You sure? That’s a lot, babes…for you.
I opened my mouth and she placed three tabs on my tongue. I felt them, those three little round pills, ready for the taking. I swallowed a gulp of water, closed my eyes and felt that all familiar thrill. I was ready for the night.
I looked around me. There were some familiar faces, people I’d seen in TV ads and in Bangsar, types who ran in the circles that fucked film directors to get jobs, skinny things who took ice to stay even skinnier, make-up artists, models, the odd creative director here and there, and some really young Malay boys whom you knew were with fat, balding sugar daddies, veritable paedophiles. The music was good, even better than I remembered. Karin had disappeared and my guess was that she was probably on a mission to find more drugs, preferably of the powdered variety. The club was half-full, which was pretty good for a Thursday night.
I decided to sit down until it kicked in. I had never done three at one go but I was certain that if the worst happened, I would just lie on a couch and stay still until it was over. I just wanted to get out of myself, to numb everything I was feeling. I found a couch, sat down, then got up again, feeling restless. There was nothing worse than waiting for it to kick in, so I walked around the club, trying to get a feel of the people there. I looked at my watch. 10pm. I had no husband, no child. Nothing. I had nothing in my life, nothing to care for anymore. No one. I looked up at the ceiling and saw a giant disco ball. Strange, I had never noticed that before. There were some people on the dance floor, and the music was starting to pick up. New tunes I’d not heard before, thumping rhythms, snazzy, sexy beats. Low rhythms. Drum and bass. Love it. I started moving my hips, when suddenly I felt it in the pit of my stomach. It swirled for a few seconds and then the surge leapt into the base of my neck. I was flying.
For hours I danced. I lost myself on that dance floor. I felt my spirits lift, I smiled and laughed to myself, I smiled at everyone who danced with me, I let them hold me, tease me, it was as if they collectively understood my grief, that they gave me space to just—be. This was the community that E created, we saw the truth, we saw what each of us needed, we knew how to take sorrows away, soothe pains, create salves, in the middle of the dance floor, we were all equals in pain, in joy, in suffering. There was no judgment, no morality call, I was not worthless, I was not ugly, I felt beautiful, wanted, appreciated, loved. It was all love and joy and translucence. I felt one with everyone on that dance floor. I felt Alba in my heart and I knew there and then that my little girl would stay with me forever. That she was in me, and that I would never, ever lose her. That I would see her again, one day, and all I had to do was get there.
It was going to be fine.
Then Karin showed up. Her finger gestured.
I followed her, past the gyrating couples, past the young people who smiled and danced with me earlier, past the white teenage kids who were giggling themselves silly, past the bar and the couches, up the stairs into a smoky room filled with people. I saw three men seated on plush chairs against a wall. All around us people smoking and drinking and sitting haphazardly on chairs and couches. It was the VIP room. Karin sauntered up to a guy and I followed her. I was tripping like crazy but I could walk, I felt like I was floating off the ground. I was grinding my teeth hard and my hands felt clammy, suddenly I felt cold.
This is her. This is Del.
He wore a white shirt with a jacket that looked like it was two sizes smaller. His girth stretched over matching pants and I saw gleaming black leather shoes. One leg crossed over the other. Brown ankle socks. He held a lit cigar in his right hand and I saw a gold signet ring on his fourth finger—the nail on his pinky was longer, manicured to a sharp point, customary of many Chinese men who believed that a long pinky nail would bring luck. His hair was teased into a bouffant, which made his head look unnaturally big. His face was puffy and his lips thick and red.
Nice to meet you.
His voice sounded sonorous and low, like a bulldog’s. His eyes searched me up and down. I felt self-conscious.
I know your husband.
I stared at him blankly. What?
I looked at Karin and she gestured to her lips.
Your husband is a bad businessman. He make a lot of bad deals. Ask him to be careful.
What do you mean?
Tell him, if he does not listen, there will be trouble.
What kind of trouble?
I was starting to panic, my words coming out like squeaks.
More trouble.
He took another swig of his drink and turned away. The conversation was over. Karin came over and took my elbow. I almost stumbled on the carpet as she led me to a glass table in a corner. It was lined with coke, neatly cut, horizontal.
Who the fuck is that guy?
He’s a taikor. Big boss.
Triad boss?
Uh huh. Trying to tell you something.
Karin took a rolled-up note and snorted a line. She rolled her head back and let out a soft gasp.
Fuck! Best shit in town. Now, do the same.
I don’t want coke. I am tripping my ass off right now.
You don’t have a choice. He’s watching, you have to do one line, at least.
Paranoia hit me and I felt goose bumps on my arm.
I’m fucking freezing.
Just do a line, you’ll feel better.
I took a quick look around me. A couple of women had appeared and started gyrating towards that man. They were tall. Russians, all blonde. All tits and ass, glittery triangles of clothing covering bits of flesh.
I took the rolled-up note that Karin handed me. I counted eight lines. I did one line with my right nostril, took a deep breath and then did a second line with my left. It went straight in between my eyes, like a flash, I felt a prickly bitter aftertaste spiral up my nose. The insides cackled and burnt slightly. I rubbed my nostrils and swallowed. Karin chuckled.
Told you. Good shit right.
I nodded. The colours in the room seemed brighter, more saturated. My eyes watered a little, then felt tingly. I felt wide awake. I didn’t care what that man had said to me. All I wanted to do that night was to have a good time and forget, lose my mind. Karin got up and sashayed into a dark corner, blending in with upholstery. The party in the VIP room got more and more rowdy, the lines of coke were endless. The music got louder. I felt loose, sexy, bold. I started dancing on my own, the movement giving me warmth. Then I felt someone watching me. This guy who was slumped in a chair, in a white shirt which was partially undone. He looked young. I sidled up to him and started gyrating my hips in front of him, he smiled and nodded to the music. We both laughed. He was cute. He gestured.
Come here.
I sat down at his feet and he kissed me. His face felt smooth, his jaw lean, his neck fragrant with citrus and a light musk. His hands flitted over my body lightly, then more firmly. We kissed again.
You wanna get out of here?
I shrugged. We kept kissing, and I wanted him all over me. My insides felt smooth, like liquid glass, moving in a uniform grace, I felt like a well-oiled machine. I was perfect, my body was perfect. My lips, eyes, mouth. Wet, silky. He got up and pulled me to him. His eyes pierced into me, glinting with danger.
Let’s go.
As we walked out, I saw Karin’s bent head in a corner, over some guy’s lap. She smiled and stuck her tongue out and mouthed something like, “Have fun, babes.” The room was completely packed with people. All moving, all swaying. All high.
You driving? You sure?
I do it all the time. Love driving when I’m high.
It was a humid, sticky night. My skin felt clammy. We got into his car, a silver Porsche. It was stupid, but there I was, in a stranger’s car. He held my hand and smiled. He was young, confident, bold. Then it was all a blur. The lights on the street flashed by, the music in his car, riding the lift to his apartment, kissing and undressing in the living room, our entwined figures reflected on the tempered glass windows, the lights, ch
ampagne, more champagne, more lines, more kissing until we were completely naked.
God, you’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful.
His hands and mouth were all over me, fingers splaying expertly, making me moan and grit my teeth in pleasure. Tendrils of light and cold zig-zagging across my body. It was delicious. Then he put himself inside me, and I looked at his eyes and face and was filled with revulsion and pain and horror and all I wanted to say was No, No, No, get off me, this is wrong, but I didn’t. I thought of Omar and my lost baby girl and I turned my head away so the tears would be unseen and fall silently.
When I woke up, sunlight streamed through the thick glass panes into the living room. Two bottles of Dom, smudged lines on the table, clothes, shoes strewn around. The Twin Towers bounced light from the morning sun. I had never seen them this high up. This was a view from a million-dollar penthouse.
I padded to the fridge to get water. More bottles of Dom lined the fridge.
I heard him moan softly from the couch. You’re not leaving, are you?
Just getting water, want some?
I felt like I was walking on shards of glass, the soles of my feet hurt, my calves ached. My fingers were trembling.
Umm, any chance you got some Valium… or Xanax?
He chuckled. Getting the shakes, huh?
He stood up. I saw what I already knew. That he was lithe and supple, his body sculpted and lean. His skin taut like new leather. I turned away and remembered that I had licked him all over. He walked towards the bedroom and came out with two pink pills.
Here, take this, or we can do more lines. Your choice.
He smiled.
I’m Del, by the way. Wasn’t sure if I got that across…last night.
He grabbed me and licked my lips. Hmmm. I know. I’m Shah.
Shah. With the penthouse, Porsche, designer apartment and sexy tongue.
Stay here, relax. We can do as much coke as you like and fuck as much as you like.
I looked into his eyes and saw that he was kind, warm. There was gentleness there.
Or you can go. No pressure.
He eased me back onto the couch, and kissed me deeply. I stayed.
Three days later I walked into my apartment. When I opened the door, I knew that Omar had left. There was just an air about it, and when I walked into the bedroom, I saw that his clothes were gone. The bathroom, empty of his toiletries, his shoes, bedside papers all gone. His study was stripped bare, as if it had never even been populated with books, antiques. Nothing was broken or out of place, it was as if he had packed everything with kid gloves. I ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower, hot. Full blast. I washed and scrubbed myself till my skin bled.
Three days of cocaine, Ecstasy, champagne and sex had rendered me naked and exposed. I felt dirty, contaminated by the world, by grief, the swollen plague of pain. I felt worthless, shamed, like a deviant of the worst kind. I couldn’t understand why two people who loved each other could not talk, communicate at the most basic level, speak of their grief. Perhaps some kinds of grief are more devastating than others, perhaps losing a child is the worst grief of all, so much so that in the end, not talking about it was the only thing to do. The world does not prepare you for many things, but losing a child is a certain kind of hell that is perhaps reserved for people who need to be punished. For being a murderer in a past life or a cruel leader who massacred millions, a heinous charlatan, a paedophile, a cannibal who ate little babies, a mother who killed her own children, someone who committed suicide. I wanna die. I wanna die. I wanna die. I said it over and over again as I stood in the shower, the hot water pelting me like sharp stones.
I loved Omar. Still, of course. But I meant every word I screamed at him. I was a bad mother, I left my child for thirty seconds in a shopping cart and she got taken. I deserved it, I deserved what happened to me. Or did I? Nobody deserves to have a child taken, least of all someone who was good. I was a good person, I led a good life, I was moral and upright and fought for what I believed in, and I was married to someone who felt the same. We were equals, we shared the same ideals, we fell in love, got married and had a beautiful child.
Alba, Alba, my darling, sweet, precious Alba.
Where are you?
Why? Why? Why?
I stumbled out of the shower and collapsed on the floor. The screams that came out of me were primal, vociferous, blood curdling. I was a woman let loose in hell, in a biblical malevolence, in a banal horror unlike any other. I was cursed, cursed to have a child taken, cursed to have a husband who would not speak, cursed to be motherless, cursed to have a father who was also silent. I was cursed, and all I wanted to do right there and then was die.
Friends. Karin. Sumi. Marina. Imran. Fairman. Friends who were supposedly there to help you. Be there. Be present. Friends before Omar. Life before Alba. Life with Omar. Life with Alba. Life after Alba.
There were days when I wish I had not met Omar. Things had meaning then. Working for The Review and Saksi channelled my anger, my frustrations, my fervent desire to tell stories. I had a purpose, I had stories that needed to be told. I, no—we, tried to be the best versions of ourselves. The country demanded that of us, and we demanded it of ourselves.
Malaysians had always been fearful but the Reformasi had transformed us, it made us brave, it made us feel that we could fight, we believed that change was possible. There was solidarity between us, friendships that could ride out tear gas, arrest, heartbreak, one-night-stands, occasional fumblings in dark corners. Perhaps the antidote to the human condition was stasis, to live with what you could, to not venture into the unknown, to just accept the fact that life was meant to be what it was, there and then. Right there, right then.
Life before Omar. Life before Alba.
I knew they cared. I knew that Sumi had called me at least once a day leaving heartfelt messages, but I had never returned a single one. Marina had called too, but she was in and out of KL with her lover and she seemed concerned, but there were times when I couldn’t tell with her. Tragedy changes people, distorts friendships, destroys marriages. People sent emails, messages of support, yes, but did they really, truly understand? What could Sumi have said to make me feel better? I didn’t want sympathy, I didn’t want concern. My heart had been carved out of my chest, and it lay like a piece of meat on a chopping block. I felt grubby, truncated, masticated. Nothing anyone said could put me together.
There was still no word from the police. Nothing. My sense of helplessness was distorting me, the only thing that took away the pain, however momentary was the drugs. I just wanted to get high. I just wanted to forget everything. I went back to the club again and again. Shah and I became lovers: I needed to be felt by a man, by his hands, to be picked up and put down. Almost every night, I’d meet Karin at the club, pop E, dance and then head back to Shah’s where we would do coke, listen to music and talk. Shah was young, but savvy and smart. He had been educated in Australia and his father owned the building he lived in. Karin knew better than to judge me, she knew that Shah was good to me, so she said nothing.
Shah was kind, he loved coke and he loved to fuck me when he was high. I had started losing weight, the drugs had killed whatever little appetite I had for food and soon, I started feeling better about my body than I had in years. I knew he had other lovers, that didn’t bother me, I knew that he liked threesomes as well. Once he fucked me along with a beautiful Ukranian girl with a huge mouth that he paid thousands for that night. We did so much coke, I had a nosebleed for days. Nothing meant anything anymore. My body was just a piece of flesh. Which would die and fester and rot.
He knew that I was in pain, and he just gave me what I needed. His body, and endless lines of cocaine. We would talk about music, film, art, travel—he had driven across Australia one summer—and books. He was extremely well read and talked about writing a book when the story is ready to bleed itself out of me. His voice soothed me and his soft Australian drawl became a salve. He never asked me about Oma
r or Alba, he was just there, the only measure of goodness in my dark world.
Then one day, I got a phone call from Inspector Awang. I was at home and was washing dishes when my handphone rang. With my soapy hand, I picked up the phone nervously and my voice cackled into the speaker.
Hello, Inspector Awang…yes… you have some news?
He was curt and to the point.
We would like you and your husband to come to the station. We have a few leads we can discuss with you. We have not found your daughter, but we can tell you what we do know.
An hour later, I was in an office on Jalan Taman Pantai, the police headquarters for the Bangsar area. Inspector Awang was seated at a desk an open file in front of him, and Omar was facing the window. Omar was dressed in a grey suit, he looked polished, determined. He turned and nodded at me, his lips a firm line. There were more lines on his face and I spotted some grey streaks. I was flustered and in disarray. Strung out, still coked out. I sat on a chair opposite Inspector Awang. Alba’s picture was there on the top corner, and I stifled a sob. Omar walked towards the table and stood next to it, refusing to sit. Inspector Awang was to the point.
We know that it has taken us a while to come back to you, but this is a very difficult case. Three more children have also gone missing under similar circumstances and there are still no leads. But last night, we did a raid in Serdang and we found nineteen women from China who had been held in a shophouse for six months. They were sex slaves. We managed to get some information from the person who was running that brothel… There are at least four human trafficking syndicates in the city right now, dealing mostly in women and children. Young children who are kidnapped are usually sold to adoption agencies or sold into the sex industry. We have ruled out that neither of you are suspects, we have also spoken to your friends, and we do not suspect them at all. Your daughter could be in one of many places.
Omar was silent, and I was starting to feel ill. Inspector Awang paused, then continued.
I know this is difficult but you need to understand that this is a reality now here in KL. We are a hub for traffickers in the region, because of the number of foreign workers and refugees… and because of the foreign gangs that are now running the drugs and prostitution rings. Your daughter could be in KL or she could be somewhere as far as Australia. Or Thailand. I am very sorry but it does not look good now, and if she was sold into adoption, she could be anywhere in the world. And because Alba is fair, she will be very popular and get the seller a lot of money. Exotic looking women and girls are very popular and…
Once We Were There Page 23