Singapore Noir

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  He knows people, Zach says after a while.

  Later, while Merla is ironing, Zach engages in a series of phone calls. With his mates, he sounds jovial and frivolous. To his presumably deaf grandmother, he shouts in deliberate, slow, monosyllabic dialect, though Merla can tell the exchange is tender. Then comes a theatrical coyness in his demeanor which immediately fills her with dread. He is talking to the man, in increasingly excited tones. Zach mouths to Merla: He’s coming back tomorrow! The conversation is in Mandarin mingled here and there with a word or two of English. One particular word is all it takes to propel her into a further state of panic.

  Party.

  Fumbling around her apron and withdrawing from one of the pockets a single key, Merla walks away with uncharacteristic speed, carrying with her his puzzled stare. It is not long before she finds Zach standing beside her in the den, slack-jawed. To her, this room, with its black walls, black rubber flooring, and blackout curtains permanently drawn, is as unholy now with all the lights on as it is when lit with only garish candlesticks and lava lamps. She looks down, focusing on twisting the key around in her fingers while he takes it all in. Everything has been contrived with care, from the racks of chains, handcuffs, whips, to more bizarre equipment and instruments of bondage and torture that neither of them can name. Here was the scene of her first beating, within minutes of her becoming acquainted with the house, sparked off by the involuntary, almost imperceptible shaking of her head when she was told she was to clean everything in the room, every day.

  Oh my god, says Zach, barely audible. His line of vision is directed toward the ceiling, where large mirrored panels cover every inch, magnifying the depth of the chamber. In spite of herself, Merla glances up, instantly flinching at the sight of their reflection. In her earliest encounter with this room in its intended use, when strangled cries and hoarse growls and cigarette smoke and chemical fumes invaded her senses, she lifted her head so her eyes could dodge the bare bodies, only to be shaken by what she saw in the mirrors as a bloodcurdling negative of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel.

  You must go, she says to Zach. She is taken aback by the sound of her own voice. He has already left the room.

  * * *

  The following day, there is no sign of Zach. She does not dare to call out for him, for anything, so she searches around the house, floor by floor, room by room, every hour. Nothing. Just after nightfall, the Ferrari appears, at the front of a small convoy of trophy cars carrying about a dozen people, all male. The man leads his guests through the doors. Only three of them are young. Raucous laughter reverberates through the house, cigar and cigarette smoke spreading, thickening. A glint from a Rolex watch. A flicker off a heavy gold chain. Overpowering eau de cologne. Behind the kitchen door, Merla goes about filling the large tray. A bucket of ice, cognac, and bottles of mineral water. Two vials of Viagra, four bottles of GHB, a large bag of pure cocaine. She prays that tonight she will only need to do this once. Bent low and with eyes down, she carries the tray past the lounge where the men are gathered and makes her way up the stairs toward the den, slowing down a fraction when the doorbell suddenly chimes. Seconds later, she judders to a halt from the sound of Zach’s voice. An Evian bottle tumbles off the tray, hits the glass stairs, and rolls noisily down . . . one . . . step . . . at . . . a . . . time . . . She freezes. The laughter dies.

  Leave it! she hears the man shout.

  Her heart at once pounding and heavy with dismay, Merla finishes the task at hand as swiftly as she can, and withdraws to her room, latching the door behind her. She wraps her rosary beads around her wrists and clasps her hands tightly around the crucifix. A feeling threatens to engulf her, the sense that she is fouled, like a beached seagull overwhelmed by slick. But even the black swell of a spill cannot sully the red of a seagull’s flesh and blood.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners . . .

  She waits for the minutes and hours to go by, stares through the small window at the moon behind a shifting veil of clouds. Between here and the soundproof room, there is a wall of impenetrable silence. She pads into the kitchen and from a tin can picks out the one tea bag she is allowed for the month. More time passes. At long last, she hears men’s voices and the sound of heavy car doors, engines revving, tires on concrete, gradually fading to nothing. Zach appears before her, disheveled and pale, his pupils dilated. His robe, wrapped tightly around him, is stained. Blood trickles from his nose. Merla sets down her mug of cold tea and reaches into the cupboard for the medicine kit.

  I’m okay, he mutters. I had too much . . . stuff . . .

  More familiar with what the box offers than she wishes she were, Merla sets to work. Within minutes, she has done all she can.

  Go, she says quietly. Don’t come back.

  He takes the soiled cotton wool from her hand and rolls it between his fingertips into a tight ball.

  He knows people, says Zach.

  * * *

  The twelve-meter yacht at the front of the villa used to have a different name. The day it was delivered, not long after the house was bought, the man stood impatiently on the berth, using his hand to shield his beady eyes from the sun. When the boat cruised into view from around the sharp curve of the isle, he did a little jump. From behind the curtains in the lounge, Merla watched, agape. She had never been anywhere near a yacht. When the awe receded, she wondered what this luminous white vessel would mean for her existence. How was she to clean it? With a sponge and bucket? Would the hose from the tap by the pool stretch far enough? As it drew nearer, she witnessed an abrupt change in the man’s body language. He waved his arms about wildly as if to say, NO! TURN. BACK. The Malay guy piloting the boat looked confused; he tugged at the peak of his baseball cap and approached closer still, until the man began to stamp his foot irately, point at the lettering inscribed in gold, and holler—something about the FAH-king dealer forgetting that he had changed his mind about some word. When the message ultimately got through, the Malay guy nodded apologetically, offered an awkward sort of salute, turned the vessel around, and sped off. Merla kept watching until the yacht and its trail of foam disappeared from view. That was the last she saw of any boat by the name of Current Escape.

  Now, on the murky waters of the cove, the Current Asset gently bobs, moored alongside the berth. A light wind blows and on the sea far beyond, the crest of a wave is spotlit by a few rays breaking through the clouds. On an unstoppable advance, the northeast monsoon.

  Merla traverses the full length of the berth a third time, the mop in her hands just damp enough to capture what little dust there is on the varnished brown of the wooden boards. Having had his offer of help silently declined, Zach is on the deck of the yacht, sprawled out on the chaise lounge, deeply engrossed in a magazine—an untouched copy of Singapore Tatler which he stumbled upon in the cabin below has been keeping him occupied longer than he expected. Not being a magazine he’s heard of, it was at first eschewed in favor of Vogue Hommes and Jaguar World, later picked up and marked for study only when he grasped that it is about rich people. He leafs through the glossy spreads and, at times, when laboring through some of the wordier columns, wishes he made more of an effort in school. If only, he thinks, there was someone to push him. All of a sudden, his eyes widen. He slides his shades up over his head. In front of him, on a back-page story about some charity gala event, is a photo of the man, fitted in a tuxedo, posing with a bevy of extravagantly gowned socialites. I knew it! thinks Zach, feeling utterly vindicated. Magazine in hand, he bounds off the chaise lounge and leans over the side of the yacht, waving to catch Merla’s attention.

  Someday I’m going to be super loaded! exclaims Zach, his tone playful, arms stretched out wide. I’m going to be a megastar actor. I’m going to travel the world! First, I have to make it as a model!

  Merla is no longer ill at ease at the sight of him with his shirt off; she has seen it enough times. As she glances up at his perfect yet still developing form and his beaming face, she suddenl
y feels—dare she say it—grateful for the respite of not having seen the man for weeks since the party, for Zach’s unfettered optimism, and for the relief he unknowingly provides for her pain of not seeing her own brother grow from boy to man.

  Where would you go? Zach asks. If you could go anywhere in the world?

  Not pausing for her to respond, because she never does, he rattles off a long list of faraway cities and exotic resorts, his flights of fantasy becoming ever more unrestrained. As for Merla, her imagination, so rarely fed and now drawing off vague memories of photographs she may have glimpsed ages ago, lifts and carries her thousands of miles to Vatican City. She forms a hazy picture of the dome of the great basilica, the glorious symmetry of the colonnade spreading out around the towering obelisk. What she would give to see His Holiness at the library window and be blessed . . .

  . . . and Rome! she hears Zach call out. For the hot guys and fashion!

  Merla has not completely slipped out of her reverie. Show me, she says.

  Zach leans back a bit, completely taken by surprise. What do you mean? he asks.

  Putting aside the mop and pail, Merla sits on the wooden boards, her legs hanging over the edge of the berth. You, she says indistinctly. Modeling.

  Zach is hesitant at first. The images from the Vogue Hommes are still fresh in his mind, so he proceeds to pump up his chest and give his best version of brooding sexiness. Standing, arms folded, gazing into the far distance. Lying down on the chaise lounge, propped up on one elbow, knee artfully bent. Dashing aft to do an exuberant star jump on the diving platform. When, from the corner of his eye he clocks that Merla is looking more amused than impressed, he decides he may as well segue into outright comedy, so he begins to mime—a guest at a cocktail party, air-kissing, snootily turning away a waiter carrying champagne. Merla’s features begin to betray the faintest of smiles, which she tries to hide with her hand; then a mere whisper of a giggle escapes from her lips, and taking the cue, Zach bursts into laughter.

  In a flash, Zach’s countenance morphs into impassivity. Merla turns and immediately notices the man on the upstairs balcony. She rushes to get onto her feet, loses her balance, and stumbles into the water with a yelp. Zach springs to the edge of the boat but Merla is already clambering back onto the berth. She stands there, shoulders hunched, arms straight down by her sides, not knowing what to do next, shaking her head at Zach’s offer of his robe.

  At the balcony, a poker face. The man prolongs the silence. All Merla can think of is how shameful it is that her undergarments are visible and how disgraceful it must be that they are gray and threadbare. The man looks at Zach and, as a lewd signal, grabs his crotch, tilting his head in the direction of the bedroom. Zach silently obeys. Merla is just about to scamper into the house behind him when the man shouts for her to stop. He asks, You finish? So she continues to mop—mopping up the water dripping off her, with her head down, until the sun begins to set.

  When she returns to her quarters, she recoils at a smell coming from her room. She traces the stench to the toilet, where she finds, awaiting her, human waste and, half-buried within, her rosary.

  * * *

  The air is thick and heavy. It is that strange, deceptive kind of electrical storm where the lashing winds by turn wheeze and howl but no rain ever comes. The yacht rocks upon the dark currents, the corner of its stern thumping heavily against the side of the berth. Jagged edges of water lurk on the surface of the pool. Upstairs, the candles are lit, the lava lamps switched on, and the contents of the tray have been laid out. With another rumble of thunder echoing in her chest, Merla shuts the last of the sliding doors, the thick glass vibrating in its frame. No better time to use her one tea bag.

  She stands in the dining room with her hands around her mug. Partly concealed by blinds, she watches as the Ferrari screeches to a halt. Out comes the man in wobbly steps, while Zach emerges from the other door, straining against the strong gusts of wind. Seconds later, only one other car passes through the gates and pulls up close behind. Merla has not seen it before. The driver is tall and lean, with a narrow face. The three of them make their way toward the house, the stranger looking sober by comparison to his host. Zach catches Merla’s gaze, and turns almost instantly. She frowns, unable to read the expression she just saw. Suddenly she is aware that the man is pointing her out to the stranger, who nods in response and stares directly at her. Merla backs away to the kitchen and stays there, not moving, her ears pricked. She hears the front doors open and shut, voices mumbling, footsteps heading toward the stairs. The long period of quiet which follows is not what it seems. Out of thin air, the stranger appears in the kitchen before her, holding the mug she left on the dining room table. He asks for more ice, a request which she tends to immediately. Then he tells her she must have forgotten her tea, and places it on the counter within the outline of his shadow. She hesitates. The weight of his stare shifts from her to the mug. He picks it up and moves a step closer toward her. Merla takes her tea and darts off, ignorant of the fact that he lies in wait, not knowing that his eyes never leave her, and too quickly disregarding an obscure instinct that this man is unlike the others.

  * * *

  Darkness which hurts. Light-headedness. An escalating awareness of being roughly shaken. Through hooded eyes, Merla sees the stranger thrashing against her body, feels the searing pain below. Terror pierces right through her. She cannot breathe. She tries to scream but her mouth is gagged. She struggles but her body is weak. He pounds the side of her head with his bare knuckles, flips her over, and pushes her legs apart. Another jab of agonizing pain. Tears start to stream down her face. She passes out.

  Nausea surging over her, she rolls and tumbles onto the floor of the cabin. Vomit spews from her dry mouth. The stranger is nowhere about. Hands trembling, she pulls up her underwear; she cannot see her skirt. On her hands and knees, she moves slowly toward the way out, feeling the yacht sway beneath her. She crawls halfway along the berth before finding her feet, the heavy wind swirling around her. In the lounge, she collapses onto a sofa on which she has never sat. Blood seeps into the fabric. She does not know when the spasms cease, is oblivious to the passing of time. She feels nothing. She rises unsteadily to her feet and staggers past the console table, her flailing arms sending the Swarovski crystal crashing onto the floor. In the dark of the kitchen, she picks up a knife. Then she heads up the stairs.

  On the landing, she sees that the door to the den is ajar and hears a strangled cry. She approaches, her mind and body disconnected. Through the gap, a partial sight. A grotesque heap of obese nakedness on the floor, slurring and slobbering. She pushes the door open. Zach is strapped to the wall with his hands pulled high. His bare frame is limp and his cries have turned into feeble sobs. Merla’s vision adjusts to the dim light. Covering Zach’s torso and limbs is a gruesome mass of lashes and deep cigarette burns. Merla starts to convulse with anguish. Finally unleashed, she lurches into the room, knife raised high, and plunges the metal deep into the man’s shoulder blade. He yelps and reels away on the rubber floor in shock, staring up at Merla, at the knife in her hand. Uncharted waters. Shaking violently and barely breathing, she drops the knife and unstraps the boy, never taking her eyes off the man. Zach collapses onto his knees. In a split second, a tidal wave of rage thrusts him back onto his feet. With a primal scream, he lunges. Grunting through clenched teeth, he punches and kicks with all his might at the man’s face and crotch.

  Merla crumples into a corner, slamming her palms over her ears. She can still hear the tumult of blows. Blow after ruthless blow. With each one, she is hit again by the force of every strike she has ever suffered, every injustice. In her defiled body, her spirit burns. She shuts her eyes tight. Now she wants to scream. The cry is there, the beginnings of it, still caged in her chest, straining toward her vocal cords to smash through her muteness. In her head, a chasm of whirling darkness. Beyond the den, in the black skies over the cove, a vortex rages. A slash of lightning. She opens her eyes t
o see that Zach has suddenly stopped. Spit trickling down his chin. Horrified disbelief etched into his features. On the floor, a few feet away from Merla, the man’s blood-smeared lips are distorted, twisted into something obscene. A smile. From his mouth, a hideous sound—an animal growl, erupting into profane laughter. Zach, his brutalized, bleeding chest still heaving and eyes ablaze, turns to Merla. She sees him glance at the thing in her hand. She feels her grip tighten. She is adrift, in turmoil. Did she not let go of the knife?

  Outside, a lone boat battles through the turbulence from the treacherous open sea into the cove, crashing through the waves, passing the house at desperate speed. An eleventh-hour mooring. Man’s creation against God’s wrath. Its headlights sweep and penetrate the black curtains through a thin crack. A shaft of unearthly light stabs the floor. Merla’s wild eyes are dragged along as the light beckons and taunts, as it slides over the wall, the straps, and the chains, moving relentlessly toward the ceiling mirrors, going up and up.

  BEDOK RESERVOIR

  BY DAVE CHUA

  Bedok

  It was around four a.m. and the cupboard-sized room was, as always, unbearably warm. Natalia could feel herself choking on her own breath. She climbed down from the bunk bed and glided to the door on cotton slippers, past her belongings and the photographs of her family in Java. Her employers were still asleep.