Mark released him and turned away. On the uneven ground, Bernard almost stumbled, but then recovered. With his back to Bernard, Mark was talking quietly. “I do have photos. Much better than those of Anwar. Really quite professional, I’d say. But it won’t come to that, will it, Bernard? You like your life, how everyone has to speak politely to you, pretend they agree with you. Big-shot MP, yes? You don’t want to risk any of that, do you?”
Bernard could not bring himself to speak. He had to pacify the man, promise whatever he asked, and then find Evelyn. Evelyn could get divorced, he could get divorced too, they’d find happiness together, a new life with the new life growing within her. He would resign. His office meant nothing to him, not compared to love and happiness.
“How much are you worth, Bernard? Not much of a salary these days, I suppose, but how many sweet deals have you been cut into as an MP? Let’s see — ten million, give or take? And I’ll just take one million. Ten percent. Not a lot, I suppose, considering how expensive it is to raise a kid these days. You’ll still have plenty. And then normal life can resume for you.”
“How do I know you won’t just come back for more?”
“You don’t.”
“Can I think about it?”
“I understand, you want time to talk to Evelyn. She’s in love with you, she’ll save you. But here, take this.”
Bernard took the piece of paper. Details for an account at a bank in the Cayman Islands.
“You can talk to anyone you want, just make sure that one million dollars goes to this account by Friday. Otherwise, you’ll see yourself online by Saturday.” Mark pushed past him and headed down the slope. “I hope we don’t have to meet again, so have a good life, Bernard. Have a wonderful life.”
Bernard had not known what to do until that moment. And perhaps he still did not know the right thing to do. But he was a chilli padi by nature, and Mark’s words were fighting words. One thing about the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve is that there is plenty of loose granite lying around, it having been a site for multiple quarries, now disused. Another thing is that in the midafternoon on a weekday it is deathly quiet. And the quarries are deep and filled with water. There’d be at least a week before the body was found, and in the meantime, Bernard would have liquidated what he could and he and Evelyn would be thousands of miles away. How happy she would be to get free from that monster! And he too would be happy — it was escape for both of them. Fulfillment too.
He met her that evening at his apartment in River Valley. They held each other for a long while and then pulled apart. She looked uncertainly at him.
“I’m so sorry, Bernard. How did your meeting with Mark go?”
“Don’t be sorry, dearest. We’ll find our way.”
“Of course, darling. But how did it go?”
“It was unexpected, I have to say.”
“What do you mean? Is the amount too much?”
“No, it’s not that...” His voice trailed off. She had known he was going to ask for money. “He told you?”
“I was surprised too. What are you going to do?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“What choice do we have? Perhaps if we pay him off, he’ll leave us alone. Oh, Bernard, we could be so happy together. I know it’s terrible but will you pay him for me, for our life together?”
“Do I need to pay him? We’ll bring up our child together. I don’t care if he goes to the press.”
Evelyn looked alarmed. “Bernard, my love, pay him. Pay him quickly. It’s the only way we can be together.”
Happiness, Bernard thought, is about the little things — being with the person you love and who loves you, wherever in the world you might be. Waking up to her in the morning, or watching her sleep at night. Walking hand-in-hand along the beach. Shopping together. Sharing a hot chocolate. A million little things. But love is about the big things — moments of choice, moments of sacrifice. And he had done what he had done for love, for Evelyn, to protect their life together.
He loved her. And she had played him. He would have faced anything with her by his side. But that was not how it was going to be, he understood this now. For a moment, hopelessness gripped him. What was the point of a life without Evelyn? Then from the darkness it was as if his mother were speaking to him, telling him not to waste time, and warning him of the long-haired woman in the shadows. He knew then that he would not succumb, would not die in Evelyn’s embrace, would not watch her grow strong as his life ebbed from him. She’d had the whole damn forest to choose from and she’d picked the wrong tree.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll pay him. I told you not to worry, I told you I’d take care of it.”
“Oh, Bernard, I feel so safe and secure when I’m with you, when I hold you.”
He cupped her head in his arms and lifted her face so he could kiss her. His thumbs were at her windpipe, and he kissed her half a dozen, no, a dozen times. To his surprise, it was no harder with a woman. Or perhaps, he thought as her eyes closed, it’s true what they say — the second time is always easier.
Smile, Singapore
by Colin Cheong
Ang Mo Kio
He had never been in an interrogation room. Where was the two-way mirror? The TV shows had those, but it was absent here. Where were the air conditioners? He had heard so much about those. Six, they said, at full blast, and they would wet you first. There was only one humming here. Perhaps the rooms with the many air conditioners were reserved for political prisoners. There were no cameras either. Wouldn’t it be better to have those? To record everything a suspect said? And then he smiled. They could say whatever they wanted. A video camera couldn’t lie.
He looked down at his hands. They had not handcuffed him and had let him rest them on the cold edge of the table. Perhaps they felt sorry for him. He was an old man, after all. The faceless officers who found him had been young, a sergeant and a corporal, barely adult. He had done everything they asked, resisted them in nothing. He had held his hands out to be cuffed — not meekly, but as a man who knew he had broken the law, though did not believe he had done wrong.
That was an hour ago. Perhaps more. He did not know. They had taken his wallet, his belt, his phone, his door keys, the keys to his cab. He let his eyelids droop — not closing them completely, but enough to shut out the fluorescent light and leave a slit for him to see the dull gray of the tabletop before him and his own elbows, jutting thinly beyond the fraying short sleeves of his shirt. He was not cold, he was not hungry, he did not need to piss. There was nothing to distract him. He put his hands together, left fingers over right, the tips of his thumbs touching, hands forming a circle, as he had been taught at the meditation center. He could meditate.
The door swung open. The old man looked up. There was a guy in the standard civil service attire — white long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled up, dark pressed trousers, formal shoes that made no noise when he entered the room. He had a clipboard. Another man dressed just like him followed, and a uniformed officer closed the door behind them.
“Mr. Tan,” he heard the first man saying as he sat down. He nodded. He looked at the clipboard. There was some kind of form on it and they had already filled in his particulars, recorded probably soon after his arrest. They went through the items and he nodded or murmured yes to all their questions.
His name, Tan Seng Hock, his national registration identity card number, the particulars of his taxi driver’s license. His address at Block 533, Avenue 5 in Ang Mo Kio. Not his home, just a room he rented. His landlady was probably in another room just like this one with another pair of officers. He hoped she was all right. She was probably not taking this well at all. She had teenagers, two boys, one thirteen, the other fifteen. Still too young to be left on their own without a mother — or a father. He had tried, in a way, to be a good role model for them, to take them out like a father or uncle would have, helping them with their math homework. He had slept with their mother, but only once. She had asked him for money after that. Not money for sex, she was quick to add. But pocket money. The kind due to a girlfriend, a woman you fucked, over and above the rent. He said he could not afford a relationship like that. He knew where the money went. There was a Singapore Turf Club betting shop not far from their block, across the MRT train tracks, close to the Courts furniture place. She had left it at that and never brought it up again. Or mentioned sex again. He did not think so well of himself to ask. Besides, the rental was cheap and there were the boys to think about. He did not need a quarrel. Peace, that was all he asked for.