Singapore Noir

She ordered her favorite, fermented shrimp-coated fried chicken wings, for the two of them, the extra large basket that they had shared many times before.

As they ate, he began to tell her about the new place he had discovered — it would be his present for her birthday.

“It’s beautiful, Ma! You have to see it, will you come with me?”

She smiled at him. “Yes, of course.”

She reached into her purse to pay. He protested. It was his treat, he said. After he paid, he took her hand and started walking.

They had been strolling along the water for about fifteen minutes when Ma started worrying. “Where is it, Eddie? I’m getting tired and it’s getting dark.”

“Just a bit longer, Ma,” he said.

They reached a tiny jetty, a long slender walkway that cut a swath far out into the blue.

Eddie squeezed his mother’s hand, gently tugging her along as he stepped onto the jetty and headed toward the edge. “Happy Birthday, Ma!” He beamed as he pointed toward the panorama at the end of the pier.

She had lived on Singapore’s East Coast all her life, but even in the dimming light of the evening, she was stunned by the view. He had managed to find a view of the sea that she had never seen before. Shades of blue looked like flowing silk, the shadowy tankers twinkled in the distance. All the colors and sights melded together to form a perfect seascape.

She stepped further toward the edge to take in the beauty. She never saw the push coming.

This is for you, Ma, this will save your soul.

Yes, Eddie, you did it, you have cleansed her of her sins. Now she will be with Him, she is safe.

When she screamed, he began shouting along too: “Ma. I love you! I’m coming, Ma! I love you!” In a new pure world, they would be together. No unhappiness.

He closed his eyes and took a step forward. But then a bony hand grabbed him and pulled him back.

“Ah, boy!” he heard a stranger shout. “What happened? Did your mother fall in?”

Eddie began to cry.

Her funeral was held a few days later. It was a quiet ceremony. There was no body; it was never found.

When her new friends, the ones he hated, showed up, he sidled up next to them to hear what they were saying.

“Pity,” said one.

“Yes,” agreed another, “she was so in love and ready for her new life. What a waste.”

Love? In love? What were they saying? His mother in love?

“Yes,” whispered the first. “She told me about him a few months ago. Their first encounter made me blush! They made love in Fort Canning Park! She said she was a mess when she got home.”

The jolt of the bus stopping brought him back to the present. “Time to get off, Eddie,” Uncle Teo said. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie thanked him and walked out into the night breeze. The bus had dropped him off where he had started, by the Merdeka Bridge.

He pulled the thin jacket closer to his body, heading to his usual spot in a corner. When he closed his eyes, he knew he would see his mother, the jetty, her back, his hands. Slowly but surely the dreams would come; dreams filled with snakes. Some nights they would slither up his legs first — on others, they would simply coil around his stomach. Just before the bites, he would wake up screaming.

Kena Sai by S.J. Rozan

Bukit Timah

On Monday afternoon the old man with the erhu was at the corner again.

In the soft shade of a tembusu he sat on a folding stool, the ancient battered instrument held upright. The knobby fingers of his left hand slid along the strings while his right arm worked the bow. A tight-stretched cobra skin fattened each long slow note before releasing it into the air.

Watching through sinuous heat shimmering up from the concrete, Ed was caught. Davey stopped also. He stared, let go of Ed’s hand, balanced for a moment on not-quite-steady toddler legs, then plopped down on the grass of the verge, never taking his eyes off the old man. Ed smiled and slid down against a mahogany tree. It would make no difference when they arrived at Ellen’s. They could stay here for now and drift on these melodies, alien and alluring.

The old man’s hands gained speed, racing, nimble as the macaques in the park; then they slowed, slipped supple and flowing, like the water in the Strait. The macaques had ruled the island once, dancing through the trees, screaming by the water holes. The Strait had washed the shores of island and mainland, tying them together as it held them apart. Now the few macaques left were confined to the reserve and the Strait was causewayed and ferried, narrowed by landfill and curbed by barriers. But the monkeys were still monkeys and the water was still water.