Now You See Us, page 9
There are no windows in the room, so when Donita and Sanjeev step out of the hotel an hour after entering it, they are surprised that the island is roaring with rain. The potholes are overflowing with puddles, and storm water gushes along the gutters. The rain pelts Donita’s bare legs, and a rush of wind sprays Sanjeev in the face. Getting a taxi will be impossible now, even if Sanjeev tries to book it.
“This way,” Sanjeev calls over the crash of thunder. They duck into a back lane, go past a row of motorcycles slumped against a kerb, and huddle under an air-conditioning unit jutting out from a window. Other people are seeking shelter—under the awnings over fruit stands and at the entrances of thosai shops. The wind punches the plastic sheets draped over the newspaper racks. Donita peers at Sanjeev’s phone and sees him frowning; there is a cab available but the asking price has tripled “due to inclement weather.” He hesitates, but then presses the green button to book it.
Everything has become blurry and indistinct. A mural of roses blooming across the cracked wall of one shophouse has now turned a muddy imitation of pink, and the cars are wobbly shadows. Donita checks the time again: 6:43 p.m. She sighs and accepts that she will get in trouble for missing her curfew. The walls of the Marine Terrace flat will rock with Mrs. Fann’s fury, and she will probably check Donita again, poking and gripping her flesh just to humiliate her. Could she run away? Donita peeks around the corner at the cramped lanes and the strings of vegetable vendors and garment shops. For a moment, she pictures herself stepping behind a mannequin wearing a sari and disappearing.
A flash of colour draws Donita’s attention back to the main road. She is not the only person who notices it: a bright yellow umbrella. Three chuckling teenage boys sharing a plastic sheet see it too, and an elderly woman holding a newspaper over her thinning scalp pauses to watch as the umbrella bobs along in the storm. But Donita is the only one who recognizes the familiar shape beneath it. She squints through the sheets of rain while all the others return to their huddles. Flordeliza. She is alone and stepping gingerly around the puddles, and there is something about her slow, careful walk in all this chaos that makes Donita hesitate to call her name. A black leather backpack hangs from her shoulders.
“Flor!” Donita shouts, waving. Flordeliza keeps walking, gripping her umbrella. Donita calls her again and again, and finally she looks up but in the wrong direction. The wind must be carrying Donita’s voice and distorting it. “Flordeliza!” She hears the strain in her voice and the futility of shouting in this kind of storm. Flordeliza cocks her head and turns her face to the sky. There is a look of complete despair in her expression, and it comes through so clearly that Donita stops shouting. Flordeliza continues onward and disappears around the corner. On the main road, a passing double-decker bus smashes into a puddle, and the huge splash can be seen from the lane. Donita thinks about Flor’s painstaking steps and wonders if she bothered leaping out of the way.
All the lights are off in the flat when Donita gets home save for the one in Mr. Fann’s study. He is sitting on his rattan chair, flipping through the newspaper. A couple of private-property brochures are scattered on the floor in the doorway. “Sir, I am sorry,” Donita says. “The traffic, the rain is very bad.” The storm seemed to follow her across the highway.
Mr. Fann just nods. “Mrs. Fann is also held up at her church meeting. Don’t know what is going on out there.” He points out the window, and that is when Donita sees it for the first time. In the neighbourhood with the houses, a crowd has formed. It’s probably an otter-family sighting. People flock from all over the neighbourhood to take pictures every time the otters swim inland from Marina Bay.
Donita picks up the loose brochures and places them on Mr. Fann’s desk. He is staring out the window in the other direction, towards the sea. His stern face looks soft and woeful in the bluish evening light. When he turns to her, it is to say, “You can throw those away.” Donita hesitates. Last week when Mr. Fann made the same request, Mrs. Fann told her to keep the brochures. “Pastor says motivation is important. That’s how you start getting back on your feet, building confidence, going for a promotion. Not from sitting down and brooding all day,” she told him. It was the first time Donita heard anything like pleading in Mrs. Fann’s voice.
“Sir, what you like to eat for dinner tonight?” Donita asks.
“Just get me some chicken rice from downstairs,” Mr. Fann says. He reaches into his wallet and hands her a stack of coins. There is enough money for just one packet.
“And Mrs. Fann?” Donita asks.
Mr. Fann shakes his head. Donita checks the fridge and sees leftover porridge and some Teochew noodles from yesterday, just enough for Mrs. Fann. There aren’t even packs of instant noodles in the pantry because the Fanns don’t take into consideration that Donita also needs to eat.
“Okay, I go down now,” Donita says. She’ll have to use her own money to buy herself a packet of something. Mrs. Fann does this strategically, she knows. “You want Sundays off, you must pay for all of your own things on Sundays,” Mrs. Fann told her on her first day off. Even though she’s been back on the clock since returning home, she’s still somehow responsible for her own dinner.
Outside, the rain has subsided and the air is cool. Joggers pump their way down the pathway along the canal, which is so full that the water is sloshing along the walls with a powerful current. Behind Donita, the waves on the sea must be crashing onto the sand. She smiles at the memory of walking on the beach in Sentosa this afternoon with Sanjeev, the water tickling their toes.
The crowd across the road looks bigger from down here, and although it’s in the opposite direction of the food stalls, Donita makes her way there. Later, she’ll wonder why she did this—did some instinct tell her? Some current pushing her along, like the water surging through the canal? A short detour won’t cost her much time, and she can always tell Mr. Fann that there was a long queue at the food stall.
As Donita approaches, she notices that there are many people gathered, but the buzz of conversation is low and the air is tense. Something is going on in one of the houses along the row. Through a crack in the crowd, Donita sees a parked ambulance and the lights of a police car on the other side of the house. A hush falls over the crowd, then a girl shrieks. A person collapses, and the crowd folds in to help the person up. There are loud, ragged sobs as two grim-faced medics carry out a stretcher. The body on it is completely covered with a white sheet.
The sobs turn to howls, and from the whispering around her, Donita pieces together that the police were called after somebody heard a girl screaming. It must be this girl, the one that two men in uniform are helping to prop up. Her legs have given way beneath her and her cries have become hoarse. “Mum! Mummy! Mum! No! No!” The crowd rustles with excitement and some people turn away. “This is terrible. She was killed in her own home,” one woman says, her face pale with shock. Her husband ushers her away.
Donita watches the couple as they leave, her heart thumping. A murder? That would explain all the police. The girl’s gut-wrenching screams for her mother are making her feel queasy, and her ears are ringing. Around her, people begin to gasp and cry out once more. Donita turns around, expecting to see another body, but what she sees instead knocks the wind out of her.
Flor, in handcuffs.
Donita pushes back into the crowd, elbowing past the people who are clamouring to get a look at this woman. She can hear the roaring of a gathering storm, but it’s only a flash, a glimpse, and then Flor vanishes into the police car.
East Coast Murder—Filipina Maid Arrested
A foreign domestic worker from the Philippines has been taken into police custody for the alleged murder of her employer.
Mrs. Carolyn Hong’s body was found by her daughter in her Oldham Walk home on Sunday evening. Her husband, Dr. Peter Hong, was not at home at the time.
Police found no signs of forced entry but noted that a robbery was in progress, as Mrs. Hong’s jewellery box had been ransacked. There had also been multiple attempts to enter her safe.
The fifty-one-year-old marketing executive’s death has been ruled a murder due to injuries to her skull. Police have not commented on the weapons found at the scene.
Flordeliza Martinez, a domestic worker from the Philippines, is said to have been the only person on the property when the attack occurred around 6:30 p.m. If charged with murder, Martinez could face the death penalty. The embassy of the Philippines has not given any comment on the case.
For more updates, subscribe to the Straits Times.
Six
Angel sinks into bed and cups her lotion-scented hands to her nose. She inhales the sweet floral smell and squeezes her eyes shut. A thousand roses burst into bloom and swirl through her consciousness. On the bedside table, her phone will not stop buzzing. She should leave these group chats altogether—she hasn’t spoken to her old friends since Suzan broke up with her. But everybody has a theory about the East Coast murder, and Angel can’t resist another scroll.
Her ma’am probably worked her too hard. This is what it came to!
I think she was stealing. These Ilocano are all kuripot, they see money and have to take it.
What does this have to do with Ilocos? My mother is from there, she says they are much more honourable than you metro people.
We don’t know much yet, but if the Singapore police have caught her, they must have a good reason.
How come it takes them so long to arrest their own people when they abuse us? Remember that girl from Myanmar who was beaten and starved by her employers? Took five years to convict them, and then they only got three years in jail!
This morning, after Angel heard from this group chat that a murder had taken place off East Coast Road, her first fear was that Donita had finally snapped and gone after Mrs. Fann with a meat cleaver. Even though the linked article clarified that the victim’s name was Carolyn Hong, Angel immediately sent Donita a message on their group chat: Donita, are you okay? That murder happened around your neighbourhood. Two ticks next to her message indicated that Donita had received her message, but there was no reply until just an hour ago, after Angel put Mr. Vijay to bed.
Donita: This is my friend Flor! The one who was looking out for us on the ma’am pages!
Angel stared at the message for a while to let the information sink in. She went back to the article and read the woman’s name again. Flordeliza Martinez. Flor. That was when Angel retreated to her room.
Angel: Oh my God, Donita. This is awful. Were her employers really horrible?
Donita: She didn’t do it! I know it.
Angel: You must be in shock. Please take care of yourself.
Donita: You don’t understand. I saw her.
Angel: Where?
Donita: Around Jalan Besar at 6:43 p.m. The murder happened at 6:30. It would have taken her at least thirty minutes to get home in yesterday’s storm. She couldn’t have done it.
Angel: You’re sure?
Donita: I’m positive. I know I saw her. They’re accusing her wrongly.
Angel: Who did it, then?
There was a pause and then Donita sent Angel the link to a university website. Under the words Dr. Peter Hong, Dean of Mechanical Engineering, a man’s headshot filled the screen. He was looking past the camera with a small smile, but his eyes were steely, and his squared shoulders made Angel feel small.
Donita: This is the husband. Flor told me he was having an affair. Who do you think killed the wife?
Angel: There has to be evidence, though. They can’t just arrest someone for murder if they don’t have any proof.
Donita: What about the way the police rounded us up the other day? What if that saleswoman hadn’t come out to cover for you? They can do whatever they want.
Sitting in her bed now and breathing in the scent of a rose garden, Angel wants to think of Singapore as a place where these things don’t happen—where powerful men can’t get away with murder just because they sit in boardrooms and live in big houses. But she also remembers Marisol Concepcion, the Filipino maid accused of murder in 2001, and the trial that dominated the news. Angel’s employers were nervous around her and started locking their bedroom door at night. During Sunday gatherings, Angel became acutely aware of the divisions among her friends—there were those who believed in Marisol’s innocence and those who insisted she was guilty and were upset with her for ruining the image of Pinoy workers. In 2001, Angel was new to Singapore and she had not known what to think until Cora had printed a special edition of her newsletter. “It could be you or me,” Cora had said as she slid the double-sided pink sheet across the table. “Any of us could come home to find that we’re murder suspects.” After Marisol Concepcion was sentenced to death, the sound of that lock clicking into place felt personal.
Cora hasn’t chimed into the conversation between Donita and Angel, and thoughts of Marisol make Angel realize how much Cora has changed since that time. Is it age? Mrs. Vijay used to tell her that, as she got older, she became more accepting of the things she could not change. But Mrs. Vijay was never a fighter, not like Cora.
As Angel ponders Cora, she watches her old group chat blink with new messages, and her stomach twists every time she sees Suzan’s name come up. They don’t talk to each other anymore. Angel was the one who went silent. After Suzan broke up with her, this felt like a way of regaining her pride—See, I don’t need you after all—and she stopped showing up to their friends’ Sunday gatherings. Sometimes she regrets doing this, and she stays in the chat group in hopes that they will reach out to her. Leaving this chat group feels too final; it’s the last space she and Suzan still share.
I heard she’s got a daughter back home.
Poor little girl! What’s the news in the Philippines saying?
Nothing yet.
Cowards. Probably don’t want a diplomatic incident. At least the embassy should issue a statement?
You think they care that much about us? They’re not interested in our welfare unless we’re pumping money into our provinces.
A sudden knocking on Angel’s door startles her. “Hold on,” she calls, pushing herself off her bed. She opens the door to see Raja standing in the hallway. Canned laughter rises from the television in the living room, where Sumanthi and her boyfriend, Anand, are camped out with Vietnamese takeaway. The Vijays’ two shih tzu terriers, Coco and Toffee, are curled up on the sofa next to them.
“Hey,” says Raja. He is holding two bottles of Sprite, the soda that Angel keeps in the fridge.
Angel straightens her shoulders. What do you want? she thinks, but she says, “Yes?”
“I just wanted to see how you were doing. You seemed a bit upset yesterday.”
Upset? Angel wants to snort. She was livid. Raja, who was supposed to assume caretaking duties for Mr. Vijay at ten a.m. on Sunday, slept in until noon. By the time he took over, Angel had missed her lunch with Cora. “I’m fine,” Angel says curtly.
“How was your day off?” Raja asks. She is not imagining it; he is saying it pointedly. “Must be nice to have a rest day.”
“I spent the whole day walking here and there,” Angel informs him. She had to make up for lost time in various queues. First at the bank, which had special hours on Sundays for domestic workers. She was only there to reset her internet banking password, but it took nearly an hour to get to the counter. Afterward she stood in a crowded train, determined to get to Tai Seng, where there was a Charles and Keith warehouse sale. Cora had joined her for that one. In the store, there were two women who suddenly grew quiet when Cora arrived and started speaking in Tagalog to Angel. “You want to go or not,” one of them whispered to the other. “This must be one damn cheapo sale if the maids are all lining up.” They hurried away, which meant Angel got the last pair of the sandals she had really wanted.
“I just wanted to say sorry about yesterday,” Raja says. “It won’t happen again.” He holds out the Sprite. “Peace?”
“Thank you, apology accepted, but I don’t have sugary drinks at night,” Angel says. She steps back and is starting to shut her door when Raja begins speaking again.
“I don’t know if my sister has told you, but she’s looking into hiring a nurse.”
“She is?” Angel asks. Sumanthi hasn’t mentioned it. There has always been an agreement that Angel, despite her lack of nursing experience, would stay and acquire the skills needed to take care of Mr. Vijay.
“I mean, I wouldn’t want you to leave,” Raja says, stepping closer. He’s past the threshold, so his feet are planted in her room. Angel wonders what would happen if she started shouting. Sumanthi and Anand are just down the hall, so Raja wouldn’t try anything, but how would they react if she marched out right now and complained that he was harassing her? Sumanthi grumbles about Raja not doing his share of the work, and she scolds him for leaving his shoes scattered in the doorway, but she doesn’t see Raja doing this kind of thing. Neither does Mr. Vijay. Raja knows it is easy to hide; even now, he waits for the television noise to drown out his voice, and he smiles conspiratorially at Angel, as if they are both in on a little secret.
“Thank you for letting me know,” Angel says. “I’ll talk about it with Miss Sumanthi. She is the one who handles all matters related to my employment.” You are not my boss. You have no power. Angel wants to get this across to Raja somehow, but a smirk plays on his lips. He has no fear. As he turns to leave, Angel says, “Please throw your drink in the rubbish bin when you are finished.”
