by Ning Cai
“Ning Cai is a wonder.”
—Neil Gaiman, internationally celebrated author of
The Sandman and The Ocean at the End of the Lane
“A fast-paced YA thriller, packed with mystery, magic and a touch of romance.”
—Lang Leav, bestselling author of
Sad Girls and Sea of Strangers
“Ning Cai conjures a potent blend of heart and humour alongside danger and darkness.”
—Gwenda Bond, author of the
Lois Lane and Cirque American series
“Good mystery stories and magic tricks both rely on deft hands, artful distraction, charming onstage characters, and a flashy finish that leaves you wondering how the author pulled it all off— and Ning Cai puts on a great show!”
—E.C. Myers, award-winning author of
Fair Coin and The Silence of Six
ALSO FROM THE EPIGRAM BOOKS FICTION PRIZE
WINNER
The Gatekeeper by Nuraliah Norasid
FINALISTS
State of Emergency by Jeremy Tiang
Fox Fire Girl by O Thiam Chin
Surrogate Protocol by Tham Cheng-E
LONGLISTED
Lieutenant Kurosawa’s Errand Boy by Warran Kalasegaran
The Last Immigrant by Lau Siew Mei
Lion Boy and Drummer Girl by Pauline Loh
2015
Now That It’s Over by O Thiam Chin (winner)
Sugarbread by Balli Kaur Jaswal
Let’s Give It Up for Gimme Lao! by Sebastian Sim
Death of a Perm Sec by Wong Souk Yee
Annabelle Thong by Imran Hashim
Kappa Quartet by Daryl Qilin Yam
Altered Straits by Kevin Martens Wong
Copyright © 2018 by Ning Cai
Author photo by Eng Chun Pang. Used with permission.
All rights reserved
Published in Singapore by Epigram Books
shop.epigrambooks.sg
Published with the support of
National Library Board, Singapore
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Name: Cai, Ning, 1982–
Title: Misdirection : Book One of the Savant Trilogy / Ning Cai.
Description: Singapore : Epigram Books, [2018]
Identifier: OCN 1019800255
ISBN 978-981-47-8508-2 (paperback)
ISBN 978-981-47-8509-9 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Singapore—Fiction. | Criminal investigation— Singapore—Fiction.
Classification: DDC S823—dc23
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: March 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated to my BFF Pamela Ho,
who started yours truly on this
amazing journey as a writer
ONE
I’M ALIVE. I know this because dead people feel no pain.
Blinding white light floods my vision as I open my eyes, and I regret my decision instantly. I blink back a sharp sting of tears. I try to sit up in bed, as I do to roll out every morning to start my day at Blackmore High, but everywhere hurts like effing hell.
Every muscle, bone and sinew is screaming in major agony. And way beyond the sore muscles I am familiar with after a great parkour training session or workout. What happened? I try to think. Did I fall? It must have been a very bad tumble. I don’t remember. My brain feels scrambled.
Loud thunder like the wrath and fury of ancient gods rumbles overhead, fully rousing me now. Dark clouds lurk outside my unfamiliar window, spreading out into the twilight, hailing the keen promise of rain. The rolling thunder finally fades and grows distant. From the window comes the soft musical drumming of tropical monsoon rain, getting progressively louder in its rhumba.
But there is something else too.
A bright electronic sound chirps rhythmically beside me, along with an accompanying high-pitched wail, which reminds me all too much of that painfully annoying alarm on my phone set to wake me up for school every morning. It’s the one that Siri punishes me with, when I have used up every one of my allowed snoozes. Right now, the ceaseless wailing near my head is unmercifully loud enough to wake the dead.
I throw a glance in its direction and notice a red light flashing rapidly above some kind of complicated-looking medical equipment with a bright screen showing wavy lines, numbers and other types of clinical data my brain fails to comprehend. Long red tubes extend from the whirring machine, feeding themselves directly into my left arm.
My pale, thin arm.
The right arm matches the pallor and lack of definition of the left, and I flinch. Whatever happened to my sun-kissed tan and toned muscles? It’s like someone generously slathered Mom’s fancy South Korean face-whitening cream all over me. Looking down, I see something wrapped snugly around my wrist: a plastic tag with a very official-looking barcode.
PARKWAY EAST HOSPITAL
PATIENT NAME: SCHOOLING, MAXINE
SEX: FEMALE
DOB: 5 JAN 2000
Maxine Schooling. Is that me?
Yes.
The name, which I slowly remember now as mine, feels like the forgotten lyrics of an old song once very much loved, but which has not been heard or sung in a long while. Long enough to almost forget. Its letters do feel somewhat familiar to me, but in a rather detached kind of way. In other words, this virtual indifference perplexes me.
The sharp, unmistakable smell of hospital antiseptic is clear to me now, and I feel my heart race as cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. Obviously I’m in some kind of institution, warded in bed, hooked up to a life-support machine of some sort. But why? How is it that I can’t for the life of me remember?
It sounds like Darth Vader is in the saccharine-white room with me. But that pained ragged breathing, I quickly come to realise, is actually coming from the oxygen mask looped tight around my face. Feeling my stomach start to churn with panic, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to process everything that is happening right now in this moment, willing the overwhelming cacophony of loud noises to go away.
Don’t freak out now, I tell myself. Breathe.
I take in a series of deep breaths and pace myself. Slowly inhaling oxygen into my lungs until they feel full to bursting, exhaling gently and deeply, and visualising pushing out more than I take in. Someone taught me that, I can’t remember who, but it is supposed to help calm you down and focus on the present moment.
A loud clattering sound interrupts my moment of travelling inwards, and I open my eyes.
Swaying like a helpless marionette in the heavy monsoon rain outside, the flowering branch of a majestic angsana tree taps a beat against the windowpane, and I suddenly recall snatches of a distant memory.
A horn blares loudly and I take off running, like a fearless pilot riding the warm winds. My favourite pair of seasoned trainers pound a resounding rhythm against the hard pavement as I sprint. Feeling the hot midday sun in my face and the soft caress of the humid breeze against my skin, I confidently execute a perfect precision jump followed by a cat leap and a well-practised flip. As my body sails through the air, time seems to slow down to a crawl and I see everything clearly. I am in the moment.
I land gracefully on the balls of my feet, and my ears are filled with the sound of people cheering. Trusting my intuition and muscle memory to make the right number of steps at the optimal speed, my body springs like a released coil and launches itself across the last obstacle in a flawless speed vault, before coming to a dramatic roll on dark asphalt across the finish line. The crowd roars its approval and I
am handed a trophy.
Parkour.
It is a parkour trophy. Heavy, shiny, the biggest yet in my collection. And I see my dearest friends and classmates going crazy, clapping and cheering for me as I wave hard at their sweaty, smiling faces.
Mom, Dad and Danny are also in the stands celebrating my win. My adorable little brother, sitting proudly on our tall father’s wide, sloping shoulders, is laughing hard and unabashedly showing off that dark gap of his missing front tooth. Reaching across the metal barricades that separate us, I try to slap Danny a high-five but just before I can reach him, I’m quickly pulled away by the organisers, who whisk me off for pictures with the media and their important sponsors. Our fingers nearly touch but our hands miss.
My family. I remember them. Where are they right now?
My entire body feels strangely numb, like an arm desensitised from poor blood circulation because I slept on it for too long. Tentatively, I wiggle the stiff fingers of my right hand.
Whoa!
My stubborn digits protest the movement and right away they tingle, as if I just plunged my fist deep into a lava pit before submerging my entire arm into an open polynya in the Antarctic’s frozen ice sea. The pain is savage AF.
Swearing under my breath, I gasp at the intensity of the engulfing sensations coursing through the very tips of my fingers, radiating from my hand, speeding down my forearm, shooting past my elbow, prickling right up my shoulder.
My entire body tenses at the pain and I choke back a cry. The agony slowly ebbs. I grit my teeth and prepare myself. I flex again. This time the pain twinges but not nearly as bad as before. The weird spasmic sensation is still there but much reduced, and the numbing tingle radiating afterwards thankfully does not last as long. Most importantly, my fingers are starting to work like normal again.
I allow myself a small smile of victory and then try again one more time, masochistically ecstatic that the residual tingle is only concentrated in my hand, which I can now squeeze tight. I relax and shut my eyes, feeling a massive cloud of weariness starting to settle like a weighted blanket over me. Maybe I should go back to sleep.
Yeah.
But now I can’t.
Because someone is suddenly singing David Guetta’s “Titanium” to me.
I remember the lyrics. And the soft voice. I blink and my blurry vision struggles to focus on the almond-shaped face of a young woman of mixed Chinese and Indian parentage. Pretty enough to be a social media influencer with tons of followers, she appears to be in her late teens or very early twenties.
The Chindian stranger has a nice voice and I almost feel regret when she stops singing. But she smiles at me. Her expression is dazzling like the sun, and the bright white light behind her forms a halo around her dark head of curls, adding an angelic glow. She leans in so close that our noses almost touch.
“Hey, stranger.”
She wears stylish cat-eye glasses and a gold ring in her nose that nicely complements her wheatish complexion. There’s something extremely familiar about her, and my instincts tell me that I can trust her. Regarding me with her bright eyes rimmed in black kohl, the Chindian girl angles her head towards me and winks.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. It’s time for you to re-enter the world.”
Her laughter reminds me of melodic Balinese wind chimes dancing in the breeze. Her warm smile is surprisingly contagious and I find myself grinning back at her. Someone else joins her, a young Filipino nurse who stares down at me. His eyes widen in surprise just before he pushes off the rails of my bed and swiftly springs out of the room, calling for the doctor. Unfazed by the nurse’s behaviour, my smiling visitor arches an eyebrow at me.
“So, do you remember who I am?”
I contemplate her expressive hazel eyes and friendly smile, taking in the long mess of dark hair spilling down her small shoulders, her delicate collar bones and the colourful friendship band knotted on her slender left wrist. And suddenly, it all comes back.
Yes.
They told me that she had just made a wish after blowing out the three candles on her birthday cake, when I was born at KK Women’s and Children’s Hospital on a hazy Wednesday. My scientist parents and her father, Uncle Devan, were close friends at the National University of Singapore and became working colleagues after graduating, so it was no surprise we also became bosom buddies. She would always patiently entertain me with stories she made up on nights I called her because I couldn’t sleep. And ever since I can remember, I’ve always called her Luce.
And Luce called me…
“Max.” Lucille Ang-Anandan’s velvety voice calms me and I feel my shoulders start to relax. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
The doors burst open.
The same nurse is back with a petite Indian woman in a smart white jacket. Rushing past Luce, the doctor swiftly keys a code into the wailing machine and the disturbing clamour of flashing red lights and electronic commotion finally stops. While I am deeply thankful, my ears suddenly feel odd, unused to the shattering silence around me.
“You’re in good hands, Max,” Luce calls out from her spot behind the doctor. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Picking up the stethoscope wrapped around her neck, the doctor warms the metallic end of it rapidly between her palms before pressing the bell to my chest. On her otherwise pristine uniform, a fresh stain—a small archipelago of what looks like fresh laksa gravy—clues me in that she has just been interrupted during her meal break. Glancing at the doctor’s simple wristwatch, I see that it is a quarter past two in the afternoon. A ray of light bounces sharply off the shiny plastic of the faded photo ID badge clipped to her breast pocket. Her name is Dr Wijeysingha.
“Breathe,” the doctor tells me. “Nice and slow.”
Her face is a mask of keen concentration as my chest heaves when I deepen my breaths for her benefit. She listens intently and then instructs the nurse to contact my family. He nods and leaves the room, but not before throwing me a look of delight. Removing a slim torch-light pen from her breast pocket, Dr Wijeysingha switches it on and points the bright LED beam into my eyes.
“Please look at me.”
Trying hard not to blink, I stare into the very core of the bright circle of white, darting my eyes to follow its movement. It reminds me of a surreal dream I once had, which was all too real for me; I fail to recall the specifics, but I have a fleeting memory of an engulfing warm light baptising me fully as I reached the very end of a long, dark tunnel.
Yes. Everything’s going to be okay.
My name is Maxine Schooling.
And today I’m alive.
TWO
GRATEFUL, I SIP from the glass of cool water Dr Wijeysingha carefully tips towards my lips. Water has never tasted so good. The physician dries my wet chin with a paper towel and adjusts my nasal cannula, making sure my oxygen supply is properly delivered.
“Comfortable?” She looks earnestly at my face as she tucks the small flexible tubes of my cannula behind my ears. I nod, grateful to be finally free of that uncomfortable oxygen mask.
Pulling the single chair in the hospital room as close as possible to my bedside, the doctor takes a seat and flips open a thick medical file. Luce, observing quietly from the side, catches my nervous gaze and returns a reassuring smile and encouraging nod.
“Don’t worry,” Luce tells me. “I’m right here.”
Feeling slightly comforted, I manage a smile back at my friend just as the older woman looks up from her open pages. Tossing her ponytail over her shoulder, the doctor turns to look at me, throwing a quick glance over at a nonchalant Luce, who gives her a lazy shrug, before focusing her full attention back on me.
“You can call me Dr Wijeysingha,” she says. “Do you know your name?”
I hesitate. Her unexpected question throws me off and I feel my eyebrows arch.
“Do you know who you are?” she tries again.
“Go on,” Luce urges as I lick my dry, chapped lips.
; “Max,” I rasp, surprised by the strangely throaty voice that I do not recognise as my own.
It sounds very much like my mother’s uniquely husky voice.
I clear my throat and try again, the name awkwardly rolling off my tongue like a foreign phrase hastily learnt in a classroom and then forgotten. “Maxine Schooling.”
Dr Wijeysingha plays with her plastic ballpoint pen, and the sharp clicking noise it makes under her thumb makes me deeply uncomfortable, although I don’t fully understand why I feel this way. She stops her pen-clicking and leans forward.
“Do you know how long you’ve been here?”
I stare at her.
No lady, I don’t even know why I am here and it’s all honestly starting to freak me out. I want to say this but my tongue fails me. Instead, I lower my eyes and shake my head.
“You came to us with twenty-one broken bones, four cracked ribs, a fractured skull and a shattered jaw. A whole team of doctors and nurses worked round the clock to save your life in the operating theatre. I was one of them.” The doctor’s voice is quiet, and her small fingers play with the curled corner of the page from the thick folder on her lap.
The news startles me. I must have been awkwardly gawking, with my jaw hanging loose, because Luce comes over and snaps my mouth shut with her hand.
Dr Wijeysingha’s lips come together in a grim smile. “In fact, no one was sure if you would ever wake up from your coma, especially after you sustained such traumatic injuries. So what I’m trying to say is that this is nothing short of a medical miracle, you waking up after three years.”
Three years?
I cup my hands to my face before raking shaking fingers through my hair. Its short length surprises me. Snatches of memory come flitting back like loose pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, recollections of Mom helping me braid my long tresses into neat cornrows like Ronda Rousey on the morning of every parkour tournament. I hated to cut my hair and grew it down nearly to my bum, and I was so proud of it. Now, it is just a short bob.