We got to work. We grabbed files from the cabinets and shoved them into black garbage bags. I ran into the photo archives and pulled out negatives and prints, trying to arrange them with some semblance of order into boxes. I grabbed leftover stocks of film in the fridge and shoved them into plastic bags. Fairman shouted, Save all your floppy disks, make sure they’re marked and give them to me before you go. Imran took charge and stood by the door, marking handmade lists. The Review had been around for only five years, precious noteworthy years, and our archives were worth saving. Riz and Jin packed up their desks silently and efficiently; in spite of what was going on, they still remained emotionless. Rose kept sighing and shaking her head. She packed up the kitchen things, muttering in Tagalog, stacking up mugs and old plates. What you want me to do, Sir? Keep or throw away? We threw out a mountain of paperwork. Jackie drove her car to the front and we stuffed bags of rubbish in the front, back and boot. She made ten trips to the dump that day. Fairman was on the phone making calls. He got no answers that day. His beloved stack of backdated Guardian newspapers had to be thrown out. Only take what’s necessary! We have to get out by today or we’re fucked!

The Review’s license had been revoked and for the first time in my life, I felt angry enough to draw blood. It was the end of a short era, our spirits were crushed, and when Riz walked out the office door for the last time, I swore I saw him wipe away a tear.

You can’t do that!

What? An assassination? I’d be doing us all a favour.

How? How would you do it?

There are ways.

But he’s guarded by a small army, armed to the teeth!

Yeah. You know that they call him now?

Mahafiraun.

The great pharaoh?

Bastard. Kiss my ass. Mahafiraun.

Hmmph!

I wish he would just drop dead.

Black magic.

Sure, let’s find a bomoh in Kampung Baru who can whip up a really devious spell. Something that will make his penis fall off or something like that.

Yeah, if you can get a bomoh to stop rain and thunder, damn, why not an evil politician?

Except his bomoh is probably more powerful than any other in KL.

So how?

Shit, man.

Bugger! Fucking bastard!

Fuck!

We had been drinking and were probably on our fourth gin and tonics. An empty can doubled as an ashtray on the arm of my chair. Sumi’s apartment was sparse, but there were two comfy armchairs with Afghan throws and large, fluffy cushions on the floor. A pair of wooden candlesticks from Istanbul. An Iranian saddlebag with colourful wool tassels—gorgeous but too prickly to lie on. Boho-chic. Cool.