by Jeremy Tiang
“Hello, Janet.”
“Why do you look so surprised to see me? Your dad’s not well—don’t worry, it’s just pneumonia—so I said I would come.”
“Pneumonia?”
“He’s fine, they sent him home from hospital. Vanda’s looking after him. I suppose you’d rather see me than her, anyway.”
“Thank you, Janet. It’s very kind.”
“How can I pass you these things through the glass?”
“You’ll have to give them to the guard afterwards. They’ll go through them before I get them.”
“Go through them? What for?”
“Afraid you’ve hidden something in them, I guess. Secret commie messages in the books. A hand grenade in the tin. You shouldn’t have bothered with the biscuits, you know. They’ll eat them in the office.”
Janet half-rose to look for the guard, but he was looking studiously out of the window. Seeing her in silhouette, Stella realised she was pregnant.
“How long—?”
“This? Four months. Four and a half.”
“Congratulations.”
“Have to get started. The government changed their mind and said don’t stop at two, have more if you can afford it. Winston has to lead by example. I don’t mind telling you this one was an accident.”
“Life is never a mistake, Janet.”
“Sorry, I forgot you’re Catholic.”
“You’ll love it when it’s here.”
“Of course I’ll love it, what’s wrong with you?” She stared around the room. “Are you the only one here? I thought prison would be a lot bigger.”
“This isn’t prison.”
“Can you go home now? No? Then it’s prison.” There was no point contradicting Janet and her teacher’s voice. Not for nothing was she the Discipline Mistress.
“How are things at the school?”
“Same as usual. They’ve got a relief teacher to teach your classes. They’re pretending you’re on no-pay leave.”
“Will they let me come back?”
Janet leaned forward, almost touching the glass. “You dad says they’re just waiting for you to confess. Is that true?”
“I don’t know. They imply that if tell them everything about the conspiracy, they’ll let me go. But I was never a part of the conspiracy. I’m not even convinced it exists.”
“Does it matter? Do you know what the papers are saying about you?”
“I’m only allowed a newspaper very occasionally. They go through them first and cut out some of the articles.”
“You’re dangerous, carried away by poisonous ideology. People like you infiltrate these organisations and then use them to carry out your own ends.”
“Janet, you don’t believe that, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s in the Straits Times. All these Marxist Conspiracy people, everyone detained under Operation Spectrum. They’ve been running these stories for months. Everyone knows about you now. All the leftists have to be weeded out. Same in Malaysia, they just had their Operation Lalang. Copying us, as usual.”
“I don’t know how to prove that I’m innocent. How do you prove a negative?”
“You don’t prove it. You confess. What do you think would happen if they let you out now? For the rest of your life people will say you must have done something, they wouldn’t just lock people up for no reason. You’ll be under suspicion forever.”
“But if I confess—”
“Then you can say sorry, you’ve learned from your mistake. And the government will say you’ve been rehabilitated. Then at least some people will think that you deserve a second chance. Why are you making a stand like this? Who do you think you’re helping? You shouldn’t have gone against the government if you don’t want to pay the price.”
Stella felt breathless, and it was only with an effort that she stayed sitting. “Are you suggesting I should say I did it, just to get out of here? Make the whole story up? I never went against the government.”
“Those foreign workers. Why must you get involved with such people? The government sets the terms and conditions, they all know the rules when they come over here. Who are you to say no, this is unfair? If that isn’t going against the government, what is?”
“Janet—” It was like trying to stop a tsunami.
“Have you seen what you’re doing to your parents? Uncle Barnaby looks terrible, really terrible. And have you thought about me? How will Winston get elected if they know his relative is mixed up in all kinds of trouble? They might even drop him before the next GE.”
“Because of me?”
“They have to be clean, that’s why they all wear white. You make him dirty. How will it look, he’s up there making big speeches about the way forward for this country, and his wife’s cousin is sitting in jail for being a Communist. If he doesn’t make it in this election, there won’t be another one for four years. And if you’re still here then—”
“I won’t be.” But she might be. Her heart dropped within her at the thought. They could keep her here as long as they liked, hauling her to court every month to get an extension that no one doubted would come through. And all for what?
“My father doesn’t want anything to do with you. I can’t even tell him I came to visit. You know what he thinks about Communists. Only my crazy brother still supports you. He phoned. Says he can’t visit till he’s finished his PhD, though he hopes you’ll be out before that. But of course he’s in England, they can’t touch him.”
Janet’s eyes were pleading now. She was frightened, Stella realised. It was like when they were growing up, Janet the prefect, her tie always straight, terrified of getting into trouble with authority. “This isn’t just about you. We’re all involved now. Please, Stella. Do the right thing.”
•
She signed the paper in the end. Everyone signs the paper, sooner or later. What other choice is there? Nobody wants to spend the rest of their life in a dusty cell, not even a martyr, nor a symbol of resistance. What principle are you proving, when everyone’s forgotten you?
At first they told her to write out in her own words what had happened. After so much questioning, she was familiar enough with the desired narrative to reproduce it glibly. Two pages in, Cheng Mun told her to stop. “You can’t just say this happened, and then this happened—this can’t only be description. We need to feel you’re sincere.”
She nodded, and began again. It became easy, as if she were back in school, writing an English composition. The smell of the ballpoint pen, the thin lined paper, like an exam. She remembered the rules—have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Be sure to count the number of words. Don’t use words you can’t spell. Never end with “and then I woke up and it was all a dream”.
It took her two hours to get it all down. Cheng Mun snatched away each page as she finished it, and worked his way through it, his lips moving, nodding in approval. “Do I have to mention Jessica?” she asked, and he shook his head. Jessica was irrelevant, convenient only as a goad. She saw now how many weapons against herself she had unwittingly provided.
“Make sure you mention who was your mentor,” he interjected at one point. “Don’t try to protect anyone. How did you meet the other members of your conspiracy? Whose flat did you meet in? Be sure you include all these informations.”
And she kept spinning, like Scheherazade, telling stories to save herself. Who she’d talked to. Who had coerced her. All those picnics, late-night sing-alongs, everything could be made to take on a darker significance. Any roomful of people could count as a conspiracy, if you imputed the right motives to them. A gift of a book became an act of subversion. She had a bookmark with a Bible verse: The righteous considereth the cause of the poor. Now she could see that it was a coded call to arms.
When she had finished, her hand felt stiff, curled into a claw. She tapped the papers to align them into a neat pile, and wished she had a stapler to fix them together. Her handwriting had always been good, teac
herly—small, neat, just enough flourishes to be elegant. She waited docilely for her examiner to take away her answer script. She had done her best now, and could only hope to pass.
Cheng Mun’s eyes were approving. “Do you want to read through it?” She shook her head, and his smile deepened. The right answer. “Good, we don’t want you to have second thoughts. You mustn’t doubt yourself, Stella. You’re doing the right thing now. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
As he escorted her back to her cell, he said, “Doesn’t it feel better, to finally tell us the truth?” and she felt a spasm, right across her chest, but managed to hold herself upright and not fold into tears until she was alone.
A few days later, they told her she was wanted for an interview. “You’re going to be a TV star, Stella,” sneered Devin. “They want to film your confession.”
“Who does?” she asked, stupefied.
“SBC, who else? How many TV stations are there?”
“What for? Isn’t it enough that I’ve signed a written statement?”
“So many questions. Haven’t you learned to shut up and do what you’re told? Quick, put this on.” He flung a pale yellow dress at her. It was one of the ones from her suitcase—from that holiday in London, how long ago was that now? He stood there as if he wanted to watch her change, just long enough for her to grow pale, then stepped outside the door with a nasty laugh. She climbed into the dress quickly. It was too big for her. How much weight had she lost? It was a little grubby and wrinkled, but she didn’t think of asking for an iron.
They put the blinders on her again as soon as she got into the car. She didn’t bother protesting. It was restful, not being able to see, sandwiched in the back seat of the car between Cheng Mun and Devin. The air-conditioning was strong, and with the radio on and the familiar traffic sounds beneath it, it was easy to forget that she was anything other than a normal person going somewhere in a car.
Their destination was an old bungalow, one of the black and white colonial ones. They gave her back her glasses so she could see it properly. There was only one cameraman inside, with all his equipment already set up, pointing at a pair of rattan chairs. One of them was occupied by a handsome man she recognised from TV—a newsreader? Something like that. He was wearing a light coat of foundation, she noticed. No one offered her any make-up.
Cheng Mun offered her a quick look at her handwritten confession. “Will you remember what to say?” he asked, anxious as a father before the school play. Yes, the story was etched in her. She felt utterly serene, almost blank, as she took her place.
She hardly needing any prompting. It was like teaching, the click of approval when a class is going well—she seemed to soar, fluid and convincing. She remembered when to look penitent, and to smile radiantly when she talked of how the state had shown her the right way. She found that she really was sorry for her actions—for where her actions had brought her. Now and again the interviewer nudged her—“don’t just say ideology, say Marxist ideology. We need the audience to remember what it was that brought you here. Don’t say friend, say comrade. Say co-conspirator. Don’t say fair society, say classless society.” When she hesitated, stumbled, he smiled forgivingly. “Don’t worry. We’ll edit this. You’re doing fine. Keep talking.”
She was still calm at the end, but her dress was soaked with sweat. It wasn’t that hot a day—the host even had a jacket on. He was talking to the cameraman now, going over a list of points in his hand. She looked around, wondering if she could go. So this is what it felt like. The men talked amongst themselves, then took her back to the car.
A few days later, she was summoned to Cheng Mun’s office. “Your detention is extended,” he told her, as if this were good news.
“I thought I would be released, after the confession.”
“You will be. Why are you in such a hurry? What’s another few weeks? Of course we can’t let you go right away. How will it look if we just throw you out after you said you’ve done all these things? There has to be a deterrent.”
It made sense. She was well cared-for here. Three meals a day. One of the wardens even found her an old pack of cards and taught her a new version of solitaire. She couldn’t say she had suffered.
“The time will pass very quickly, Stella. Take the chance to reflect.” His face beamed with pride and benevolence. She found herself smiling too, and then laughing hard.
•
Vanda came to pick Stella up on the last day, only weeks later. She stood in the awkwardly-shaped entrance hall, her suitcase at her feet. It felt like the last day of term. Almost Christmas time, almost 1988.
“Be careful what you say to journalists,” warned Cheng Mun, waiting with her.
“I won’t talk to journalists.”
“There’s no harm—of course people will be curious. But don’t tell them we mistreated you.”
“I’ll just say no comment.”
“If you say anything bad, it will affect the release of the others.” She didn’t ask what others. She no longer wanted to know. It made her feel a little better, knowing she was not the last to be released.
“What will you do?”
“I’m not sure.” She wondered if she would ever see him again. “I don’t think the teaching service will take me back.”
“That’s too bad. But you can’t take a chance where kids
are concerned.”
“Maybe I’ll give tuition. I’d like to travel—” She bit her tongue. The terms of her release prohibited her from leaving Singapore. He seemed not to notice.
“Look, here’s your mother.” And sure enough, Vanda was stumping bad-temperedly across the car park. She was wearing giant sunglasses, as if afraid of being recognised. “Goodbye, Stella,” said Cheng Mun. “Don’t be a security threat in the future.” Was that a joke? She didn’t know if she should laugh, and compromised by smiling vaguely. He shook her hand very gallantly and helped carry her suitcase down the stairs.
Vanda continued to be grumpy as she started the car. “Had to cancel my hair appointment,” she muttered. “And now I’ll have to wait another week. I’ll look like a fright at the Wongs’ party this Sunday.”
“Thank you for coming, anyway.”
“No joke. I almost told them to keep you in there another night. Why don’t they give more notice? Calling me this morning, saying come get you.”
“That’s how they do things. We knew it would be around this time.”
Vanda wasn’t listening. Her brow furrowed as she negotiated a badly parked van. The car slipped through a gate, which slipped shut unobtrusively behind them. They turned a corner, and suddenly they were on a busy road. It was early, probably the dregs of rush hour. And there they were, two women in a car, going home.
Stella had prepared herself for this. She knew it would be difficult to reacclimatise. This is what agoraphobia must feel like, she thought. The great trees, the rushing traffic, it was all too much. How did people cope, every day, with all this noise? She wondered if she still remembered how to cross a road, or if she would be mown down at the first attempt. Did cars really go this fast all the time?
“Looked stupid on television,” Vanda was saying, and Stella realised she was talking about the confession. “It was on during the news. Everyone saw it. The neighbours were shocked. When you were arrested they said it must be a mistake, you were such a nice girl. But to hear you admitting to all those things. You’ve let us all down.”
Stella said nothing. She wished her father had come, but of course he wasn’t well enough.
“What are you going to do?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“I hope you don’t think we’re going to support you forever.”
“I’ll find something to do.”
“No one will want to marry you now. Oh, your friend Jessica came to see us. She was very angry. She said you told them you had some kind of relationship, and then they took her for questioning. They didn’t put her in the pape
rs, but now she’s lost her job too.” She looked at Stella, demanding a response. “Why must you get everyone into trouble?”
The good thing about being inside was she’d learnt to hold a silence. It was easy to let Vanda talk herself out, before saying, “Maybe I’ll help Janet look after the baby.”
“Oh.” Gears shifted in Vanda’s head. “That could be good too. They have a maid, of course, but they can always do with more help. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten your family. Winston’s doing very well, you know. They say he’ll definitely get in.”
“Good for him.”
“All your friends have surrendered. Just recently. The Communists, the Ma Gong. All the way up in Thailand now, still fighting after so many years, as if anyone remembers them. It’s finally over, no more Communists left here.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“Anyway, you must put this behind you.” Vanda’s lips compressed. “You made a mistake, but nothing really happened. Thank God you didn’t really bring down the government. You must pray in gratitude, that it didn’t go too far. You still have your family. You must go on living your life.”
Stella nodded, numb. Then— “Can we go home by Orchard Road?”
“What for?”
“I want to see people.”
Vanda said nothing, but turned the car in that direction. Stella stared in fascination at the busy pavements, even on a weekday morning. The overhead gantries were festooned with giant snowflakes and pink-faced Santa Clauses. She’d have to come back at night, to see them all lit up.
When they passed the red cube of MacDonald House, she didn’t feel the usual sadness, thinking of her mother’s death, but only resignation. It comes to everyone, she thought, the bolt from nowhere that shatters your life. If Mollie had lived—
“We should go home,” said Vanda. “Your father will be waiting.”
It was remarkably easy to slip back into normalcy. The flat was smaller than she remembered it, her bedroom tiny. Was it actually the same size as her cell? The school was, unsurprisingly, reluctant to have her back. She didn’t search for another teaching position—something told her there would be none available for her. Church was out of the question too—she was too afraid of running into the other people who’d been taken. She started staying in her room most of the day, re-reading novels or staring at the ceiling. When her father mentioned at dinner that she hadn’t left the flat for weeks, she nodded but didn’t see what she could do about that.