The Oddfits (23 page)

Or was there? Yes. Yes, there was an explanation, now that he thought further on it. It lay in everything—
everything
he had observed about the
ang moh
as he had followed him over the past few days: the pathetic grin that lit up his whole pathetic face every time he encountered some insignificant reason to rejoice in his pathetic little life; the innocent, misplaced faith he so stupidly and stubbornly had in everything and everyone around him; the way the world kicked him as if he were a mangy roadside dog and the way the stupid little
ang moh
kept trotting back for more, tail wagging, eyes bright. It was positively infuriating.

And now, this pitiful, idiotic
ang moh
had an opportunity to embark on some sort of “Quest”—one that would enable him to leave this place forever and go far, far away. On Friday at seven p.m., he could meet that one-eyed woman in green and leave for good. The assassin wasn’t quite sure what the
ang moh
would eventually decide to do. From the conversation he had just overheard while hiding in the corner of the 7-Eleven, it appeared that he wasn’t going after all. But there was something incomprehensibly annoying about the way the
ang moh
glowed happiness whenever he had talked about that stupid Quest. He recalled his first day on this assignment: he could always tell the
ang moh
was thinking about the Quest whenever he smiled or whenever his eyes twinkled without reason. He recalled how unnaturally hopeful the
ang moh
had been when sharing the news that night with his best friend. And even now, when he was apparently being prevented from going on the Quest, the yearning and wonder in the way he had spoken of it in the 7-Eleven made the Duck Assassin burn with rage.

How could that miserable little creature be so oblivious? So trusting? How dare he hope? How dare he dream? How dare he hobble towards the open horizon of freedom and gaze at it with such awe and longing even when he found his path blocked?

The Duck Assassin was still stewing in his hate and pondering it when, unexpectedly, a memory surfaced, long sunken and forgotten. As a child, he would often escape into the jungle that surrounded the wooden shack in which his family lived. There were no people in the jungle. Nobody to scold him or pull his ears, nobody to burn him with cigarette butts, or throw beer bottles at him, or slap him for misbehaving or not doing his chores properly. Just the dark, cool shadows of the forest floor, the nooks and crannies of giant tree trunks, the soothing rustle of the dead leaves crunching underfoot. He would capture all sorts of animals and put them in jars and boxes. The little snakes he would look at only for a few minutes before releasing them back into the wild. Ants he had often tried keeping as pets, but they always sickened and died, no matter how well he fed them. Lizards were usually too quick for him to catch. But one time, he came across a few moth cocoons hidden under some dead leaves and twigs. He brought one of them home and kept it in an old jam jar covered with some soft netting he had found among some rubbish in an alleyway. He set the jar amidst stacks of old newspapers and bottles on the rickety old table in the corner of the main room and waited for the cocoon to hatch. Several days passed, and he began to give up hope, but one afternoon, he came home and noticed something moving in the jar. It was a moth, all right—a fat, furry body on six hairy little legs, scuttling around in the small space of the jar. But something had gone wrong. The moth hadn’t been able to climb the slippery glass sides of the jar to hang upside down and properly unfurl its wings. Now it was too late. Its wings were permanently damaged.

He put his finger inside the jar, letting the moth clamber onto the palm of his hand, and he stroked it for a while with the back of his finger. It was trembling, and so soft and fuzzy. Gently, he set it down upon the table and let the deformed creature waddle about. It might have been a handsome moth—its body and wings were a bright green rather than the usual brown of most moths he had seen, and the wings were adorned with shades of black, dusky purple, and rose pink. But the wings were crumpled, misshapen, and awkwardly angled, sometimes tripping their owner who half-limped, half-flapped about in circles, attempting to take flight.

The young boy had felt an overwhelming sense of empathy for the moth, for he understood it—understood it even more than he himself knew. And with this profound empathy came an inexplicable rage. The moth was stupid. It would never fly, but it still tried. It tried again and again. With the bare heel of his hand, he smashed it to death.

Stupid moth.

By the time Murgatroyd’s bus had arrived, the Duck Assassin was speeding away on his motorcycle to the Vithani residence, where Shakti had been expecting him. Upon hearing the Duck Assassin’s report, Shakti’s eyes blazed with contempt and wounded pride.

“So he is leaving me,” she murmured under her breath. Leaving her. And of all things, he had
lied
about it. “On Friday evening, you say? You’re positive about this? Absolutely positive?”

If Shakti had been watching the black-clad figure standing before her more closely, she would have noticed that the figure hesitated—just for a moment—before it nodded in the affirmative.

But she wasn’t paying any attention to the minutiae of his movements. All her attention was directed inward, focused on herself: her humiliation, indignation, and wrath. In a paroxysm of fury, she picked up a small porcelain statuette on the table next to her and hurled it against the wall. Its shattering calmed her a little. Just a little. She turned the matter over again in her head. Little Shwet Foo was leaving
her
—Shakti Vithani. Possibly the most influential and charismatic woman in Singapore. She who had deigned to spend her own precious time grooming that hunchbacked caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly. All for some one-eyed woman and a preposterous mission. And he had dared to lie about it. To her face. She never would have thought him capable. She never would have thought that he had the guts. But he had. It was a brazen act of deception that she would have admired if she hadn’t been the object of deception.
Heartless guttersnipe
. Shakti Vithani always had a tendency to overreact, but something that day prompted her to overreact even more than usual. As the Duck Assassin stood dutifully before her, awaiting her next order, Shakti had this to say:

“Kill him.”

CHAPTER 19

“Hah? Say again?” Murgatroyd exclaimed to the manager of L’Abattoir.

“We’re letting you go,” the manager repeated. His tone was cool and firm, although he himself was recovering from surprise. Mrs. Vithani had called only fifteen minutes ago with the order to fire Shwet Foo.

“But—but—” Murgatroyd stammered. “How come?”

“Well
. . .
” the manager began tactfully. Managing three different restaurants belonging to the temperamental Shakti had given him a lot of experience in firing people. He launched into one of his five standard replies for this kind of question. “Although you’re not a bad worker, we feel that you aren’t invested seriously enough in this job. It just doesn’t seem to suit you.”

Murgatroyd attempted to laugh. “Eh, you must be joking, right? Does Mrs. Vithani know about this? Can I talk to her?”

“Sorry, Shwet Foo, but Mrs. Vithani is not in at the moment. She told me to wish you the best of luck on her behalf, and that she’s sorry that she has to let you go.”

So Shakti not only knew, but Shakti
herself
was firing him. The expression on Murgatroyd’s face was that of a dog struck by its master for no reason.

On his way out, he passed Ahmad who thumped him consolingly on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. I just heard the news.”

“Erh, thanks,” Murgatroyd mumbled before stumbling through the front doors into the hot afternoon sun.

Ahmad called after him. “Eh, Shwet Foo! You gonna be all right or not?”

“Yeah
. . .
” Murgatroyd answered faintly, walking on.

Perhaps it was because he was in such a state of shock and despair that he didn’t see the motorcycle roaring down the street towards him as he made his way to the nearest bus stop. He could have sworn that he had looked both ways twice. But however it happened, Murgatroyd had been crossing the road when he looked to his right and became aware of two things: one, that a large black motorcycle was advancing towards him at breakneck speed, and two, that these were to be the last moments of his life.

Startled by this double revelation, Murgatroyd’s feet screeched to an abrupt halt and lost their balance, sending him tumbling backwards out of the street and, just barely, out of the path of the motorcycle. There was a flash of warmth in his feet—the friction of the motorcycle’s wheels grazing the soles of his sneakers as it sped past. Lying on the pavement, flat on his back, Murgatroyd lifted his head and watched as the motorcycle zoomed away, turned a corner, and disappeared out of sight.

A young woman and her little boy ran up to him. “Are you all right?”

Murgatroyd looked upwards and saw two anxious faces against the backdrop of the blue sky. “I think so,” he answered faintly.

“You can walk or not? You need me to call triple nine?”

“No, no. No need. I think I’m okay.”

She helped Murgatroyd to his feet.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. Thank you.”

“Okay,” the woman said doubtfully, before taking her son’s hand and continuing on her way. “See, Kiang Hong?” she said to her son. “This is why Mummy always tells you to be careful when crossing the street.”

Thoroughly rattled by this brush with death, Murgatroyd decided it would be best to return home. After spending ten minutes steadying himself, Murgatroyd wobbled to the bus stop. His bus arrived. He stepped aboard and sat down. He pushed the signal button for his stop and disembarked. He walked back to his flat. He pushed the button for the lift.

Murgatroyd did all of these things mechanically and instinctively. Like a homing pigeon trained to always return to a specific location, Murgatroyd had made his way back to where he lived. Soon he would make his way to the kitchen, make himself a cup of Milo, add a heaping tablespoonful of salt, and sit there disconsolately. This was what he always did whenever he felt particularly morose. As for his thoughts, he hadn’t really had any since he left the restaurant. But now, as he waited for the lift, his brain began to recover from the traumatic incidents he had just experienced, and with the return of its processing powers came misery. He had lost the one thing in his life that he was actually capable of doing well. So much for looking forward to the rest of his life in the Known World. On the other hand, he was grateful that the motorcycle hadn’t run him over. But it was difficult to be enthusiastic about his narrow escape when his enthusiasm for the life he was living was beginning to wilt.

What’s happening to me?
Finally, the lift arrived and the doors opened. Something in Murgatroyd felt like doing something a little different. Something in him felt like taking the stairs. And so he walked up the stairs, all the way to the eleventh floor. As he did so, he remembered how just this morning he had been climbing up stairs in the More Known World, and he smiled a little on the inside.

Murgatroyd reached his floor, walked to his flat, and unlocked the door. Just as he closed the door, a crash sounded in the distance somewhere. Murgatroyd didn’t even register that he heard anything out of the ordinary. With so much construction work going on in the area, he heard sounds like that all the time. What he had actually heard was the lift he had almost taken splintering to pieces at the bottom of the shaft.

Once inside, Murgatroyd surveyed the flat he had lived in for all his life. It was clean and tastefully furnished, but now he knew what home truly felt like and this wasn’t it. Sighing deeply, he headed to the kitchen to make himself his usual consolatory cup of salty Milo. But as he reached for the Milo powder, his arm stopped. Something in him felt like having something else. He wasn’t sure why. He almost never drank anything else, especially when he was agitated, or melancholy, or just plain upset. Salty Milo had the inexplicable power to soothe him, blunting the sharp corners and prickles of any anxieties that were niggling at him. In the warm drowsiness that would spread out from his stomach to the very tips of his toes and fingers and ears, all his worries and doubts would simply melt away.

Today, the very thought of salty Milo, and even its aftereffects, was unappealing. Instead, he poured himself a glass of apple juice, seated himself at the empty dining table, and began to think on the events of the past few days, letting them tumble out of his memory in a confused, colourful heap. Onto this heap, he added the childhood memories he had so long packed away and forgotten about: his first visit to the Tutti-Frutti Ice Cream Shop, the kindness of Uncle Yusuf, his first ice cream sundae, the Freezer in all its frozen splendour, his taste of the ice cream that had set his breath afire and made him feel so warm and alive. These memories were a little faded, a little creased, but as he brought them out of the dark recesses of his mind and into the light, they regained some of their original colour and glow.

Here they were: all the memories—from so many years ago, from a few days ago, and from only a few hours ago. They lay spread out before him in a splendid, multicoloured mess. But now what? Since he wasn’t going on the Quest, were the events of the past few days destined to eventually be put away and forgotten too?

Of course, he could always change his mind about not going on the Quest, couldn’t he? Ann had said she would still be there. Tomorrow at seven p.m. at Bedok Jetty in East Coast Park. Bring a toothbrush and a change of underwear, nothing else. Kay Huat had offered to give him a ride and see him off. He could call him now. It would be as easy as that. Nothing simpler.

What did he have left here? What could he look forward to? He felt like a castaway stranded on a deserted island, watching helplessly as a ship appeared on the horizon, chugged its way tantalizingly close to the island’s shores, and continued on and away, leaving him still alone, still unrescued, looking after it in desperate longing. Now what?

“Now, I have my parents. And I have my best friend,” he told himself out loud. The sound of his own voice startled him. It continued speaking. “What is wrong with you, Murgatroyd? You do remember that your father has
cancer
, don’t you? You do remember that they love you, and that they bought you that wonderful bed in your room, and they fixed your hot water, and they make dinner for you every night, don’t you? You do remember that you’re staying because you’re going to help them through this and return their love?

“And you do remember, Murgatroyd, that you have a best friend who understands you and loves you like a brother and looks out for you, don’t you? Where would you find a better friend than Kay Huat?

“You do remember how fortunate you are, Murgatroyd? Don’t you?”

Murgatroyd clapped his hands over his mouth in surprise. But now that he had said it all out loud, he felt somewhat reassured.
Yes
, he thought (silently this time). Eventually, he would get over the disappointment about the Quest and move on. Hadn’t Ann herself told him that he would eventually adjust to the Known World and become a Sumfit like everyone else? Then the Known World would become his home.

Murgatroyd realized that he was sitting in the dark. Afternoon had slipped into evening and the sun had gone down. He glanced at his wristwatch: it was already half past seven. If he hadn’t lost his job, he would be waiting tables at L’Abattoir. But not tonight. He wondered when his parents would be coming home. Surely they must have left work by now.

He stood up, turned on the lights, and used the phone in the kitchen to dial his mother’s mobile number.

“Hello?” his mother’s voice answered. He could hear a lot of voices in the background.

“Erh. Hallo? Mum?”

“Oh it’s you, Murgatroyd. What is it?”

“Just wondering if you and Dad are coming home for dinner. I
. . .
” he gulped. “I got fired today, so I can cook something.”

“What did you say?” his mother asked. “You got fired?”

“Erh. Yes.”

“Hold on for just a second.” Murgatroyd heard something that sounded disconcertingly like muffled laughter. “Sorry, I’m back. Oh dear. That’s terrible news. Would you mind repeating it again?”

“Huh?”

“Your news about getting fired. Could you repeat it again? It’s a bit loud here in the
. . .
office. I just want to make sure I heard it properly.”

Murgatroyd sighed and repeated the bad news: “I got fired today.” Saying it a second time felt a little more painful.

“Oh dear. Yes, I did hear it properly,” Olivia said. “You really liked that job, didn’t you?”

“Yeah
. . .
” Murgatroyd sighed again. “Yeah, I did.”

“And you were actually good at it, weren’t you?”

“Yeah
. . .
yeah, I was.”

“Come to think of it, that was the only job you’ve ever been good at.”

Murgatroyd winced. “Yeah
. . .
yeah, it was.”

“Yes, that is a real shame.” Olivia was silent, but only for a few seconds. “Are you sad?”

“Erh. Yeah, of course. How come you’re asking?”

“No reason. Just wondering. But just
one
more question, dear boy. If you had to rate your sadness on a scale of one to ten, one being ‘slightly sad’ and ten being ‘extremely sad,’ how would you rate it?”

Murgatroyd was beginning to feel that this was getting downright strange. Still, he tried to answer truthfully. “Erh. A nine, maybe?”

“A nine, you say? Not a ten, then?”

“Well
. . .
I
was
feeling really, really sad just now. But I tried to think of how lucky I still am to have you and Dad and Kay Huat.”

“I see,” Olivia said. “Yes, I suppose so.” For some reason, she sounded slightly disappointed.

Murgatroyd tried to change the subject. “So, are you and Dad coming home for dinner?”

“Actually, no. I have to work late in the office tonight. And your father told me he has to work late in his office as well.”

“Are lots of people working late in your office? It sounds very busy,” Murgatroyd said.

“Yes, yes. Lots of people working late. We’re working on a big project. Yes, the sushi platter is for me.”

“Sushi platter?”

“Sorry about that, Murgatroyd. Just talking to a coworker. She just brought back Japanese takeout for the office. For all of us here in the office working on the big project.”

“Oh right. I’ll give Dad a call then and tell him the news.”

“The bad news, you mean? About you getting fired?”

Murgatroyd winced again. “Yes. About me getting fired.”

“Ah, yes. Don’t worry about that. I’ve told him. I mean, I’ll tell him. I’ll call his office and tell him. About the firing. You just get some rest. You must feel absolutely terrible. We’ll see you when we get back from dinner
. . .
and from the office. Because we’re both working late and have to eat dinner in the office. Our respective offices, that is.”

“Okay. How late will you be getting back?”

“How very sweet of you to ask, dear boy.”

She hung up.

Murgatroyd too hung up the phone, and resumed sitting alone at the dining table. Perhaps it was just as well they were both working late. To be honest, he didn’t really feel like cooking or eating. Perhaps he would just take a shower and go to bed early. But first, he would think a little more about things.

Sitting alone at the dining table, continuing to mull over his thoughts, his life, the Quest, Murgatroyd hadn’t the faintest idea that his own little insignificant self was occupying many other people’s thoughts as well.

As he sat alone at the dining table, his mother and father were sitting across from each other at their favourite Japanese restaurant—the one they used to frequent all the time, back when it had just been the two of them. James and Olivia Floyd hadn’t eaten at that restaurant for years, but they were there tonight to celebrate their success at foiling their son’s pursuit of genuine happiness.

Olivia snickered to her husband as she pressed the “end” button on her mobile phone. “He thinks we’re both working late. I told him you were still in your office too.”

James laughed and took a sip of sake. “So, he got fired today too, eh? Perfect.”