At which Luke could not help laughing, and Che Ahmad joined the laughter, knowing it friendly and not contemptuous, happy that Luke’s sadness had been dispelled. Suddenly it seemed ridiculous to struggle, to work hard aggressively, to toil and to suffer, as Luke did, as the English did, as the Chinese did, as I did, instead of looking beautiful like Che Ahmad, but then I remembered the children, blind with malnutrition, because their Malay mothers spent so much more on dress than on food. …

‘And what about Ah Mei?’ asked Che Ahmad affably, feeling the atmosphere thicken again as Luke reached for another drink.

‘She is going back to her village for the Dragon Boat Festival. She’s very happy.’

‘Mr Davis,’ said Che Ahmad, ‘show the picture of that girl student to the doctor. The photograph you showed me this evening at the Mess. The girl who is on the ship to China. The doctor may have seen her somewhere in Johore … a woman doctor always sees many people. …’

‘Oh I don’t think so,’ replied Luke, morose. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out his leather wallet, thumbed out a snapshot. ‘Here. Looks like any other Chinese girl to me, but I feel I’ve seen her before.’

‘But I do know her,’ I said, giving back the snapshot. ‘This is Golden Orchid, the friend of Ah Mei, who stayed with us here for two or three weeks.’

Both men sat up, abruptly.

‘You know her? Where is she now?’

‘Gone back to Singapore a few days ago. …’

They looked at each other.

‘Where is Ah Mei?’

‘Downstairs, with her mother.’

Quietly, Che Ahmad leading the way on naked feet, they went downstairs.

There was no shouting and no scuffle at first, only dead silence, then a murmur of voices, and then suddenly a voice raised in a short sharp cry, and then sobs, heartrending sobs. I ran downstairs, my legs weak with terror and sadness for Ah Mei, and stumbled on black compact shapes slashed with light, rocking and struggling, and Luke panting: ‘Hold, hold that brat,’ as Little Brother fought him with tooth and claw, screaming ‘Ma, Ma!’ in long braying sobs. And then Luke and Che Ahmad were pushing the three into the car, slamming and locking the doors.

‘Wait, our chaps will be here in a jiffy to scour the place.’

They were gone in a bursting ear-shattering roar of engine. The naked bulb remained dispensing yellow light upon an empty table. On the floor Che Ahmad’s black songkok, upturned, showed its cardboard lining. One of Ah Mei’s small rubber slippers was in a corner, and a rolled piece of cigarette paper under the table. I picked it up, smoothed it, and read: