by RJ Bailey
‘Please. This is crazy. You crazy.’
‘Yes, I think I probably am.’
I turned the valve, heard the gas hiss through the nozzles.
‘Singapore! Singapore!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Singapore they went.’
I flicked the cigarette and watched the blue flames dance over the platform as Aja screamed her lungs out.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Singapore?’
‘That’s what she said.’
Freddie’s image moved in that jerky FaceTime fashion when the link isn’t all that great. The first part of her sentence was white noise. ‘. . . dangerous for a man in his line of work?’
I got the gist. ‘Yeah. Not like Bali, then?’
‘True enough. What are you doing now?’
‘Packing. I’m flying to Singapore first thing.’
‘Where do you start?’ Freddie asked.
It was a good question. One I really didn’t want to answer, because I didn’t have one. ‘There’ll be a few people I can tap, someone on the Circuit out there.’ Unless they were in opposition or were rivals, PPOs mostly supported each other when they could. After all, you never knew when you might need to call upon the goodwill of this band of brothers and sisters. ‘Maybe get a heads-up from one of them.’
‘I dunno . . .’ Freddie grimaced into the camera.
‘Got any better ideas?’
‘Not yet. How’s the girl?’
‘Lightly singed. And shaken. Even I didn’t expect that.’
‘She must have crapped herself.’
‘I think I nearly did,’ I admitted.
‘Where is she now?’
‘Protective custody. Kadek’s uncle is keeping her under lock and key till I leave.’
‘Handy contact, that boy.’
‘Just business to the uncle. I think I just bought him a year’s supply of batik shirts.’
Kadek, in prepping the cremation site, had exchanged the gas cylinder for one filled with compressed air so I could threaten Aja with harmless jets. How was I to know I should have flushed the system first to avoid residual gas remaining in the pipes?
It had only flared briefly as my cigarette ignited it, but it had given both of us a scare.
Though, it had the advantage of convincing Aja I really was a psychopath. And that might just be the truth.
Maybe you had to be one to go up against one.
I had, though, left a stash of money with Kadek for Aja. Enough for her to quit the bars and go home for a while. But I kept that back from Freddie too. I didn’t want her to think I’d gone soft.
‘What about at your end?’ I asked.
‘Nothing much. I have one idea about getting a tag on Jess. Something we overlooked.’
‘What?’ I asked.
Her voice turned metallic and distorted.
‘What did you say?’
‘Woking.’
I shook my head. Overlooked? I’d clean forgotten it. ‘What about Woking?’ It never featured on my list of places where she might be. Although, when I first met Matt he was a big Paul Weller fan. Wasn’t he from Woking? How ironic would it be if I was running around the Far East and Jess was back home in the commuter belt?
‘It might be nothing. Long shot. See the straws there? That’s me clutchin’ at them. Leave it with me. I’ll let you know. Get some sleep, eh? You look like shit.’
‘Who looks great on FaceTime?’
She ducked that one. ‘And watch your back.’
‘I have a police guard,’ I admitted. ‘One at the gate, one on my veranda.’ I didn’t mention how much overtime those guys were on, courtesy of Noor’s generous pay packet. That money wouldn’t stretch too far at this rate.
‘Don’t you wonder what he’s up to? Bojan? He’s . . .’
The screen froze. Her voice turned Dalek again and began to fragment. ‘I’m losing you. We’ll speak when I’m in Singapore. OK?’
‘Oh . . . cchk.’
I broke the connection and lay back on the bed, watching the ceiling fan spin and listening to the constant churn of insects in the background. Some silence would be nice for a change.
I felt stale, spent. I needed to run with a cold wind in my face; to swim in icy water; to see my breath cloud in the air atop Parliament Hill Fields. The heat and humidity of this island was sucking the energy out of me.
Don’t you wonder what he’s up to?
Damn right I do. But I had a feeling I’d find out soon enough.
I met a bear once. Why I started thinking about it on the way to Bali’s airport, I’ll never know. But the image came back to me. It was a summer I spent working for a branch of the Kuwaiti royal family. The princess asked me if I would accompany her on a trip to Woodstock. I agreed, as Oxfordshire wasn’t that far to drive and it would make a change from hanging around hotel rooms or the shopping emporia of London. But, being a Kuwaiti princess, she meant Woodstock, New York.
Despite being in her late teens, she was a big fan of Jimi Hendrix, and had seen the movie a dozen times. Still, Jess once told me her generation thought Phil Collins was cool, so it shouldn’t have surprised me.
She was a little disappointed with Woodstock itself – I think she might even have preferred Oxfordshire’s version – especially when I told her the festival didn’t actually take place there. But she also wanted to see some nature, so bought us both hiking boots so we could take a trail up the aptly named Overlook Mountain.
One thing you should never do is tackle a steep, relentless four-kilometre climb in new boots.
When we reached a small flat section, which contained the spooky husk of a once-glamorous hotel, we ignored the signs about timber rattlesnakes, sat on the remains of a wall, took off our boots and compared blisters.
We knew we didn’t have far to go to see the view the mountain is named after, but just as I was contemplating getting back into the boots, I heard a rustling to our right. I turned, and saw a black bear had emerged onto the path, blocking our ascent.
‘Don’t scream or make any sudden moves,’ I said, grabbing her wrist. ‘But there is a black bear behind us.’
She stayed remarkably calm. ‘What do we do?’
I knew there were two types of bear in this part of US: the brown and the black. ‘With one of them, you make as much noise as possible and wave your arms,’ I said quietly. ‘The other, you climb a tree or play dead.’
‘Which one do you do for a black bear?’ the princess asked.
‘I don’t remember,’ I replied honestly.
All I could recall was that a black bear can run at 35mph. A rough calculation suggested this was about 27mph more than I could manage, even with a bear on my tail.
The bear glanced at us now and then, but mainly sniffed at the base of a couple of trees, as if trying to decide between them.
We sat there for almost twenty minutes, waiting for this tree-junkie of a bear to get bored. Eventually, it looked up into the branches of its favourite trunk and, with an ease I still can’t quite comprehend and a speed that was both impressive and terrifying, it began to climb. With the crack of claw on bark and the odd grunt, it was soon in the upper branches, swaying like an overgrown, swarthy koala.
‘Not the climb-a-tree-to-escape species, then,’ I said. We hastily put our boots on, and as we did so, I told the old joke about two hikers who are being chased by a bear.
One stops and puts on his running shoes. ‘You’ll never outrun a bear,’ says his companion incredulously.
‘I don’t have to outrun the bear,’ comes the reply. ‘I just have to outrun you.’
Why that triggered a certainty in me, I’m not sure. But I had a strong feeling that I knew what Bojan’s first move would be. In fact, that he had already made it before our meeting at Bacang.
‘Kadek,’ I said, ‘we’ve got a bit of time before my flight, yes?’
‘Yes, Ibu.’
‘Turn around.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going shoppin
g.’
At last, said his smile.
I thought they were going to make the move at the airport. I saw the fat cop from the Blue Turtle and Bacang hanging around the check-in desks, but he didn’t seem interested in me. That could have been an act.
I went straight to the desk that promised they could whisk my luggage to anywhere in the world. I got an accurate weight and a price for shipping to Singapore, but told the clerk I had decided to keep the case with me instead. I then went through the fast-track to the business lounge.
Thanks to the time spent on my shopping spree, I only had to wait ten minutes until boarding. I didn’t actually relax until the doors were closed and the engines were warming up. I wasn’t sorry to see the back of Bali. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking forward to Singapore much either.
And I was right. It was there that they got me.
I was pulled over from the immigration line by two uniformed officers: one young, the second older and greyer. They introduced themselves as being from the Immigration and Checkpoints Authority. They told me I was being detained under Section 8, Paragraph 109 of the Singapore Statutes Customs Act, which apparently covers search, seizure and arrest.
They took me to a secluded area, still airside, closed off from public view by portable screens, guarded by an armed policeman, and the older guy pointed to a table. I put my case on it and they asked me to unlock it. As I did so, they put on blue gloves.
‘Don’t worry. It’s all clean. The underwear,’ I said.
Not a flicker. Kill the humour.
Both had name badges on their blue and gold uniforms. The older man was Pang, the younger, Lee. The latter was a good-looking kid, with skin I would kill for. He looked like he used a lot of product. Pang, on the other hand, had a sickly grey pallor under the strip lights. He looked like he needed more sleep. I sympathised.
‘Is that working?’ I pointed to the CCTV orb on the ceiling, which had turned its gaze on me.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Pang.
‘Good.’
The young man glanced up as if he had never noticed the CCTV before and then snapped at me, ‘What is the purpose of your visit to Singapore?’
Where to start? I am going to trawl all the low-life dens – even Singapore must have them – until I find someone who remembers Matt or Jess. I’m going to kick down doors and bang heads and, hell, I might just chew some gum without a licence while I’m at it. Instead, I said: ‘Tourism.’
‘What do you want to see?’ asked Pang.
Thank God for in-flight magazines. ‘I want to eat soft-shell crab and do the night safari at the zoo. The Jurong Bird Park looks interesting.’ They looked sceptical at that statement, but I was serious. I just wouldn’t be visiting it. ‘I also have a relative buried here.’ That last part was actually true.
‘Kranji?’ asked Pang.
‘Yes.’
He nodded gravely; a point in my favour. I stood aside and watched them empty the suitcase and check the lining carefully.
Then they did it again.
They looked puzzled. Disappointed, even.
The two men exchanged a few sharp words. ‘We will get a female officer to search you,’ said the older man.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Routine check.’
There was nothing routine about shining lights up my various cavities as far as I was concerned.
‘I want the case with me at all times.’
‘We will give you a receipt.’
That wasn’t going to fly. ‘I don’t want it out of my sight.’ I hoped I was being polite, but firm. ‘If it does leave my side, then I want it wrapped and sealed in the presence of witnesses.’
‘Why?’ asked Pang.
‘Just so we all know where we stand.’ I knew better than to suggest I didn’t trust them. But I didn’t.
The only corruption story I had been able to find online about Singapore customs was a scam where two officers had refused to give tourists the Goods and Service Tax refunds they were entitled to, then claimed the GST for themselves later. That didn’t mean there weren’t other bad apples in the ICA I hadn’t read about or who hadn’t been caught. They might not be above framing some foreign woman in order to get Employee of the Month.
‘You have something to hide?’ Lee asked.
‘No, I’m just making sure nothing gets hidden on me. I also have evidence of how much my luggage weighed in Bali.’ I showed them my receipt. ‘Just in case.’
I had double-checked and it was 1.5g of crystal meth that was enough to get you fifteen years in prison in Bali. I guessed it was the same in Singapore. It only took 500g of cannabis to qualify for the death penalty.
Exactly what and how much they had put in my case – or where – I wasn’t sure. But when my hotel room was searched while I was dropping Noor at the airport, I would put good money on the intruder, or intruders, not having taken anything. Instead, they left a present behind. Something that these officers had been tipped off about.
Which is why I had thrown away my original suitcase and all my clothes and bought replacements. The only things I kept were some quick-fasten restraints and my roll of silver gaffer tape – neither of which was, as far as I knew, prohibited in Singapore. Although, you could never be sure. They might think it was for use in some sort of sex game.
And all the underwear really was clean – it was brand new. As was every stitch of clothing I stood in. I could have done a search of myself to locate the planted material, but I couldn’t take the risk I might miss something.
As I said, it doesn’t take much to fuck you up in this part of the world.
I didn’t put it quite like that. ‘I would guess you had a tip-off from Bali police about me. A blue-on-blue friendly word, right? About me being a drugs mule, with something hidden in my case? Let me tell you, the chummy cop who gave you that information is corrupt. I’m being framed. Someone wants to slow me dow—’ The end of the word went missing in action.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the older man.
I could feel sweat prickle on my forehead, as if I was going to be sick. ‘Can I have a drink of water?’
The younger one hurried away. I fetched a chair from the wall behind me and sat.
Now I knew what the game was.
Get me arrested for drugs in Singapore, then publicise it. Bali and its notorious Kerobokan prison was a bit of a black hole – people tended to get swallowed by it for weeks on end.
But news would spread very quickly from Singapore.
Newspapers back home would run stories about the unlikely drug mule, journalists would find out about Matt and Jess and they would track them down.
Bojan would use the power of the press and the indignation of the Daily Mail to flush them out.
Clever.
I took the water and gulped it down. Perhaps all that was just my febrile imagination. But if that was his scheme, it was a sly ploy worthy of him.
And I would be powerless to stop it.
Hell, knowing Matt, he might just come out and sell his story to someone. ‘Can I go now?’
Pang shook his head. ‘Not until you’re searched and you have a bowel movement.’
‘What?’
‘You ill because packet burst in stomach?’
‘I am ill because of . . .’ I tamped down on my anger. ‘Because someone is messing with my life and playing you to help do it.’
The female officer arrived, all blank-faced brusqueness. Her name badge said she was called Zhang Goh. She looked me up and down like a piece of meat. ‘You come with me.’
‘Where to?’
‘Central Narcotic Bureau has a facility here. You will be monitored. We make sure you not carrying.’ It’s a job, I suppose, but not one I’d be first in line for: Shit Inspector, First Grade.
‘I want to be able to see that case at all times. And I want it weighed to show it hasn’t changed since Bali.’
Zhang looked over at the senior man and Pang nodded his
permission. Now, I was acting as if I did have something to hide, but better safe than sorry.
I played what I hoped was a trump card. ‘I would also like to call my lawyer.’
‘You have a lawyer in Singapore?’
The International Bodyguard Association certainly did and I’d made contact before I’d left Bali. ‘In fact, she’s waiting landside now.’
There was more talk between the three of them that I couldn’t follow. ‘Your lawyer can visit you at the CNB facility,’ Pang announced.
The younger man had repacked my things and now zipped up the case and handed it over to Miss Sunshine. ‘Follow me,’ she said.
*
To reach Kranji cemetery you head for Malaysia. It is about as far north as you can get on the island of Singapore.
After I had been sprung from the CNB’s holding tank – and its charming all-Perspex lavatory bowl – I had checked into my hotel and caught a taxi up there. Singapore was a shock after the chaos of Bali, where nobody seemed capable of walking in a straight line thanks to the narrow, crowded streets. Singapore was the exact opposite. You could probably be fined for not walking in a straight line.
The city-state had one thing in common with Bali – it was hot and humid. Kranji overlooked the Johor Strait and the meagre wind that managed to stir itself over the water was very welcome.
I walked past some of the 4,500 tombstones and up to the main memorial. It looked like an aeroplane wing, supported by thirteen uprights. Both sides of those verticals were covered in names. This was a record of a further 24,000 men and women with no known grave, who had been captured when Singapore fell and who had perished in Japanese-run work camps, in prisons or on death marches.
I found my relative on one of the inscription panels. My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Herbert Crane. He had been a banker in Singapore and had joined the Singapore Volunteer Force, part of the Straits Settlements Volunteer Force. After the city fell, he had been imprisoned in Changi and had died there.
I felt hot tears roll down my cheeks. All war graves do that to me. Anyone who has served in a battle zone knows how easy it is to find yourself in the earth a long way from home.