On 31 October 2003, Mahathir Mohamad ceased to be Prime Minister of Malaysia. He was replaced by his deputy, Abdullah Badawi, the soft-spoken, well-liked politician who hailed from Penang. Malaysians were joyous, exhilarated, relieved. The demagogue that was Mahathir was gone, it was the end of an era, the end of darkness and finally, there would be light.

All across the city, people celebrated. It was Halloween, after all, and there were parties from Bangsar to Cheras, Bukit Bintang to Damansara Heights. Mahathir masks were popular, caricatures of his fleshy eyes and jowls were paraded on faces, and Anwar’s transposed black eye was met with howls of laughter, jibes and jubilation. There were parties on rooftops and bars, terrace gardens and bedrooms.

Omar and Fairman were in the office, having sealed another contract. They had just ended a conference call with their partners in Lagos and had gotten the go-ahead for another project that would start in 2004. Fairman thumped the table. Omar smiled and nodded his head.

“Wow, I was a little worried about that one, to be honest. Especially now.” Omar loosened his tie and sat down at his desk, putting his feet up.

“I told you, I would sort it out, and I did,” Fairman replied. “Come on, let’s have a drink.”

Omar slid open the drawer on his right and pulled out a new bottle of single malt. He rolled his chair over to the left to pull two crystal snifters from a bookcase. Fairman ruffled his hair, took out a handkerchief from his pocket and started cleaning his glasses. Omar peeled the thin metal covering off the top of the bottle and pulled out the cork slowly.

“Aaah,” he sighed as he inhaled deeply. He poured generously into the two glasses and passed one to Fairman.

Both men looked at each other and chuckled.

“To us! And to Pak Lah. May we live long and prosper!”

“Indeed,” replied Omar with a laugh. “Jesus, I’m fucking knackered.” He put his feet back up on the desk and looked intently at the glass before downing the rest of the whisky.

“Whoa, slow down there,” Fairman said.

“Listen, Del’s had a really hard time since Alba got sick…”

“That, I do know,” Fairman replied, “Take some time off, go on…”

Omar cut him off. “No, actually, I need Sumi to convince Del to get a maid.” Omar’s frustration took over. “She…she can’t manage… Look, the work is what keeps us going, our wives know that and they need to figure it out…we’re making real money now, and Del needs to get a bloody maid.”

“Del’s stubborn that way, she wants to do it all—on her own.” Fairman agreed.

“Alba’s two now and soon she’ll be at playschool. Del can get her life back, go back to work,” Omar continued, pouring himself another drink.

“Doing what?” Fairman leaned over and poured himself more whisky.

“She could work for Imran, go back to journalism…” Omar took a sip.