by Jo Furniss
She did fancy another drink. She fancied the cold fire of a Bloody Mary, the promise of hard liquor once she’d thrown aside the embellishments. With a twist in her belly, she realized she fancied his hand back on her knee.
“I need to get home.”
“Who’s waiting for you at home, Camille?”
“I’m not a big drinker.”
Ed stood up out of the light. “Then I’ll love you and leave you.”
She got up too. “If you remember anything, would you let me know?”
“About what? Your parents or our helper?”
“Both. Either. I don’t mind.”
He gave a low laugh and bent to shake her hand. She smelled him then, a woody tang that carried another solid blow of recognition. A familiarity that bordered on presumptuousness, burning the tip of her tongue like the Bloody Mary.
“Thanks, Teddy,” she whispered into his ear. Her words were swept away by a scream from the K-pop crowd, and she wondered if they had really come out of her mouth, if he had heard. But he froze, and they were nose to nose for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Camille used her height disadvantage to duck under his arm and down the dark path to the steps. She didn’t look back even after the throng swallowed her up and carried her along the Singapore River.
Chapter 20
Amanda labored through her morning laps, weighed down by worries: Laureline Mackenzie’s parents must be in Tokyo now, perhaps staying at the Grand Hyatt, a hotel conveniently close to the club where their daughter was last seen. She flipped up to tread water, distracted by a figure crouched in the flower bed—a gaunt woman with hands covering her face as though she were counting to ten and everyone should hide.
Amanda glanced around for Ed, but he was farther down the pool, his strokes barely visible on the surface. She hauled herself from the water and tied a towel around her waist as she walked across the grass. She’d never seen the woman before, but that was no surprise: the Attica was made up of three towers that housed one thousand apartments. A town flipped on its side.
“I searched the whole island, but he is here all the time.” The woman grasped Amanda’s bicep and switched into a barrage of French. Amanda peered between the heliconia leaves and saw what she thought was a cushion with the stuffing pulled out, before she recognized it as an animal.
“Is that your dog?” Amanda said.
“It is awful. We complain many times about the pest control. So much poison. He is not the first.”
Amanda watched Raja, their concierge, striding toward them, out of place beside the pool in his three-piece suit. She didn’t envy him the heat as the woman turned on him. Her distress ricocheted off the blank faces of the towers. Amanda lingered until Ed sprang from the pool. “Good,” he said, when she told him in whispers. “That poodle shits on the path every morning. And she leaves it. Wouldn’t surprise me if the management poisoned her dog.”
Amanda ushered Ed toward the lift. “It wasn’t the dog’s fault.”
“Madam?”
Amanda turned to see Raja approaching.
“I’m going for a shower. Early meeting.” The lift whisked Ed away.
Raja looked composed despite his roasting. “There is a delivery for you, madam. In the management office.”
“I’ll pop down and pick it up later.”
“You need to take it now. It is from the police.” Raja said the last word with very wide eyes. Amanda followed him to the office. As soon as she was through the door, the indomitable woman who managed the condo pointed her Biro at a huge box: “Take it.” Amanda signed for the parcel and opened it right up. She recognized Awmi’s clothes, the pretty necklace she wore on Sundays.
“What am I going to do with all this?” she wondered out loud. Even though “all this” was a pathetic sum total of a human life. The manager flapped her hands in a shooing motion. Maybe she was superstitious about having a dead person’s things in her office. Amanda hefted the box against her chest and wrestled it out through the door.
In the apartment, water crashed in Ed’s bathroom. Amanda shifted the box through the kitchen and onto the rear balcony. She dropped it on the bare mattress of the maid’s room. It was bulky but not heavy. She could find Awmi’s home address from the agency and send it to Burma. That would be the right thing to do: closure for the family. She could hide some cash inside, compensation. Or maybe they would see it as blood money?
She opened the cardboard flaps again. On top was a collection of metallic nail polishes, which she’d bought Awmi as a birthday gift. A framed family photo. Her mobile phone. A ziplock bag of medicine.
Amanda fingered the pills through the plastic. The shiny strips looked like contraceptives. Meek little Awmi. So innocent. Turned out Amanda was the naive one. In any case, the pills hadn’t worked. The gold strips went into the trash: Awmi’s family didn’t need to see them. Then a jar of paracetamol that was almost empty. And a piece of paper, which she took out and unfolded. It was a letter from the Singapore Police Force titled “Evidence Withheld”: two bottles of the medication clonazepam in the name of Edward Bonham. It listed the details of the prescribing doctors, who were both in Manila. Amanda slipped the letter into her pocket. Why did Ed have this drug, clonazepam? Why were the bottles in Awmi’s room—did she steal them and try to overdose? Is that why the police hadn’t returned the medication—they needed it for tests? She closed the door once more on the secrets of her helper’s bedroom.
Ed was in the kitchen, eating breakfast while looking down on the ships. The indignant cry of a koel bird pealed through the canyons of the towers, hollering its own name to exhaustion. Amanda wondered if she should write him a letter about everything she’d found in recent days: the condoms, the photo from the strip club, the illicit pictures of women, and now the drugs found in their helper’s bedroom. It would be easier if she could get the facts straight on paper. But then he’d have time to come up with excuses. It would annoy him, the implication that she’d been snooping, gathering evidence. He would seize on that to divert the argument from his huge misdemeanor to her small one. Well, she’d tell him, you’ve been traveling more and more, being distant and evasive, and we interact as though you’re an exhibit behind glass. I watch you, but I can’t reach you. Now you want a break from trying for a baby. It makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me. And she hadn’t been wrong, had she? As soon as she started looking, she’d found something. And kept finding things—now there was this drug . . . What was clonazepam even for?
Fuck him. It was time to confront him, deliver the evidence in a sucker punch and watch his reaction.
Amanda pushed open the door, and Ed’s spoon clattered into his bowl. “Christ, you scared me,” he said.
“We need to talk.”
“Too right we do. Do you know about this?” He spun a letter across the counter. Amanda saw a Ministry of Manpower heading and picked it up. It was addressed to them both.
Re: Death of Foreign Domestic Worker
Further to confirmation from the Coroner that the FDW was pregnant at time of death, the MOM has been in receipt of evidence that the FDW was underage while employed by Mrs. Amanda Bonham—
She looked up to see Ed’s lips pursed so hard they were white-tipped. “I didn’t know about this.”
“Just read it.”
She scanned the letter. The pressure group HELP had compiled evidence—original school reports, interviews with close family members—that indicated Awmi was around eighteen years old now, and only sixteen when she’d first arrived from Burma. While the onus was on maid agencies to comply with Singapore’s regulation that maids should be over the age of twenty-three, it was felt that in light of her pregnancy and the extremely young age of the girl, the employer had not taken due care. The MOM had fined them $5,000—the total of a security bond paid when Awmi arrived—and barred them from further employment of a maid. Amanda slid onto one of the barstools and wondered if it was the seat or herself who wobbled.
; “You had one job to do, Amanda. One job.”
“But . . .” She threw a hand in the air as though tossing salt over her shoulder for luck. “I don’t know anything about this.”
“Exactly. The only responsibility you had in this whole life of luxury was the person who did all the housework for you. And you didn’t check her paperwork. You didn’t check the reputation of the agency.” He dropped his bowl and spoon in the sink with a crash that sent slops from the dirty dishes down the front of his trousers. “Did you even talk to her? Surely you could tell the difference between a sixteen-year-old and a twenty-three-year-old?”
“She did look young, but don’t they all?”
“What are you saying, Amanda? They all look the same?”
“Don’t be sanctimonious. I meant young people in general—Josie looks older than seventeen when she’s done up. And what about you? Couldn’t you tell? It sounds like you were a lot closer to Awmi than I was!”
“What does that mean?”
“She came to you, didn’t she, when she was pregnant? Why was that, Ed?”
“I told you. She was convinced you’d send her home, because you’d be jealous—”
“Maybe with good reason!”
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous. And how did HELP know Awmi was underage? Why were they digging in the first place?”
“Ask your daughter—she’s the one who spilled the beans to Camille Kemble.”
Ed snatched up a tea towel and wiped at the slops on his thigh. “This place is a disgrace.” He flung open the door under the sink and hauled out cleaning products. “Is it too much to expect a bit of loyalty?” A fire extinguisher toppled onto the tiles with a clang.
“Josie didn’t know the significance of what she said—”
“She knew exactly, because she told me that she’d tried to tell you that Awmi was underage and you refused to listen. She was pissed off and went running to the first person who showed her any attention.” Ed brandished a cleaning spray like a pistol. “It’s like her mother all over again.” He threw the bottle into the sink and picked up the fire extinguisher, turning it between his hands. “No fucking loyalty.” He raised the fire extinguisher over his head, turning this way and that, squinting as though trying to glimpse rationality behind a swaying curtain of rage.
“Ed?”
He looked Amanda up and down, before turning to face the window. His arms levered back behind his neck and he slammed the red canister into the glass. It landed in the sink, and before the broken china had settled, he was gone. Amanda waited until she heard elevator cables rattling. She stood up from where she cowered behind the counter and walked to the window, placing her palm over the jagged star that marked the point of impact. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the wind’s song through the shattered eye.
Chapter 21
Coffee shop jazz jangled Amanda’s nerves, the clatter of cymbals too similar to the sound of metal shattering glass. She tried to calm herself by watching a ship slide into the darkness. But someone, somewhere was whistling. Unlucky, her mother said; sailors believed it challenged the wind to whip up a storm. She hoped her mother had moored for the night.
Ed had texted to say he needed to work late again, this time a call to Europe, and Josie had gone to the library. The enormity of the apartment dwarfed Amanda. She tried switching on the radio to fill the space, but the local announcers warned of traffic in exotic parts of the island that were foreign to her—Tuas and Sembawang and Pasir Ris—making her feel more isolated than ever. So she had fled the condo to tackle her own tasks in the coffee shop by the waterfront.
She resumed copying from the family calendar that was normally pinned to the fridge: Ed’s work trips that year. He’d been in Tokyo when the Australian hostess, Laureline Mackenzie, disappeared. He’d been in Orchard Towers when the photo of the man with the stripper was taken. Like her body craving caffeine that only made her shake, she couldn’t stop looking for more.
Since January, Ed had been away thirty times to twelve different cities. The most popular destinations were Manila, Zurich, and China. He traveled to meet clients, sometimes flew aircraft for buyers to test-drive, and, when the deal was done, delivered the plane. People with that kind of money expected Ed to go to them.
She wrote a list of cities Ed had visited down the left-hand side of a sheet of paper. That was column one. In column two, she wrote dates of travel. Where she had further details, she added them in column three: hotels, commercial flight numbers, girlie drinks he’d ordered at the bar. She drew a long line down the page to designate column four. Under this heading, alongside his most recent trip to Tokyo, she wrote “LAURELINE MACKENZIE.”
On the table, Amanda’s phone buzzed. A text from Mostess at book club. Molly, she corrected herself. Her name is Molly. She swiped to read. Hey! Just checking to see if you went back to the clinic. Hope all well, M.
Amanda tapped “Reply” and hesitated. It was kind of Molly to remember. Her insides bubbled with the need to talk, worries and fears racing each other to the surface where they burst wetly in the air. What could she say? I’m checking to see if my husband is a pervert before I have his baby? She tapped the name of the missing woman with a fingertip—or worse than a pervert. She could hardly tell Molly the truth. At best, she’d scare her away. At worst, sharing her suspicions would make them real.
Didn’t go to the clinic. Hoping to get Ed on side first! *Prayer Hands Emoji*
A response came right back: Stay strong! Let’s get coffee *Coffee Mug Emoji*
Amanda replied in the affirmative. Her phone buzzed again and this time it was Ed: on his way home. She replied that she was out shopping, back soon. I mustn’t start acting weird.
In the Google search, she typed “Zurich.” From her list of girlie drinks that Ed had bought, she entered the date on the receipt for the Aperol. Exactly one month before Laureline Mackenzie disappeared in Tokyo. A pattern? She dug her lacquer-hard nails into her palms and then released them, hit “Search.” She scrolled past German-language reports until she came to a story on a website for English-speaking expats in Switzerland.
Murder has not been ruled out in the case of an 18-year-old exotic dancer from Brazil who died of an overdose from a date-rape drug in the luxurious Pfannenstiel Grand Hotel.
The dates matched, but Amanda knew from his receipts that Ed had stayed in a different hotel; she typed its name into an online map. Again, the two pins lay side by side. The hotels shared a bergstation, a funicular railway that brought guests up the hill from the city center. She flicked through the photos on her phone until she found the receipt for a Bloody Mary and an Aperol. On the night a Brazilian stripper died at the Pfannenstiel Grand Hotel, Ed had purchased two drinks in its lobby bar.
It can’t be possible, she thought, for Ed to do something like that. I would know. If he was capable of killing. I would know. She took a slug of coffee and found it was cold. Violence would leave a trace. I’d get a glimpse of it beneath his surface, surely? She stared through a wall of glass. Humidity twisted streetlights into stars. Behind the window, air con fooled her skin into making goose bumps. I can’t even trust my own sense of hot and cold.
Rubbing her palm with the thumb of the other hand, she felt faint scratches from the punctured window in her kitchen. Recalled the look Ed had given her when he’d held the fire extinguisher aloft, looking for something to break. His face like a mask. Why would someone collect pictures of women—broken pieces of women? The photos on the hidden phone had the same froideur as his demeanor when she’d caught him looking for the device on the balcony, pretending it was his passport that had gone missing. He had detachment down to an art.
She wrote carefully on her piece of paper, in column four next to Zurich: “Brazilian dancer / hotel / 18.” And she went back up the column to the information beside Laureline Mackenzie in Tokyo to add the number eighteen.
Both aged eighteen.
She drew two circles around the number. She watc
hed as a drip of coffee touched her note paper and blotted, curling up the corner as though it were burning.
Eighteen. Josie turned eighteen soon. She thought of the countdown on her blog. Amanda picked up her phone and went to the site. The timer showed ten days. She clicked and saw a new line drawing, a pair of high heels, one standing upright, one on its side.
In the future: Ten Days Until D-Day
In the past: Thirteen Days That Made Me Me
Post 3 of 13: Holiday Romance
It’s dark outside the taverna. The night smells of wild herbs and clapped-out cars. We’re supposed to stay away from the road, but Madison, who is older, wants to say goodbye to the beach. She says it’s too dark to take photos so I leave my camera behind.
The sea is sprinkled with silver coins turning heads or tails. All around us, tiny lights flash—bing!—as though there are fairies in the olive trees. Madison says they’re not fairies, they’re fireflies. I’m going to tell Teddy all about the fairies when we get home. Madison asks why I call him Teddy and not Daddy, and I say that everyone has a daddy but only I have a Teddy, and she says that’s stupid and I say she’s stupid. I leave her behind in the olive grove, but she runs after me and grabs my arm because she’s afraid of the dark. When we reach the road, the coach is pulling up to take us to the airport. We squint our eyes in the headlights and the dust. I feel bad for the fairies, flying around in that dust. The coach stops with a big sigh.
Madison points her eyes toward the steps of the taverna. All the grown-ups are there, saying goodbye to the fat cook and the tall waiter with the smile. Madison abandons me then, darting out of the darkness into the headlights, where she shouts to her mummy that it’s time to go. The adults come down the steps into the car park; if they see me running across the road now, I’ll get told off for going to the beach. So I slip behind the coach, which is parked against some bushes, making a sort-of alley that leads to the taverna. The engine starts up with a shudder. I squeeze alongside the coach and I’m almost there when the tall waiter steps in front of me, pulling a woman behind him. She stumbles and giggles. The side of the coach throbs as I crouch into the space behind the tire.
