His hesitation made him clumsy, and he knocked the shovel over. The noise gave him away, and the pounding at the door rose in tenacity. He held his breath. It could be an entire gang for all he knew. But having decided that he did not stand on the side of the police, he unchained the door.
The stranger leapt in like a gust of wind, dressed in a shirt, a bandana and a pair of oversized slacks. Before Arthur could react the stranger closed the doors and threaded the chain through them.
“Lock,” he demanded, his voice muffled behind a damp towel that obscured half of his face. At first it felt like the stranger was calling his name, then Arthur felt the padlock in his hand and quickly thrust it out.
At the snap of the lock the stranger withdrew from the door and watched another menagerie of shapes fleet by, accompanied by more whistle shrills and shouting. When the commotion ebbed the stranger pulled off the bandana and surprised Arthur by shaking free a headful of long, damp locks.
“Hannah,” she said with a huff, lifting her flushed, sweaty cheeks.
He shook her hand. Her slender fingers were soft and cold to the touch.
“They killed a policeman.” She slumped onto a sack. “Torched him alive in his car. I heard they beat the hell out of a man somewhere near Alexandra Circus.”
Arthur found no reason to speak, so he listened.
“It pissed them off,” she swung her hair from one shoulder to the other and wrung water out of them. “They chased us down and whipped us with everything they’ve got. They turned back at the edge of Bukit Ho Swee though; wouldn’t risk following us into the alleys.”
“Hmm.”
“Some rioters got shit for brains,” she groused. “A chap was wounded by a gunshot, I told them to get him to a doctor but they refused, preferring instead to parade him around the crowds till he died. He was what—seventeen? Don’t think they’re here for the cause. They just joined up for fun.”
Arthur finally got his voice back. “What business have you with them?”
“Anti-colonialism,” said Hannah. “I don’t care much for the Hock Lee drivers but if part of the cause goes to merdeka, count me in. I held banners for them and performed some dances in the morning to cheer them on. Joined in the march until things turned ugly.”
“You’re from one of those Chinese schools.”
“Joined the student movement in ‘53.”
“You speak very good English for a Chinese-ed.”
“Thank you,” said Hannah. “And you don’t look very Chinese yourself.”
“I have a bit of everything.”
Hannah pouted and gave a nod of disinterest. She sniffed the air and picked up a handful of coffee beans from a sack beside her. “What kind?”
“Lintong Arabica,” Arthur replied. “From Sumatra.”
“Can you tell by smelling them?”
“Of course.”
“You can?” Hannah’s eyes grew wide. “No.”
Arthur shrugged.
“Where did you learn to speak English?” she asked.
“The free Malay school provided by the British.”
“That was a very long time ago.” The suspicion in Hannah’s tone rang sharp. “You must be older than you look. Are you a local?”
“Yes.”
“You got identification?”
“Why should I show it to you?”
“You haven’t got any?” It didn’t sound like a question.
He felt demeaned. “I’m not obliged to answer.”
“Then don’t.” Hannah held him in a haughty stare. “But I want to thank you for what you did. Drop by at the Chinese middle school along Goodman Road at four pm tomorrow.”
“What are we doing?”
“Just come.”
Arthur tried to appear indifferent to her offer. “It’s near where I live.”
Hannah tilted her head the other way and ran her fingers through her hair. “So where do you live?”
“Clacton Road.”
“Ah.” Hannah stood up and headed for the exit. In seconds the lock snapped open in her hands and the chains rolled off the door. She stole a look outside and winked at Arthur over her shoulder. “Don’t be late then.”
The Chinese middle school was a sprawling compound of oblong classroom blocks of whitewashed concrete capped with Chinese hipped roofs. It had a field and a miniature lake stippled with duckweed, hyacinths and lotus pads. A concrete architrave framed the school gates and bore its name in calligraphic Mandarin ideograms.
Arthur found the gates latched and locked. After waiting for half an hour he resolved to leave; it was then he noticed what appeared to be coffee beans laid out along the roadside kerb, at intervals where one bean was just within visual range of another. He picked them up as he went and found that they led him to a point of entry—a part of the chain-link fence that had come loose.
The coffee trail now skirted a water-damaged quadrangle and stretched on to the foot of a classroom block. There it led up a staircase flanked by concrete screens tessellated in motifs of clouds and bats. He scaled four flights of steps before the trail ended at a corridor below the overhanging roof eaves. It ran on beside a series of decrepit rooms choked full of dusty furniture, cardboard props, old fabrics and other worthless items. From the depths of these cryptic spaces drifted the haunting melody of Romance Anónimo.
It was being played on a guitar in a halting, amateurish manner. Arthur followed it to the end of the corridor and found Hannah seated before a mountain of plastic chairs beside the stairwell.
“Late,” came her laconic greeting. She was in uniform—a clean white blouse and light brown skirt. She looked very good in them.
“It took me a while to figure out your candy trail.”
“Excuses.” Hannah put away her guitar. “Sit down.” She gestured at one of the empty chairs near him, some flecked with old paint and dusty with chalk. As soon as Arthur sat down she said, “So what coffee beans are those?”
Arthur took a whiff of the heap in his hand. “Regular stuff.”
“Not hard to tell by my gainful employment of them.”
“A blend,” Arthur took another whiff. “Mostly robusta. Indonesia, Lampung maybe.”
“Astounding. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.” Arthur gave a gracious bow of his head. “You’re pretty astounding yourself at picking locks.”
Hannah slow-blinked her eyes and pressed her lips into a deliberate, pensive smile. Apparently she had no intention of responding to Arthur’s shifty commendation. It was obvious that he had suspected something.
“I thought school’s closed?” he added. Her stare was lingering too long for comfort.
“It is.”
“Why are you in uniform?”
“Had to look convincing. Makes it easier for me to leave home.”
“You mean to your parents?”
Hannah shrugged. “Whoever stupid enough to be fooled. School’s the safest place there is during a curfew. Do you like my little hideout?”
“It’s decent.”
“You don’t recognise me, do you?” said Hannah.
Arthur’s heart made a pleasant leap. He did not expect the question and for a moment his mind stalled. “Have we met?”
Hannah suddenly exuded an air of insouciance. “Perhaps as passing strangers.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember well.”
“Don’t be.” Hannah chirped with her chin in her hand. She crossed her fair, slender legs and started flexing an ankle habitually and went on looking cheekily at him.
Arthur basked in this, the company of a lovely stranger, but he was increasingly flummoxed over what was going on. “So what are we doing here?”