by K S Augustin
Tonight was not race day, so the station was its usual eerie quiet. Only three of us got off on the platform and the two young boys in front of me, laughing and still in their high-school uniforms, were energetic enough to make me feel old and jaded. They bounded down the stairs while I took the elevator, listening to the rhythmic whine of each mechanical wheel as it bore me down to the ground floor.
By the time I reached the turnstile the boys were long gone, although I could still hear their good humour receding into the distance. I slapped my card on the access panel, walked around the corner and came across a large food place, its white fluorescent lights obscenely blinding in such stillness. I called it a food place because calling it a restaurant, or even a café, would be gracing it with more ambience than it had. It was a place of cheap food on cheap furniture in cheap surroundings. I had passed it numerous times without a second glance but tonight was different. My stomach was rumbling and I was still an hour from home.
I looked in through the large windows and noticed that, as usual, the place was three-quarters empty. Dallying for a while with indecision, I finally succumbed and entered.
The floor was cheap vinyl, blackened at the edges where it met the walls. The few customers already in the shop didn’t even look up as I walked to the counter. Behind the stretch of scratched white, the serving woman jerked her head sharply upwards in the universal signal for “what do you want?”. She looked tired and angry. I didn’t blame her.
After a quick perusal of the menu on the back wall above her head, I ordered a nasi lemak and iced lemon tea, figuring it was a combination that was hard to screw up. The food came while I was still fishing for change and I took my tray to an empty table next to the wall but still close to the counter. From that angle, I could see everyone entering and leaving through the door and even movement at the cash register. Of course if someone decided to climb the glass display case at my back, they’d be in a great position to ambush me, but I figured they’d slip on the ever-present layer of grease and do themselves an injury before they got within striking distance.
The food, presented in the traditional pyramid of a folded banana leaf, was surprisingly good. The ikan bilis sambal, made from dried anchovies, was the right mixture of hot and sweet. Of course there weren’t enough peanuts to accompany the coconut-milk rice (there never are) and the egg was fried. That bothered me because I’m a traditionalist who likes my nasi lemak with a hard-boiled egg, not this quick and dirty fried version but, for a couple of bucks, what could I expect? The iced tea was too astringent, with a bitter after-taste. Either they were using low-quality tea or it had been sitting there for at least half a day. No matter, it filled a hole and meant I didn’t have to go scavenging when I got home.
I left my tray on the table after I finished and walked out towards the road. The air was still hot, with little relief from any stray breezes, and there was the ever-present aroma of diesel fumes in the air. The road around Kranji is always busy with buses and lorries plying their route between Singapore and Malaysia, and a lot of the vehicles were not that well maintained, but the smell always made me feel nostalgic. It’s the smell of home, a scent that was written into my very psyche during my formative years, just before my parents emigrated to the United Kingdom, taking me with them. I breathed in the smoke. Between the heat, lush greenery and the smell, it somehow felt…right.
It was getting dark fast so I hurried to the tall pedestrian bridge and descended to the far side of the road just in time to catch one of the fuel-belching monsters on its way back across the Causeway. Mine was the last stop in Singapore so it was obvious I wouldn’t get a seat. I stood, jammed up against other impassive workers on their way home, watching the monotonous darkness go by.
There are two points of near-panic during any journey across the Strait, both at the border points. It doesn’t matter which way. In this particular case, the first occurred as the bus neared the Singapore Customs & Immigration stop. There are always the craned looks from the passengers up front, sizing up how many buses are ahead of theirs and how it will translate to waiting times inside the building.
Sometimes the bus will stop metres away from the platform and people will dash madly from the exits, dodging between scooters and other pedestrians on their way to the checkpoint. On the approach to the Singaporean checkpoint, eagle-eyed officials stand and watch the hordes mill past. Sometimes the guards are accompanied by several German Shepherd dogs straining on the leashes beside them. Everybody is careful not to run if the dogs are there.
I’ve always wondered why the young men with severe crew-cuts care so much. After all, we’re leaving the country. But this is Singapore, so appearances must be maintained. After navigating the concrete pathway, there are the escalators. At least they work, which is more than can be said about the Malaysian side of the border, and we are finally disgorged into a giant processing area.
Despite the number of people wanting to get out of the country, not every Immigration booth is manned. Sometimes the officials like to toy with the crowd, making it appear that they are getting ready to open another aisle. They have their little cases of stamps with them, a clipboard, maybe a binder or two. They approach a vacant booth, stare at it for a few minutes, then move off. The more experienced travellers will shuffle their feet and take furtive looks around, calculating their chances of being first at the new queue, should it open. I’ve seen old white-haired grandmothers wrestle with the best of them in such a melée. With age comes sharp elbows. And surprising nimbleness. Must be all those tai chi classes.
In the meantime, the Immigration official can feel the desperation in the hot air as something tangible, something to feast upon. He or she will cast a bored look around, as if contemplating the architecture, then retreat to a point near one of the far offices. Sometimes this ploy of forward, pace, touch barrier, retreat, can occur several times, an exquisite torture for all those waiting in lines that easily stretch fifty or more individuals long. And while we wait, the buses fill up outside the complex and carry on their journey across the border to the next Customs and Immigration complex, but this time on Malaysian soil.
I had only come to Singapore that night on a hunch, so I wasn’t carrying any bags or backpacks with me. That meant that, once I was through the formalities, I could dodge through the workers who were more exhausted than me.
As I reached the top of the queue, I took a look around. Towering above the majority of people were Western tourists, pale and sweating even in their strappy tops, thin t-shirts and cotton shorts. They looked shell-shocked, as if they had been expecting the cool efficiency of Changi airport and had instead got…us. I remained impassive while the Immigration official checked my passport before waving me through.
The air in the transport bays felt even hotter after the feeble air-conditioning in the building, compounded by the smoking exhausts of the idling buses.
I scrambled my way onto the closest one taking passengers, flashing my paper ticket at the driver as I boarded, sank onto the nearest seat and headed home.
Want to read more? Read the rest when the book is released in October 2011.
Copyright information
ISBN: 978-0-9871445-0-8
WAR GAMES
Copyright © 2011 by K.S. Augustin
Cover art: Tibbs Design
Editors: H Hammond, John Young
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Table of Contents
WAR GAMES What can you do when you start falling in love with the woman you’re meant to kill
War Games
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the author
Other available titles
Quinten’s Story
The Check Your Luck Agency
Copyright information