When the Future Comes Too Soon (The Malayan Series) by Selina Siak Chin Yoke

Author:Selina Siak Chin Yoke [Siak Chin Yoke, Selina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781542045759
Publisher: Amazon Crossing
Published: 2017-07-17T22:00:00+00:00

15

Ah Hong was sweeping the floor in our bedroom when we heard the clacking of boots. A thud followed, which told me that our servant had dropped the fat shaft of her palm broom. As I walked along the vestibule, I could hear the padding of Ah Hong’s feet on parquet. From beside the louvre windows, she turned to me with startled eyes. Before she could say a word, the banging began: a ferocious, inhuman sound made not by knuckles or fists, but by a pole struck so hard against our front door that I feared my overdue baby would somersault inside his liquid cocoon.

My husband was at home that day. It must therefore have been a public holiday, though I cannot recall which one. There were many unfamiliar holidays in that period: Empire Day, Army Day, Navy Day, the Emperor’s Birthday, not to mention the numerous Japanese festivals, all treated as occasions for educating us about Japan’s greatness.

What I know is that it was a holiday, my baby was very late, and the Japs were knocking.

Father and I stood near the entrance and Samad a little behind as my husband opened the front door. We proceeded with our customary rei and did not see Hashimoto, Weng Yu’s boss, outside until we had raised our heads. Once my husband realised that his boss was outside, he swallowed hurriedly and the lump at the front of his throat wobbled. Another officer stood beside Hashimoto, a man with a white band around his left arm. My heart seized up at the sight of the armband: I had heard about these men. I blinked once to make sure I was not seeing things. When I opened my eyes again, the armband was still there, so innocuous looking, but there was no mistaking the ideograms emblazoned in bloody red.

The man pushed his way past, brushing against my extended belly without so much as a ‘please’ or an ‘excuse me’. My head remained slightly bent, as it was meant to be. Under the colonials we had been unquestioningly subservient; under the Japs we only pretended, but our pretence was an important means of self-preservation. As the officer marched past, I stole another glance and saw that he stood no more than five feet five inches tall. From the side he appeared well-fed, not fat, but clearly not bothered by shortages either. He wore a neat khaki uniform with a black collar and a belt around the waist. As he swung his body around, he showed off the military cap on his head, replete with its black visor, its bright red band and the golden five-pointed star in the middle. There could no longer be any doubt that our visitor came from the dreaded Kempeitai, or secret police.

‘Where he gone?’ the Kempeitai man bellowed in that guttural manner in which they spoke. His demeanour was that of an enraged bull: face swollen, expression thunderous, as if about to charge. No one replied – we had no idea whom he meant.

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