The Oddfits (The Oddfits Series Book 1)

by Tiffany Tsao

  Feeling shy all of a sudden, Murgatroyd took the little plastic spoon, said thank you, and left. He looked at his wristwatch. It was a lot later than he thought. He had to report for work. As he walked towards the bus stop, he ate the ice cream and thought about what he had just experienced. So that was what travelling to the More Known World was like. And he now knew what Ann meant about feeling most at home while doing so. Now that he was back in the Known World, he felt the deep despair and confusion he had been experiencing lately beginning to wash over him again. To delay this reality, he thought about the wondrousness of his visit to feed Ivan’s mosquitoes and grinned to himself. He felt hope and joy welling up within him—and a curious, renewed yearning for these sensations, so new to him, to remain with him always. Was this what going on the Quest would be like?

  His meeting with Ivan Ho and his brief visit to the More Known World had given Murgatroyd great joy indeed. These were the exact results Ann had hoped the visit would produce when she had arranged it. Unfortunately, Murgatroyd’s third visit to the More Known World also had other consequences—ones that neither Ann nor the One, the Other nor Yusuf, nor any other soul living or dead could ever have foreseen. For although new knowledge was being gained every day, there was still much about the worlds that nobody knew.

  For example, nobody knew that, technically speaking, Oddfits didn’t adapt to the Known World; the Known World adapted them. It was a small distinction that hardly made any difference when it came to the day-to-day business of existence; but it did imply that the Known World was capable of exerting more power than its inhabitants tended to ascribe to it. Another interesting thing that nobody knew: oddfittingness wasn’t just a matter of quantity, but also of quality. There was a type of oddfittingness that the Known World could never diminish, never eradicate, and therefore, could never tolerate. An unadaptable Oddfit couldn’t be allowed to live: it was an inalterably foreign element that had to be purged in order to preserve the healthy functioning of the whole.

  A third of all Oddfits conceived possessed this type of oddfittingness, and a third of all Oddfits conceived met their demise before they ever took their first breath.

  Murgatroyd should have died before he was ever born.

  And yet, he lived. At the risk of attributing to the Known World sentience, unified thought, and feeling, one might even say that the Known World spared his life. It certainly had intended to eliminate the foreign being, as it did with all the others; but there was something different about this one. This one loved.

  All the others emitted hate—hate pure and blind for the world they found themselves in, and understandably so. They were creatures out of their element—birds in water, fish in air. With every act of cellular proliferation, with the formation of each new type of cell, each new organ, and each new appendage, every burgeoning nerve and sinew and blood vessel of these rapidly growing beings screamed silently in protest, consumed with an instinctive hatred for an environment to which they could never belong. The reaction was mutual: the Known World felt their presence as a burning, festering rash across the skin, a thick splinter in the foot’s sole, the sharp sting of an angry wasp. They were as incapable of tolerating the Known World as the Known World was incapable of tolerating them.

  Then there was this one. This one who, against every inclination of every growing fibre of its being, struggled to love the world in which it now found itself gaining form and consciousness. Love in spite of it all.

  The Known World was confused. Could it be that this being was, in some way, one of its own? Or maybe this one just needed more time. Could it be adapted later?

  Improbable, but there was still a small chance . . .

  The Known World made its decision with great trepidation. The being could live, but the adverse effects of its presence had to be suppressed in order to be made endurable: in lieu of getting rid of the illness, the Known World treated the symptoms. In exchange for its life, the being had to be kept in a weakened physical and psychological state.

  So it was done. The being was born and it grew, after a fashion. And it reached adulthood, of a sort. And it bore the weakening that was inflicted upon it admirably. It still loved. In response, the Known World remained wary, but also gracious. When the being departed the first time, returning pungent with the aroma of the other world and slightly stronger than it should have been, the Known World dismissed this as a fleeting lapse, resumed its suppression of the being, and let it continue to be—for the being still loved.

  When the being did this a second time, the Known World was alarmed and pained, but took no action—for the being still loved.

  This time, it could not be abided, no matter how much the being still loved. Aside from the fact that this third departure was simply excessive—a clear sign of the being’s wavering determination to endure the Known World—the being had come back far too robust. Upon its re-entry, the Known World had groaned in agony. The being called Murgatroyd had become a cancerous tumour, a deadly virus. There was no alternative. It had to be destroyed.

  Murgatroyd was blissfully unaware of the aggravation his actions had incited from the world in which he now sat, waiting for the bus to take him to work. He was also unaware that he was being watched. The watcher was someone who had also been in the 7-Eleven at the same time as Murgatroyd, and whose stealthy departure had caused the little bell above the door to give a cheerful tinkle. It was the Duck Assassin, lurking in the shadows of a nearby banyan tree, dutifully carrying out the work assigned to him by Mrs. Vithani.

  The Duck Assassin was a quiet young man. Or perhaps “silent” would be a better word, since one associates “quiet” men with innocuous activities like library-frequenting and chess-playing and stamp-collecting. He was a silent but dangerous sort who had nothing personal against Murgatroyd Floyd Shwet Foo. Nothing but the nameless dull contempt he felt for everyone and everything. At least, that was what he had always felt. Until now.

  Crouching very still behind the tree trunk, dressed in his usual black attire, with the lower part of his face concealed, the Duck Assassin watched Murgatroyd at the bus stop. The little ang moh wasn’t doing anything very interesting—sitting, standing, sitting again, standing and stretching, walking in circles. Finally, the ang moh pulled out a little blue paper parasol from his pocket and, twirling it about between his hands, seemed to lose himself in happy contemplation. Yes, the ang moh hadn’t really done anything, and wasn’t really doing anything now, but the Duck Assassin was beginning to feel much more than mere contempt for Murgatroyd. Much more. As he watched Murgatroyd, he felt his contempt blossoming into a searing hatred, intensifying exponentially with each second Murgatroyd was passing alive under his surveillance. He didn’t know why. The ang moh had never caused him offence. There was no explanation for it.

  Or was there? Yes. Yes, there was an explanation, now that he thought further on it. It lay in everything—everything he had observed about the ang moh as he had followed him over the past few days: the pathetic grin that lit up his whole pathetic face every time he encountered some insignificant reason to rejoice in his pathetic little life; the innocent, misplaced faith he so stupidly and stubbornly had in everything and everyone around him; the way the world kicked him as if he were a mangy roadside dog and the way the stupid little ang moh kept trotting back for more, tail wagging, eyes bright. It was positively infuriating.

  And now, this pitiful, idiotic ang moh had an opportunity to embark on some sort of “Quest”—one that would enable him to leave this place forever and go far, far away. On Friday at seven p.m., he could meet that one-eyed woman in green and leave for good. The assassin wasn’t quite sure what the ang moh would eventually decide to do. From the conversation he had just overheard while hiding in the corner of the 7-Eleven, it appeared that he wasn’t going after all. But there was something incomprehensibly annoying about the way the ang moh glowed happiness whenever he had talked about that stupid Quest. He recalled his first day on this assignment: he could a
lways tell the ang moh was thinking about the Quest whenever he smiled or whenever his eyes twinkled without reason. He recalled how unnaturally hopeful the ang moh had been when sharing the news that night with his best friend. And even now, when he was apparently being prevented from going on the Quest, the yearning and wonder in the way he had spoken of it in the 7-Eleven made the Duck Assassin burn with rage.

  How could that miserable little creature be so oblivious? So trusting? How dare he hope? How dare he dream? How dare he hobble towards the open horizon of freedom and gaze at it with such awe and longing even when he found his path blocked?

  The Duck Assassin was still stewing in his hate and pondering it when, unexpectedly, a memory surfaced, long sunken and forgotten. As a child, he would often escape into the jungle that surrounded the wooden shack in which his family lived. There were no people in the jungle. Nobody to scold him or pull his ears, nobody to burn him with cigarette butts, or throw beer bottles at him, or slap him for misbehaving or not doing his chores properly. Just the dark, cool shadows of the forest floor, the nooks and crannies of giant tree trunks, the soothing rustle of the dead leaves crunching underfoot. He would capture all sorts of animals and put them in jars and boxes. The little snakes he would look at only for a few minutes before releasing them back into the wild. Ants he had often tried keeping as pets, but they always sickened and died, no matter how well he fed them. Lizards were usually too quick for him to catch. But one time, he came across a few moth cocoons hidden under some dead leaves and twigs. He brought one of them home and kept it in an old jam jar covered with some soft netting he had found among some rubbish in an alleyway. He set the jar amidst stacks of old newspapers and bottles on the rickety old table in the corner of the main room and waited for the cocoon to hatch. Several days passed, and he began to give up hope, but one afternoon, he came home and noticed something moving in the jar. It was a moth, all right—a fat, furry body on six hairy little legs, scuttling around in the small space of the jar. But something had gone wrong. The moth hadn’t been able to climb the slippery glass sides of the jar to hang upside down and properly unfurl its wings. Now it was too late. Its wings were permanently damaged.

  He put his finger inside the jar, letting the moth clamber onto the palm of his hand, and he stroked it for a while with the back of his finger. It was trembling, and so soft and fuzzy. Gently, he set it down upon the table and let the deformed creature waddle about. It might have been a handsome moth—its body and wings were a bright green rather than the usual brown of most moths he had seen, and the wings were adorned with shades of black, dusky purple, and rose pink. But the wings were crumpled, misshapen, and awkwardly angled, sometimes tripping their owner who half-limped, half-flapped about in circles, attempting to take flight.

  The young boy had felt an overwhelming sense of empathy for the moth, for he understood it—understood it even more than he himself knew. And with this profound empathy came an inexplicable rage. The moth was stupid. It would never fly, but it still tried. It tried again and again. With the bare heel of his hand, he smashed it to death.

  Stupid moth.

  By the time Murgatroyd’s bus had arrived, the Duck Assassin was speeding away on his motorcycle to the Vithani residence, where Shakti had been expecting him. Upon hearing the Duck Assassin’s report, Shakti’s eyes blazed with contempt and wounded pride.

  “So he is leaving me,” she murmured under her breath. Leaving her. And of all things, he had lied about it. “On Friday evening, you say? You’re positive about this? Absolutely positive?”

  If Shakti had been watching the black-clad figure standing before her more closely, she would have noticed that the figure hesitated—just for a moment—before it nodded in the affirmative.

  But she wasn’t paying any attention to the minutiae of his movements. All her attention was directed inward, focused on herself: her humiliation, indignation, and wrath. In a paroxysm of fury, she picked up a small porcelain statuette on the table next to her and hurled it against the wall. Its shattering calmed her a little. Just a little. She turned the matter over again in her head. Little Shwet Foo was leaving her—Shakti Vithani. Possibly the most influential and charismatic woman in Singapore. She who had deigned to spend her own precious time grooming that hunchbacked caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly. All for some one-eyed woman and a preposterous mission. And he had dared to lie about it. To her face. She never would have thought him capable. She never would have thought that he had the guts. But he had. It was a brazen act of deception that she would have admired if she hadn’t been the object of deception. Heartless guttersnipe. Shakti Vithani always had a tendency to overreact, but something that day prompted her to overreact even more than usual. As the Duck Assassin stood dutifully before her, awaiting her next order, Shakti had this to say:

  “Kill him.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Hah? Say again?” Murgatroyd exclaimed to the manager of L’Abattoir.

  “We’re letting you go,” the manager repeated. His tone was cool and firm, although he himself was recovering from surprise. Mrs. Vithani had called only fifteen minutes ago with the order to fire Shwet Foo.

  “But—but—” Murgatroyd stammered. “How come?”

  “Well . . .” the manager began tactfully. Managing three different restaurants belonging to the temperamental Shakti had given him a lot of experience in firing people. He launched into one of his five standard replies for this kind of question. “Although you’re not a bad worker, we feel that you aren’t invested seriously enough in this job. It just doesn’t seem to suit you.”

  Murgatroyd attempted to laugh. “Eh, you must be joking, right? Does Mrs. Vithani know about this? Can I talk to her?”

  “Sorry, Shwet Foo, but Mrs. Vithani is not in at the moment. She told me to wish you the best of luck on her behalf, and that she’s sorry that she has to let you go.”

  So Shakti not only knew, but Shakti herself was firing him. The expression on Murgatroyd’s face was that of a dog struck by its master for no reason.

  On his way out, he passed Ahmad who thumped him consolingly on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. I just heard the news.”

  “Erh, thanks,” Murgatroyd mumbled before stumbling through the front doors into the hot afternoon sun.

  Ahmad called after him. “Eh, Shwet Foo! You gonna be all right or not?”

  “Yeah . . .” Murgatroyd answered faintly, walking on.

  Perhaps it was because he was in such a state of shock and despair that he didn’t see the motorcycle roaring down the street towards him as he made his way to the nearest bus stop. He could have sworn that he had looked both ways twice. But however it happened, Murgatroyd had been crossing the road when he looked to his right and became aware of two things: one, that a large black motorcycle was advancing towards him at breakneck speed, and two, that these were to be the last moments of his life.

  Startled by this double revelation, Murgatroyd’s feet screeched to an abrupt halt and lost their balance, sending him tumbling backwards out of the street and, just barely, out of the path of the motorcycle. There was a flash of warmth in his feet—the friction of the motorcycle’s wheels grazing the soles of his sneakers as it sped past. Lying on the pavement, flat on his back, Murgatroyd lifted his head and watched as the motorcycle zoomed away, turned a corner, and disappeared out of sight.

  A young woman and her little boy ran up to him. “Are you all right?”

  Murgatroyd looked upwards and saw two anxious faces against the backdrop of the blue sky. “I think so,” he answered faintly.

  “You can walk or not? You need me to call triple nine?”

  “No, no. No need. I think I’m okay.”

  She helped Murgatroyd to his feet.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Thank you.”

  “Okay,” the woman said doubtfully, before taking her son’s hand and continuing on her way. “See, Kiang Hong?” she said to her son. “This is why Mummy always tells yo
u to be careful when crossing the street.”

  Thoroughly rattled by this brush with death, Murgatroyd decided it would be best to return home. After spending ten minutes steadying himself, Murgatroyd wobbled to the bus stop. His bus arrived. He stepped aboard and sat down. He pushed the signal button for his stop and disembarked. He walked back to his flat. He pushed the button for the lift.

  Murgatroyd did all of these things mechanically and instinctively. Like a homing pigeon trained to always return to a specific location, Murgatroyd had made his way back to where he lived. Soon he would make his way to the kitchen, make himself a cup of Milo, add a heaping tablespoonful of salt, and sit there disconsolately. This was what he always did whenever he felt particularly morose. As for his thoughts, he hadn’t really had any since he left the restaurant. But now, as he waited for the lift, his brain began to recover from the traumatic incidents he had just experienced, and with the return of its processing powers came misery. He had lost the one thing in his life that he was actually capable of doing well. So much for looking forward to the rest of his life in the Known World. On the other hand, he was grateful that the motorcycle hadn’t run him over. But it was difficult to be enthusiastic about his narrow escape when his enthusiasm for the life he was living was beginning to wilt.

  What’s happening to me? Finally, the lift arrived and the doors opened. Something in Murgatroyd felt like doing something a little different. Something in him felt like taking the stairs. And so he walked up the stairs, all the way to the eleventh floor. As he did so, he remembered how just this morning he had been climbing up stairs in the More Known World, and he smiled a little on the inside.

  Murgatroyd reached his floor, walked to his flat, and unlocked the door. Just as he closed the door, a crash sounded in the distance somewhere. Murgatroyd didn’t even register that he heard anything out of the ordinary. With so much construction work going on in the area, he heard sounds like that all the time. What he had actually heard was the lift he had almost taken splintering to pieces at the bottom of the shaft.