by H. Y. Hanna
Leah squirmed in her seat. She wondered if Angela was making some kind of veiled comment directed at her, but when she looked up, the other girl’s eyes were wide and guileless. Had Toran never mentioned her to Angela? Suddenly Leah felt furious with him. Why hadn’t he told Angela about her? If he was serious about their relationship, why was he hiding her like some dark, dirty secret?
Leah looked thoughtfully at Toran’s ex-fiancée. Didn’t the other girl wonder who she was, what she was doing here? Surely Angela must have seen the recent newspaper coverage with mention of Leah. As if reading her mind, the Singaporean girl suddenly leaned forwards.
“I just realised… you’re Leah Fisher, aren’t you? I recognise you from the pictures in the papers. You were involved in that case… the Bentley Warne murder… Toran was obsessed with that case! Well, he’s been after Bentley Warne for a long time. I wasn’t around when it broke—it was just after we’d split up and I needed to get away for a bit. I went to Bali for a holiday with some girlfriends. But I got back straight after Warne was arrested and the media was buzzing with nothing else for weeks.”
“Yes, my father was Bentley Warne’s lawyer,” said Leah. “He was killed when he tried to expose what Warne had done. I came back to Singapore for my father’s funeral and then got caught up in the whole thing.”
“Yes, I remember now—I went to see Toran when he was in hospital. He mentioned you.”
There was nothing except polite curiosity in Angela’s voice, but Leah squirmed again. Now was her chance to tell the other girl who she was—that she was the woman in Toran’s life now, that she was the “someone” from his past who he couldn’t forget. Wasn’t that what she should do? Defend her territory? Claim her man?
Instead, Leah found herself saying, “We went to school together when we were kids. It was just by chance that we met up again over this Bentley Warne thing. I… um… I’ve moved back to Singapore now and since I don’t know that many people, I thought I’d look Toran up.”
Leah winced internally at the lie. Why had she said that? Why was she going to such great pains to hide the truth about her and Toran’s relationship? She was still feeling angry and betrayed that Toran hadn’t mentioned her to his ex-fiancée. And yet here she was herself, trying to spare Angela’s feelings. Why? Was it because something—some sadness—in the other girl’s eyes reached out and touched her heart?
Angela brightened. “Oh, have you just moved back? Singapore must have changed a lot since you’ve been away. Listen, if you need anything—any recommendations or information—just let me know. I can give you my number. I’d be happy to help.” Angela smiled shyly. “I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous, but I went to the States for a couple of years and I remember how lonely it was when I first arrived and everything was unfamiliar.”
“Thanks… that’s really kind of you.” Leah found herself smiling back at the other girl. She realised suddenly that in spite of everything, she liked Toran’s ex-fiancée. She didn’t want to—it would have been a lot simpler to cast Angela in the role of “the other woman” and treat her with jealousy and suspicion—but Leah couldn’t help warming to the girl.
She also realised something else that her self-absorption had prevented her from noticing until now. Angela looked unwell. Julia had been right—Angela had a gaunt, strained look that was nothing to do with her slender figure. No, it was something more than that—something in the tightness of her mouth, the tension in her shoulders, the slightly haunted look in her almond eyes. Leah felt a stab of guilt. She knew that Toran had ended the engagement before she arrived in Singapore last time—so it had nothing to do with her—but still she couldn’t quite shake off the feeling of responsibility.
She reached out impulsively and placed her hand gently on Angela’s hand. “I’m really sorry about you and Toran. But please don’t feel that it’s anything to do with you…”
“That’s what the Matronae says,” said Angela.
“Who’s the Matronae?” Leah asked, puzzled.
“She’s the leader of Sanctum Bona Dea, a retreat on one of the small islands off the coast of Singapore. I’ve been there a few times now as I’m writing a feature on Sanctum Bona Dea for my magazine.” Angela gestured towards the counter. Leah noticed for the first time that there was a stack of papers next to an open laptop—handwritten notes, photographs, maps.
“Sanctum Bona Dea?” Leah furrowed her brow. “That sounds Latin.”
“Yes, Bona Dea was a goddess who was worshipped by women in ancient Rome. She symbolises chastity and fertility—and empowers women to reach their full potential. The retreat is a place for women who have suffered pain and loss and who need a place of quiet and nurturing, to recover and find themselves.”
“Sounds great,” Leah said jokingly. “Maybe I should book in there for a week or two.”
Angela shook her head earnestly. “It’s not like a usual retreat. You can’t just sign up and pay to get in there. You have to be invited. And they’re very selective about new members—there’s a rigorous interview and physical assessment process.”
“Physical assessment?” Leah raised her eyebrows. “But I thought this was a place for women to go and chill out? Surely they would accept anyone who needs—”
“No, no!” Angela said. “It’s important to maintain the purity of the retreat. The Matronae says it’s for the good of all the members, to make sure that everyone who is admitted is of the right mental attitude and bodily condition to benefit most from the retreat’s practices.”
“Oh.” Personally Leah thought it was rather odd, but she didn’t want to be rude.
Something must have shown in her expression, though, because Angela said, a bit defensively, “A lot of people don’t understand it. They don’t appreciate what the Matronae is trying to do! They… they call the retreat controversial names and make ugly accusations—”
“Is that what you’re researching for your article?” asked Leah.
“Well… um, yes… I was, at first,” Angela faltered. “But I know better now. I’ve spoken to the Matronae at length and I’ve visited the retreat and I’ve realised that all the rumours are just lies propagated by jealous outsiders. You know the Singaporean culture and how people can’t bear to ‘lose out’. They’re all so competitive! And they hate the fact that they can’t just get into the retreat on the basis of their platinum credit cards or their connections. I think it’s really admirable of the Matronae to stick to her standards.” Angela paused, then added, “In fact, I’ve been thinking of joining Sanctum Bona Dea myself and spending some time there.”
Leah was surprised by the other girl’s defiant tone. “Oh…?”
“Yes, the Matronae thinks it’ll be good for me; she knows about my broken engagement. I… I’ve been having some dark thoughts and I haven’t been sleeping very well…” Angela’s voice wobbled. “Anyway, she says it’ll give my heart the best chance to heal.”
“That’s…” Leah struggled to find the right thing to say. “Um…”
“My family don’t want me to go,” said Angela, looking down at her hands. “My mother’s been listening to the rumours about Sanctum Bona Dea and she’s getting all stupid and paranoid. That’s why I haven’t gone home.” She looked back up at Leah, her black eyes suddenly angry. “I’m tired of her fussing over me. She’s constantly telling me how to live my life and it’s driving me crazy! I had to get away. It’s why I came to stay here—Toran says I can stay as long as I like.”
“Oh… That’s… er… very nice of him,” said Leah with a falsely bright smile, while her heart sank inside. How were she and Toran going to start again if his ex-fiancée was going to be hovering around in the background all the time? Would Angela’s shadow be looming over them constantly as they tried to rebuild their fragile relationship?
“Yes, well… except I’ve been thinking… well, maybe I should just do it.”
“Sorry… um… Do what?” Leah looked back at Angela and struggled
to focus on what the other girl was saying.
“Go and join Sanctum Bona Dea for a while!” Angela said. “I’ve been thinking about doing it for a while, but I’ve just been letting my mother get to me with her silly fears. Really, it’s stupid—I mean, would you make decisions based on rumours?” She looked earnestly at Leah.
“Um… well, no, I’ve never been one to put much stock in rumours,” said Leah.
“Yes, exactly!” Angela beamed. “And it would be a great way to finish off the research for my article—you know, experience what it’s like actually living there. I’ve been wanting to do it… I might as well do it. What d’you think?”
“I…” Leah hesitated. A vaguely uneasy feeling warred with the selfish urge to see Angela gone for a while. The selfish urge won. “Yeah, I think it’s a great idea.”
“Really?” Angela looked delighted. “Do you think so? I’m so glad somebody finally agrees with me!”
“Yes, definitely. A great idea. I think you should go,” said Leah, smiling. Then a pinch of conscience made her add, “Although, maybe you should speak to your parents about it…”
Angela pulled a face and waved her hand. “They’re totally biased against Sanctum Bona Dea. They’re just determined to think bad things about it, no matter what I say. So I’m not going to tell them. I’ll just say I’m going away for a holiday. They don’t need to know where.”
“Well, maybe that’s not such a good idea—” Leah protested.
Angela gripped Leah’s hands impulsively. “Promise me you won’t tell! I want it to be a real ‘retreat’—a chance for me to have time to myself, away from everything. My mother will totally spoil it if she finds out. I’ll never get any peace!”
“Angela,” said Leah, “I don’t even know your family. How would I be able to tell—”
“Promise me!” Angela’s eyes were feverishly bright now. “You mustn’t tell anyone. Not even Toran.”
Leah hesitated. The intense look in the other girl’s eyes was starting to worry her. She said reluctantly, “All right, I promise. But—”
“It’ll be great!” Angela smiled, jumping up and showing some colour in her cheeks for the first time. “Oh, I’m so excited—I can’t wait!”
Looking at Angela’s flushed, excited face, Leah didn’t have the heart to argue anymore. She stood up as well. “I’d better get going. I… um… I’ll give Toran a call tomorrow.”
Angela was already busy shuffling the papers by her laptop. She stopped and looked up. “Oh, yes… I’ll tell him you came by. It was lovely to meet you, Leah.” She smiled.
“You too,” Leah said, following Angela to the front door, and she was surprised to find that she really meant it. As they reached the front door, Leah turned back to Angela. She hesitated, then reached out and touched the other girl’s hand. “Listen, Angela—please don’t do anything hasty. Take some time to think about it—”
“I have! I’ve already thought about it lots,” said Angela with a frown.
“Well, just… think about it some more, okay? Maybe discuss it with Toran when he gets back.”
Angela’s frown deepened, but she said, “Okay. But remember—you promised you wouldn’t tell.”
Leah sighed and agreed. But as the door shut behind her and she walked slowly back to the lifts, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had made a terrible mistake.
CHAPTER 4
Toran scanned the crowded alleyway, narrowing his eyes against the cigarette smoke that curled up into the night air. Geylang was notorious as Singapore’s “red light district”, but even the best guidebooks didn’t mention these hidden lorongs—back lanes—that were a cross between an outdoor gambling den and an unlicensed hawker centre, where the rough and the ready rubbed shoulders to drink illegal liquor, gamble big time, and trade sexual favours.
Raucous laughter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional shouted curse and the impatient clink of beer bottles. Along one wall of the alley, an old woman was barbecuing squid tentacles in an open metal drum filled with charcoal, the sharp, acrid smell of smoke mingling with the heady odours of alcohol and sweat that permeated the night air. A man next to the old woman expertly turned skewers of chicken satay, whilst another man beyond him presided over a cooler bin filled with bootleg beer.
For Toran, what drew him here was not the lure of an easy win or the temptation of an exotic sexual encounter, but the promise of information. He would have to tread cautiously, though. Already he could feel unfriendly eyes and suspicious gazes on him. Carefully, he eased his way past the rickety wooden tables crowded with card players, shaking his head at a boy offering him contraband cigarettes and ignoring the beckoning hand of a pretty prostitute in a slinky dress.
He had almost reached his goal—a table in the far corner—when a burly, olive-skinned man with a limp moustache shouldered in front of him and blocked his way.
“Gwai lo,” he growled. Foreign devil. “This no place for you.”
“I’ve come to see Black Buddha.” Toran nodded towards the far table.
An enormous man sat there in a black sleeveless shirt, his bare, meaty arms looking like joints of Christmas ham. A diamond winked in one of his long, fleshy earlobes—the physical feature that had given him his nickname, as he resembled the pot-bellied Buddhas with long earlobes seen on the counters of many Asian shops and restaurants. The Chinese believed that “money comes to those with big earlobes” and Black Buddha certainly lived up to this superstition. He was well known in underground circles as one of the richest men in Singapore, although most of his wealth went unnoticed by the tax inspectors. He was also the man who had a lot of the answers… if you dared to ask him.
The man with the moustache shook his head. “No see.”
Toran raised an eyebrow. “Surely that’s for Black Buddha to decide.”
Moustache Man said nothing, but took a step forwards, threateningly. Toran sensed two more men step up close behind him. One reached out to grab him, but before the man even touched him, Toran had whipped around, grabbing the attacking man’s hand and twisting his arm cruelly behind him.
“Aaaah!” the man cried.
“I don’t like cowards who sneak up on me,” Toran said with quiet menace.
He applied a bit more pressure, eliciting a yelp of pain from the man, before he released the arm and the other man staggered back. Toran turned back to Moustache Man and raised an eyebrow again. The other man scowled, then waved the rest of his thugs away. He folded his arms and faced Toran.
“What you want?”
Toran thought quickly; he could smell the reek of alcohol on the other man’s breath. He glanced to the right and noticed a table where two men sat facing each other, a row of shot glasses between them. People crowded around them, waving money in bunched fists and cheering them on as the two men took turns to down the shots.
Toran smiled and nodded towards the two men. “How about a drink? I’ll buy. I’ve heard a lot about the lao khao sold here. I’m keen to test its reputation.”
A spark of amusement showed in Moustache Man’s black eyes. “Lao khao? Too strong for white boy like you,” he said, with a contemptuous laugh.
“Try me.” Toran looked at him levelly.
A few other men had overheard the conversation and were starting to gather around, nudging each other and whispering. Toran saw Moustache Man’s eyes flicker as somebody laughed and gave his shoulder a shove. Cash changed hands.
“It will cost,” said Moustache Man. “Five hundred dollars if you lose.” He showed stained yellow teeth in a malicious grin. “Maybe you lose more than money.”
Toran glanced over at the table again. He could see a bottle of slightly cloudy liquid catching the light. Lao khao—Asian moonshine—liquor illicitly distilled from fermented rice. Possibly contaminated with toxins. He looked back at Moustache Man and inclined his head. “And if I win… I get to speak to Black Buddha. Alone. No conditions. No questions asked. ”
Moustache Man
hesitated, then jerked his head. “Agree.”
Toran followed him to an empty table. As he sat down, a woman approached holding a tray with a bottle of slightly cloudy liquid and a shot glass. She set the tray on the table, looked Toran over appreciatively, gave him a flirtatious wink, then sashayed away. Moustache Man unscrewed the bottle and poured a deep measure into the shot glass, which he pushed in front of Toran.
“Aren’t you joining me?” asked Toran with a lazy smile.
The other man scowled. Daring to drink the liquor yourself was a sign of confidence in the brew and a point of pride. To refuse now would either be admitting fear or losing face. Moustache Man stared at Toran, then yelled for a glass and poured a shot for himself.
“Yum seng,” he said, raising the glass and holding it out across the table. Cheers.
“Yum seng,” said Toran, raising his own shot and touching it to the other man’s glass. Instantly, he felt pressure against his fingers—the other man was pushing his glass against Toran’s, trying to force it back across the table. It was a subtle, airborne version of the classic arm-wrestle—a test of strength and dominance. Toran steeled his grip on his own glass and pushed back, his arm muscles bulging. Moustache Man’s eyes widened, then he gritted his teeth and pushed again. Toran didn’t give an inch. He held steady, resisting the pressure, slowly, imperceptibly, forcing the other man back.
A crowd was gathering around their table now as many men and several women watched with interest. More money was changing hands. The whispers were turning into excited muttering and drunken cheers. Toran kept his eyes focused on the man in front of him. Moustache Man’s hand was shaking with effort now. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. The veins in his forearm stood out. He grunted.
Toran clenched his hand suddenly, his bicep rippling, and shoved his glass forwards, forcing the other man back. There was a yell of triumph from several people in the crowd and Moustache Man sagged, admitting defeat. He dropped his glass back down on the table.
