“Come in,” he gestured her inside, “Keep your shoes on, if you like.”

“Oh no,” she said, “I prefer to walk barefoot when indoors,” and slipped her black heels off.

“Drink?” Omar asked.

“Sure, whatever you’re having,” Nim replied, as Omar walked towards the low table by the couch. He picked up the remote for the stereo and turned it down.

“You like jazz, I see,” Nim commented quietly as she sat down on one end of the couch.

Omar nodded and asked, “How many fingers? I hope you like single malt…”

“Three is good,” Nim replied quickly.

Omar handed her the thick, hand-cut crystal snifter with the golden liquid, picked up his own and clinked hers. They both took a sip and leaned back on the couch. Omar took another sip, “Thanks for coming over, I wasn’t sure if you were even in KL, but… thanks.” He looked at her, pained. “It’s been a horrific time, these past weeks…”

“I am so sorry, I cannot imagine what you must be going through…”

“Have never felt so helpless in my life,” he continued. “The police have nothing, absolutely fucking nothing…”

Nim shook her head and sighed. “Surely, they must have something…?”

“Well they told us that she could be anywhere really, that a child like her is worth more alive than dead, that she could be sold, she could be in Thailand, Australia, or even still in KL…!” He smiled bitterly. “These people are monsters…who would sell someone else’s child?” Omar drank the rest of the whisky, slammed the glass on the table and poured himself another drink.

“Have you eaten anything today, Omar?” Nim asked firmly. “I think you’ve had more than enough to drink…”

Omar sat down resigned and shook his head. “I can’t…can’t stop thinking about her…” He held his head in his arms and sighed.

Nim got up. “Do you have eggs?” She walked towards the modern open-style kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. “Yup, you do…”

Omar looked up and her and smiled weakly. “Do what you must,” he said.

Nim took out four eggs, some butter and milk and placed it on the kitchen island. She rummaged in the cupboards below and stove and found a saucepan. She beat the eggs in a bowl, added some milk, salt and pepper, melted some butter in a pan and lightly scrambled the eggs on the expensive cast iron stove until they were partially cooked.

The smell of food made Omar nauseous initially, but then the hunger pangs that he had subdued for days came back and he felt nauseous again, but now, from hunger. Nim slipped the eggs expertly onto a slim white plate and found some cutlery in another drawer. She carried the plate to Omar, who was already sitting up.

“Here, eat,” Nim demanded with a smile.

Omar took the plate gratefully and with his fork, pierced the soft mound of eggs and put it in his mouth. He nodded as he tasted the buttery, creamy goodness. Within seconds had eaten half the portion on the plate. Nim sat and watched him quietly, sipping her whisky.