9th of august, p.13
9th of August, page 13
He dropped himself into the back seat and sat with his legs spread open. Henry wasn’t impressed but tried to act professional anyway.
“Good evening. Heading to Bishan?” asked Henry, hoping he was the wrong passenger.
“Yah,” said the uncouth idiot Henry now felt like punching, kicking and slashing across the face with his mechanical pencil, which he had kept handy in the glove compartment.
“You know how to go or not?” said Mr Cocky.
“Yes, I do, you dumb shit,” Henry felt like blurting out. He was on his guard for this one.
“Yes, I know the way. Thank you,” said Henry.
He was perspiring. Henry could feel Mr Cocky’s gaze on the back of his neck. Each time he looked into his rear-view mirror, Mr Cocky was glaring at him, as if plotting his next move. What did your parents do to you, Henry wanted to ask. His heart rate was reaching such unhealthy levels, he was having trouble concentrating on the road. Someone honked at him for driving erratically. A motorcyclist waved his fist angrily when Henry almost sideswiped him. Henry was angry with himself for getting into this situation. He couldn’t undo it now and had to hope for the best.
Mr Cocky could see Henry was perspiring. Leaning to his right, his left hand dug into his jeans pocket and he whipped out a yellow penknife with a rusty blade. Mr Cocky placed the blade against Henry’s neck.
“Okay, you listen ah. Don’t try to be a hero. I don’t want to kill you, okay? Just give me your money, then I let you go, okay? You understand or not?”
Henry didn’t know which annoyed him more. Being held up in his own car or this uneducated robber constantly using the word “okay”. How could robbing someone and threatening to hurt them be okay? Henry now felt more insulted than afraid.
“Oi! You heard me?”
Henry stopped the car at a red light. Glancing to his right and left to check that the coast was clear, he felt a sense of calm enveloping him.
He had lost his wife, his job, his girlfriend, his sister and now he was going to lose his hard-earned cash to some lazy bum who probably blamed everyone for his problems and was taking the easy way out to make money.
Not today, moron, Henry said to himself.
He turned around calmly, looked at a stunned Mr Cocky and smiled at him.
“Okay, I heard you. You didn’t put your seatbelt on. Not okay.”
Henry faced the front, checked the roads were clear of traffic, adopted a racing position then slammed on the accelerator.
“Hey!” screamed Mr Cocky as he flew back into the seat as Henry barrelled down before suddenly braking. Mr Cocky was flung face first into the front passenger seat. He yelped like a terrified child before Henry repeated the move twice more over several hundred metres. Motorists honked at him, furious he was trying such a stunt on a very public road. Henry was glad they had noticed and hoped some of them would call the police.
“Stop! Stop it!” yelled Mr Cocky, who wasn’t so cocky any more. Especially after he accidentally cut his left hand with his own penknife, which had dropped under the front passenger seat. Mr Cocky was struggling to sit upright and was looking around frantically for the seatbelt and to see if they were going to be hit by another vehicle.
Pedestrians and customers at roadside eateries stopped what they were doing and watched the spectacle unfolding in front of them. Was this a movie crew filming a car chase? They whipped out their smartphones and began taking pictures and recording video footage. Even the prostitutes, who had seen many crazy incidents in Singapore, seemed to think this was one of the weirdest things they had witnessed. It was definitely good enough for Facebook and guaranteed to snare countless “Likes”.
“Stop it!! You want to kill us?!”
Henry braked for the fourth time and this time Mr Cocky was able to stabilise himself after grabbing the handgrips above and pressing his feet against the two front seats.
“No,” said Henry, looking at him. “I’m just trying to kill YOU.”
He then stepped on the accelerator again and narrowly missed several pedestrians, who screamed as they dashed across the road illegally to get to the durian stalls on the other side.
Mr Cocky let out a guttural cry as he lunged forward and used his left hand to punch Henry on the left cheek. Henry grunted and his car swerved to the right, almost hitting four cyclists, on their expensive-looking road bikes, who had themselves beaten the red light.
I wouldn’t feel sorry hitting you selfish jerks, thought Henry, who had had his fair share of meeting two-wheelers who thought traffic laws didn’t apply to them. The four swerved to the right, braked, slammed into each other and fell ungraciously into a noisy heap in front of a sex shop.
Henry was also screaming as he continued to tear down the road in a zigzag manner. Mr Cocky lunged forward again and continued hitting Henry in the face, causing him to bleed from the nose and lips.
Henry sideswiped three cars and a van. A Mazda 5 with three elderly couples inside careened to the left and ended up in a 24-hour coffee shop, sending tables and chairs flying as diners dove for cover.
A Lexus driven by a man who had his heavily pregnant wife in front swerved to the right and slammed into a lamppost. The van Henry hit was carrying spare parts for an air-conditioning company. It, too, veered out of control and from the far right lane, ended up on the far left lane before ploughing into an empty bus stop. The van’s rear doors flew open sending all its cargo spilling onto the streets.
“I hope I’m covered by insurance,” thought Henry.
Glancing at his in-vehicle camera, he wondered what great footage it had captured and whether they’d be able to clear his name. Deciding this had dragged on long enough, Henry used his left hand to drive and plunged his right index and middle fingers into Mr Cocky’s left eye socket.
“Arrrrggghhhhhh!” cried Mr Cocky, as blood spurted like a leaky fountain pen drenching the front of Henry’s car with thick, dark red liquid. Angry red dots made their mark on Henry’s face as Mr Cocky fell back into his seat and used both hands to try to stop the bleeding.
His hand sticky with blood, Henry looked into his rear-view mirror and was relieved to see flashing red-and-blue lights from police cars several hundred metres away speeding towards them. And, for the last time, he stepped on the brakes again, sending Mr Cocky flying forward, smashing his nose against his own hands and the front seat.
Henry turned on the hazard lights, got out of the car and waved at the approaching police vehicles. He then opened the left rear passenger door to find Mr Cocky slumped in the backseat, his face and T-shirt smeared in his own blood. He laughed when he realised Mr Cocky was crying. Opening his boot, he grabbed his small fire extinguisher then used it to whack the back of Mr Cocky’s head several times till he stopped moving.
Henry was seething, his face bloodied, looking at the sorry excuse of a robber as police officers poured out of their vehicles with their pistols and Tasers drawn.
“You dare to rob me? Not okay!” Henry shouted at Mr Cocky.
Henry looked with disgust at the stains his limp passenger had made on his seats.
“Great. Now, I have to wash my car again.”
Two ambulances arrived five minutes after Henry had stopped the car—one for him and one for Mr Cocky. Henry was surprised to see at least nine police cars scattered on the road. After Henry explained to the cops that he had been a victim of a crime, they found the penknife in his car and arrested Mr Cocky. Henry surveyed the trail of damage behind him. He hoped he had not injured or killed anyone.
Two police officers escorted him to the side of the road to rest, his yellow collared shirt now looked orangey and his legs were shaking. All that drama and the loss of blood had taken a toll on him. His left eye was black and swollen and so were his lips. He looked like someone who had just gone through a botched plastic surgery procedure.
Henry was pleased to see Mr Cocky handcuffed to the stretcher as the paramedics and cops loaded him into the first ambulance. Then three other paramedics came for Henry.
“Sir, let me see your face,” said a kind woman with a ponytail and a gentle smile. She called me “sir”, thought Henry. At least they know who the good guy is. The paramedic used a small torch to examine his eyes and face and asked him where else it hurt.
“Everywhere,” said Henry. “My face, my eye, my chest and my neck. He punched me everywhere.”
“Okay, sir, relax. We’re taking you to the hospital now. The stretcher’s here. Just lie down and we’ll take care of you.”
As they wheeled him to the ambulance, he looked at his Honda Jazz. The headlights were shattered; there were deep dents on both sides of the car. Paint had been scraped off and a large spiderweb of cracks had formed on the windscreen. He hoped his insurance policy would cover this. Either way, the car would be impounded by the Traffic Police for weeks, if not months, for investigations.
How was he going to earn a living now?
Then, the wipers suddenly came to life. It was as if his car were waving goodbye. Henry wanted to laugh but it was too painful to do so.
56
Pain shot through Henry’s spine as he tried to get out of bed. After four days in hospital, he was glad to be home. Placing his right hand on his back, he dragged his feet through his apartment as he gingerly made his way to the dining area.
Sally was in school so she wouldn’t have to see him this way. He was given a month’s medical leave. With time to himself, Henry could finally take stock of what had happened over the past week.
His car was impounded and he probably wouldn’t be able to afford the repairs anyway. He might have to scrap it.
One good thing that came out of that attempted robbery was Henry was now famous. His picture was splashed across every major newspaper and video clips of his car screeching along Geylang had gone viral.
When reporters visited him in hospital, he sang like a bird. He told them about the challenges he faced being a single parent, getting retrenched, struggling with the bills and now this. There went his livelihood.
His strategy to tug at heartstrings worked.
The pile of unopened envelopes on his dining table had grown in size. They had been mostly bills and Henry was afraid to open them. But then, he began receiving plain white and brown envelopes that did not bear the logos of banks, credit card or insurance companies.
He opened the first one cautiously. It was a cheque made out to him for $500.
He opened another one.
It was for $2,000.
Henry tore into the rest of them and fished out one cheque after another. Some came with notes of encouragement.
“Don’t give up. You’re not alone.”
“Stay strong for your daughter.”
“I don’t know you but I know how tough it can be to raise a kid. Here’s something to tide you over for a while.”
“From one Singaporean to another. Hang in there.”
In all, Henry had received 17 cheques totalling almost $40,000.
The pain in his spine miraculously vanished and he scooped up all the cheques and covered his face in them, laughing.
“Thank you!” he shouted.
Puffing his cheeks, he thought of what to do next. He stuffed the cheques in an envelope, showered then grabbed a taxi to the bank.
Once the cheques cleared the next day, he wrote out his own cheques to settle whatever debts he could. He felt light again and told himself to appreciate this major victory.
If anyone deserved to, he did, he told himself.
But he knew this wouldn’t last. He still had $20,000 of unpaid bills to deal with.
He needed to find work. But doing what?
That’s when the WhatsApp message came in.
57
The visitor was in a brown jacket, a pair of weather-beaten brown cargo trousers and a beige short-sleeved shirt. Also in hiking boots, the stranger had emailed Tun to say he was keen to meet him. A foreigner from another part of the world. Tun had never received an international visitor before.
He was intrigued especially when this gentleman hinted he knew what Tun was up to. That got Tun worried. Had his plans been exposed to the Americans and her allies? And by whom? But Tun doubted it. He would have been assassinated by now if his enemies were really onto him.
So, Tun agreed to meet the stranger. His men picked him up from a small Afghan village a nine-hour car ride from their town. A hood was placed over the man’s head during the trip and he didn’t utter a word the entire journey. When they finally arrived, Tun’s men couldn’t wait to tell their leader this stranger had been calm throughout, didn’t ask them for water or food, or for permission to relieve himself.
Had he been through something like this before?
Who trained him and what kind of training did he receive?
Tun was impressed at the level of discipline his guest had displayed. He was obviously prepared for the worst. He was prepared to die.
It was 4pm when the guest entered the room in one of the buildings in a quiet part of town. Tun was eager to find out what this man knew. And whether he needed to kill him.
Tun looked at the way the hooded man sat in the wooden chair with his hands bound behind him. Just like the rest. But unlike the rest, this man sat ramrod straight, his chest sticking out. He was breathing in a composed and steady manner. His men were right. Fear seemed a foreign concept to this visitor. He would have made an excellent soldier for Tun. The man didn’t ask for anything then and wasn’t asking for anything now. Not even for mercy. Surely he knew what Tun had done to all those ISIS men and the SEALs. So, he would know what Tun could do to him now. Yet, silence. Impressive.
Tun liked the man whose name he didn’t know. Even before he had said anything, he had won Tun’s respect. And that took some doing.
“I understand you wanted to meet me. Here I am,” said Tun in Pashto, testing him.
“Remove my hood. I prefer to see who I am talking to,” replied the stranger in Pashto. Tun and his men looked at each other.
Tun was so drawn to this mystery man, he walked over to him instead of directing one of his guards to do it. Even though there was no way for the man to use his hands, Tun still walked cautiously. His men stood ready with their AK-47s. Standing sideways with his left arm nearest the visitor, Tun gently held the tip of the hood and slowly pulled it off. He looked Asian. Chinese.
Tun had never met a Chinese person before.
Was he a Singaporean traitor or a Chinese spy?
The man sighed gratefully when the hood finally came off.
“Thank you,” he said as he took a deep breath and exercised his jaw and facial muscles. His face was drenched in perspiration. Tun wiped the man’s face with a towel.
“So grateful. Thank you. It was getting smelly in there,” he chuckled.
Tun had been waiting impatiently since this man emailed him four months ago. Now that he was here, he wanted, no needed, him to get to the point.
“What do you want?” Tun asked.
While waiting for the man to answer, Tun kept his ears peeled for the whir of helicopter gunships. He had not forgotten what they were capable of.
“You sound worried, Tun.” The man looked at the ceiling and smiled.
“Don’t worry. I came alone. There are no helicopters or drones in the sky today.”
“How do we know that?” Tun demanded.
“Because.” The man paused. “You’re still alive.”
The man couldn’t stop smiling. He was supremely confident, maybe a little too overconfident. That was always a dangerous trait to have, Tun felt, having seen it backfire on many others before.
“I hear you’re planning a mission. A rather ambitious mission. I must say when I first heard about your plan, I was quite tickled and amused by it. Believe you me, many others have tried. And failed. Spectacularly.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the ISD, the guardians of Singapore. They’ve got excellent officers and information-gathering skills. They’ve foiled our plans on more than one occasion. Their network is pretty impressive and their agents are among the best in the world.
“So, trust me, your plan isn’t an original one. Many have died trying it. It’s just that you don’t read about it in the papers.”
“What makes you think I’ll fail?” asked Tun, upset that his plan was being called into question.
“You’re playing with fire, Tun,” the man continued.
“You’re messing with a very dangerous animal. A lion. With very sharp teeth, powerful friends and backed by a resilient people. Even if you do succeed, they will recover and hunt you down. Which means your plan is doomed from the start. So, I’m here to ask you if you really know what you’re doing. And if you do, do you really want to go on with it?”
“You seem to know a lot about Singapore,” said Tun. “You’ve been studying them for a long time?”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean by that? You either have or haven’t,” said Tun.
“Let’s just say I have ties there. I know the place rather well. I’ve been there, of course. For many years. But that’s in the past now. They no longer mean anything to me. History. So, back to my question. Do you know what you’re doing? And do you plan to get on with it?”
Tun studied the man. He still didn’t know his name. Even if he had told him, Tun wouldn’t know if he was telling the truth. Tun could sense hate and respect in this man’s voice when he talked about Singapore.
“Yes,” said Tun. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Very well,” said the man.
Tun had identified the targets he was going to hit. He had the equipment and the explosives. What he didn’t have was a way into the country.
He knew Singapore was near impenetrable. It had strong border defences like the Immigration and Checkpoints Authority, which manned Changi Airport, and the land and sea entry points. The Police Coast Guard had also acquired newer and faster patrol boats with night vision capabilities and more powerful guns. So that made a night incursion very risky for his men. Besides, he didn’t know where to get boats from or if they would be fast enough to outrun the coast guard. He had thought of flying his men in as tourists. But one look at an Afghan passport and alarm bells would go off.
