Encik Malik and Puan Delonix, thank you for coming in on such short notice. I am OCPD Baljit Singh and I have been briefed about your case from Inspector Awang. Last night, or rather, this morning, we found something that may or may not be connected to your missing daughter.
He paused slightly.
There was a body of a child that was found in a suitcase by the side of the road in Jalan Ulu Kelang and we believe that there is reason that this could be the body of your child, Alba. The body is in very bad condition and we will need to run DNA tests, as it is highly decomposed and beyond recognition. As your child went missing more than six months ago, we know that it will be difficult to identify her, so we will need samples of your DNA.
He stopped suddenly, then continued. I am very, very sorry but we had to contact you and tell you this. I am…
I stood up, pulled away from Omar’s firm grip, and ran. I pulled the heavy glass doors open, I ran past the blue-clad officers who stood stoically and silently, I ran down the stairs, I ran past the lady with the white tudung at the entrance who stood up saying something inaudible to me, I ran past the security guards who tried to stop me, I ran and ran and ran until I could run no more, and there on that road, by the side of tall trees and the sound of birds, I tried to scream, but nothing came out.
Omar found me sitting on a concrete slab by the side of the road, smoking a cigarette that one of the cops had given me. They pitied me, I could see it on their faces and they let me sit there, until they let Omar through the gates.
I looked up, and saw that his eyes looked haunted.
It’s not over yet, Del. They have something to show us. Come on.
I finished the rest of the cigarette, stubbed it out with my right sandal and found Omar’s hand. We walked slowly into the compound of the police headquarters. How strange that we were there being assisted by the cops, so hated by us once upon a time. How the tables had turned. We entered the room for the second time and sat down.
Please continue, sorry about that just now. Omar spoke with an air of resignation in his voice. I gripped his hand tightly, my breath short.
We know this is going to be difficult, but we have something we need to show you. Inspector Awang spoke, his voice echoing across the room. He continued.
In cases like this, where the body has deteriorated so badly, we will instead show photos taken by our forensics team. We will show you only one image, and if you recognise anything at all in this picture, please identify it and let us know.
I looked at Omar in a panic, our eyes locked for a second. He gripped my hand tightly. I turned and saw OCPD Baljit walk towards us holding a paper file. He stood next to me and I shut my eyes so tight, I wished for momentary blindness to prevent me from seeing the image that he had put on the table. I heard Omar gasp as he wrenched his hand from mine. I opened my eyes.
I saw a large photograph in colour and I could make out the body of a small child curled in a foetal position inside a blue fabric suitcase. Flesh had been eaten away in parts and fat maggots were curled comfortably in both eyesockets, in the open mouth and the gaping nasal cavity. The child’s abdomen was bloated. There was no evidence of any kind of clothing. The child had hair, but it was short, and looked like it had been cut, carelessly. The thighs and calves were discoloured, a dark purple, blue, and the feet were tied by some kind of string. Raffia, I thought. Pink perhaps? And on one disfigured foot, there was a yellow jelly sandal. I screamed.
Omar hugged me with all his might and I felt his body heave, I felt a deep gurgle come from deep within him and I heard him say, I need the bathroom.
A strange calm came over me. I looked at Inspector Awang, OCPD Baljit and all the other police officers in the room and I said in a voice that I did not recognise as my own.
Alba had shoes like that, yellow ones… She loved those shoes. They were her favourite.
I stood up, turned around to look for Omar and when I saw him coming towards me, we found each other and I smelt the vomit on him, I reached for his face and mouth and eyes and there, we found each other.
We gave them the DNA samples that they needed and like two broken stone statues, we walked out into the harsh afternoon light.
* * *
That yellow jelly sandal. That dirty, maggot-infested yellow plastic sandal. There, in that suitcase, with a dead body of a child.
It stuck to him. He tried to make sense of it, he tried to reason with the fact that there were other children who wore that very same sandal, that surely there were other children in KL whose parents had bought the same shoes. That surely there had to be another child who wore the same coloured shoes who was also perhaps kidnapped, surely…no matter how hard he tried, Omar could not find reason for the fact that the yellow jelly sandal had appeared six months later after Alba’s disappearance.
OCPD Baljit had said, “The DNA testing will take anything from 24 hours to one week. Our forensics team at the Police College in Cheras will do their best to expedite this.”
He’d continued: “DNA testing for parents and children is rather complicated, and we need to match all twenty-two markers to be sure.” OCPD Baljit was apologetic but firm. “And let’s just hope that the body has not decomposed beyond recognition. Fingers crossed.” He smiled.
Another week of waiting, another hellish week. Omar needed to find a way of thinking, a way of getting through each day, of finding meaning in his life, his work. Del was falling apart again, she had completely distanced herself from him, she had stopped eating, stopped yoga, stopped everything that she had been doing to make herself well again. The only thing she did was stand in front of the fridge, take out yet another bottle of vodka, twist open the cap and take a large swig, and then stumbling to her spot at the couch for another day of mourning.
He did not know what to say to her. There was nothing left to say except, “We have to wait, we don’t know if it’s Alba, until we know for sure.” But it fell on deaf ears. PT Raja had been dismissed, there was no new evidence and he had not managed to find anything at all. It was as if Alba had disappeared off the face of the earth and had now, possibly, been found. That she could have been in KL all that time drove Omar into a crazed frenzy. That they did nothing. Nothing! So Del was right, that Alba could have been kidnapped and held in KL. That she could have been saved, somehow. Omar had never felt so helpless in his life. He wanted to blame the cops, he wanted to blame PT Raja, he wanted to blame Del, but he couldn’t. He blamed himself.
One day, he stopped by to get groceries from a mini-mart in Bangsar and as he walked to his car, his arms full of bags, he heard the sound of the evening azan, the Maghrib prayer coming out loud and clear over the speakers from the nearby mosque. He bowed his head and a calm came over him. He opened the car boot, placed all the bags neatly, locked the car and walked across the road to the mosque.
He washed his hands, face and feet, finished the wudhu’ and entered the cool, silent mosque. He joined a line of men performing the prayers and remembered what his Tok had taught him all those years ago. There were three rakats for the Maghrib prayer and he remembered the familiar prostrations his grandmother performed with him over and over again. When he said the last Allahu Akhbar, he felt a peace come over him, a calm serenity, and he imagined Alba’s newborn face, and the awe he felt when she was born. And it was this thought that filled him when he walked back across the road.
It is God’s will. It is God’s will.
Alba has returned to God.
Omar did not think himself religious, nor spiritual. He had often wondered what his faith meant to him. That he was half Malay and half English meant that he had grown up in the most liberal household with parents who ate and drank everything, celebrated Christmas, Hari Raya and even the occasional Wiccan celebration. Once his mother took him and Lulu to a Beltane celebration, which happened on May Day, deep in the Norfolk countryside. He remembered women and men in long flowing cloaks, children wearing flower necklaces who ran freely on the large open fiel
d, a bonfire and a maypole which they all took turns dancing around. There was much feasting and chanting and some kind of ritual in a circle, which involved wands—Real ones, Omar! said his mother—and the invocation of the four archangels by a tall man with long black hair. His father had probably last set foot in a mosque when his Tok died, and was not a man who lived by any kind of religious code or creed.
But he felt closer to God than he ever had. It gave him a kind of strength he so desperately needed. No, he was not going to start praying five times a day, but he would at least once a day, put his head on the ground and prostate himself in the direction of the Kaabah. The Al Fatihah held more and more meaning for him, and became a prayer that he would utter several times a day, when he was in the car driving or waiting for a coffee at a café. This kind of horror was incomprehensible, he felt that the only way to understand what had possibly happened to Alba was because God had shown mercy, that Alba had been spared of a life of suffering. That God had taken her because she was good and pure.
Eight days after their DNA samples had been taken, Omar received a call from Inspector Awang. He had just come out of a meeting with Fairman and their accountants when his phone rang. He felt his stomach lurch, walked quickly into his office and shut the door.
Inspector Awang was quick and to the point, as if he’d read from a script, Omar later thought.
“The body has decomposed too badly, it has been in water and humidity and we cannot get a match. There are no dental records and there is no other way of identifying the body. Our forensics team did the test three times, but the DNA is unreliable and has been severely compromised. We are truly sorry but we cannot confirm that the body is that of your child, Alba. And finally, Encik Omar, as this case has been ongoing for several months now, and this was our last resort of finding any leads towards your daughter’s disappearance, we have no choice but to close this case. This is a dead case, Encik Omar. We are very sorry, but we have done everything that is humanly possible by our police officers to find your daughter. We hope you will accept our sympathies and we are confident that you will try to find some way of moving on with your lives. Please convey our sincerest sympathies to your wife. We are very sorry but we have no choice but to classify this as a dead case. This case is now closed. Thank you for your patience and have a good day.”
Omar remained wordless until the end, when he managed a “Thank you for everything,” which croaked out of his mouth. He hung up and stared at the skyline ahead of him. A sunset was starting to break and the clouds looked like a steam engine of sorts. The blue behind the clouds was startling, like cornflowers, or like the blue in one of Van Gogh’s paintings. He tried to remember which one, but the painting eluded him.
He stood there for a very long time, until the cloud formation had transformed to resemble the head of a giant, and then he saw a turtle and then the sky was brilliant red, yellow and pink, and the glow of the sunset was reflected in Omar’s face which gleamed with golden tears.
It didn’t matter anymore if it was Alba. It may not have been her at all. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want Omar to tell me. It was someone’s child, it was once alive, and now it was dead.
I was already dead. And Alba was in a place that I could no longer imagine. She too, was dead. Her soul now hung in the balance, in between the guardians of light and darkness. I had given her life, and she had given me death. I was too weak to fight, there was nothing left. Nothing left to imagine, only torture. I went back to the only thing I knew, I went back to losing myself, to finding the shreds of life that I once had.
Life, before Alba.
I could not live for Omar, he deserved far more. He deserved a woman who was unbroken from life. I was no good. My body racked from drugs, from drink, numbed eternally. I was too far gone, too far away from anyone. From myself. I chose to live in the shadows, I chose to live in the dark. There was no more light, there was no more good sense, there was no more hope.
There was only darkness in the places I once loved.
Papa was in his study as usual that day. He had taken to listening to the radio, BBC World Service, and it droned on day and night. He looked up and said to me.
Did you hear? Anwar has been released. They overturned his conviction and he has been flown to Germany for medical treatment. Those German doctors, he chuckled, if anyone can fix his back, it will be them.
Imagine that, he is free. Anwar is free.
Papa’s book was taking shape and he had managed to find an obscure university publisher who was interested in diasporic writings and the history of an uncertain Malaya. Then, I was certain that Papa was meant to be a writer, his silence, solitude and sullenness with the world were all befitting of a morose penman, someone who had more comfort in words than in humanity. I had learnt to forgive him, for being a father who was never present, a man who was ultimately the most selfish human being I had ever met, a man who only lived for the woman he loved, who shunned the only child he had. From the moment of my birth, I was all alone in the world. The only people who mattered flitted in and out of my days when I was still alive, people who left slight impressions on my memory, people who ceased to matter after a while, people whose lives were inextricably linked to ego, money, sex, loneliness. Addiction leads to lack of empathy. My parents were addicted to each other, it was as simple as that. They should not have brought me into their world.
The only time I ever felt peace was when the rains came, in the darkest of nights, the thunderous applause of raindrops on glass windowpanes and the roof would soothe me to sleep, and when the soft murmurings of raindrops arrived, I would find peace in the sanctuary of my blanket, oblivious to the world.
It rained that day when I arrived at my father’s house. The tree that was named after me swayed and was buffeted by the wind, flowers scattered across the lawn like red bullets, landing like sodden scars in the swimming pool. That tree, that tree that sheltered me during hot, humid days, now reminded me that I too was of the earth, that I too was born, and I too was still alive. That tree had my heart. It was the only thing that knew my presence, and I it. And that it would one day die too, pained, in a pool of crimson.
I crawled into my bed and there I slept, soothed by the syncopated raindrops outside my window. The next morning I saw my father, huddled over his typewriter, the radio muted, the birds already chirping. When I said, Goodbye Papa, see you soon, he looked up and his eyes were bright with the morning.
A room. A large bed. A window. A syringe. Someone passed out on the floor. A life. Alive. Is she still alive?
A for Alba. B for Boss. C for Candy. D for Delonix. E for Esctasy. F for failure. G for… G for…
Was it “green”? Or was it “germ”? Or “Germany”? Did it matter?
Wake up, wake up!
Wakey wakey, morning glory.
A set of margins. Butterflies. Casualties. Machines. Ephemera. Dismemberment. Wreckage. Thanatos. Thanatonic. Was that even a word? Disjunctions. Disjuncture. Collision. Rendering. Taiping. Aunty Ping. Ping-a-ling. Ting. Tong.
How many days? There, on the wall. There is a tick every day. Thirty. Exactly. What month is it? Itch. Itch. Lickety split. Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock. There is no clock. Mouse. Mouse. Mice. A mouse. Mice. Rice. Nice.
What have they done to you?
No, no. No. No more, please.
She is dead.
No, she is not dead. She is alive. I can see her from here. Look, she is smiling and waving at me. Oh, my darling girl. Mama is coming for you soon. Look, here I am. Can you see me? Can you? Look how you’ve grown. My little princess. I have missed you so much. I will never leave you again, I promise. Never, ever. Ever. Till the end of the world. Till the end. Of. The. World. Pinky promise.
See. I told you I would find her.
Hey, stop pulling my hand. You need to help her. No, no. No more thanks, please, thank you very much. Oh God, can you be a bit more gentle? You really should learn to be a gentl
eman. Good lord. Goodness gracious me. My goodness. Jiminy Christmas. Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king…
Ouch, that hurt. Please, stop. You’re hurting me. I don’t want any more. I need to stand up.
Oh God, look at me. I peed my pants. Good lord, oh goodness. How terribly rude of me.
Could I have some tissue please? A car would be nice too. Champagne. Caviar. Child.
There. C for child. I got it! Candy got it. I’m clever! That’s “c” too.
You monster. Monster.
Monster.
There are snakes crawling all over me. All over. Big ones, small ones. Thin ones, thick ones. There you are!
All long and slithery. The room smelled of rust and rot. It was dark but I still saw them, their eyes glowing in the dark. All those eyes looking at me, waiting to strike. But they don’t. I reached out my hand to them. Please say something, don’t leave me here. I know you. I know you.
Then one came towards me. It slithered all the way up my thigh and it coiled itself around my waist, and up onto my shoulder, then my neck. I heard it whisper, not yet, not yet.
On the floor, wet, covered in water, rising higher. The walls closing in. Get me out of here!
I have turned into a snake, I am limbless. I can slide in and out wherever I want. Wait, I see a hole, light comes from outside, let me slide into it. I am out.
People. Cars. On the road. Traffic. Feet. Filth.
A man comes towards me with an axe. He brings it down on my head. He cuts it off. I see my body and tail, wriggling away, like a worried ferret, disappearing into the foray of feet. I look up, and all I can see is the sky.
Omar found her after five days in a place they called Heroin Alley.
The shophouse, once a popular dance club, was now abandoned. All furniture and ornamentation had been stripped away, and the pockmarked concrete floor was a festering petri dish of human and animal matter. With each step, flies swarmed up and he brought out a handkerchief to cover his nose. The walls were painted dark but he saw glints of a gold motif of some sort. It looked like expensive wallpaper.
Once We Were There Page 29