by Ning Cai
“Okay, it’s damn easy wan,” he tells me. “You just watch.”
Clipping a single playing card vertically between two fingers like Gambit from the X-Men, Charlie flicks it out, sending it spinning so fast that it produces a loud whirr, before it thunks into the fibrous exteriors of a coconut husk. It stays there, embedded.
“How long have you been working at The Little Magic Shop?” I ask, admiring Charlie’s amazing technique. “Your boss, Uncle Eddie, he seems quite nice.”
“I’ve been helping him run the shop since I drop out of ITE last year,” Charlie says and shoots another screaming banshee card from his elegant fingertips; it zooms through the air, hitting a spot just above the first card. “Uncle Eddie’s not that old lah, he’s about sixty. In his younger days, his magic very tok kong one, okay. He’s a great mentor and always lets me borrow what I need for all my performance gigs for free. Everything I know, I learnt from him. I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for him.”
“You two sound close.” I mime Charlie’s fluid action, trying to figure out the physics and timing for optimal distance and speed. “So you know about his twin?”
“Wah biang, Uncle Eddie is nothing like his sibei hao lian brother,” Charlie says with a frown. He turns to look at me just as I execute a feeble throw at the target in front of me, completely missing by an embarrassing distance. My card flutters sadly to the ground like a dying butterfly. Charlie laughs at my dejected face and steps over to me.
“Okay that was a bit lembek. Nah, this is the secret: the trick is not just throwing the card with your wrist and fingers. Use your entire arm and send that power through your elbow, out your fingertips, at release.” He’s standing very close behind me as he adjusts my posture and arm position. He touches the back of my hand and brings it up gently. “The last thing you need to remember is to keep your focus on your target, and trust me, you won’t miss.”
Charlie is so close I can smell his cologne, which has the warm comforting scent of vanilla. His expressive eyes suddenly stare into mine, looking at me like I’m something magical. Then suddenly, someone shouts his name and the moment is gone.
“Charlie Jiang Zhi Hao!”
A pot-bellied man in a white singlet full of holes drops his large red plastic bags, and playfully messes up the young magician’s hair in a familiar way only close family friends know they can get away with. The portly islander chortles as Charlie squirms. “Wah, so big already ah! Long time no see you.”
“Uncle Sim, don’t like that leh.” Charlie tries to fix his hair in vain. “You eat already?”
“Eat already, eat already,” the smiling elderly man says, and bends his knees in a perfect Asian squat to rustle through the plastic bags at his slippered feet. He pushes a generous bag of starfruit towards Charlie. “Nah, for your Ah Ma. She like since small.”
“Wah! Thank you, uncle, you are too kind.” Charlie respectfully accepts the gift with both hands, bowing his head in thanks. “I’ll let her know you send your regards. This will make Ah Ma so happy. She misses everyone in the kampong.”
“You his girlfriend, ah?” The easy-going Pulau Ubin native winks mischievously at me. “Tell Charlie stop wearing your makeup leh. Where got boy wear black eyeliner wan? Look like a Chow Ah Gua!”
“Ah Gua?” I say. “Isn’t that Hokkien for, like, a transvestite?”
Charlie is saved by the bell, literally and figuratively, when the boat operator pulls on the rope of a large bell at the end of the ferry, tolling it loudly to call for departure as ten other people climb aboard the tiny fishing vessel. We get up to leave, and the young Asian Criss Angel who just got called a cross-dresser gives a meek nod to the toothless senior citizen, who returns a hearty wave.
*
The moment we reach Changi Point Ferry Terminal at mainland Singapore again, Charlie’s phone rings. He answers the call in fluent Hokkien, and his dark brows knit into a frown even before he finishes the conversation. He looks at me apologetically as he puts his phone away.
“Max, it’s my granny. Ah Ma is not well and I need to be with her now. Sorry, but I have to take a rain check for dinner. I actually planned an awesome night out in town for our first date.” I almost trip over my own feet at the thought of a real date, but Charlie doesn’t notice as he is fishing out his car keys. “Actually, if you don’t mind, would you like to come with me? I think Ah Ma would really like you. Like how I really like your company. Onz?”
YOLO, right? And we did have a lovely afternoon on Ubin.
I nod. “Onz.”
Walking through the car park, I follow Charlie to an old Renault Kangoo van sporting a serious triangular dent on the driver’s side, with its wrecked driver’s-side mirror lying on the ground. I didn’t see the van earlier because Charlie insisted we meet at the ferry terminal, and I wonder if he’s ashamed of its state of disrepair.
“Kena sai.” I hear Charlie swear under his breath but instead of fretting over the damages, he promptly seeks out a heavy roll of black duct tape from the back of the vehicle.
“Is your boss going to freak out?” I ask, watching him do his best to reattach the broken mirror to the side of the maroon van. “I can vouch for you and tell Uncle Eddie that it’s not your fault, someone hit your parked car and drove away.”
Charlie shakes his head. “Aiyah it’s second-hand anyway, don’t worry. Come, let’s go.”
Sweeping off stale crumbs before getting into the front passenger seat, I throw a glance to the rear of the van and notice a weird assortment of magic props like large silk handkerchiefs, colourful ropes, air pumps with bags of latex balloons and other things I don’t see every day. Climbing into the driver’s seat, Charlie starts the ignition, cursing softly again when the air-conditioning chooses to go on strike.
Half an hour later, we park at a housing block in Bukit Merah; Charlie lives with his grandmother in an old HDB flat at Telok Blangah Crescent. The lift clunks at every floor and smells of stale urine. Strange odours waft from people’s homes as we walk down the sixth-floor corridor: a curious clash of sour overnight curry, pungent durians, burning incense, spicy belacan and bitter Chinese medical herbs left brewing for ages on the stove. Teochew opera blares from someone’s television set, but not loud enough to mask the clamour of things thrown amidst the shrill, pitiful cries of a terrified young child being caned by her angry, shouting father.
Walking two steps ahead of me, Charlie seems indifferent to the sounds of the girl’s violent beating and I am just about to yank his sleeve to stop him when someone on the storey above us thoughtlessly flings rubbish over the side. We see the tied plastic bag falling before hearing a heart-stoppingly explosive plop as it hits the concrete flooring six floors below.
I’m reminded of Raeya Kaur, and my heart feels heavy.
Charlie keeps walking.
We turn a corner and stop at a metal gate with dark red paint peeling badly in many places. He swings the squeaky gate open and steps into the flat. I follow him in, and see two lit lamps on a dusty Taoist altar, with a small bronze urn full of ash and joss stick remains in front of a yellowed picture of the Goddess of Mercy, the thousand-armed bodhisattva Guan Yin.
Evidently, Charlie’s grandmother is a hoarder. Stacks of old newspapers and faded magazines line the walls of the living room. I steal a quick glance at the faded magazine on top of a tall musty tower; it’s called LIME, a local publication I don’t recognise. Showcasing a young five-man band called The Backstreet Boys, the periodical was published back in November 1996. Four years before I was born. Mom and Dad weren’t even married yet.
“Ah Ma,” Charlie calls out, walking over to the other side of the dim, cramped space.
His grandmother is there, dozing on a rattan rocking chair partially hidden by a dangerously sloping stack of folded, moth-eaten clothes. He lowers himself to a squat and gently rouses the frail old lady; a traditional bamboo back scratcher lies across her lap, and she’s holding a crumpled hanky and an open bottle of medicat
ed oil.
Charlie says something to his grandmother in Hokkien and the old woman lifts her heavy eyelids with much effort, suddenly aware that they have a guest. She has cataracts that make her eyes look blue. I smile politely and greet her in Mandarin, following what Charlie did earlier at Pulau Ubin with the family friend, asking if she has already eaten, even though I’m not entirely certain if she can see me. Charlie picks up the Vicks inhaler on the floor, and after wiping it clean with his T-shirt, he passes her the white plastic tube.
He then rustles through the red plastic bag he brought with him, pulls out a starfruit and places it just under her nose. She blinks and slowly reaches out a wrinkled hand, a smooth green jade bangle wrapped around her thick wrist, and smiles as she presses the ripe yellow fruit to her nose and inhales. Charlie smiles and pats her knee fondly, picking up the bag of fruit as he stands.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Charlie tells me. He points at the mountain behind me. “There’s a charger on the table that should be compatible, if you want to charge your phone. Hey, you want a hot Milo?”
“Sure, thank you.”
He leaves me to cut the fruit in the kitchen. The old lady in the chair has fallen asleep again, and I take special care to keep as quiet as I can while rummaging through the mess for the charging cable Charlie spoke of. I finally spot it, under an assortment of sour plums wrapped in waxed paper. Thankfully the electric wall socket is clearly visible and my old phone starts to charge once I plug it into the outlet.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I hear Charlie’s knife against the wooden cutting board. Hands behind my back, I look up at the wall just above the electrical outlet, where photographs of the island we just visited are stuck on by what looks like old, half-melted Blu Tack.
Zen-like stillness radiates from the picture of the abandoned granite quarry standing stoically against a cloudless blue sky. In another, I can almost hear the waves lapping softly by the side of a skinny sampan casually tethered to a bamboo pole. And I feel like I’m almost there, next to the temple custodian deep in prayer before a deity’s shrine that is smoky with ashes and burnt incense.
One picture, specially framed in cardboard, stands out from the rest.
An elderly couple, who look like they are still very much in love, lock lips in front of an old wooden house with a zinc roof. The photograph is perfectly composed with an artful play of light and shadow. Above all, their love and affection for each other clearly show on their faces. Peering closer, I recognise the old woman as Charlie’s Ah Ma. The man wrapping his arms around her has to be Charlie’s grandfather.
Directly below this is an old newspaper article stuck on the wall, featuring a bashful little boy holding up a medal and the same framed picture. According to the report, nine year old budding photographer Charles Jiang Zhi Hao won first place in the junior category of a nationwide competition, with his poignant photograph of his paternal grandparents in front of their home, one of the last traditional kampongs on Pulau Ubin.
Charlie’s sleeping grandmother suddenly drops her back scratcher. I move to pick it up off the floor and place it on her lap, and that is when something else catches my eye.
Right underneath that aged news article is another, but a pyramid of old VCDs blocks it from view. Shifting aside the plastic cases, I make out the two distinct shades of amber on the old newspaper and its crumpled texture. The faded black-and-white picture accompanying the report from many Christmases ago shows Charlie’s helpless grandmother barely able to hold onto him, a wailing young boy pitifully reaching out for his handcuffed and dishevelled-looking father, after the official verdict was made in court and the widower was hauled off to prison.
Tracing the tips of my fingers along the torn edges of the old newspaper article mended together by yellowed scotch tape, I can easily see the fury of creases lining the paper’s brittle surface and its sad past of being ripped into pieces before being crushed up in anger.
“Max?”
I turn around. Charlie is standing behind me with a plate of cut starfruit in one hand, and a mug of steaming Milo in the other.
But before he can say anything else, my phone lights up and starts playing the chorus to Bruno Mars’ “Count on Me”, the ringtone specifically assigned to my best friend.
“CK?” I pick up his call just as Charlie’s grandmother suddenly wakes with a choking noise. He turns his full attention to her just as my eyes go wide at what CK tells me. Mrs Nancy Lye is dead, another victim of the Singapore Spectre.
“Charlie, I have to go, it’s an emergency.”
“Wah. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, no, maybe, I mean, not really. It’s complicated… Sorry, I’ll explain later!”
“Did I do something wrong? Can I call you later?”
“Yes! Bye!” I make an immediate dash for the flat’s front door, running as fast as my legs can carry me. Charlie hollers my name from the corridor, but I am already heading down the stairs.
NINE
I HAIL A taxi to the address CK gives me, meeting him one lane away at his father’s suggestion, so I can slip into my CID intern get-up before joining the rest of them. As I pull on my dark blue jacket and police lanyard, CK downloads an app on my phone. He frowns.
“It’s taking forever to load. I tested it on my phone and Ashraf’s, and it worked fine. You really need to upgrade to a newer model. Even after I helped you jailbreak it, the iPhone 4 is just too damn slow now.”
“Hey, stop judging my phone,” I grouse as we start walking to the crime scene.
CK takes the opportunity to quickly demonstrate how the app will send notifications whenever sound, motion or temperature changes are detected in my home. Excitement gleams in his eyes. “Your brand new wireless camera has all-day monitoring with auto night vision when it gets dark. And it saves everything to the cloud!”
His smile is infectious. I bump his shoulder with mine. “Thanks, CK.”
“Dude, don’t mention it,” he says with a grin. “So Pa’s put some simple microwave food and drinks in your kitchen, and the nice cleaning ladies Ashraf engaged did a nice job cleaning up your place. It’s actually liveable now. Oh hey, this is it.”
We stop in front of a mansion on Sixth Avenue, and it is nothing short of sprawling. A Rolls Royce, Bentley and Maserati are all parked in the long arching driveway, which boasts a fancy water fountain with a gold-gilded peeing Eros in the middle of it. Along with its lush garden landscapes surrounding a gorgeous pavilion that looks perfect for weddings, the impressive residence is a glaring juxtaposition to the claustrophobic one-room HDB flat Charlie and his grandmother live in.
Charlie.
I feel awful about running off on him without any explanation, but my phone battery has died again, so I can’t text him an apology.
Walking through the front entrance guarded by the same young constable we met early this morning, CK and I enter a grand hall that resembles a lavish hotel ballroom, complete with crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Our footsteps echo loudly and the entire space feels stale and frigid, carrying as much life as a public showroom devoid of the true warmth and happiness of a real home. I follow CK up the large spiral staircase, and pass several rooms before entering one with well-polished double doors that are no doubt crafted from expensive wood.
Police Sergeant Amberlyn Ng is hard at work inside, photographing and bagging evidence in the luxurious air-conditioned bedroom with elegant French windows. She glances up at us but despite looking a little surprised, she nods a friendly hello as we make our way to the expensive four-poster bed in the middle of the room.
“We definitely didn’t see this coming,” Uncle Glen says and shakes his head grimly.
In the middle of the bed lies the body of Mrs Nancy Lye.
Even though we met just the one time, and it was far from a pleasant experience, I am overcome by a strong urge to close her fear-stricken eyes and help rearrange her stiff, contorted body into a more presentable
position.
Ashraf rubs his goatee wearily. “The maids found her body when she didn’t come down for her usual tea time. And like before, the killer left no witnesses. Just a dead body and a torn corner of a playing card.”
“Ace of Spades?” I ask.
He nods sombrely and clears his throat. Dr Aisha joins us at the crime scene, arching a curious eyebrow at everyone before throwing a pointed glance at Ashraf, who suddenly busies himself with examining the stiff corpse. The burly police inspector rubs his chin with a serious expression on his tanned face, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
Wearing a smirk of amusement, the forensic pathologist looks at both CK and me, before presenting us with the box of latex gloves from behind her back. Knowing the drill, we quickly slip them on.
“Yes,” Uncle Glen sighs. “This time it really is the Ace of Spades.”
He turns over the plastic evidence bag, showing us the Spectre’s tiny triangle marking death. Uncle Glen picks up the expensive-looking, leather-bound Bible that lies open on the dead woman’s bedside table, and carefully hands it over to me.
Bright red lipstick, the same exact shade on Mrs Lye’s lips, circles a passage. Deuteronomy 32:35. I read it out loud.
Vengeance is Mine, and retribution,
In due time their foot will slip;
For the day of their calamity is near,
And the impending things are hastening upon them.
CK takes the book from me, rereading the text. “That’s dark.”
Uncle Glen joins Ashraf in studying the body. The tall police inspector scratches his nose, examining the wretched expression on the victim’s lined face, twisted in unspoken pain and terror. Her crooked fingers clutch at her throat, and the muscles of her thin body are tensed. Even her toes. It looks like she was gripped in an intense seizure of some sort.
Ashraf frowns. “No unauthorised entry. No defensive wounds. How did she die?”