Singapore Noir

Last Time by Colin Goh

Raffles Place

Last time.

That’s how Singaporeans say both “on a previous occasion” and “in the old days.” As in, “Last time I saw her, she was wearing an emerald-green Moschino dress that accentuated her clavicle,” as well as, “Last time, Singapore lawyers also used to wear wigs.”

There’s a photo of me wearing a wig on my desk at the firm. It’s made of white horsehair, fringed with several rows of frizzy curls (the wig, not the photo). I’m also wearing a black robe with wide, open sleeves and a sort of flap over the left shoulder, the garb of an English barrister.

It’s made by Ede & Ravenscroft, I said, handing her her tea. They’re the queen’s robe makers.

“You graduated in England?” She blew lightly on the tea before taking a sip. I’d left the door of my office open and could feel the eyes of the rest of the firm searing into the back of my neck.

No, I laughed. I had the picture taken during a holiday in England just before my final year at the National University of Singapore’s law school. I’d been visiting friends who were graduating as barristers and thought it fun to get myself snapped in their ridiculous getup as well.

She raised an eyebrow.

It’s ridiculous, I said, shaking my head. We stopped being a colony over forty years ago, but Singaporeans who study law in Britain are still in thrall to the “tradition.” (In hindsight, I am annoyed that I felt compelled to illustrate this observation by making quotation marks with my fingers.) I guess it’s an understandable impulse, I continued, like visiting Disneyland and buying a souvenir T-shirt. But they soon learn we have to be who we are.

As she lowered her cup, my eyes followed the lipstick she’d left on the rim. The Singapore legal profession did away with wigs ages ago, I added. They’re simply too hot for our tropical climate. In Singapore, pragmatism invariably trumps sentiment.

“But you still wear suits,” she replied, picking up the photo frame and turning it over slowly. She ran a long, tapered finger over some lettering on the frame’s back. “Made in China,” she smiled, placing the photo back on my desk.

I remember my scalp tingling. It’s funny the details that stick in your head.

“Last time, this all used to be the sea,” our driver said, motioning with his hand as we headed down Marina Boulevard toward the Sands.

She didn’t say a word, but her gaze was clearly fixed on the casino’s dolmen-like silhouette.

I adjusted my tie and said, People say it looks like... and here I fumbled. I didn’t know what Stonehenge was in Mandarin, so I just said it in English.

“What’s that?” she asked, without looking away from the window.

A very ancient monument in England, I said. A group of stones that archaeologists think was a burial ground of some sort.

“You know too much about England.” She leaned back in her seat and reached over to pat my jaw. “You should get to know China more. You’re Chinese, after all.”

I’d like that, I said softly. Through the rearview mirror, I saw the driver waggle his eyebrows at me.

The last time I saw the Comrade was in the casino’s main theater, on the night of her final performance. I was in the back row, tapping away absently at my iPad as she went through her routine of mic checks and lighting cues. A Facebook message came in with a photo of some of my fellow junior associates raising their middle fingers at me. Bastard gets to bill for spending time with her, ran a comment. What does that make him?

I smiled and looked up to see her waving at me. I waved back, and then realized she was actually waving to someone else behind me. Feebly lowering my hand, I turned around to see the Comrade lolloping down the stairs in a way that might have been comical except for the ashen look on his face.

I shot up and began shimmying toward the aisle, but was stopped by a grim-looking Mr. Chong, who’d appeared at the head of the row of seats. “Better stay here,” he said. He was my boss, so I did.

Meanwhile, the Comrade had already stormed onto the stage, where he’d begun barking at her in his impenetrable Beifang accent. Clearly bewildered, she reached out to touch him, but he brushed her hand away and began stabbing an accusatory finger at her. From my vantage point, I couldn’t make out their exchange, but she was now pleading with him. And when she tried to pull him closer, he struck her across the face.

I immediately bolted from Mr. Chong’s side. By the time I reached the stage, two of her security detail had pinned the Comrade to the floor. He didn’t put up a struggle; he seemed to know he had crossed a line. Her entourage was now swarming around her, but she waved them away with one hand, the other cradling her cheek. She wasn’t crying. In fact, it was the Comrade who was whimpering, fat tears streaming down his Botoxed face.

Shall I call the police? I held up my phone as I drew closer to her.

She whipped her head around, a brief yet intense flicker in her eyes that jolted me. Then she fell into my arms with a shudder. “No,” she whispered. As I held her close, I could see, past her perfect shoulder, Mr. Chong leaning over the orchestra pit, rubbing his jaw.

The first time I was in Beijing, I realized I wasn’t truly Chinese after all.

Ethnically, perhaps. My family could trace its lineage to the Daoguang Emperor of the Qing Dynasty, and I spoke Mandarin fluently enough that I’d anchored my secondary school’s Chinese debating team, a detail Mr. Chong felt necessary to invoke while explaining why he was dispatching me to the PRC to handle some matters for the Comrade.

Culturally, though, I had more in common with the American attorneys seated across from me at the conference table. Over dinner, we merrily shot the breeze over Seinfeld, Star Wars, and the byzantine narratives of the X-Men while the Comrade and his comrades downed their Château Lafite-Rothschild with Sprite.

But when she walked into the private dining room, I felt a ripple inside me, as if my ancestors had cast a plumb line into the well of my soul.

I’d heard the rumors about her and the Comrade, mostly from my secretary, who follows these things. But I never got the fuss, since I didn’t know who she was. I loathe Mandopop, which I find either derivative or treacly or both, and a starlet canoodling with a businessman with party connections just wasn’t news.

But seeing the Comrade drape his nicotine-stained fingers over her knee, a spider crouched atop a magnolia blossom, I was surprised to feel something akin to anger. I was just as surprised to find myself afterward at a music store in the Gulou district buying her entire back catalog.

Initially, I’d chalked it up to being starstruck, but the crush’s load never ebbed. For some unfathomable reason, she attended almost every meeting I had with the Comrade. In fact, she asked almost all the questions while he mostly nodded as he puffed on one Double Happiness cigarette after another.

You should perform in Singapore, I said to her the first time we were alone together. Providentially, the Comrade had dashed out of the room, clutching his guts and cursing last night’s lamb hotpot. She smiled and said she’d been planning a few dates, probably at one of the casinos. I told her that I’d like to take her to some of Singapore’s best eating spots, but was afraid she’d be mobbed.

“Are Singaporeans like that?” She looked at me quizzically. “I thought you were all very restrained and law-abiding.”

It depends on the subject, I replied. We’ve famously come to blows over Hello Kitty giveaways at McDonald’s. And you sing much better than Hello Kitty, I grinned, since you have a mouth.

She laughed at this and said, “You must protect me, then.” I willed myself not to blush.

Your first time in Singapore and even more people turned up to greet you than for Prince William and Kate Middleton, I felt proud to tell her.

“You mean you’d expect more Singaporeans would turn up for their former colonial masters?” She interlaced her fingers and stretched out her arms.

The bellboy patted her luggage and bowed. He didn’t even look at me as he accepted my tip. His gaze was fixed firmly on her as she leaned against the glass window of her hotel suite, the evening sun glinting off her jewelry, transforming her into a literal star.

Mainland Chinese aren’t exactly Singaporeans’ favorite immigrants at the moment, I explained as I shut the door. They feel the working class are taking away the low-end jobs while the upper class are driving up prices. (I recalled the scene earlier that day of the Comrade in the conference room at my firm, signing purchase after purchase of property and stock, pausing every so often to spew a gob of phlegm into the wastepaper basket, and wondered into which class I would place him.)

But you’re different, I added quickly. You have real talent. Most Singaporeans would consider it an honor if you became a citizen.

“Most?” she laughed, looking right into me. As she moved away from the window, she reached back to unclasp her diamond necklace. “A gift from the Comrade,” she said. As was almost everything else she was wearing.

He must be very grateful to have you, I said.

“More grateful that I’ve denied our relationship to the press, the Party, everyone.” She sat down at the dresser and laid the necklace in a velvet-lined metal box. “But most especially his wife.” She let out a small girlish giggle.

You could have anyone, I blurted. What do you see in him?

Instantly, I wished I could have withdrawn my question. I’m sorry, I stammered. I had no right to ask.

She removed her watch, the gems encrusting its face sparkling at me, and placed it in the box along with the other baubles. “He needs me,” she said. “And I need him.”

I nodded, kicking myself. How could I think our encounters over the past year — on trips to attend to her lover, at that — had somehow earned me any degree of intimacy? I wondered if she would tell the Comrade. I could lose my job.

You should rest before your interview tomorrow, I said, backing toward the door. I’ll be here at eight to take you to the TV station.

“Before you go,” she said, “please help me put this in the safe.” She held out the box of jewelry.

I moved toward her to take it, and she grabbed my wrist.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked.

I have no right, I replied, blood roaring in my ears.

“That’s the second time you’ve brought up ‘rights.’ Rights have nothing to do with anything. Is that the lawyer in you talking? Or the Singaporean?” She pulled me down and whispered in my ear, “Sometimes we do things out of need, and sometimes just because we want to.”

As she placed her lips on mine, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made love. There were adolescent fumblings, but love... This. This might have been the first time.

The last time I’d seen a dead body was a drowning as well.

I was on holiday in Port Dickson with my family, and I’d scurried to the front of a crowd gathered at the beach, thinking they’d landed some fish, or maybe a turtle. Instead there was a drowned boy, his body sallow and stiff as a candle, save for his wrinkled hands and feet. It was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the Comrade’s pallid, distended corpse on the mortuary gurney.

She identified him to the police investigator with a single, solemn nod. There were no tears.

Outside in the hall, Mr. Chong told us he was confident the coroner would rule the death an accident. In the harsh fluorescent light, she shook her head and said, “No, he died of a broken heart.” I put an arm around her shoulder, and told her she was very kind.

In the morning, I would brief her public relations firm to tell the press that she was “shocked and dismayed by the tragedy,” but would not be canceling the upcoming dates of her Southeast Asian tour. In fact, she would dedicate a song to her “childhood friend.”

I would go on to share with them only the facts: the Comrade’s body was found floating on a stretch of the Singapore River not far from the bars on Boat Quay, where he had been witnessed drinking heavily. He had been under a lot of stress since the Commercial Affairs Department had begun investigating him for possible money-laundering offenses, allegations which he had strenuously denied.

I would not share with them, or her, or Mr. Chong, just how the CAD had come to build their case.

The last time I saw her perform in China, it was a multimedia extravaganza involving giant props, a multitude of costume changes, and an army of backup singers, dancers, and engineers.

Her premiere in Singapore was a pared-down affair, just a chamber orchestra and her voice — a velvety, almost husky instrument that occasionally swelled into a melismatic yodel to devastating effect. On that first night, I felt as if my senses had been fully activated for the first time. I started becoming aware of the smallest details.

The dust motes dancing in the spotlight above her.

The way her upper lip arched when she reached for the high notes.

The box that the Comrade bore away from her dressing room after the concert, and how it looked exactly like the one in which she had stashed his gifts of jewelry.

The fact that I never saw her wear a gift from him more than once.

The first time I’d actually taken a proper look at the paperwork was in the wee hours of the morning after her opening night.

As a lowly first-year associate, the main job Mr. Chong had given me was to ensure that the Comrade signed the correct documents in the correct places, the correct way, and by the correct time, and in a manner that caused him the least annoyance. It was more than a full-time occupation, but it involved relatively little legal analysis on my part, which was, frankly, fine by me. All along, I’d assumed the documents contained standard boilerplate culled from hoary precedents anyway. And they did.

But even after over a year of flying to and from Beijing, I didn’t really know the extent or substance of the Comrade’s business. There were various corporations with bizarre relationships, some of which had been in operation for years without any record of financial transactions. There were also multiple wire transfers between multiple accounts in multiple names in multiple countries, and subsidiaries purchasing everything from real estate to antiques to art to yachts to jewelry.

I’d just presumed it was all the usual rich-guy stuff. You know. Like keeping a mistress.

A mistress who could fly out of countries wearing expensive trinkets without attracting scrutiny from customs officials.

Trinkets that could then be resold or exchanged for amounts that might not reflect their true market value.

“Last time, money-laundering laws here covered just drugs,” said Inspector Chia, almost apologetically. “Now we’re more neow.” I forced a smile at his use of the almost onomatopoeic Hokkien term for finicky.

The Comrade hadn’t been seen for three days, since his outburst at the theater, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

I wasn’t sure whether the authorities had been motivated by public relations considerations in calling her in for questioning only after her final performance in Singapore, but it was a lucky thing. Her voice was hoarse from continually breaking down in shocked response to revelation after revelation about the Comrade’s true objectives.

Thinking back on it, it was probably her finest performance. The naïve waif, the convenient pawn of a savvy and callous mobster, the fairy gulled by a troll. A tale whose eternality could still resonate within the heart of the most hardened investigator.

Never mind a foolhardy young lawyer.

Tonight was the last time I would ever see her.

I thought that ratting out the Comrade would clear my path to her, but instead, my professional excuse for being with her had expired along with him. In fact, having to clear up the mess he’d left behind and the firm’s possible abetment in his affairs necessitated my staying behind while she departed for the next stop on her tour. The CAD wouldn’t let me leave with her even if I’d wanted to.

But I did.

But I also wanted to hear her say she’d like me to.

But she remained silent as we stood side by side, gazing at the computerized sculpture at Changi Airport.

I meant well, I said eventually.

“I know,” she replied, her eyes hidden from me behind a large pair of sunglasses.

He was using you.

She said nothing, only turning to touch me on the cheek one final time.

And then she was gone, hustled off by her minders through to immigration and beyond.

Behind me, the sculpture’s 1,216 silver raindrops flowed, languidly taking the shape of airplanes, kites, a flock of birds, a rondeau in mercury.

But all I could see were tears.

I wished I’d made the time last longer, especially since everything was now speeding by me in a blur.

But with the velocity came clarity.

Mr. Chong had entered my office brandishing a bottle. “It’s been a rough few weeks,” he said, closing the door, which should have struck me as odd, since we were the only two people working late.

“I thought you were from NUS Law?” he said, tipping his chin toward the photo of me in my wig and gown as he handed me a glass.

After the burn of the first sip had subsided, I repeated the same story I’d told her. I also pointed out the frame’s Made in China label.

“They make everything now,” he sighed as he poured me a refill. “Have you heard from her at all?”

I shook my head. He perched himself on the edge of my desk and told me he appreciated all my hard work. Then he raised a toast.

This time, I felt its sting between my eyes.

“I thought all that time in China would have trained you better!” he laughed.

I tried to give a thumbs-up, but felt a gurgle rise from my stomach to my throat. I lurched for the wastepaper basket, and emptied my guts into it.

Mr. Chong patted me on the back as I heaved. “Some fresh air will do you good.” He opened a window, then led me toward it.

The warm night air blew in from across the marina. I could see the casino lights winking at me. For some reason, I felt compelled to ask aloud: What’s Stonehenge in Chinese?

Mr. Chong gave me a puzzled look. Then he pushed my head further out the window. “Breathe deeper.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled. There was an acrid mix of oil and something fermented in my nostrils. I could also feel Mr. Chong place one hand on my back, and another on my leg.

And then heave me up and push me out into the empty air.

As the wind rushed through me, my head began to clear. Narratives coalesced, and my fall became a journey of wonder.

I wondered what Mr. Chong would be doing now. Would he be placing the vodka bottle strategically on my desk? Perhaps nestled amongst some incriminating documents? Would he be telling the cops he had no idea that all this time I was in China, I was doing all this other secret stuff for the Comrade? Would he have drafted a suicide note saying I’d jumped for fear of the disgrace that would come with prosecution and disbarment? Or because of a broken heart?

Of course, I also began to wonder about the Comrade’s accidental end. And whether she’d been his pawn, or he’d been hers. And who Mr. Chong’s true client was.

I wondered what made me fall for her in the first place. I wondered about the cliché of the Singaporean beguiled by the China girl. I wondered if the fascination stemmed from blood, some dimly remembered or imagined bond. I wondered what my parents would think of their dutiful Chinese son who could never be Chinese enough.

I wondered if it really mattered in the end.

I wondered if I’d really mattered in the end.

I fought to keep my eyes open in those final moments, to catch the glass and steel, the glittering lights, the dolmen in the distance, the history and future, all whirring by like the reels on a slot machine.

One last time.

Detective in a City With No Crime by Simon Tay writing as Donald Tee Quee Ho

Strangler Fig By Philip Jeyaretnam

Bukit Panjang

The strangler fig begins as an epiphyte, when a seed germinates in the crevice of another tree. Its roots grow downward, enveloping the other tree. At the same time, its branches grow upward toward the sunlight above the jungle canopy. In time, the host tree perishes, and the strangler fig comes to support its own weight. The ghostly remains of the original tree fall away, leaving a hollow core at the heart of the strangler. The strangler is doomed to this parasitic quest, drawn to engulf and overwhelm the other.

Bernard had observed one such tree over the course of his childhood. It grew in a remnant of old forest near the bus stop, where he took a bus each morning from Bukit Panjang to school in Bishan. In the early-morning darkness it looked especially sinister, its roots descending like the tangled beard of an ancient pirate. Bernard was a short but fierce boy — Chilli Padi was the nickname his schoolmates gave him — a boy who was afraid of nothing, who gladly fought kids twice his size, and won. Yet the sight of that tree would unsettle him. When he was in Secondary One, parts of the original tree still clung to life, occasionally green shoots would sprout. But by Secondary Four it had given up the fight.

He had grown up in Bukit Panjang. Wedged between the Mandai catchment area and the northern edge of the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve, it still had fragments of jungle, slowly drying out, and soon to be bulldozed no doubt, but for a while it was at least sanctuary for monkeys and birds. He compared trees by their reproductive strategies — particularly appreciating the Kapok trees for their seed pods bursting with fluffy fiber, the berries of the Tembusu that attracted bats at dusk, but perhaps most of all the Saga trees with their curling pods, twisting ever more tightly till they split open and discharged their jewel-red seeds. These were majestic trees, relying on their own strength and ingenuity.

The strangler fig offended him by its sneaky behavior. It depended on, made use of, and ultimately destroyed another.

The strangler fig is not the only possessor of this parasitic habit. Some women have it too. Chancing upon the right man, the more vibrant and sturdy the better, she draws him to her embrace. Her tendrils caress and soothe, tightening imperceptibly yet irresistibly. The victim, unsuspecting at first, is charmed to be the object of such obsessive attention, until, too late, he is trussed up, his breath squeezed out. The gently deepening deprivation of oxygen lulls him into unconsciousness, as she takes from him the keys to his condo and his car, and of course all of his credit cards.

Bernard felt that he had spent his life struggling free from the embrace of women. Perhaps it was too dramatic to call them strangler figs, but certainly there were times when all his energy was being sucked from him. First there was his mother. After his father’s death when he was just a boy of seven, she had identified his potential and driven him on, through the Gifted Education Programme at Raffles and onward to an army scholarship to study engineering at Cambridge.

Her constant refrain was the need to make the most of his time. Every spare moment should be spent reading or doing homework. Even meals were a distraction — she cared much less about how anything tasted than about whether it would provide the right energy boost at the right time for his studies. When he was in primary school she had warned him about his habit of loitering along the way to and from school. Once, exasperated by the fact that he had not taken her warning to heart, she told him that at dawn and dusk he must be especially careful, for in the shadows of the trees there would lurk female spirits, with long black hair, in long white gowns, and they watched for little boys who lacked purpose, who idly kicked stones at a street corner or missed their bus because of some foolish daydream or other.

When Bernard got married he thought he had found an equal, a partner in life, but his wife, who had pretended disdain for material things all through their courtship, was soon complaining about how low his army pay was compared to friends of theirs who worked for banks or in the legal profession. Even after he left the army and became chief executive of the energy regulator, as well as a member of Parliament for the ruling party, she was unsatisfied, and urged him to push to become a minister. Great pay, great status, she said. When he explained that what he really enjoyed was meeting people, trying to find answers to their problems, she told him he was wasting his time — no one would really be grateful to him anyway — and he should focus on impressing the PM instead. Sometimes she made him angry, and he would feel like striking out, but he kept himself in check. One can strike a man, but never a woman. The same boy who had without hesitation fought schoolmates upon any slight or insult had been unfailingly polite to his mother, to teachers, and in time to the women he dated. No matter how much his wife provoked him, Bernard kept quiet, carried on.

Whatever one does with the time one has, it passes. This morning Bernard had looked up from his phone and was startled by his own reflection in the mirror — how little hair he had was the first thought. But then, before self-pity overtook him, the second followed, the uplifting sight of his flashing white teeth, the crocodile smile that had proved so useful to his rise, first in the army and later in politics. People were disarmed by it. Charmed by him. And he had led a charmed life, in most respects.

The message on his phone was unexpected, a shock, but he would survive. Perhaps it was the chance of a lifetime, to change the pattern of others taking advantage of him. Today he would act from love. And he would find his reward in that one true love.

Perhaps because his father had died when he was young, Bernard had taken to heart the advice Polonius gave to his son Laertes: accept censure while not judging others; listen more and speak less; and above all, be true to himself. This had served him well. It even gave him the patience to endure his wife.

When Bernard first became an MP, the ruling party had a viselike grip on power. Promotion to minister was mostly about one’s academic credentials and connections — being a minister was mostly about making decisions that were sound in economic theory that could then be implemented by an efficient, well-paid civil service. But it had all become so much harder when the people suddenly, unexpectedly, discovered that they could in fact vote against the ruling party without the social order collapsing, and that just maybe speaking up might not be met with a knock on the head but an apology and an offer to do more and better — to keep bus fares low, to provide more hospital beds, to limit the entry of foreigners.

Everyone and anyone wanted things done for them, and done for them now. They complained about anything and everything. To make matters worse, there was an apparent conspiracy of the heavens over the past three years — flash floods, MRT breakdowns, sex scandals — all conspired to make it seem as if there was nothing the ruling party could do right.

Many of his parliamentary colleagues resented the new situation. It was not the premise on which they had entered politics, which was meant to be a simple career progression — more pay, more status, as his wife had put it. They did not like the new orders to be on time for functions, not to keep people waiting, to be more approachable.

But the new national mood suited Bernard. He started a Facebook page. It quickly generated more “likes” than those of any of the ministers. He had taken to Tweeting too, and soon had many followers. He spoke his heart. He was true to himself. In the real world, he started to meet with citizen groups that had previously been ignored. Of course, it was not easy. Everyone wanted change in how things were done: Conservationists wanted a block on development. Hotels wanted more leeway to hire foreign staff. Gays wanted whatever it was they did behind closed doors to be allowed, to be legal. And if change did not happen — then the ruling party was to blame. But at least as an ordinary member of parliament, he had more freedom than a minister — to convince people of the merits of government policy, while not being entirely bound by it either. And people liked him, they truly did — his lack of ostentation, his modesty, his simple, open manner. He lived by the words of Polonius.

His wife, though, still nagged him. She felt that now was his chance to become a minister, given that it was precisely his EQ, his people skills, his popularity, that the party needed in these challenging times. For her, whatever strength he had was an opportunity for her to ascend. He was the tree she had found to be her scaffold. She badgered him to attend the right functions, and accompanied him so she could smile and flirt with the right people, who might support a promotion to the Cabinet for him. But he had long since come to feel that she did not love or care for him beyond the status he conferred on her, the network he gave her access to. At times, he felt as if she was truly intent on strangling him, choking him, her thumbs firmly against his windpipe as he gasped for air, although of course the pressure would never be enough to kill him, at least not until she had used him to get exactly where she wanted.

The message on his phone was from Evelyn, the woman he had let into his life six months before.

Evelyn was different from all the other women he had known. She loved him, of that he was sure. Loved him for himself. Not only did she love him, she did not depend on him. At last he had found his match, but in the best possible way. For the first time in a long while, he felt excited and purposeful about his life, and about the possibility of a new life with Evelyn, a new beginning.

He had met her unexpectedly, at a meet-the-people session with his constituency. She was not a supplicant, of course, but a fresh volunteer — something that had become rarer after the debacle of the last elections. Her blunt, offhand manner captivated him, as did her long black hair and tanned athleticism. When he offered her Lipton’s tea or instant coffee from the pantry, she had made a face, leaving him speechless for a moment before her laughter told him she was teasing.

Afterward, he pulled out her file. One child, husband a doctor. Her eyes, gazing steadily back at him, were the last thing he saw before sleep overcame him that night. The next morning he had a plan, and his secretary telephoned her to ask her to call him. She did, and once he had her mobile phone number, he started WhatsApping her. Restrained questions, seeking her views on constituency and national matters.

He had prepared himself for a rebuff, but she was more than responsive. He was surprised how quickly she seemed to open up to him. They started with policy questions and political challenges, but were soon turning to more personal topics. It was not long before she was attending all of his constituency meetings. In between consultations they laughed and chatted together. Their WhatsApping grew more frequent, more direct and intense. Conspiratorially, she warned him of the perils of monitored communications, and he knew she was as interested in him as he was in her.

At last they had lunch, at a little French restaurant. Three hours of flirting disguised by earnest discussions of what the government should or should not be doing to win back popular support. He lost count of the number of times her hand had lightly rested on his forearm, drawing him toward her, how often she had used the index finger of the other to make a little tapping motion in midair, both emphasizing a point and quickening his heartbeat.

Lunch was soon followed by late-night drinks. They gazed into each other’s eyes. This, he knew, was a relationship that was truly special.

The sex was good. Perhaps he had missed it for so long that he did not know any better, but he felt both fulfilled and truly triumphant. He had an apartment in River Valley that was between tenancies, and this became their sanctuary.

She asked for nothing from him, although along the way he occasionally sought to impress her, to offer her snippets of information or gossip that would keep her captivated. He realized that he probably needed to be more careful. Possibly, something he had let slip about measures the government was considering to cool the property market had tipped her to sell an investment property sooner than she had planned, but surely what he had done was not strictly illegal, and even if illegal was hardly likely to be detected. His tips were unsolicited, of that he had no doubt. He felt so comforted by her, so loved by her, that this was surely small recompense, no different from the necklaces from Tiffany & Co. that he bought for her, necklaces that she appreciated so much and never once asked for.

The risks were worth it. This was his one true chance at love, and for once he did not care about work, or being sensible, or what the world might think. Evelyn was the love of his life. Mostly it was light and luminosity, but at times the hunger for her burned so strongly that he could think of nothing else.

He became determined to possess her completely, for them to become one.

Her WhatsApp today had not been her usual Monday-morning chirp. It had been different, and simple. Pregnant. Really sorry. Don’t know what to do. Had to tell hubby. Mad as hell but wants to see you. Will you meet him?

The first word thrilled him. He had indeed possessed her. They had indeed become one. But why was she sorry? Did she doubt him? Doubt his strength or resolve?

It was excitement that gripped him. Not fear or anxiety. Elation even. Bernard was never afraid of a confrontation, or a fight, with another man. He would talk to the husband. Explain that he had not meant to act dishonorably. But now that he and Evelyn were so very much in love, it was too late for niceties of honor. The husband must give way. Bernard would take responsibility for Evelyn and their baby. It was a sign that his life must change. He would resign, get a job in the private sector. Perhaps they could even move elsewhere — Hong Kong? Shanghai?

Yes, he WhatsApped back without hesitation, I love you. Then a moment later, Don’t worry. And then finally, I’ll take care of it. After another minute he called, to tell her he loved her and they would find their way. He wanted to meet immediately. He was surprised when she asked him to meet her husband first, but decided she must have a reason. He must do as she asked.

Mark was the husband’s name. He suggested the visitor’s center at the dairy farm entrance to the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. We can walk together, he said. Green is very soothing, and I think we both need to keep calm.

Bernard had seen pictures of him, but Mark was still surprisingly big. They shook hands and then started to walk. Mark turned off the open path, up the slope toward Bukit Timah Hill, and soon they were alone together, Bernard following Mark. It was cool beneath the forest canopy. Even the light had turned green, filtered as it was by the dense leafy layers. Mark was right, it was peaceful, calming. Then Mark stopped, turned, and looked down at Bernard. The disparity in their height suddenly felt menacing. Bernard glanced around, wondering if he had made a mistake to venture up this trail.

As if reading his mind, Mark smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Bernard, I’m not going to hit you. Not that I don’t feel like doing so. There’s nothing I’d like better than to bruise your pretty face. What would your constituents say to that, eh?”

Bernard looked off to the side. Let the man rant for a while. He was obviously hurt. But he couldn’t possibly think that Bernard had been the first, could he? Evelyn had told him there was another before him, though she had not loved that man in the way she loved him. And certainly she did not love Mark, whom she had married too young, when she wanted above all else to leave home, to escape her father, a domineering man who had bullied her mother and alternately spoiled and disparaged young Evelyn, until she lost confidence in herself, only regaining it when she finished university, started working at a private bank, met Mark, and left home.

After a while, Bernard spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I had not realized... I thought you were more...” he searched for the right word, “...relaxed. I would not have, you know, pressed my suit, but now, now that we are where we are, well, you must understand, we love each other, I mean, she loves me, not you...”

To his surprise, Mark was laughing. “Oh, you are a funny fellow. She loves you, not me. Oh yes. Poor me, lucky you.” Mark grabbed his shoulders. He brought his face close to Bernard’s. “Look, man, love isn’t real. All that’s real is power and money. Don’t you of all people know that?”

Bernard could see the sweat on Mark’s stubbled chin. But his eyes were not so much angry as cold, as if this was a situation he was familiar with, and this a routine he had practiced before. For once Bernard was unsure, and it made him uneasy. He had expected anger, hurt, shame, the stock reactions of the cuckold. But this was something else.

Mark released him and turned away. On the uneven ground, Bernard almost stumbled, but then recovered. With his back to Bernard, Mark was talking quietly. “I do have photos. Much better than those of Anwar. Really quite professional, I’d say. But it won’t come to that, will it, Bernard? You like your life, how everyone has to speak politely to you, pretend they agree with you. Big-shot MP, yes? You don’t want to risk any of that, do you?”

Bernard could not bring himself to speak. He had to pacify the man, promise whatever he asked, and then find Evelyn. Evelyn could get divorced, he could get divorced too, they’d find happiness together, a new life with the new life growing within her. He would resign. His office meant nothing to him, not compared to love and happiness.

“How much are you worth, Bernard? Not much of a salary these days, I suppose, but how many sweet deals have you been cut into as an MP? Let’s see — ten million, give or take? And I’ll just take one million. Ten percent. Not a lot, I suppose, considering how expensive it is to raise a kid these days. You’ll still have plenty. And then normal life can resume for you.”

“How do I know you won’t just come back for more?”

“You don’t.”

“Can I think about it?”

“I understand, you want time to talk to Evelyn. She’s in love with you, she’ll save you. But here, take this.”

Bernard took the piece of paper. Details for an account at a bank in the Cayman Islands.

“You can talk to anyone you want, just make sure that one million dollars goes to this account by Friday. Otherwise, you’ll see yourself online by Saturday.” Mark pushed past him and headed down the slope. “I hope we don’t have to meet again, so have a good life, Bernard. Have a wonderful life.”

Bernard had not known what to do until that moment. And perhaps he still did not know the right thing to do. But he was a chilli padi by nature, and Mark’s words were fighting words. One thing about the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve is that there is plenty of loose granite lying around, it having been a site for multiple quarries, now disused. Another thing is that in the midafternoon on a weekday it is deathly quiet. And the quarries are deep and filled with water. There’d be at least a week before the body was found, and in the meantime, Bernard would have liquidated what he could and he and Evelyn would be thousands of miles away. How happy she would be to get free from that monster! And he too would be happy — it was escape for both of them. Fulfillment too.

He met her that evening at his apartment in River Valley. They held each other for a long while and then pulled apart. She looked uncertainly at him.

“I’m so sorry, Bernard. How did your meeting with Mark go?”

“Don’t be sorry, dearest. We’ll find our way.”

“Of course, darling. But how did it go?”

“It was unexpected, I have to say.”

“What do you mean? Is the amount too much?”

“No, it’s not that...” His voice trailed off. She had known he was going to ask for money. “He told you?”

“I was surprised too. What are you going to do?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“What choice do we have? Perhaps if we pay him off, he’ll leave us alone. Oh, Bernard, we could be so happy together. I know it’s terrible but will you pay him for me, for our life together?”

“Do I need to pay him? We’ll bring up our child together. I don’t care if he goes to the press.”

Evelyn looked alarmed. “Bernard, my love, pay him. Pay him quickly. It’s the only way we can be together.”

Happiness, Bernard thought, is about the little things — being with the person you love and who loves you, wherever in the world you might be. Waking up to her in the morning, or watching her sleep at night. Walking hand-in-hand along the beach. Shopping together. Sharing a hot chocolate. A million little things. But love is about the big things — moments of choice, moments of sacrifice. And he had done what he had done for love, for Evelyn, to protect their life together.

He loved her. And she had played him. He would have faced anything with her by his side. But that was not how it was going to be, he understood this now. For a moment, hopelessness gripped him. What was the point of a life without Evelyn? Then from the darkness it was as if his mother were speaking to him, telling him not to waste time, and warning him of the long-haired woman in the shadows. He knew then that he would not succumb, would not die in Evelyn’s embrace, would not watch her grow strong as his life ebbed from him. She’d had the whole damn forest to choose from and she’d picked the wrong tree.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll pay him. I told you not to worry, I told you I’d take care of it.”

“Oh, Bernard, I feel so safe and secure when I’m with you, when I hold you.”

He cupped her head in his arms and lifted her face so he could kiss her. His thumbs were at her windpipe, and he kissed her half a dozen, no, a dozen times. To his surprise, it was no harder with a woman. Or perhaps, he thought as her eyes closed, it’s true what they say — the second time is always easier.

Smile, Singapore by Colin Cheong

Ang Mo Kio

He had never been in an interrogation room. Where was the two-way mirror? The TV shows had those, but it was absent here. Where were the air conditioners? He had heard so much about those. Six, they said, at full blast, and they would wet you first. There was only one humming here. Perhaps the rooms with the many air conditioners were reserved for political prisoners. There were no cameras either. Wouldn’t it be better to have those? To record everything a suspect said? And then he smiled. They could say whatever they wanted. A video camera couldn’t lie.

He looked down at his hands. They had not handcuffed him and had let him rest them on the cold edge of the table. Perhaps they felt sorry for him. He was an old man, after all. The faceless officers who found him had been young, a sergeant and a corporal, barely adult. He had done everything they asked, resisted them in nothing. He had held his hands out to be cuffed — not meekly, but as a man who knew he had broken the law, though did not believe he had done wrong.

That was an hour ago. Perhaps more. He did not know. They had taken his wallet, his belt, his phone, his door keys, the keys to his cab. He let his eyelids droop — not closing them completely, but enough to shut out the fluorescent light and leave a slit for him to see the dull gray of the tabletop before him and his own elbows, jutting thinly beyond the fraying short sleeves of his shirt. He was not cold, he was not hungry, he did not need to piss. There was nothing to distract him. He put his hands together, left fingers over right, the tips of his thumbs touching, hands forming a circle, as he had been taught at the meditation center. He could meditate.

The door swung open. The old man looked up. There was a guy in the standard civil service attire — white long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled up, dark pressed trousers, formal shoes that made no noise when he entered the room. He had a clipboard. Another man dressed just like him followed, and a uniformed officer closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Tan,” he heard the first man saying as he sat down. He nodded. He looked at the clipboard. There was some kind of form on it and they had already filled in his particulars, recorded probably soon after his arrest. They went through the items and he nodded or murmured yes to all their questions.

His name, Tan Seng Hock, his national registration identity card number, the particulars of his taxi driver’s license. His address at Block 533, Avenue 5 in Ang Mo Kio. Not his home, just a room he rented. His landlady was probably in another room just like this one with another pair of officers. He hoped she was all right. She was probably not taking this well at all. She had teenagers, two boys, one thirteen, the other fifteen. Still too young to be left on their own without a mother — or a father. He had tried, in a way, to be a good role model for them, to take them out like a father or uncle would have, helping them with their math homework. He had slept with their mother, but only once. She had asked him for money after that. Not money for sex, she was quick to add. But pocket money. The kind due to a girlfriend, a woman you fucked, over and above the rent. He said he could not afford a relationship like that. He knew where the money went. There was a Singapore Turf Club betting shop not far from their block, across the MRT train tracks, close to the Courts furniture place. She had left it at that and never brought it up again. Or mentioned sex again. He did not think so well of himself to ask. Besides, the rental was cheap and there were the boys to think about. He did not need a quarrel. Peace, that was all he asked for.

“Mr. Tan,” the first officer began again. The old man looked up. He already knew what the question would be. “Where did you get the gun?”

“It was in my taxi. I was cleaning the taxi. My last passenger vomited in the back.”

“Can you remember when?”

He nodded. How could he ever forget the night he found his gun? Half a year ago, on Christmas Eve. He had been driving at night, something he did not like doing, but he knew it would be busy. Besides, the boys didn’t want to do any more math homework. His last passenger was a white man he picked up at Clarke Quay; he had driven him to the man’s condominium on the East Coast, the Bayshore.

“Can you describe him?”

The old man shook his head. The passenger was tall, had brown hair in a short, stylish cut, and was dressed in a tight shirt and jeans. But he could not put a face to that memory. All white men looked the same to him. They only varied in height and body fat — and how much hair they still had left. He looked like any drunk white man, although he seemed quite steady when he got into the taxi. And it was six months ago. All he remembered was the man telling him he needed to puke, but there was no place to stop on the expressway and he had vomited shortly before the turnoff to his condo. The passenger had been apologetic and had given him a fifty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change to get the cab cleaned. The old man could still remember driving all the way home to Ang Mo Kio after that, his windows down, the sour stink of the puke still fresh in his mind. Tequila probably. He had found parts of a worm when he took out the mats. And the gun under the front passenger seat. The old man had dropped the revolver and it made a loud thud on the floor of the cab. He did not remember how long he spent just staring at it, listening to the wind rustling like spirits through the leaves above him. With the puke on it, it looked like a stillborn child and he did not dare to touch it at first. Then, without thinking, he dropped a wet cloth on it and picked it up. He realized his mistake as he wiped the muck off it. Any prints would have been wiped off too. And sitting there in his hand, with his prints, the gun had made itself his.

“I wrapped the gun in the wet cloth,” he told the officers. “I put it on the front seat and I cleaned the cab.”

“Why didn’t you call the police immediately?”

Why didn’t he? After the initial shock, the initial fear, he continued furiously cleaning the cab, trying to get the damned stink out and knowing it would be days before the smell completely left. But he was also suddenly alert, completely aware of the thing that now sat in the passenger seat. And the longer he waited, the less willing he became to make that 999 call, even though he knew it was the only sane thing to do. What if its owner came looking for it? Would they kill him for it? But how would they find him? Every fare had been a roadside pickup. There had been so many — and many had been short trips. Anyone could have left it in any cab. And he realized after a while that he was looking for a reason not to call the police.

After cleaning the cab, he had sat down in the driver’s seat and cleaned the gun very, very gently, wiped off all the puke, then carefully felt around it until something gave a little, then unlatched the cylinder and let it fall open. He still had not put his finger on the trigger or his hand around the grip. There were five chambers and four were filled. He tilted the gun slowly and the bullets slid out, clicking against each other as they dropped into his open palm. Four of them. He lay them on the passenger seat and continued cleaning the revolver.

With the bullets out, he felt safer with his gun. He spun the cylinder then snapped his wrist sideways to close it — just as he remembered from the movies. He put his hand around the grip, touching lightly on the trigger, pointing it at the floor, and a little red spot of light appeared between his feet, between the accelerator and the brake. He jumped — then realized it was just a laser spot, just like the laser pointers he had once used at training sessions when he still had his old job as maintenance supervisor. Before he had been replaced by a foreign talent from China willing to do the same job for less money.

“Did you know it was a police gun?”

No, he had not thought about it. His gun was all black and he vaguely remembered police guns having some sort of wood grip. His had black rubber. He shook his head. He had not even known that police guns had laser sights. All he had been thinking about was how he was going to keep it concealed at home and when he was out. There was nothing in his room that could be locked — not the drawers, not the cupboard. Until that moment, he’d had nothing worth securing. He dropped his takings into a cash deposit machine every morning before he began to pick up fares. He did not even own a watch. There was a clock on the dashboard. He had a cheap Nokia phone, the kind sold at petrol stations, and an M1 plan that cost just ten dollars without caller ID. He had three shirts, two pairs of trousers, four pairs of boxers, three pairs of socks, his money pouch, and a flight bag from a long time ago, when he and his former wife had gone on a Chan Brothers tour to Malaysia.

But his little gun changed all that. Now there was a secret to protect. Something to hide. Something that was truly only his, not shown to the rest of the world. The first week was difficult. He tried his best to act normally. His gun replaced the cash in his pouch. He began to carry the cash in his pockets, tied up in wads with rubber bands. Not that there was enough to make a large bulge in his pants, he said. The second cop smiled.

The first one nodded; he saw no humor in the statement. “The officer who was issued that gun is dead,” he said. “He was a narcotics officer. When we found his body, we could not find his weapon. His killers must have taken it from him.”

The old man felt the blood leaving his face. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

The cops stared at him and said nothing. Their faces were blank, expressionless. There had only been four rounds in the cylinder. Had he managed to return fire only once? Or did they kill him with his own gun?

“No, I found the gun. In my taxi.”

“You have no criminal record. You are not linked to any of the suspects,” the first officer said.

“I wouldn’t have hurt...” the old man began, then stopped.

“So why did you keep it?”

“Singapore isn’t safe anymore,” he said. Two cabbies dead already in the past year. Their killer or killers had asked them to drive out to some remote place in the night, and there, had cut one’s throat, stabbed the other, before making off with their money. Two lives for the meager sums that the drivers had struggled all day to collect. He shook his head. “We’re just not safe anymore.” His tone was accusing — he did not have to say the police were not doing their job. It was there, just in his tone, and the second officer looked away.

“So you kept it for protection?”

Protection? How else was he to defend himself? Against someone stronger — younger and fitter — and determined to kill him? Or if there were just more of them? With his gun, he had a chance. Four chances.

“Suntec City,” he said. If these policemen were honest, they would blush, he thought. But they did not. “Suntec City,” he said again.

Three drunk, young white men had beaten up an old cabbie at a taxi stand while white tourists in the line cheered them on as if they were in some underground fight club. Two Chinese men — local men — had gone to help the cabbie and wound up getting thrashed by the white men, to more cheering from the foreign white trash in the taxi line.

“Singapore is safe,” he spat, “if you’re white and rich.”

“We caught them and one of them is in jail.”

The old man shook his head. The fucking police had let them go. Let them go on bail. Two absconded. Was that the plan? Didn’t they know the white cowards would run? They had not even bothered to investigate at first and the initial arrests had only been made after people on the Internet got involved, identified the men, and made a police report. And what had that fucking investigating officer said? Wah, you guys very free. Can do better than the police.

“We’ve dealt with that officer.”

The old man sneered. His peace was gone and the original gentleness with which he had viewed these two men in front of him was also gone, replaced by the anger that had been slowly corroding his insides until he’d found his gun. So yes, he reckoned that he and other Singaporeans could damn well do better than the police.

“Do you know how serious your offense is?”

Offense? He had not killed any precious white “foreign talent,” although he had considered it. There were only so many times he could drive by, refuse to stop to pick them up. There were only so many times he could stop, pick them up, take their condescending shit, take their scanning his cab for a NETS machine, and, seeing none, tell him they had no cash and ask if he had NETS. How many times had he driven to a cash machine — and have the fare never return to the cab? How many times had he been promised — Hey, uncle, I’ll pay you tomorrow. Just give me a call. Or pick me up again. I’ll make it up to you. White man’s honor. So superior. And when he had called? A quick cut, no reply.

In the past, he had put up with it — it was an occupational hazard. People did that. Not just white expatriate types, but also local kids who never intended to pay their fares, making a game of leaving the cab quickly after he had stopped to drop them off. But over the years, the anger had grown and slowly eaten away at him. He had tried meditation. Since he did not like driving at night, he would go to a meditation center at Jalan Besar — a dingy place in a rundown prewar building at the corner of a traffic junction, above a bunch of dirty motorcycle repair shops. He had tried to find peace there. To find forgiveness for himself and others, to remember that all were one. But any peace he found would quickly disappear like incense smoke when he got into the cab and returned to the streets.

Until his gun came — and suddenly he was calm, knowing that if he really wanted to, he could kill every one of them. At first it was just the white trash. Then it was the Singaporean women — the sarong party girls — the unofficial prostitutes that made Singapore a kind of sexual Disneyland for these white bastards. He did not mind actual call girls — they were making an honest living, just like he was — it was legal in Singapore anyway. But not the local women who thought only the white foreign trash were good enough for them, who actually thought them superior to local men simply because they were white and had expatriate paychecks. His list grew — but as he included more stereotypes, from obnoxious mainland Chinese to lecherous Indian nationals to bitchy Singaporean women to increasingly primped-and-preened local men as bitchy as their female counterparts, the greater his sense of calm grew too. They could behave as they wanted. Knowing he could kill them was consolation enough. That sense of power, of control, was good enough reason to risk everything he had — not much — to keep the gun. It calmed him and it made him smile, which really was good for Singapore’s tourist image. And we want to keep attracting the white trash, right? Smile, Singapore. He smiled — as a “taxi uncle” he was Uniquely Singapore too. His gun had made him a better man. Love all, serve all.

And he had never threatened a fare with the gun. Or killed a fare. His gun had never come out of that pouch. He had never brandished it in a threatening manner, never made a show of it to a passenger. No one had ever known he had it.

He thought of Ah Huat, who did not mind showing off a little, to those in the know. Ah Huat had a tiny wooden coffin in his cab. About four inches long, carved in a Chinese style, with the graceful sweeps and arcs that differentiated it from modern Western caskets. He had it in the glove compartment most of the time. But at night it rode on the dashboard, his silent passenger, the thing that watched his back because so much can go wrong at night. The thing that watched his back, and any passenger who understood would be fairly warned.

Those who understood would know that in that little scaled-down coffin was the bone of a dead child — somewhat difficult to come by now because of cremation, but more common in the days of burials and when child mortality was still high. That bone, in its coffin, kept the child’s spirit with the owner. Both were bound to each other. Both were master and servant. Ah Huat had inherited that coffin from his father, and so now the child spirit that once followed his father, followed him to do his bidding — on the condition that Ah Huat took care of it. Ah Huat sometimes made a show of it, in the way that Christians sometimes liked to say grace loudly in public.

When he ate, he would order two meals. Or two cups of coffee. He would pay for both, but consume only one. Those who did not understand would simply think he had been stood up, probably by an inconsiderate child or an unfaithful mainland Chinese girlfriend only interested in him as a meal ticket or for his Central Provident Fund savings. Those who understood knew he was feeding his child spirit — and the waiters who knew would keep their distance from the apparently uneaten meal, to clear it later when it was safe.

And that was why Ah Huat never let a fare sit in the front passenger seat: it was already occupied.

The old man thought about his gun in the pouch, tucked in the side pocket of his door, the zipper facing up, ready to be opened quickly. Always there for him. He reckoned it gave him the same kind of comfort the child spirit gave Ah Huat. Both were dangerous, but Ah Huat and he were steady men, not prone to violence, not reckless, with no vices. When they met for the occasional meal, all three of them, Ah Huat sometimes talked about his child, about how it sometimes helped pick winning numbers or helped him get back at someone for some injustice. Better than any of his living kids, he said. The old man had heard these stories often enough and did not need to compare notes. He had his gun, and it made him feel safe. Security was good to have in old age. It was like a life insurance policy, though, a one-time-use thing. He would have to die on the road. He could not afford to survive a serious accident. While Ah Huat could call on his child spirit repeatedly, the old man knew his gun had only four shots, and if he ever had to use it, it would be all or nothing.

He knew the time had come when he got home late, after driving all day, to find the front door splashed with paint and the pale, bled-out face of a recently slaughtered pig hanging from the flimsy metal gate. His landlady had finally hit rock bottom. She had borrowed money from loan sharks — and defaulted on the payment. It was something she had said she would never do. There were enough neighbors with experience to serve as fair warning.

“I paid,” she had insisted when he went in to find her and the two boys cowering in a corner of their room. She and the younger boy were crying and the older one was trying his best to comfort them. “I paid, I paid. They gave me a loan I did not ask for,” she said.

He had eyed her dubiously. “Didn’t ask for?”

“No, they just put it in the bank. I didn’t even know.”

This was new to him. An unasked-for loan, in the form of a bank deposit, followed by a demand for repayment — and interest, of course. “Didn’t you even think about why you had so much money?” He found it hard to believe that, hard up as they were, she would not have noticed the extra cash.

“I thought you put it in,” she had said. “I thought you put it in for the boys. I never used it.”

“Then you can give it back. You give it back tomorrow.” He had looked at the boys and nodded to them. “I will take care of you, don’t worry.” The older boy nodded back but the younger one was still terrified. He reached out to pat his head. “Uncle will protect you.”

They came the following night.

They had announced their arrival with yelling and hammering at the door. He opened up to speak to them and pay them, and to his horror found that they had lifted the flimsy old gate from its hinges and now stood facing him with no barrier between them. It had been a simple matter of removing a few retaining pins — an old trick that contractors used when they wanted to convince people to “upgrade” their gates.

There were two of them, and in the narrow corridor already crowded with potted plants and now a dismantled gate, they had to stand one behind the other. They looked so ordinary. The one in front looked like anyone he could have met in the building, a man in his thirties or so, not so tall, but stocky. His face was pale and flabby, like the pig’s head on their door the previous night. Pig Face.

The one behind was much younger, taller, and slimmer, like any teenage punk with dyed hair, piercings in his earlobes, and tattoos — pretty ones he probably thought made him look cool. The old man knew what actual Triad tattoos looked like. The boy was just a punk. It was strangely quiet, as if all the neighbors had gone into hiding.

“Pay,” the first collector had said. “Don’t waste my fucking time.”

The old man had nodded and took out the wad of cash from his shirt pocket. The collector snatched it from him, removed the rubber band, and began counting. His beady eyes were angry when he looked up again.

“Fucker, you trying to waste my time, is it? This is not enough.”

“That’s everything you put in her account.”

“I didn’t put. My boss put. He tells me to collect how much, I collect. This is not enough. Interest?”

The old man had said nothing. He merely shook his head.

“That means you still owe my boss.”

“She owes you nothing,” he said. Then more deliberately: “Tell your boss to fuck off. And if he tries that again—”

“Try what again? What are you going to do? You fucking useless old man, what are you going to do?”

He had already known the outcome of this exchange. He had heard enough stories. Loan sharks, like every other Singaporean, really wanted permanent passive income. A dividend they could collect forever from a small initial investment.

“You think you can fucking protect this woman, those boys? You’re a fucking old man, you got no fucking balls anymore, what are you going to do?”

He would have let an insult go, but not a threat to harm the woman and the boys. He was losing his calm, his peace. Then, to make his point, Pig Face slammed his palm into the old man’s chest and he staggered back. Pig Face had stepped across the threshold into the flat and the woman screamed. The old man recovered his balance and reached behind his back for his gun, tucked into the waistband of his loose trousers, hidden under his shirt. Pig Face saw the movement and thought the old man was going for a knife.

“I also got,” he spat, and drew out a knife from his back pocket, but even as he began to open the blade, he saw the tiny, glaring red light and quickly backed toward the door. “Run!” he yelled.

The teen with the dyed hair, piercings, and tattoos bolted down the corridor. Pig Face stumbled as he turned around. He tripped over the bars of the metal gate that they had so recently taken down and landed heavily on the ground. The old man loomed over him, the gun in both his hands, that wicked red eye glaring down at the guy.

“Please,” the collector had whimpered. “They made me do this. I owe money also. I can’t pay. They made me do this. I have a family.” He slowly got up.

The old man watched him, following him with his gun, tracking the collector’s face with the red laser dot. He knew it was the end. His gun was no longer a secret. And life as he knew it was over. One chance, and he had been forced to waste it on these punks. The collector turned around as he lowered his gun. The old man felt the anger and the heaviness return as the collector moved down the corridor as quickly as the pain would allow him.

Only one thing to do. He squeezed the trigger. He heard the bang and the echo as the sound ricocheted around the surrounding blocks, he heard the collector yell as the bullet hit him in the butt, he heard the woman and the boys shouting, the neighbors screaming in fear. The whole world had erupted in sound, but he heard only a calm silence in his own soul.

The collector struggled down the corridor, groaning from the pain and trailing blood, and the old man followed, the red laser spot on his back the whole time. He got to the stairs, fell down a flight, picked himself up, stumbled painfully down all three floors, the old man just behind him, as if seeing a guest out. It was a good feeling, to usher someone out this way, usher out all the bitterness, all the anger, all the frustration, all those feelings of helplessness. He had not felt so good, so strong, so powerful, in a very long time.

The collector reached the ground-floor lobby, right next door to the now empty and dark People’s Action Party branch office. Downstairs neighbors had rushed toward the sound but screamed and ran when they saw the old man’s gun.

The collector was weeping as he lay on his side, his face drenched in sweat and tears. “Please,” he begged. “Please.” It was a face the old man recognized. It was the face of everyone he had ever known — and everyone who had ever hurt him. It was a white man’s face, an Indian national’s face, a Chinese national’s face, a sarong party girl’s face, a new urban male’s face, a teenage punk’s face, his ex-wife’s face, her lover’s face, his former boss’s face, his representative of Parliament’s face, the pig’s face on the gate, all leering at him in unison like that goddamned Smile, Singapore poster. He had to get rid of all those faces.

He put the gun to his own temple, smiled at a terrified neighbor, and calmly pulled the trigger. There was a click. And then he understood what it wanted him to do. Everything was clear now. He lowered the gun again, put the little red dot on the collector’s face, and squeezed the trigger three more times.