I got up. I could not listen to another word. I ran out of the office and asked the nearest police officer outside for the bathroom. Startled, he said, “Go out, take right then left.” I steadied myself on the wall outside and found the door to the female toilet. It stank of mothballs and urine. I locked myself in the nearest cubicle and threw up the bright yellow bile that was building in my stomach. My baby girl was in the hands of human traffickers. I threw up again and again until I felt weak. At the dirty sink, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and saw a woman haunted, impaled by the fact that her daughter could never be found. That she was in the clutches of monsters who were capable of unspeakable things. I splashed cold water on my face and decided that I needed to hear everything Inspector Awang had to say. I had to know everything that he knew.
I walked in and saw that Omar was looking out the window again. He turned when he saw me come in and I could see that his eyes were red. I burst into tears and he came towards me. He held me as the sobs racked my body, both of us standing there in grief. Inspector Awang handed us a box of tissues. I grabbed a clump of the fine white paper and thrust it under my nose. Omar sucked in his breath and swore quietly.
Inspector Awang put down the box of tissues on this desk, crossed his arms, looked at us squarely in the eyes and said:
I am sorry. I wish I had better news for you, but I don’t. But this is new for us also. The fact that they are going after young children is very worrying. The fact also that she is very small in size means that it is easier to move her. So, these syndicates operate very differently, and they work in different areas of the city. The fact that she was taken in Bangsar tells us that this is a very sophisticated gang. To go into such an area is high-risk and they obviously know the territory and their clientele. We are not going to give up, this is part of an ongoing investigation, but we also don’t want to tip them off, so we need to be careful… These are very dangerous people and they are very clever. Everything is planned, nothing is random. These people have been following you for a long time and they knew exactly when the time was right... Anything is possible, so it’s difficult to come to any kind of conclusion right now.
They had been following us? Sex slaves? Kiddy porn? New parents? Sold? Taken by traffickers? My baby could be anywhere, more alive than dead?
This is all we have right now.
Omar and I kept silent. There was nothing to say, only a barrage of questions that would render us even more distraught.
Do you think she’s in KL? I blurted.
We have no idea of knowing where she is at all. Like I said, she could be anywhere.
But she’s alive? You think she’s alive?
It’s highly possible that she is, yes, she is worth more alive…
Omar stifled a gasp, raked his fingers through his hair and said, in a pained voice.
Thank you, Inspector, thank you for your time. Please keep us updated.
He then walked past me, stopped and attempted a weak smile.
Take care of yourself, Del.
And he walked out the door as I turned away and stifled a scream. I was breaking, breaking, breaking up into little pieces.
I counted all the pills again before I swallowed them. I had prescription Xanax for panic attacks and for sleeping and I lay them out in a row, all twenty of them. Like sweets. I had bought a bottle of vodka and I was ready. I re-read the note I had written.
I am sorry. I have no more reasons. I am beyond pain. I just want to sleep forever and dream of Alba. Please cremate me, I have no wish to be buried. Thank you.
How stupid. How banal. My mundane life, reduced to a pathetic note. The days after the police station were spent in complete catatonia. I had crawled into bed and stayed there for three whole days, weeping, screaming, sleeping. I did not eat, I drank bottle after bottle and took whatever pills I had. By the fourth day, I was less of a shell than I had ever been and I had decided that the only way to end the misery was to end my life. There was no strength left in me, apart from feeling completely and utterly alone, I was afraid for my mind. I could not stop it from going to the deepest reaches of my subconscious—the images that stayed with me for most of my walking hours were unrelenting. I had images of Alba splayed out in front of my eyes; Alba screaming from pain, Alba crying, Alba wandering around looking for me, Mama Mama Mama, where are you?
Alba with strange men doing unimaginable things to her. With a camera, with objects, with knives. No, I told myself, I cannot do this anymore. She will never be found and I will go crazy in the process. It is not worth it. And really, apart from Alba there was nothing for me to live for. I might as well have been dead to Omar. And he to me. I was staring at the abyss and there was no way out. I took one pill then a swig of vodka. Then two, and another swig. Then three, and another swig, then four, then five and the final five. All twenty pills were in me. And soon I had drunk almost two thirds of the bottle. I staggered to the couch and managed to get comfortable enough, soon I felt a wave come over me. It felt like damp cotton wool coursing through my veins. Yes, sleep would claim me and there would be no more tomorrow. No more pain, no more nightmares. No more.
Then, a lightness came over me, as if I was being lifted toward an orange cloud. It was the richest sunset I’d ever seen. Streaks of aquamarine, blue, crimson, pinks of all hues. It was glorious. I closed my eyes and drifted towards some kind of tunnel. Yes, I was almost there, take me angels, take me home.
When my handphone rang, I had apparently managed to answer it, how I don’t know. I must have found some strength to reach an arm out, press a button then speak. Hello… Then I went silent, thrust back into the orange universe. This prompted Marina to race over to the apartment with her lover, knock furiously on the door, break it down with the help of the security guard and then get me into an ambulance. When I woke up, she was there by my side. Her lover, he was there too. I looked at her then turned away.
I want to die, Marina. I can’t…
No, you are not going to die. You can’t, Del. You cannot give up.
But I had, I had. And I was not good anymore. Not to anyone, not to Omar, not to myself. I closed my eyes and saw Alba. Sitting on a swing in the playground, looking at her new yellow shoes with delight. I had just bought them after she picked them out from a store. Jelly shoes, see-through ones. We had doughnuts at a bakery in the same mall, laughing when we had identical sugary moustaches, we sang in the car as we drove to the playground, where I pushed her up on a swing, higher and higher until her laughter turned to tears, and then cradling her in my arms, her chubby hands tugging my ears and cheeks, her warm lips kissing me, saying Mama, Mama for the very first time.
Omar noticed that the bottle was almost empty when he heard his handphone ring. It was an unlisted number and as he pressed it to his ear, he regretted picking it up and was going to end the call when he heard a familiar female voice.
“Omar, it’s Nim.”
His hand reached for the snifter of whisky and he took another gulp.
“Nim?”
“Imran’s friend. Remember?” she spoke again.
Omar cleared his throat and spoke slowly, trying not to slur, “Ah…from the wedding…Alba’s birthday… and Hanoi airport!” He heard silence.
“Am I intruding?,” she asked quietly.
“Not intruding at all,” Omar slurred back. He leaned back on the couch and took another swig of whisky. His head was throbbing and he thought to get up for some water, but he found himself to be unsteady and fell back onto the couch.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice probing gently.
“No,” he replied, his voice breaking. “My baby is gone…”
“Yes, I know. Omar,” she continued, “I am so sorry, I wish I could help…”
“Come over,” he said gruffly. “Right now.”
“Now?” Nim asked, her voice surprised.
“Yes, will SMS you my address. See you soon.”
Omar hung up, drained the glass, tapp
ed his address and pressed the send button. He got up, pulled his clothes off and strode through the living room, through the bedroom and into the shower. When he emerged ten minutes later, he heard a police siren from the street below. Momentarily confused, he thought himself to be in London, in his apartment in Shoreditch where police sirens were an everyday affair. He shook his head and remembered the time when he had arrived from London, and how he’d met Del, all those years ago. He ruffled his hair dry on a fluffy white towel and walked towards the window. He looked down and saw people going in and out of the building across. He wondered if Del would be there that night, getting high and off her head. He pressed his head against the glass pane and sighed.
He looked up and saw the KL Tower looming above him, its red eye pulsating at the top. He turned around, pulled some clothes from the open wardrobe, straightened the sheets on his bed, found two white pills from his bedside drawer and swallowed them with water from a bottle. He sat on the side of his bed and looked at his watch. He had no idea if Nim was going to show up and felt a pang of regret. It was impulsive, asking her to come over. He had no idea if she was even in town, and had assumed that she was.
Omar walked into the kitchen and opened another bottle of whisky. He had been drinking heavily for three days, and had thought to stock up for the weekend ahead. After the meeting with Inspector Awang, he had called the office, told his secretary to cancel all meetings and appointments, drove home and started drinking. He had called PT Raja to update him of the new findings, put the volume down on his handphone, closed the curtains, turned on the stereo and sat on the couch, unmoving, until he drank an entire bottle and had passed out on the couch.
When he woke up, he ran to the bathroom and retched violently. Only bile came up, and his stomach growled in pain. He stumbled into the shower and vomited again, his stomach heaving in waves. The cold water revived him and he glared at his reflection in the mirror. His face unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, his right fist shaking with anger. His mouth contorted in anger and he let us a scream, his mouth widening into an O and then a snarl and then as an image of Alba flashed into his mind, his body shook and heaved with tears, and on the bathroom floor, he wept.
After the suicide attempt, I was inundated by calls from Sumi, Fairman, Imran and once by Omar, but I felt the distance in his voice, and responded appropriately with the same measure of coldness. My near-death-experience had informed me that there were beings of light—I was certain that I had been carried by a guardian angel of some sort—and that the promise of an afterlife was real. The road to heaven was not paved with roses, it was paved with the unending rays of a brilliant, undying sun.
Papa was beside himself and it pained me to see him like that, but I assured him that it would never happen again. I had resolved to see things differently. My father was at death’s door, waiting, and I realised that he was only living for me, that if I ended my life, he would end his own. The cyclical nature of life and death was not profound, we had glimmers of love, and perhaps it was enough.
Marina decided to move in with me temporarily to make sure that I got out of my sex- and drug-fuelled frenzy. She made sure that I ate; cooked simple dishes with a variety of soups, noodles and rice and for the first time in months, I felt a sense of normality. She deleted Karin’s number from my phone and said that I could see Shah but you have to use a condom, god knows how many women he has slept with. And no more coke! She dragged me to do an AIDS and STD test, which was humiliating, and she got rid of all the alcohol in the house. We sat in the evenings and sipped herbal tea and watched film after feel-good film. It was the most mundane week, but it worked. Marina had shown me that she was really and truly concerned and that she was going to make sure that I got back on track. In truth, she was the only one who cared.
Because I had punished my body so much in the previous weeks, I went through withdrawals and would wake up in cold sweats and panic attacks. I smoked copiously to keep my hands from shaking, and once begged her to let me drink some wine. The entire bottle was gone in ten minutes. She sat there at the dinner table, cigarette in right hand, her crimson nails perfectly manicured.
You can drink yourself to death too, you know. You want to go into rehab?
I knew that I needed help, but it wasn’t the kind of help that you could get in rehab. I wasn’t an addict, I was grieving and was temporarily lapsing into a dark place—I knew that I would get myself out of it, and perhaps Marina’s presence was the kind of trigger I needed. I had pushed myself to the edge and I needed to find my way back. I knew then that Marina was family—she was the only real person I could trust implicitly. She cared for me, she loved me and she was going to make sure that I survived this.
Fuck Omar, what a loser. Some men don’t know how to deal with anything.
I opened my mouth to defend Omar and then I stopped. We were both to blame, I had put up a wall since Alba’s disappearance. I, too, did not know how to deal with it. My father’s example wasn’t model behaviour, and I had not been available to Omar in any way at all. I told Marina that I had shut myself down emotionally and physically, so it was no wonder that he had left.
That’s not an excuse, Del. I saw the way he looked at you at the wedding. That man would never do this to you. He’s changed, something has happened to him. You have to stop blaming yourself.
Blame. How could I not blame myself? It was easy to blame Omar. Marina did not know the brutality of marriage, the banality of motherhood. Alba was with me when she was taken, I was responsible, how could I spare myself from the residue of responsibility? All that I thought I knew about love, friends and family—everything I knew had been compromised. I had to redefine everything from scratch. And it had to start with myself.
But love, Marina was in the throes of love with Mr Ferrari.
He says he loves me. He is the kindest, gentlest, most generous person. And he wants to be with me! He says that I am his soul mate, that he has been searching for me his whole life. Can you imagine?
Yes, I could imagine her happiness. Marina, who had come from the backwaters of Sabah, who had to spread her legs every night for men who spat at her and called her filthy names would one day find love—and happiness. I too had it, for a few years only, but I did have it, once.
He’s very well connected, he knows a lot of people in KL, you know. Gangsters, he knows them. In the construction business, it’s all run by these people. Bloody gangsters, they control everything in KL. Even politicians are involved you know?
I recalled that moment in the club when Karin introduced the man with the long fingernail. Your husband is not a good man, he makes bad deals.
Your boyfriend. Can you ask him if he knows anything about trafficking in KL?
I told her what Inspector Awang had told Omar and me. Marina listened intently, smoked cigarette after cigarette and then said, very quietly.
I know of a woman who sells babies. I’ve heard of a girl who sold her baby once. This was a few months ago. This woman is very bad, she runs an adoption agency, but she sells the babies to couples who cannot have children.
A woman who sells babies? Like babies that are just born or toddlers? How old?
I don’t know, I need to ask more.
I stood up and bent over, my stomach heaving with pain and relief. A realm of possibility had opened up. Perhaps Alba had been sold to a childless couple in KL. Perhaps she was in a happy home somewhere in the city. Perhaps she was really and truly all right. Then again, perhaps not. I had to find her. But how?
The doorbell rang and Omar knew that it was Nim. He drained the last of his whisky and glanced at his watch. It was almost 10pm. He opened the door. Nim stood outside, dressed in a knee-length grey dress with long sleeves. She smiled and held out her hand.
“Hi there, good to see you,” she said.
Omar took her hand and shook it lightly, he thought it slightly formal, but perhaps it was the best option, under the circumstances.
“Come in,” he gestured h
er inside, “Keep your shoes on, if you like.”
“Oh no,” she said, “I prefer to walk barefoot when indoors,” and slipped her black heels off.
“Drink?” Omar asked.
“Sure, whatever you’re having,” Nim replied, as Omar walked towards the low table by the couch. He picked up the remote for the stereo and turned it down.
“You like jazz, I see,” Nim commented quietly as she sat down on one end of the couch.
Omar nodded and asked, “How many fingers? I hope you like single malt…”
“Three is good,” Nim replied quickly.
Omar handed her the thick, hand-cut crystal snifter with the golden liquid, picked up his own and clinked hers. They both took a sip and leaned back on the couch. Omar took another sip, “Thanks for coming over, I wasn’t sure if you were even in KL, but… thanks.” He looked at her, pained. “It’s been a horrific time, these past weeks…”
“I am so sorry, I cannot imagine what you must be going through…”
“Have never felt so helpless in my life,” he continued. “The police have nothing, absolutely fucking nothing…”
Nim shook her head and sighed. “Surely, they must have something…?”
“Well they told us that she could be anywhere really, that a child like her is worth more alive than dead, that she could be sold, she could be in Thailand, Australia, or even still in KL…!” He smiled bitterly. “These people are monsters…who would sell someone else’s child?” Omar drank the rest of the whisky, slammed the glass on the table and poured himself another drink.
Once We Were There Page 24