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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

“I’m not trying to justify D’Cruz’s behaviour. In fact justify would be quite the wrong word. Perhaps, explain or offer extenuating circumstances would be a better way of putting it.

“When I first joined the Deputy Public Prosecutor’s office I was warned about the inspector and his handling of suspects of murder-rape cases. Some fifteen years ago Ozzie’s sister was raped and murdered. The killer was never found. Though it had happened years ago, there was still much talk about it, and every investigator was only too keen to give me his theories about the case.

“You know how I feel about the ill-treatment of suspects and I was determined to find an instance of D’Cruz assaulting an accused person. If I did I would have him charged and sent to prison.”

He steered the car down the ramp to the basement garage before continuing.

“Then, as luck would have it, I had to work with the inspector on a number of cases. True, we did not have to deal with a murder-rape but, apart from foul language, he worked by the book. What is more, I found him to be an excellent investigator, who knew his job was to unearth the truth and to apprehend the culprit. He never sucked up to his superiors nor, even when pressured from above, made the slightest attempt to protect those in power. He is an honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned policeman.”

He parked the car and guided me to the lift.

My shirt was bloodstained and my face bruised and swollen. I must have been a sight. Instead of asking questions, Zainah produced a clean towel, a set of Jafri’s clothes, and directed me towards the large bathroom adjoining their bedroom.

I spent a long time under the shower, letting the hot water soothe my bruises, enjoying the thought that the fragrant soap I rubbed on my body had but recently been used by Zainah. I was definitely recovering. I dried myself and slipped into Jafri’s trousers before presenting myself for Zainah’s ministrations. Jafri watched as his wife applied disinfectant to my abrasions and rubbed fragrant, medicinal oil into my bruises. These were still sore enough for me to be soothed rather than aroused by her efforts.

When she was done, we sat down to a breakfast of French toast and sweet, black coffee. As we ate I realised how much the shower had done for me. My appetite was good and I was beginning to regard Zainah, dressed in a sarong and a thin blouse, with something more than gratitude.

When we finished breakfast Jafri asked, “Do you want to go home or would you rather stay with us for a while?”

I was tempted to stay, and not simply because of Zainah. My father O.K. Menon made a habit of getting into trouble and Ma always felt that it was my fate to do the same. That I was involved in a murder investigation would justify her worst fears. As soon as I was home I was sure to be subjected to an interrogation, less painful, but more rigorous than the one I had just been through. But if I stayed away and she read of Vanita’s murder in Monday morning’s papers, she would be distraught.

“Thanks, Jafri. I think I’d better get home and tell Ma and Uncle Oscar what’s been going on.”

“Good.” He picked up his car-keys. “I’ll run you home.” Zainah, who had spoken little the whole morning, came over to my side of the table. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said, putting her hands on my chest.

I held her by the waist and looked down at her. Suddenly I missed Vanita terribly. She would be lying on a cold slab now. A stranger in a white coat would be sticking test-tubes and other scientific things into her secret places. Then they would cut her open and tear out her organs in the same way as was done to chickens being prepared for a table.

I tightened my hold on Zainah.

“So sorry, How Kum, but I don’t know how to say, lah.”

Zainah, in spite of the fancy condo in which she lived, was at heart a simple girl. Folk from Malay villages often end sentences with “lah”, which is a contraction of Allah. Unlike the western expletive “God!”, “lah” was not a curse nor a condemnation but an acceptance of the way things were and a thankfulness that God had made them so.

There was a warmth within me that Zainah felt. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to my face. Her mouth was hot, the way one’s mouth gets when one is about to cry. My throat was cracked and I didn’t try to speak. I was aware of Zainah’s body pressed against me. It was soft and pliable, so different from Vanita’s, which was full and firm. Yet it reminded me of Vanita, told me that the woman I loved was dead. I knew then that, however many women I had, it would always be Vanita that I held in my arms.

Oscar was asleep when I got home. I was glad. For all his generosity of spirit, Oscar was not good in a crisis. I told Ma what had happened and answered her questions as best I could. These were probing and did not avoid intimate details. For all the veneer of reticence that my mother usually affected, she seemed not to mind getting into the nitty-gritty now.

Just when I thought we had got over the worst she began to weep, not violently but in a niggling way which meant she was dissatisfied with something.

“What now, Ma?” I asked, taking her hand.

“Oh, my son, my little boy, did I not tell you everything? Did I not warn you enough?”

“What are you going on about, Ma?” I asked, more sharply than I intended.

“Your father was a hot-tempered man. He beat me so many times. Sometimes I thought I would die and sometimes the pain was so bad I wished I would die.”

“But I’m not hot-tempered, Ma.”

“Maybe not always. Maybe not on the outside.” She stopped to wipe her nose on her sleeve. “I don’t know how this Vanita angered you. I don’t know if she made you jealous. Who’s to know what goes on inside us.”

“Come to the point, Ma.”

“You say that the girl was stabbed, yes?”

“Yes, Ma. What about it?”

“One of my kitchen knives is missing. The stainless steel one I just bought from Robinson’s. I don’t know who took it. Maybe it’s you.”

For a moment I felt like I did when D’Cruz was interrogating me. I had killed Vanita because I was jealous of her past, because I knew that death was the only way to secure her entirely and permanently for myself. Ma stopped snivelling and buried her face in my chest. I looked over her head and out of the window.

Like most Singaporeans, we live in a Housing Board flat. Our living-dining room looks out on to a square surrounded by shops. It was a Sunday morning and there were lots of people about: shopping for things they had forgotten to get during the week or looking for the bargains that always came up on weekends. On one side of the square a group of teenagers chatted in loud happy voices, touching each other frequently, giggling as they did. Two old men smoking pipes watched them, their faces impassive, their bodies as still as the outline of trees at dusk. On the far side of the square, overweight housewives haggled with a man selling fresh fruit.

No, said the voice inside me. It wasn’t the dark unknowable forces of psychoanalysis but the obvious, everyday things that made the world turn. It was unthinkable that I killed Vanita. I loved her. She gave me joy; made the world complete. I was going to see her in every woman I touched…

“Look at me, Ma,” I said, holding my mother at arms’ length. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”

She stopped snivelling and rubbed tears and snot on Jafri’s beautifully laundered shirt. “I’m sorry, son, but sometimes I think bad things. It’s like your father is still around, or has left behind something in you that will always cause me trouble. Something that will never go away.” She touched my cheek. “You tell me I’m a silly old woman for thinking these things.”

“You’re a silly old woman, Ma, and I hate you.” I took her face in my hands and kissed her. “Now go wake Uncle Oscar, Ma. I’ll make coffee this morning.”

Oscar always went to bed drunk and waking him was quite a business. It took longer than usual this morning, and there were several minutes of whispering before the pair appeared.

Oscar had with him the bottle of brandy that always accompanied him to bed. He poured some of this into his coffee and pushed the bottle across to me. “Café royale,” he said. “Good at all times but indispensable in moments like this.” He took a good swallow of his drink. “God gave us trouble so we have reason to need brandy. And from what your mother has been telling me, you have reason enough.”

He indicated the bottle again. I shook my head and he continued, “I am acquainted with this D’Cruz character. Said to be a good policeman but a ruffian of the first order. Unfortunate that you should fall into his hands after your lady…” he hesitated.

“Vanita,” I prompted.

“… after your Vanita was stabbed.”

He poured brandy into his cup and topped it up with coffee. “I understand that two other people in the park were stabbed.”

“Yes, Uncle Oscar. They were killed about four kilometres from where Vanita and I spent the night.”

“Oh me, oh my,” he hummed, shaking his head. “We have yet again the age-old riddle of the mass murderer.”

“Why riddle, Uncle Oscar. Aren’t they all just lunatics?”

“There are, dear boy, as many theories as there are killings.” He sipped his coffee. “You know, of course, about Jack the Ripper, the grandaddy of them all?”

“Not a thing,” I lied. I knew that Oscar was dying to tell me, so I added, “Who was this Jack the Ripper, Uncle Oscar?”

He smiled, happy. I was again the child to whom he could tell stories. He cleared his throat. “Between 1888 and 1891, five prostitutes were murdered in the East End of London. They were stabbed and had their organs ripped out of their bodies. There were suspects in abundance, ranging from a mad midwife to the brother of the Prince of Wales.”

“And the man responsible was never caught?”

“Why man? Why not men? Woman? Several persons? One person commits a murder and gets away with it. Others think it is a good time to settle old scores and make out it’s all the work of a mass murderer. Perhaps there’s only one person at work but he realises that the best way of concealing his motive and, with it, his identity is to commit several murders. Conceal a poisoned apple in a barrel of apples.”

“So you think Vanita was killed because her murderer wanted to hide his motive for the other killings?”

“Or vice versa.” He hesitated. “The other couple may have been killed to confuse the police as to the motive for Vanita’s murder.”

Oscar toyed with the brandy bottle but made no attempt to add more liquor to his coffee. Ma picked up her spoon and began stirring the contents of her cup. This was odd because Ma took her coffee without sugar or milk. I realised that the two subsequent killings did not automatically absolve me of the first.

The doubts that the scene outside our window had put to rest began to return. Was it possible that, for some unfathomable reason, I had killed Vanita, run four kilometres across the park, killed an innocent pair of lovers and returned to the side of the woman I had slain? Stranger things had happened.

Oscar read where my thoughts were leading me and said, “You must understand, dear boy, that whatever it is you have done, or think you have done, your mother and I will not let you down. Our support will be unquestioning and absolute.” He held Ma’s gaze for a moment before going on. “I know Phillip Caplan, a damn good QC, with an unbelievable record of acquittals in what looked like the most open and shut of murder cases…”

“Uncle Oscar … Ma.” I reached across, gripped my mother’s shoulder and shook it violently. “Are you accusing me of murdering Vanita?”

“Steady on, old chap. No one is pointing fingers. All we are saying is that we will stand firmly behind you, however rough the going gets.”

Ma shook my hand off and began to ostentatiously massage her shoulder. “You are just like your father, How Kum. You get violent when you are angry.”

“My God, Ma, there you go again…” I began. Then a thought struck me. “OK. Assume I killed Vanita, for whatever reason. There would be two options before me. I could either stay in Singapore and stand trial, hoping that with the help of your QC friend, I would be found innocent. My second option would be to get out of the country while I still had the chance. I have very little money of my own and either way I would need your help. If I did kill Vanita, I would eventually be forced to admit it to you, so what is the point of my lying now?”

The argument convinced Oscar. He smiled and nodded in Ma’s direction. She turned and reached out for my hand.

“That’s all we wanted to know, old chap,” said Oscar, reaching for his drink. “That’s all we wanted to know.”

They were relieved and happy. I tried to be too. I told myself again and again that I could not in any way be responsible for the death of the woman I had loved so much. But she was lying on me when she bled to death. It seemed impossible that someone could have sneaked up and stabbed her without my being aware of it. But how could I have stabbed her while pinned down under her sleeping body? Unless, of course, she had rolled away in the night, I had stabbed her, then dragged her dying body on to mine. Then there was the business of the missing kitchen knife. I know little about stab wounds but I knew what Ma’s missing knife looked like. It seemed to me to be just the sort of weapon responsible for the wound that I found below Vanita’s left shoulder blade.

My doubts pursued me into my dreams. We were making love again in the park. As we did blood began to pour from all Vanita’s orifices. I could taste it in her mouth, feel it trickle out of her ears, hear it squelch in her vagina. She took my hand and put it on her back. I found it easily enough, the little orifice below the shoulder blade. I recognised as pleasurable the sensation of slipping my finger in and out of it rhythmically. Blood welled around my finger as it neared orgasm. I awoke with a painful erection, masturbated and fell asleep again.

Vanita was again in my dreams. It was the time before we started going together. She was teasing me about being a stay-at-home mama’s boy and I promised to take her out that very evening. Even in my dream I remember thinking that we would soon be making love, that this was the woman especially designed for me. I had more dreams of her but the details of these were hazy.

I was woken, as always, by sounds in the flats around us. Half asleep, I felt Vanita in the room with me. So strong was her presence that I thought I could smell her in the stale air stirred ceaselessly by the ceiling-fan. I knew that I couldn’t live the rest of my life accompanied by this ghost. I knew also that there was something I would have to do before my darling could truly die. Time would tell me what this was.