that he was real and not a shadow.
The figure on the couch did not flinch. ‘Yes, Mr Reid. Is me — not a ghost.’
Zachary turned away and leant back against the headrest. What did this escaped quoddie want with him? Why had he revealed his identity unasked? Surely he knew that Zachary would have to report him to the authorities? And if he did know that then there was no way, surely, that he would allow Zachary to leave that den alive? He was a practised killer after all.
Zachary’s eyes strayed towards the door. He saw nothing reassuring there: the two men who had followed them were standing guard in front of it.
Freddie seemed to guess what was going through his mind.
‘Look, Mr Reid — you must not think to leave this place just now, eh? Need time to think, or bad mistake you may make. Supposing now you will go to police and say, “Lookee here, have found prisoner who escaped from Ibis” — what you think happen next, eh? How you will prove it? There is nothing to tie me to Ibis, lah. Cannot prove anything — and even if can, what will happen then, eh? I tell them it was you helped us escape. I will tell that you yourself killed Crowle. Because he try do something to you, lah.’
Zachary shrugged. ‘No one would believe you — it’s your word against a sahib’s.’
Freddie smiled, narrowing his eyes. ‘Maybe, eh, I will even tell that Malum Zikri is not so much white as he looks. What then, eh? Maybe that will make big trouble for you among the sahibs?’
This knocked the wind out of Zachary. Knitting his fingers together, he tried to calm himself. ‘Just tell me, Mr Lee — what is it that you want from me? Why have you brought me here?’
‘Said already, ne? Friend wants to meet. Talk with you. Maybe do little business, eh?’
‘Where is your friend then?’
‘Not far.’ Freddie signalled to one of the boys, who went running to a door on the other side of the room. A moment later it opened to reveal the figure of a man dressed in a Chinese gown and cap.
The face was thin and weathered, the eyes hidden inside crevices of skin that had been burned and narrowed by the sun; the mouth was framed by a wispy, drooping moustache and the teeth were stained blood-red by betel.
‘Chin-chin, Malum Zikri!’
This time Zachary made no mistake. ‘Serang Ali? Is it you?’
‘Yes, Malum Zikri. Is me, Serang Ali.’
‘By the ever living, jumping Moses!’ said Zachary. ‘I should’a known … I guess the five of you have stuck together, haven’t you, after getting away from the Ibis?’
‘No, Malum Zikri,’ said the serang. ‘Not together — that way too easy to find, no?’
‘So where are the other three then?’
Seating himself next to Freddie, Serang Ali smiled: ‘Malum Zikri meet allo. In good time.’
Now, as he peered into the serang’s unreadable eyes, an eerie feeling went through Zachary: it was as if he were looking at something that was as implacable and elusive as destiny itself. He remembered that it was Serang Ali who had first planted in his head the ambition of becoming a malum and a sahib; he remembered also the last words he had said to him, shortly before escaping from the Ibis: ‘Malum Zikri too muchi smart bugger, no?’ Even then the words had worried Zachary, because he had suspected that the serang was taunting him. His every sense was on guard now, as he said: ‘What do you want with me, Serang Ali?’
‘Just wanchi ask one-two question.’
‘About what?’
‘How Malum Zikri come to Singapore-lah?’
‘I think you already know the answer to that,’ said Zachary warily. ‘I’ve come on the Hind, as her supercargo.’
‘Your ship carry soldier also?’
‘Yes — a company of sepoys.’
‘How many?’
Zachary narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you want to know, Serang Ali?’
‘Hab rich friend China-side, wanchi know.’
Suddenly Zachary understood: ‘Oh so that’s the game, is it? You’re spying?’
Serang Ali had been chewing paan all this while and he paused now to empty a mouthful of spit into a brass spittoon.
‘Why Malum Zikri talkee so-fashion? We blongi friend, no? Just wanchi little help.’ Serang Ali leant forward. ‘See — Malum Zikri have too muchi chest opium, no? He answer my question; he get very good price. One thousand dollar.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Good, no-good, ah?’
‘You mean one thousand dollars per chest?’
‘Yes,’ said Serang Ali. ‘One thousand. In silver.’
Zachary began to chew his lip; the offer was almost too good to be true. At this price after ten chests everything else would be profit.
‘So what do you want of me then, Serang Ali?’
‘Nothing, Malum Zikri,’ said Serang Ali. ‘Just wanchi ask one-two question. Come, we shake on it.’
Serang Ali stuck out his hand but Zachary ignored it.
‘No, Serang Ali. Nothing’s settled yet, and it’s not gon’a be until I’ve sold you ten chests of opium at the price you’ve promised: a thousand silver dollars per chest. If we’re going to do any talking, it’ll be after that.’
Serang Ali’s eyes lit up. Clapping Zachary on the back, he said: ‘Good! Malum Zikri still too muchi smart bugger! So-fashion only must do busy-ness. Money down, allo straight.’
May 30, 1840
Honam
This morning I arrived at the print-shop to find Zhong Lou-si seated inside. This had never happened before so I knew something unusual was going on.
Zhong Lou-si and Compton were leafing through a stack of papers. Their faces were sombre, yet incredulous; they looked as though they had received news that they could not quite believe.
Mat liu aa? I said to Compton and he shook his head despondently. Maa maa fu fu Ah Neel — things are not so good.
What’s happened?
Ah Neel, we have received word from Singapore, he said. A British fleet has arrived there, from Calcutta. There are six warships including one that is very big, armed with seventy-four guns. There are also two steamers and twenty transport ships, carrying soldiers and stores. Many of the soldiers are Indians, some from Bang-gala and some from Man-da-la-sa, in the southern part of Yindu. The transport ships all belong to Indian merchants.
How do you know? I asked, and Compton explained that Zhong Lou-si had sent an agent to Singapore, to keep an eye on what was going on. This man is apparently a master-mariner and was once a pirate; he is said to be very well-informed.
And where were the ships heading? I asked, and Compton told me then that their destination is China. As proof of this he showed me a copy of the Singapore Chronicle that had been forwarded to Zhong Lou-si by his agent: it was clearly stated in the paper that the fleet would soon be proceeding to southern China. From there the expedition would sail northwards, to some point from which it could exert pressure directly on Beijing.