Moonrise, Sunset

by Gopal Baratham

  “Stand up you big-donged freak,” said D’Cruz. He pulled me to my feet and held me up by my hair.

  His face was strangely impassive. The furrows and acne tracks could well have been putty; the trickles of sweat made from grease-paint.

  “You hear this and you hear good.” A blow under the heart and another across the kidneys to ensure that I did. “I don’t know exactly what happened in the park but I’m sure gonna find out.” He slapped my face with an open glove to make sure I was following his line of thought. “Now you’re going to do something for Uncle Ozzie here. You’re going to open that sow-arse of a mouth and let the truth come out of it.”

  His voice dropped and became almost gentle. “You tell us the truth, son, the whole goddamned truth including every nitty-gritty detail and I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do for you. I’ll get you the best lawyer in town.” He let go of my hair and let his hands fall to his sides. “Who’s to know what can happen then.” He shrugged. “A few deliberate mistakes by our forensic boys, a couple of well planned lies from so-called psychiatric experts and you’ll get off with a DR plea. Diminished responsibility, you understand. Means you’re bad because you’re crazy.”

  I should have begged the man not to hurt me more, agreed to the option he was offering me. Instead I stared at him and said nothing. Something perverse prevented me from speaking. I knew that my silence would enrage D’Cruz further and cause him to make me suffer even more.

  Was it just the difference in our physiognomies that made him want to hurt me or was there something more behind his cruelty? I did not think the inspector was an evil man or one who enjoyed causing pain. There was something about Vanita’s death that fuelled his cruelty and made him a sadist. That was why his face was a mask, his voice theatrical.

  The respite was brief. Insufficient time to rearrange things, rotate the kaleidoscope to form a new picture.

  “But don’t think, you big-donged pervert, that you can claim your confession was beaten out of you. The shoes and gloves won’t leave marks on your body so, whatever you say, you said of your own free will.” He hit me in the gut and I crashed to the floor. I saw him pick up the peculiarly knotted skipping rope. He placed this round my ankle so the knots lay on the bony prominences. Then he began twisting the rope. The pain was unbelievable. From a great distance I heard myself scream.

  He took the rope off my leg and placed it around my cock.

  “You listen very carefully, my friend. If I twist this rope, you won’t have a great big salami hanging between your legs, you’ll have a hamburger.” A thought struck him and he laughed. “May not be a bad idea. After all, our liberal, soft-hearted American friends cut the balls off rapists.”

  He smiled. “I tell you what. You get up and jog round this room ten times. Slowly, mind, so you can think of what really happened in the park, not the crap you put down in your statement.” He paused and stared into my face. “You tell us what you hoped to gain by calling the cops yourself. Whether you thought it would actually throw us off the scent. Run slowly round ten times then sit on the floor in front of me and tell me the whole goddamned truth.”

  I got to my feet and began to run slowly round the room. My ankle hurt when it hit the ground, the pain in my side made breathing difficult. I don’t remember counting but, after going round ten times, I sat on the floor. The cement was cool on my bum. Rough but pleasant.

  For a moment D’Cruz dropped the Noh mask. In a near-pleasant voice he asked, “Now tell us if you forced the girl to go to the park with you or if you found her there?”

  “We have been friends for nearly a year. We were going to be married. We went there often…”

  I didn’t feel the kick but the next thing I knew was that I was face-down on the floor. There was a buzzing in my right ear and the right side of my head throbbed.

  “The truth, you turd.” The voice was again metallic, artificial. “Tell us how you met the victim.”

  “We work in the same offi…”

  The jogging shoe that hit the side of my throat stopped me talking. The kick was strong enough to knock me on to my back, my arms and legs flopping to my sides. D’Cruz raised his foot high in the air, like he was goose stepping, then began to bring it down. Faster and faster it neared my cock, my balls. I drew in a breath. I would need to scream. A corner of my mind wondered if eunuchs didn’t feel sexual desire or simply couldn’t do anything about it even if they did. The shoe touched my pubic hair and stopped.

  The inspector’s voice, soft, cajoling, real, once more suggested, “Okay, okay. So you know the girl, you take her to the park, you fool around but she won’t let you go all the way.” The voice got even softer, cooing. “I know what some of these bitches are. Cockteasers who fool around and give a fella ideas. But when it gets so hard the poor guy feels its gonna burst, they act like nuns who have never uncrossed their legs.” He laughed. A friendly we’re-all-boys-together laugh. His face became understanding and he nodded his head several times.

  I shook my own, began to say, “No…”

  His foot moved from my crotch to my throat. His face was once more grease-paint and putty. “You mother-fucking, sonofabitch. I know exactly what happened. You don’t get what you want so you pull out the knife, then she lets you, but when it’s all done she cries, threatens to go to the police. You panic and stab her. Then you get really worried. You wipe the knife clean and get rid of it. Your best shot will be to call the police, make out you’re innocent. Honest John citizen doing his duty. The good Singaporean full of respect for the law.”

  The eyes were little more than pockmarks, the voice rose to a shriek. “Maybe it’s the other way. She won’t let you so you kill her first. Then you can stick that thing of yours wherever you want to. In her mouth, up her arse, anywhere. Maybe in the hole you made with the knife.” He turned to Sergeant Wong. “Get on to forensics and ask them where they found semen. Ask them if there was any in the stab wound.”

  The sergeant left the room.

  D’Cruz seemed to have run out of steam. I used the interval to enjoy the feel of the stone floor on my back. Breathing was difficult with the shoe against my throat but manageable with an effort.

  A sequence began to form. I knew it was monstrous. But I had to have things fit, couldn’t have pieces of the jigsaw lying about. A picture had to exist in my head even if it was the wrong one. There was only one person who could have killed Vanita. Me. After killing her I had become amnesiac. It is easy to forget what one cannot bear. I began to invent reasons for the murder.

  I used to think that psychoanalysis was bullshit. I could have been wrong. Maybe we are driven by strong currents working in our subconscious. Consciously I loved Vanita. Loved her desperately. I never felt so complete as when I was in her body. But deep down, did I not resent the power she had over me?

  I thought about my mother. I did not like admitting this, even to myself. But I am very attached to Ma. I owed much to her. She had been a child when she had me. Suffered so I could be born. This affair with Vanita must be affecting her even if I chose not to notice how disturbed she was by it. Things between us had certainly changed after Vanita had come into my life. There was one sure way of returning things to normal. I had taken it.

  The picture wasn’t convincing. I decided to try one even more bizarre.

  I was a pervert for whom fucking was only a substitute for what I really wanted to do: stick knives into women. Was that not really why I had remained a virgin for so long?

  I looked back into my childhood and remembered how I loved standing beside Ma in the kitchen, watching as she sliced meat. I remembered enjoying the hiss as blade moved through muscle, remembered enjoying the sight of blood squeezed from dead flesh. How much more would I have enjoyed it if the flesh had been alive, shuddering, capable of feeling pain?

  I was so involved with what I was putting together in my head that I was barely aware of what was happening. D’Cruz had pulled me to my feet and was slapping my face rapidly,
the way one does an unconscious person. It was almost friendly. I turned, attempted a smile. He hit me in the stomach. I crashed to the floor and strained to vomit.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sergeant Wong reenter the room. He held a whispered conversation with my tormentor. D’Cruz shook his head several times, his eyes widening with disbelief. I sat on the floor and put my hand on the part of me that seemed responsible for the trouble I was in. Feeling slightly more secure, I began to listen to what they were saying.

  “Are you sure?” the inspector asked.

  “Yes, sir. Report just in from PC Marcus and Sergeant Ali Mohamed.”

  “How far from the scene of the first crime?”

  “Four kilometres to the east, sir.”

  “And modus? The same?”

  “Yes, sir. But this time both killed, sir. Boyfriend and girlfriend.” He stopped though there was clearly something more he wished to say.

  “Yes,” D’Cruz prompted.

  “Very good Singaporean this one, sir. Very law-abiding.” Wong smiled before adding, “We can’t even fine him one thousand bucks for littering, sir. He dropped the knife in a garbage-bin after the murders.”

  His joking reference to Singapore’s harsh anti-littering laws did not amuse his superior.

  D’Cruz shot him a dirty look before pulling off the boxing-glove. A change had come over the inspector. His podgy cheeks had crumpled. His tiny eyes flicked from side to side. He was a boxer on the ropes. Worried. Human again.

  He said to Wong, “Give him back his things, then bring him round to my office.” He pushed the door open and walked out of the room.

  Something happened to me too. The piece of my mind which had been detached merged with the rest. I began to feel my body, first piecemeal, then all together. My scalp felt raw and tingled. My ankle throbbed. My side hurt when I breathed deeply. But all in all, I felt good. My will had returned. I didn’t have to look to Wong or D’Cruz to tell me what to do. I got to my feet and stretched. Pulled on my jeans and shirt. Smiled at Wong and PC Yeo, ran my fingers through my hair.

  When I faced him in his green-walled office, D’Cruz seemed harassed. There were more files than ever on his desk. They seemed to be closing in on him.

  He stared at my identity card balefully. “Menon,” he said. “That’s a Malayalee name. You look like a Chink.” No smile or look of apology. “You look Chinese.”

  “My mother’s Chinese. My father was an Indian, from the west coast of India.”

  “Was? Is he dead?”

  “No,” I said. “He ran away. Left me and my Ma.”

  “I’m Malayalee too. But from Singapore and a Catholic. We are not allowed to run away from our wives.” The eyes were tired, looked into mine for sympathy.

  I was in no mood to offer any. “I don’t know. I don’t have a wife.” I paused and added, not without self-pity, “Maybe I’ll never have a wife.”

  The voice was gentle, pleading. “That was a mistake, Menon.” His eyes scanned my face. “What happened back there was a mistake.”

  “I know. I knew all along. I tried to tell you but you didn’t give me a chance to.” I looked hard into his face and drove down his piggy eyes. “How did you detective geniuses find out you were beating up the wrong guy?”

  “The bastard did it again in a different part of the park. Killed both the man and the girl.”

  “Good. So you’ve got somebody to beat up all over again. Cheer up. There may be many suspects. You and your boys could have a ball.”

  The eyes stayed down. “I said it was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  “So that’s it. You’re sorry and How Kum Menon, the Chinky-looking guy with an Indian surname, runs off like a good boy and says nothing more about it.”

  He looked up. The voice rose, the eyes were glinting. “What do you expect me to do? Fall down and kiss your arse? Go down on my knees and give you a blow-job?”

  “You keep clear of my cock, whatever you do.”

  The eyes fell. The voice too. He said, “I can’t stand murder-rapes. I know too much about them. One happened close to me.” He looked at me hopefully.

  My head ached and the side of my chest throbbed. I felt humiliated and dirty. I wasn’t in the mood for confidences. “Sure, I understand,” I said. “You have good reasons for picking up innocent citizens and beating the shit out of them.” He shifted about in his seat. “What happens now?”

  “You got somewhere to go?” The face remained blank but the eyes were concerned. “Some place you can tidy up before seeing your mother?”

  “I’ll go to my lawyer.” The inspector’s head snapped back in alarm. I took my time about adding, “My very good friend Jafri al-Misris.”

  He seemed surprised. “You know al-Misris?” I nodded and he pushed the phone towards me. “You have his number?”

  Jafri was home. He didn’t ask what I was doing in a police station so early on a Sunday morning. Perhaps lawyers expect ordinary citizens to spend a portion of their time in such places.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said, his voice, as always, confident and reassuring.

  Sergeant Wong brought in a cup of sweet tea. There was a knot in my throat and I drank it with difficulty, but I felt better when I had.

  Jafri was always punctual. Thirteen minutes after the phone call I stood up.

  D’Cruz said, “She was your girlfriend, was she? The girl who was rap … stabbed?”

  “Yes. Four nights ago she agreed to become my wife.”

  “I’ll get the bastard who did it. I promise you that. I’ll get him whatever happens.”

  I thought of saying “But don’t beat up too many innocent guys while you’re about it.”

  I didn’t.

  I AM NOT really good at anything and am, therefore, unhappy with people who are. If a man has a single outstanding talent I hold it against him. If he has more than one, I hate him. My relationship with Jafri al-Misris is the more surprising for this. The exception is, I guess, proof of the rule. Jafri is good at everything but is my dearest friend.

  At school Jafri was the sportsman, the leader, the outstanding scholar. What was worse, and something I wouldn’t have forgiven in anybody else, was that he was well-liked: a nice guy that came first. After law school, he became Deputy Public Prosecutor. Then he went into private practice. To better serve what he saw as the cause of Justice, though Jafri never took the moral high-ground or spoke of Justice with a capital “J”. He quite quickly became the town’s leading criminal lawyer.

  I like to think that his confidence and success stemmed from the fact that Jafri’s family go back a long way. If you know where you’re from, it’s easier to be sure where you are going. The al-Misris family originated in Egypt from where they moved to Saudi Arabia. They came to Singapore at the turn of the century by way of India and had a thriving business selling the spices essential for Malay and Indian cooking. In the course of this, they have somehow provided Jafri with all the ingredients necessary for success.

  A voice within, which speaks to me as much as does the world outside, reminds me of Jafri’s success, of the headstart he had in life. It often incites me to feel animosity for the man who has always shown me kindness and concern. Sitting beside him now, I am too relieved by Jafri’s presence, too comforted by his voice, to listen to the murmurings inside my head.

  “Don’t talk,” Jafri advised, “unless you feel you must. It might be better if we got you home and settled you down. Then you can tell me how you got into the state you’re in.”

  We were driving through Katong. This part of Singapore has always been in less of a hurry to develop steel and plastic high-rises than the rest of the island. Katong had originally been the enclave of the Eurasians, halfbreed fisher-folk from Portuguese Malacca. Over the years they had all but disappeared as a community. But they had left their spirit in Katong where the people were easy-going and there were more Catholic churches than anywhere else in Singapore. I contained myself as Jafri
avoided several citizens who, Mass over, were blindly drifting across the street demonstrating their absolute confidence in the Almighty.

  When we reached the expressway I said, “I really need to talk, Jafri.”

  Before he could say anything, I told him all that had happened. Jafri had liked Vanita. When I came to tell him how my shirt was covered with her blood, he sighed, squeezed my shoulder and let his hand stay there. I was touched. It took a lot to make Jafri al-Misris drive with one hand, especially on an expressway.

  “You must come home, have a bath, eat something, then maybe lie down for a while.” He smiled. “You’ve been through so much that I’ll let Zainah spoil you for a bit.”

  Zainah was his wife. “A simple girl from a kampong” was how she described herself. When Jafri married her that was exactly what she was: a girl fresh from a Malay village. She was pretty in the soft way of Southeast Asian women and talked in the singsong voice of a little girl. I was strongly attracted to Zainah and Jafri, quick to notice such things, accused me of coveting his woman. He did this jokingly. But only half so.

  Right now I was so sore and weary that even the prospect of being spoiled by Zainah failed to excite me. Nevertheless, I said, “I need a long, hot shower. Then we’ll see what your lady can do for me.”

  He was silent for a while then said, “I’m sorry D’Cruz gave you a bad time.”

  “Not more than I am. Is there anything I can do about it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like getting someone to literally chew his balls off. Like allowing me to shove his head in a pail full of shit till he drowns.”

  He shrugged. “I guess you can make a complaint about ill-treatment while in police custody but these things are difficult to prove in court.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “D’Cruz is a very good investigator and some of us … his superiors included, realise why he acts the way he does when he thinks he’s on to a murder-rape.”

  “There are reasons to justify beating up an innocent bloke whose girlfriend has just been murdered?”