so.

Before

1

It wasn’t easy being Henry’s daughter. That was how Sally felt growing up as an only child in a single-parent household. She had often thought about what it would be like to have a mother. All 14-year-olds in Singapore had one. Except her.

Sandra was her name. Daddy said so.

Sally never knew her mother. Daddy said she had died giving birth to her. Flipping through photo albums of Mummy and Daddy from the time they dated, he told her Mummy was a hero and the bravest woman in the world for giving up her life for her. Because Sally was worth it. Sally wished she had known Mummy. So she could say thank you.

To Sally, Sandra was one of those characters she read about in history books—brave, mysterious, human and always doing something cool in spite of what everyone else said.

Daddy kept so many photos of Mummy. There was one of her in her twenties, smiling while cooking salted-egg crabs at home with Daddy when they were dating. Another of her cycling along East Coast Parkway and having a barbecue with a group of friends. And numerous shots of her in Egypt, Paris, London, Nepal, India and Japan. The petite, short-haired woman with dark eyes, a round face, thin shoulders and slender legs had clearly loved life. No, embraced it.

There were so many questions Sally wanted to ask her.

Like how it felt to be dying yet carrying something inside you that wanted to live. Or how many kids she would have liked to have, and what she saw in Daddy. Sally smiled and imagined the many conversations they could have had just gossiping about Daddy, who didn’t look like much of a catch.

And what advice would she give about boys? Loathe them or love them? Avoid them was Daddy’s solution. But it was pointless wishing for something that could never happen. And so, since she was a child, Sally had told herself there was no time for self-pity and to make the most of what she had.

A netball player at 1.82 metres, she was the tallest girl in school, much taller than her best friends—Macy and Sophia. They liked the same food, books, movies and celebrities. Others had tried to be accepted into their group but were roundly judged to be unworthy and would slink quietly into the background in shame. Not that the trio was arrogant or aloof. There would just be an awkward silence and the person auditioning for the part of group member would quickly get the message and find other unsuccessful applicants to mingle with.

Something clicked the day they met in school a year earlier. It was the moment they knew they’d be friends for life.

The weekend’s finally here! So what are you guys doing after school? Macy asked her BFFs.

Got to meet my mum to go shopping for clothes, said Sophia. She’s got a date with some doctor tomorrow. Ever since my parents divorced, she’s been acting like a teenager. Like she’s making up for lost time after fourteen years with my dad. She’s living her second childhood and it’s so annoying. I keep telling her there’s already one teenager at home. Me. We don’t need another one. What about you, Sally? What will you be doing today?

Sally’s thoughts had drifted off again. To Mummy, rainbows, rabbits, lollipops and Daddy.

She thought about his eyes, always sad, always hiding something. When Henry thought she wasn’t looking, he’d stare out the window into nothingness. She had seen him do it often when she was a six-year-old, when he thought she was too young to understand what pain was.

She’d sit with her Lego sets or dolls and Henry would think she was playing with them. But she was observing him, studying his eyes. The way he’d stand with his hands on his hips, his head bowed, sighing heavily, sometimes crying quietly. It hurt her to hear him when he sniffled and whimpered like a wounded animal, with his right hand covering his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him.

Sometimes, while staring out the window, he’d say something to her like, Good job, dear or Okay, keep it up, even though she had not asked him anything or done anything particularly interesting.

Sally had wondered who or what could hurt Daddy so badly. She had always been afraid to ask. Some scars don’t show themselves. Some scars never heal.

I’ll be spending time with my Daddy, she told her friends.

She thought about her father again. And wondered if he was still miserable at home.

2

Hunching by the bookshelf while going through the messages on Sally’s mobile phone, Henry kept looking over his shoulder to make sure she was still having her bath.

For 14 years, he had fumbled his way through raising another human being. All the self-help books and YouTube videos weren’t much help to this IT specialist. Since none of them had said it was wrong to check your teenage daughter’s messages, Henry reasoned it was perfectly all right for him to do so. Especially since he had paid for the phone and continued to pay the monthly bills. So, theoretically, the phone was his. Theoretically.

How he wished Sandra was still around. How much easier it would be for him. And for Sally.

He spent every day thinking about his dead wife. Breast cancer had taken her. The last year of her life was especially brutal as the cancer cells launched one attack after another. The first sign of trouble came months before she was pregnant with Sally. That lump on the left side of her left breast had made an unwelcome appearance. Sandra brushed it off, which was normal. But there was nothing normal about the lump.

It’s probably an ulcer, she said whenever Henry asked her to go for a check-up. Relax. It’ll burst and disappear.

Like an uninvited guest who refused to leave, the lump remained. Henry’s constant nagging finally convinced her to see a doctor. Three days later, when the call came asking them to go to his office, they each knew it was probably bad news. She was now three months pregnant and the baby was developing well. Thankfully, she had been spared morning sickness. So far, so good.

What do you think he’ll say? Sandra asked Henry as they sat on their sofa at home. It was a simple three-bedroom flat with a massive bookshelf stuffed with fiction, non-fiction, cookbooks, dictionaries and titles on LEGO, Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings. They were Henry’s. Sandra, a pre-school teacher, loved crime thrillers, romance and poetry. Lego Star Wars models took pride of place on custom-made cabinets. Henry said nothing as he stared at the television, not paying attention to what was happening onscreen.

I don’t know, he said, sounding annoyed. He wished Sandra would be more optimistic. Pessimism only complicated things.

Maybe it’s nothing was all he could offer. Henry wondered how they would deal with that last day if cancer were to win. And whether his wife would be strong and healthy enough to see her pregnancy through. He turned away so she wouldn’t see he was about to cry. There were two lives at stake here and six more months to go.

It’s probably just a routine session with the doctor, said Henry, trying to delude himself.

He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He was such a bad actor.

He probably just wants to tell you the good news so you wouldn’t have to worry about the baby. Women have lumps all the time. I read somewhere it’s quite common. It’s probably just a false alarm.

No one said the C word that night. As if not mentioning its name could make it go away. They were playing pretend.

But this was a game Henry and Sandra knew they’d both lose.

3

Henry was 14 when he met a mean girl at the bookstore.

He was alone as usual. He didn’t know many boys his age who liked to cook and read cookbooks. Proclaiming that to the world and to his classmates in their all-boys school would be like pouring honey over his body, lying down and waiting for red ants to carpet him with a new layer of skin before feasting on his carcass.

Already struggling with his studies, he could do without that. It was his dirty little secret. Like not telling people you came from a poor family.

So whenever he went to the bookstore in Orchard Road, he’d always be alone. He loved getting lost in the forest of paperbacks, shielded by bookshelves standing like the solid defences along Normandy during World War II. Peace embraced him whenever he walked among the shelves, caressing the book spines.

Twice a week, he’d head down to the bookstore after school. It would usually be an uneventful visit. First to the comics section, then fiction, then the cookbooks, always in that order. Order made the world bearable for Henry.

Except that one day. Henry was reading a book on Mediterranean cuisine when he noticed the slim and sexy girl with the cute, round face and shoulder-length hair walking into the comics section. They go there?

He chucked the hardcover he had planned to buy back into the bookshelf and followed her. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling and couldn’t find the words to describe it. He wasn’t aware he was still holding two other cookbooks when he walked among the comics. He was careful to keep his distance and control his breathing as he homed in on this fine specimen. Wait till he told his friends at school. No, wait. He wasn’t sharing. No bloody way.

Henry walked along the perimeter of the outer shelves like a cheetah circling its prey, unaware of its presence among the bushes. He had one eye on the comics, another on Pretty Girl. Pretty Girl liked to read Iron Man and Batman comics. His kind of girl.

For several minutes, he pretended to be interested in the Japanese manga three shelves away while Pretty Girl browsed a copy of The Avengers. Henry was smiling to himself. It was a disturbing sight, enough to make a couple beside him walk briskly away. Henry didn’t know how long he had been staring. And that was the problem. He had stayed at the same spot for far too long and Pretty Girl had begun to sense an evil presence behind her. She turned and looked momentarily stunned to find him gawking at her. Pretty Girl regained her composure, determined he was only a threat to himself and smiled back.

Okay, that wasn’t supposed to happen, thought Henry. Pretty Girl wasn’t supposed to respond. Not to someone like him. Girls normally saw through him. But now, Pretty Girl was walking towards him. Henry suddenly felt numb and the blood drained from his face along with any remaining strength in his legs, which rendered him immobile. Pretty Girl was clutching three comic books across her chest.

Hi, said Pretty Girl.

Silence.

You looking for something? For someone?

More silence.

I’m Sandra.

Pretty Girl had a name! Progress! Henry then forced himself to say the first thing that came to mind.

Errrrrrrr…

What’s your name? asked Sandra.

Still more silence.

You have a name? You know, that thing your parents gave you when you were born? When you couldn’t speak? Like now?

Pretty Girl was funny. And cruel. Henry wasn’t sure if he still liked Pretty Girl. There was a meanness in her eyes. And it made her look beautiful.

H-h-h-Henry.

Hello, H-h-h-Henry, Pretty Girl said. Relax, I was only joking. What have you got there?

Oh great, his cookbooks. Here he was standing in front of one of the most beautiful girls he had ever met and he was carrying cookbooks. Henry wanted to say they were books on hunting, weightlifting, Army Special Forces or diving with great white sharks.

Cookbooks. I love to cook, said Henry, nodding and half-smiling. He was holding onto the books so tightly, his palms felt sweaty. He was sure that would be the end of the conversation and was expecting her to smile back, walk away and then call security.

I love to cook too. I’ve never met a guy who liked to cook. Cool. Wanna go for a drink?

Okay, sure. Let me pay for these first then we can go, said Henry, unable to restrain himself from smiling ear to ear.

Henry couldn’t remember what he had bought and walked slightly behind Sandra to admire her. Everything about her seemed perfect. Her flawless skin, the way the tendrils of her hair bounced gently by the left side of her face and the moles that dotted both cheeks like planets revolving around the sun. Henry slowly began to find his voice and they talked as they walked to a McDonald’s.

Sandra was captivated by his stories about his adventures in the kitchen.

His mother was a housewife and had taught him how to cook. Since he was five, he’d wander into the kitchen in their three-room flat and his mother would never chase him away. He started by cutting vegetables and pounding herbs and nuts. Then, peeling potatoes, onions, garlic and carrots before moving on to the more serious stuff when he was eight. It took his mother three years to trust him with frying, using the oven, and slicing fish and chicken. But he was a quick learner and by the time he was 11, his relatives weren’t able to tell who had cooked the dishes—his mother or Henry.

When I was six, I nearly sliced off my left index finger while chopping spring onions, he said. And when I was twelve, I almost burned down the flat.

Really? Oh my gosh, what happened? said Sandra, leaning forward wide-eyed.

“You know calamari? I didn’t know you’re supposed to first drain the water from the packet after you’ve thawed it. So, the water is accumulating in the packet, right? The calamari is softer, and I thought now would be a great time to fry it. Bad i-d-e-a.

“I was pouring everything into the hot pan filled with oil on high heat. Suddenly, this huge fountain of fire shot up from the pan the moment the water touched the oil. I jumped back still clutching the packet of calamari in my left hand and I just stood there. The flames were roaring and I could feel the heat on my face, you know. The flames are licking the cooker hood and they’re growing bigger and bigger. And I’m just standing there, doing absolutely nothing. I was scared and admiring the fire at the same time.

Then, I felt something hot on my arms. Droplets of hot oil were raining on me. It woke me up and I realised the fire was going to consume the cabinets above the stove.

Then what? Sandra asked.

“My mother rushed into the kitchen and lunged forward to turn off the gas. She then grabbed a lid from the cupboard and slammed it down on the pan. It killed the flames. I could finally breathe after that. I had not realised I had been holding my breath the entire time.

That was one of the most important lessons I learnt that day. Fire and water can never be friends.

It would take another four years of meeting for coffee, and going to the movies and the bookstore, before Henry had the guts to ask Sandra to be his girl. There was something about Henry’s honesty and eagerness to try new things in life that seemed to attract her.

Henry didn’t know it then but he was right about one thing.

Fire and water could never be friends.

4

Inspector Rahim of the Internal Security Department crushed the piece of paper, rolled it into a ball and flung it onto the floor where it joined the other crumpled wads. Another terror suspect had evaded capture in Indonesia. And with him, the plans for potential targets of a possible attack.

As an intelligence officer at one of the world’s best intelligence agencies, Rahim was tasked to identify terror threats and work with other security agencies like the FBI and MI6 to neutralise these threats. His work was the kind the Singaporean public would never hear about—secretive, low-profile and one that was underappreciated.

He and his colleagues hardly got any public plaudits for preventing a terrorist attack or arresting a suspect. It was fine with them. That wasn’t why they took the job in the first place. The less people knew, the better.

But for how long?

Not if, but when.

The politicians had been repeating the refrain every other week for several years. They had also been urging as many people as possible to learn CPR in case they were caught in the middle of an attack and would be able to help the nearest casualties. Then, there was the SGSecure campaign to remind Singaporeans to run, hide and tell if an attack took place near them. There was even an app so the public could notify the authorities if they witnessed a terror act and receive emergency alerts about such strikes. Even ordinary vehicles like trucks, lorries and cars were being used as murder weapons. Something the people of Nice, Berlin, London and Stockholm knew too well.

In spite of all these efforts, some Singaporeans felt the likelihood of bombs going off in their country was low. It was tough to convince a people who had enjoyed peace and prosperity for more than fifty years that their lives were at risk.

Rahim, his colleagues and the government were concerned. But there was nothing more they could do. The only thing that would convince people to stop being complacent was…

Rahim swatted that thought out of his mind.

That was why he did what he did and had sacrificed so much for the cause. All those stakeouts and take-out meals. All those extra hours monitoring the online chatter of people with suspected terror links. All those birthdays, holidays and wedding anniversaries he had missed. He had even forgotten how long he had been married. Sixteen years. At least he remembered his wife’s name, Nora. And that he had four kids—a ten-year-old daughter, a seven-year-old son and four-year-old twin girls. And number five was on the way.

Wait a minute! What day was it today?

He remembered something big was about to happen but couldn’t for the life of him recall what it was he was supposed to be prepared for.

A conference call with his Malaysian counterparts? Documents about extraditing a suspect? Weapons training?

Nora’s face slowly came to mind like a ghostly vision. Nora?

What did Nora have to do with… Just then, an SMS came in. It was from Nora. It read: It’s a boy. U at work?

Oh crap, Nora! She was giving birth today. She did give birth today. Rahim knew he was so dead. He was already an absentee husband and father. He knew he was bad at his job at home. He didn’t need to remind his family just how bad he was at it.

He slumped in his chair when he realised he had missed thirty WhatsApp messages from Nora while poring over charts, SMS transcripts and emails.

14.33: Where are u?

15.07: U cmg hm?

15.20: I need u!

16.12: I’m gg to the hospital. My dad’s taking me there.

Then, the last one at 21.01. It’s a boy. U at work?

It was now 2104 hours, or 9.04pm as civilians knew it.

Rahim gasped, grabbed some documents, stuffed them into his leather briefcase, shot up from his chair, startling his colleagues, then ran for the exit.

What happened? A tip-off? someone asked.

Worse, said Rahim. Nora gave birth and I forgot! She delivered the kid alone, today.

Yup, his colleagues agreed. He was as good as dead.

5

Their baby was in the nursery. Rahim went there first to look at him but couldn’t tell one kid from the other. He asked the nurse for help. She glared at him. Nora must have told her. The nurse pushed the crib to the viewing glass so Rahim could have a better view of the son he knew he’d ignore later in life, just like the rest of his four children.

When he had seen enough of his child, without feeling much for him, Rahim headed for Nora’s room. He opened the door clutching a bouquet of roses like a police officer entering a suspicious scene with a weapon—cautiously. Nora was sitting up in bed. Of the four pregnancies, this was the first time he had been MIA.

Hi, dear, said Rahim, the bouquet now becoming a shield.

Nora rested her head on the pillow. Her eyes tracked Rahim as he held the flowers with both hands as if ready to swing them wildly in case she launched an attack. He studied her bed area nervously, noting the possible types of missiles available to her at arm’s length—a bowl of soup, a jug of water, a cup of Milo, and a fork and a knife that had come with her dinner. He eyed them intently as if willing them not to fly in his