by Ovidia Yu
“Poor Laura Kwee. So sad. Did you know her well?”
“Oh, we never met her. She sent us an e-mail, didn’t she, Frank? That’s how we got to know her. We were going to meet her for the first time that night, that terrible night, but of course she never showed up—”
“Lucy!” Frank’s voice was low but absolute in its command to silence.
His wife, startled, stared at him. Then, with the advantage a long marriage brings to the least discerning, she saw what he was thinking. “No. You can’t think so. He wouldn’t have—you can’t say that. You can’t even think that!”
“He’s not the only one mixed up in the business now.”
Though this exchange told Aunty Lee nothing, apparently it was enough for Lucy Cunningham. All Aunty Lee could gather was that the Cunninghams had indeed been invited by Laura Kwee for more reasons than to sample Aunty Lee’s good food, but she was not offended. She was determined to find out what those reasons were.
“And you, Mr. Sullivan. You also had an appointment to meet with Laura Kwee here in my shop?”
This made both Cunninghams turn to study Harry Sullivan with great interest. Though perhaps they were still trying to figure out why he looked familiar.
“Hey, no fair. You’re supposed to call me Harry, remember? This ‘Mr. Sullivan’ business makes me feel like I should be in a suit and tie! And no. It was her friend Selina I ran into first. We had a common interest in wine and she told me about this project of her husband’s. And I thought, why not? I could do with a couple of good meals in good company. Pity about those poor girls. Wish I’d had a chance to get to know them better.”
“I thought you were getting along rather well.” Aunty Lee smiled. “Laura was helping you write your articles for that magazine, right?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said. Then, because it was clear that Aunty Lee did know what she was talking about, “It was just a joke. She got a kick out of being a secret reviewer, you know, getting inside information and so on.” Aunty Lee nodded without commenting.
“Have you been in touch with your relatives back home? When will they start getting worried that you haven’t shown up? Do you have any children?”
“No,” said Frank Cunningham at the same time his wife said, “He’s back in Sydney.” The reproachful looks they directed at each other were almost identical.
“That’s the kind of thing Laura Kwee would know,” Aunty Lee said. “She liked knowing everything about everybody. And she was very systematic. Almost paranoid, and she kept track of everything. It’s all probably on the computer.”
The Cunninghams seemed very interested in this.
“Maybe it’s just as well,” Lucy Cunningham said. “The Good Lord has His way of arranging things. Where is her computer? She was looking up some information for us. Maybe it’s on her computer. We already paid her, so it should be all right for us to look at what she found out, right?” Her husband didn’t look as though he agreed, but he said nothing.
“She had it with her the last time she was here,” Aunty Lee remembered aloud. “She had to leave it behind because she couldn’t manage to carry all her things home with her. Unless she came back to pick it up later. I must ask Nina.”
In the pause that followed this, Frank told Harry that the Cunninghams definitely remembered meeting a Harry Sullivan on their travels. They could not remember where, but that’s where they knew the name from.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Frank went on, “not seeing eye to eye with all your family, boy. The thing is don’t let that keep you away from them. Family is family. Lucy and me, we know that only too well right now, don’t we, Mums?”
Harry Sullivan shook his head, not even bothering to answer. “I know that white men are supposed to think all Asians look the same,” he said to Aunty Lee. “Now in this case, you’ve got a white man that thinks all white men look the same!”
“You’re right, you know,” Lucy said. “There’s something at the back of my mind too, only I can’t pinpoint it . . .”
“Hello.” Carla Saito appeared. She was wearing a black shirt and black jeans—probably the same ones she had been wearing when she was first at the café. But without makeup or jewelry other than a large man’s watch, she could have been a different person. She paused just inside the doorway and looked at the others. No one moved. Aunty Lee looked around the table. It was almost as though the people seated there were afraid of Carla. The two Cunninghams leaned into each other as though shrinking away from a threat.
“Please join us,” Aunty Lee invited. “We’ll be eating soon.”
“I’m not hungry,” Carla announced. “So what have we found out? The sooner this is over, the sooner we can all get out of Singapore, right?”
“You’ve all just been through a traumatic experience,” Aunty Lee prompted. “You take it easy, maybe what you are trying to remember will come back to you.”
“Don’t you want children?” Lucy Cunningham suddenly asked Carla Saito. The expression on her face was like the one Aunty Lee had seen on Nina’s when Nina was expressing her disapproval of lesbians.
“Do you have children?” Carla asked her in turn.
Aunty Lee was struck by a sudden insight—two in fact. The first: Carla Saito did want children. The second: Lucy Cunningham had recently lost a son or daughter and was grieving. This was confirmed when Frank Cunningham cut in with, “Hey, you’re getting a little too personal here!”
When Carla gave his wife a long look and fell silent, Aunty Lee knew the younger woman had picked up on it too.
“Maybe you’ll just give me a hand in the kitchen?” Aunty Lee had read her visitors well. Lucy Cunningham rose to join her immediately.
Carla said, “I wouldn’t be any use to you,” and the two men assumed her words were not meant for them.
“But there are certain standards, certain rules of behavior, that everyone accepts,” Lucy said once they were in the kitchen. As Aunty Lee had guessed, Mrs. Cunningham was much more at ease once she had something to busy her hands with. Now she was peeling shallots (with a swift, practiced skill that made Aunty Lee look on her with more respect) and away from her husband. “People know what’s right. And what’s wrong. Everybody agrees on that.”
“But how do you know everybody agrees?” Aunty Lee asked, seemingly intent on washing mustard greens in one of the sinks. She squinted and picked out what might have been a bug or dirt or a specimen of plant life not developed along consumer-advocate guidelines.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? The people you talk to, it’s in the papers. It’s just normal, good, human values.”
There had been a slight waver before she said “human,” as though Lucy had had to make a quick substitution for another, less neutral word.
“God made us all individuals,” Aunty Lee observed.
“God gave us rules to live by,” Lucy Cunningham said quietly. Again she was on guard, focused on her shallots.
Aunty Lee did not learn anything throughout the rest of the meal. She fed her visitors well, with a huge platter of vegetarian fried rice, sambal long beans, and, of course, achar and kropok. It was a simple meal and easily put together, but it was good.
Harry Sullivan left first. It was getting on to the rush hour by the time the Cunninghams were ready to leave Aunty Lee’s Delights. Sometime around 5 p.m., Aunty Lee told the police later. She saw their taxi arrive through the front window and stopped only to switch off the burner beneath the teapot before going out to see them off. The evening dusk was settling, but the night-lights had not yet come on. Frank Cunningham paused, half into the taxi, already telling the taxi driver some story about his and his wife’s travels. Lucy, still on the sidewalk, lit up at the sight of Aunty Lee.
“Please remember,” she said. “When you find Laura Kwee’s computer, we would like to see it. I remember the last thing she said was that she had news for us. She definitely found out something and it had to do with someone who would
be here at your shop for dinner that night—”
It was at that moment when something seemed to crash and explode right beside her. Lucy screamed, burning. There was a second explosion and flames leaped up around Frank in the taxi. Aunty Lee stumbled, thrown aside as someone pushed roughly past her.
“It’s the damned perverts!” Frank Cunningham shouted. “They know we’re on their tail! Damn them!”
“Call the nine-nine-nine!” Aunty Lee shouted. She threw a thick sofa quilt over Lucy and was trying to find something to cover Frank with, and then suddenly Salim was there, spraying water everywhere, yanking the hose, already switched on full blast. “Get ambulance and police here!”
“Already called,” Salim shouted back.
“What are you doing here?”
“Keeping an eye on things. Don’t want another body showing up.” He was looking around at the chaotic scene; people running around, people standing and staring, Lucy Cunningham wailing, and Frank Cunningham calling everyone who tried to help him a pervert. “Where’s Nina?”
Then suddenly Harry Sullivan appeared, waving some kind of rod, and attacked Salim. “You’re a terrorist! You’re one of those fundies that goes around bombing people like us!”
Salim simply—almost gracefully—avoided the tire iron Harry Sullivan was whacking in his direction. He removed the metal tool and gently pinned the large man, still shouting, onto the ground.
Aunty Lee went to stand beside Salim. “If you stop struggling, I’m sure he will let you go. Won’t you, Senior Staff Sergeant?” Then, as the policeman relaxed his grip, “Are you all right? I thought you already left, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Traffic was slow. I saw the explosion, the fire, and I saw him—” Harry pointed at Salim. “He was standing there watching. You can’t trust him just because he’s a policeman. Police can be the worst of all. They think they’re gods and can get away with anything! He could have tricked Marianne into going off with him. Who better to trust than a uniform?”
That was true, Aunty Lee reflected. She didn’t know. But she was impressed by how swiftly Salim had disarmed Harry Sullivan without hurting him. “Why are you here?” she asked SSS Salim. “Alone in the dark? Were you watching the shop?”
“Just looking around,” SSS Salim said. “I was on my way home. I’m off duty.”
Harry Sullivan snorted. Aunty Lee looked thoughtful.
The fire was put out and the Cunninghams declared safe and sound though traumatized and sent to a hospital for examination. Aunty Lee’s questions would have to wait.
“Will you see me safely back to my house, young man? Nina’s there, so once I’m there, I will be all right.”
“Of course,” said SSS Salim.
Harry Sullivan was obviously displeased, though Aunty Lee could not tell whether this was because he was worried for her safety.
13
Waiting Room
The Cunninghams were kept overnight in the hospital and treated for shock and minor burns. Frank had a broken arm, and Aunty Lee went to see him first so that she could tell Lucy how he was. And also so she could spend more time with Lucy.
“Tell me why you and Frank are in Singapore, dear,” Aunty Lee began. “Do you remember what you said just before the explosion?” she asked. Lucy shook her head. She looked exhausted and resigned.
“I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just so tired.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Oh no. We’re very well looked after here.”
“Is there anyone I can call for you? Who should know you are here?”
Lucy shook her head. “We’re both going to be all right, they said . . . ?”
“Oh yes. It’s just that if anybody tries to reach you and gets worried . . .”
Lucy Cunningham motioned for her purse and wrote something in her notebook before tearing out the page to pass to Aunty Lee.
“It’s not really a secret, but please don’t mention it to my husband yet. Just call this number and tell him that Frank and Lucy Cunningham are in hospital here. And please tell him we’re all right. Don’t tell him to come to see us or anything, just let him know where we are. I think he should know.”
“Who is the message for?”
“Joe, of course. Joseph Cunningham.”
It was a local number, Aunty Lee saw. “Of course I will.”
“But don’t tell Frank. I’m not asking you to do anything wrong, but please . . . don’t tell Frank.”
“It was a turpentine bomb,” SSS Salim said to Commissioner Raja. “Two of them. I would say an amateur job. Luckily not that much damage was done. We are trying to track down the source of the materials, but . . .” It was not necessary to point out how common the solvent was in a city that was constantly painting and varnishing cars and buildings.
Returning to the station after seeing Aunty Lee safely back home, Salim had gotten caught up in writing up the events of the night and reading through his case notes. He was still at his desk when the morning shift came on duty and he received the call summoning him to the commissioner’s office at the district HQ as soon as possible. In Singapore, no place was more than half an hour away in light traffic, but he decided not to risk going home to change, just in case.
When he put his report on the commissioner’s desk, he was certain that he had managed to include all the vital details. He had already talked to everyone present at the scene, except the Cunninghams, who had been taken to the hospital. Salim had been off duty when the incident occurred and wondered if he was going to get into trouble for hanging around the café on his own. Of course, there was no reason why he could not go anywhere he wanted during his off time, and his hunch that something was going to happen in the vicinity of the café had paid off . . . but going into headquarters unshaven and wearing a grimy green polo shirt and jeans made him feel unprepared and somehow guilty. He wondered whether he would be reprimanded, perhaps even suspended and demoted.
Why hadn’t he dashed home to shower and change? Now that the incident was over, what could be so urgent about getting his report together before going to see the commissioner? People in authority always asked for things to be done immediately, but they did not expect you to take them seriously. Or had the Caucasian man who attacked him made a complaint? Foreigners were always quick to shout “police brutality” even when the aggression and brutality had come from them.
According to the report from the hospital, the Cunninghams had both suffered second-degree burns, which they would probably have considered terrible enough . . . unless you considered how much worse it might have been if not for SSS Salim’s quick actions. Commissioner Raja was of the opinion that the Cunninghams had been very lucky.
“Homemade bombs?”
“Yes, sir. There was a space of time between the first and second explosion, so I would say there was only one guy responsible. Otherwise they could have attacked at the same time.”
The bombs had been basic Molotov cocktails: glass bottles filled with turpentine and plugged with cloth wicks that had been lit. Despite Aunty Lee’s faith in criminal forensics, the police had not been able to recover any fingerprints from what was left of the bombs.
“And I hear you were accused of being a terrorist?”
“What? Oh. No, sir. The gentleman was in shock. He apologized later. He said he just saw me and panicked.”
Commissioner Raja nodded. Neither he nor Salim mentioned that racial stereotyping had probably contributed to Harry Sullivan’s mistake. There was more than enough of that being done maliciously.
“And you disarmed him with magic . . .”
“Sir?”
“That is what the Australian lady claims in her statement. She said he rushed toward you with a stick, but you just held out your hand and Mr. Sullivan fell down.”
“Silat, sir. Energy that emits outward from the center line is defensive. I blocked him and his own offensive energy moved backward into his body.”
Commissioner Raja nodded again.
Salim did not think this was a good time to ask if he believed him. He also didn’t know Commissioner Raja was thinking it was a pity this was not the best time to discuss incorporating silat into basic combat training.
“You are currently the officer in charge of the Bukit Tinggi Neighbourhood Police Post, right?”
Salim nodded. He was suddenly very tired. He also felt thirsty and hungry and wondered fleetingly when Aunty Lee would be opening her café for customers again. He would probably have all the time in the world to eat there once the commissioner had finished firing him. If only he didn’t also end up with a disciplinary hearing. But then once he was fired, he could hardly spend his money on eating out at expensive cafés. He had no idea how much Aunty Lee’s Delights charged for their meals since Aunty Lee had refused to let him pay up till now, but after he lost his job he knew that would not continue.
“Do you have someone you can appoint to take charge temporarily at Bukit Tinggi?”
“Yes, sir. Officer Pang,” Salim said. So, he was being suspended, then. “I mean in the normal course of things, Officer Pang would handle things, but right now, with everything going on . . .” Suddenly he forgot how tired he was. “Right now it’s complicated. I would need more time to brief him.” There were so many things going on in the peaceful little neighborhood that he wanted to get to the bottom of it all himself.
“Good. I am appointing you temporarily to the CID. You will be serving under your old jurisdiction, but I want you to report directly to me.”
SSS Salim nodded again. The main thing was that he still seemed to have a job. “Why?” he asked, without meaning to. He was not questioning the commissioner’s decision, just trying to understand it.
Commissioner Raja managed to keep his face impassive. “Mrs. M. L. Lee phoned. I believe you two have met before. She seems to have formed a good opinion of you, said you saved the lives of those people and without you there her shop would have burned down.”
