Chapter 50

CHAPTER 23 — BOOK III

 

Belief

 

(Sydney — St Vincent’s Hospital)

 

The imam arrived with his son at the St Vincent’s Hospital ward where Embong’s bed was.

 

They had flown in from Malaysia that morning, already known to Awan and his family back in Kuala Lumpur—a familiar presence carried across distance rather than summoned by desperation. He was older than Embong expected, his movements unhurried, his voice low enough that it never competed with the machines.

 

His son remained near the doorway, respectful and unobtrusive, his presence felt more like continuity than accompaniment.

 

Embong’s bed was by the window in the bay, pale light resting against the rail and the side of his face.

 

“Assalamu alaikum,” the imam said.

 

“Wa alaikum salam,” Delima replied at once, her voice steady. Geoffrey echoed the greeting a moment later, less practised but sincere.

 

The imam introduced himself simply and waited for permission before sitting.

 

Delima brought a chair closer to the bed and remained standing, hands folded, as if anchoring the room by posture alone.

 

The ward was pale and orderly. A monitor pulsed softly. A drip clicked at intervals that had become familiar enough to stop being alarming and unsettling enough to never be ignored.

 

The imam studied Embong for a moment—not clinically, not theatrically. Just attentive.

 

“Awak kelihatan sangat letih,” he said gently.
You look very tired.

 

“Dan ada sesuatu yang sedang menambah keletihan itu.”
And something has been feeding on that tiredness.

 

Geoffrey shifted slightly where he stood near the window. Delima’s expression remained calm. She did not interrupt.

 

 

“Jin,” the imam continued, voice even. “Yang melemahkan darah seseorang. Ia tidak bermakna awak lemah. Hanya bermakna awak sedang memikul beban.”

A jinn. One that weakens the blood. It does not mean you are weak. Only that you have been burdened.

 

Embong listened.

 

He did not feel convinced.
He did not feel offended.

 

He felt… receptive.

 

Not because he believed the cause, but because the imam was giving shape to something medicine had not named. The words did not demand agreement. They offered a frame—a way to hold fear without spilling it everywhere.

 

“May I pray?” the imam asked.

 

Embong nodded.

 

The imam recited quietly, seated, his hands resting loosely in his lap. There was no performance to it—no raised voice, no commands, no urgency disguised as authority. Just verses Embong recognised from childhood, words that carried familiarity, not force.

 

Embong closed his eyes.

 

He did not feel anything leave him.
He did not feel anything enter.

 

What he felt was stillness.

 

As if the room had stopped insisting on outcomes for a moment and allowed him to remain simply alive, breath by breath, without interpretation.

 

When the prayer ended, the imam reached into his bag and placed a small bottle on the bedside table.

 

“Zam Zam,” he said. “Drink when you are able.”

 

“Thank you,” Embong said, his voice thin but steady.

 

The imam nodded once. He did not add warnings. He did not offer promises. He stood and left as quietly as he had come. His son followed without a word, closing the door behind them with care.

 

Geoffrey stayed where he was after the door closed.

 

The bay looked the same—machines humming, pale light resting against the wall, the tidy tray table—but something in it had settled, like dust after movement. The air felt less braced.

 

He didn’t believe in jinn.
Didn’t believe in possession.
Didn’t believe illness could be explained by anything that couldn’t be tested, traced, named.

 

What he believed in was cause and effect. Platelet counts. Cellular response. The slow, unspectacular work of medicine doing what it could.

 

But he also believed in Embong.

 

He watched the way Embong lay now—not cured, not transformed—just quieter. Less defended. As if the effort of holding himself together had eased by a fraction.

 

That mattered.

 

Chemo changed the days.

 

Time thickened. Mornings blurred into afternoons that felt too long and nights that arrived too quickly. The bay developed its own weather—nausea, fatigue, irritability passing through Embong without warning.

 

Some days he barely spoke.
Other days, the frustration leaked sideways.

 

The tablets sat in a small paper cup on the tray table.

 

Geoffrey nudged it closer when Embong turned his head away.

 

“Just these first,” he said quietly.

 

Embong exhaled, sharp and tired, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I know how to swallow a pill.”

 

Geoffrey didn’t answer. He waited.

 

After a moment, irritation caught where exhaustion had worn thin.

 

“You don’t have to babysit.”

 

The words landed harder than Embong seemed to expect.

 

Geoffrey didn’t move at first.

 

Then he sat back, just enough to give space, hands resting loosely on his knees. He breathed in once. Let it out slowly.

 

When Embong finally turned his head, their eyes met.

 

No offence.
No correction.
No leaving.

 

Geoffrey reached out—not insistently, not to make a point—and laid his hand over Embong’s where it rested against the blanket.

 

Embong didn’t pull away.

 

He took the tablets.

 

Geoffrey stayed.

 

Later that afternoon, during a wave of nausea that left Embong pale and shaking, he muttered, bitterly, “I hate this place.”

 

A nurse adjusting the line paused. She didn’t scold. She didn’t smile.

 

“I know it’s hard,” she said gently. “But this place is trying very hard to help you get better.”

 

Embong swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

 

She nodded once, accepting the apology without ceremony, and continued her work.

 

That evening, Dr Fang arrived.

 

Dr Fang was in his fifties, spare in build, hair already thinning at the temples. He wore rectangular glasses that he adjusted once before speaking, more out of habit than nerves.

 

When he spoke, the vowels rounded gently, the rhythm unhurried—New Zealand softened his words without dulling them. His voice carried reassurance without inflation, certainty without performance.

 

He reviewed the chart. Checked the numbers. Looked at Embong directly.

 

“You’re responding very well,” he said. “Better than we expected, actually.”

 

Embong blinked. “Okay.”

 

Dr Fang nodded. “I’ll be straight with you. Based on everything we’re seeing—your age, your response—you’ve got about a ninety-nine percent chance of surviving this. Recovering. Living.”

 

The bay went very still.

 

Geoffrey’s breath broke first.

 

He turned toward the window, one hand braced against the sill, shoulders shaking once—just once—before he could stop it.

 

Embong watched him, startled.

 

Geoffrey came back to the bed.

 

“I didn’t know how long—” His voice failed. He tried again. “I didn’t know.”

 

Embong reached for him.

 

Geoffrey leaned in and pressed his lips briefly to Embong’s forehead, without thinking.

 

“Aku sayang kamu (I love you),” he said.  Not as comfort.  Not as promise.  As fact.

 

Embong didn’t react at first.

 

Then, just as plainly, “Ya. Aku tahu (Yeah. I know).”

 

A beat.

 

“Aku sayang kamu juga (I love you too).”

 

Dr Fang cleared his throat softly, already stepping back. “We’ll keep monitoring, but we’re looking at discharge soon. Chemo will continue as outpatient at the Kinghorn Cancer Centre.”

 

Discharge.

 

The word settled gently this time.

 

That night, Embong dreamed.

 

He was standing in a narrow stretch of bush.
Not years ago.
Only a month earlier.

 

He remembered the moment—not dramatic, not reckless. Just hurried.

 

Ask first.
Announce yourself.
Do not assume the land is empty.

 

Heat pressed close without flame.

 

Something fire-shaped stepped forward—contained, angry without direction.

 

Embong tried to move.

 

He could.

 

The figure faltered. Its outline blurred. The heat receded.

 

And then it was gone.

 

Not driven away.
Not destroyed.
Simply no longer there.

 

He woke with his heart racing, breath shallow but steady.

 

Nothing had followed him back.

 

By morning, the dream had thinned like breath in cold air.

 

Geoffrey adjusted the chair so Embong would see him when he woke.

 

He didn’t pray.
He didn’t scoff.
He stayed.

 

Delima prayed more often after that—quietly, sometimes with words, sometimes with breath alone.

 

Embong prayed when he had the strength. Sometimes Geoffrey sat with him, matching the stillness rather than the words.

 

Other times, Embong didn’t.

 

No one insisted.

 

The ward kept its rhythm. Blood tests continued. Numbers moved.

 

One morning, the doctor returned with lighter posture.

 

“We’ll discharge you soon,” he said. “You’re on the path now.”

 

Embong nodded.

 

Later, he took a sip of Zam Zam water.

 

It tasted ordinary.

 

And that, somehow, was enough.

 

The doctor left. The bay returned to its usual sounds.

 

Embong lay back, exhausted in a way that felt earned rather than stolen.

 

Geoffrey remained beside him.

 

They did not talk about the future.

 

Outside the window, the city moved on.

 

At the door, Geoffrey hesitated.

 

“You don’t have to be here all day,” Embong said.

 

Geoffrey nodded. “I know.”

 

He left anyway.

 

The bay did not feel empty.

 

It felt like a place that had done its part.

 

Tomorrow, the work would continue—elsewhere.

 

And neither of them was ready for what that meant yet.

 

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