The Influence
II. Singapore Fling
Chapter 8
The small boat rocks violently as the man stands up, agitated. ‘I said I will pay you! Now give it to me!’
He is middle aged and European, and despite the English upper class accent, there is something unsavoury and even thuggish in his demeanour. His white linen jacket has dark sweat stains all over and as he removes his hat to wave away the cloud of mosquitoes hovering around him, he is dangerously close to falling overboard into the inky water lapping against the boat and the shore. The narrow deck is cluttered with coils of rope, petrol cans, stacks of cardboard boxes, one proclaiming itself to be the property of “Johnnie Walker and Sons”, another proudly displaying “Chanel”, as well as miscellaneous half empty sacks, and the man is doing his best to find enough clear space on the deck, not least to avoid stepping on a stinking mess of pieces of fish guts draped over a rusty parang in one corner.
The man that sits opposite him smiles broadly, a dentist’s nightmare, revealing more gaps than crooked teeth. ‘Ya. You pay. I need new enjin bot. But you do what I say. Or you not hab it.’
”You’re crazy! Bodoh, lah! I pay you, I take it. What I do with it is my business. Where is it?’
The boatman now also gets up, short, dark skinned, barefoot and naked except for a pair of tattered shorts. Raising his voice for the first time during the conversation and pointing dismissively towards the shore, he says, ‘No! You no good orang! You go now! I get money enjin other.’
As if to confirm and support the boatman, the incessant chorus of cicadas and frogs hiding in the underbrush goes into overdrive. The Englishman is livid now, he starts screaming at the boatman, all pretence of public school education gone.
‘You fucking moron! You stinking, stupid, worthless savage! I’ve spent half the fucking night here,’ a gesture towards the sea on the portside, with the first glimmer of dawn barely visible behind a cluster of silhouetted islets far out, ‘wasting my time in this godforsaken hellhole, when I could have been fucking a delicious woman and drinking French bubbly from her twat right now. I’ll ask you one last time! Do you have it or don’t you?’
‘I no hab! Go oredy!’ As he says it, the boatman glances fleetingly at one of the dirty rice sacks on the deck, enough for the Englishman to make the connection.
They both lunge for the sack simultaneously. the Englishman slips as he grabs it, falls backwards and hits his head on one of the bamboo poles holding up the canopy. Clutching the sack in one hand, he holds out his other hand for support. With the boatman on top of him, he feels something heavy under his free hand, grabs it and, with as much force as he can muster, swings it in an arc at the boatman’s head. There is a thud and a crunch and the boatman goes limp.
Pushing away the body, the Englishman gets up with a groan, still holding the sack. Opening it and peering inside, he takes out the contents one by one, by feel rather than by sight. A book, probably a diary, leather bound but the pages are crinkly and flaking, the ink smeared out and the writing illegible. A pistol, rusty beyond recognition, with a coral encrusted barrel. A rectangular lump which could possibly have been a stack of letters once, years ago, held together by a string which breaks as he picks at it. A small picture frame, the photograph long gone, it is heavily oxidised but with traces of delicate work around the edges. Considering it for a moment, he puts the frame in his pocket.
Feeling blindly around the bottom of the sack for the last few remaining items, the Englishman pulls out a dagger, the blade black and pitted, the leather grip in tatters. ‘Ah. Kanmuri-otoshi tanto. Always worth a few quid,’ he mutters to himself as he pulls out the next item, a small bag with something flat and heavy inside. Lifting the bag up to his eyes he looks inside and goes rigid for a moment, blinking furiously. ‘Fuck! Oh god, the old bastard was not lying! Come to daddy, my ticket out of this place!’ His voice trembles, his hands are shaking.
He lets the dagger drop down on the deck, forgotten. With reverence, he puts the bag in his inside pocket and, as he is about to turn towards the stern and the shore, the boatman, moaning and still barely conscious, grips his ankle and fumbles for the parang.
Almost mechanically, the Englishman looks at the boatman, steps on the hand that is about to grasp the parang, crouches down, picks up the parang and kneels firmly on the boatman’s chest, his other hand holding down the man’s head. Then he proceeds, as calmly as if carving a lunch roast following a Sunday service in Surrey, to slice through the boatman’s throat. The Englishman starts humming to himself, accompanying each sawing motion with a tuneless sound. The beginnings of a scream turn into an ugly gurgling sound then stop abruptly as the parang severs the vocal cords, get replaced by hissing as the air escapes through the widening cut. There is blood everywhere: on the deck, on the Englishman’s clothes, on his hands and face, dripping from his nose and mixing with sweat, dark blobs of it in his thinning hair.
Getting up, the Englishman looks down on the body, the parang firmly lodged between two neck vertebrae, the limbs still faintly twitching. He shakes his head and blinks rapidly, as if coming out of a daze. He looks at his hands, touches his face, looks at his hands again. He moans quietly, starts wailing as he looks around him, then down at the now still body, then again at his hands shaking uncontrollably and spraying the deck with dark droplets. Breathing deeply to stop the oncoming panic attack, he forces himself to focus on the shore and moves quickly towards the petrol cans. He ducks down under the canopy, trips on a coil of rope, falls down painfully on one knee but ignores it. As he pushes himself up, he grabs one of the petrol cans and shakes it. Empty. Throws it overboard, picks up another, this one nearly full. He opens it and starts splashing the liquid over the body and the deck as he stumbles on. Now on the shore, he takes out a box of matches with shaking fingers, lights one, lights the rest of the box with it, then throws the burning box onto the deck. The fire starts slowly at first, just the small puddle where the matches land, but then a gust of wind pushes the flames along and almost immediately the whole deck is on fire.
The Englishman stands on the shore, his feet half buried in mud, watching the boat ablaze. The stern collapses under the weight of the engine and disappears below the surface, and as the rest of the boat quickly fills with water and starts to sink, another petrol can explodes with a muted thump, a million tiny burning fragments shoot up and slowly land on the water surface. The boat disappears, only discrete ripples and bubbles showing where it is settling down on the silty bottom.
‘Like fucking fireworks,’ the Englishman mutters, the beginning of a smile appears on his face, transforming itself into a big grin. Then he starts laughing violently.
‘It’s mine now, you son of a bitch!’ He shouts and laughs hysterically, ‘Mine, you hear! To do what I please with it! The power! All mine!’
And as the frog chorus becomes frantic, the laughter, a shrill, ugly, dissonant sound, overpowers it, echoing along the empty shore and the placid sea.
I woke up to the sound of two myna bird couples having a noisy argument in the branches of the rambutan tree under which I had, up to that moment, been taking a well deserved afternoon nap. I’d finished waxing and polishing the floor in the second bedroom earlier in the day. Happy with the progress I was in a good mood, had taken out my only reclining chair and placed it in the shadow of the tree. A bit of light reading and a short snooze. Until this bloody dream. Just like the previous one, too close for comfort. Too realistic and much too detailed, far from being a typical, nonsensical nightmare. Fully awake now, there were still lingering traces of a very unsettling feeling of having observed something I was not meant to. Something unpleasant and very disturbing and downright nasty, a pervasive sense of wrongness going beyond the violence and the gore.
Well, this one is strictly eyes only, I thought. No way was I going to tell Kris about it and get her all wound up, again, about me being psychic. With any luck she may even have forgotten about the Singapore trip. Not that I dislike the place, I just didn’t want to go there chasing ghosts. Better to focus on more pleasant and immediately gratifying activities such as sampling the vintage Glen Garioch before the dinner à deux, for me and Minnie. What better way to end a sublimely satisfying day, with bedroom number two finished, the sun settling down somewhere behind the trees, unperturbed for once by the usual late afternoon rain shower, and the gentle jungle chorus – okay, bar the mynas that obviously had an issue with each other – as the only background sounds.
I did not expect the thumping and occasional detonation of a Harley, BB’s judging by the sound, coming up the road and the driveway. Switching off the ignition, BB got off the bike and stretched his massive legs, pulling a hand through the dreadlocks. He doesn’t believe in wearing a helmet, ‘Insha’Allah, man,’ as he likes to point out.
BB’s an anomaly, if there ever was one. Some people would even call him an aberration, but never to his face. Born on Bali, yet a self-confessed Muslim. Not that anyone has ever seen him honour the praying hours other than raising a beer bottle in response to the prayer call. Half a head taller than me and nearly twice as wide, a fearsome sight in his greasy denims, he’s the most gentle biker that I’ve ever met. Unless he deems that a smidgen of violence is called for and justified. Once I saw him split open, with a single blow from one of his club like fists, the head of a cretin kicking a street dog, then pick up the mutt and cradle it like a baby.
‘Ver’ hot today, man,’ a wide grin split his face. ‘Got any cold beer in this dump of yours?’
‘For you, lah, always. Just help yourself, Anchor Strong on the fridge top shelf. But there’s also a 25 year old single malt that Minnie and I may possibly let you taste. If it’s not too strong for a pussy like yourself. And,’ running quickly through my collection of misquotes, ‘only if the gentleman will not drink himself out of his senses.’
For some weird reason I get away with saying things like that to BB. Anyone else trying it on invariably ends up in intensive care. Sometimes I think he sees me as his pet project. Of course, discovering early on BB’s endless supply of Elizabethan literary quotes I’ve always tried to match – or one-up him, which he loves. As strange as it may be in this part of the world, this is a guy so deep he’s got more bottoms than a Bangkok girlie bar.
BB heads a bunch of misfit bikers calling themselves the Cyclone Aftermath MC. Not really a name that you’d expect of an outlaw biker gang, is it? Way too literate for any Western bikers, let alone here in Asia, yet he claims the name came to him in a pot ruse. He routinely abuses the English language as is the Asian custom, Manglish they call it here, then knocks you over with a perfectly formed sentence, using words I barely know. Sometimes I suspect that his dad must have been an eccentric English literature don gone native on a prolonged sabbatical in Bali during the early eighties. And helped produce a most bizarre – or delightful, depending on your outlook – fusion of East and West.
‘Fuck you man, I’ll take your pussy juice anytime and watch you drown in it. Have food to go with it?’
‘Yep, planned a simple mutton curry. I’ll ask Minnie to set an extra plate.’
‘Ha, you and your rat girlfriend. You crazy. Why you need more than miss Kristina? She take care of you, you take care of her. Move in with her, sell this shit dump, have good life. Maybe even get bike ready for riding with us some day.’
‘The bike is already driveable, you dickhead. I just want to restore it to its former glory once I’ve finished this place. Priorities, you know. No, sorry, of course you don’t – for you it’s all about riding and getting pissed and getting laid.’
‘Only priority for me is feeling thumping between my legs, engine or woman same,’ another wide grin, ‘almost.’
‘You savage.’
‘Is good for the soul, man. Anyway, miss Kristina says ask Alex if he ready for trip to Singapore. Tomorrow morning she pick you up. And I come with you to JB.’
Dammit, she hadn’t forgotten about Singapore. ‘You going to Johor Bahru? Why? As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been south of Melaka. Are you sure the bike is going to make it there and back?’
BB is probably the only person in Malaysia owning and riding a WW2 US Army Harley, complete with the original military license plate, and it does look its age. To be more precise, it looks like someone dragged it out of the mud after the Iwo Jima landing and has never washed it since. Although I suspect it’s a carefully groomed image just like everything else about BB, with the bike being kept by him in better than new condition, mechanically.
‘Hah, you infidel. My trusted steed will carry me there in speed and comfort as if riding on the mighty Pegasus. And I never fail to do miss Kristina’s bidding, her slightest wish is my command, as always.’
‘She actually asked you to come along? Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Oh, she say something about,’ slightly evasively and suddenly avoiding eye contact, ‘clearing traffic if need. Is Friday tomorrow, long weekend coming and everyone travelling home, you know – balik kampung, so many cars on road.’
This was when my alarm bells should have gone off. I didn’t get it at the time, instead I was merely puzzled. ‘Just because half of the Malay population is heading for their home villages tomorrow doesn’t mean we need an escort, do we, like we’re bloody politicians?’
‘Me, I just humble servant and obey my mistress. ’tis not mine to reason why, mine is but to obey and do.’
BB is Kris’ general, and very informal, factotum – fixer, enforcer, bodyguard, and occasional drinking buddy when she feels like roughing it. First time I met the two of them was at the Hard Rock Cafe where I’d taken the bike for its premiere outing in KL. BB was outside, smoking a joint, as I parked my bike next to his and nearly ran over his foot. Two shared joints later, he invited me in to see him ‘put a woman in her place.’
Kris was sitting at the bar, already pickled, surrounded by BB’s mates. Apparently, she’d challenged him to a shot contest, proclaiming loudly her central European roots and thus an imperviousness to alcohol. With her slight body – although displaying very nice curves in all the right places – I could see which way it was going to go. They started with a line-up of two rows of eight Jägermeister shots each.
Kris survived those, it was the next four that finally got her. I helped her out and held back her hair while she threw up over BB’s bike, it being nearest to the door. Then I drove her home, making sure she held on to me all the way. Probably not the most romantic way to meet, but we did get to know each other that night, which is what really mattered. To Kris’ credit, BB himself could barely walk away from the bar and had to be helped on to his bike. Thus proving the point about Europeans – well, most of us anyway – and our legendary alcohol tolerance.
‘Right, let’s go inside and get dinner ready,’ I said to BB. ‘You open the whisky bottle and don’t forget to give some to Minnie.’
He is middle aged and European, and despite the English upper class accent, there is something unsavoury and even thuggish in his demeanour. His white linen jacket has dark sweat stains all over and as he removes his hat to wave away the cloud of mosquitoes hovering around him, he is dangerously close to falling overboard into the inky water lapping against the boat and the shore. The narrow deck is cluttered with coils of rope, petrol cans, stacks of cardboard boxes, one proclaiming itself to be the property of “Johnnie Walker and Sons”, another proudly displaying “Chanel”, as well as miscellaneous half empty sacks, and the man is doing his best to find enough clear space on the deck, not least to avoid stepping on a stinking mess of pieces of fish guts draped over a rusty parang in one corner.
The man that sits opposite him smiles broadly, a dentist’s nightmare, revealing more gaps than crooked teeth. ‘Ya. You pay. I need new enjin bot. But you do what I say. Or you not hab it.’
”You’re crazy! Bodoh, lah! I pay you, I take it. What I do with it is my business. Where is it?’
The boatman now also gets up, short, dark skinned, barefoot and naked except for a pair of tattered shorts. Raising his voice for the first time during the conversation and pointing dismissively towards the shore, he says, ‘No! You no good orang! You go now! I get money enjin other.’
As if to confirm and support the boatman, the incessant chorus of cicadas and frogs hiding in the underbrush goes into overdrive. The Englishman is livid now, he starts screaming at the boatman, all pretence of public school education gone.
‘You fucking moron! You stinking, stupid, worthless savage! I’ve spent half the fucking night here,’ a gesture towards the sea on the portside, with the first glimmer of dawn barely visible behind a cluster of silhouetted islets far out, ‘wasting my time in this godforsaken hellhole, when I could have been fucking a delicious woman and drinking French bubbly from her twat right now. I’ll ask you one last time! Do you have it or don’t you?’
‘I no hab! Go oredy!’ As he says it, the boatman glances fleetingly at one of the dirty rice sacks on the deck, enough for the Englishman to make the connection.
They both lunge for the sack simultaneously. the Englishman slips as he grabs it, falls backwards and hits his head on one of the bamboo poles holding up the canopy. Clutching the sack in one hand, he holds out his other hand for support. With the boatman on top of him, he feels something heavy under his free hand, grabs it and, with as much force as he can muster, swings it in an arc at the boatman’s head. There is a thud and a crunch and the boatman goes limp.
Pushing away the body, the Englishman gets up with a groan, still holding the sack. Opening it and peering inside, he takes out the contents one by one, by feel rather than by sight. A book, probably a diary, leather bound but the pages are crinkly and flaking, the ink smeared out and the writing illegible. A pistol, rusty beyond recognition, with a coral encrusted barrel. A rectangular lump which could possibly have been a stack of letters once, years ago, held together by a string which breaks as he picks at it. A small picture frame, the photograph long gone, it is heavily oxidised but with traces of delicate work around the edges. Considering it for a moment, he puts the frame in his pocket.
Feeling blindly around the bottom of the sack for the last few remaining items, the Englishman pulls out a dagger, the blade black and pitted, the leather grip in tatters. ‘Ah. Kanmuri-otoshi tanto. Always worth a few quid,’ he mutters to himself as he pulls out the next item, a small bag with something flat and heavy inside. Lifting the bag up to his eyes he looks inside and goes rigid for a moment, blinking furiously. ‘Fuck! Oh god, the old bastard was not lying! Come to daddy, my ticket out of this place!’ His voice trembles, his hands are shaking.
He lets the dagger drop down on the deck, forgotten. With reverence, he puts the bag in his inside pocket and, as he is about to turn towards the stern and the shore, the boatman, moaning and still barely conscious, grips his ankle and fumbles for the parang.
Almost mechanically, the Englishman looks at the boatman, steps on the hand that is about to grasp the parang, crouches down, picks up the parang and kneels firmly on the boatman’s chest, his other hand holding down the man’s head. Then he proceeds, as calmly as if carving a lunch roast following a Sunday service in Surrey, to slice through the boatman’s throat. The Englishman starts humming to himself, accompanying each sawing motion with a tuneless sound. The beginnings of a scream turn into an ugly gurgling sound then stop abruptly as the parang severs the vocal cords, get replaced by hissing as the air escapes through the widening cut. There is blood everywhere: on the deck, on the Englishman’s clothes, on his hands and face, dripping from his nose and mixing with sweat, dark blobs of it in his thinning hair.
Getting up, the Englishman looks down on the body, the parang firmly lodged between two neck vertebrae, the limbs still faintly twitching. He shakes his head and blinks rapidly, as if coming out of a daze. He looks at his hands, touches his face, looks at his hands again. He moans quietly, starts wailing as he looks around him, then down at the now still body, then again at his hands shaking uncontrollably and spraying the deck with dark droplets. Breathing deeply to stop the oncoming panic attack, he forces himself to focus on the shore and moves quickly towards the petrol cans. He ducks down under the canopy, trips on a coil of rope, falls down painfully on one knee but ignores it. As he pushes himself up, he grabs one of the petrol cans and shakes it. Empty. Throws it overboard, picks up another, this one nearly full. He opens it and starts splashing the liquid over the body and the deck as he stumbles on. Now on the shore, he takes out a box of matches with shaking fingers, lights one, lights the rest of the box with it, then throws the burning box onto the deck. The fire starts slowly at first, just the small puddle where the matches land, but then a gust of wind pushes the flames along and almost immediately the whole deck is on fire.
The Englishman stands on the shore, his feet half buried in mud, watching the boat ablaze. The stern collapses under the weight of the engine and disappears below the surface, and as the rest of the boat quickly fills with water and starts to sink, another petrol can explodes with a muted thump, a million tiny burning fragments shoot up and slowly land on the water surface. The boat disappears, only discrete ripples and bubbles showing where it is settling down on the silty bottom.
‘Like fucking fireworks,’ the Englishman mutters, the beginning of a smile appears on his face, transforming itself into a big grin. Then he starts laughing violently.
‘It’s mine now, you son of a bitch!’ He shouts and laughs hysterically, ‘Mine, you hear! To do what I please with it! The power! All mine!’
And as the frog chorus becomes frantic, the laughter, a shrill, ugly, dissonant sound, overpowers it, echoing along the empty shore and the placid sea.
I woke up to the sound of two myna bird couples having a noisy argument in the branches of the rambutan tree under which I had, up to that moment, been taking a well deserved afternoon nap. I’d finished waxing and polishing the floor in the second bedroom earlier in the day. Happy with the progress I was in a good mood, had taken out my only reclining chair and placed it in the shadow of the tree. A bit of light reading and a short snooze. Until this bloody dream. Just like the previous one, too close for comfort. Too realistic and much too detailed, far from being a typical, nonsensical nightmare. Fully awake now, there were still lingering traces of a very unsettling feeling of having observed something I was not meant to. Something unpleasant and very disturbing and downright nasty, a pervasive sense of wrongness going beyond the violence and the gore.
Well, this one is strictly eyes only, I thought. No way was I going to tell Kris about it and get her all wound up, again, about me being psychic. With any luck she may even have forgotten about the Singapore trip. Not that I dislike the place, I just didn’t want to go there chasing ghosts. Better to focus on more pleasant and immediately gratifying activities such as sampling the vintage Glen Garioch before the dinner à deux, for me and Minnie. What better way to end a sublimely satisfying day, with bedroom number two finished, the sun settling down somewhere behind the trees, unperturbed for once by the usual late afternoon rain shower, and the gentle jungle chorus – okay, bar the mynas that obviously had an issue with each other – as the only background sounds.
I did not expect the thumping and occasional detonation of a Harley, BB’s judging by the sound, coming up the road and the driveway. Switching off the ignition, BB got off the bike and stretched his massive legs, pulling a hand through the dreadlocks. He doesn’t believe in wearing a helmet, ‘Insha’Allah, man,’ as he likes to point out.
BB’s an anomaly, if there ever was one. Some people would even call him an aberration, but never to his face. Born on Bali, yet a self-confessed Muslim. Not that anyone has ever seen him honour the praying hours other than raising a beer bottle in response to the prayer call. Half a head taller than me and nearly twice as wide, a fearsome sight in his greasy denims, he’s the most gentle biker that I’ve ever met. Unless he deems that a smidgen of violence is called for and justified. Once I saw him split open, with a single blow from one of his club like fists, the head of a cretin kicking a street dog, then pick up the mutt and cradle it like a baby.
‘Ver’ hot today, man,’ a wide grin split his face. ‘Got any cold beer in this dump of yours?’
‘For you, lah, always. Just help yourself, Anchor Strong on the fridge top shelf. But there’s also a 25 year old single malt that Minnie and I may possibly let you taste. If it’s not too strong for a pussy like yourself. And,’ running quickly through my collection of misquotes, ‘only if the gentleman will not drink himself out of his senses.’
For some weird reason I get away with saying things like that to BB. Anyone else trying it on invariably ends up in intensive care. Sometimes I think he sees me as his pet project. Of course, discovering early on BB’s endless supply of Elizabethan literary quotes I’ve always tried to match – or one-up him, which he loves. As strange as it may be in this part of the world, this is a guy so deep he’s got more bottoms than a Bangkok girlie bar.
BB heads a bunch of misfit bikers calling themselves the Cyclone Aftermath MC. Not really a name that you’d expect of an outlaw biker gang, is it? Way too literate for any Western bikers, let alone here in Asia, yet he claims the name came to him in a pot ruse. He routinely abuses the English language as is the Asian custom, Manglish they call it here, then knocks you over with a perfectly formed sentence, using words I barely know. Sometimes I suspect that his dad must have been an eccentric English literature don gone native on a prolonged sabbatical in Bali during the early eighties. And helped produce a most bizarre – or delightful, depending on your outlook – fusion of East and West.
‘Fuck you man, I’ll take your pussy juice anytime and watch you drown in it. Have food to go with it?’
‘Yep, planned a simple mutton curry. I’ll ask Minnie to set an extra plate.’
‘Ha, you and your rat girlfriend. You crazy. Why you need more than miss Kristina? She take care of you, you take care of her. Move in with her, sell this shit dump, have good life. Maybe even get bike ready for riding with us some day.’
‘The bike is already driveable, you dickhead. I just want to restore it to its former glory once I’ve finished this place. Priorities, you know. No, sorry, of course you don’t – for you it’s all about riding and getting pissed and getting laid.’
‘Only priority for me is feeling thumping between my legs, engine or woman same,’ another wide grin, ‘almost.’
‘You savage.’
‘Is good for the soul, man. Anyway, miss Kristina says ask Alex if he ready for trip to Singapore. Tomorrow morning she pick you up. And I come with you to JB.’
Dammit, she hadn’t forgotten about Singapore. ‘You going to Johor Bahru? Why? As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been south of Melaka. Are you sure the bike is going to make it there and back?’
BB is probably the only person in Malaysia owning and riding a WW2 US Army Harley, complete with the original military license plate, and it does look its age. To be more precise, it looks like someone dragged it out of the mud after the Iwo Jima landing and has never washed it since. Although I suspect it’s a carefully groomed image just like everything else about BB, with the bike being kept by him in better than new condition, mechanically.
‘Hah, you infidel. My trusted steed will carry me there in speed and comfort as if riding on the mighty Pegasus. And I never fail to do miss Kristina’s bidding, her slightest wish is my command, as always.’
‘She actually asked you to come along? Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Oh, she say something about,’ slightly evasively and suddenly avoiding eye contact, ‘clearing traffic if need. Is Friday tomorrow, long weekend coming and everyone travelling home, you know – balik kampung, so many cars on road.’
This was when my alarm bells should have gone off. I didn’t get it at the time, instead I was merely puzzled. ‘Just because half of the Malay population is heading for their home villages tomorrow doesn’t mean we need an escort, do we, like we’re bloody politicians?’
‘Me, I just humble servant and obey my mistress. ’tis not mine to reason why, mine is but to obey and do.’
BB is Kris’ general, and very informal, factotum – fixer, enforcer, bodyguard, and occasional drinking buddy when she feels like roughing it. First time I met the two of them was at the Hard Rock Cafe where I’d taken the bike for its premiere outing in KL. BB was outside, smoking a joint, as I parked my bike next to his and nearly ran over his foot. Two shared joints later, he invited me in to see him ‘put a woman in her place.’
Kris was sitting at the bar, already pickled, surrounded by BB’s mates. Apparently, she’d challenged him to a shot contest, proclaiming loudly her central European roots and thus an imperviousness to alcohol. With her slight body – although displaying very nice curves in all the right places – I could see which way it was going to go. They started with a line-up of two rows of eight Jägermeister shots each.
Kris survived those, it was the next four that finally got her. I helped her out and held back her hair while she threw up over BB’s bike, it being nearest to the door. Then I drove her home, making sure she held on to me all the way. Probably not the most romantic way to meet, but we did get to know each other that night, which is what really mattered. To Kris’ credit, BB himself could barely walk away from the bar and had to be helped on to his bike. Thus proving the point about Europeans – well, most of us anyway – and our legendary alcohol tolerance.
‘Right, let’s go inside and get dinner ready,’ I said to BB. ‘You open the whisky bottle and don’t forget to give some to Minnie.’
Chapter 9
The morning sun poked my eyes brutally, without any compassion whatsoever, and I felt thoroughly violated. Goddammit, I knew BB was lethal, but even finishing off my remaining stock of cooking wine towards the end of the night? As I was contemplating putting the pillow over my head and possibly putting myself out of my misery permanently, the phone buzzed.
No one sends me WhatsApp messages that early in the morning. Ever. Except Kris.
hello lover pick u up in 30 ok?
Oh hell. I didn’t feel able to have a piss in the next 30 minutes, let alone pack and look respectable during a three-plus hour trip.
make it 60 still having breakfast, I responded feebly.
pussy. bb already up n wtg, was the merciless reply.
Barely 40 minutes later, Kris’ Tuscan growled up the driveway, with her revving the engine just to make sure I hadn’t gone back to bed. The passenger door clicked open as I came out of the house dragging a bag.
‘Good morning, love. Had a peaceful night, I hope.’
‘Give me a break, will you. I just finished putting in a lot of overtime during the last week and sorely needed my beauty sleep. Besides, I’ve no clue as to how formal I need to be in Singcity, so you’ll have to take me as I am.’
‘Did you pack your leathers?’
‘Was I supposed to?’
‘Aren’t those part of your regular repertoire?’
‘Of course,’ I couldn’t suppress a grin as I got into the car, ‘they’re in the bag, as is the tux. Although the latter would by now need a good ironing. So what is it going to be this time? Trash or nobs?’
‘Just close the door, will you. We’re late. BB’s already waiting for us down in Nilai. And yes, I’ve got an invitation to a private party in Bukit Timah. Saturday and strict dress code.’
‘Speaking of which, and never mind the latex and leather crowd eagerly awaiting your presence in Singapore, why do we suddenly need an escort for the trip?’
That got Kris quiet for a second before she responded, unconvincingly as far as I was concerned. ‘I… wanted to make sure we got down there before the midday crush… and if we head towards a jam, BB will go in advance and find us a clear back road,’ said with the sweetest, most innocent smile.
‘Sure, I’ll buy that, no problem. And while you’re at it, do remind me why Pinocchio’s nose gets longer.’
A pause, as Kris made a big show of concentrating on getting us on to the main KL south going thoroughfare, squeezing in between a Toyota MPV and a wheezing Proton.
‘Okay, sorry,’ her smile somewhat lopsided. ‘A silly precaution on my side. I’m sure we’ll just have a boring drive down. And you know uncle Ho, he’s such a fusspot sometimes. He suggested I should avoid going to Singapore this weekend. Something about it not being fortuitous for travel. Or whatever.’
‘Oh, uncle Ho said that? Well ho, ho, ho. And there was I thinking that the triads were after you. At least. Since when do you consult him before taking a short road trip?’
Uncle Ho is an ancient, wizened little man. A former businessman, in the vaguest possible Asian terms, he lives alone (not counting servants, of course) in a ridiculously huge mansion on Federal Hill aka Bukit Persekutuan. He’s retired now, supposedly, but used to have a reputation of having the sharpest business brain anywhere in Asia. For some reason, he and Kris seem to be like grandfather and granddaughter, with him advising her on which deals to go for and which ones to ignore, otherwise generally meddling in her life every now and then, and her confiding totally in him. In everything, even her love life. First time I met him, at one of Kris’ parties, he grabbed me by the arm – painfully, I must add – and said that he expected me to continue making her happy, otherwise he would forego all of the traditional Chinese torture methods and devise one especially for me. I believed him. For all his gramps demeanour, you could see that he was a tough bastard when he was young and not a person you’d want to cross.
‘I don’t,’ Kris replied, ‘always listen to uncle Ho, but this time he said that the stars were not favourable for a journey.’
‘For what? A weekend in Singapore?’
‘Actually, I told him why we’re going there, the main reason for it, and he suggested we postpone it.’
‘The main reason? Are you still on about my dream? Surely not, I expected this was another of your impromptu party weekends and nothing more. And, while we’re on the subject of uncle Ho, are you saying that you’ve told him about the dream? You actually even tell him what I dream?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Yes, your dream. I told him. And the fact that it turned out to be more than a dream. That somehow you tuned in to the past, for which there must be a reason. How do you think I found out about Tigran? Uncle Ho was here in the sixties, he knew about the guy. And he agrees with me about your dream being significant but says I should be cautious.’
‘Right. So we’re not really going to Singapore for a party, are we? What exactly do you have in mind?’
‘I might as well tell you now. I’ve managed to trace the antique dealer’s daughter. Edward Tobyn-Ffolkes, if you remember? The guy had a secretary, who also happened to be his mistress. At least I assume she was his mistress as they had a child, Edwina. And we’re meeting her tonight at the hotel for dinner. Early evening, so plenty of time to find out what she may know about her father’s disappearance before we go partying. Happy?’
‘That’s it? A few hours on Friday only? Sure, I can do that. You had me worried for a while there, what with uncle Ho and everything. I expected having to chase phantoms all over the island,’ I leaned over for a semi-chaste kiss and a quick grope.
‘Stop it, you male you,’ Kris said affectionately, without much conviction. ‘You’re distracting me.’
I dozed off after that. It wouldn’t have been the first time, either. Put me in a seat anywhere, anytime – plane, bus, train or car and, more or less as soon the doors close, I’ll be fast asleep. I expected Kris to suffer silently through my beauty sleep and the odd snore until the border crossing. This time, though, she braked hard enough to push me against the seatbelt and wake me up from what was a very pleasant dream, however probably illegal in most countries. Certainly here in Malaysia.
‘What’s up? Police checkpoint?’
‘Tak ada kekhawatiran,’ Kris replied happily.
‘What do you mean, no worries?’ Yes, I do know the odd Malay phrase, you can’t live here without getting the hang of it. ‘So what’s up and why are we stopping? Surely not in Singapore already?’
‘Relax, lover boy, I slowed down to let BB in on the road in front of us. Just passing Nilai, that’s all. Plenty of time for you to catch up on your sleep until we hit the Tuas checkpoint.’
‘Tuas? You’re not going through JB? Don’t you know about the Nazis manning the checkpoint on both sides there?’ I was thoroughly awake now, and unhappy. ‘I’ll get strip searched going through, and so will you. They will relish it, the bastards. Take away my cigarettes and fine me!’
Believe it or not, it’s illegal to bring in cigarettes to Singapore, even a single one. Even if you’d bought a pack there and took it out to JB for the day. Stupid people.
‘Darling, precious, I’ve been through this checkpoint more times than you’ve changed your underwear here in Asia. Relax, I know the drill and so do the officers. Just let me sort it out.’
You can’t beat an argument like that. I went back to sleep and woke up just in time for the crossing, or so I thought. Having survived a less than fortuitous trip according to uncle Ho I was in a surprisingly good mood.
‘Good afternoon, lover. In Singapore soon, I presume, and where’s BB?’
‘Actually, we’ve just passed the border. They thought you were really cute with that baby snore and slight drool. I even had to stop the customs guy from taking a selfie with you. And BB, he’s gone back now. Wishing you a happy biker party, whatever that means. So, for better or worse, it’s just the two of us now, a whole weekend in Singapore.’
‘Well, do give my regards to BB if you see him before I do. Any plans after the meeting with madam Edwina?’
‘Not really, I thought maybe a dip in the pool before we go to bed and you ravage me violently,’ spoken very innocently in Kris’ patent-applied-for girlish voice.
‘Can do, the rogering bit. Sorry, I mean ravaging. If not too late.’
‘Trust a male to be so single-minded. One of these days I’ll have to get you neutered,’ Kris followed this with a gentle squeeze of my crotch, ‘And what do you mean by “not too late”?’ Now firmly squeezing the aforementioned parts.
‘Ouch! Well, see, I was thinking of this friend of mine – you’ve met him before – who’s currently stationed in Singapore and if he’s around… Early evening, of course, wouldn’t want it to interfere with the rest of our night, love of my life, I could maybe meet him somewhere downtown for a beer or two. Sorry, I meant a coke or two.’
‘Ha, knowing your friends, and this particular one, you’ll meet in the whore towers, oops a Freudian slip, I meant of course the Orchard Towers,’ accompanied by an evil grin, ‘but who am I to judge. Well, in that case, I just happen to have one of my business associates in town tonight and wouldn’t mind – if approved by you, of course – meeting him briefly after dinner over one or two bottles of a decadently aged Chateauneuf du Pape,’ looking at me again in that Kris signature look – a depraved virgin, ‘Let’s check in and have a well deserved rest, not that you need one, you sloth, then get ready for the dinner and our evening out. And, unless our paths happen to cross before, meet for the unforgettable Goodwood Park breakfast tomorrow morning, shall we?’ And as an afterthought, ‘I wouldn’t mind being awakened gently by a simple minded male who’s been ogling semi-naked females half the night – ogling, mind you, not touching – and wants to spoon.’
‘Love of my life, for the record, I do not ogle, let alone touch strange females. Being a simple minded male, as you’ve just pointed out, I only go where my friends go. But I will be back. Be aware though, that spooning often leads to forking.’
‘You wish. And I keep on hoping. With that friend of yours, you’ll be wheeled in by the staff and tucked into bed, oblivious to anything and anyone around you.’
Women. They never really trust you, do they? Not being able to come up with a witty enough answer I just let myself drift off to sleep again while Kris dealt with the anything but user-friendly Singaporean Vehicle Entry Permit system.
If I may digress for a moment here: It is undoubtedly an unprecedented achievement to go from a third world country to one of the most developed countries anywhere around the globe in less than thirty years, as Singapore has done. But did it really require a totalitarian regime to accomplish this? And now that the country is thoroughly civilised and developed, does it still have to be run with a precision, single-mindedness and ruthlessness equalling Auschwitz?
Don’t get me wrong, I love shopping here, it betters any European country regardless of what you’re looking for. A night on the town can be as much fun here as anywhere in Asia, Bangkok and Manila included, although much more expensive. The food choice is stunning, as is the multitude of tiny beautiful islands off Singapore, with picture perfect beaches and welcoming homestays. But then you are greeted with “DEATH PENALTY FOR DRUG SMUGGLERS” at the border, and can’t avoid seeing street posters of handcuffed, kneeling people that proclaim “Rioting Will Get You Caned And Imprisoned”. Rioting being synonymous in Singapore with peaceful demonstrations and not agreeing with the ruling clan (yes, Singapore is still run as a feudal family business), and as a European liberal you can’t but feel outraged by the lack of democracy and individual freedom that you would expect in most other developed countries.
But enough ranting. There’s no country in Southeast Asia that’s perfect, and that’s how life is – you can’t have paradise without a snake, or a genetically modified apple tree, or a meddling, spiteful god. Anyway, Kris had just pulled into the Goodwood Park driveway and stopped outside the main entrance. Within seconds, the Indian-liveried doormen rushed out to open the car doors for us and, as always, got totally confused by the lack of exterior door handles or any other obvious door opening mechanism.
‘Darling, would you show them how to open the boot, please. They’ve probably forgotten it since the last time,’ Kris said as she stepped daintily and elegantly out of the car and went through the doors in her humble royal fashion, followed by several deeply bowing hotel minions.
Ah, the pleasures of being intimately acquainted with minor European nobility. Mind you, Kris rarely behaves like this, only if she knows that she will benefit financially from it (they do love euronobs here in Asia, just as much as in the US) or, as now, simply playing up to an eager audience.
No one sends me WhatsApp messages that early in the morning. Ever. Except Kris.
hello lover pick u up in 30 ok?
Oh hell. I didn’t feel able to have a piss in the next 30 minutes, let alone pack and look respectable during a three-plus hour trip.
make it 60 still having breakfast, I responded feebly.
pussy. bb already up n wtg, was the merciless reply.
Barely 40 minutes later, Kris’ Tuscan growled up the driveway, with her revving the engine just to make sure I hadn’t gone back to bed. The passenger door clicked open as I came out of the house dragging a bag.
‘Good morning, love. Had a peaceful night, I hope.’
‘Give me a break, will you. I just finished putting in a lot of overtime during the last week and sorely needed my beauty sleep. Besides, I’ve no clue as to how formal I need to be in Singcity, so you’ll have to take me as I am.’
‘Did you pack your leathers?’
‘Was I supposed to?’
‘Aren’t those part of your regular repertoire?’
‘Of course,’ I couldn’t suppress a grin as I got into the car, ‘they’re in the bag, as is the tux. Although the latter would by now need a good ironing. So what is it going to be this time? Trash or nobs?’
‘Just close the door, will you. We’re late. BB’s already waiting for us down in Nilai. And yes, I’ve got an invitation to a private party in Bukit Timah. Saturday and strict dress code.’
‘Speaking of which, and never mind the latex and leather crowd eagerly awaiting your presence in Singapore, why do we suddenly need an escort for the trip?’
That got Kris quiet for a second before she responded, unconvincingly as far as I was concerned. ‘I… wanted to make sure we got down there before the midday crush… and if we head towards a jam, BB will go in advance and find us a clear back road,’ said with the sweetest, most innocent smile.
‘Sure, I’ll buy that, no problem. And while you’re at it, do remind me why Pinocchio’s nose gets longer.’
A pause, as Kris made a big show of concentrating on getting us on to the main KL south going thoroughfare, squeezing in between a Toyota MPV and a wheezing Proton.
‘Okay, sorry,’ her smile somewhat lopsided. ‘A silly precaution on my side. I’m sure we’ll just have a boring drive down. And you know uncle Ho, he’s such a fusspot sometimes. He suggested I should avoid going to Singapore this weekend. Something about it not being fortuitous for travel. Or whatever.’
‘Oh, uncle Ho said that? Well ho, ho, ho. And there was I thinking that the triads were after you. At least. Since when do you consult him before taking a short road trip?’
Uncle Ho is an ancient, wizened little man. A former businessman, in the vaguest possible Asian terms, he lives alone (not counting servants, of course) in a ridiculously huge mansion on Federal Hill aka Bukit Persekutuan. He’s retired now, supposedly, but used to have a reputation of having the sharpest business brain anywhere in Asia. For some reason, he and Kris seem to be like grandfather and granddaughter, with him advising her on which deals to go for and which ones to ignore, otherwise generally meddling in her life every now and then, and her confiding totally in him. In everything, even her love life. First time I met him, at one of Kris’ parties, he grabbed me by the arm – painfully, I must add – and said that he expected me to continue making her happy, otherwise he would forego all of the traditional Chinese torture methods and devise one especially for me. I believed him. For all his gramps demeanour, you could see that he was a tough bastard when he was young and not a person you’d want to cross.
‘I don’t,’ Kris replied, ‘always listen to uncle Ho, but this time he said that the stars were not favourable for a journey.’
‘For what? A weekend in Singapore?’
‘Actually, I told him why we’re going there, the main reason for it, and he suggested we postpone it.’
‘The main reason? Are you still on about my dream? Surely not, I expected this was another of your impromptu party weekends and nothing more. And, while we’re on the subject of uncle Ho, are you saying that you’ve told him about the dream? You actually even tell him what I dream?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Yes, your dream. I told him. And the fact that it turned out to be more than a dream. That somehow you tuned in to the past, for which there must be a reason. How do you think I found out about Tigran? Uncle Ho was here in the sixties, he knew about the guy. And he agrees with me about your dream being significant but says I should be cautious.’
‘Right. So we’re not really going to Singapore for a party, are we? What exactly do you have in mind?’
‘I might as well tell you now. I’ve managed to trace the antique dealer’s daughter. Edward Tobyn-Ffolkes, if you remember? The guy had a secretary, who also happened to be his mistress. At least I assume she was his mistress as they had a child, Edwina. And we’re meeting her tonight at the hotel for dinner. Early evening, so plenty of time to find out what she may know about her father’s disappearance before we go partying. Happy?’
‘That’s it? A few hours on Friday only? Sure, I can do that. You had me worried for a while there, what with uncle Ho and everything. I expected having to chase phantoms all over the island,’ I leaned over for a semi-chaste kiss and a quick grope.
‘Stop it, you male you,’ Kris said affectionately, without much conviction. ‘You’re distracting me.’
I dozed off after that. It wouldn’t have been the first time, either. Put me in a seat anywhere, anytime – plane, bus, train or car and, more or less as soon the doors close, I’ll be fast asleep. I expected Kris to suffer silently through my beauty sleep and the odd snore until the border crossing. This time, though, she braked hard enough to push me against the seatbelt and wake me up from what was a very pleasant dream, however probably illegal in most countries. Certainly here in Malaysia.
‘What’s up? Police checkpoint?’
‘Tak ada kekhawatiran,’ Kris replied happily.
‘What do you mean, no worries?’ Yes, I do know the odd Malay phrase, you can’t live here without getting the hang of it. ‘So what’s up and why are we stopping? Surely not in Singapore already?’
‘Relax, lover boy, I slowed down to let BB in on the road in front of us. Just passing Nilai, that’s all. Plenty of time for you to catch up on your sleep until we hit the Tuas checkpoint.’
‘Tuas? You’re not going through JB? Don’t you know about the Nazis manning the checkpoint on both sides there?’ I was thoroughly awake now, and unhappy. ‘I’ll get strip searched going through, and so will you. They will relish it, the bastards. Take away my cigarettes and fine me!’
Believe it or not, it’s illegal to bring in cigarettes to Singapore, even a single one. Even if you’d bought a pack there and took it out to JB for the day. Stupid people.
‘Darling, precious, I’ve been through this checkpoint more times than you’ve changed your underwear here in Asia. Relax, I know the drill and so do the officers. Just let me sort it out.’
You can’t beat an argument like that. I went back to sleep and woke up just in time for the crossing, or so I thought. Having survived a less than fortuitous trip according to uncle Ho I was in a surprisingly good mood.
‘Good afternoon, lover. In Singapore soon, I presume, and where’s BB?’
‘Actually, we’ve just passed the border. They thought you were really cute with that baby snore and slight drool. I even had to stop the customs guy from taking a selfie with you. And BB, he’s gone back now. Wishing you a happy biker party, whatever that means. So, for better or worse, it’s just the two of us now, a whole weekend in Singapore.’
‘Well, do give my regards to BB if you see him before I do. Any plans after the meeting with madam Edwina?’
‘Not really, I thought maybe a dip in the pool before we go to bed and you ravage me violently,’ spoken very innocently in Kris’ patent-applied-for girlish voice.
‘Can do, the rogering bit. Sorry, I mean ravaging. If not too late.’
‘Trust a male to be so single-minded. One of these days I’ll have to get you neutered,’ Kris followed this with a gentle squeeze of my crotch, ‘And what do you mean by “not too late”?’ Now firmly squeezing the aforementioned parts.
‘Ouch! Well, see, I was thinking of this friend of mine – you’ve met him before – who’s currently stationed in Singapore and if he’s around… Early evening, of course, wouldn’t want it to interfere with the rest of our night, love of my life, I could maybe meet him somewhere downtown for a beer or two. Sorry, I meant a coke or two.’
‘Ha, knowing your friends, and this particular one, you’ll meet in the whore towers, oops a Freudian slip, I meant of course the Orchard Towers,’ accompanied by an evil grin, ‘but who am I to judge. Well, in that case, I just happen to have one of my business associates in town tonight and wouldn’t mind – if approved by you, of course – meeting him briefly after dinner over one or two bottles of a decadently aged Chateauneuf du Pape,’ looking at me again in that Kris signature look – a depraved virgin, ‘Let’s check in and have a well deserved rest, not that you need one, you sloth, then get ready for the dinner and our evening out. And, unless our paths happen to cross before, meet for the unforgettable Goodwood Park breakfast tomorrow morning, shall we?’ And as an afterthought, ‘I wouldn’t mind being awakened gently by a simple minded male who’s been ogling semi-naked females half the night – ogling, mind you, not touching – and wants to spoon.’
‘Love of my life, for the record, I do not ogle, let alone touch strange females. Being a simple minded male, as you’ve just pointed out, I only go where my friends go. But I will be back. Be aware though, that spooning often leads to forking.’
‘You wish. And I keep on hoping. With that friend of yours, you’ll be wheeled in by the staff and tucked into bed, oblivious to anything and anyone around you.’
Women. They never really trust you, do they? Not being able to come up with a witty enough answer I just let myself drift off to sleep again while Kris dealt with the anything but user-friendly Singaporean Vehicle Entry Permit system.
If I may digress for a moment here: It is undoubtedly an unprecedented achievement to go from a third world country to one of the most developed countries anywhere around the globe in less than thirty years, as Singapore has done. But did it really require a totalitarian regime to accomplish this? And now that the country is thoroughly civilised and developed, does it still have to be run with a precision, single-mindedness and ruthlessness equalling Auschwitz?
Don’t get me wrong, I love shopping here, it betters any European country regardless of what you’re looking for. A night on the town can be as much fun here as anywhere in Asia, Bangkok and Manila included, although much more expensive. The food choice is stunning, as is the multitude of tiny beautiful islands off Singapore, with picture perfect beaches and welcoming homestays. But then you are greeted with “DEATH PENALTY FOR DRUG SMUGGLERS” at the border, and can’t avoid seeing street posters of handcuffed, kneeling people that proclaim “Rioting Will Get You Caned And Imprisoned”. Rioting being synonymous in Singapore with peaceful demonstrations and not agreeing with the ruling clan (yes, Singapore is still run as a feudal family business), and as a European liberal you can’t but feel outraged by the lack of democracy and individual freedom that you would expect in most other developed countries.
But enough ranting. There’s no country in Southeast Asia that’s perfect, and that’s how life is – you can’t have paradise without a snake, or a genetically modified apple tree, or a meddling, spiteful god. Anyway, Kris had just pulled into the Goodwood Park driveway and stopped outside the main entrance. Within seconds, the Indian-liveried doormen rushed out to open the car doors for us and, as always, got totally confused by the lack of exterior door handles or any other obvious door opening mechanism.
‘Darling, would you show them how to open the boot, please. They’ve probably forgotten it since the last time,’ Kris said as she stepped daintily and elegantly out of the car and went through the doors in her humble royal fashion, followed by several deeply bowing hotel minions.
Ah, the pleasures of being intimately acquainted with minor European nobility. Mind you, Kris rarely behaves like this, only if she knows that she will benefit financially from it (they do love euronobs here in Asia, just as much as in the US) or, as now, simply playing up to an eager audience.
Chapter 10
Finished with the bowtie, I peeked into the bathroom. Kris was still in there, putting on makeup. ‘Just a few more minutes, darling,’ as she always says.
‘Fine. Just going out for a quick smoke. No smoking allowed in the restaurant.’
I stepped out on the terrace facing the pool and lit a cigarette surreptitiously, it being illegal even outside. Not the big, rectangular pool that most guests see and use. This is the smaller, Balinese styled one, tucked in between the main and Mayfair wings and surrounded by palms and exotic plants. Above me, a deep velvet sky sprinkled with stars.
A woman was coming out of the otherwise empty pool and I watched her as she bent to pick up a towel and drape it around her shoulders. Being me, I couldn’t help appraising her. Good looking, in a subtle way, nice figure with satisfyingly large breasts swaying gently within the restraints of her swimsuit. Early to mid-forties, with a contented, almost serene and at the same time self assured expression which I always find drop-dead sexy. She walked towards me, or rather the terrace next to ours, while undoing a large clip and shaking her head to let the hair cascade down her shoulders.
‘Nice evening for a swim. And in even nicer surroundings.’ It seemed impolite to just stand there silently, as we were neighbours.
‘Yeah, isn’t it just. You should try it yourself.’
Ah, not European as I first assumed. A vague Midwest accent and not one that I usually find sensual, but in her case it worked.
‘Yes, well, not quite dressed for it right now,’ I responded.
‘Yep, it would be a shame to ruin that tux,’ a twinkle in her eye. ‘Business or wedding?’
‘Neither, actually. Just came down here from KL for a weekend of rambunctious fun,’ I almost winked at her. ‘And alas, Singapore being what it is, not being dressed to the hilt is frowned upon, particularly in a place like this.’
‘Kayehl?’
‘Sorry, I thought you were familiar with the local abbreviations. Kuala Lumpur.’
‘Ah. Yes, of course. I’ve read up on it but haven’t got to Malaysia yet. Just started my tour of Asia.’ She held out her hand, ‘I’m Candace, nice to meet you.’
‘Alex, likewise.’
‘May I?’ She leaned across the terrace railing and for a crazy moment I thought she wanted to kiss me. Instead, she adjusted my bowtie. ‘There, now it’s better,’ she said, barely a hand’s width between our faces.
‘Darling, I’m ready. Finished your ciggy yet?’ Kris came out on the terrace, absolutely stunning in a long black gown with the back cut so low you could almost see her bum. Then she pretended to notice Candace.
‘Oh, hi, I was just wondering if Alex was talking to himself for want of acceptable company,’ followed by a not too convincing look of surprise. ‘You can never be sure what men do when left to their own devices, can you?’
No hidden meaning in that sentence, oh no.
‘Hello there, I’m Candace, just having a chat with your husband about the correct attire for swimming here. And having a good time in Singapore.’
‘I’m sure he was a fount of knowledge, as always. Aren’t you, darling?’ Kris looked pointedly at me. ‘But where are my manners, I’m Kristina, the better half.’ Definite emphasis on better.
It’s amazing how women who’ve never met each other before suddenly seem to become… rivals, I suppose, for want of a better term. And over nothing. Just a few exchanged words, not even a bit (well, just a teensy bit) of harmless flirting. Never mind Kris’ habit of occasionally having someone on the side without me. That, as she would insist, is not at all the same thing. They always say that, don’t they, when they run out of rational arguments?
‘A pleasure to meet you, Kristina. As well as your charming and handsome husband.’
With that simple phrase, I was instantly sidelined and demoted to a mere object in a verbal, for now still semi-friendly competition. Hah, and women claim ownership of being objectified!
‘Oh, Alex is not my husband. He’s my boyfriend and favourite lover. Aren’t you, darling?’ If she’d squeezed my arse while saying it I wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Gosh, is that so?’ Candace graciously acknowledged my presence for a second or so, then continued in an exaggerated drawl, ‘Well, honey, in that case where do I sign up for residence in this Kuahla Lahmpoor?’
I’d had enough. ‘What can I say? I’ve always been partial to loose women. The more the merrier. Anyway, it’s getting too hot for me out here. Nice meeting you, Candace.’
Barely a minute later, Kris was back in the room. ‘Darling, are you ready? We should be going,’ she said innocently.
‘How about I stay here and you take Candace to dinner with Edwina? Then you two can sort out any differences you seem to have. And afterwards the three of you can bugger off to whichever nightclub that’s currently the most exclusive and expensive, and work off your issues on the dance floor.’
‘Please don’t be like that.’ Kris appeared contrite as she looked up at me demurely through the locks falling across her face. Well, as demure as she could ever be. ‘She’s a man eater and I just saved you from a fate worse than death.’
‘Is that so? Potentially, or should I say hypothetically, fucking a good looking woman is worse than dying? Unless it’s you doing it, of course. Well, in my case, I’d certainly choose the former any time. But what’s with favourite?’
‘Oh darling, I’m so sorry for saying that. Please. I just said it… well, I don’t know why I said it, I guess just wanted her to–’
‘To know who’s the boss? Sure, so you’re a whizz-kid when it comes to making money, you’ve more of it than I will ever have, you’ve all your fancy political and otherwise connections, but you’re still a spoiled diplomat brat, acting as if the world revolves around you.’
‘Please–’
‘I’ve know you for, what, just over half a year? And during that time, have I ever fucked, no – have I even shown interest in fucking anyone else? Can you say the same?’
‘Darling, I know, and I love you for it. I always will. I’ll die loving you. I just can’t help being what I am. A loose woman.’ The last said with a pout.
‘Possessive and selfish. And indecent.’ My irritation was dissipating quickly.
‘You’re so sexy when you get mad,’ Kris whispered in my ear as she grabbed my arse and started rubbing herself against my front. ‘I just may have to arrange a ménage à trois at some point,’ she whispered, ‘as long as the girl is not your type. Because then I’d have to kill you.’
‘You’re my type,’ I responded meekly. I’d lost the argument and knew it. ‘And I’ve not the slightest doubt that you’d put out a contract on me if you felt pissed off for any reason.’
‘Meow.’
‘Yes, meow, as a cat says before devouring a mouse. It’s fine with me, I like to live dangerously. Up to a point.’
‘Darling, that makes two of us,’ a big smile lit up Kris’ face, ‘and I’d love to confirm it by having the fuck of the century right here and now, but Edwina is waiting for us, remember? And this is all about you and your dream. Let’s get that over with and, if nothing else, have the best dinner ever in Singapore.’
‘Fine. Just going out for a quick smoke. No smoking allowed in the restaurant.’
I stepped out on the terrace facing the pool and lit a cigarette surreptitiously, it being illegal even outside. Not the big, rectangular pool that most guests see and use. This is the smaller, Balinese styled one, tucked in between the main and Mayfair wings and surrounded by palms and exotic plants. Above me, a deep velvet sky sprinkled with stars.
A woman was coming out of the otherwise empty pool and I watched her as she bent to pick up a towel and drape it around her shoulders. Being me, I couldn’t help appraising her. Good looking, in a subtle way, nice figure with satisfyingly large breasts swaying gently within the restraints of her swimsuit. Early to mid-forties, with a contented, almost serene and at the same time self assured expression which I always find drop-dead sexy. She walked towards me, or rather the terrace next to ours, while undoing a large clip and shaking her head to let the hair cascade down her shoulders.
‘Nice evening for a swim. And in even nicer surroundings.’ It seemed impolite to just stand there silently, as we were neighbours.
‘Yeah, isn’t it just. You should try it yourself.’
Ah, not European as I first assumed. A vague Midwest accent and not one that I usually find sensual, but in her case it worked.
‘Yes, well, not quite dressed for it right now,’ I responded.
‘Yep, it would be a shame to ruin that tux,’ a twinkle in her eye. ‘Business or wedding?’
‘Neither, actually. Just came down here from KL for a weekend of rambunctious fun,’ I almost winked at her. ‘And alas, Singapore being what it is, not being dressed to the hilt is frowned upon, particularly in a place like this.’
‘Kayehl?’
‘Sorry, I thought you were familiar with the local abbreviations. Kuala Lumpur.’
‘Ah. Yes, of course. I’ve read up on it but haven’t got to Malaysia yet. Just started my tour of Asia.’ She held out her hand, ‘I’m Candace, nice to meet you.’
‘Alex, likewise.’
‘May I?’ She leaned across the terrace railing and for a crazy moment I thought she wanted to kiss me. Instead, she adjusted my bowtie. ‘There, now it’s better,’ she said, barely a hand’s width between our faces.
‘Darling, I’m ready. Finished your ciggy yet?’ Kris came out on the terrace, absolutely stunning in a long black gown with the back cut so low you could almost see her bum. Then she pretended to notice Candace.
‘Oh, hi, I was just wondering if Alex was talking to himself for want of acceptable company,’ followed by a not too convincing look of surprise. ‘You can never be sure what men do when left to their own devices, can you?’
No hidden meaning in that sentence, oh no.
‘Hello there, I’m Candace, just having a chat with your husband about the correct attire for swimming here. And having a good time in Singapore.’
‘I’m sure he was a fount of knowledge, as always. Aren’t you, darling?’ Kris looked pointedly at me. ‘But where are my manners, I’m Kristina, the better half.’ Definite emphasis on better.
It’s amazing how women who’ve never met each other before suddenly seem to become… rivals, I suppose, for want of a better term. And over nothing. Just a few exchanged words, not even a bit (well, just a teensy bit) of harmless flirting. Never mind Kris’ habit of occasionally having someone on the side without me. That, as she would insist, is not at all the same thing. They always say that, don’t they, when they run out of rational arguments?
‘A pleasure to meet you, Kristina. As well as your charming and handsome husband.’
With that simple phrase, I was instantly sidelined and demoted to a mere object in a verbal, for now still semi-friendly competition. Hah, and women claim ownership of being objectified!
‘Oh, Alex is not my husband. He’s my boyfriend and favourite lover. Aren’t you, darling?’ If she’d squeezed my arse while saying it I wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Gosh, is that so?’ Candace graciously acknowledged my presence for a second or so, then continued in an exaggerated drawl, ‘Well, honey, in that case where do I sign up for residence in this Kuahla Lahmpoor?’
I’d had enough. ‘What can I say? I’ve always been partial to loose women. The more the merrier. Anyway, it’s getting too hot for me out here. Nice meeting you, Candace.’
Barely a minute later, Kris was back in the room. ‘Darling, are you ready? We should be going,’ she said innocently.
‘How about I stay here and you take Candace to dinner with Edwina? Then you two can sort out any differences you seem to have. And afterwards the three of you can bugger off to whichever nightclub that’s currently the most exclusive and expensive, and work off your issues on the dance floor.’
‘Please don’t be like that.’ Kris appeared contrite as she looked up at me demurely through the locks falling across her face. Well, as demure as she could ever be. ‘She’s a man eater and I just saved you from a fate worse than death.’
‘Is that so? Potentially, or should I say hypothetically, fucking a good looking woman is worse than dying? Unless it’s you doing it, of course. Well, in my case, I’d certainly choose the former any time. But what’s with favourite?’
‘Oh darling, I’m so sorry for saying that. Please. I just said it… well, I don’t know why I said it, I guess just wanted her to–’
‘To know who’s the boss? Sure, so you’re a whizz-kid when it comes to making money, you’ve more of it than I will ever have, you’ve all your fancy political and otherwise connections, but you’re still a spoiled diplomat brat, acting as if the world revolves around you.’
‘Please–’
‘I’ve know you for, what, just over half a year? And during that time, have I ever fucked, no – have I even shown interest in fucking anyone else? Can you say the same?’
‘Darling, I know, and I love you for it. I always will. I’ll die loving you. I just can’t help being what I am. A loose woman.’ The last said with a pout.
‘Possessive and selfish. And indecent.’ My irritation was dissipating quickly.
‘You’re so sexy when you get mad,’ Kris whispered in my ear as she grabbed my arse and started rubbing herself against my front. ‘I just may have to arrange a ménage à trois at some point,’ she whispered, ‘as long as the girl is not your type. Because then I’d have to kill you.’
‘You’re my type,’ I responded meekly. I’d lost the argument and knew it. ‘And I’ve not the slightest doubt that you’d put out a contract on me if you felt pissed off for any reason.’
‘Meow.’
‘Yes, meow, as a cat says before devouring a mouse. It’s fine with me, I like to live dangerously. Up to a point.’
‘Darling, that makes two of us,’ a big smile lit up Kris’ face, ‘and I’d love to confirm it by having the fuck of the century right here and now, but Edwina is waiting for us, remember? And this is all about you and your dream. Let’s get that over with and, if nothing else, have the best dinner ever in Singapore.’
Chapter 11
Edwina was not at all what I expected. Being fairly close to my age, assuming Kris’ research was correct, she should have been in her early 50s and looking it. Instead, she could have passed for Kris’ slightly older sister. Like most Eurasians, she had the thick, black and long hair and the irresistibly sexy – to me, at least – slightly detached look. And while not necessarily winning classic beauty pageants, she was very much attractive and in possession of what I term the fuck-me-if-you-think-you’re-capable-of-it looks and demeanour. The Chinese-style strict, high-collar, long sleeves and ankle-length dress didn’t do anything to tone it down, slit on one side all the way up to her panties. Colour matched panties, I couldn’t help noticing, somewhere between turquoise and jade green and definitely lacy.
Of course, anything I noticed Kris had checked out long before, so here we were, the three of us, pretending to have a regular business dinner in one of the premiere Singapore locations: Edwina, the orphan and businesswoman; Alex, the dream weirdo; and Kris, assuming by default the chairman role without any difficulties. We’d done the introductions, mentioned my dream, had several pre dinner drinks at the bar, shared a couple of bottles of very nice French wine while waiting for the starters and touched upon the usual subjects – the Indonesian haze that seasonally envelops both Singapore and KL, and the unacceptable numbers of uncouth Russians and Chinese that insist on vacationing here, with suitcases filled with money but also an appalling lack of education and civility. Now we were at the main course, accompanied by a vintage Forts de Latour.
‘I understand you’ve continued with your father’s business? The antiques firm?’ Kris enquired.
‘Yes, but unfortunately over the past years the trade has been steadily diminishing. Our clients are mainly European, and it is getting more and more difficult to export antiques to your part of the world,’ Edwina said with a nod towards me, ‘through official channels, at least. Bureaucracy we know all about, the English left us their legacy and we perfected it here. Supplying provenance documents is one thing, but having to prove legal acquisition of each object and,’ a very Chinese, emphatic sigh now, ‘having to deal with European banks is a nightmare, with their snooping and silly queries about each transaction. Niamah!’
‘Yes, I agree totally with you,’ Kris replied. ‘It is a major nuisance and I know it better than most people. But don’t blame it all on Europe. It’s the US that enforces their draconian rules on the rest of the world. At least for now, while they control the money transfers through SWIFT, although I expect that will change in a few years. But you are still running a successful business, are you not?’
‘We are, but we’ve had to diversify. So nowadays our main line of business is jade jewellery… intimate jewellery. We’re doing quite well, with partners or franchises all over Southeast Asia and will open up soon in mainland China and Japan.’
‘Oh, that’s fascinating.’ She got my attention. ‘Would intimate jewellery be what I’m thinking of? Darling Kris,’ being somewhat tipsy by now and with a cheeky wink at her, ‘how would you like some intimate jade jewellery for your next birthday?’
As an answer, Kris stabbed my foot with a stiletto heel, discretely but painfully, managing at the same time to look at me sternly while smiling angelically at Edwina.
‘I’m sure we can arrange something if you give us enough advance warning.’ Edwina replied, looking puzzled yet intrigued. ‘Our sales reps have quite busy schedules. But I have to tell you,’ she smiled at me innocently, the way a shark smiles at you innocently, ‘our jewellery is expensive. Although definitely worth it. And,’ another sweet smile, ‘I may give you a discount. Just because of you lovely girlfriend.’
‘So, did your mother ever talk about what your father was involved in?’ Kris asked after pausing to cut a perfect square out of her Kobe tenderloin and move it sensually to her mouth as if was a penis (or a vulva, who am I to judge) to be savoured and worshipped. Trust Kris to stay focused on the target.
‘I have to say that, while I was a child, my father was very much a mystery to me,’ Edwina replied thoughtfully. ‘My mother rarely talked about him. It was only when I was about to start school that her – our – relatives decided that we were part of the family.’
‘That must have been tough, when you were young,’ Kris said. ‘With my European father and Asian mother, not quite accepted in either place, I think I know what that would have been like.’
Semi-Asians, I’ve discovered, are very touchy about being “half-breeds”. Not at all like us Europeans, where having your ancestors all over the continent is more or less par for the course and appreciated. Yet, as conscious as they may be about not being pure Asians, and certainly omitting that fact when talking to locals, at the same time they do see themselves as somehow superior to the local populace. Personally, I use – or flaunt, depending on the circumstances – my ancestry, or a selected part thereof as required, as a tool to get close to and get maximum leverage with whomever I’m talking to. At least, that’s what I did in my previous life, and it never failed.
‘Oh no, not at all, I got used to be a gweilo as a toddler, that was never a problem. My mother, though… well, my mother felt – knew, I should really say – that my father was always involved in some shady or at least partly illegal business. But like any business in Singapore, even now, this is always the case if you want to make a profit, you know that.’ A nod and the glass raised towards Kris. ‘As I was saying, that was never a problem. However, my father was always on the fringes, sourcing items unobtainable through regular channels, dealing with very powerful people. I guess he got too involved with his last deal, whatever it was. Unfortunately, my mother, although being a part of the business and in charge of the finances, was never allowed full access to my father’s client list.’
‘To Singapore business, may it never change and continue to be profitable,’ Kris said, toasting Edwina and me. ‘Shame about your father, he must have been an interesting and very driven man. I’m sure that, if the business had continued, you would have become one of the major suppliers of Asia-Pacific artefacts. All legally acquired, of course.’
‘How strange that you should use that word. Artefact, I mean. Because,’ Edwina looked Kris in the eyes, ‘that was what I remember my mother telling me years after his disappearance: “If it wasn’t for the artefact, he wouldn’t have gone to KL. And he would still be alive.” Do you know what this artefact was? Or is?’
‘No, unfortunately, this is just about Alex and his dream, as I told you over the phone. He thinks I’m overreacting, but you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Edwina?’
I congratulated myself silently for not telling Kris about dream number two.
‘I do, Kris, if I may call you that? A kris, in case you don’t know what it is, Alex,’ looking at me as if I was a somewhat slow pupil, ‘is the ceremonial weapon of choice in this part of the world. An intricately adorned dagger; sacred, sinuously shaped and beautiful to look at and hold,’ with an unmistakably appreciative glance at Kris, ‘yet deadly to an opponent. Just like a tigress. Aren’t you, my dear?’
For once Kris was speechless, for several fractions of a second. ‘Only to my opponents on the exchanges. Otherwise, I’m quite harmless.’
‘Yes, she’s just a lovely, sweet pussy,’ I added, realising too late what I’d just said.
‘Um, yes, let’s see what desserts they have,’ Kris intervened. ‘We’re in durian season, aren’t we, and they do fantastic durian pastries here.’
A serving of durian cakes (an acquired taste, believe me) and several large glasses of seriously aged cognac later, Edwina, Kris and I found ourselves outside the main entrance, in a food coma and slightly wobbly from the ingested beverages. We were waiting for Edwina’s chauffeur to turn up, all three of us cheerfully puffing away on the cigars that the staff had provided with the coffee. Within the constraints of the miniscule smoking area, naturally.
‘Dear Kris, you absolutely have to come to a small party I’m having tomorrow,’ Edwina said as if she’d just remembered it. ‘Entrepreneurs only, all girls, hard as nails yet soft as butter. Just like you. You’ll like them and you can show them how to make it big. And they’ll love to hear your success story.’
Kris looked at me enquiringly, and I gave her the why-not-I-can-live-with-it shrug.
‘Sure, where and what time?’
A tank of a car approached the driveway and I was thinking that if Edwina can afford a chauffeured Rolls Royce Phantom she’s not doing too badly, never mind European bank regulations. She stumbled into the car, sprawled across the rear seat, and said, ‘Eight tomorrow, I’ll have my driver pick you up here.’
As the limo pulled away, Edwina opened the window and stuck her head out. ‘Lovely evening, Kris!’ Her hand, holding a filled champagne flute, appeared next to the head. ‘Good night to both of you. See you tomorrow, dear.’
Of course, anything I noticed Kris had checked out long before, so here we were, the three of us, pretending to have a regular business dinner in one of the premiere Singapore locations: Edwina, the orphan and businesswoman; Alex, the dream weirdo; and Kris, assuming by default the chairman role without any difficulties. We’d done the introductions, mentioned my dream, had several pre dinner drinks at the bar, shared a couple of bottles of very nice French wine while waiting for the starters and touched upon the usual subjects – the Indonesian haze that seasonally envelops both Singapore and KL, and the unacceptable numbers of uncouth Russians and Chinese that insist on vacationing here, with suitcases filled with money but also an appalling lack of education and civility. Now we were at the main course, accompanied by a vintage Forts de Latour.
‘I understand you’ve continued with your father’s business? The antiques firm?’ Kris enquired.
‘Yes, but unfortunately over the past years the trade has been steadily diminishing. Our clients are mainly European, and it is getting more and more difficult to export antiques to your part of the world,’ Edwina said with a nod towards me, ‘through official channels, at least. Bureaucracy we know all about, the English left us their legacy and we perfected it here. Supplying provenance documents is one thing, but having to prove legal acquisition of each object and,’ a very Chinese, emphatic sigh now, ‘having to deal with European banks is a nightmare, with their snooping and silly queries about each transaction. Niamah!’
‘Yes, I agree totally with you,’ Kris replied. ‘It is a major nuisance and I know it better than most people. But don’t blame it all on Europe. It’s the US that enforces their draconian rules on the rest of the world. At least for now, while they control the money transfers through SWIFT, although I expect that will change in a few years. But you are still running a successful business, are you not?’
‘We are, but we’ve had to diversify. So nowadays our main line of business is jade jewellery… intimate jewellery. We’re doing quite well, with partners or franchises all over Southeast Asia and will open up soon in mainland China and Japan.’
‘Oh, that’s fascinating.’ She got my attention. ‘Would intimate jewellery be what I’m thinking of? Darling Kris,’ being somewhat tipsy by now and with a cheeky wink at her, ‘how would you like some intimate jade jewellery for your next birthday?’
As an answer, Kris stabbed my foot with a stiletto heel, discretely but painfully, managing at the same time to look at me sternly while smiling angelically at Edwina.
‘I’m sure we can arrange something if you give us enough advance warning.’ Edwina replied, looking puzzled yet intrigued. ‘Our sales reps have quite busy schedules. But I have to tell you,’ she smiled at me innocently, the way a shark smiles at you innocently, ‘our jewellery is expensive. Although definitely worth it. And,’ another sweet smile, ‘I may give you a discount. Just because of you lovely girlfriend.’
‘So, did your mother ever talk about what your father was involved in?’ Kris asked after pausing to cut a perfect square out of her Kobe tenderloin and move it sensually to her mouth as if was a penis (or a vulva, who am I to judge) to be savoured and worshipped. Trust Kris to stay focused on the target.
‘I have to say that, while I was a child, my father was very much a mystery to me,’ Edwina replied thoughtfully. ‘My mother rarely talked about him. It was only when I was about to start school that her – our – relatives decided that we were part of the family.’
‘That must have been tough, when you were young,’ Kris said. ‘With my European father and Asian mother, not quite accepted in either place, I think I know what that would have been like.’
Semi-Asians, I’ve discovered, are very touchy about being “half-breeds”. Not at all like us Europeans, where having your ancestors all over the continent is more or less par for the course and appreciated. Yet, as conscious as they may be about not being pure Asians, and certainly omitting that fact when talking to locals, at the same time they do see themselves as somehow superior to the local populace. Personally, I use – or flaunt, depending on the circumstances – my ancestry, or a selected part thereof as required, as a tool to get close to and get maximum leverage with whomever I’m talking to. At least, that’s what I did in my previous life, and it never failed.
‘Oh no, not at all, I got used to be a gweilo as a toddler, that was never a problem. My mother, though… well, my mother felt – knew, I should really say – that my father was always involved in some shady or at least partly illegal business. But like any business in Singapore, even now, this is always the case if you want to make a profit, you know that.’ A nod and the glass raised towards Kris. ‘As I was saying, that was never a problem. However, my father was always on the fringes, sourcing items unobtainable through regular channels, dealing with very powerful people. I guess he got too involved with his last deal, whatever it was. Unfortunately, my mother, although being a part of the business and in charge of the finances, was never allowed full access to my father’s client list.’
‘To Singapore business, may it never change and continue to be profitable,’ Kris said, toasting Edwina and me. ‘Shame about your father, he must have been an interesting and very driven man. I’m sure that, if the business had continued, you would have become one of the major suppliers of Asia-Pacific artefacts. All legally acquired, of course.’
‘How strange that you should use that word. Artefact, I mean. Because,’ Edwina looked Kris in the eyes, ‘that was what I remember my mother telling me years after his disappearance: “If it wasn’t for the artefact, he wouldn’t have gone to KL. And he would still be alive.” Do you know what this artefact was? Or is?’
‘No, unfortunately, this is just about Alex and his dream, as I told you over the phone. He thinks I’m overreacting, but you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Edwina?’
I congratulated myself silently for not telling Kris about dream number two.
‘I do, Kris, if I may call you that? A kris, in case you don’t know what it is, Alex,’ looking at me as if I was a somewhat slow pupil, ‘is the ceremonial weapon of choice in this part of the world. An intricately adorned dagger; sacred, sinuously shaped and beautiful to look at and hold,’ with an unmistakably appreciative glance at Kris, ‘yet deadly to an opponent. Just like a tigress. Aren’t you, my dear?’
For once Kris was speechless, for several fractions of a second. ‘Only to my opponents on the exchanges. Otherwise, I’m quite harmless.’
‘Yes, she’s just a lovely, sweet pussy,’ I added, realising too late what I’d just said.
‘Um, yes, let’s see what desserts they have,’ Kris intervened. ‘We’re in durian season, aren’t we, and they do fantastic durian pastries here.’
A serving of durian cakes (an acquired taste, believe me) and several large glasses of seriously aged cognac later, Edwina, Kris and I found ourselves outside the main entrance, in a food coma and slightly wobbly from the ingested beverages. We were waiting for Edwina’s chauffeur to turn up, all three of us cheerfully puffing away on the cigars that the staff had provided with the coffee. Within the constraints of the miniscule smoking area, naturally.
‘Dear Kris, you absolutely have to come to a small party I’m having tomorrow,’ Edwina said as if she’d just remembered it. ‘Entrepreneurs only, all girls, hard as nails yet soft as butter. Just like you. You’ll like them and you can show them how to make it big. And they’ll love to hear your success story.’
Kris looked at me enquiringly, and I gave her the why-not-I-can-live-with-it shrug.
‘Sure, where and what time?’
A tank of a car approached the driveway and I was thinking that if Edwina can afford a chauffeured Rolls Royce Phantom she’s not doing too badly, never mind European bank regulations. She stumbled into the car, sprawled across the rear seat, and said, ‘Eight tomorrow, I’ll have my driver pick you up here.’
As the limo pulled away, Edwina opened the window and stuck her head out. ‘Lovely evening, Kris!’ Her hand, holding a filled champagne flute, appeared next to the head. ‘Good night to both of you. See you tomorrow, dear.’
●
‘Ah, I must say I prefer this dessert to the durian. Both sweeter and juicier,’ I looked up from where I was lying with my head on Kris’ thigh, her other leg across my chest, still twitching slightly. ‘And I dare say that you’d be even prettier, if possible, with a strategically applied piece of intimate jewellery. All in the best taste, of course. Maybe in the shape of a kris?’
Coming back to the room, we’d unanimously decided to postpone our separate meetings indefinitely and instead indulge in our favourite activity.
‘You silly man, do I have to teach you everything about this part of the world?’ Kris replied, stretching her arms luxuriously above her head. ‘She’s a mamasan. Her sales reps probably do wear jewellery, jade or otherwise, and some of it may be intimate, but they themselves are the products on sale. Or rather, short term lease.’
‘You’re not kidding, are you? Hookers? Ah, the ways of the East,’ I nodded. ‘Wow, I get Edwina’s reaction now! And yet she was instantly ready to facilitate a transaction, wasn’t she? A quick recovery, as befits a true business-oriented entrepreneur. What does she charge, I wonder? Purely of academic interest, of course.’
‘Way out of your league, darling. Or possibly even mine, if I’d been thus inclined. This is the stratosphere of quote-unquote home entertainment. Think heads of state and major tycoons. Huge sums. But I bet you she’s not in it for the money alone. Imagine all the information she must have by now, and is trusted with. She could probably topple governments, never mind break exchanges. And yet she’s still alive and thriving. Oh boy, Edwina’s good! Darling, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have met her and now I’m invited to her party! I just have to make sure I get on her good side tomorrow.’
‘If you ask me, you’re already on her good side. If anything, I’d say that she wants to get on your good side. Each and every one of them.’
‘Yes… it seemed that way, didn’t it? So much the better. But don’t fret, love. I will use the Tao of Deception to gain her confidence.’
‘Eh? English please.’
‘The Art of War by Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese geek. Never mind, I’m so tired now. I was hoping for a late night pool dip but can we do it tomorrow instead, when I come back? Be naughty in the hotel pool? Wouldn’t you like that, you horny man?’
Coming back to the room, we’d unanimously decided to postpone our separate meetings indefinitely and instead indulge in our favourite activity.
‘You silly man, do I have to teach you everything about this part of the world?’ Kris replied, stretching her arms luxuriously above her head. ‘She’s a mamasan. Her sales reps probably do wear jewellery, jade or otherwise, and some of it may be intimate, but they themselves are the products on sale. Or rather, short term lease.’
‘You’re not kidding, are you? Hookers? Ah, the ways of the East,’ I nodded. ‘Wow, I get Edwina’s reaction now! And yet she was instantly ready to facilitate a transaction, wasn’t she? A quick recovery, as befits a true business-oriented entrepreneur. What does she charge, I wonder? Purely of academic interest, of course.’
‘Way out of your league, darling. Or possibly even mine, if I’d been thus inclined. This is the stratosphere of quote-unquote home entertainment. Think heads of state and major tycoons. Huge sums. But I bet you she’s not in it for the money alone. Imagine all the information she must have by now, and is trusted with. She could probably topple governments, never mind break exchanges. And yet she’s still alive and thriving. Oh boy, Edwina’s good! Darling, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have met her and now I’m invited to her party! I just have to make sure I get on her good side tomorrow.’
‘If you ask me, you’re already on her good side. If anything, I’d say that she wants to get on your good side. Each and every one of them.’
‘Yes… it seemed that way, didn’t it? So much the better. But don’t fret, love. I will use the Tao of Deception to gain her confidence.’
‘Eh? English please.’
‘The Art of War by Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese geek. Never mind, I’m so tired now. I was hoping for a late night pool dip but can we do it tomorrow instead, when I come back? Be naughty in the hotel pool? Wouldn’t you like that, you horny man?’
Chapter 12
As we walked into the breakfast lounge, Kris carrying with her a crisply folded copy of the Straits Times and me checking out the sumptuous offerings laid out on the tables, someone called out.
‘Hi Kristina, hi Alex, you guys had a good time last night? I sure did!’ Candace waved at us from a table in the corner of the room, anything but inconspicuous with her blonde and silver mane, a little bit too loud and simultaneously oblivious to it in the time honoured fashion of the American abroad.
‘Yes, thank you, we had a very pleasant evening,’ Kris responded, gently guiding me away from the woman and towards a table at the other side of the room, where a waiter was frantically brushing the cloth and laying out new plates, cups and cutlery. I could almost smell his relief as he finished just as we arrived.
‘Good morning Madam, Sir. I will bring you the tea now.’
‘Thank you, Kevin. The gentleman will have breakfast tea, with milk.’
‘Yes, Madam. One jasmine Earl Grey, as usual, and one,’ said with slight hesitation, the insolent sod, ‘plain breakfast tea.’
‘With milk.’
‘Yes, Madam. Right away, Madam.’
I was stunned, ‘You’ve certainly got them trained in this hotel. On the few occasions that I’ve been here on my own, the staff barely gave me the time of the day. How do you do it?’
‘You’re not a woman, darling. And you probably don’t tip them enough. Now let’s see if we can get a nice omelette with all the trimmings.’
An hour later, as I was munching on a freshly baked and very tasty Danish pastry, Kris put the paper down. ‘Once you finish that, shall we go into town? All pleasure, I promise. Just a bit of shopping, nothing too strenuous.’
‘Hi Kristina, hi Alex, you guys had a good time last night? I sure did!’ Candace waved at us from a table in the corner of the room, anything but inconspicuous with her blonde and silver mane, a little bit too loud and simultaneously oblivious to it in the time honoured fashion of the American abroad.
‘Yes, thank you, we had a very pleasant evening,’ Kris responded, gently guiding me away from the woman and towards a table at the other side of the room, where a waiter was frantically brushing the cloth and laying out new plates, cups and cutlery. I could almost smell his relief as he finished just as we arrived.
‘Good morning Madam, Sir. I will bring you the tea now.’
‘Thank you, Kevin. The gentleman will have breakfast tea, with milk.’
‘Yes, Madam. One jasmine Earl Grey, as usual, and one,’ said with slight hesitation, the insolent sod, ‘plain breakfast tea.’
‘With milk.’
‘Yes, Madam. Right away, Madam.’
I was stunned, ‘You’ve certainly got them trained in this hotel. On the few occasions that I’ve been here on my own, the staff barely gave me the time of the day. How do you do it?’
‘You’re not a woman, darling. And you probably don’t tip them enough. Now let’s see if we can get a nice omelette with all the trimmings.’
An hour later, as I was munching on a freshly baked and very tasty Danish pastry, Kris put the paper down. ‘Once you finish that, shall we go into town? All pleasure, I promise. Just a bit of shopping, nothing too strenuous.’
●
Yeah, right, just a bit of shopping that turned out to be: numerous dresses, the total fabric area of each barely enough to cover an average bum, let alone a decently sized tit; underwear that hardly qualified as such, emphasising select body parts rather than covering them; countless pairs of designer shoes with improbably high heels (how could I not approve of those, with comments like ‘I know, useless to walk in, but such sexy bed shoes, don’t you think, darling?’); and not least the latest hi-tech home appliances of an intimate nature – ‘Darling, it’s not about you, I just want to see if the Cosmopolitan review is on the spot, if you know what I mean.’
Kris also insisted that I needed a wardrobe makeover, but I staunchly resisted the expensive, branded, middle-age, boring items. Instead I chose expensive, branded, middle-youth, audacious items that I feel more comfortable with. And insisted on paying for them myself, despite Kris brandishing her Centurion card in each shop.
Finally getting back to the hotel I flopped down on the bed, with my calves wasted after all the walking. A pleasant heat was spreading through my gut following the incredible lunch in an Indonesian restaurant, tucked away in Little India and looking like a typical Singaporean hole in the wall (‘Trust me, darling, this is the place on the island if you want a superb lunch.’ I did trust her, and she was right.). I was more than ready for a nap and barely heard Kris say that she’s going out for a swim. Just managed to wave and respond that I may join her later.
I woke up as Kris was shaking me gently. ‘Darling, it’s close to eight and I’m getting ready to go. You’ve slept for over two hours. Surely you’ve recovered by now?’
‘Er, yes, I feel reasonably rested.’ I responded, then added, ‘How about a quickie?’
‘Sorry love, no time for that now. But if you get up and get decent you can follow me to the car. It should be here any minute now.’
‘So you’d rather spend an evening with strange women, talking business, than spending it with me and other strange women at a dress code party? It’s not like we’re spoiled with those in KL. I’m disappointed. And devastated.’
‘And you’ll get over it. We’ll come to Singapore for the next one, meanwhile we can have a fetish party on our own once we get back to KL. Wouldn’t you like that, my master and commander?’ Kris looked at me demurely, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘With one of your friends?’
‘Don’t push it, pal.’
As we were walking to the reception, Kris said, ‘Had a funny experience while swimming earlier. There was absolutely no breeze anywhere in the pool area, yet the water around me was moving, like a tiny whirlpool.’
‘You mean like a jacuzzi? Trust you to get that service in a regular pool. I bet there was a tiny munchkin pool attendant following you along the bottom and moving the water for you.’
‘Ha, he’d have had to be really tiny. Or possibly transparent. But anyway it was a very pleasant sensation.’
When we stepped outside Edwina’s Phantom was already waiting, the chauffeur standing to attention by the rear door, opening it as we approached.
‘Darling, since our plans for last night got sidetracked, why don’t you meet your friend this evening? Go out, have a good time, you deserve it after all the work that you’ve put in on that ruin. And don’t worry about me, I’ve a feeling I’ll be quite late tonight.’
‘Yeah, I may do that, if he’s around. If not, I’ll just have a cosy evening in the room confirming that the Cosmopolitan reviewers were right.’
‘Pervert.’ And with a peck on my lips, Kris slid onto the commodious rear seat. I noted a tray with a champagne bottle in a cooler, together with a glass and a linen napkin. Apparently standard accessories in a Phantom. My, the ways of the rich.
Kris also insisted that I needed a wardrobe makeover, but I staunchly resisted the expensive, branded, middle-age, boring items. Instead I chose expensive, branded, middle-youth, audacious items that I feel more comfortable with. And insisted on paying for them myself, despite Kris brandishing her Centurion card in each shop.
Finally getting back to the hotel I flopped down on the bed, with my calves wasted after all the walking. A pleasant heat was spreading through my gut following the incredible lunch in an Indonesian restaurant, tucked away in Little India and looking like a typical Singaporean hole in the wall (‘Trust me, darling, this is the place on the island if you want a superb lunch.’ I did trust her, and she was right.). I was more than ready for a nap and barely heard Kris say that she’s going out for a swim. Just managed to wave and respond that I may join her later.
I woke up as Kris was shaking me gently. ‘Darling, it’s close to eight and I’m getting ready to go. You’ve slept for over two hours. Surely you’ve recovered by now?’
‘Er, yes, I feel reasonably rested.’ I responded, then added, ‘How about a quickie?’
‘Sorry love, no time for that now. But if you get up and get decent you can follow me to the car. It should be here any minute now.’
‘So you’d rather spend an evening with strange women, talking business, than spending it with me and other strange women at a dress code party? It’s not like we’re spoiled with those in KL. I’m disappointed. And devastated.’
‘And you’ll get over it. We’ll come to Singapore for the next one, meanwhile we can have a fetish party on our own once we get back to KL. Wouldn’t you like that, my master and commander?’ Kris looked at me demurely, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘With one of your friends?’
‘Don’t push it, pal.’
As we were walking to the reception, Kris said, ‘Had a funny experience while swimming earlier. There was absolutely no breeze anywhere in the pool area, yet the water around me was moving, like a tiny whirlpool.’
‘You mean like a jacuzzi? Trust you to get that service in a regular pool. I bet there was a tiny munchkin pool attendant following you along the bottom and moving the water for you.’
‘Ha, he’d have had to be really tiny. Or possibly transparent. But anyway it was a very pleasant sensation.’
When we stepped outside Edwina’s Phantom was already waiting, the chauffeur standing to attention by the rear door, opening it as we approached.
‘Darling, since our plans for last night got sidetracked, why don’t you meet your friend this evening? Go out, have a good time, you deserve it after all the work that you’ve put in on that ruin. And don’t worry about me, I’ve a feeling I’ll be quite late tonight.’
‘Yeah, I may do that, if he’s around. If not, I’ll just have a cosy evening in the room confirming that the Cosmopolitan reviewers were right.’
‘Pervert.’ And with a peck on my lips, Kris slid onto the commodious rear seat. I noted a tray with a champagne bottle in a cooler, together with a glass and a linen napkin. Apparently standard accessories in a Phantom. My, the ways of the rich.
Chapter 13
Back in the room it struck me that I wasn’t overly keen on another late night, abusing my liver and ears in the Towers. I called my friend and once again postponed our meeting (not that he minded – ‘Hey, no problem, old man, I’ve got these two chicks lined up for tonight and I guess I’ll just have to entertain them myself.’), and agreed to catch up another time. Then I settled in with the latest John Connolly novel and a handful of baby bottles of whisky from the minibar. Abusing one’s liver is one thing, but maintaining a healthy level of ethanol in the blood is a prerequisite for a long and happy life.
A couple of hours later, the bottles empty and a third of the book read, I was ready for bed. Well, nearly, just a quick visit to the hotel’s Highland Bar for a last drink. Their selection of single malts is astonishing.
With barely twenty minutes left before the bar closed I expected it to be more or less empty. What I didn’t expect was Candace sitting alone with a pensive look and sipping from a tumbler. Based on the half empty bottle next to her, a very smooth 15 year old Balvenie.
I couldn’t pretend not to see her, as she was the only other guest in the bar. And maybe also because of a sudden onset of recklessness.
‘Hello Candace. I see you’ve good taste in whiskies,’ I said as I sat down opposite her.
‘Oh, hi Alex.’ Her eyes sparkled as she greeted me like an old friend. ‘Yes, my former husband was quite a connoisseur of single malts, if you can believe an American advancing beyond Bourbon. He had a first class collection and taught me to appreciate all the flavours and nuances.’
‘Had a collection? As in past tense?’
‘Yes. The collection, being in the cellar, was part of the house. Poor soul, he fought the divorce settlement all the way even though his lawyers said it was reasonable. But where are my manners,’ Candace turned towards the bartender. ‘Another glass for the gentleman, please. You will have a glass with me, won’t you? Please?’
As the bartender brought over a tumbler and a fresh bowl of nuts, she stopped his hand reaching for the bottle.
‘That’s okay, we’ll pour ourselves. No ice, I presume, just like me. You don’t look like an ice man. Are you?’ And with a hint of a smile she poured a generous amount in my glass, looking me in the eyes as she was doing it.
An outwardly simple question, yet impossible to misunderstand and despite my better judgement, my recklessness level was bumped up a couple of notches. Well, screw Kris, I thought, she’s having fun so why shouldn’t I.
‘No, I’m not an ice man. I like my things pure and simple, without complications.’
‘I like that in a man,’ Candace said, raising her glass. ‘No complications. And a good whisky always tastes better when shared in good company. In fact, just before you came in, I was considering being terribly rude and coming over to your room to invite you and your girlfriend for a nightcap. But she’s not with you tonight?’
‘No, unfortunately Kris had a prior engagement tonight. Mainly business,’ for some reason I felt it necessary to add.
‘With the lady I saw you at dinner with last night? I’m sorry, I seem extremely nosey, but I couldn’t help noticing you as I walked past the restaurant. And the two of them looked very much involved. In a conversation, I mean.’
‘Yes, she’s the one. Some kind of local women entrepreneurs gathering, and Kris never misses an opportunity to network.’
‘So true. Unfortunately it’s still the case that wherever we live, women have to grab every chance to make headway. And advance our positions,’ Candace said, extending her left hand until the fingers as if by chance lightly touched my hand.
‘Sir, Madam. We are closing now,’ the bartender announced discretely.
‘Oh dear. We better leave before we get thrown out. May I rely upon you as a gentleman to escort me back to my room?’ Candace said as she stood up, with a slight hesitancy. ‘And would you mind carrying the bottle for me?’
As we arrived at her door, with her still holding on to my arm, Candace swiped the key card across the lock then turned towards me, her face within breathing distance from mine.
‘Would you consider it improper if I invited you in for a last drink?’ And without waiting for my answer, she reached for my neck and pulled my mouth towards hers.
Her breath was whisky flavoured, but not the sour taste of bad booze, just a delicate aroma of peat and honey and cinnamon, and her tongue seemed intent to explore every part of my mouth all the way to the throat. As she pushed and ground her breasts against me, I responded in the only possible way. Cupping her arse with one hand and lifting her up I pushed open the door with the other, careful not to drop the bottle.
Candace was not wasting any time. As I deposited her on the bed she was already unbuttoning my trousers while simultaneously removing her blouse and bra. Just as I had thought, a lovely pair of breasts, full and heavy, with large nipples, like two ripe raspberries. We had a momentary struggle, with me trying to connect my tongue with her nipples while she did her best to take all of my cock in her mouth. She won.
This was anything but slow, gentle, romantic lovemaking. More like a competition to see who would manage to come first. As I knelt in front of Candace, lifting up her legs, she wiggled out of my hold and turned around, presenting me with her shapely arse. She squealed as I entered her and started bucking against me until I steadied her by grabbing one of her breasts, squeezing hard.
Candace won. Again. She started shuddering and biting the pillow, then stiffened for a moment to finally collapse on the bed with a deeply satisfied moan and twitching legs. I finally gave up then, seeing her buttocks still contracting with each aftershock. Then I started laughing, lying down next to her.
‘You find it funny, fucking me?’ she inquired from the depths of the pillow.
‘Sorry, no, not at all,’ still chuckling. ‘But coming all over your butt, I couldn’t help thinking that it was well on par with any choreographed porn film scene.’
‘Don’t put down porn, honey,’ mumbling from the pillow. ‘That’s how my ex made his first million.’
‘Your husband was a porn actor?’
‘No, silly,’ giggling. ‘He produced the films. But I’m sure that he’d have signed you up on the spot, based on your current performance. Flawless. Im-fucking-peccable. With maybe just a bit of artistic guidance from me.’
And as if to prove the point, Candace turned around and proceeded to lick my now flaccid cock clean, looking at me hungrily.
‘I’m going to get you hard again. And this time you will fuck me properly.’
Just as I was about to ask her what she meant by properly, my phone rang. The only person I could think of that would call me at this time was Kris, and I was suddenly assailed by all kinds of thoughts of impropriety and infidelity and a general feeling of being an arsehole. I slid halfway off the bed to reach the phone, with Candace hanging on and trying to swallow my cock.
It was Kris: ‘Hi lover, having fun in the towers?’
‘Er, yes… having a great time. In fact, getting the blowjob of my life.’
Whenever you can, tell the truth. The more outrageous the better, and no one will ever believe you. Candace stared at me with an are-you-fucking-crazy look, somewhat marred by her lips still firmly wrapped around my erection.
‘Of course you are, darling. Do enjoy it.’ See what I mean? They just won’t believe you. ‘I assume you won’t be going back to the hotel until the towers close, then?’
‘Ah, probably not.’
‘That’s fine. Have fun. And I’ll see you for breakfast then, you bad boy. Love you.’
‘Love you too. Bye.’
‘I’m sure you love her, but right now I want your loving’, Candace said, her enunciation somewhat muffled. Obviously her parents had never taught her not to talk with her mouth full.
Despite still feeling slightly bad about being a lecherous, adulterous bastard I proceeded to fuck Candace properly, as per her request. I assumed that I’d have plenty of time to satisfy Candace’s – as it turned out – quite extensive and imaginative requirements.
Things never work out the way you want them to, do they? As I was hammering away from the top and sideways, with Candace bent double with her gorgeous arse in the air, I heard voices in the corridor. Not uncommon in a hotel, but then I heard the same voices in the room next door. Kris’ and my room.
My first reaction was ‘Oh hell, I’ve been caught out,’ immediately replaced by ‘Hey, what the fuck is going on here?’
‘I think your girlfriend’s back. And she’s not alone.’ Candace suggested with a saintly smile.
‘Surely not. I’ll check it out from the terrace,’ I said and grabbed a pillow to preserve my modesty as I stepped out on the terrace and looked over the divider into the other room.
Surely yes. There she was, the love of my life, standing in the middle of our semi-lit room, undressing and groping Edwina, who was eagerly returning the favour. My own infidelity conveniently forgotten, I was outraged at seeing Kris being kissed and fondled by someone else than me. I felt Candace come up behind me, peeking over my shoulder.
‘I knew it! It’s the Chinese woman, isn’t it? The one from last night.’
‘Candace, love, would you be kind and call the reception about a disturbance in your neighbour’s room?’
‘Oh… Oh, no… You want to… Oh, you’re so wicked,’ she said and started chuckling.
‘Not at all. Just having a bit of harmless fun. Please.’ As Candace went back inside giggling like a teenager setting up a school prank, Edwina stepped out, modestly wrapped in a sheet that was trailing behind her. Then Kris appeared on the terrace in panties and bra, carrying an opened bottle of champagne and two glasses which she proceed to fill. Do I need to say that, feeling pissed off, I lost my composure somewhat?
Dropping the pillow I stepped out on the terrace beyond the divider and said, in my most cheerful voice, ‘Hello Kris, good evening Edwina. And a lovely evening it is, isn’t it?’
If anything, I had underestimated the reaction. Edwina froze like a rabbit caught in car headlights, then turned away from me screeching, in the process ripping off the sheet that had caught in the door frame. Kris looked at me, taking several seconds to grasp the situation, and was just about to open her mouth when Candace came out. In solidarity with me, she was also naked.
‘Hello Kristina, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ she said in the calmest possible voice. ‘Oh, that looks like a decent Pommery. Shall I bring more glasses?’
Kris was glaring at me with eyes like saucers, Edwina was still wailing and tearing at the sheet to cover herself while looking fearfully at me and Candace, when the doorbell rang.
‘Ma’am, Sir. Security.’ A discreet and, by the sound of it, Indian voice.
If possible, Kris’ eyes got even bigger. ‘You… you… How could you?’ Then turned towards the door, shouting, ‘Go away, you silly man!’
Firm knocking now. ‘This is hotel security. Please open the door.’
‘Just go away! It’s being sorted out!’
The light in a room across the pool came on and a podgy man in pyjamas stepped out onto the terrace, rubbing his face with one hand and scratching his butt with the other.
‘Do stop the bloody noise, will you! I’ve just spent twelve hours on a plane and need my–’ The man’s eyes matched Kris’ as he took in the scene. Two naked women, one semi-naked and, for good measure, a naked man with the remains of an erection.
‘Oh, you horrid person, go back to bed! And take this to help you sleep,’ with which Kris did an expert overhand throw, sending the bottle in his general direction.
Fortunately she miscalculated the throwing angle and the bottle landed in the pool with a splash, at the same time as the security guard came out to the pool area. An impressive fellow, tall, wide shouldered, and with most of his face covered in a luxurious beard. Indian, as I thought, and by the looks of it a Sikh. You don’t mess around with these guys.
‘Ma’am, I must insist…’ Joining the saucer-eyed crowd, the guard stopped in his stride, speechless.
‘And you too – stop looking at me or I’ll have you arrested for sexual abuse!’ Kris was absolutely furious by now.
The lights in some of the other rooms surrounding the pool started to come on.
‘Hey, Kayehl lover, I think you should make up with your girlfriend now,’ Candace whispered in my ear, handing me my clothes and shoes. ‘I believe it’s time to say goodnight. And bonne chance. Maybe in different circumstances the three of us could’ve had some fun, who knows,’ and with a peck on my ear she went inside and closed the door.
By now, Edwina was back inside our room, tugging on her clothes; the fat Englishman across the pool, intimidated by Kris (and who can blame him) was shaking his head as he turned to go back inside, muttering something about Singapore debauchery nowadays; while the guard, having composed himself and, staring intently on the ground in front of him, cleared his throat.
‘Ma’am, please, for everyone’s sake, would you please retreat to your room. Or rooms, whichever.’ He was pleading now, wringing his hands, ‘What you do inside your room is of no concern to the hotel. But please do not make noise.’
Edwina had finished dressing now and, with a last glare at me, ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Kris barely noticed it. Instead, looking at me, she burst out laughing.
‘Serves me right, doesn’t it? Nobody’s fault but mine. Let’s go to bed.’
A couple of hours later, the bottles empty and a third of the book read, I was ready for bed. Well, nearly, just a quick visit to the hotel’s Highland Bar for a last drink. Their selection of single malts is astonishing.
With barely twenty minutes left before the bar closed I expected it to be more or less empty. What I didn’t expect was Candace sitting alone with a pensive look and sipping from a tumbler. Based on the half empty bottle next to her, a very smooth 15 year old Balvenie.
I couldn’t pretend not to see her, as she was the only other guest in the bar. And maybe also because of a sudden onset of recklessness.
‘Hello Candace. I see you’ve good taste in whiskies,’ I said as I sat down opposite her.
‘Oh, hi Alex.’ Her eyes sparkled as she greeted me like an old friend. ‘Yes, my former husband was quite a connoisseur of single malts, if you can believe an American advancing beyond Bourbon. He had a first class collection and taught me to appreciate all the flavours and nuances.’
‘Had a collection? As in past tense?’
‘Yes. The collection, being in the cellar, was part of the house. Poor soul, he fought the divorce settlement all the way even though his lawyers said it was reasonable. But where are my manners,’ Candace turned towards the bartender. ‘Another glass for the gentleman, please. You will have a glass with me, won’t you? Please?’
As the bartender brought over a tumbler and a fresh bowl of nuts, she stopped his hand reaching for the bottle.
‘That’s okay, we’ll pour ourselves. No ice, I presume, just like me. You don’t look like an ice man. Are you?’ And with a hint of a smile she poured a generous amount in my glass, looking me in the eyes as she was doing it.
An outwardly simple question, yet impossible to misunderstand and despite my better judgement, my recklessness level was bumped up a couple of notches. Well, screw Kris, I thought, she’s having fun so why shouldn’t I.
‘No, I’m not an ice man. I like my things pure and simple, without complications.’
‘I like that in a man,’ Candace said, raising her glass. ‘No complications. And a good whisky always tastes better when shared in good company. In fact, just before you came in, I was considering being terribly rude and coming over to your room to invite you and your girlfriend for a nightcap. But she’s not with you tonight?’
‘No, unfortunately Kris had a prior engagement tonight. Mainly business,’ for some reason I felt it necessary to add.
‘With the lady I saw you at dinner with last night? I’m sorry, I seem extremely nosey, but I couldn’t help noticing you as I walked past the restaurant. And the two of them looked very much involved. In a conversation, I mean.’
‘Yes, she’s the one. Some kind of local women entrepreneurs gathering, and Kris never misses an opportunity to network.’
‘So true. Unfortunately it’s still the case that wherever we live, women have to grab every chance to make headway. And advance our positions,’ Candace said, extending her left hand until the fingers as if by chance lightly touched my hand.
‘Sir, Madam. We are closing now,’ the bartender announced discretely.
‘Oh dear. We better leave before we get thrown out. May I rely upon you as a gentleman to escort me back to my room?’ Candace said as she stood up, with a slight hesitancy. ‘And would you mind carrying the bottle for me?’
As we arrived at her door, with her still holding on to my arm, Candace swiped the key card across the lock then turned towards me, her face within breathing distance from mine.
‘Would you consider it improper if I invited you in for a last drink?’ And without waiting for my answer, she reached for my neck and pulled my mouth towards hers.
Her breath was whisky flavoured, but not the sour taste of bad booze, just a delicate aroma of peat and honey and cinnamon, and her tongue seemed intent to explore every part of my mouth all the way to the throat. As she pushed and ground her breasts against me, I responded in the only possible way. Cupping her arse with one hand and lifting her up I pushed open the door with the other, careful not to drop the bottle.
Candace was not wasting any time. As I deposited her on the bed she was already unbuttoning my trousers while simultaneously removing her blouse and bra. Just as I had thought, a lovely pair of breasts, full and heavy, with large nipples, like two ripe raspberries. We had a momentary struggle, with me trying to connect my tongue with her nipples while she did her best to take all of my cock in her mouth. She won.
This was anything but slow, gentle, romantic lovemaking. More like a competition to see who would manage to come first. As I knelt in front of Candace, lifting up her legs, she wiggled out of my hold and turned around, presenting me with her shapely arse. She squealed as I entered her and started bucking against me until I steadied her by grabbing one of her breasts, squeezing hard.
Candace won. Again. She started shuddering and biting the pillow, then stiffened for a moment to finally collapse on the bed with a deeply satisfied moan and twitching legs. I finally gave up then, seeing her buttocks still contracting with each aftershock. Then I started laughing, lying down next to her.
‘You find it funny, fucking me?’ she inquired from the depths of the pillow.
‘Sorry, no, not at all,’ still chuckling. ‘But coming all over your butt, I couldn’t help thinking that it was well on par with any choreographed porn film scene.’
‘Don’t put down porn, honey,’ mumbling from the pillow. ‘That’s how my ex made his first million.’
‘Your husband was a porn actor?’
‘No, silly,’ giggling. ‘He produced the films. But I’m sure that he’d have signed you up on the spot, based on your current performance. Flawless. Im-fucking-peccable. With maybe just a bit of artistic guidance from me.’
And as if to prove the point, Candace turned around and proceeded to lick my now flaccid cock clean, looking at me hungrily.
‘I’m going to get you hard again. And this time you will fuck me properly.’
Just as I was about to ask her what she meant by properly, my phone rang. The only person I could think of that would call me at this time was Kris, and I was suddenly assailed by all kinds of thoughts of impropriety and infidelity and a general feeling of being an arsehole. I slid halfway off the bed to reach the phone, with Candace hanging on and trying to swallow my cock.
It was Kris: ‘Hi lover, having fun in the towers?’
‘Er, yes… having a great time. In fact, getting the blowjob of my life.’
Whenever you can, tell the truth. The more outrageous the better, and no one will ever believe you. Candace stared at me with an are-you-fucking-crazy look, somewhat marred by her lips still firmly wrapped around my erection.
‘Of course you are, darling. Do enjoy it.’ See what I mean? They just won’t believe you. ‘I assume you won’t be going back to the hotel until the towers close, then?’
‘Ah, probably not.’
‘That’s fine. Have fun. And I’ll see you for breakfast then, you bad boy. Love you.’
‘Love you too. Bye.’
‘I’m sure you love her, but right now I want your loving’, Candace said, her enunciation somewhat muffled. Obviously her parents had never taught her not to talk with her mouth full.
Despite still feeling slightly bad about being a lecherous, adulterous bastard I proceeded to fuck Candace properly, as per her request. I assumed that I’d have plenty of time to satisfy Candace’s – as it turned out – quite extensive and imaginative requirements.
Things never work out the way you want them to, do they? As I was hammering away from the top and sideways, with Candace bent double with her gorgeous arse in the air, I heard voices in the corridor. Not uncommon in a hotel, but then I heard the same voices in the room next door. Kris’ and my room.
My first reaction was ‘Oh hell, I’ve been caught out,’ immediately replaced by ‘Hey, what the fuck is going on here?’
‘I think your girlfriend’s back. And she’s not alone.’ Candace suggested with a saintly smile.
‘Surely not. I’ll check it out from the terrace,’ I said and grabbed a pillow to preserve my modesty as I stepped out on the terrace and looked over the divider into the other room.
Surely yes. There she was, the love of my life, standing in the middle of our semi-lit room, undressing and groping Edwina, who was eagerly returning the favour. My own infidelity conveniently forgotten, I was outraged at seeing Kris being kissed and fondled by someone else than me. I felt Candace come up behind me, peeking over my shoulder.
‘I knew it! It’s the Chinese woman, isn’t it? The one from last night.’
‘Candace, love, would you be kind and call the reception about a disturbance in your neighbour’s room?’
‘Oh… Oh, no… You want to… Oh, you’re so wicked,’ she said and started chuckling.
‘Not at all. Just having a bit of harmless fun. Please.’ As Candace went back inside giggling like a teenager setting up a school prank, Edwina stepped out, modestly wrapped in a sheet that was trailing behind her. Then Kris appeared on the terrace in panties and bra, carrying an opened bottle of champagne and two glasses which she proceed to fill. Do I need to say that, feeling pissed off, I lost my composure somewhat?
Dropping the pillow I stepped out on the terrace beyond the divider and said, in my most cheerful voice, ‘Hello Kris, good evening Edwina. And a lovely evening it is, isn’t it?’
If anything, I had underestimated the reaction. Edwina froze like a rabbit caught in car headlights, then turned away from me screeching, in the process ripping off the sheet that had caught in the door frame. Kris looked at me, taking several seconds to grasp the situation, and was just about to open her mouth when Candace came out. In solidarity with me, she was also naked.
‘Hello Kristina, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ she said in the calmest possible voice. ‘Oh, that looks like a decent Pommery. Shall I bring more glasses?’
Kris was glaring at me with eyes like saucers, Edwina was still wailing and tearing at the sheet to cover herself while looking fearfully at me and Candace, when the doorbell rang.
‘Ma’am, Sir. Security.’ A discreet and, by the sound of it, Indian voice.
If possible, Kris’ eyes got even bigger. ‘You… you… How could you?’ Then turned towards the door, shouting, ‘Go away, you silly man!’
Firm knocking now. ‘This is hotel security. Please open the door.’
‘Just go away! It’s being sorted out!’
The light in a room across the pool came on and a podgy man in pyjamas stepped out onto the terrace, rubbing his face with one hand and scratching his butt with the other.
‘Do stop the bloody noise, will you! I’ve just spent twelve hours on a plane and need my–’ The man’s eyes matched Kris’ as he took in the scene. Two naked women, one semi-naked and, for good measure, a naked man with the remains of an erection.
‘Oh, you horrid person, go back to bed! And take this to help you sleep,’ with which Kris did an expert overhand throw, sending the bottle in his general direction.
Fortunately she miscalculated the throwing angle and the bottle landed in the pool with a splash, at the same time as the security guard came out to the pool area. An impressive fellow, tall, wide shouldered, and with most of his face covered in a luxurious beard. Indian, as I thought, and by the looks of it a Sikh. You don’t mess around with these guys.
‘Ma’am, I must insist…’ Joining the saucer-eyed crowd, the guard stopped in his stride, speechless.
‘And you too – stop looking at me or I’ll have you arrested for sexual abuse!’ Kris was absolutely furious by now.
The lights in some of the other rooms surrounding the pool started to come on.
‘Hey, Kayehl lover, I think you should make up with your girlfriend now,’ Candace whispered in my ear, handing me my clothes and shoes. ‘I believe it’s time to say goodnight. And bonne chance. Maybe in different circumstances the three of us could’ve had some fun, who knows,’ and with a peck on my ear she went inside and closed the door.
By now, Edwina was back inside our room, tugging on her clothes; the fat Englishman across the pool, intimidated by Kris (and who can blame him) was shaking his head as he turned to go back inside, muttering something about Singapore debauchery nowadays; while the guard, having composed himself and, staring intently on the ground in front of him, cleared his throat.
‘Ma’am, please, for everyone’s sake, would you please retreat to your room. Or rooms, whichever.’ He was pleading now, wringing his hands, ‘What you do inside your room is of no concern to the hotel. But please do not make noise.’
Edwina had finished dressing now and, with a last glare at me, ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Kris barely noticed it. Instead, looking at me, she burst out laughing.
‘Serves me right, doesn’t it? Nobody’s fault but mine. Let’s go to bed.’
Chapter 14
We missed breakfast the next morning. Mainly because the night’s farce hadn’t diminished neither my nor Kris’ libido. ‘Now you’ll have to make up for the good sex I missed because of you and your American floozy,’ Kris had growled, pushing me down on the bed and–
No, some things have to stay private.
Eventually, we had brunch in bed, courtesy of room service, and didn’t leave the hotel until late afternoon. As we crossed the bridge to Johor in Malaysia, the sunlight started to fade away. For the first half hour, a torrential rain slowed us down, only easing off after the sunset.
Southeast Asian storms are magnificent in their fury and suddenness. Like a veritable flood from the heavens, they decrease visibility to a bare minimum and make driving an overpowered car like the Tuscan an adventure in the true sense of the word. But they don’t last long and are always replaced by an eerie orange-reddish glow in the sky which looks surreal.
Then night came, suddenly as always. The road had dried, the clouds were gone, replaced by an unbelievable night sky with stars everywhere, the milky way clearly visible between the oil palm plantations on both sides of the Lebuhraya expressway. Normally the road to KL, on any Sunday afternoon and evening, is full of traffic, but with the extended weekend holiday we were alone.
Ah, Malaysia and its holidays, what a country – if there’s any possibility of proclaiming a non-working day, be it Christmas, the end of Ramadan, Indian Deepavali, Chinese new year, the King’s birthday, Independence day or Malaysia day (Yes, the two are different!), the peoples of this country will find a reason to celebrate it, preferably with fireworks. And I don’t care that the reason for it has nothing to do with altruism or respect of other religions – it doesn’t, Malaysians naturally prefer to feast rather than work – I’m with them wholeheartedly. Why work when you can party?
Thus there we were, the only vehicle on the impeccable Singapore – KL expressway, cruising at a gentle pace (no more than 120 miles per hour, I promise, with Kris making sure that she could react in time to any remaining wildlife in this part of Malaysia trying to cross our path), the road lit up by a myriad of stars. Kris had put in a CD with Brahms’ Hungarian Dances as we passed the exit to Melaka at Ayer Keroh, with less than an hour to go before reaching KL, and I started drifting off to sleep when she elbowed me.
‘Someone’s in a hurry to get home.’
As I looked in the mirror on my side, I saw a pinpoint of light on the straight stretch far behind us, quickly resolving into two distinct light orbs, approaching fast.
‘Bloody idiot,’ Kris said as she tilted the rear view mirror to avoid the glare. ‘Too lazy to dip the beam.’
Checking the speedo, now showing barely 100, I responded, ‘Probably one of the ministers in a hurry to get back to his mistress.’
‘Hmm, not likely,’ Kris replied. ‘There would be security, cars and motorbikes, both in front and behind, flashing the usual lights. Going to his mistress, quite likely. But my bet would rather be on a Chinese businessman. I hope I’m right.’
As I was still trying to process that last bit of what Kris said, the car, a big, black Mercedes, pulled up with us briefly on the outside lane then accelerated away from us and disappeared around a bend.
Kris was still blinking, trying to adjust her eyes to the renewed darkness, when we were hit again with light. Very bright this time, and coming from close behind us.
‘Not good,’ Kris said, still in a conversational tone. ‘This is deliberate. Darling, do put your seatbelt on, please.’
Without waiting for me to comply, she downshifted and floored the accelerator. The engine responded immediately and I was pushed back into the seat as the distance between us and the lights rapidly increased.
‘They must’ve sneaked up on us together with the other car, but with their lights off. That’s why I didn’t see them. And now,’ a quick glance in the rear mirror, ‘they’re back.’
The car was right behind us again, matching our speed. So close, in fact that I could see the big star on the grille. Another Mercedes.
‘Kris, do tell me that this is just a coincidence. A couple of maniac drivers and not related to our Singapore trip.’ I was getting unnerved.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I hope so, but…’
Not the answer I wanted to hear. ‘Is there anything I should know? As in right now?’
‘No. Maybe… That is, Edwina told me something last night, on our way back to the hotel. And I was hoping to find out more but you… interrupted us.’
I felt angry, and a smidgen unreasonable. ‘So I prevented you fucking her and therefore you finding out whatever it was? About what? The dream? And it’s because of me that we’re in this situation now? A car – a bloody car – stalking us!’
‘No, darling. Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I was going to tell you once we got home,’ Kris sighed. ‘But let’s first make sure we do get home. Without any incidents.’
She accelerated again, but not too hard. The car behind did the same, keeping the same distance.
‘Let’s try this and see how good you are,’ Kris said quietly and moved the car to the right, into the overtaking lane. The Merc followed us immediately, adjusting the speed.
‘Hold on,’ Kris said as she turned the wheel abruptly to the left and braked sharply. Smart move, it should have made the Merc pass us. It didn’t. As if anticipating Kris’ plan, it braked and slipped into the lane behind us, maintaining the distance.
‘Damn, this guy is better than I expected. Never mind, the next exit’s coming up soon. Let’s get off there.’
‘But what if he follows us?’
‘Hah, let him try. There’s no way that tank can keep up with us on the small roads.’
‘With the potholes?’
‘You’ll have to help me look out for those.’
As we were coming out of a gentle left bend of the motorway, I saw the exit lights ahead of us. Our stalker saw them too. With just a few hundred meters left to the exit, the Merc got closer, then moved into the emergency lane to the left of us, barely a couple of meters behind, effectively blocking our exit.
‘Bastard. He doesn’t want us to leave the party, does he,’ Kris was annoyed. ‘And there’s no way, even if I rammed him, that we could get off. He’s at least twice as heavy. Not that I would ever consider messing up my car for a cretin, whoever he is.’
‘Why not just stop now? I’ll get out and, if he stops, I’ll pull the driver out and beat the shit out of him. And afterwards enlighten him on acceptable motorway driving behaviour.’
‘Darling, you will do no such thing. Trust me, this is not just another idiot driver.’
‘Trust me, yeah, wasn’t that what Custer once said? Why?’
‘Because they’ll probably shoot you as soon as you get out of the car.’
I got agitated. ‘What the fuck have you gotten us into? Car drivers with guns? You can’t have a gun in Malaysia; not unless you’re the police or army. The law says so. There’s a death penalty for illegal possession of firearms, isn’t there? And that car doesn’t look very official to me.’
‘Stop being a bloody European!’ Kris raised her voice. ‘Law this and law that! Do you think the local triads and the Indian gangs give a shit about the law and fight it out over a game of chess? Of course they have guns!’
‘So that’s it? We’ve got a bunch of criminal Chinese or Indians after us? For what?’
‘Just shut up, will you! I’m trying to figure out what they want and what their next move is. And how to get out of this.’
As she said this, the Merc suddenly overtook us and accelerated, its taillights receding rapidly and disappearing from sight.
‘So, just another moron driver, in the end,’ I ventured.
‘Possibly,’ Kris replied. ‘Probably. Just another moron driver asserting himself, using a car as his penis prosthesis.’
‘So nothing really to worry about, is there?’ I’d started to relax. ‘No Alex dream conspiracy, no triads etcetera. But,’ trying to calm both myself and Kris, ‘where does it say that all moron drivers are male?’
‘Darling, don’t get me started on that subject,’ Kris replied, steering the Tuscan into a gentle right hand bend. ‘Have you ever come across a woman that–’
The rest of the sentence was lost, as the two Mercs appeared in our headlights, parked across the motorway lanes. In front of them were several indistinct shapes, from which flashes of light emanated. It took me a moment to realise that these were guns being fired at us. Seeing the sparks from the bullets on the tarmac in front of us helped enforce my realisation. And the only thing that I could think of was ‘either we’re dead from running straight into the Mercs or we’ll be dead from the bullets before we reach the cars.’
The next ten seconds, although it felt like minutes at the time, are still etched in my memory. Kris braked hard, turned the wheels to the left and brought the Tuscan onto the road shoulder, and I remember thinking that there’s not enough space between the grass covered, sloping verge and the car blocking our path. Yet Kris managed it, shifting down until the engine started screaming and complaining, the car slipping down halfway onto the grass, nearly sliding sideways with barely a finger’s breadth between us and the nearest Merc, then getting us back onto the road ahead of the two cars. The engine howled, the bottom part of the chassis and the skid plates screeched from contact with the tarmac edge, and the front air splitter, being fibreglass, just gave up and distributed itself in tiny pieces all over the North-South motorway.
I don’t think the guys were prepared for Kris trying, and actually getting away with this, as I honestly don’t remember seeing any more flashes or hearing anything. It was only the day after, with Kris complaining bitterly about the odd bullet hole in the rear end and the repair cost, that I realised how close we were to not making it.
But we did. Kris pushed the Tuscan as hard as it would go, the front end getting jittery without the splitter to keep the nose down. Within a couple of minutes I could see headlights appearing behind us, but we’d arrived at the next exit and Kris swung towards the toll gates.
‘Hold on, darling, I’ve never done this before.’
Instead of going for one of the regular gates which all had barriers, Kris aimed the car towards the motorcycle lane. In Malaysia, two-wheel drivers are not required to pay road toll and just ride through.
‘I just hope it’s wide enough. It wouldn’t help us if we get stuck halfway through.’ Having said that, she braked hard and drove cautiously through the narrow exit. ‘We’ll go south from here, take one of the many small roads towards Port Dickson, then work our way up to KL. Let’s have them guessing where we’ve gone.’
No, some things have to stay private.
Eventually, we had brunch in bed, courtesy of room service, and didn’t leave the hotel until late afternoon. As we crossed the bridge to Johor in Malaysia, the sunlight started to fade away. For the first half hour, a torrential rain slowed us down, only easing off after the sunset.
Southeast Asian storms are magnificent in their fury and suddenness. Like a veritable flood from the heavens, they decrease visibility to a bare minimum and make driving an overpowered car like the Tuscan an adventure in the true sense of the word. But they don’t last long and are always replaced by an eerie orange-reddish glow in the sky which looks surreal.
Then night came, suddenly as always. The road had dried, the clouds were gone, replaced by an unbelievable night sky with stars everywhere, the milky way clearly visible between the oil palm plantations on both sides of the Lebuhraya expressway. Normally the road to KL, on any Sunday afternoon and evening, is full of traffic, but with the extended weekend holiday we were alone.
Ah, Malaysia and its holidays, what a country – if there’s any possibility of proclaiming a non-working day, be it Christmas, the end of Ramadan, Indian Deepavali, Chinese new year, the King’s birthday, Independence day or Malaysia day (Yes, the two are different!), the peoples of this country will find a reason to celebrate it, preferably with fireworks. And I don’t care that the reason for it has nothing to do with altruism or respect of other religions – it doesn’t, Malaysians naturally prefer to feast rather than work – I’m with them wholeheartedly. Why work when you can party?
Thus there we were, the only vehicle on the impeccable Singapore – KL expressway, cruising at a gentle pace (no more than 120 miles per hour, I promise, with Kris making sure that she could react in time to any remaining wildlife in this part of Malaysia trying to cross our path), the road lit up by a myriad of stars. Kris had put in a CD with Brahms’ Hungarian Dances as we passed the exit to Melaka at Ayer Keroh, with less than an hour to go before reaching KL, and I started drifting off to sleep when she elbowed me.
‘Someone’s in a hurry to get home.’
As I looked in the mirror on my side, I saw a pinpoint of light on the straight stretch far behind us, quickly resolving into two distinct light orbs, approaching fast.
‘Bloody idiot,’ Kris said as she tilted the rear view mirror to avoid the glare. ‘Too lazy to dip the beam.’
Checking the speedo, now showing barely 100, I responded, ‘Probably one of the ministers in a hurry to get back to his mistress.’
‘Hmm, not likely,’ Kris replied. ‘There would be security, cars and motorbikes, both in front and behind, flashing the usual lights. Going to his mistress, quite likely. But my bet would rather be on a Chinese businessman. I hope I’m right.’
As I was still trying to process that last bit of what Kris said, the car, a big, black Mercedes, pulled up with us briefly on the outside lane then accelerated away from us and disappeared around a bend.
Kris was still blinking, trying to adjust her eyes to the renewed darkness, when we were hit again with light. Very bright this time, and coming from close behind us.
‘Not good,’ Kris said, still in a conversational tone. ‘This is deliberate. Darling, do put your seatbelt on, please.’
Without waiting for me to comply, she downshifted and floored the accelerator. The engine responded immediately and I was pushed back into the seat as the distance between us and the lights rapidly increased.
‘They must’ve sneaked up on us together with the other car, but with their lights off. That’s why I didn’t see them. And now,’ a quick glance in the rear mirror, ‘they’re back.’
The car was right behind us again, matching our speed. So close, in fact that I could see the big star on the grille. Another Mercedes.
‘Kris, do tell me that this is just a coincidence. A couple of maniac drivers and not related to our Singapore trip.’ I was getting unnerved.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I hope so, but…’
Not the answer I wanted to hear. ‘Is there anything I should know? As in right now?’
‘No. Maybe… That is, Edwina told me something last night, on our way back to the hotel. And I was hoping to find out more but you… interrupted us.’
I felt angry, and a smidgen unreasonable. ‘So I prevented you fucking her and therefore you finding out whatever it was? About what? The dream? And it’s because of me that we’re in this situation now? A car – a bloody car – stalking us!’
‘No, darling. Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I was going to tell you once we got home,’ Kris sighed. ‘But let’s first make sure we do get home. Without any incidents.’
She accelerated again, but not too hard. The car behind did the same, keeping the same distance.
‘Let’s try this and see how good you are,’ Kris said quietly and moved the car to the right, into the overtaking lane. The Merc followed us immediately, adjusting the speed.
‘Hold on,’ Kris said as she turned the wheel abruptly to the left and braked sharply. Smart move, it should have made the Merc pass us. It didn’t. As if anticipating Kris’ plan, it braked and slipped into the lane behind us, maintaining the distance.
‘Damn, this guy is better than I expected. Never mind, the next exit’s coming up soon. Let’s get off there.’
‘But what if he follows us?’
‘Hah, let him try. There’s no way that tank can keep up with us on the small roads.’
‘With the potholes?’
‘You’ll have to help me look out for those.’
As we were coming out of a gentle left bend of the motorway, I saw the exit lights ahead of us. Our stalker saw them too. With just a few hundred meters left to the exit, the Merc got closer, then moved into the emergency lane to the left of us, barely a couple of meters behind, effectively blocking our exit.
‘Bastard. He doesn’t want us to leave the party, does he,’ Kris was annoyed. ‘And there’s no way, even if I rammed him, that we could get off. He’s at least twice as heavy. Not that I would ever consider messing up my car for a cretin, whoever he is.’
‘Why not just stop now? I’ll get out and, if he stops, I’ll pull the driver out and beat the shit out of him. And afterwards enlighten him on acceptable motorway driving behaviour.’
‘Darling, you will do no such thing. Trust me, this is not just another idiot driver.’
‘Trust me, yeah, wasn’t that what Custer once said? Why?’
‘Because they’ll probably shoot you as soon as you get out of the car.’
I got agitated. ‘What the fuck have you gotten us into? Car drivers with guns? You can’t have a gun in Malaysia; not unless you’re the police or army. The law says so. There’s a death penalty for illegal possession of firearms, isn’t there? And that car doesn’t look very official to me.’
‘Stop being a bloody European!’ Kris raised her voice. ‘Law this and law that! Do you think the local triads and the Indian gangs give a shit about the law and fight it out over a game of chess? Of course they have guns!’
‘So that’s it? We’ve got a bunch of criminal Chinese or Indians after us? For what?’
‘Just shut up, will you! I’m trying to figure out what they want and what their next move is. And how to get out of this.’
As she said this, the Merc suddenly overtook us and accelerated, its taillights receding rapidly and disappearing from sight.
‘So, just another moron driver, in the end,’ I ventured.
‘Possibly,’ Kris replied. ‘Probably. Just another moron driver asserting himself, using a car as his penis prosthesis.’
‘So nothing really to worry about, is there?’ I’d started to relax. ‘No Alex dream conspiracy, no triads etcetera. But,’ trying to calm both myself and Kris, ‘where does it say that all moron drivers are male?’
‘Darling, don’t get me started on that subject,’ Kris replied, steering the Tuscan into a gentle right hand bend. ‘Have you ever come across a woman that–’
The rest of the sentence was lost, as the two Mercs appeared in our headlights, parked across the motorway lanes. In front of them were several indistinct shapes, from which flashes of light emanated. It took me a moment to realise that these were guns being fired at us. Seeing the sparks from the bullets on the tarmac in front of us helped enforce my realisation. And the only thing that I could think of was ‘either we’re dead from running straight into the Mercs or we’ll be dead from the bullets before we reach the cars.’
The next ten seconds, although it felt like minutes at the time, are still etched in my memory. Kris braked hard, turned the wheels to the left and brought the Tuscan onto the road shoulder, and I remember thinking that there’s not enough space between the grass covered, sloping verge and the car blocking our path. Yet Kris managed it, shifting down until the engine started screaming and complaining, the car slipping down halfway onto the grass, nearly sliding sideways with barely a finger’s breadth between us and the nearest Merc, then getting us back onto the road ahead of the two cars. The engine howled, the bottom part of the chassis and the skid plates screeched from contact with the tarmac edge, and the front air splitter, being fibreglass, just gave up and distributed itself in tiny pieces all over the North-South motorway.
I don’t think the guys were prepared for Kris trying, and actually getting away with this, as I honestly don’t remember seeing any more flashes or hearing anything. It was only the day after, with Kris complaining bitterly about the odd bullet hole in the rear end and the repair cost, that I realised how close we were to not making it.
But we did. Kris pushed the Tuscan as hard as it would go, the front end getting jittery without the splitter to keep the nose down. Within a couple of minutes I could see headlights appearing behind us, but we’d arrived at the next exit and Kris swung towards the toll gates.
‘Hold on, darling, I’ve never done this before.’
Instead of going for one of the regular gates which all had barriers, Kris aimed the car towards the motorcycle lane. In Malaysia, two-wheel drivers are not required to pay road toll and just ride through.
‘I just hope it’s wide enough. It wouldn’t help us if we get stuck halfway through.’ Having said that, she braked hard and drove cautiously through the narrow exit. ‘We’ll go south from here, take one of the many small roads towards Port Dickson, then work our way up to KL. Let’s have them guessing where we’ve gone.’
●
We arrived in KL over two hours later, despite Kris driving too fast on the kampung roads considering the poor surface. Most of the time with the lights off.
As we approached Bukit Tunku, Kris said tiredly, ‘Will you stay with me tonight? I need you to hold me while I sleep.’
‘Of course I will, lover. Any time. But wouldn’t these people know where you live? Having the only Tuscan in the country doesn’t exactly make you inconspicuous. Maybe we should go to my place instead.’
‘No, I think they just meant to scare us, nothing more.’
‘Just scare us? Well they bloody well succeeded, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, they did. For a while. But they obviously don’t know me well enough. Or not at all, really. I think. This just shows that we’re on the right track and I’m damned if I’m going to give up just because someone tries to scare me off.’
‘On the right track of what? A buried treasure? Oh no, sorry, the artefact’, I said the last in a exaggerated doomsday voice.
‘Whatever it is, it’s a mystery and we’re going to unravel it. Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, once I’ve had my beauty sleep in your strong, manly arms. And we’re safe in my place tonight. The guards have an emergency link to the police and I’ll switch on the alarm in the flat.’
‘Me, I’d call BB and ask him and his mates to come over. Best security force there is.’
‘Not a bad idea, darling. Pass me the phone and I’ll call him now.’
As we approached Bukit Tunku, Kris said tiredly, ‘Will you stay with me tonight? I need you to hold me while I sleep.’
‘Of course I will, lover. Any time. But wouldn’t these people know where you live? Having the only Tuscan in the country doesn’t exactly make you inconspicuous. Maybe we should go to my place instead.’
‘No, I think they just meant to scare us, nothing more.’
‘Just scare us? Well they bloody well succeeded, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, they did. For a while. But they obviously don’t know me well enough. Or not at all, really. I think. This just shows that we’re on the right track and I’m damned if I’m going to give up just because someone tries to scare me off.’
‘On the right track of what? A buried treasure? Oh no, sorry, the artefact’, I said the last in a exaggerated doomsday voice.
‘Whatever it is, it’s a mystery and we’re going to unravel it. Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, once I’ve had my beauty sleep in your strong, manly arms. And we’re safe in my place tonight. The guards have an emergency link to the police and I’ll switch on the alarm in the flat.’
‘Me, I’d call BB and ask him and his mates to come over. Best security force there is.’
‘Not a bad idea, darling. Pass me the phone and I’ll call him now.’