Yang looks suspicious but says nothing.
“Lim hanged himself in prison two years later. The coroner’s report said he did it due to depression. That must have been because of the prolonged use of the drugs. You think a tough union veteran would just sink into depression and kill himself?”
“So what are you saying?”
“I think that when Lim was in jail, Edward Wee gave orders to have Lim Min Tong drugged out till he hanged himself. And Wee’s hatchet man was our dear father.”
“And because Pa knew of Edward Wee’s crime, Wee had Pa destroyed at the first opportunity,” Yang concludes.
She nods. “Exactly. Just like how in the ancient courts, so many eunuchs disappeared after they had done the emperor’s bidding.” Her eyes smoulder like embers.
“But wait,” says Yang, “this only shows Pa to be just as guilty!”
“No. It shows Pa was only carrying out orders from the top.”
“That’s what the Nazis said about the gas chambers.”
“Pa had no choice! He was just an executioner. And he truly believed in the merger.”
She leans so hard against the table that her rib cage aches.
Yang leans back in his chair. “But it comes to the same thing. Without the diary, we can’t prove anything.”
“We must try. Remember that guy who came to interview us pretending to be an inspector from the CID? He was arrested recently under the ISA. You must have read it in the paper.”
“I always thought he didn’t look like a police inspector.”
“Because he isn’t. He’s the brother of Lim Min Tong. I found that out while I was talking to Lim’s old comrades after I came back from Sydney,” says Ling. “And the ISD revealed that too, trying to establish guilt by association. Before, my reading of the case could have been hypothetical. But with the arrest of Lim Min Tong’s brother, the connection is obvious. The inspector probably found out what I have. And the ISD discovered he was interfering with the investigation of Pa’s death. So they slap an ISA detention order on him. And they even drag in your Miss Law.” She drains her second glass and sits back.
“They can’t touch her. She is a British subject living in Hong Kong.”
“You seem more concerned about her than letting the truth be told.”
“Damn you. She’s done so much for us, shouldn’t we at least try and make sure she’s safe?”
“Okay, okay. But you can’t protect her by just flying to Hong Kong and coddling her. They may not arrest her but they have already made her out to be the Chinese agent providing funds to the ‘inspector’ to subvert the government. We’ve been woven into their conspiracy since Miss Law has been giving you money.”
“You jolly well know she didn’t have anything to do with the inspector. She’s conveniently been used as the foreign connection to make the government’s story believable.”
“I know, but why of the three million women in Hong Kong, did they have to name her? Because she was connected to Pa. If we don’t toe their line, they will vilify her further, say she slept with Pa to get official secrets. That might get her into trouble with the Hong Kong authorities. And after they are done with her, it will be our turn. They don’t know how much we know yet. They arrested the inspector as a warning to us.”
He looks out to the shapeless clouds. “So what, in your infinite wisdom, can we do?”
“We have to pre-empt them. We have to tell the people what we know.”
“Okay. Even if you get to speak out, you think the police will haul the PM to a murder trial based solely on your story?”
“Maybe not. That depends on what they’ll do to me.”
“Don’t scare me. What do you mean?”
“I mean it depends on what they’ll do to me.”
He raises his voice. “Like what?”
“Like if they try to shut me up, then it’ll prove that they’ve got something to hide.”
“You can’t mean they may try to shut you up the way they shut Pa up?”
“Why not?”
“You’re crazy. You’re setting yourself up as bait.”
She looks away.
“What if they don’t bite? Or they may say you’re utterly mad and throw you into Woodbridge.”
“Well, that will still show them up to be silencing me and covering up the truth. Unless they kill me first and eliminate my body and all records of my existence.”
“I still don’t see how that can save Father’s reputation.”
When some men in the coffee shop seem to glance at them, she drops her voice but the tone of menace remains. “It will show that Pa did not kill himself. Period. And he was not guilty of a crime so evil that he deserved death.”
“Do you not think it’s more honourable to kill oneself to cleanse the soul of the crimes the body has committed?”
“What samurai poppycock is that? His crime was taking a coupla million dollars. For that, he might go to jail for some years, but certainly not a death penalty. Our father was murdered and we as his children have to bring the murderer to justice.”
“But how can you be sure what the truth is? Where’s your evidence?”
“For the love of god, Yang. You’re supposed to be helping me, and not playing devil’s advocate to everything I say.”
“I’m just preparing you for the worst-case scenario.”
She glares at him. “You’re nothing more than a typical cover-your-arse Singaporean. You think by paying a few bucks to those monks at the temple to chant for Pa, he will rest in peace? You think by restoring the fucking hibiscus garden, you’re honouring his memory? Wake up. Those guys have committed murder!”
He slumps back on his chair, lowers his eyes and cradles his empty glass with both hands. “Okay.”
“Okay what? It’s not okay. We’re not just talking about Father getting a fair trial. We’re talking about you as well. I don’t care what England has done to you. I’ve had my share of racism, rejection and loneliness just like you. But we have to move on.”
“You call this moving on?”
“Better than what you’ve been doing or not doing with yourself since you came back from London.”
His eyes fall on the cigarette butts and spittle floating in the spittoon under the table. Thunder cracks again and the monsoon rain is at last unleashed. The furious downpour on the roof of the coffee shop is the only sound between them as they sit in silence until the worst of the storm has passed.
“We now have something concrete we can do for Pa,” Ling says finally. “After all, he loved you best. Pa even kept property in Hong Kong in case such a day would come so we could still get by comfortably.”
Yang gives his sister a pained look. “I thought you said that was blood money and you didn’t want any of it.”
“I’m sorry I said that. I spoke out of turn. But I really don’t need the money.”
“You have your principles. I have only anger.”
“Don’t just be angry. Do something.”
He is silent.
“Yang, you can’t always be wasting your life away.”
“Have you thought of Mother and the people who care for you if you got into trouble?”
“Are we in any less trouble? Look at Ming. Look at Hoong. They kept quiet and see what happened to them. The ISD has already arrested the inspector. Who’s next? It’s because I’ve thought of all the things that Pa did for all of us, that I must do this.”
“But do you think Pa would have wanted you to do it?”
Ling does not reply. She taps her fingers on the table. “Well?”
“What exactly are you going to do?”
The rain thuds on the coffee shop roof.
“Since you’re not coming with me, the less you know, the better.”
“Ling!”
She gets up without looking at him, and collects her bike parked outside the coffee shop. She rides off and does not turn back. He leaves $10 on the table, and follows her, savouring the ra
in snapping at his face and lips. He glances back across the road once, at the high walls and barbed wire of the prison. As he pedals, he remembers again his little sister sitting sideways behind him, on the back seat of their neighbour’s bicycle. How she grabbed his waist tightly and squealed when he went down the slope. Then outside the prison gate, they were told to bugger off by a sentry guard. They scrambled along the perimeter of the prison until they came to the tall wire fence where they could look into the concrete yard. He remembers seeing a signboard on the fence, showing the figure of a man being shot by another with a rifle. He does not remember the words on the sign, but the image had tormented him much more than the looks on the inmates’ faces they could see through the fence. Later that day, their neighbour had caught them when they tried to return the bicycle. When their father had asked whose idea it was to steal the bicycle, his little sister had not snitched on him. Their father had caned them both mercilessly. Before the scars of the caning had disappeared, Ling was pestering him to take her to the fence again. They took the bus the next time. She would renew her acquaintance with the inmates, and he would be involuntarily drawn once more to the haunting sign.
TWENTY-EIGHT
BACK IN THEIR family home at East Coast, Ling packs her toiletries and a change of clothes in an overnight bag. She turns and sees Yang standing at the doorway. She gives him a withering stare. Then she pulls open a drawer and takes out her passport. She wants to punish him for being a coward, for being selfish and apathetic, for no longer being the brother she once knew. Deep down, she shudders to think about what will happen tomorrow. She has lived long enough to know that whatever can happen will. In any case, it will at least prove that she is right and he is wrong.
“Where’re you going?” Yang asks.
“Holiday.”
“This time of the night?” He staggers towards her and looks into her bag.
“Please, Yang, you stink of alcohol.” She goes through the motions of folding and unfolding her one shirt and pair of pants in the bag.
“Have you told Ma where you’re going?”
She turns sharply. “Don’t you dare raise the alarm to her!”
“Then tell me where you’re going,” he demands, as the Johnnie Walker Black Label buzzes in his head.
“JB.”
“You’ve called a press conference there?”
“Don’t let anyone know,” she warns.
“You leaving now?”
“Ya.”
“I’ll go with you. Give me a minute.” He hurries back to his room.
He returns with a light travelling bag slung over his shoulder. There is a black hardcover exercise book with frayed edges in his hand. He holds the book out to Ling as if he is offering her a mint. She snatches it and opens it in the middle. Her knuckles turn white.
She had risked losing her freedom searching for the book, and now that it is in her hands, it turns her stomach like the sight of maggots.
“Holy Jesus,” she whispers.
“Why? Got cold feet?” His tone is sarcastic.
“Damn you. You’ve had it all this time and you knew everything, yet you did nothing!”
“We’d better get some of the pages photocopied if you are still calling the press conference,” says Yang, with calm.
She snaps the diary shut and tucks it into her sling bag. “How did you get hold of this?”
“Pa gave it to me two days before he died.”
“Bastard. What did he tell you?”
“Well,” Yang pauses, “he said he once thought the less we knew the better. But later he hoped that after reading the diary, we could begin to understand him.”
“What else?”
“He said to keep it in a safe place.”
She pulls the diary from her bag and brandishes it in his face. “Yes, but did he want us to expose their crimes?”
He goes to sit on the bed. “He didn’t say that. In fact, he didn’t say much at all. I think all he wanted was some forgiveness.”
“He sent me away when I found out about this, but he actually gave it to you? What did he take me for?”
They sit face to face in the middle of the bedroom, momentarily lost for words. Yang concentrates on the frayed edges of the diary in his sister’s hand. Then she gets up, shoves it into her bag once more and picks up her overnight bag. “We should go soon before the shops close.” Her tone softens. “I’ll call Matthew to say I’ll be away for a while.”
As Ling goes to the study to phone, Yang tells his mother, who is watching TV with Hoong, that they will be going to Pulau Tioman for a few days to snorkel.
*
They get into a taxi on East Coast Road and alight at Tanjong Katong Shopping Centre, where Yang knows of a self-service photocopying shop that may still be open. It’s Friday night and the place is buzzing with shoppers and people who hang around for the air-conditioning. Something in the air prickles her skin and her bowels churn. She does not tell Yang of her premonition that they are being followed, in case he dithers. At the shop, only the owner is around. When he says he can do it for them since there are no other customers around, they decline and go to a machine in the furthest corner of the shop.
“Give me the thingie,” Ling whispers loudly.
“It’s in your bag.”
“Oh.” With her back to the entrance, she furtively takes the diary out from her bag and flips to the page dated 14 Oct, 1962. She keys in 20 on the number pad and starts the machine. After belching out several copies, the machine jams. She curses. She moves to the second-furthest machine, glancing outside and mumbling as she continues with the rest of the pages. Seeing the state his sister is in, Yang is glad he came along with her. He opens the jammed machine and pulls out the creased, half-printed page. Then he shreds it and puts the pieces into his bag, the black powdery ink smearing his fingers.
They leave the shop after checking to be sure they have not left anything behind. It is 9.30pm. They wait at the long taxi queue. Every time someone comes up in their direction, Ling’s heart skips. She places her hand on her sling bag, on the reassuring rectangular shape underneath the leather.
They have to wait for half an hour before they reach the head of the queue. They get into a taxi and make their way to the Holiday Inn Johor Bahru. As they sit in silence in the back seat, both of them are keenly aware that, with the evidence multiplied 20 times, the die is cast.
Yang thinks of the protests in Britain. Many were purposeful while a few were anarchic. He went to all of them because he wanted to show Katherine he cared. That seemed to sum up his life in Britain. His consciousness had been confined to how others saw him. He had dropped out of law to do arts because it was progressive. He had pottered with dead-end jobs because he didn’t want to stick out in the company of his nihilistic friends. In the end, respectable society saw him as dim-witted rather than a do-gooder, or worse, a drug peddler in Soho; his friends rejected him for being a fake. But the protest he’s going to tomorrow is for himself.
As the taxi rockets along Bukit Timah Road in the direction of the Causeway, the last buzz of Johnnie Walker in his head tells him that his father had been used and abused by Edward Wee. Not only in the Lim Min Tong episode. Not only in his own death. But also in the final breakdown of the merger. His father had trusted Wee to bring the two countries together. With the split, his father had felt a part of him amputated and the stump becoming gangrenous. His father had betrayed Lim Min Tong and their other comrades because he thought Edward Wee was more able and determined to bring about the merger, whereas Lim was against it. When the merger collapsed, so did his father’s moral high ground. He could not exculpate himself from the disaster of the reunification. At the same time, his father was too entrenched in Edward Wee’s camp. The Malaysians saw him as Wee’s lackey and did not want him in their ranks. The unionists, or those who were not already in jail, saw him as a running dog. So his father had remained in the service of his old master who was the reason for the humiliating e
xpulsion of Singapore from the motherland.
Yang knows that his father’s struggle is also his struggle. By confronting the history of his country and his father, he is also confronting himself. He had despised his father’s cowardly act and betrayal of his comrades. But he did not despise his father enough to reject his money to finance his lifestyle in Britain. He had considered his father spineless but not immoral. After all, his father had a right to choose whose side he wanted to be on. Nevertheless, with Katherine’s unbending code of social justice and her friends’ regular taunting, he had grown so ashamed of his father that he had blocked out everything associated with those episodes from his memory. His activism in Britain was perhaps an unconscious compensation for his complicity with his father. With his father’s death and the diary, he now has to strip himself of the luxury of amorality. He has to make a stand.
The weekend traffic at the Causeway snakes all the way to Woodlands as Singaporeans knuckle down to the business of shopping and eating in Johor Bahru. The Malaysian town has all manner of goods from furniture to toilet paper that are half the price of what they are in Singapore. For all his many faults and cruelties, his father is now dead and should be left alone. But what should he, Yang, living and breathing, do with the rest of his life? Drink his life away and blame it on the government? He needs to convince himself he’s not living outside his life. Inch by painful inch, the taxi reaches the Singapore immigration booth. They hand over their passports, have them checked and returned and the taxi crawls onto the Causeway linking Singapore and Malaysia. At the end of the three-quarter-mile Causeway, they hand over their passports and immigration forms to a Malaysian immigration officer. The officer looks from the faces in the taxi to the photos in the passports. Satisfied, he tears off one half of the forms they have filled out, files them away and stamps their passports.
The taxi driver steps on the accelerator and says he will drop them off at the bus terminal on Jalan Wong Ah Fook, the furthest point Singapore-registered taxis can go. From there, they can hail a local taxi to get to their hotel.
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