Big Mole

by Ming Cher

  PRAISE FOR SPIDER BOYS

  “Spider Boys draws us into an exotic world which becomes increasingly familiar and engaging with every page. In Ming Cher’s hands, the hybrid dialect of Singapore street youth becomes uncannily evocative and poetic. At times I was reminded of SE Hinton, but this is a highly original novel—gritty and tender and thoroughly fascinating.”

  —JAY MCINERNEY,

  author of Bright Lights, Big City and Brightness Falls

  “Haunting and sexy, Spider Boys is an astonishing book. Ming Cher’s jagged English pulls no punches. Spider Boys will remain with you long after you finish reading it.”

  —PETER HEDGES,

  author of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape

  “Has put Singapore on the world literary map.”

  —KOH BUCK SONG,

  The Straits Times

  “Impressively confident in tone, Ming Cher’s arresting first novel details the lives of street urchins and petty criminals in the Singapore of the 1950s. A notable debut in which the author mines the abbreviated, hard-edged local street slang to yield prose of stunning emotional impact. The narrative moves among its characters in quick cuts, but the exposures go remarkably deep nonetheless, revealing this exotic milieu as the universal world of any child growing into adulthood.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Although Ming Cher’s is a familiar tale of coming of age within a criminal organization, his unique setting and raw, quick pace keep the tale compelling…an interesting voice on an age-old theme.”

  —KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “The work is innovative, challenging in many ways and a valid, if not seminal, contribution to the history of Singaporean literature in English.”

  —EMMA DAWSON VARUGHESE,

  Beyond the Postcolonial: World Englishes Literature

  Copyright © 2015 by Ming Cher

  Cover photo (fighting fish) copyright © 2015

  by chaythawin/Shutterstock

  All rights reserved

  Published in Singapore by Epigram Books

  www.epigrambooks.sg

  National Library Board, Singapore

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Ming Cher, author. Big Mole.

  – Singapore: Epigram Books, 2015.

  pages cm

  ISBN: 978-981-4655-35-4 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-981-4655-34-7 (ebook)

  1. Gangs – Singapore – Fiction.

  2. Revenge – Singapore – Fiction.

  3. Criminal investigation – Singapore – Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PR9570.S53

  S823 —dc23 OCN919201003

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition: October 2015

  For my son Marco, my daughter Leila, and all my siblings and their families in Singapore.

  Contents

  Part One

  1 Fighting Fish

  2 Fate Reveals Itself

  3 All in the Same Wok

  4 The Khaki Bag

  5 The Cold Sword

  6 Be Free, Be Yourself

  Part Two

  7 Cracking the Case

  8 The Makassar Prahu

  9 The Mass Arrest

  10 Return to Makassar

  Part

  One

  1

  Fighting Fish

  The history of the Makassan sailors and their prahu vessels—typically ninety feet long, made of teak, with two triangular sails, sailing as far as Vietnam and China—is as old as the bullock carts in Java. Even after the Dutch had colonised Indonesia, the Makassar prahus still followed the prevailing winds in fleets of a hundred to trade in Southeast Asia. Many of these sailors and their families were stuck in Singapore during the Japanese Occupation in World War II, just after the two main British warships, the Prince of Wales and the Repulse, were sunk by kamikaze pilots in the Straits of Malacca. Among the wartime survivors was a four-year-old Makassan girl with a large mole dangling like a pigeon egg under her left eye, who was looking for her lost parents. She was picked up by a brothel woman, but later ran away to live among street boys left homeless by the war.

  They gave her the nickname Big Mole.

  Everybody still called her Big Mole, even though the blemish had been removed by a Malay doctor in her kampong when, at 14 years old, she started a pet fish shop from a run-down charcoal hut, behind the pre-war rubbish dump by the monsoon canal in Geylang. Nobody would have recognised the new Big Mole if they had not seen her in the intervening seven years: her frizzy hair had become shiny and wavy, her cheekbones high, her legs long, and her breasts full and firm. Her left eye (which had sagged because of the presence of that dangling mole) was now the equal of her striking right one.

  She had constantly borne the weight of depression when under the thumb of Chinatown Yeow during her raw street days, but now her standalone pet fish shop had become a centre for hard-core ex-spider boys, who came to buy fighting fish for betting on behind her shop, which was surrounded by bamboo hedges taller than its thatched roof. Her streetwise regulars were between 18 and 25 years old. They held no real jobs, and had grown up gambling on fighting spiders and fishes. Some were involved with minor gangs, doing their own thing, but remained friends behind her shop.

  •

  Koon was 22, tall with a solidly-built body, a regular at her shop. “Hey, Big Mole!” he yelled in Cantonese one Thursday, with a wide grin. “I’m back. Anybody showed up yet?”

  Big Mole was playing solitaire at her shop’s counter by the back door. “No one leh. Are you in a hurry?” She flipped over another card while glancing sideways at him.

  “Not at all,” Koon replied. “What about Hong? He around?”

  “Yah, at the back.” She stretched her arm to open the nearby door so Koon could enter the backyard, which was stocked with two-inch-long fighting fishes in clear glass jars lined up on long shelves at eye level. Under the shelves were big dragon pots, which had been originally used for packing century eggs imported from China, but had been reused for breeding fighting fish and other pet fishes such as goldfish and angelfish. The shade provided by the leafy potted plants that her boyfriend Hong had hung above them created ideal conditions.

  Hong was a former burglar with dreamy eyes, small and light, 24 years old. He was pulling weeds in the backyard, the ground of which was covered by crushed seashells that stopped mudding. There was a long table at the centre of the yard made from stolen scaffolding planks and surrounded by benches, for the boys to gather at when they bet on the fighting fish. Big Mole eavesdropped as she slowly closed the back door.

  “Ah Koon, so how?” Hong said, ripping the weeds from the dirt with his unusually long fingers, longer than Koon’s, who was over six feet tall.

  “Same as usual, but not for long.” Koon helped himself to the hot coffee that was kept in a vacuum flask on the long scaffolding table; spare cups were stored in a tub of clean water.

  “Pour a cup for me too, brother,” Hong said as he stood, moving to pump out the well water from the far corner to wash his hands and firm-jawed face.

  When they sat on the bench with their coffee, Koon said, “Hey Hong, got something to tell you, but have to keep it between you and me hah. Can you guess what it is?”

  “Is that a joke or what?” Hong asked playfully. He knew Koon could be a bit thick in the head, but he was always a real friend when you needed him.

  “No, not joking.” Koon shook his head seriously. “I am not going to be a coolie any more. I am joining the 08 for three square meals. Play their number. You know what I mean?”

  “Ya
h lah,” Hong replied. “So, who is your big brother on board?”

  “Hard to say, haven’t met him yet,” Koon admitted. “I am on ‘standby’ for now. Have to prove myself first.”

  “What do you get for being on standby?”

  “Ten dollars for just a few hours,” Koon said. “Compare that to my donkey job of five dollars for eight hours’ work!”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Hong said. “So, where is your standby?”

  “Temple Street,” Koon said proudly, with a twinkle in his eyes. He was looking forward to proving himself to the 08 gang, which had claws stretching from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur.

  “Koon ah, Temple Street was the 24’s old territory before the 08 was there,” Hong warned him. “I bet they will come back. Big Mole or Sachee can tell you more; they grew up in Chinatown.”

  “I know lah.” Koon nodded and changed the subject. “Seen Kwang lately?”

  “No leh, not for a few years. Have you?”

  “I saw him just two weeks ago.”

  “So how?”

  “Broke as usual. Hooked on mahjong.” Koon laughed. “Lent him my last twenty bucks the other week.”

  “Where’s he stay?”

  “Drifting lah, working and living in construction sites. Right now in Woodlands, doing bar bending at the big project for making drinking water from Malaya.”

  “Let’s catch up with him,” Hong suggested. “Go together on my bike—how’s that?”

  “Yah, then give him a surprise,” Koon beamed. “When can we go?”

  “Make it tomorrow,” Hong said. “Fearless Sachee will be here to help Big Mole. We can be out the whole day. Meet when ah?”

  Koon counted on his fingers thoughtfully. “Have to standby Temple Street nine to noon, hmm…for three hours. I meet you at the roadside coffee stall on Neil Road at half past twelve. Okay or not?”

  “Okay, keep it like that.” Hong stood up to get back to work on the weeds.

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” Koon said cheerfully, and then left Big Mole’s pet fish shop.

  He died the next day in a gang fight.

  2

  Fate Reveals Itself

  Hong was waiting at their meeting place on Neil Road when he heard the news about Koon. He took off on his 50cc motorbike to Temple Street in the heart of Chinatown. Roadside hawkers were shifting their scattered gear, and a gathering crowd was watching an old and bent woman splash buckets of water at patches of dried blood near her vegetable stall, and scrubbing at them with her broomstick. Koon had stood, fought and died there in a raiding gang clash. Why? Why? Why? Hong kept asking himself as he sat astride his motorbike, the engine still running, going through the minute of silence with awe, as if time had turned back and Koon was still talking to him behind Big Mole’s pet fish shop.

  His reverie was forcibly ended when he was pushed from behind. He jerked back into awareness and saw a tiger-faced man in his early forties with a fully tattooed body under his open shirt. “Hey, what you doing here, boy?” the tiger growled quietly. “What you staring at? Stop puffing your bike here, boy.”

  “What you mean ah?” Hong said, revving the engine. “Can’t hear you lah! Repeat that?”

  “You trying to be funny with me? You look like a rat, boy.”

  At this point Hong was boiling inside, but had sussed the man out. The tiger was subtly and quietly imposing his authority, purposefully posturing his fully tattooed body, shirt unbuttoned, to look cool on the surface after the gang clash. This tiger definitely had something to do with Koon’s death. Hong reversed his bike to about twenty feet away from the tiger and shouted back, “Hey! Who the fuck are you?! Are you a cop?!”

  The word “cop” was a direct insult. It startled the local shopkeepers and street hawkers, who paid the 08 gang protection money for doing business, and made the tiger lose face completely. The tiger roared and charged at the rat. The rat spun his bike and kicked its front wheel upward, causing the tiger to jump aside. The bike kicked up again and the tiger fell backwards, legs splayed. The bike’s front wheel smashed down on the tiger’s right leg, just above the ankle, and then Hong raced away from Temple Street.

  Hong headed for the Beach Road waterfront to calm himself down and think things over, but he soon became frightened. He had overreacted. The tiger would never forget him. Word would spread among the locals in Chinatown who knew where Big Mole’s pet fish shop was located, and it would reach the tiger’s ears. It was no secret that he and Big Mole were living together; he had stopped burglarising and turned over a new leaf for her sake. He had even quit smoking to keep fit. They had worked hard together and found love. He knew that the tiger’s “claws”, his henchmen, could easily grab Big Mole from her shop. She was an easy target.

  He cursed his mistakes, then remembered the point of meeting up with Koon in the first place that day: to pay Kwang a surprise visit in Woodlands. Kwang would know what to do. Hong was soon caught in a traffic jam caused by an accident up ahead. “Fuck that!” he swore. He got off his motorbike and pushed it along the walkway into a side lane to enter Bugis Street, then rode off toward Woodlands to look for his errant friend.

  •

  Kwang was about the same age as Big Mole. When he had won the Spider Olympics many years ago, his supporters betting on him clapped madly in unison. Koon had been there too. So had Fearless Sachee. Big Mole had wept with happiness because of the money she had won, which allowed her to start up her pet fish shop and get her big mole removed.

  These memories rose up once again in Hong’s mind, made all the more vivid by the uncertainty of the future, as he arrived in Woodlands, a semi-rural town set on higher ground about a mile away from the Johore Causeway. He made a U-turn towards the long dirt road that led to the massive freshwater treatment projects, building reservoirs, sub-reservoirs, filtering plants and pumping stations that treated the water Singapore bought from Malaya, and ran from the Johore River through pipes along the causeway. It took Hong over an hour to arrive at the isolated dirt road mainly used by construction trucks. He relieved himself along the quiet roadside and felt calmer, not so uptight. He glanced at his Seiko 5 for the time and realised that it was Friday the 13th, a fact that made him shiver even though he was not the least bit superstitious. He biked slowly as he approached the vast worksite, wondering what Kwang would do in his shoes.

  At the wide entrance there was a big stop sign next to a cardboard shed, in which stood a burly Sikh watchman wearing a turban. Hong stopped his motorbike in front of the watchman and said in Malay, “Hello, my friend. I am looking for the bar-bending area. Please tell me which way to go? Left, right, straight or what?” With his hands, he gestured at the dirt tracks made by tractors that fanned out from the entrance.

  “For that, I don’t know,” the watchman replied. “Do you have a pass?”

  “A pass? What you mean hah?” Hong sat tight on his bike.

  “I mean a pass: your company paper.”

  “No, I don’t have. I don’t know I need one. I am looking for a friend. I come from a long way. Can you compromise? You can hold my IC, yes?” He dug into his back pocket for his Singapore identity card.

  “Your IC is no good here,” the watchman said, shaking his head. “You have no pass, you cannot go in. I have to look after my uniform first.” He pointed at the letters embroidered in green on his khaki uniform: PWD, for the Public Works Department.

  Hong didn’t want to cause any more trouble. He backed off to wait for some workers to come out from the site, hoping one of them could inform Kwang as to where he was. He waited on his 50cc under the shade of billboards with the names of famous contractors, architects and consultants involved in the project. But he couldn’t sit tight with all his anxieties, and gradually looked up at the billboards, wondering how those famous companies had become so big, rich and powerful, making people work round the clock like monkeys and donkeys—for example, the burly watchman inside his cardboard cage. Hong stared at the companies’ logos, c
omparing their designs and mission statements, imagining the whole network.

  Then he heard the rumbling of a big truck kicking up clouds of dust on the dirt road behind him. The truck was carrying the standard forty-foot-long rounded steel bars that were used for reinforcement in building construction. The driver and his assistant were wearing dark sunglasses and their company’s red caps. When they braked at the big stop sign, Hong saw the truck assistant showing their company’s pass to the huge watchman. He seized the opportunity to approach them for help, but before he could open his mouth, fate revealed itself. The truck assistant yelled, “Hey! Hong! What are you doing here?” as he took off his red cap and dark sunglasses.

  Hong couldn’t believe his eyes. “Hey! Botak!” He waved and walked towards the truck. “I can’t believe it’s you!”

  “I’m surprised too!” Botak replied. “Haven’t seen you for what, six or seven years? What are you doing here?” Botak had been a major player in the annual fighting spider competition, which was organised by a young-at-heart, rich old man nicknamed Shoot Bird for his crossed eyes; he died of a heart attack the year following Kwang’s big victory, and his death ended the unique era of fighting spiders in Singapore, no more to war-dance back and forth before grappling like wrestlers.

  “Looking for Kwang,” Hong answered. “You remember ah?”

  “Of course! I mean, who can forget? He is working inside, doing bar bending.”

  “That’s what I hear. But can’t get in to look for him leh. Watchman won’t let me in. That’s why I am stuck here.”

  “All he needs is a rubber stamp on paper,” the truck driver said. “We have spare paper for you. Come, we take you there.”

  Botak added: “We are dropping our steel near Kwang’s workplace.”

  “My motorbike is over there.” Hong pointed at his 50cc under the big billboard. “Okay to follow you?”

  The truck driver gave Hong a thumbs up and a spare pass for the watchman. Hong biked behind the rumbling steel truck to where Kwang was working. “There lah!” Botak said and pointed. Four people were dragging a long handle together to bend one-inch round steel bars into required shapes from a three-foot high bar-bending table made of ironwood. Hong grimaced at the way they dragged the bars like beasts of burden under the blazing equatorial sun.