Singapore Noir

Current Escape by Johann S. Lee

Sentosa Cove

The first strike is a slap across her left cheek, but Merla barely flinches. She has learned to anticipate.

His glare still fixed upon her, he steps backward slowly, assessing the situation for a way to force a reaction. There is the faint sound of water lapping against the private berth outside the house while he stands by the designer lamp that has been switched on for the night. Then a flare of inspiration. He turns his eyes to the gaudy Swarovski collection arranged on the console table. A calculated pause, to grant her time to read his next move. His hand hovers over his first choice. She stiffens.

The heavy ornament hits her hard just above the right eye, triggering a mad scrambling of her arms. Even as it lands in her hands, the next projectile is already hurtling toward her, aimed to make her sink to her knees to catch it. The two objects collide in her small palms with a mercifully soft clink, so soft it infuriates him. He grabs another and takes an exaggerated swing, flinging it high up at the wall behind her. As Merla’s chin drops, she feels falling fragments bounce off her back. He strides toward her, seizes her by the hair, and clubs her over the head with his clenched fist. The blow instantly hurling her onto the marble floor, she rolls into a fetal position, disoriented, both ornaments clutched to her chest. Though her eyes are shut, she can feel his obese form looming over her, more so than the pain, which she recognizes as not being the kind that means blood. She does not know what set off this latest attack, but she knows he does not need a reason. She knows to keep still.

You do not walk away. You wait for Sir to go.

Later, when she thinks — prays — that she has seen the last of him for the night, Merla sweeps up. Then she goes to the garage where the Saab and Ferrari are parked, picks up leftover grayish-blue paint and a damp brush from the corner cupboard, and returns to the lounge to cover up the mark on the wall where the crystal smashed into pieces. The paint blends easily. In this opulent house, flanked on either side by similar ones which are still unsold, everything is still new. She has had plenty of practice covering up wall stains, mainly left by him and his guests in the den, for which the paint color is Dulux Black. She tries not to think about that room; these days she tries not to think at all.

Meticulously, she rearranges the Swarovski collection, predominantly birds. Most of them are seagulls, birds that she has never seen in her two years in this country, even though the waterfront villas are nestled amidst lush tropical foliage, on an isle within a cove of an island off the Singapore shore. Perhaps there are no birds because the vegetation is landscaped, the isle built from Cambodian sand and the cove artificially carved. Or maybe because there are never any crumbs to be found.

She picks up a small crystal seagull and looks at it more closely under the lamp. It has tiny red gemstones for eyes — rubies? How much is it worth? she wonders, as she has in the past. Enough, surely, to pay for half a year of round-the-clock care when her mother’s Alzheimer’s takes full grip. Enough to buy time for her younger brother to complete secondary school.

Look after Nanay. Study hard. I’ll send everything I get.

A sound from the floor above startles her. He is clearing his throat, his usual noise like a skanky alley cat coughing up fur and filth. His noxious spit will follow. She turns off the lamp and briskly heads back to the servants’ quarters. She does not run anymore.

Merla locks herself in her tiny room, behind the utility area where the washing machine and dryer are kept. She has a single bed with a thin mattress, a low chest of drawers, an unreachable window near the ceiling facing the side wall of the compound. The cicadas are quiet tonight. In the adjoining bathroom, she removes her blouse and winces as she lifts her bra away from her scalded breasts. The skin is still raw. She showers quickly, with cold water. She knows she should have seen him coming the other night, when he appeared in the kitchen doorway just as the kettle started to boil.

As she towels herself off, she stops to touch her back, where the deep burn from a few months ago has dried and hardened into a large triangular scab. Not the way to do collar! he had yelled. He yanked the cord, grabbed the iron away from her, and rammed her face against the wall. Hot metal. Fabric stuck to melted skin. As she writhed on the floor, trying to muffle her own cries, he ransacked her room, leaving with her battered old Nokia, her address book, and her passport.

At least that time there was a reason. The luxury of a reason. But sometimes there is no reason, or logic, or fairness. Only faith. She kneels and surrenders her eyes — one swollen, both weary — to the framed picture of Mother Mary on the bedside unit. Five hours to go before she is expected to toil again, but she knows that as always there will be little sleep. Still in need of solace, she recalls her long-dead father. The year His Holiness visited the Philippines, her father emptied his savings account to travel from their remote village by bus to Manila, bringing his teenage daughter with him. His wife and newborn son stayed at home. Young Merla watched as he wept in Luneta Park during closing Mass. She felt forever changed. From a roadside stall, he bought her first rosary beads, made of wood. Now the beads remind her not just of home, but of the time they were shoved into her mouth and forced down her clenched throat. The time she was left gagging, her shaking hand pushing through her open jaws to get a grip of the chain, her esophagus cut as she pulled out the metal crucifix.

The rosary beads are where she always keeps them — coiled around a corner of a small mirror, next to the picture of the Virgin Mary.

Gray meets gray where the mackerel sky merges with the South China Sea on a blurry horizon. A light breeze blows across the upstairs balcony of the vast master bedroom. She prefers it like this. When the sun blazes, the light catches the thousands of specks that fly and float with every desperate stroke of her feather duster, making her work seem an impossible struggle; she is certain she has lost battles of several lifetimes. As she is alone in the house, she allows herself a minute. He left hours ago — she saw his red Ferrari speed down the driveway and swing right at the gates with a haughty vroom. His wealth, so incomprehensible to her, so inescapable, seems to be the only topic he deigns to speak of when he has no intention of abusing her. More than once he has described with glee, in his broken English, the expression on the real estate agent’s face when he turned up with a suitcase stuffed full of cash from Chengdu, and every retelling concludes with a rant about how the conveyance should have been completed then and there. FAH-king bu-raw-CRASSY!

Just as Merla is about to shut the sliding door, she is jolted by the sound of a splash from the pool below. By the time she takes tentative steps toward the balcony railing and peers down, all she can see is a trail of wet footprints on the path leading into the house. The fact that he never uses the pool heightens her alertness. As she tiptoes along the landing and down the glass stairs, the stereo comes on at full blast. This is no burglar. Then the stranger moves into view.

For a second, the unexpected sight of near nakedness and bright yellow swim trunks makes her avert her eyes and retreat behind a wall. But when she peeks again, she sees that he is more boy than man, though blessed with the promise of every physical glory of male adulthood. His wide-eyed good looks and not-too-tanned complexion remind her of the Pinoy pinups that adorn the celebrity rags she has seen in Manila. Not yet eighteen, she reckons, or else he would already be conscripted for national service. There is only one connection she can draw between the boy and the house. The den. She never lingers in that room long enough, never raises her eyes from the tray long enough, to see or remember faces. She cannot be sure. She has seen many young men in that room, and witnessed things that remind her that there is at least one kind of wickedness that will not befall her in this prison. For that, she thanks the Lord.

The boy notices her and calls out, affably. My name is Zhiwei, he yells through the loud music with a grin, but everyone calls me Zach. Sensing her discomfort, he covers himself with a white bathrobe from the pool hut. He turns down the volume and talks as he runs his fingers through his shortish hair. About him being a lifeguard at the beach on the far side of the island, near the Cafe del Mar where he got to know the owner of this house. About how amazing this place is, how you can definitely fit the entire flat where he lives with his grandmother into just half of the lounge from there to there...

She feels she should hurry away but his voice, with its rise and fall, so strange in a house of oppressive silence, takes an easy hold of her; so she stays, busying herself with her duster and cloth. He crisscrosses the room aimlessly, glancing at the paintings, now and then touching the sculptures. He speaks in the local English slang, his jumbled syntax interspersed with the occasional big, misused word. He tells her he is from one of the oldest housing estates, went to the neighborhood school — What’s the point? — from which he got expelled — What to do? — and that he has big plans for the future. There are other ways to make it in life, Zach says, as he slips his hands into the robe pockets; just look at the guy who owns this villa, he comes from some province in China and can’t be that well-educated. The boy emphasizes this with a shrug.

Interrupted by the ringing of his mobile, Zach leaps onto the nearest oversized sofa to take the call, burrowing into the plush cushions. From what Merla can make of it, it is the man on the line. They converse in Mandarin for a minute or two before hanging up, after which Zach passes on the message that the man will not be coming home tonight, and that she is to serve the boy dinner. Their eyes meet for the first time, for just an instant.

You don’t talk much, says the boy.

When evening comes, Merla prepares the kind of meal she normally does — three dishes and rice. Zach hangs around in the kitchen, mostly perched on a stool by the breakfast bar, swiveling from side to side as he chatters away while she stir-fries. Eventually growing tired of talking to himself, the boy reaches into his worn-out rucksack and removes a large black folder and a copy of the day’s tabloid. She stops and stares. It was months ago when she last laid eyes on a newspaper, in the study, transfixed by an article on the front page of the Straits Times: Maid Tries to Flee, Jumps from Fourth-Story Condo. Merla did not hear the footsteps coming until it was too late. The man grabbed her wrist in a vicelike grip. I kill you, he said.

Do you want this? Zach asks. She turns away. Feigning nonchalance, he moistens his fingertip and flicks through the tabloid, in truth trying to find something that he thinks might start a conversation, eventually settling on the single finance page. Look, he says, holding up the paper. Philippines to Become Sixteenth Largest Economy by 2050. No response.

Merla sets a place in the middle of the long dining table, positioning the cutlery with painstaking precision. As she serves the food, he asks casually, And you? As he has not seen her put any aside, the response Zach anticipates is that she will eat what he leaves behind. She is visibly thrown by the question, her glance at the food too furtive. At last he sees her bony frame, dry complexion, sunken eyes. She shrinks further under his plain gaze. Zach weighs his options. He moves everything from the dining table to the utility room where he finds, tucked away at the back, a set of folding chairs and a plastic table. Merla watches in astonishment. He sets down the dinnerware and saunters back to the kitchen, rummaging around for a second bowl and an extra pair of chopsticks while she trails along like a lost creature. Finally, his eyes light up as he finds what he is looking for. The boy returns to where the food is, sits down, and peers at her expectantly.

Over a fortnight passes without them seeing so much as the man’s shadow — one of his occasional spells of unexplained absence to which Merla has become accustomed, and for which she prays. Zach comes and goes as he pleases, suns himself by the pool and in the manicured garden, where this boy who grew up in a shabby high-rise is enjoying the novelty of figuring out how to use a lawnmower. He has been sleeping over some nights, in the master bedroom, whether or not with the man’s consent Merla cannot tell. It is not for her to ask. But she changes the bed linen and plumps up the pillows after each time, leaving the sliding doors wide open to clear the room of the tang of male adolescence. It is the same smell that pervades the upstairs gym which he has taken to using, just next to the room with the closed door.

Can I have a look inside? he asks, not really for permission — since he wanders freely — but because it is the only door in the house that is locked. Merla shakes her head and hurries away.

When they eat, it is in the utility area, him engaged in one-sided chitchat, her with eyes cast down at her lap. He always helps with the washing up, though only after he has placed the man’s iPad in a stand and set it on the kitchen counter, with the screen facing the sink, playing an episode of America’s Next Top Model. He pretends not to see that she pretends not to watch. Tonight, however, he surprises her. No iPad. Instead, he sets his black folder on the counter. It is a portfolio, the kind every model, or aspiring model, possesses; this one filled with photos of Zach, the most striking among them amateurish at best. What do you think? he asks, slapping his palms together childishly. Merla returns her gaze to the soap suds. She shrugs.

He knows people, Zach says after a while.

Later, while Merla is ironing, Zach engages in a series of phone calls. With his mates, he sounds jovial and frivolous. To his presumably deaf grandmother, he shouts in deliberate, slow, monosyllabic dialect, though Merla can tell the exchange is tender. Then comes a theatrical coyness in his demeanor which immediately fills her with dread. He is talking to the man, in increasingly excited tones. Zach mouths to Merla: He’s coming back tomorrow! The conversation is in Mandarin mingled here and there with a word or two of English. One particular word is all it takes to propel her into a further state of panic.

Party.

Fumbling around her apron and withdrawing from one of the pockets a single key, Merla walks away with uncharacteristic speed, carrying with her his puzzled stare. It is not long before she finds Zach standing beside her in the den, slack-jawed. To her, this room, with its black walls, black rubber flooring, and blackout curtains permanently drawn, is as unholy now with all the lights on as it is when lit with only garish candlesticks and lava lamps. She looks down, focusing on twisting the key around in her fingers while he takes it all in. Everything has been contrived with care, from the racks of chains, handcuffs, whips, to more bizarre equipment and instruments of bondage and torture that neither of them can name. Here was the scene of her first beating, within minutes of her becoming acquainted with the house, sparked off by the involuntary, almost imperceptible shaking of her head when she was told she was to clean everything in the room, every day.

Oh my god, says Zach, barely audible. His line of vision is directed toward the ceiling, where large mirrored panels cover every inch, magnifying the depth of the chamber. In spite of herself, Merla glances up, instantly flinching at the sight of their reflection. In her earliest encounter with this room in its intended use, when strangled cries and hoarse growls and cigarette smoke and chemical fumes invaded her senses, she lifted her head so her eyes could dodge the bare bodies, only to be shaken by what she saw in the mirrors as a bloodcurdling negative of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel.

You must go, she says to Zach. She is taken aback by the sound of her own voice. He has already left the room.

The following day, there is no sign of Zach. She does not dare to call out for him, for anything, so she searches around the house, floor by floor, room by room, every hour. Nothing. Just after nightfall, the Ferrari appears, at the front of a small convoy of trophy cars carrying about a dozen people, all male. The man leads his guests through the doors. Only three of them are young. Raucous laughter reverberates through the house, cigar and cigarette smoke spreading, thickening. A glint from a Rolex watch. A flicker off a heavy gold chain. Overpowering eau de cologne. Behind the kitchen door, Merla goes about filling the large tray. A bucket of ice, cognac, and bottles of mineral water. Two vials of Viagra, four bottles of GHB, a large bag of pure cocaine. She prays that tonight she will only need to do this once. Bent low and with eyes down, she carries the tray past the lounge where the men are gathered and makes her way up the stairs toward the den, slowing down a fraction when the doorbell suddenly chimes. Seconds later, she judders to a halt from the sound of Zach’s voice. An Evian bottle tumbles off the tray, hits the glass stairs, and rolls noisily down... one... step... at... a... time... She freezes. The laughter dies.

Leave it! she hears the man shout.

Her heart at once pounding and heavy with dismay, Merla finishes the task at hand as swiftly as she can, and withdraws to her room, latching the door behind her. She wraps her rosary beads around her wrists and clasps her hands tightly around the crucifix. A feeling threatens to engulf her, the sense that she is fouled, like a beached seagull overwhelmed by slick. But even the black swell of a spill cannot sully the red of a seagull’s flesh and blood.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners...

She waits for the minutes and hours to go by, stares through the small window at the moon behind a shifting veil of clouds. Between here and the soundproof room, there is a wall of impenetrable silence. She pads into the kitchen and from a tin can picks out the one tea bag she is allowed for the month. More time passes. At long last, she hears men’s voices and the sound of heavy car doors, engines revving, tires on concrete, gradually fading to nothing. Zach appears before her, disheveled and pale, his pupils dilated. His robe, wrapped tightly around him, is stained. Blood trickles from his nose. Merla sets down her mug of cold tea and reaches into the cupboard for the medicine kit.

I’m okay, he mutters. I had too much... stuff...

More familiar with what the box offers than she wishes she were, Merla sets to work. Within minutes, she has done all she can.

Go, she says quietly. Don’t come back.

He takes the soiled cotton wool from her hand and rolls it between his fingertips into a tight ball.

He knows people, says Zach.

The twelve-meter yacht at the front of the villa used to have a different name. The day it was delivered, not long after the house was bought, the man stood impatiently on the berth, using his hand to shield his beady eyes from the sun. When the boat cruised into view from around the sharp curve of the isle, he did a little jump. From behind the curtains in the lounge, Merla watched, agape. She had never been anywhere near a yacht. When the awe receded, she wondered what this luminous white vessel would mean for her existence. How was she to clean it? With a sponge and bucket? Would the hose from the tap by the pool stretch far enough? As it drew nearer, she witnessed an abrupt change in the man’s body language. He waved his arms about wildly as if to say, NO! TURN. BACK. The Malay guy piloting the boat looked confused; he tugged at the peak of his baseball cap and approached closer still, until the man began to stamp his foot irately, point at the lettering inscribed in gold, and holler — something about the FAH-king dealer forgetting that he had changed his mind about some word. When the message ultimately got through, the Malay guy nodded apologetically, offered an awkward sort of salute, turned the vessel around, and sped off. Merla kept watching until the yacht and its trail of foam disappeared from view. That was the last she saw of any boat by the name of Current Escape.

Now, on the murky waters of the cove, the Current Asset gently bobs, moored alongside the berth. A light wind blows and on the sea far beyond, the crest of a wave is spotlit by a few rays breaking through the clouds. On an unstoppable advance, the northeast monsoon.

Merla traverses the full length of the berth a third time, the mop in her hands just damp enough to capture what little dust there is on the varnished brown of the wooden boards. Having had his offer of help silently declined, Zach is on the deck of the yacht, sprawled out on the chaise lounge, deeply engrossed in a magazine — an untouched copy of Singapore Tatler which he stumbled upon in the cabin below has been keeping him occupied longer than he expected. Not being a magazine he’s heard of, it was at first eschewed in favor of Vogue Hommes and Jaguar World, later picked up and marked for study only when he grasped that it is about rich people. He leafs through the glossy spreads and, at times, when laboring through some of the wordier columns, wishes he made more of an effort in school. If only, he thinks, there was someone to push him. All of a sudden, his eyes widen. He slides his shades up over his head. In front of him, on a back-page story about some charity gala event, is a photo of the man, fitted in a tuxedo, posing with a bevy of extravagantly gowned socialites. I knew it! thinks Zach, feeling utterly vindicated. Magazine in hand, he bounds off the chaise lounge and leans over the side of the yacht, waving to catch Merla’s attention.

Someday I’m going to be super loaded! exclaims Zach, his tone playful, arms stretched out wide. I’m going to be a megastar actor. I’m going to travel the world! First, I have to make it as a model!

Merla is no longer ill at ease at the sight of him with his shirt off; she has seen it enough times. As she glances up at his perfect yet still developing form and his beaming face, she suddenly feels — dare she say it — grateful for the respite of not having seen the man for weeks since the party, for Zach’s unfettered optimism, and for the relief he unknowingly provides for her pain of not seeing her own brother grow from boy to man.

Where would you go? Zach asks. If you could go anywhere in the world?

Not pausing for her to respond, because she never does, he rattles off a long list of faraway cities and exotic resorts, his flights of fantasy becoming ever more unrestrained. As for Merla, her imagination, so rarely fed and now drawing off vague memories of photographs she may have glimpsed ages ago, lifts and carries her thousands of miles to Vatican City. She forms a hazy picture of the dome of the great basilica, the glorious symmetry of the colonnade spreading out around the towering obelisk. What she would give to see His Holiness at the library window and be blessed...

...and Rome! she hears Zach call out. For the hot guys and fashion!

Merla has not completely slipped out of her reverie. Show me, she says.

Zach leans back a bit, completely taken by surprise. What do you mean? he asks.

Putting aside the mop and pail, Merla sits on the wooden boards, her legs hanging over the edge of the berth. You, she says indistinctly. Modeling.

Zach is hesitant at first. The images from the Vogue Hommes are still fresh in his mind, so he proceeds to pump up his chest and give his best version of brooding sexiness. Standing, arms folded, gazing into the far distance. Lying down on the chaise lounge, propped up on one elbow, knee artfully bent. Dashing aft to do an exuberant star jump on the diving platform. When, from the corner of his eye he clocks that Merla is looking more amused than impressed, he decides he may as well segue into outright comedy, so he begins to mime — a guest at a cocktail party, air-kissing, snootily turning away a waiter carrying champagne. Merla’s features begin to betray the faintest of smiles, which she tries to hide with her hand; then a mere whisper of a giggle escapes from her lips, and taking the cue, Zach bursts into laughter.

In a flash, Zach’s countenance morphs into impassivity. Merla turns and immediately notices the man on the upstairs balcony. She rushes to get onto her feet, loses her balance, and stumbles into the water with a yelp. Zach springs to the edge of the boat but Merla is already clambering back onto the berth. She stands there, shoulders hunched, arms straight down by her sides, not knowing what to do next, shaking her head at Zach’s offer of his robe.

At the balcony, a poker face. The man prolongs the silence. All Merla can think of is how shameful it is that her undergarments are visible and how disgraceful it must be that they are gray and threadbare. The man looks at Zach and, as a lewd signal, grabs his crotch, tilting his head in the direction of the bedroom. Zach silently obeys. Merla is just about to scamper into the house behind him when the man shouts for her to stop. He asks, You finish? So she continues to mop — mopping up the water dripping off her, with her head down, until the sun begins to set.

When she returns to her quarters, she recoils at a smell coming from her room. She traces the stench to the toilet, where she finds, awaiting her, human waste and, half-buried within, her rosary.

The air is thick and heavy. It is that strange, deceptive kind of electrical storm where the lashing winds by turn wheeze and howl but no rain ever comes. The yacht rocks upon the dark currents, the corner of its stern thumping heavily against the side of the berth. Jagged edges of water lurk on the surface of the pool. Upstairs, the candles are lit, the lava lamps switched on, and the contents of the tray have been laid out. With another rumble of thunder echoing in her chest, Merla shuts the last of the sliding doors, the thick glass vibrating in its frame. No better time to use her one tea bag.

She stands in the dining room with her hands around her mug. Partly concealed by blinds, she watches as the Ferrari screeches to a halt. Out comes the man in wobbly steps, while Zach emerges from the other door, straining against the strong gusts of wind. Seconds later, only one other car passes through the gates and pulls up close behind. Merla has not seen it before. The driver is tall and lean, with a narrow face. The three of them make their way toward the house, the stranger looking sober by comparison to his host. Zach catches Merla’s gaze, and turns almost instantly. She frowns, unable to read the expression she just saw. Suddenly she is aware that the man is pointing her out to the stranger, who nods in response and stares directly at her. Merla backs away to the kitchen and stays there, not moving, her ears pricked. She hears the front doors open and shut, voices mumbling, footsteps heading toward the stairs. The long period of quiet which follows is not what it seems. Out of thin air, the stranger appears in the kitchen before her, holding the mug she left on the dining room table. He asks for more ice, a request which she tends to immediately. Then he tells her she must have forgotten her tea, and places it on the counter within the outline of his shadow. She hesitates. The weight of his stare shifts from her to the mug. He picks it up and moves a step closer toward her. Merla takes her tea and darts off, ignorant of the fact that he lies in wait, not knowing that his eyes never leave her, and too quickly disregarding an obscure instinct that this man is unlike the others.

Darkness which hurts. Light-headedness. An escalating awareness of being roughly shaken. Through hooded eyes, Merla sees the stranger thrashing against her body, feels the searing pain below. Terror pierces right through her. She cannot breathe. She tries to scream but her mouth is gagged. She struggles but her body is weak. He pounds the side of her head with his bare knuckles, flips her over, and pushes her legs apart. Another jab of agonizing pain. Tears start to stream down her face. She passes out.

Nausea surging over her, she rolls and tumbles onto the floor of the cabin. Vomit spews from her dry mouth. The stranger is nowhere about. Hands trembling, she pulls up her underwear; she cannot see her skirt. On her hands and knees, she moves slowly toward the way out, feeling the yacht sway beneath her. She crawls halfway along the berth before finding her feet, the heavy wind swirling around her. In the lounge, she collapses onto a sofa on which she has never sat. Blood seeps into the fabric. She does not know when the spasms cease, is oblivious to the passing of time. She feels nothing. She rises unsteadily to her feet and staggers past the console table, her flailing arms sending the Swarovski crystal crashing onto the floor. In the dark of the kitchen, she picks up a knife. Then she heads up the stairs.

On the landing, she sees that the door to the den is ajar and hears a strangled cry. She approaches, her mind and body disconnected. Through the gap, a partial sight. A grotesque heap of obese nakedness on the floor, slurring and slobbering. She pushes the door open. Zach is strapped to the wall with his hands pulled high. His bare frame is limp and his cries have turned into feeble sobs. Merla’s vision adjusts to the dim light. Covering Zach’s torso and limbs is a gruesome mass of lashes and deep cigarette burns. Merla starts to convulse with anguish. Finally unleashed, she lurches into the room, knife raised high, and plunges the metal deep into the man’s shoulder blade. He yelps and reels away on the rubber floor in shock, staring up at Merla, at the knife in her hand. Uncharted waters. Shaking violently and barely breathing, she drops the knife and unstraps the boy, never taking her eyes off the man. Zach collapses onto his knees. In a split second, a tidal wave of rage thrusts him back onto his feet. With a primal scream, he lunges. Grunting through clenched teeth, he punches and kicks with all his might at the man’s face and crotch.

Merla crumples into a corner, slamming her palms over her ears. She can still hear the tumult of blows. Blow after ruthless blow. With each one, she is hit again by the force of every strike she has ever suffered, every injustice. In her defiled body, her spirit burns. She shuts her eyes tight. Now she wants to scream. The cry is there, the beginnings of it, still caged in her chest, straining toward her vocal cords to smash through her muteness. In her head, a chasm of whirling darkness. Beyond the den, in the black skies over the cove, a vortex rages. A slash of lightning. She opens her eyes to see that Zach has suddenly stopped. Spit trickling down his chin. Horrified disbelief etched into his features. On the floor, a few feet away from Merla, the man’s blood-smeared lips are distorted, twisted into something obscene. A smile. From his mouth, a hideous sound — an animal growl, erupting into profane laughter. Zach, his brutalized, bleeding chest still heaving and eyes ablaze, turns to Merla. She sees him glance at the thing in her hand. She feels her grip tighten. She is adrift, in turmoil. Did she not let go of the knife?

Outside, a lone boat battles through the turbulence from the treacherous open sea into the cove, crashing through the waves, passing the house at desperate speed. An eleventh-hour mooring. Man’s creation against God’s wrath. Its headlights sweep and penetrate the black curtains through a thin crack. A shaft of unearthly light stabs the floor. Merla’s wild eyes are dragged along as the light beckons and taunts, as it slides over the wall, the straps, and the chains, moving relentlessly toward the ceiling mirrors, going up and up.

Bedok Reservoir by Dave Chua

Bedok

It was around four a.m. and the cupboard-sized room was, as always, unbearably warm. Natalia could feel herself choking on her own breath. She climbed down from the bunk bed and glided to the door on cotton slippers, past her belongings and the photographs of her family in Java. Her employers were still asleep.

The security guard did not notice her leaving the compound. Her only witnesses were the pair of green stone fish that spouted water even in the middle of the night. She walked along the gravel jogging path toward the reservoir, a street away, intending to make herself tired enough to sleep.

A Bangladeshi worker was wedged on a bench, asleep, his light blue phone still pressed between his shoulder and ear. There were pink plastic bags and condom wrappers on the grass, and lamps blazed around the perimeter of the water. Too much light would draw complaints from the condo dwellers, so there were unlit patches, and Natalia liked to disappear into them.

Soon enough she found a spot that would do, settling down on the grass a foot away from the water, staring into the blackness of the reservoir. This gleaming scentless lagoon with its circle of manicured greenery, hive-like concrete dwellings, and evenly spaced trees could not have been more different from the lake of her village. Yet it made her think of home, of her mother, her aunties, her friends, scrubbing their blouses in the water, swimming. Any moment out of her bosses’ apartment gave her joy, but it was these quiet ones stolen in the early hours of the day that she relished. There was hardly any breeze. She wanted to hear waves but the waters remained silent.

Natalia felt herself falling asleep when she spotted a man in a cap about twenty feet away, approaching the water. Trees obscured him, but from the way he was hunched, he seemed to be carrying something. A fisherman trying to catch something early in the morning? She had seen those once or twice this early in the day, but it was rare. Then there was a splash, and for a moment she saw the surface of the water rippling in response.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the man walking away. He was almost at his car, parked in a bus lane, when he abruptly turned and appeared to be looking at her. She ducked, hoping the foliage would hide her.

The man was now walking toward her; she stood up. Surely she had done nothing wrong. The city’s many laws confused her. Perhaps she should not be so close to the water’s edge? But she was just taking a breather. She walked up the slope and onto the gravel path. Her movements woke the Bangladeshi worker; he sat up and scratched himself, his phone still stuck to his shoulder. He looked dazed and mumbled a few confused words. It sounded like he was calling for his parents.

When Natalia glanced back at the man, he had turned around and was now jogging back to his car. He drove off without turning on his headlights. Ruffled, she hurried back to the condominium.

After the security guard waved her into the compound, she said a prayer before stepping into the house. Back in her room, she found herself wishing that she had taken down the car’s license plate.

Natalia tried to sleep but just lay in bed, dreading the day. The Chans usually woke up at about six thirty a.m. There was no predicting their moods, particularly Mrs. Chan. Ma’am was in her mid-thirties, successful, and wore sleek power jackets. They made quite a bit of money, but their condominium was small. Even so, Mrs. Chan seemed to think it was the size of a mansion and made Natalia clean every room, even the rarely used spare bedroom, every day except Sunday.

When Natalia heard the alarm go off in their room, she got up and started brewing coffee and making scrambled eggs and toast.

From the moment she stepped out of the master bedroom, Mrs. Chan started with her litany of complaints. Were the eggs fresh? Natalia had added too much milk to the coffee. Had she ironed the clothes? Did she manage to bring the clothes inside before it rained yesterday?

Natalia tried not to shrug and simply nodded, knowing that Mrs. Chan hated her talking back. She apologized often, saying she would try better. When Mr. Chan emerged, he already had his company lanyard on even though he was still in his light blue pajamas. Natalia wondered if he had slept with it on. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and ate his toast, flipping between channels and letting his wife continue her nagging.

Moving over to the balcony to do his morning stretches, he suddenly remarked, “Look. The police again.” The block in front of their apartment gave them only a partial view of the reservoir, but still, when Mrs. Chan and Natalia joined him in peering over the railing, they could see a crowd milling about by the water.

“Another drowning?” Mrs. Chan surmised, craning her long neck for a better glimpse.

“Looks like,” he said. “Suicides attract, like magnets. We should sell this place. So many deaths.”

“Can’t get a good price now,” Mrs. Chan replied before turning back to Natalia and giving her a look that sent her scurrying back to work. “We’re leaving for Madrid tonight. I know you’re happy we’ll be gone. I want you to send me a photo every evening of the rooms.”

Natalia nodded. Even though she was glad, she kept her face blank. What did it matter whether the rooms were clean when they were away? All they wanted was to get something out of her salary, even if they weren’t here to see it.

“How long away, ma’am?”

“Ten days. I’ll get my mother to come check on things some days. I should send you there to work for her but she doesn’t enjoy... never mind.” If Mrs. Chan was awful, her mother was a tyrant. Natalia knew enough Cantonese to know that her mother’s insults were racist and vulgar. A missed spot warranted a reprimand or even a slap. Mrs. Chan talked about how her mother had once scalded a maid for burning some chicken.

Still, ten days was a boon. Even if Mrs. Chan’s mother turned up, she never stayed long. She hated the smallness of the place and nagged her daughter for buying it. It occurred to Natalia that her prayers had worked.

Mrs. Chan was now chattering to her husband in Mandarin as they tried to gauge what was happening at the reservoir. Natalia waited until they left to change into their work clothes before cleaning up, making sure to pick up bits of toast from the couch.

Once Natalia saw the Chans’ car leave, she headed to the reservoir, getting as close as she could to the heart of the crowd. There were a few policemen standing around, not far from where she had been earlier that morning. The locals were taking photos on their phones and posting them. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later; as they placed the body on a stretcher, she could see it was a Chinese woman in a red dress. Her hair was loose, her nails were pale pink, and her wrist had a red string looped around it. One of the medics threw a white towel over the woman’s face.

Natalia knew the stories about how those seeking to be reborn as vengeful ghosts would drown themselves wearing red. She thought about the man in the cap that morning and the splash. Did he have something to do with the woman? What had he been carrying? It had been too dark to tell. No, she knew nothing. There was a house to clean, she told herself, hurrying away.

Trying not to think about the dead woman, she focused on the list of chores Mrs. Chan had left. She packed their luggage, pretending that it was her going on a trip, started cooking dinner at six, and let the food simmer.

The Chans came home late that night, spending just ten minutes in the apartment — enough time for Mrs. Chan to scold Natalia for cooking dinner and wasting food. Even as Mrs. Chan was dragging her luggage out the door, she was shouting instructions for more chores and insults in the same breath. Her husband, amused by the tirade, said nothing to stop her. His work lanyard was still on, until his wife turned her scolding on him for a moment, reminding him he did not have to use it at Immigration.

Mrs. Chan only quieted down when the elevator doors finally closed. (Though Natalia then received two text messages from Mrs. Chan telling her to air out the mattress and wash the curtains.)

Once their absence set in, Natalia sat on the couch, relieved but drained. That night, she slept with the door to her small room wide open. She had vivid dreams of water seeping all over the floor; the woman in red appeared next to her bed.

When the newspapers arrived the next morning, she looked for a report. The article occupied half a page.

The woman at the reservoir was named XueLing, a twenty-year-old Chinese girl who had arrived in Singapore two years earlier. She worked at a restaurant and had been missing for three days. There were few details about her — the press had not been able to find out the significance of her red dress, who she wanted revenge on. The rest of the article mentioned the other reservoir suicides, including one where only half the man’s body was found. Natalia had heard about the drownings before and the friends that she met on her day off enjoyed joking about it.

But this one struck home; the girl had come here with hope. Like Natalia, she wanted a better life. It was true that sometimes Natalia also considered suicide, but she knew she had to press on. If she died, her debts would simply be passed on to her family.

Four days after the Chans left, Natalia was still mired in housework. Even so, she relished the freedom of knowing that her every move wasn’t being watched. The incident at the reservoir was no longer in her mind. The splash was probably just a catfish in the reservoir making a jump. The man was just on an early-morning stroll.

When evening came, she decided to walk to the reservoir. The waters were once again peaceful. Gravel crunched under the feet of joggers. She walked down the slope near the water and sat down with a can of soya bean milk. It was warm, and the sky was thick with crayon-red bands. A crescent moon hung over the world.

Just as she was about to leave, a young man began walking right toward her. He wore a black T-shirt with faded jeans and his slightly tinted glasses partially masked his pockmarked face. She wondered if he was one of the locals who liked to pick up foreign girls.

“Hello,” he said, extending his hand even before he reached her. Though surprised, she took it. His handshake was practiced and firm. “Terrible thing that happened here, yah?”

“The drowning? Yah.” She was cautious. It was hard to remember when she last had a conversation with a local, instead of just replying to orders.

“So many... I think I’ve seen you here a few times before. Have you noticed anything strange?”

“No. It’s very peaceful here. Maybe those people who come here to kill themselves just want some peace as well,” she said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it. But not if you’re wearing red. She wanted revenge.”

They talked a bit more — she told him she was a maid and that even though her employers were away for two weeks, she cleaned every inch of the house each day. He introduced himself as Simon, a manager in a logistics company.

“I see. Hey, since you’re a maid, are you open to jobs outside of your place? How about you come clean my house for me? I had a cleaner but she hasn’t turned up and I’m bad with household tools. I destroyed a painting with a vacuum cleaner.”

Natalia didn’t find the joke funny, but she sensed an opportunity and laughed.

“I’ll pay well; maybe $500 for a day’s work? It’s embarrassingly dirty now. Those bloody midges on the windowsill... wipe them off once and they always come back.”

Five hundred was a lot of money; more than a month’s pay. With that kind of cash, Natalia could pay her agent back and still have money left to send home. She remembered what a friend once said: in Singapore you have to find what other people need, and grab every opportunity that comes along.

“Is the place big?”

“No. It’s a condo — you know how they are. So small. Two bedrooms.”

He sounded sincere so she agreed. She passed him her phone and he typed in his number and wrote his home address on the back of a business card.

“It’s good fortune that we met,” he said, waving goodbye before disappearing down the trail.

The next morning, Natalia packed up some rags and detergent. Simon’s condo was only about five stops away — on the bus, she kept a careful count of every stop.

His condominium building turned out to be flesh pink with green ionic pillars, reminding Natalia of a birthday cake melting in the sun. The Indian security guard eyed her suspiciously and told her to sign in, then didn’t let her up until Simon came to fetch her from the guard post.

This time, Simon looked businesslike, wearing a yellow long-sleeved shirt with black pants. Natalia showed him the detergent she brought and asked if it smelled okay. He said it was fine but that he had his own supplies. “I’m not that incompetent, you know.”

The apartment was oddly shaped, with triangular rooms. Porcelain statues of Chinese gods were the only decoration. Simon told her not to bother washing the large windows. “Don’t want an incident of you falling out,” he said, laughing as he brought out a green apron and latex gloves. “Don’t want you to get dirty.”

Natalia heard a radio blaring in Hokkien from one of the rooms.

“My father is inside,” Simon said, waving her over for a peek. An old man sat on a wheelchair facing the wall; heavy brown curtains covered two windows. “Don’t worry about him. He had a stroke so he doesn’t talk much. Don’t bother washing his room.” He closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

Simon handed her $250 in neatly folded bills and told her he would give her the rest that evening. As he left for work, he asked her to call him if she had any problems. She carefully stuffed the money in her small handbag the moment he left.

Natalia got to work right away, sweeping the floor. She thought she heard the old man grunt several times and rattle his wheelchair. Because his room door was ajar, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was being watched. This made her quicken her pace — perhaps his father was there to make sure she did a good job and didn’t run off with something valuable? She wanted the remaining $250 and wasn’t going to chance it. And so she scrubbed at the mold in the bathroom until her arms ached. When the lemony detergent started to make her gag, she tied a kerchief over her face. She heard the drone of Hokkien radio in the background wherever she went.

Simon messaged her at two, asking how it was going. When she replied that all was fine, he told her to stay for dinner. She hesitated a little, wondering if this was odd. But then she thought that perhaps she could suggest cleaning for him one Sunday a month; it seemed like he needed it and was generous. More money was always helpful.

By five she had finished with the master bedroom and kitchen. Outside, a storm had descended. It made the radio echo worse, and Natalia felt as if she were in a cave. She was taking a sip from the kitchen tap when she heard grunting from the old man’s room. She approached, gently knocking on the door. Simon’s father lifted his head to stare and grunt, then turned back to the radio.

She had not touched his room. But now she wondered if she should clean it. Maybe that would persuade Simon to ask her back.

So she put on her gloves and worked around him as best she could, opening the window slightly to air out the room’s staleness and the smell of urine coming from the bedsheets. Looking for fresh sheets in a drawer, she came across a crumpled green dress. She left it where it was; maybe Simon had a sister.

On the dresser, there was a black-and-white photo of a family; a couple with a boy who could only be Simon right in front of them. From the way they each held one of his shoulders, she could tell he had been the main focus of the parents. So much hope placed in him — did he manage to satisfy them?

Finally, she found a plain gray sheet and set to work on the bed. The old man’s wheelchair squeaked and his breathing became more pronounced.

The room was relatively clean but she decided to sweep and mop anyway. The old man was more mobile than she thought; he moved the wheelchair away when she needed to mop beneath him. There was an odd expression in his eyes as she got close — though she did not dare look directly at him.

When Simon returned, he was surprised she had cleaned his father’s room. “I thought I told you to leave him alone.”

“It’s okay, sir. I had time.”

She thought she detected a flash of anger in his face but his smile quickly returned. Why would he be angry? She regretted cleaning the room now. She thought he would be grateful, not mad.

Simon set out Styrofoam cartons of food on the table and opened them, showing her the duck rice he’d bought. Then he ran his thumb along the table’s wooden surface and examined it.

“Clean. Very clean,” he said. “I’ll give you the $250 after dinner.”

She had been hoping to leave quickly and felt uneasy, but said nothing. The smell of hot salty duck was making her hungry — the old man as well, as she heard him coming out of his room for dinner, his wheelchair sounding like metal spoons rubbing against each other.

Simon started to dish out the rice on plates that she had just washed. She took out spoons and forks and placed them on the table. She offered to help but he told her to sit down; there was an edge in his voice. He sat close to her and they faced his father, as if they were having a meeting.

“Why are you here, Natalia?” Simon asked.

“Here? In Singapore? To earn money,” she said, surprised at his question. She took a bite of the duck; the meat was soft and tender.

“How long have you been in Singapore? Does your employer treat you well?”

“Two years. They’re all right.” She didn’t want to say too much about them. She wanted to finish her food, get her $250, and leave. The rain was still coming down; it looked as if someone was pouring glue on the windows.

“You are happy here?” he asked. He had not touched his food.

“Yes,” she said.

“You need to know what you want in Singapore, Natalia. If you don’t, how will you know when you have it?” He turned to his father. “Right, Pa?” Then he looked back at her. “You like the reservoir?”

“It is peaceful,” she said.

“Were you there five days ago, in the morning?”

She didn’t know where this questioning was going. “I can’t remember,” she said, starting to feel frightened.

He turned toward his father.

“Pa, what do you think of her? Do you like her? I’m going to marry her.”

The old man stopped eating and looked up. “Would she please you better than Mei?”

“She’s already pregnant.” There was a rising rage in Simon’s voice. “There’s nothing you can do this time.”

“Sir, what are you—” Natalia started.

“Shut up!” Simon snapped. “I’m going to marry her and there’s nothing you can do about it, Pa.”

The old man shot out of his wheelchair and his right hand curled around her neck. Her plate of rice fell to the floor, shattering. The man’s hands felt like sandpaper on her throat. Simon did not raise a hand to help.

“You’re going to kill her too?” Simon’s hands then locked around his father’s right wrist. “Is that what you want?”

Her fingers searched the table. She found a fork and quickly stabbed Simon’s father on the head. He did not let go, even as blood streamed down his gnarled face. She struck again with all the strength she could muster.

This time, the force made him let go and Natalia jumped away. Simon shouted at his father in Hokkien. The old man crumpled to the floor, bleeding. Natalia dashed to the door and bolted out, ignoring Simon’s shouts.

The security guard downstairs was reading a newspaper and didn’t even look up when she came out. She ran home in the rain. Then she dialed 999.

It was odd to read about the case in the newspaper, with Natalia as the star.

The paper said that XueLing and Simon had been seeing each other. The old man, incensed over his son’s relationship with a “Chinese dog” and his desire to marry her, leaped out of his wheelchair and wrapped his hands around her throat. Unlike Natalia, she lost the struggle.

Out of filial duty, Simon hadn’t reported his father. Instead, he hatched a plan. Dressing XueLing in red, he painted her nails and slipped her into the reservoir. He hoped she would return as a spirit and avenge her death.

Natalia spotting him that morning had been his undoing. And so he’d hatched another clumsy plan, one that would silence her. But both father and son ended up in prison — both were expected to spend their remaining days there.

That evening, Natalia headed to the reservoir, escaping her small room once again. The Chans would be back shortly, a distraction she now welcomed. In the last peaceful moments before they returned, however, she wended her way over to the water. Placing her hands together, she prayed — for XueLing, for her spirit, for the power of her red vengeance.

Murder on Orchard Road by Nury Vittachi

Orchard Road

His New Year’s resolution was to give up murders. Murders were horrible, messy, smelly, difficult, heart-rending things. And not nearly as profitable as they used to be.

“Red or white?” the waiter asked.

“Tea,” C.F. Wong responded.

The feng shui master sat at a table at the ballroom of the Raffles Hotel, thinking about the trajectory of his career. For many years, he’d been a geomancer specializing in scenes of crime. He had masterfully cornered the niche, aided by the fact that no one else wanted it. Which was not surprising. His competitors had conditioned themselves for years to recoil from anything that could even metaphorically be associated with death, from kitchen knives to broken bowls.

So crime was Wong’s patch alone. Tenant murdered? The landlord would pay Wong to “do his feng shui thing,” to cleanse the place so it could be rented out again. Gang wars in your district? Wong would fix the bad vibes so that all the negative energy would move out of the area.

But lately, his job had started to depress him. He began to realize what his young assistant meant when she said that murders were “real downers.” The dead body and the room in which it was found were often in a highly unpleasant condition. You spent your time in dark corners, breathing foul air, dealing with unhappy people, one of whom might be an actual killer.

The money had compensated for that, but even this delight was seeping away. Property prices had risen so high in Singapore that people no longer shied away from renting places where horrible things had happened. Some tenants even sought them out for the discount from the market price. Thus, Wong’s share of the pie was shrinking daily.

His rivals in geomancy preferred to work for stupid rich people, who would pay them vast sums for visiting their luxury homes. They worked in mansions, sipping silver tip tea and sitting on designer sofas as they spouted random platitudes about chi and the flying star school and the flow of good luck. And these days, they usually got paid more than he did.

So Wong had decided to taste the easy life. Step one had been to muscle his way into the “designer” feng shui business, offering his services to event organizers.

After weeks of pitching, he had been hired to oversee the geomantic side of the arrangements at a major car racing event. This wasn’t Singapore’s famous Formula One race. This was a grudge-match-as-spectacle showdown between Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson, who were among the world’s greatest racing champions. The men had long been archrivals, although it was hard to tell whether they really hated each other or were just media-savvy enough to know that finger-wagging and fist-thrusting attracted TV cameras.

Wong had checked the feng shui of all the venues, including this gorgeously decorated pink-walled room at the luxurious hotel on Beach Road — an avenue at the heart of the urban district, many kilometers from the nearest beach. The only major negative he had found was a grotesque clash between the event date and the birthday of the main sponsor, a businessman named Lim Cheong Li. But that had been solved easily enough. Arrangements had been made for the official opening of the event to be led by a Buddhist abbot named Sin Sar. This man had the perfect birthday in terms of earth roots and heavenly pillars. His presence would ensure the event would not just go well, but be an unforgettable triumph.

Wong had promised the abbot a big lunch and a small fee, and gave him strict instructions: “Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Just sit there. Pretend you don’t know English. When they give you a bell, just ring it. Then sit down and shut up. Shut up all the time. Got it?”

The man had nodded, but not without an audible sigh. “I’m not stupid,” he said, in his oddly high singsong voice.

Wong had responded with a fake smile. The man was not stupid. But he was an idiot, all the same.

The event opened smoothly. Wong sat at the staff table at the back and watched the VIPs take their places at the top table. Abbot Sin Sar sat down and smiled stupidly at everyone. He accepted a big glass of red wine and grinned.

Wong started mentally counting his money. He had given them a big invoice and had inserted a 20 percent “contingency fee” for unexpected events. Now all he needed to do was to create some plausible difficulty which would enable him to write in the 20 percent surcharge. No way was he letting that get away from him. This was going to be a good day. He sat back in his chair and reached for his tea.

Which was when someone tapped his shoulder.

“C.F., gotta talk to you,” said a voice he knew meant trouble.

“Go away,” he spat, without turning.

“This is important.”

“Go away. THIS is important.”

“Alberto’s dad is freaking out,” said Joyce McQuinnie, his assistant, who was suddenly standing next to him. She was talking in a stage whisper, much too loud, catching the attention of others at the table. “He’s totally lost it. I dunno what to do.”

Wong paused for a moment. Alberto Siu Keung, a small fat young man obsessed with food, was always in and out of trouble — but his dad was the wealthy recluse Sigmund Siu Keung, a client who paid every bill, however absurdly inflated, without ever examining any of them. “I call him back later.”

“It’s urgent. He says Alberto’s been arrested for killing two people. He said that if you don’t handle this now, he’ll go off and find some lawyer to take his money instead.”

Wong rose to his feet.

Ten minutes later, the two of them were in the luxurious Marina Bay home of Sigmund Siu Keung, known as the hilltop hermit because he almost never left his home, and had once lived on a hilltop.

“My son has been arrested. You find him,” Keung said, sitting so far away from his guests that the conversation almost had to be shouted.

“Where is he?”

“In a place with a palm tree on the pavement,” said the nervous old man, thin but solid as he sat on a distant oversized armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown.

This sounded like the beginning of a longer utterance, but turned out not to be.

“Like, can you give us more details?” Joyce asked. “Like what street, what district, what area, what building, et cetera?”

Keung looked annoyed. “How can I know that? I am agoraphobic. You can’t expect me to know these things. I don’t know anywhere.”

“Can you call him? We need the address. He must have a mobile?”

The old man seemed exasperated now. “If I could call him, I would. Whoever detained him turned off his phone. I saw the man snatch the phone out of his hand.”

Wong was confused. “You saw him?”

“He sends me Facetimes.”

The feng shui master looked blank.

“It’s an app,” Joyce said. “No, wait. Never mind. You won’t know what that is.” She tried to think of the right way to describe it. “It’s like a video-phone thing? Like on Dick Tracy? You see someone’s face and they see yours? On the screen?”

The geomancer said nothing.

Keung explained: “Alberto was going to a job. He’s a food taster. Perfect job for him. I called him. He put me on Facetime, that’s a video-phone thing like this girl says. Says he has a job and can’t talk now. I don’t know anything else until an hour later, when he calls me again. This time he is frantic, worried. Before, the first time, he was outside, near a palm tree. Now he’s inside a building, all dark. Dad, he says, I’m being arrested. Get help. They say I poisoned two people. And then someone grabs his phone and it goes dead. So I called your office.”

Wong nodded slowly. “So where is he? Where is he working? His job.”

“I told you,” said Keung. “In a place with pavement out front and some palm trees.”

“But that could be anywhere in Singapore.”

“You are detectives. You find it.”

Joyce leaned forward and gave the old tycoon her most winning smile. “Mr. Keung, we’d love to help. When Alberto was talking to you the first time, could you see where he was? Can you give us any details about the pavement, the trees, the buildings? What color were they, for example?”

Keung thought for a moment. “The pavement was pavement-colored, sort of light-grayish, what else could it be? There was a building which was sort of darkish-brownish, or maybe gray. And the trees, well, they were tree-colored, of course — green leaves, gray trunk — what other color can trees be?”

Wong stood up. “I have a very busy day today. We need to get this finished. We need a taxi. Find this place. You look around, tell us when we get there.”

Keung was horrified. “No way. I have agoraphobia! You know that. I never leave this house. Nothing you say will make me go out that door.”

The sun was hidden by clouds as they drove through the central business district of Singapore. Sigmund Siu Keung lay down in the back of the car curled up in a fetal position, his hands over his face, still in pajamas and dressing gown. He swore under his breath.

Wong sat next to the driver, his lips a tight line. The sports event seemed to be going okay. Maybe he didn’t need to be there. If he could help Keung with his son’s problem, he might be able to get an extra fee today. This could be good. Yet he didn’t feel celebratory. There were still too many variables.

He turned around to stare at the old man huddled up on the backseat. Joyce, squashed against the door, was absently patting the shoulder of the hermit tycoon, as if he was some kind of large dog.

“Mr. Keung?” she said. “Every time we get to a palm tree in front of a brownish building we’ll stop, and you sit up and take a look, okay?”

Keung howled: “I am not going to open my eyes until you take me home again, you horrible bullies. I could sue you for kidnapping, do you realize that?”

Finding the right spot turned out to be tricky, they discovered over the next twelve minutes. The problem was that Singapore appeared to consist entirely of palm trees, and every one of them had a brownish building in the near vicinity. The only helpful factor was that occasionally the pavement was pink, so those streets could be ignored.

After several stops produced negative responses, Joyce tried to fish out more information. “Mr. Keung, can you remember anything else at all? Like sounds, were there any noises in the background?”

“No,” the old man said. “Of course not. If there were I would have told you before.” Then his eyes shot open and he glanced at her. “Wait. Maybe.” He closed his eyes again. “There was a shhhhh sound. Like a tap, or water. Alberto raised his voice to speak over it. Probably a fountain behind him, or next to him.”

“Good boy,” said Joyce, patting his head. “Okay, that gives us more to work with — a brownish building with palm trees and maybe a fountain in front.”

The hermit rearranged himself so that his head was now on Joyce’s lap. She absentmindedly played with his hair.

They traveled slowly down Orchard Road. They passed several places that seemed promising. And then Joyce jerked to attention and pointed out the window to her right. “There. Look,” she said. “That could be it.”

Singapore’s overbright sun chose that moment to peek out from behind the clouds and shoot a laser death-ray into the car — and right through Keung’s eyelids. He groaned and curled himself up more tightly. “I want to go home,” he whined, cupping both hands over his face. “I’m an agoraphobic. I could have a heart attack. Then you two would be locked up for murder.”

“Like your son,” growled Wong.

“There, there,” said Joyce, patting the old man’s head again. “If this is the right place, we won’t have to drive around anymore. Just open your eyes and have a look. It’ll only take a second.” She spoke in the tone of a kindergarten teacher coaxing a recalcitrant child to do something. “I’ll say, Three, two, one, and then you jump up and take a look. Then you can put your head down again. Three. Two. One. Up you go!”

She grabbed his shoulders and heaved him upward.

They had stopped in front of Ngee Ann City, a shopping mall on Orchard Road. It had dark brown walls. There was a wide expense of gray pavement in front of it, a small fountain, and several palm trees. Joyce wound the window down so they could hear the fountain.

“Yes, that’s it. Go inside and find him. Can I go home now?” Keung closed his eyes and lowered his head back into Joyce’s lap.

Wong told the driver to move ahead slightly, where some construction was underway. The line of trees and stone buttresses preventing drivers from parking on the pavement was interrupted by a pile of pipes. The car edged onto the pavement just behind a road work sign.

The geomancer scanned the scene. “Wait here,” he told the others. “I go see.”

It didn’t take long to find the right place. Two police officers were hurrying into the building. Recognizing one of them, Wong followed.

The case was open-and-shut, said Detective Inspector Jonathan Shek, who was given to using ancient clichés from crime movies. As they moved up the escalator, the officer explained that it was a special day for the victims: “Today is Lap-ki and Hester Wu’s annual dinner. I think we all knew it was only a matter of time before that little tradition turned dark.”

Wong nodded.

The Wus were a “colorful” couple often described as “known to the police.” Lap-ki Wu had moved to Singapore from Southern China forty years ago as an industrious young man. There, he met a pretty actress called Hester Lum. They had married and enjoyed an astonishing run of luck on the shadier side of the business world. They moved five times in their first two years, upgrading each time. By their second decade together, he was an influential property developer, his land bank boasting holdings in several prime areas.

But their relationship had been increasingly fiery, and they eventually learned to hate each other. Divorce was the obvious option — until they got the idea, probably planted by one of Wong’s colleagues in the feng shui industry, that doing so would ruin their luck. The pair was led to believe that their legendary good fortune would instantly vanish. So they separated, but did not divorce — and agreed to meet once a year for a token dinner, which they had been advised was the least they could do to keep the luck alive.

As the years had gone by, each became convinced that if they died, the other would have somehow “won.” So they started to fear poisoning. Thus, they agreed to take turns organizing the food at the annual dinner, and an independent consultant provided a taster: this year, it was the young gourmand Alberto Siu Keung, who had actually taken a course in this unusual skill.

As the two men marched toward the restaurant, Shek said: “I’ve had a full report from my men at the scene. Alberto Siu Keung tasted all the food, pronounced it clean, and watched it be taken into the room where Mr. and Mrs. Wu were having their annual dinner. The couple ate it, and seemed to be getting along reasonably well — in that they were stabbing their steaks, not each other. But after about ten or twelve minutes of eating, or so Alberto says, something went wrong. Lap-ki Wu started groaning and rubbing his stomach. Then whatever it was hit Hester Wu, and she started moaning too. The husband fell forward into his meal, spilling the drinks and smashing a glass. Mrs. Wu dropped her cutlery and her glass and slumped off the chair onto the floor. My man arrived just before the ambulance. He thought one or both of them had already stopped breathing. Extremely powerful poison.”

Wong put his hand on the police officer’s upper arm. “Wait. So each one expects the other to be the killer. But both get killed at once?”

“Yes. And the obvious candidate is the food taster, who we understand has been in and out of trouble all his life.”

“Except he didn’t do it.”

“How could you know that?”

“He’s my client’s son. And besides, if he’s like his father, he’s too stupid.”

Shek turned and gave Wong a wry smile. “Perhaps he rose to the occasion.”

The geomancer’s mobile phone rang.

“Wong? Where are you? Have you left the hotel?” It was the voice of Lim Cheong Li at the race’s gala lunch. He sounded irate.

“No, I’m here,” Wong lied. “Er, in the bathroom.”

The businessman spoke in a screech: “I need you back in the ballroom immediately. Your monk friend has messed the whole thing up.”

Wong’s heart sank. “Sin Sar? What he say?”

“He was supposed to open the event by clanging his holy bell, right?”

“Yes. He forgot the bell?”

“No, he didn’t forget the bell. He had the blasted bell. But he forgot that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and jangle the thing. Instead, he made a little speechette and then jangled the bell.”

“Oh. He said something bad?”

“Yes. He said something very bad indeed.”

Wong sighed. “He’s a monk. You have to expect people like that to talk all sorts of rubbish.”

Lim said: “Sin Sar told us the race should be spiritual. It should be a race of the heart. It should be a competition about who can crave less than his neighbor.” The man spoke in a whiny, mocking tone. “It should be a race about giving money and glory away to others, not grabbing money and glory for yourself. He said it was wrong to worship money.”

“Clearly rubbish, but no harm done,” Wong offered.

“Well get this. He said that many scriptures, including the Buddhist and the Christian ones, dictate that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. So he declared that good fortune would only continue to prevail if the title and the money and the trophy went to whoever came in LAST, instead of whoever came in first.”

There was silence. “Er, interesting,” said Wong, wondering how he could put a positive light on this. “Makes your race very unique and unusual and historical. You are very lucky.”

“Lucky?” said Lim, sounding close to apoplexy. “It’s a disaster. The last person wins the money and the glory. The idiot monk has turned it into a slow race, like those bicycle races where you have to go as slowly as you can. The winner is whoever is last, and the loser is whoever is first. Do you understand what this means, Wong?”

“I think so. Maybe small small problem.”

“It means that Emerson Brahms and Andreletti Nelson are going to drive as slowly as they can. That’s the only way they can get the title and the money. They might not finish until next Tuesday. They might never finish. It means there is going to be no race. It means there will be nothing for the millions of TV cameras and viewers and sponsors to look at. It means the whole event will be a multimillion-dollar disaster.”

“Ah. I see. Can’t you just ignore what Sin Sar said?”

“He said it in front of the whole crowd and the TV cameras and everything. It was so unexpected that everybody laughed and cheered, not realizing what it really meant. Even the drivers were amused at first. It was only when he sat down that we realized the race would be destroyed.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes, it is too bad. Especially for you, since YOU are going to pay for it.”

“Huh?”

“You brought the blasted abbot into this process. If the whole thing goes belly-up, you’re paying for it.”

“Oh. Maybe I talk to Sin Sar,” the feng shui master offered.

“You’d better. They’re serving the last few courses of the Chinese banquet now. That means you have about ten or fifteen minutes.”

Wong pressed the red button to end the call.

The abbot’s birthday meant he had practically been born for this event. How could he have been a bad choice? This made no sense. And what would happen? Was Wong’s huge payoff going to turn into a massive bill? Should he leave the country immediately? What else could go wrong?

Detective Inspector Shek marched up to him, turning off his own phone. “Just got word from the hospital. Lap-ki Wu was declared dead on arrival. The wife is expected to follow shortly. We’re now talking about murders.”

Shek spun around on his heels and headed to the restaurant kitchen where Alberto Siu Keung was waiting.

Wong, not knowing what else to do, stood at the door and eavesdropped.

“Really, I don’t know what happened,” the young man said. “I did my job properly. I tasted every dish. It was all fine. The poison didn’t come from the kitchen. I swear. I’ll bet my life.”

“You are betting your life,” the detective said. “How does it work? Do you actually eat a bit of everyone’s steak right off their plate?”

“No. There’s a system that food tasters use.”

“There is?”

“Yes, we’re professionals. You think we’re like mothers with toddlers, tasting the food and feeding them? It’s not like that.”

Wong could hear Alberto sigh. Even when he breathed you could hear a vibrato tremor. The young man was trying not to cry. He sniffed twice, and then continued.

“I’ll tell you my system. Each dish is served from the cooking service onto an intermediary platter, preheated to keep it warm. I select a piece at random from each dish and give it a smell test. Sometimes I do a chemical test too. But if it smells fine, usually I just take a small bite. Then I wait to see if there’s any reaction. After a short wait — I can usually tell immediately if something’s wrong, but I usually wait two minutes, to see if anything develops — I take another bite. Most strong poisons you can detect surprisingly easily. There are a few which are tasteless, but most of them have a slight smell. It’s not a foolproof system, but it works. Once all the items have been tasted, it’s our job to look after the chain of custody, just like a police officer monitoring his evidence. We watch to make sure the items we’ve cleared are served onto the diners’ plates and handed to them.”

“So you did all that?”

“Of course. In this type of situation, where individuals are genuinely scared of being poisoned, I take a lot of care. I tasted everything. All the meat, every vegetable.”

“Drinks?”

“Even the drinks. I pour a little out of each into a separate cup, and smell it and taste it. I don’t let it out of my sight until it reaches the diners.” The young man started to weep. “Please believe me, wherever the poison came from, it wasn’t from anything they ate or drank.”

Wong found Alberto’s story believable. He turned and sniffed the air. Could some sort of gas be the culprit? Or a poisoned umbrella tip? Or a radioactive teapot? He’d done the reading. He knew how creative villains were these days.

His mobile phone rang. It was Joyce outside in the car.

“He’s freaking me out.”

“He’s freaking out?”

“No, he’s freaking me out. He says he wants to spend the rest of his life with his head in my lap. He’s creepy. I think he’s smelling my crotch. I’m standing outside the car. I said I was going to go and get drinks for the two of us. I got no money on me. Where are you?”

Wong told her which restaurant they were in. A minute later she appeared, and asked the bartender for two cold drinks.

The feng shui master sat down to make plans to escape from the slow-motion disaster that was unraveling at the hotel around the corner. Option one: go straight to the airport and leave Singapore forever. Option two: contact Sin Sar and get him to rescind his decree immediately. Better try that first.

He called the monastery and got the staff to give him the abbot’s phone number. He dialed it with growing anger, stabbing at his phone.

“Sin Sar, this is Wong. I am not in the room. I had to go out. Urgent business. But I heard about your decree. Last one gets the prize. You have to get up, tell them you were joking.”

“I wasn’t joking,” the monk said in his high, singsong voice, giddy with delight. “People here love the idea. You should have heard the laughter.”

“But that’s because they didn’t realize that you were spoiling the race. These guys famous for driving cars fast. Slow race no good. Makes bad TV. Sponsors very angry. Race organizer very angry.”

“It’s still a race. But the loser gets the prize. That’s the Buddhist way.”

“That’s not the Buddhist way.”

“Well, it’s the Abbot Sin Sar way.”

“Change it. I order you. Otherwise they will make me pay for everything. It cost millions of dollars. I can’t pay.”

“Look, Wong, I have to go. The next course has arrived. The food here is so good. Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”

“You are my friend. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I am not doing anything to you. I am doing something good for the people here. They are competitive in the worst way. They always want to win win win. Everything has to be bigger, stronger, faster. I am teaching them something good.”

“They are not bad people. You don’t have to spoil their race.”

“They have competitiveness in their hearts. That’s bad. They have a craving for money and glory. Those are poisons that will seep out and destroy their lives. I am doing them a favor.”

“Don’t talk to me about poison,” Wong growled.

The abbot hung up.

At that moment, Joyce stomped back into the restaurant, irritation on her face. She placed one of the drinks on the counter. “He won’t drink it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a boiling hot day but he wants it with no ice. He’s crazy.”

She waited until the barman made another gin and tonic, and then headed back out. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Oh, and by the way, we got a parking ticket. The driver says you have to pay it.”

Wong winced. She disappeared.

The barman looked over at him. “And that’s three drinks your lady friend ordered. You’ll have to pay for them too.”

“Aiyeeah,” cursed Wong. “Why do the gods hate me so much?”

The barman gazed down at the ice-filled drink that Keung had refused to accept. “You want to drink this? You look like you need it.” He slid the drink over.

Wong glared at it, as if it was responsible for all his troubles.

And then his eyes widened.

The clouds were clearing as C.F. Wong, Joyce McQuinnie, and Sigmund Siu Keung sat in the car, inching through the traffic on their way back to the Raffles Hotel.

“Driver, take me home FIRST,” said the tycoon, his head on Joyce’s thigh. “Marina Bay.”

“Later,” Wong said. “First, Raffles.” The feng shui master pulled out his phone and called the police detective. “Shek. I just want to ask you one question. Mr. Wu is dead, right? But Mrs. Wu is okay, recovering in hospital? Is it right?”

“C.F.? Yes, that seems to be the case.”

“What were they drinking at the meal?”

There was silence for a few seconds. “Not sure. Scotch, I think. Lap-ki Wu is from a Cantonese background. Probably cognac.”

Wong nodded. “I think I know what happened. Mrs. Wu puts poison inside ice cubes. When Alberto taste the drinks, they are fine. Poison locked inside the ice cubes. But after five minutes, ice cube melts. Mr. Wu drinks poison. He dies. Old system. Seen it before. Common.”

“But Mrs. Wu is also sick. Why would she poison herself?”

“You forget. Mrs. Wu is an actress.”

“Was an actress.”

“Is an actress. They never forget. Like bicycles, elephants.”

As the car pulled up outside the Raffles, Wong leaped from the passenger seat and sprinted through the lobby and into the ballroom.

He arrived puffing to find the room full of raised voices. It was clear that people had now realized that Abbot Sin Sar’s stricture meant the race would be unlikely to go ahead at all.

Lim Cheong Li was onstage, trying to maintain order.

The feng shui master marched up the tiny stage staircase and took the microphone from him. “So sorry, Mr. Lim,” he said. “Must just fix this small small problem for you.” C.F. Wong tapped the microphone hard, twice. Then he started speaking: “Excuse me, rich people, sponsors, businessmen, and et ceteras, I want to say something.”

He continued to tap the microphone and call for attention. The crowd’s attention was eventually caught by the skeletal man on stage with the thick Chinese accent. Conversations died down.

“Ancient Chinese legend says exactly what Abbot Sin Sar said,” Wong explained. “The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I know this is also in the Bible. But Bible originally was Chinese, as everyone knows. As Sin Sar says, whichever car crosses the line first will be declared the loser. Whichever car crosses the line last will be declared the winner. But Sin Sar forgot to say one important thing: Chinese legend says that racing-horse riders should ride each other’s horses. This is the traditional way.”

He glanced down at an event program before continuing. “So Mr. Emerson Brahms will drive the car belonging to Mr. Andreletti Nelson. And the vice will be versa. Mr. Andreletti Nelson will drive the car belonging to Mr. Emerson Brahms. The car which crosses the line last will be the winning car. This is the Buddhist way. This is the Singapore way. This is the best way. Thank you. Goodbye and good night.”

There was silence. People took a few seconds to ponder the implications of the change he had outlined. Slowly, the room broke into laughter and applause.

As Wong carefully climbed down the steps from the stage, he wondered how long it would take for the drivers themselves to realize what his proposal meant. If Brahms and Nelson were driving each other’s cars, each would do his damndest to try to get that car into the most UNdesirable position: first place. Each would drive with as much speed and skill as he could muster. And there was a certain Zen quality about the paradox that would give the race a truly Asian flavor.

The heavens had been right when they guided Wong to select Sin Sar.

Lim saw immediately that it would work. He followed Wong offstage. “Nice going, feng shui master. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I like iced tea,” Wong said. “But no ice cubes.”