Journey to Paradise, page 29
The Ten Courts of Hell
In the first court of Hell, King Qin’guang conducts preliminary trials, and each prisoner is judged according to his deeds in his past life. The good are distinguished from the evil, and the king recommends appropriate rewards or punishment. Punishment is then carried out in the various courts. Those with virtuous conduct in their past life will be led over the ‘Golden Bridge’ to reach paradise.
Those whose past good deeds outweigh crimes committed will be sent to the ‘Silver Bridge’ to reach paradise.
Those who were evil doers in their past life will be sent to repent before the ‘Mirror of Retribution’ and then taken to a subsequent Court of Hell to be punished.
Sin. Punishment. Death. You’ve made your bed, she thought, now lie in it. Was she to be punished for ever for her mistakes? Always to be childless, labelled a thief, confined to loneliness or a loveless marriage? If only there were a way forward. A way to put it all right. But, as she stood there, it seemed to her that the bridge to paradise was way beyond her grasp.
She examined the images: the king in judgement; figures dangling over a volcanic pit or having their hearts cut out; a collection of limbs piled next to a severed torso. It seemed that there was a gruesome punishment for every type of sin, followed by forgiveness and paradise. Losing Henry had been awful: surely she’d suffered enough. But even if Gerry did allow a divorce, she’d leave the marriage without any money. Why was a happy ending beyond her reach?
Outside, she found a drinking fountain and splashed her face with cool water, before gulping from the spout. Nearby, there was a sprawling ginkgo tree, and, under it, a bench. She made her way to it and sat and looked at the view, which stretched all the way out towards the sea. In the band of water between Singapore and a distant island, there were ships heading towards the shimmering horizon. She wondered where they were going – Java, the Philippines, Australia, perhaps?
Australia. It had always fascinated her. She recalled hours spent staring at the globe as a child. She loved the way half of the continent was shaped like a rabbit, the other like a dog, and she had poured over the images of kangaroos and koalas in the picture books at school. Once she’d seen a painting of a mass of rock caught between gold and red in the evening sunlight. It seemed magical, a place of escape and distant dreams. For a moment, she imagined herself heading there with Nick.
The more she tried to stop thinking about him, the more she felt his presence: the memory of his voice, his smile, even his touch seemed as fresh and as real as if he were sitting right next to her. She turned her concentration from the sea to where she thought Belvedere might be, hoping to catch sight of the red Malacca-tiled roof, but all she could see was the jungle.
Perhaps it was time to put everything right before it was too late. She didn’t know how she was going to do it, but it was time to cross her bridge, to do whatever it took to get to a better place. For all she knew, Nick had left, he could be sailing to Nairobi as she sat in the gardens, but, then again, he might not. She would do what Mei Ling said. Start with finding Nick. However long it took.
For a while longer, she sat listening to the children playing and to the birds singing in the trees overhead. The air was still and infused with mimosa or jasmine. Eventually, she picked up her bag and headed back to the hotel.
It was midday when she got back. Her head was throbbing, and her feet swollen and chaffed from walking in the heat. She ate a cheese sandwich in the dining room, looking out across the bustling street, at the couples walking side by side, their bodies not quite touching, at the families with children, all smiling and laughing. For a moment, she thought she caught sight of Nick’s roadster turning left at the end of the street. Her head buzzed, the way it did if she’d drunk a fizzy drink too quickly. She was about to stand, to run out into the street to follow it, when the waiter approached.
‘Is there anything else I can get you, madam?’
She wanted to tell him to get out of the way, to let her run after the car, but she told herself she was an idiot for thinking like this – imagining Nick’s presence everywhere she went.
‘A pot of tea, please.’ She picked up her napkin and concentrated on winding the cloth around her fingers.
‘Of course.’ He cleared her plate. ‘By the way, madam. There’s a letter come for you.’
He returned with a pot of tea and an aerogramme, which he placed on her table. It was from England, but she didn’t recognise the writing. She tore it open. It was from Lily.
‘Of all the nerve…’ She tossed it to one side, but then curiosity got the better of her and she began to read it.
My dear Miranda,
You will no doubt be very surprised to hear from me.
You can say that again, she thought.
However, your mother, to whom I have become very close of late, has told me that you will be returning home, and I can’t say I wasn’t surprised. I have also received some rather nasty letters from Jane Curtis – as you might know, I am a friend of her mother’s and the daughter is nothing but a troublemaker. She wrote that you are no longer living with Gerry, along with some rather horrible bits of gossip that I won’t repeat here, but, somehow, she found out that you are staying at The Excelsior Hotel.
I feel I owe you some explanations. I know now, from your mother, that you have always thought I didn’t like you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have always liked you and found you to be a strong and interesting woman. However, it is true that I didn’t want you to marry Gerry, but not for the reasons you might think.
I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Gerry has always been a bit of a charmer, and I was angry with him for it. Not long before he married you, there was another girl – she became pregnant. She lost the baby, but we had to pay her off to keep her quiet. Gerry had no money, of course, and so it fell to us. Once you’d left for Singapore, she tried blackmailing us again, and we had to sell your house in Camden to buy her silence – her father is something high up in the Foreign Office and the fallout from the news would have damaged my husband’s career, to say nothing of Gerry’s.
Miranda paused, tentatively trying to process Lily’s words. The wound she carried within her from Gerry and Poppy’s relationship was beginning to heal, but now it threatened to bleed again. She took a calming breath, then braced herself to continue reading.
When you met Gerry, I didn’t want him to let you down and I hoped things would work out between you. He told us that he’d changed, and I wanted to believe him. But then, after Henry died, I had my suspicions about his behaviour again, and I had to sort it out.
What I’m trying to tell you is that it was me that arranged for you to go to Singapore in the first place. I knew about your depression after Henry, how it affected you, and about your situation with the police. And who could blame you? But you were so prickly with me – I wanted to help, but you didn’t need me. After the incident with the police, your dear mother confided in me at the time, as they didn’t know what else to do. I thought it might help you and Gerry start afresh if you went abroad, so we used some connections to help us arrange it.
Believe me, Miranda, I am very fond of you. My aim was only ever to do what I felt was right at the time, what I believed was best for the greater good of my family, but I see now that all I have done is to make your situation worse. I do hope that you can find it within your heart to forgive me and to start on a new life without my son. I have heard all kinds of gossip via Jane’s mother – that Gerry’s been up to his old behaviour again. And I also heard hints of your romantic connection with a young doctor. Well, I am not angry with you, as I have failed you before, and I don’t want to fail again.
Now, all I can do is to wish you the very best.
The aerogramme fell from her hands and Lily’s words echoed around her head as Miranda sat there, trying to take it all in. However misguided, Lily had been trying to help, but confusion mixed with anger pulsed through Miranda as she absorbed the shock of Lily’s words. A new life without my son … I wish you the very best.
A black-and-pink butterfly landed on the table: a Common Rose. She cupped it in her hands and the fragile wings beat with such force against her palms. She opened them, and, for a moment, the butterfly remained before rising towards the ceiling light, where it spread its iridescent wings. As a child, she’d been told that butterflies only lived for a day, and she’d always wondered, if it were true, how on earth the species managed to exist. This one was spectacular – its wings like black silk embroidered with the finest thread. She admired the colour, it’s determination; however small and fragile it was, it had grown from an even tinier mass of cells – it had lived and it was perfect. And even if it were only for one day, well, that day was glorious.
She turned her attention back to Lily’s letter, which she folded and placed back in her bag, her thoughts focused on what to do next.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ The waiter had returned.
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Can you bring me a large gin, please?’
‘Of course, madam. Anything else?’
‘I don’t suppose you have a telephone directory, do you?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
A few moments later, he returned with a well-thumbed directory and a gin. She took a large gulp from the glass, then she licked her index finger as she turned the directory pages until she found what she wanted.
Mayfield and West, Partners in Law, 24 Raffles Place.
She gazed back out of the window, at the corner where she thought she’d seen Nick’s car. She’d go now. Before she changed her mind. She collected Poppy’s letters, then she caught a bus to Raffles Place.
When she got off the bus, she paused beneath the covered walkway, looking for number twenty-four. In front of her, there was a building with crumbling plaster; a spray of bullet holes pockmarked the walls, a souvenir from the Occupation, she guessed. There were twenty windows, some had the shutters closed, while others were open, and she could see the frenzied rotation of ceiling fans.
She took a deep breath and crossed the road. Number twenty-eight, she noted, then she walked on, twenty-six, twenty-four. Drifting from one of the open windows above her was the tap-tap-tap of someone typing, interrupted by an exchange between two male voices. She pushed the door open.
The dimness engulfed her and she could smell incense – sandalwood and something that reminded her of the mustiness of churches. Voices filtered down from upstairs; then she heard a door bang and the typing start again.
As her foot struck the first step, her throat went dry. She gripped the rail and continued climbing and listening until she reached the first floor, where she saw a teak door. The floorboards creaked as she made her way towards it and she read Mayfield and West written in gold.
Her fingers rested on the handle, and then, slowly, she turned it.
A Chinese man in his early twenties was typing at an old mahogany desk. To his left was a filing cabinet, to his right a door to what Miranda guessed were offices.
The man lifted his head. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to see either Mr Mayfield or Mr West.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’ The clerk frowned. ‘We’re extremely busy today.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
The man picked up a black diary from the desk and turned the pages. ‘Can you come back tomorrow?’
‘Would it be possible to wait, to see if one of them can fit me in? I didn’t think of making an appointment.’
‘You should telephone first. We can’t let people just turn up when they feel like it.’
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps you could ask?’
He hesitated, frowning for a second. ‘All right. I’ll ask if Mr West might be able to see you; his last meeting finished early. What’s the name?’
‘Mrs Lewis.’
‘You can wait over there.’ He indicated a leather chair in the corner of the room next to the window. Miranda sat down while he opened the door and went into the connecting room.
From the window, she watched a steady stream of bicycles in the street, weaving between shoppers who were laden with kai lan and mangoes from the market. Beyond the rooftops, she could see the Sri Mariamman temple, the entrance tower overflowing with the colourful statues that had fascinated her on her visit with Nick.
It looked like any other day – the people in the street were unaware of her watching them, of the questions she was planning to ask. Minutes passed, marked only by the sound of a clock ticking in the room, and as she waited, doubt and uncertainty began to take hold. She stood to leave, but the connecting door opened.
‘Mr West said he can see you for a few minutes,’ the clerk said, returning to his desk. ‘If it doesn’t take long.’
A man in his forties leant against the doorjamb, his sleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loose.
‘Mrs Lewis?’ his voice was weary as he stepped to one side to let her into the office.
There were law books and journals crammed into an overflowing bookcase, and in front of the window stretched a desk covered with piles of documents.
‘So,’ he nodded towards a battered rattan chair, indicating that she should sit down, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she began. ‘I know you’re busy – so I won’t beat around the bush. The thing is, I want to know if I can get a divorce from my husband.’
Mr West puffed out his cheeks as he sat down, then he scratched his head, looking at her. ‘Divorce is a nasty business, Mrs Lewis. Are you completely sure? Often, you know, disagreements can be patched up, or couples learn to reconcile themselves to each other.’
Miranda remembered the bruises on her wrist from Gerry’s fingers digging into her skin, the slap on her face that smarted for days, and said, ‘I’m absolutely certain.’
‘I see. And what about your husband, have you spoken to him?’
‘Not yet. That’s why I’m here – so I know what to tell him.’
‘And what grounds were you thinking of?’
‘Adultery.’
‘Have you got proof?’
‘What about these?’ She opened her bag and handed him Poppy’s letters, and the one from Lily. She watched him flick through them.
‘I should be candid,’ she said, when he’d finished skimming them. ‘My husband is not the only one to have had an affair.’ She felt herself blushing and looked away.
‘It’s not my role to judge.’ Mr West handed back the letters. ‘But is there any way you could try to patch things up?’
‘No. Our marriage has got beyond that.’
‘Any children?’
‘No.’ She fingered her locket.
‘And how long have you been married?’
‘Three and a half years.’
‘These letters make it clear that your husband has, with the utmost certainty, committed adultery, but it would be better if you could provide more tangible evidence.’
‘You mean photographs in a hotel bedroom type of thing?’
‘We’ve progressed beyond that, but if he could agree to admission, in court, say, in front of a judge, you would certainly have a case. But you know, don’t you, the whole process will take up to at least two years – you haven’t been married for five years yet, which is the earliest point at which you could get a divorce, I’m afraid. And the courts take a dim view of a woman leaving her husband, unless it’s for insanity or battery, of course.’
‘Is it really that long? I wasn’t certain. The thing is, I’m going back to England next week – if he agrees, I don’t know whether to start proceedings here or over there.’
‘The law’s the same. Mrs Lewis, it’s up to you – Singapore or England, the case still needs to go before a judge. But I should warn you: it will be an unpleasant business.’ He handed her back the letters. ‘Keep these safe. Meanwhile, we should see if your husband might agree to a divorce. It would be easier for you both. Would you like me to contact him on your behalf? If not, I can recommend someone to you in England. I take it that your husband is staying in Singapore?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Good. Here’s my card. Let my clerk know what you want to do. And, by the way, I should warn you that if you do go ahead, you should avoid contact with your husband. Judges can be a bit suspicious of collusion between couples, and we need to show your marriage has broken down beyond repair. Is that understood?’
‘Yes.’ She stood and took his outstretched hand; his grip was firm and reassuring. ‘It most certainly is.’
Thirty-three
Nick yawned. There seemed to be more boxes of books and papers to sort from St Augustin’s than he had imagined: sheets and sheets of questionnaires about what people ate, household incomes, illnesses and childhood diseases. All of it was redundant now. He carried the last box from the roadster to the back garden at Belvedere and placed it on the ground next to the others, then gathered up a selection of twigs and leaves, which he shaped into a mound. Next, he scrunched up balls of paper from the box and buried them in the heart of the bonfire. Finally, he lit a match and placed it in the centre and then watched the flames lick around the edge of the sheaves of paper.
He coughed as he watched the fire start; it snaked like lava through the pile. Next, he gathered up a handful of paper from one of the boxes and dropped sheet after sheet into the flames. His jaw tightened as he watched columns of data singe and burn. The flames consumed all the paper, and he waited until it finally died back. All his research in Singapore had turned to ash in front of his eyes, soon all that would be left would be embers.
After, he returned to the house. On the hall table, there were the usual piles of letters. He sorted them into three piles, then poured a shot of whisky before collecting his mail and sitting on the balcony. There was little movement among the branches of the trees, and he could hear the mellow, soothing ‘Woo-Ooo, Woo-Ooo’ of a koel bird. He wondered what he’d miss the most about Belvedere – the birdsong, the fresh papaya and lime in the morning, Brendan’s level-headedness or Charlie’s humour?
