by Jeremy Tiang
“You looked as if you were falling asleep, Stella. You had to be woken up.”
“There was no need to do that.” Her voice found a note of the schoolteacher.
“Stand up, Stella.” From behind, she was pulled to her feet, and shunted a few steps forward. She heard her chair being pulled away into a corner of the room.
She was directly beneath the air-con vent, and realised what they were trying to do. The cold air now seemed arctic, meeting her wet clothes and skin, driving the damp into her bones. Trying to move away, she felt strong hands dragging her back. The spotlight grew in intensity until she could no longer see anything outside the stark white circle. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to calm her breathing.
“Are you ready to answer the questions honestly, Stella?”
“Please, can I get dry? I’m awake now, I really am, and I’m trying to co-operate.”
“How can we trust you?” The voice sounded bored, as if she were wasting their time. “Since you got here you’ve been trying to hide the truth from us. Don’t you know that we always find out in the end?”
“Yes, Stella.” The high-pitched voice. “We only treat people like this if they need persuasion. Otherwise we’ll be here all day and you still won’t tell us. I want to go back home and see my kids, you know, otherwise my wife will scold me.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your family.”
The tall man walked into the light, his face close to hers. “Listen to me, Stella. This is serious. Stop playing around. If you want to mess around with this kind of thing, then of course trouble will find you.”
“I’ll tell you what you want to know.” They were capable of keeping her here until the cold overwhelmed her altogether. Could she catch pneumonia from this alone? It was genius in its own way, a form of torture that left no marks.
“How many people were working together with you?”
“You mean at the school?”
“Pretending to be stupid again. Of course not at the school, what were we talking about just now?”
“The outreach work. There wasn’t a fixed group, just whoever had free time.” She was gabbling, the words sliding into each other clumsily. The thin uniform clung to her all over, everywhere its clammy coldness touched her skin a fresh agony.
“Do you want me to arrest your whole church?”
“No.”
“Then you better give us names.”
“You mean anyone I name will be brought in for questioning?”
“We have to make sure, right? You weren’t working alone, were you? There must have been other people in this conspiracy. I tell you honestly, we already have some of them here. It will be better for you if you just tell us their names, so we know you’re dealing straight with us. Then maybe we can relax a bit.”
“What conspiracy?”
“You really don’t know or you’re bluffing? Maid welfare. If you really care about maids so much, why don’t you do their work for them? Follow them home and wash dishes for them. Scrub the floors. Hang out washing, fall from the top of a block of flats. You don’t want to do all that yourself, right? So why don’t you just let them get on with their job instead of talking all this nonsense?”
“We don’t try to stop them working, we just want to make their lives a bit better.”
“Then why do you complain when they do their jobs? Why do you care what they get paid? Don’t you know that we live in a meritocratic society? It’s very fair. If you work hard, you’ll do well at school and next time you will earn more.”
“It’s not fair for them.” Her teeth were chattering, and she could hardly think straight. “They don’t get a choice.” Was that the correct thing to say? Perhaps this was the real point of the cold, to take away defences. She was no longer able to concentrate enough to worry about supplying the right answer—she spoke the words that came into her mind, hoping they would be the ones that clicked, her key back into warmth.
“Do you want us all to be the same? You think everyone in society should earn the same money? That’s not possible. Some people work harder than others, some people are cleverer. If we did what you people want, then our society will never progress, and soon our women will have to go and be maids in other people’s countries. Stella, we know who you are, you don’t have to pretend any more. Other people in your ring have already confessed. You want to destroy our society. You want to bring us all down to your level. Stella, we know that you are a Communist.”
•
Sometime later, perhaps a week, perhaps more, her parents came to see her. She had been allowed a comb that morning, although it was taken away after she’d untangled her hair. The uniform she had on was freshly laundered. What did she look like, she wondered, before deciding she was better off not knowing. It was a mercy her cell had no mirror.
She was on the other side of a glass panel from her visitors. There was no one else in the long room, which disappointed her. She’d hoped to see if anyone else she knew was being held, as if that would explain what was going on.
Her father looked exhausted, as if he had been sleeping no better than her, and perhaps he hadn’t. Her stepmother merely looked annoyed. She was sitting on the very edge of her plastic chair, afraid of dirtying her white silk dress. Both hands were folded over her handbag, as if ready to leave.
The guard showed them how to use the intercom—it was like a telephone, two receivers coming out on either side of the glass. It might as well be two tin cans attached by string, thought Stella. She had done that experiment with her class once, just for fun, because they didn’t believe her when she said that’s what children did in her parents’ day. She put her hand up to the glass, and was unexpectedly moved when her father put his hand directly across, almost like touching.
“Daddy.” She would only be able to talk to one of them at a time.
“Are they treating you all right?”
“Yes, they’re—” She had already decided to tell no one about the cold water, standing there for hours, being slapped across the face. Easier to pretend that was a bad dream.
“Of course they’re treating her all right.” She could hear her stepmother, even through the glass, a voice like nails on a chalkboard. “Do you think we live in some kind of third world country? Don’t worry about her.” She grabbed the receiver. “Stella. Stella. Do you hear?”
“Hello, Ma.”
“Your father’s not well. Look at him. Why are you making him worry like this?”
“I don’t want to be here, Ma.”
“You must have done something wrong, the police don’t just anyhow pick people off the street and lock them up here. What’s going on? They won’t tell us anything.”
“I’m just helping them to answer some questions.”
“How long are they going to keep you for? What about your job? The school holidays are almost over. How are we going to explain to the principal if they don’t let you out in time? Don’t expect us to support you if you lose your job.”
“I’m sure they’ll talk to my employer, Ma.”
“Typical. Don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“Vanda.” Her father took the receiver from the manicured hand. “Stella, your mother’s just worried about you.” Vanda didn’t look worried, she was sulkily applying lipstick, peering into a little gold compact mirror like a wicked step-mother.
“Are you all right, Dad?”
“Just my blood pressure. The usual. Nothing wrong with me but oldness.”
“You mustn’t worry about me, you know. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“But Stella, why are they holding you? They’re being tight-lipped, but you must have some idea. Something to do with the church? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“They think I’m a Communist.”
“Why? You’re not, are you?”
“No, of course not. But they think a Marxist group has infiltrated the church, and I’m part of the conspiracy. They think we’re t
rying to bring down the state.”
“Why on earth would they think that?”
“It’s the outreach work. They said, why would someone like me with a good job want to spend so much time worrying about foreigners? They said, my salary is paid by the government, how can I question my employer like this?”
“Ridiculous.”
“Be careful, they may be listening. And they said, only a Marxist would be so worried about inequality in society. So here I am.”
“Barnaby? What’s she saying?” screeched Vanda. Even muffled by glass, she sounded like a thwarted cat. He ignored her, pressing his free hand over his other ear.
“This has all got to be a misunderstanding.” Her father looked old and baffled. She felt suddenly weak with what she was doing to him. Nothing they said could touch her as much. “Should we get you a lawyer? Will they let you see a lawyer?”
“This won’t go to court or anything. They’re just going to hold me here until—“
“Until?”
“I don’t know. Until I’ve told them what they want to know.”
“But you don’t have anything to tell them, do you? I trust you. I’d know if you were in some kind of conspiracy. Even if there is something going on, you’re not part of it.”
“Thank you. Now I just need to convince them.”
“Shall I get Father Gregory to write a letter on your behalf? Do you think that would help?”
“Daddy, I think it’s best not to do anything for now. I don’t want to make them angry. Let’s just wait till the situation becomes clearer.”
“Are you sure? I can call our MP, or write a letter to
the papers.”
“No!” Vanda’s voice again. “This is a family problem, don’t you dare make it public.”
“It’s fine, Daddy.” She rested her forehead against the glass, pleasantly cool, and let her hair fall forward. “Don’t worry.”
“How can I not worry?”
She had no answer for that. She thought it best not to speak for a while, in case she started crying.
“Do you have everything you need?” There was a wobble in her father’s voice too. She nodded. “Be sure to ask if you want us to bring anything. They said we can come next week.”
“Maybe some books. They’ve given me the ones from my suitcase and—“ And my glasses, she had been about to add, before remembering they were on her nose. They’d given them back, almost as an afterthought, a day ago. “But I think I’ll have finished reading them by next week. Not much else to do here.”
“Books,” he nodded slowly. “Any particular books?”
“Nothing too political. Don’t want to give them any ideas.”
•
They treated her better after the first few days. No more drenchings, no more slaps. Perhaps they thought they’d softened her up. She was no longer truculent, now, but smiling and natural as a schoolgirl. It seemed easier. They were just doing their job, after all, and making their lives difficult would be like rudeness to a waiter. Was this how it had been for Aunt Siew Li?
She told them the names of the other people in her outreach group. They would be able to find that out easily enough, after all, and surely they wouldn’t all be hauled in and drenched in ice water. She had been unlucky, or complicit in some way she hadn’t worked out. The man with the high-pitched voice was called Cheng Mun, and there were times when he seemed quite fond of her. Once, he told her he had a daughter her age.
Some days the questions seemed repetitive, but she knew you had to ask the same thing in different words to trip up liars, and didn’t mind. It still seemed unlikely the church was harbouring a conspiracy to bring down the state, but then a good plot would be well-hidden, and she was not an observant girl.
She told them about domestic workers she had helped, and the problems they faced. Sometimes they had to write letters to the Ministry of Labour, and it could take a bit of persistence to get a response. At least one of the maids had fallen pregnant and, refusing an abortion, been summarily deported. She even talked about their low wages, but guardedly, careful not to draw any comparison with Singaporean pay. Her politics were socialist, not communist, but she wasn’t sure if her interrogators knew the difference.
Most days, it felt like they were just chatting. She talked about her work, her studies, happy to tell the truth. She had nothing to hide. In some ways it was a relief, not to have to worry about deadlines or timetables, just talking about herself. “Some people pay money for this kind of therapy,” she joked once, and was relieved when Cheng Mun laughed full-throatedly.
The tall man, Devin, was less forthcoming. She couldn’t work out whether he was higher or lower in rank. It wasn’t like the regular police. He sometimes probed for exact dates and times, people’s full names, and when she stammered and said she wasn’t sure, shut his notebook theatrically. “Stella, I’m very disappointed in you. You’re not being helpful today.” She didn’t even mind that, you had to play the good cop-bad cop game.
When they asked her about her family, she grew circumspect. It seemed distasteful to talk about her mother, crushed to death by falling bricks. Did she blame the government? they wanted to know. “Of course not,” she replied. “It was obviously an unpreventable attack. And anyway, I was only a year old.” Was her father a left-wing element? “You’ll have to ask him that,” she said, then bit her tongue, worried they’d bring him in next.
What about Henry? “He’s my cousin, doing his Masters in London. I’ve just been to visit him—you know that, of course. He’s doing very well.” Was he a left-wing element? “I don’t think so. He told me he voted SDP in the last election, but that means something different over there.”
What else did she do in London? She was tempted to mention paying her respects at Marx’s grave in Highgate Cemetery, but sarcasm wouldn’t work with them. “I don’t know anyone there except Henry. We went to the British Museum and the National Gallery. He wanted to show me the zoo but it rained that day, so we went to a tea shop instead. I sat at the back of one of his lectures. About Regency Bath. He’s very good. I understood all of it.”
Anything else? “Second-hand bookshops on Charing Cross Road. Saw a play on the West End. Not much else. I wasn’t there long.”
Did she meet any of Henry’s friends? “He’s just moved to London, he doesn’t have many friends yet. I met some of his classmates. Oh, and we had tea with a journalist named Revathi. I don’t know how they met. She seemed nice.”
Did Henry have a friend called Jackson Cheng? “You asked me about him before. I don’t know anyone called Jackson Cheng, and I don’t think Henry does either.” Was she sure? “Well, you’ll have to ask him, but if this Jackson is some kind of Communist, I don’t think Henry would be spending time with him.” Could she take a look at this picture? “Is this him, Jackson Cheng? I’ve never seen him before. I’m sure. He’s quite handsome. I would have remembered.”
She’d better be telling the truth. “I wouldn’t dare lie to you.”
•
They moved her to a larger cell after a month or so. There was a proper chair, with a back, and a shelf for her books. They only allowed her three at a time, which was fine if she rationed herself. She drew up reading lists—things she’d always meant to get round to, new books by writers she liked. One long book in every list. The whole of the Avignon Quintet in a single volume, or War and Peace. Getting round the regulations in simple ways made her happy.
Sometimes her father came alone, and they would sit in companionable silence. The guard teased her about not talking to her father after he’d come all this way, and she would smile, not being able to explain that your real friends are the ones you don’t need to chatter away to, afraid of what silence would reveal. Mostly, though, he brought Vanda with him, or perhaps she insisted on coming, afraid that Stella would infect him with badness. Vanda came alone once, when Barnaby’s back was hurting him too much to move, but that was so awkward for both of them they knew it
would never happen again.
The questioning became less regular. She heard sounds from other parts of the building, so she knew she was not the only one there. What was it they wanted to hear? She felt like a slow pupil, trying to give the right answer, but always falling short. Would it be better to say there was a conspiracy? But then it would look like she’d been lying before, and she’d never be able to make up enough detail to convince them. Who should she say was masterminding it? Where would they get instructions—Soviet Russia? It was hopeless. Entire days drifted past when they didn’t bring her out from her cell, but instead of feeling pleased at being left alone, she felt guilty, as if she were a disappointment to them, as if they’d given up
on her.
In the first weeks, she kept almost frantic track of time—I was taken on a Wednesday, June seventeenth, she would say to herself. Then there was the day of the questioning, and the day of cold air, and another day of cold air, then normal questioning, so today must be the twenty-second. Monday. It’s Monday, and people will be going to work.
After this, it became too much effort, too many days that were hard to distinguish. She gave them all names, to start with—the day I got an egg with breakfast, the day I killed a cockroach with my shoe—but there were too many. Were there three or four days when she woke up and it was raining? Was one of those the extra mug of tea? So she just did numbers, day thirty-seven, day forty-three. Even that was difficult. She would wake up and be unable to remember if fifty-one was where she had stopped. If she’d thought of it soon enough, she could have put a line on the wall every morning, like a comic-book prisoner, but she had nothing to write with, and they would probably have used that against her. A vandal as well as everything else, she could hear Devin sighing.
If only Singapore had seasons, she might have been able to tell where she was in the year. One sunny day after another, they all seemed the same. Rain made her think, Are the monsoons here yet? But then it would be fine the next day, leaving her no less confused. During her visit, all of London had been excited by a single day of sunlight, unremarkable in itself, but to them a sign that summer was on its way. Why did they care, surely summer would come anyway? she asked Henry, and he said, Ah, you have no idea what it is to suffer the cold and wet of an English winter, when it seems the sun might never come back. So she said, teasing, Maybe you should move back, then. They both knew she didn’t mean it.
