He shuffled along the broken pavement, the sunlight glaring into his
eyes from the bright blue sky arching overhead. Beads of sweat accumulated on
the crew-cut stubble on his scalp and dripped onto his dirt-stained Pagoda singlet.
An endless stream of people pushed and rushed past him on their way to work,
shopping and various appointments. He stopped momentarily and stared at the
crumbling derelict walls of the Pudu Jail which were being demolished.
**************
He screamed in pain and gritted his teeth as the bloody rotan made contact with his shredded flesh, sending a searing pain rippling through his back. The afternoon heat arose from the baked concrete and a blue-bottle fly buzzed around his ears.
"Satu lagi," he heard the cry ring out.
Krakk! He screamed again, his cries of anguish echoing along the rusty chain-link fence.
***************
A young secondary schoolboy in olive green trousers swung past him, the boy's messenger bag crashing into his side. He jumped, startled. He turned angrily but the boy had already disappeared into the crowd, oblivious to the surroundings thanks to the loud pop music blasting through a set of new headphones.
He rubbed his eyes. He could still feel the pain coursing though his nerves, memories of his long imprisonment in Pudu Jail. That era of his life had long passed and the jail was merely a run-down concrete shell full of ghosts of yesteryears. But these ghosts were still haunting him. His hands started to tremble violently and he knew that it was time for another drink. He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his tattered khaki shorts. He swore. There was no money there. He noticed his stomach starting to rumble too. He kicked a pebble into the ditch in frustration and turned to join the sea of passer-bys.
The sky was starting to darken. Flocks of sparrows and swifts wheeled overhead, returning to their homes. He glanced at the gathering traffic congestion. He paused outside a cafe along Jalan Bukit Bintang, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and baked breads wafting onto the streets and tempting him. The waiter standing at the door tried to shoo him away, "Eh, berambuslah. Don't dirty our place. We need to run a business here."
"Please, let me have a bit of your leftover food. I'm hungry," he pleaded with bloodshot eyes.
The waiter peeked outside quickly and sighed. "Fine, fine. Go by the back door and perhaps the cook may give you something to eat."
He went to the back door, accompanied by a mangy orange-coloured stray cat that had adopted him along the way. A middle-aged Malay washerwoman opened the door and scrutinised him. "Masuk cepat. I will find something for you to eat."
He crept into the damp kitchen and squatted in a corner. The washerwoman handed him a stale burnt croissant and he started to wolf it down hungrily. The cat meowed and melted into the murky darkness outside. The Malay lady said, "Finish it off quickly and off you go." She turned back to her heaps of dirty dishes soaking in soapy basins.
He licked the last crumbs of bread off his fingers. Beyond the open doorway, he could see the dimly-lit dining hall. Not many customers there. From his vantage point, he spotted a gilt-framed painting of bucolic rolling hills and tendrils of white mist. He turned to look at the washerwoman, who was still preoccupied with her work. "Hmm, I can probably sell that painting and get enough money for my next fix," he thought.
He crept past the waiter who was preparing a cocktail behind the bar and quickly removed the painting from the wall. He hid behind the stainless steel racks of pots and pans, surveying his escape route. Good, there was no one in the kitchen. He was just about to make a dash for the back door when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Stealing something? Unfortunately for you, someone alerted us just in time." He turned to find a burly Sikh security guard with a thick beard and an indigo blue turban swathed round his head. "Come with me. We will sort this out at the police station."
"Hold on, this man is my guest! Why are you arresting him?" a shrill voice demanded.
"Mr. Andy, we caught him stealing from your restaurant," the guard explained.
"This man is my cousin from Kota Bharu and the painting is a gift for his family. A souvenir from his trip down to KL," said the thin bronze-skinned man dressed in a dark gray Armani suit.
The security guard kept silent and released his grip slightly.
"In fact, Ah Seng, you forgot to bring along the RM500 I left out here for you," the man opened the cash register and held out RM500.
He didn't know quite what to say.
"Sorry sir, I see there's been a misunderstanding. I assure you this will not happen again," the guard apologised.
After the guard had left, he could not contain his curiosity any longer.
"Sir, you know that I am not your cousin and that I intended to steal from you. Why, then, did you do that?"
Mr. Andy merely smiled. "Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money to start a new life. You no longer belong to evil but to good."
He was silent for a few minutes, then he nodded and quietly slipped away. And for the first time in years, there were tears in his eyes. He looked up into the incandescent orange glow of the city lights and saw, silhouetted amidst the towering skyscrapers, a cross.
"A new life," he whispered to himself.
He screamed in pain and gritted his teeth as the bloody rotan made contact with his shredded flesh, sending a searing pain rippling through his back. The afternoon heat arose from the baked concrete and a blue-bottle fly buzzed around his ears.
"Satu lagi," he heard the cry ring out.
Krakk! He screamed again, his cries of anguish echoing along the rusty chain-link fence.
***************
A young secondary schoolboy in olive green trousers swung past him, the boy's messenger bag crashing into his side. He jumped, startled. He turned angrily but the boy had already disappeared into the crowd, oblivious to the surroundings thanks to the loud pop music blasting through a set of new headphones.
He rubbed his eyes. He could still feel the pain coursing though his nerves, memories of his long imprisonment in Pudu Jail. That era of his life had long passed and the jail was merely a run-down concrete shell full of ghosts of yesteryears. But these ghosts were still haunting him. His hands started to tremble violently and he knew that it was time for another drink. He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his tattered khaki shorts. He swore. There was no money there. He noticed his stomach starting to rumble too. He kicked a pebble into the ditch in frustration and turned to join the sea of passer-bys.
The sky was starting to darken. Flocks of sparrows and swifts wheeled overhead, returning to their homes. He glanced at the gathering traffic congestion. He paused outside a cafe along Jalan Bukit Bintang, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and baked breads wafting onto the streets and tempting him. The waiter standing at the door tried to shoo him away, "Eh, berambuslah. Don't dirty our place. We need to run a business here."
"Please, let me have a bit of your leftover food. I'm hungry," he pleaded with bloodshot eyes.
The waiter peeked outside quickly and sighed. "Fine, fine. Go by the back door and perhaps the cook may give you something to eat."
He went to the back door, accompanied by a mangy orange-coloured stray cat that had adopted him along the way. A middle-aged Malay washerwoman opened the door and scrutinised him. "Masuk cepat. I will find something for you to eat."
He crept into the damp kitchen and squatted in a corner. The washerwoman handed him a stale burnt croissant and he started to wolf it down hungrily. The cat meowed and melted into the murky darkness outside. The Malay lady said, "Finish it off quickly and off you go." She turned back to her heaps of dirty dishes soaking in soapy basins.
He licked the last crumbs of bread off his fingers. Beyond the open doorway, he could see the dimly-lit dining hall. Not many customers there. From his vantage point, he spotted a gilt-framed painting of bucolic rolling hills and tendrils of white mist. He turned to look at the washerwoman, who was still preoccupied with her work. "Hmm, I can probably sell that painting and get enough money for my next fix," he thought.
He crept past the waiter who was preparing a cocktail behind the bar and quickly removed the painting from the wall. He hid behind the stainless steel racks of pots and pans, surveying his escape route. Good, there was no one in the kitchen. He was just about to make a dash for the back door when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Stealing something? Unfortunately for you, someone alerted us just in time." He turned to find a burly Sikh security guard with a thick beard and an indigo blue turban swathed round his head. "Come with me. We will sort this out at the police station."
"Hold on, this man is my guest! Why are you arresting him?" a shrill voice demanded.
"Mr. Andy, we caught him stealing from your restaurant," the guard explained.
"This man is my cousin from Kota Bharu and the painting is a gift for his family. A souvenir from his trip down to KL," said the thin bronze-skinned man dressed in a dark gray Armani suit.
The security guard kept silent and released his grip slightly.
"In fact, Ah Seng, you forgot to bring along the RM500 I left out here for you," the man opened the cash register and held out RM500.
He didn't know quite what to say.
"Sorry sir, I see there's been a misunderstanding. I assure you this will not happen again," the guard apologised.
After the guard had left, he could not contain his curiosity any longer.
"Sir, you know that I am not your cousin and that I intended to steal from you. Why, then, did you do that?"
Mr. Andy merely smiled. "Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money to start a new life. You no longer belong to evil but to good."
He was silent for a few minutes, then he nodded and quietly slipped away. And for the first time in years, there were tears in his eyes. He looked up into the incandescent orange glow of the city lights and saw, silhouetted amidst the towering skyscrapers, a cross.
"A new life," he whispered to himself.
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