Singapore Noir

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  “I wish!” he said, laughing. “But no, lah. My workers here also. But today off day.”

  Ling, back with two cans, opened one for Ah Meng. “Isn’t it lonely?” she asked. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  Ah Meng wasn’t sure what to say. Explain too much and she would think he was a loser. Tell her too little and she might think he wasn’t interested in girls.

  “Last time,” he said, wiping his mouth with his palm and lighting another cigarette. “Now no more. No time, lah! Why? Want to be my girlfriend, is it?”

  Ling said nothing but Ah Meng could see her smiling. Yan was absently picking at fish remnants, putting nothing more in her mouth. His mind was feeling a bit like cotton balls. He normally didn’t drink this much so early—and usually not when it was so hot. Beer is nice in the afternoon, lah, but maybe when you’re sitting in a shady hawker center or in your friend’s air-con house. Out on the kelong, drinking in the afternoon sure got headache one. And he could feel one happening right now. Die, lah—like that how to perform? Ah Meng quickly finished the last swigs of his Anchor, crumpling the can. Too late, he heard Ling opening the other can on the table, pushing it toward him. He wanted to say no but she looked so deferential, her sweet face so much wanting to please, that he just nodded toward her, took the fresh beer with both hands, and had a few long sips.

  Yan, bored, got up and wandered toward the slatted footpath near the fish.

  “Oi! Be careful!” Ling shouted, jumping up and hurrying after her. Ah Meng did the same, falling in step with the girls after Ling had caught up to Yan, taking her hand, firmly guiding her to walk only in the very middle of the footpath, so narrow in parts it was almost like a gangplank.

  When the path took them to the heart of the wooden maze, Ling and Yan picked a darker spot and sat down, cross-legged, staring out at the cloudy green water so calm that Ah Meng wondered if the fish were sleeping. He sat down next to Ling, getting as close as he could.

  He felt the girl place her head on his shoulder. His heart started going like a motor. He knew there was no way she couldn’t feel that and the thought made him blush again. He draped his right hand around her shoulder, pulling her closer, shutting his eyes to photograph the feeling.

  A minute passed. Ah Meng was counting the time with his heartbeats. One one thousand, two one thousand, three . . . When he opened his eyes, Ling was peering up at him, her large brown eyes open and sweet and cool. He felt his left hand reach over to brush a long piece of hair away from her forehead so he could look closer.

  Ling didn’t move. The gods had spoken. So Ah Meng got even closer. He felt so full his chest hurt. He pinched his eyes shut, leaning toward her, lips extended.

  He didn’t realize his lips had never made contact until he opened his eyes, finding that he was falling over backward. The pain in his chest was still there—so was Siva’s favorite fish knife. Ling was squatting by him now, casually watching him grope at the knife. He could see Yan standing behind her, covering her face with her little hands.

  His T-shirt was so wet, his hands were so red. When Ling reached over and pulled out the knife, Ah Meng feeling each of the eight inches as it slid out, his first thought was to thank her for helping him. But too quickly, she plunged it back in, hitting a higher spot this time. Ah Meng gasped, feeling a tinny wetness coming up from his throat.

  “Hurry up,” he heard her say. “Help!”

  His mind was a swirl of cotton. Dimly, he felt Ling pull out the knife and toss it into the water. Then the feeling of four hands pushing, rolling him. Once, twice.

  * * *

  Yan was crying, but very softly. Ling couldn’t hear her over the boat’s engine but sensed it anyway. Holding onto the steering wheel with her right hand and steadying it the way she remembered seeing the guy do it, she reached her left out toward Yan, gesturing for her to take it. The rains still hadn’t come; the ride had been smooth. They would be back at the jetty in a few minutes.

  Feeling Yan take her hand, Ling squeezed it. Glancing over, she saw that her little sister had stopped sobbing.

  “Don’t worry,” Ling said. “Next time will be easier.”

  MOTHER

  BY MONICA BHIDE

  Kallang

  The Merdeka Bridge became Edward’s home after the killing. He spent hours on it watching people go by. Nothing in this lonely city was his anymore; even the sky was different. But the water flowing gently under the bridge provided solace. The sound of the small waves, heard only when traffic disappeared, the gentleness of the ripples, those were the only things that reminded him of home. The home he left after the killing—or suicide, as some called it.

  He knew better, the kill was neither a simple murder nor a suicide. But no one would understand that; they couldn’t. They did not love her like he did; you had to love someone to the degree he did to understand why it had happened.

  At the moment, though, he felt bad at having said something to the young woman—Ms. Ana, as he liked to call her—who had been running by him on the bridge. He saw her almost every night. She ran around the same time. Normally, she would stop and speak to him but today she seemed distracted; she even tripped and fell. He could see she was bleeding. He offered her a hand and was hurt when she recoiled. He was tall for his fifteen years, really tall for a Chinese kid. His time on the streets showed in the dirt caked in his ears. He had pulled several tufts of hair out of his head after finding lice crawling down his forehead and into the small, festering sores on the sides of his cheeks.

  He knew what she was thinking; his friends told him: Homeless man wants my money.

  He did not want her money; he liked her.

  “Ms. Ana, it’s me, Eddie,” he offered, “Don’t you remember? You gave me ten dollars last week.”

  “Yes, of course I do. How are you? Did you eat something?” Ms. Ana asked, wiping her chin with the edge of her T-shirt.

  He smiled. “Yah, three times! Thank you.”

  “How do you feel today?”

  “My friends, Ms. Ana, they are back. They went away and now they are back. I don’t know why. I say to them to go away. Tell them to leave me alone, Ms. Ana, tell them to go away,” he said, beginning to weep.

  Gently, she sat down next to him and gave him a hug and then reached into her sock and pulled out a twenty.

  “Keep this, Eddie, eat something.” He smiled at her.

  “The jacket you gave me keeps me so warm, Ms. Ana. It is so cold out here at night sometimes. The jacket is so warm.”

  “Come tomorrow, I will bring you some more clothes, but now I have to go.”

  Eddie tried showing Ms. Ana his friends. No one could see them. It made him so mad. They constantly talked to him. Never let him sleep. His brain tried to stop them from talking. But no, they knew better. They knew how to sneak up on him when no one was looking. Yah, they were sneaky, those friends.

  He held onto Ms. Ana’s hand as she stood up. She was so kind and warm. “Can you stay with me for a few more minutes?”

  “I have to go, Eddie, I have to go,” she said, tugging at her hand.

  Let her go, Eddie, she won’t stay. Your hands are ugly, filthy. You smell. Let her go. She belongs in a different world.

  Truth was, he was hungry; he could not stand too well, his head was spinning. He let her hand go and she turned to run and then stopped and came back to him.

  He looked up at her surprised that she had returned so quickly. She bent down and gave him a gentle hug, then quickly turned around and ran off.

  Most of the people he met could not get away from him fast enough and she had given him a hug.

  Be careful, Eddie, she may want something. You should watch her.

  Eddie pulled some more hair out; his friends were definitely back. The mean one had not started speaking yet. It was just a matter of time.

  Look around you, Eddie, you don’t belong here. These people have perfect lives, big houses, shiny cars, lots of money. And they have good families. Not l
ike yours. Their families care. They don’t run around and let the kids fend for themselves.

  Don’t listen to him, Eddie. He is a goondu! She was a good woman, your ma. No, you tell him to stop, now. You wouldn’t be in this shit if you listened to me and not him.

  Two older aunties were walking by now—Eddie watched as they moved carefully to avoid him. He felt lousy. He hated being on the streets. It was pathetic. He was homeless even though he had a home. He did not want to go home—the warmth of it reminded him of his mother. He did not want to be reminded of her. He missed her. No, he was better off outside.

  You know it is easier to be outside, Eddie. The house will be full of her things and there, they . . . they will be looking for you . . . they know what you did, they will try to get you. You need to stay out of the house.

  Eddie got up from the bridge and began to walk toward the lights of Kallang, away from the river, peering at the reflection of the setting sun as it glinted on the water.

  A light breeze was rolling in. Luckily, Ms. Ana had given him the jacket a week earlier. It was gray and blue with the word Singapore on the back.

  You know, Eddie, Ma would have loved your jacket.

  No way, Eddie, she would be ashamed, you were her dream and now here you are wearing people’s garbage.

  Eddie paused when he got to the bus stop. His hunger pangs had become an accurate indicator of time and they told him that Uncle Teo would be driving up soon in bus number 26 and Eddie would spend the next hour in its comfortable air-con before returning to the streets for the rest of the night. He thought for a minute about going home. But the house stifled him. Each time the phone rang, his heart jumped—maybe it was the police looking for him, or perhaps, just perhaps there was a miracle and his mother had come back. Neither ever happened.

  The streets were better. No one knew him.

  Uncle Teo opened the bus door and pretended not to notice that Eddie offered no fare—again. This was an older bus, one that wended a well-traveled route, and Eddie could always detect the familiar smell of dirt, sweat, and sometimes vomit lingering just beneath the scent of chemical sprays.

  This is what being unwanted smells like, Eddie, get used to it. This is the rest of your life.

  “Go to the last seat,” Uncle Teo casually said, “someone left a McDonald’s bag. Maybe inside got some makan.”

  It was the same routine each night.

  Maybe he poisoned the burger, Eddie. Who would want to feed you? You are such a waste of flesh.

  No, no, Eddie. He loves you. You can repay him someday. Don’t listen to that man. You are a good boy, Edward. Eat the Big Mac.

  Eddie clutched at his head. It was pounding, and the voices were getting stronger and louder.

  He found the bag on a crackled cushion in the back of the bus and inhaled the two burgers; his first and last meal of the day.

  If only Ma had told him the truth.

  He stared out the window at the spectacle of purpose on the street. People were busy, had places to go, things to do, goals to accomplish. He’d had it all too until Ma’s rape. The rape changed everything. The voices, his friends, had shown up that day.

  The day that changed everything was an ordinary day, a sunny one. After school, he had headed to the East Coast lagoon as usual, spending the afternoon helping tourists and schoolkids carry kayaks and canoes in and out of the water. The tips were good.

  Eddie headed home only after the last of the canoes was put away.

  * * *

  “Ma! Ma! I home already,” he’d called, as he entered their tiny ground-floor flat that sparkled on the outside thanks to his mother’s hot-pink bougainvilleas. Inside it was cool. His mother had found a discarded air conditioner at the school where she worked and spent a lot of money getting it repaired. Then she’d had it installed in Eddie’s room.

  “Ma,” he called again, but there was no response. On the dining table was a sardine sandwich with onions, his favorite. He hated eating alone but the swim had tired him out. Once the sandwich disappeared, he waited at the door for her to come home. Generally she arrived by nine. But that day she was late, very late.

  He had fallen asleep near the door when he heard it open hours later. Then he saw her, in the stark fluorescent light from the deck outside—she walked through the front door covered in dirt. Her white blouse was ripped and she was clutching at it in the middle, desperately trying to keep it closed. She seemed oblivious to him as she entered. He averted his eyes so she would not feel the shame of having her son look at her in this state of undress. His mind was racing. He quickly glanced over to see if she was bleeding; he could see no red.

  He followed her to her room. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing, lah . . . nothing. Go to bed, Eddie,” she said very softly, “I’m okay.”

  He wanted to protest. But he just stood there, unsure of what to do. She sat on the edge of the bed, the white sheets now stained with dirt from her blue cotton skirt and open blouse. She covered her face with her hands and he noticed her nails were chipped.

  “Go to bed, Edward. I am fine. I mean it, go to bed. I am fine.” Then she stood up and ran into the shower. He understood. She was trying to wash away the sins of another.

  Eddie went to the refrigerator. It was a wonder the twenty-five-year-old contraption still worked. Grabbing a packet of soursop juice, he sat down at their rickety dining table.

  Had she been assaulted? Raped? What if it were rape? How would they ever get over it? This was not happening; it was like a scene from a bad movie.

  He felt his hands crush the packet as anger flowed into his arms. He wanted to kill the bastard who’d hurt his mother. After all, he was the man of the house. He never knew his father, except through the pictures his mother kept around the house. He loved the one where his father beamed, holding his newborn boy. It was taken at the house when Eddie was just two days old. That was the last time his father held him.

  His father’s death was a testament to the times they lived in, his mother often said. He worked as a bank teller—a disgruntled employee and a knife told the rest of the story. Just like that, for no reason at all, his twenty-five-year-old father had been stabbed. Their only solace was he died almost instantly.

  After his father’s death, Ma seemed to forget everything except how to make sure that she and Eddie had enough to eat. She had no friends, preferring to spend all her free time with him. He was grateful that she was not interested in dating men. Unlike other kids in his school whose divorced parents were seeing other people, Ma seemed happy to be alone. She never seemed to need anyone besides Eddie.

  Yes, he was thankful.

  “You are like my tail, Eddie, always behind me,” she would joke.

  He rarely left her side, even when other kids and even some adults made fun of him. “Let her go, Eddie, she has to work. You can’t be her shadow your whole life, you know—you have to be your own man,” they would say.

  Ma worked shifts at the primary school nearby, doing anything and everything disgusting—the clean-up lady no one noticed. She cleaned the toilets, collected rubbish, and even mopped vomit, feces, and urine off the bathroom floors. He felt sorry for her when he watched her cry herself to sleep each night. Someday, he hoped, he could give her peace.

  Even so, everything was perfect when it was just the two of them, Ma and Eddie. Until that day when Ma came home with ripped clothes.

  Eddie could still hear her in the shower as he left the dining table and walked into her room. She had such simple tastes, a tiny bed with a tattered mosquito net draped over it, a small side table where she always set down the romance novel she was reading, her prayer books neatly stacked on a narrow bookshelf on the other side of the room. He wandered over and ran his hand across the prayer books. His poor God-fearing mother. What would this rape do to her? Would she be able to handle life now that she had been desecrated?

  He saw the bathroom door open and fled. He did not want her to see his tears. He cou
ld not help but cry. After all, what could he do to help her?

  His head began to pound. Voices that he had ignored for so long began to get louder, stronger; first begging and then demanding that he listen to them. They owned him and he could no longer ignore them.

  You are the man of the house, Eddie. You have to help her. Find out what happened.

  How can you leave her in there alone?

  You are a coward, you cannot do anything. You should have died in the womb.

  Yes, Eddie you are a loser.

  He left the house and ran across two wide streets, down the passage beneath the highway, and emerged on the beach clutching at his head and screaming, “Stop it, stop it, go away, go away, I don’t hear you, go away, go away!”

  As he sat on the dark beach throwing rocks into the water, gentle cold waves washed his feet, calming him down. The emptiness of the beach reminded him of his mother’s life. She had nothing except him and her honor. Tonight she had lost the more important of the two. He could never restore that.

  As the sun came up, he decided to go home. Ma was sound asleep.

  Sleeping?! How can your ma sleep, Eddie? Has she no shame? She should be praying to God and asking for help. She should be cleaning herself. How can she sleep at a time like this?

  What woman sleeps after being raped? Why hasn’t she called the cops?

  Maybe she liked it, eh, Eddie? Maybe your ma misses having a man around.

  “No, no, no!” He covered his mouth and then his ears as the voices began to take over.

  * * *

  The next morning, he tried to talk to her: “Who was he? What happened? Were you attacked? Is it someone we know?”

  She would not answer.

  Her purity had been lost and she seemed not to care.

  She has become a slut. She liked it with the strange man. Or men. Why else won’t she tell you what happened? You don’t know her anymore, Eddie. She was with a man—a man, Eddie, who was not your father. She was with a stranger.

  No, no, Eddie, she was possibly raped. You need to take care of her.