Singapore Noir

A minute passed. Ah Meng was counting the time with his heartbeats. One one thousand, two one thousand, three... When he opened his eyes, Ling was peering up at him, her large brown eyes open and sweet and cool. He felt his left hand reach over to brush a long piece of hair away from her forehead so he could look closer.

Ling didn’t move. The gods had spoken. So Ah Meng got even closer. He felt so full his chest hurt. He pinched his eyes shut, leaning toward her, lips extended.

He didn’t realize his lips had never made contact until he opened his eyes, finding that he was falling over backward. The pain in his chest was still there — so was Siva’s favorite fish knife. Ling was squatting by him now, casually watching him grope at the knife. He could see Yan standing behind her, covering her face with her little hands.

His T-shirt was so wet, his hands were so red. When Ling reached over and pulled out the knife, Ah Meng feeling each of the eight inches as it slid out, his first thought was to thank her for helping him. But too quickly, she plunged it back in, hitting a higher spot this time. Ah Meng gasped, feeling a tinny wetness coming up from his throat.

“Hurry up,” he heard her say. “Help!”

His mind was a swirl of cotton. Dimly, he felt Ling pull out the knife and toss it into the water. Then the feeling of four hands pushing, rolling him. Once, twice.

Yan was crying, but very softly. Ling couldn’t hear her over the boat’s engine but sensed it anyway. Holding onto the steering wheel with her right hand and steadying it the way she remembered seeing the guy do it, she reached her left out toward Yan, gesturing for her to take it. The rains still hadn’t come; the ride had been smooth. They would be back at the jetty in a few minutes.

Feeling Yan take her hand, Ling squeezed it. Glancing over, she saw that her little sister had stopped sobbing.

“Don’t worry,” Ling said. “Next time will be easier.”

Mother by Monica Bhide

Kallang

The Merdeka Bridge became Edward’s home after the killing. He spent hours on it watching people go by. Nothing in this lonely city was his anymore; even the sky was different. But the water flowing gently under the bridge provided solace. The sound of the small waves, heard only when traffic disappeared, the gentleness of the ripples, those were the only things that reminded him of home. The home he left after the killing — or suicide, as some called it.

He knew better, the kill was neither a simple murder nor a suicide. But no one would understand that; they couldn’t. They did not love her like he did; you had to love someone to the degree he did to understand why it had happened.

At the moment, though, he felt bad at having said something to the young woman — Ms. Ana, as he liked to call her — who had been running by him on the bridge. He saw her almost every night. She ran around the same time. Normally, she would stop and speak to him but today she seemed distracted; she even tripped and fell. He could see she was bleeding. He offered her a hand and was hurt when she recoiled. He was tall for his fifteen years, really tall for a Chinese kid. His time on the streets showed in the dirt caked in his ears. He had pulled several tufts of hair out of his head after finding lice crawling down his forehead and into the small, festering sores on the sides of his cheeks.

He knew what she was thinking; his friends told him: Homeless man wants my money.

He did not want her money; he liked her.

“Ms. Ana, it’s me, Eddie,” he offered, “Don’t you remember? You gave me ten dollars last week.”

“Yes, of course I do. How are you? Did you eat something?” Ms. Ana asked, wiping her chin with the edge of her T-shirt.

He smiled. “Yah, three times! Thank you.”

“How do you feel today?”

“My friends, Ms. Ana, they are back. They went away and now they are back. I don’t know why. I say to them to go away. Tell them to leave me alone, Ms. Ana, tell them to go away,” he said, beginning to weep.

Gently, she sat down next to him and gave him a hug and then reached into her sock and pulled out a twenty.

“Keep this, Eddie, eat something.” He smiled at her.

“The jacket you gave me keeps me so warm, Ms. Ana. It is so cold out here at night sometimes. The jacket is so warm.”

“Come tomorrow, I will bring you some more clothes, but now I have to go.”

Eddie tried showing Ms. Ana his friends. No one could see them. It made him so mad. They constantly talked to him. Never let him sleep. His brain tried to stop them from talking. But no, they knew better. They knew how to sneak up on him when no one was looking. Yah, they were sneaky, those friends.

He held onto Ms. Ana’s hand as she stood up. She was so kind and warm. “Can you stay with me for a few more minutes?”

“I have to go, Eddie, I have to go,” she said, tugging at her hand.