Misdirection

by Ning Cai

  The door swings opens and a handsome white dog comes bounding out. Leaping straight into my arms, he licks my laughing face with crazy abandon, just like the very first day that we met. He was a present for my tenth birthday, a loveable Singapore Special we adopted from the large animal shelter along Pasir Ris Farmway. I wanted to call him Ozzy Pawsbourne: Prince of Barkness, but a groovy Fleetwood Mac song came on the radio on the drive home, so my parents named him…

  “Albatross!!!”

  “Look at him. He missed you so much!” Luce laughs as I scratch that magical spot on the top of my dog’s head that he loves so much, making him pull an adorable expression like he’s still a puppy and not an almost-elderly twelve-year old. CK chuckles at the unconditional love and affection heaped on me by my deliriously happy dog, who has not stopped wagging his tail since greeting me with his sloppy canine kisses.

  “C’mon boy,” I say and Albatross obediently follows me inside so CK can close the door, awkwardly limping as he pads along beside me. But Albatross didn’t have a bad leg before. I throw CK a look of concern, carefully managing not to sound accusatory but barely succeeding, and say, “What happened to my dog? What’s wrong with his leg?”

  CK locks the door, a grave expression on his face.

  “Albatross was hurt too that night, and he lost a lot of blood. The vet who operated on him wasn’t sure he would make it, especially because of his age. But he sure proved her wrong. He’ll never be able to walk without a limp though, I’m sorry.”

  Deeply ashamed for coming close to blaming my best friend unfairly for neglect or abuse, I rush over and hug CK tight, thankful for his help in taking care of my dog while I couldn’t. I can be such a jerk at times. “Thank you, CK. For everything.”

  “Dude, you know I like animals,” CK shrugs. “Besides, you were there for me when Ma died. Taking care of your dog was really the least I could do.”

  While we have been the very best of friends since our first day in primary school, CK and I grew even closer when his mother was killed suddenly in a fatal car accident just months before our PSLE examinations. He became depressed and listless, only cheering up a little whenever I agreed to go window shopping with him to check out the latest hardware and fun geek toys at Funan DigitaLife Mall. That Christmas, I used the pocket money I had saved up over the months to buy CK an award-winning wireless Razer mouse for gaming, to fuel his lofty ambitions of becoming our country’s best professional eSports player. The gift brought a huge smile to his face, something I had not seen in a very long time.

  CK flips the light switch, and I pretend to ignore the mess in the living room scattered throughout with empty beer bottles, as we head to his room at the end of the short hallway. The door to his bedroom now boasts an edgy Banksy-style poster emblazoned with the word HACKTIVIST. We step inside his cosy, air-conditioned, carpeted bedroom and my jaw immediately drops.

  “Whoa,” Luce says, gawking next to me. “Someone’s been shopping.”

  “Super cool,” I say, whistling appreciatively as CK beams like a bashful child showing off his brand new toy that is also the hottest thing that season.

  The impressive hardware stacked neatly on well-organised racks in CK’s room resembles a control room in the Wachowskis’ epic Matrix trilogy. While I was asleep, my favourite man-child had somehow morphed into a mighty IT demi-god with a shrine made of the latest, expensive looking, testosterone-laden tech gadgets and what appears to be a state-of-the-art Linux server tower on steroids. The screen saver on CK’s bright triple-screen shows a black-and-white emblem of a man in a suit and tie, with a question mark in place of a head.

  “CK.” I purse my lips and look at my best friend out of the corner of my eye. “How exactly did you fund all of this? I mean, seriously, you’re still at Republic Poly. Did you sell a kidney?”

  “Hey, relax,” CK laughs, holding both hands out in defence. “Last I checked, I’m not breaking any laws. All I’m doing is coding and selling specially-programmed AI bots that mine for valuable online gaming artefacts to help gamers automatically level up while they’re sleeping.”

  I roll my eyes and Luce laughs. “You devious man!”

  “Okay, dude, check this out.” CK gives the trackball of his computer mouse a quick spin as he sits me down in his ergonomic gaming chair, which looks very much like something befitting the Formula One race track. His computer comes to life and with a few clicks, CK opens a folder named “Dude Files”. “Not to worry, the folder name is just to discourage looky-loos.”

  Someone’s tummy rumbles loudly. Luce darts me a look and I give a sheepish grin as CK chuckles. He starts for the door. “Let me know when you’re done with these. There’s something else I need to show you too. I’ll go microwave us some frozen pizzas. BRB.”

  I take over his computer mouse and slowly make my way through the deluge of information, consisting of hundreds of news articles and videos reporting the unsolved case of my family’s senseless murder, along with news coverage of the attack that left me brain-damaged and in a coma. It feels almost narcissistic reading through everything, and time flies as I navigate through the smörgåsbord of digital content CK has collated.

  When I am finally, finally done, he is snoring on the bed and I notice the dried pizza grease on my fingertips, along with an empty plate and open can of Coke in front of me. I can’t believe I’ve been up all night. I prod CK in the belly and he rubs his eyes, plodding back to his computer and opening a password-protected folder labelled “Dick Pics”. “Yeah, so I hacked into CID’s security mainframe and managed to get this,” CK says, clicking open the official police report, which is a sizeable file.

  “Welp,” I say as Luce gasps beside me.

  “I’ve read through everything and it seems that the investigators really didn’t have much to work on. No leads, no clues, no motive, no suspects. It’s pretty much a dead end, a cold case. The police have no idea who the killer is that shot your family and put you in a coma.”

  CK lets me take his mouse and Luce looks at the both of us incredulously. “Seriously?”

  “Two CID officers came to talk to me at the hospital the other day,” I say as I use a wet wipe to clean my fingers, “but I really couldn’t help them much. And they wouldn’t tell me anything either.” I chew on my lip and look at CK. “Thanks for this.”

  “OMG,” Luce throws up her hands and turns away. “I can’t believe you guys.”

  “Anytime.” CK smiles graciously.

  I look through his findings, the three large computer screens easily expanding the PDF documents and image files when I zoom in. It feels surreal, voyeuristic even, seeing pictures of yourself swaddled in casts and bandages, lying helplessly in a comatose state with a shaved head marred by stitches and scars. And then there are the unforgettable crime scene pictures of Mom, Dad and Danny.

  “Steel yourself,” CK tells me. “It gets worse.”

  Luce heaves a deep sigh as I proceed with the photographs from the crime scene.

  Dad is lying in a river of red on the white marble floor of our dining room, sprawled on his stomach, gunshot wounds in his back of his head, neck and upper back. His blue eyes dull and staring blankly into nothingness, the glass lenses of his favourite round spectacles smashed to smithereens, his broken mobile phone lying close to his twisted body.

  Mom is a crumpled heap a few steps away in our living room, slumped against our sofa, clutching her belly, her cream-coloured dress stained crimson. Danny lies with his little head in our mother’s lap, his chest another bloom of red.

  I fight the strong urge to break something; anger pulses through my veins, and I feel it beating a rapid rhythm against my temples. Luce turns to me, her voice soft. “You’ll feel better when you cry, Max.”

  But my eyes are dry. In fact, I think I’m feeling more mad than sad, at this moment.

  I continue studying the rest of the crime scene pictures, noting the different tag markers and their accompanying notes. The devastation contin
ues upstairs, with spots of Albatross’ blood where he was shot on the parquet stairs, nearly losing his life in his attempt to protect me. Red handprints, all the size of my own palms, are everywhere on my bedroom floor. My wall mirror is shattered into a million pieces like in my memory.

  A loud slam outside startles us.

  CK signals for us to keep quiet before heading out of the bedroom, closing the door quickly after him. I scratch the top of my pet’s head, comforted by his soft doggy panting and realising how much I’ve missed him. The round metallic tag on his black collar reflects the light from the computer monitors, and I realise that even though his dog collar is new, Albatross is still wearing the original tag we got him when we first adopted him. That makes me smile a little.

  Noises from the hall suddenly catch my attention. It sounds like a thump and a muted cry.

  “Did you hear that?” Luce whispers.

  I hear it again, CK’s muffled yelp of pain and an angry slur from a rough masculine voice. I get up and quickly head for the door. “Stay here.”

  Stepping out of the room, I see two figures struggling on the carpet of the condo’s dimly-lit living room. Someone is pinning CK to the ground, twisting his arm behind his back at an uncomfortably awkward angle. CK’s feet start thrashing and I know I have to do something fast.

  “The bottle!” Luce calls out from behind me, where a growling Albatross is baring his teeth. “Hurry!”

  I grab the nearest empty beer bottle from a messy pile and bring it down hard on the top of the attacker’s skull. The bottle doesn’t break or smash dramatically like in Hollywood movies, but the well-built man finally stops his violent assault on CK and turns around to face me. It is CK’s father.

  His bloodshot eyes stare blankly at me, looking almost quizzical before rolling upwards to white, and his body drops instantly like a heavy sack of rice. I stare at the glass bottle in my hand and then at the unconscious man at my feet, before looking at my gasping best friend. “OMG, I think I just killed Uncle Glen.”

  CK kicks out from underneath the weight of his father, his flushed face still a contortion of anger and discomfort. With his good hand, he reaches out to put a finger directly underneath Uncle Glen’s nose. “It’s okay, he’s breathing. There’s no blood, so maybe it’s just a concussion.”

  “What the hell, CK!” I fall on my knees, dropping what could have been a murder weapon on the dirty carpet of their living room. “I could have killed your dad!”

  Albatross pads over, poking his wet nose into Uncle Glen’s ruddy cheek, licking his prickly bearded face in an attempt to wake him up, but he doesn’t stir. My dog pushes against the man’s thick chest, pawing at the official photo ID around his neck identifying him as Inspector Glen Chang, Criminal Investigation Department.

  “You did it in self-defence,” CK says, wincing as he sits up. He is bleeding from a small cut on his lower lip. “I really hate it when Pa comes home drunk.”

  “Should we call an ambulance?” Luce asks timidly. “How do we explain the situation?”

  The unlocked front door suddenly swings opens and we all jump. Swearing angrily at the sight of us, a mountainous goateed Malay man in his mid-thirties rushes over and immediately feels for Uncle Glen’s pulse. The stranger obviously catches a whiff of the strong stink of alcohol on CK’s dad because he makes a face of disgust before tapping CK on the knee. “Get a wet cloth and some ice.”

  We stare at him, too stunned to react.

  “Right now, Chun Kiat!” the giant bellows.

  CK wipes away the thin trickle of blood from his face and, clutching his arm, hurries to fulfil the request, while Luce and I struggle to hold back a growling Albatross by his dog collar.

  “You keep that dog away from me,” the man warns. “I mean it!”

  “Who are you?” I demand, then notice the similar CID badge around his neck.

  He squints at me. “You’re that kid from the Schooling case.” It is not a question.

  CK rushes back with a full tray of ice and a sopping hand towel. The police officer wrings out the wet fabric over the slack face of CK’s father, eliciting the desired response; as Uncle Glen splutters awake, his muscular friend deftly pops the entire tray’s worth of ice cubes into the damp towel and presses it to the grumbling man’s head despite his feeble protests. The large man heaves a sigh.

  “He’s alive!” Luce throws me a rueful grin, giddy relief written all over her face.

  “Sorry to startle you guys earlier.” He turns to me. “I’m Inspector Ashraf Sabah. Glen’s partner at CID.”

  Moaning pitifully as he collects himself, Uncle Glen manages to sit up, resting heavily against the granite coffee table as he shakes his head wearily. Standing beside me, CK hugs himself and looks away, uninterested in making eye contact with his father. Uncle Glen winces, his whiskered face a twisted mask of agony. “What just happened? My head hurts like f—”

  “Are you going to arrest me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I step forward.

  “What are you talking about, Maxine?” Uncle Glen frowns in genuine confusion. “Why would I arrest you? And why’s everyone here in my house?”

  “If I hadn’t stopped you just now, Uncle Glen, you would have broken CK’s arm.” I glare angrily at the sorry-looking adult sitting on the filthy carpet, refusing to back down despite feeling my best friend’s restraining hand on my shoulder.

  The condo goes quiet and suddenly I notice how loud their clock is ticking. It’s six in the morning. Suddenly, Ashraf clears his throat.

  “I believe you, Schooling.”

  The hulking police inspector stands up to his full height, looming over his groaning partner still meekly icing his head injury, and easily towering over all of us like an impressive Asian Thor. Ashraf’s expressive face turns dark as he regards Uncle Glen.

  “Glen has a serious drinking problem, and it’s messing him up big time. My idiot partner’s already had two strikes at work. One more screw-up and it will be his last. Madam will use that as the final straw to fire his sorry ass. Like how he’s refusing to answer his damn work phone and needs to be fetched like the Emperor of China.”

  Uncle Glen drops the makeshift ice pack and grunts. Pulling his phone out from his shirt pocket, he tries to check it but the battery is completely dead. Its screen remains black. He gives Ashraf an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, abang, it won’t happen again.”

  Ashraf snorts, rolling his eyes as he helps his shaky partner up on his feet. CK steps forward, his square jaw taut and his eyes hard as he stands facing his father. His gaze is unflinching and I have never seen this look on my best friend’s face before.

  “I’m leaving,” he says.

  “Chun Kiat,” Uncle Glen groans. “Please, not now.”

  “Since Ma died, you’ve turned into a monster. I’m not letting you hurt me any more, Pa. I am leaving and getting my own place.”

  “Don’t be silly, Chun Kiat, you’re just a kid.” Uncle Glen tries to push past but CK does not budge. Tension hangs thick, dangerously crackling in the air around us like static electricity as CK stands his ground.

  “No. I turned eighteen last month.” CK smiles wryly. “Surprise.”

  His father blinks, a look of quiet astonishment on his unshaven face. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” CK’s eyes are cold. “And I’ve saved up enough to rent my own flat.”

  “Stop it, Chun Kiat!” Uncle Glen snaps. “You’re not leaving—”

  “No!” I interrupt, chiding my best friend. “CK, I’m not letting you do that.”

  “Exactly.” Uncle Glen shakes his head. “Listen to Max. She always talks sense.”

  I gently squeeze CK’s arm. “You will stay at my place. For free.”

  Luce can barely contain her snigger.

  “Have a nice life, Pa,” CK says quietly as he turns away. Luce and I follow suit, with a limping Albatross following closely behind us.

  “Wait!”

  We turn around and Uncle Glen’s
tough macho charade is over. I have never seen a grown man cry like this before. Fat tears fall from his bloodshot eyes, wet drops landing on his badly crumpled shirt. The man is an ugly crier, but his genuine vulnerability appears to touch CK, who turns around to regard his openly sobbing father.

  “Don’t go. Please. Don’t go,” Uncle Glen calls out hoarsely, his deep voice breaking in desperation. “Chun Kiat, I already lost your Ma. I’m sorry. I really am. I’m a lousy father and you deserve so much better. I’m so sorry.”

  CK and I exchange looks.

  “Pull yourself together, bro,” Ashraf tells him in a hushed whisper. “You just need help. You’ve got to stop drinking.”

  “I’ll change,” Uncle Glen says, drying his face with the back of his hand. “I promise.”

  Standing next to me, Luce folds her arms and angles her head at us. “He’s an alcoholic. Addicts can’t be trusted. How do we know if we can really believe him?”

  I exhale and look at CK, who seems pretty conflicted. Albatross whines.

  “Sorry Pa, unless I’m with you 24/7 it’s impossible for me to have confidence in you.” CK picks invisible lint from his ruined T-shirt, yanked shapeless during their violent struggle. “You’ve lied to me. A lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  CK paces the room.

  “I believed you when you promised me that you’d bring the Schooling family murderer to justice when you were lead investigator on the case. I believed you when you told me that you’d get us holiday tickets to Hong Kong to celebrate my eighteenth birthday for some much needed father-son bonding time. I believed you all those times you claimed you’d stopped drinking, but you’ve always let me down. Every single time, Pa, so tell me why I shouldn’t doubt you now?”

  Uncle Glen clams up. There are no words.

  I look at the two grown men. “Were you both working on my case?”

  Ashraf shakes his head. “Just Glen. Before his ex-partner requested him off the case.”

  “Seriously? They let this man head the investigation?” Luce stomps her foot angrily in exasperation and disbelief. “No wonder it didn’t go anywhere!”