The Riot Act

by Sebastian Sim

  Jessica was delighted when the army of keyboard warriors dispatched scouts to ferret out the identity of the technician who was verbally abused in the video clip. She figured that once Adhha had been identified, the breadcrumbs would surely lead them to her. But she was mistaken. In the interview, Adhha professed that he did not know the identity of the young lady who had stood up for him and guessed that she might be a commuter from the platform who stayed behind to offer help.

  What do you mean by that? You don’t know me?! Jessica screamed over WhatsApp.

  I can’t tell them the truth. Adhha pleaded.

  Why?!

  Because you were not supposed to be there. If my company found out I smuggled you into the restricted area, I will lose my job.

  As much as the explanation made sense, Jessica could not bear the burn of Adhha’s betrayal. She broke off her relationship with him and cried her heart out on Andreae’s shoulder.

  “But why? Adhha is such a sweet boy. Did he do something wrong?” Andreae wanted to know.

  Jessica did not believe Andreae could comprehend the complexity of the situation nor her emotions, so she simply stated, “He wasn’t honest. He betrayed me.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Jess.” Andreae imagined the worst and hugged her broken friend fiercely. “You have to be strong. You’ll survive this. You will.”

  Once Andreae started to cry, Jessica’s tears stopped. She was pretty certain Andreae was crying about a totally misconstrued scenario and it would be dishonest to accept her sympathy.

  Andreae was a sweet girl and a good friend, but Jessica would have difficulty defending her if anyone were to cast doubt on her intelligence or sensibility. Above all else, the girl was a poor judge of character and tended to accept people at face value.

  Take Jessica’s current boyfriend, for instance. Andreae concluded, after several dinner meet-ups, that the man was kind, tender, generous and, of course, exceptionally handsome. On the other hand, she noticed that he always ordered the same food and guessed that he was probably not very exciting.

  Andreae was right on one count. The boyfriend was an exceptionally handsome man.

  Chong Jin was a member of STAR, the Special Tactics and Rescue team of the Singapore Police Force that was trained to handle hostage situations, riots and terrorist threats. Jessica had met Chong Jin at a career fair organised by the Ministry of Home Affairs three months earlier. Although she felt no calling to join the uniformed services, she was curious to find out more about the man beneath the uniform. Two dates later, the pair became an item.

  Unlike Adhha, Chong Jin took charge right from the start. He made it clear that he had very specific preferences in bed, and that Jessica had to enter the relationship with an open mind and an adventurous spirit or it would not work. Jessica was instantly intrigued.

  Chong Jin did not rush her. He allowed her several weeks to figure out the full extent of his fetishes. She came to learn that the man enjoyed sex most when it manifested itself in the form of a power play. He was aroused by the elements of coercion and resistance, and invariably steered the interaction towards dominance and submission. Sex was especially exciting for him whenever he was put on standby duty at home as the second-tier response team. He would have access to his full set of uniform and basic gear, and could engage in extensive role-play.

  That was the reason Jessica was excited about the date that night. Chong Jin had sent her a photo of his handcuffs, a hint that she ought to prepare herself for some rough-and-tumble uniform play. As she parted ways with Andreae, the latter had waved and chirped, “You’re meeting Chong Jin, aren’t you? He’s so sweet!”

  If only she knew.

  There came a moment an hour later, when Jessica suddenly recalled Andreae’s misplaced chirp and wanted to giggle, but gagged instead. Chong Jin reached down with his free hand to lock her head in position. He was moaning with acute pleasure and would not allow her to stop. Although most sessions saw him playing aggressor, Chong Jin occasionally wanted to switch roles. Tonight, he was an unsuspecting police officer outwitted by a crafty siren, handcuffed to the bed and forced to suffer the ignominy of a blowjob.

  Jessica reminded herself to relax her throat muscles and breathe through her nose. But when Chong Jin continued to apply excessive force in pressing her head down, Jessica decided she had had enough. She was about to pinch his thigh when his activation pager beeped.

  Chong Jin groaned. The pager, together with the key to the handcuff, was out of reach in a key dish on the dresser. He ruffled Jessica’s hair with his free hand and requested that she retrieve the pager. He almost jumped when Jessica suddenly gave a piercing screech.

  “What happened?”

  “My hair! Ouch!”

  Jessica had shoulder-length curls. A tiny tuft near her ear had gotten entangled in the zipper. She was having great difficulty trying to extract herself.

  “Just pull off my pants!” Chong Jin snapped. The insistent beeping of the pager was getting on his nerves.

  Jessica grabbed hold of his belt loop and pulled hard. This time round, it was Chong Jin who shrieked in pain. The zipper had similarly ensnarled his pubic hair.

  “Okay, okay, I have an idea.” Chong Jin tried hard to stay calm. “Reach for my sock drawer behind you. There is a Swiss Army knife in there somewhere. You can use it to snip off that bit of your hair that’s stuck.”

  “I am not snipping off my hair!” Jessica protested.

  “Alright, snip mine then,” Chong Jin conceded.

  Although Jessica could not tell whose tuft she was handling when she manoeuvred the tiny pair of scissors above her head, she managed to set herself free. The moment Chong Jin disengaged himself from the handcuff, he slipped into his uniform top and shot out the door.

  Jessica trotted into the bathroom to inspect the damage. There was indeed a tuft of hair near her left ear that had been snipped off. She was grousing to her reflection in the mirror when she heard her mobile phone ring. It was Chong Jin.

  “Are my handcuffs on the bed?”

  They were.

  “Shit. You’ve got to bring them to me.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a situation at Little India. Text me again when you get here. Keep the handcuffs out of sight. Love you.”

  The last two words were terms of endearment Chong Jin used whenever they had a particularly rough session and he was feeling apologetic about the bruises or bite marks. Jessica wondered why he would use the term in the current context but there was no time to ponder. She knew he would be in trouble if his superiors discovered he was sans a piece of equipment.

  There was a horrendous bottleneck where Orchard Road swung left into Selegie Road, so the taxi driver chose to execute a flanking via Jalan Besar to drop Jessica off along Desker Road. As she approached Serangoon Road on foot, she could tell something was terribly wrong. The noise coming from afar was not those of merrymaking. It was peppered with fearful shrieks and barbarous hollers. Jessica found herself jostling against the flow of pedestrians who were desperate to get away from the main road. When she reached the junction, she could hardly believe her eyes. There was an upturned vehicle in the middle of the road and rioters were dancing around it emitting hoots and catcalls. Someone lit a bottle of spirits and threw it in through the open window. Very quickly, the interior caught fire, which sent the rioters into a wild frenzy.

  Jessica had seen similar scenes of anarchy on international news footage but never did she imagine she would witness it live in her own country. She stood rooted to the ground and watched stunned as the bedlam unfolded all around her. At one point, the ringing and vibration of her mobile phone broke the spell. It was a text message from Chong Jin.

  Where are you?

  Jessica looked around to check her bearings.

  Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop at the junction of Serangoon and Desker.

  All of a sudden, the upturned vehicle emitted a loud explosion, creating a huge ball of fire and sendi
ng everyone running for cover. Caught off-guard, Jessica jumped and dropped her mobile phone. She instinctively bent down to retrieve it. Almost immediately, someone collided with her and sent her sprawling. Before she could pick herself up, the horde of terrified pedestrians scrambling away from the explosion trampled over her. Jessica panicked as she felt herself being kicked at and stepped upon repeatedly. She curled up into a ball and prayed that she would survive the ordeal.

  The crowd quickly calmed down once they realised it was but a singular explosion. Jessica felt a pair of strong arms pick her up. “Are you alright?” It was English spoken with a heavy Indian accent. Jessica wanted to reply, but a searing pain at her left ear rendered her speechless and whimpering. She feared to think the ear might have been torn off.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you to an ambulance.”

  Jessica had to shut her eyes because the scene on the road was reduced to a jerky visual as her saviour pounded the pavement while carrying her in his arms. At one point, she felt him coming to a halt. “Open the door! We need help!” Opening her eyes, she was relieved to see that he had managed to locate an ambulance. Strangely enough, the ambulance door remained shut. Eventually, another pedestrian stepped forward to unlatch the door handle. There was no one in the ambulance.

  “I think they got scared and ran away,” the pedestrian speculated. He held the heavy door open as Jessica’s saviour climbed aboard and laid her down flat on the stretcher.

  “Don’t worry. I will find something to stop the bleeding.”

  Jessica watched as the man rummaged through the first aid box and extracted some bandages along with a bottle of antiseptic. She guessed, based on his pronounced accent, that he might be a migrant worker. “What is your name?”

  “You can call me Haroon,” the man said. He dabbed a cotton bud with the antiseptic and cautioned, “This may hurt a bit.”

  Her mobile phone pinged suddenly and startled both of them. Haroon chuckled as Jessica checked the message from Chong Jin. The latter had panicked when he arrived at Nayagam Ranjan’s provision shop to find her missing.

  Injured. In an ambulance now. Come find me.

  Jessica winced as the antiseptic stung. She was surprised at how assured Haroon was dressing her wound. “You are good at this.”

  “I ought to be,” Haroon laughed. “I was a nursing student back in India.”

  “Really?” Jessica could not believe her luck.

  “Not here, though,” Haroon added. “I’m here on an S Pass with a construction company. Hope to earn enough to finish my nursing degree when I go home.”

  Jessica thanked him profusely after Haroon had finished dressing her wound. She tried sitting up but cried out when a searing pain ripped through her abdomen. Haroon looked worried.

  “There might be other injuries. Do you mind removing your attire so that I can do an examination?”

  Jessica nodded. She reached down to pull off her trousers and heard a metallic clank as the pair of handcuffs dropped onto the floor. She tilted her body to pick it up but the searing pain at her abdomen sent her collapsing onto her back.

  “Why do you have these?” Haroon asked as he picked up the pair of handcuffs. There was a look of alarm on his face.

  Jessica was pondering if she could trust Haroon with the truth when all of a sudden, the door to the ambulance burst open and someone jumped in. Jessica tilted her head and saw that it was Chong Jin. Before she could respond, the latter lifted his rifle and aimed a buttstock at Haroon. She heard herself scream hysterically as she watched Haroon drop to the floor like a sack of sand.

  And then she saw Chong Jin pick up the handcuffs and clip them onto his belt, an unmistakable look of relief on his face.

  Chapter 3

  Had Sharon known how horrendous the morning was going to turn out, she would have called in sick and cancelled her appearance. Surely they would understand; a bad sneeze loaded with the influenza virus could easily knock out the contingent of septuagenarians and octogenarians at the Sunflower Retirement Home, much like a well-aimed throw would do to pins at a bowling alley.

  As an elected parliamentarian, she had certain duties to perform. They included scheduled visits to hospices and retirement homes, as well as appearances at bursary award ceremonies. The media coverage would assure the public that she had not forgotten about the needy residents in her constituency.

  The first hint that a nasty surprise might have been in store was the apologetic grin the director wore when he received her at the entrance.

  “We have three very enthusiastic residents who are putting up a dance performance this morning and they insist they want you to join in during the final segment. I hope that is alright with you, Miss Sharon?”

  “That’s perfectly fine.” Sharon smiled benevolently. She imagined the elderly men and women were performing some line dance routine; nothing she couldn’t handle.

  The director heaved an undisguised sigh of relief and led her to the holding room where the three performers were waiting. Sharon caught her breath. She was unprepared for the spectacle of three shrivelled elderly women in tight, sleeveless cheongsams that clung mercilessly to their shapeless torsos, exposing their sagging arms. The caked foundation on their wrinkled faces was a gaudy sight to behold and the unrestrained application of blush an indefensible overkill. Nevertheless, the three were beaming with overflowing confidence.

  “Let me introduce you to our three lovely ladies!” The director enthused. “We have Grandma Lucy, Grandma Mimi and Grandma Beebee. They used to be professional dancers.”

  “How lovely!” Sharon tried to match the director’s tone of delight. “Do you perform traditional Chinese folk dance?”

  “Oh no, we were professional dancers at the Apollo Night Club. We do sexy numbers.” Grandma Lucy winked.

  “Don’t worry, we designed a set of very simple steps for you,” said Grandma Mimi, quick to give assurance when she saw that Sharon had turned a shade paler. “And you only come in for one minute at the very end.”

  “Erm… I am just worried that I might spoil it for you,” Sharon began, but Grandma Beebee had already thrust a pair of maracas into her hands and signalled the director to start the music.

  The piece that tumbled out of the CD player was an iconic dance number called “Ja Jambo”. Sharon had heard it before; her own mother might have taken to the dance floor back in the 1970s while the band played this very song. To their credit, grandmas Lucy, Mimi and Beebee had choreographed quite a showpiece that matched the quick tempo of the music. Although Sharon cringed when she realised she was expected to perform the same sequence of hip sways, butt thrusts and armpit-exposing arm-over-the-head postures, she reminded herself that it was entertainment meant for the Sunflower residents. She would just have to bear with it.

  After ten minutes of practice, the director mowed down the protests of the dancing grandmas and ushered Sharon to the meeting room where the media representatives were waiting. Sharon delivered a short speech about the need for the government to be frugal while rolling out social welfare programmes, and emphasised that the citizens must not be allowed to develop a crutch mentality. The reporters looked bored. Sharon felt sorry she wasn’t able to reveal some of the exciting initiatives the government had lined up, but the next election was two years down the road and it was not yet time to fire up the voters’ enthusiasm.

  The director then led Sharon to the activity room where the Sunflower residents were seated in tidy rows of wheelchairs awaiting her arrival. Sharon took her time to shake their hands one by one, stuffing auspicious red packets, each containing a $10 bill, into their palms as she did so. One of the elderly, a hulking man sporting multiple faded tattoos on his arms, was apparently having a bad cold. He emitted a thunderous sneeze as she neared, wiped mucous off his nose with his right palm, wiped that palm on his pyjama bottoms and then extended the hand to Sharon when she came to him.

  Sharon froze. Every cell in her body was recoiling in disgust. Thinkin
g quickly, she pretended not to see the man’s extended hand and moved to pat him on his shoulder instead. The man gave her a toothless grin. Sharon next pinched the red packet by the edge and gingerly offered it to him. It was at that point that her luck ran out. The grateful recipient grabbed her hand with both palms and shook it warmly, leaving a wet smear behind.

  Sharon wanted to scream. But her intuition as a politician told her that even the act of extracting a sheet of tissue paper to wipe away the mucous might be wrongly interpreted by the reporters present. She could come across squeamish or insensitive. Luckily for Sharon, the director saw what had happened and was quick to offer a box of tissues.

  The residents had lined up an abbreviated string of musical performances for their esteemed parliamentarian. Two solo singers heartily belted out “The Wandering Songstress” and “Night Jasmine” in croaking voices before the trio of dancing grandmas took over the mike to perform the final number. Grandma Beebee slid over to Sharon, who was seated at the front row, and stealthily handed her the maracas.

  “Don’t be nervous. We’ll guide you,” she whispered.

  Sharon wasn’t nervous until this moment. It hadn’t crossed her mind earlier that reporters would be among the audience.

  “We are the Apollo Sisters!” Grandma Lucy beamed as she introduced their act. “Back in the 1970s, we were professional hostesses at the Apollo Night Club. We were adored by the towkays who tipped us more in one night than they paid their coolies in one month. Those were golden years for the cabaret scene. Today, we would like to present a cabaret number for our special guest Miss Sharon Shi.”

  As the director orchestrated a round of applause from the Sunflower residents, Grandma Mimi took over the mike and continued, “We would also like to dedicate this number to an old and dear friend who is celebrating his ninetieth birthday today. He was a strong and handsome club bouncer back in his prime years. Can someone help to wheel Black Cougar to the front, please?”