“Del, let’s go, there’s nothing more here.” Omar threw a look of scorn at Inspector Awang, grabbed Del’s hand and walked towards the door pulling her forward. She followed reluctantly and let out a wail, which came deep from the recesses of a grief, so primal, so visceral, Inspector Awang was forced to light a cigarette after he shut the door. He felt sorry for the couple and knew from the familiar feeling in the pit in his belly, now hardened by years and the evil in men’s hearts, that their child would never be found.

There were no words to describe this. This pain. What I thought I once knew, I knew no longer. There was a darkness and despair that plagued only people who had lost children. It was an unspeakable, unknowable thing. There was a void that could never be filled unless your child was returned. Until then, the desire to die was stronger than the desire to stay alive, and this was the terrible place I found myself in. After Alba was taken, a frenzy fed the media. It was a maniacal clown juggling a sick circus. The glare of the media, on us, like a 24-hour spotlight.

“Grandchild of famed human rights lawyer goes missing.”

“Child taken from exclusive mall in Bangsar.”

“Toddler taken from supermarket.”

“KL is no longer safe.”

“Activist parents lose child.”

Our apartment became an instant operations centre for Alba. A day after the abduction, policemen and policewomen showed up, and we had to rearrange the furniture in the living room, move the couch, the coffee table, the TV consul, the book cases; we moved everything to fit tightly against the edge of one wall. They brought in foldable tables and chairs. We added extensions to power points, added phone lines, power lines, we set up a hotline with five different phones. We all sat and waited.

Thousands of posters were printed. Pictures of Alba were plastered on telephone poles, tollbooths, shop windows, ATM machines, the backs of lorries and taxis—from Kepong to Subang Jaya, Kinrara to Taman Tasik Permaisuri, Ampang to Taman Tun. It was on the radio, TV, chatrooms, the newspapers. Her face was everywhere. Imran had even created a special page for Alba on Malaysia Times and was coordinating all media releases and statements.

After 24 hours, there was nothing. No SMS, no email, no call, nothing. We waited for another six days, sitting at the phones, waiting, but there was nothing. Our days and nights had been put on hold, Inspector Awang came and went several times a day. The case was now being handled by D9, which was the Major Crimes unit of the Royal Malaysian Police, and we had to trust them, we had to let them do what they knew best.