Oh my god, Del. I love you.

And as he moaned his release, I felt better, knowing that I had a man who loved me, a man who loved me more than I loved myself.

On Monday morning, Marina was let out of her cell. For two nights she had slept on cardboard and she had a terrible crick in her neck. There were two cellmates, two guys from the raid who were thrown in a few hours later. They had tested positive for drugs and were also going to be charged that day.

She was starving, thirsty. She needed to empty her bowels, she needed a bath. Her cellmates were young gay guys, Amin and Fred, both from Johor Bahru. They were terrified and they slept huddled against each other, crying softly before the snores came.

Food was meagre. They were given stale buns, white rice with the smallest portions of fish imaginable and packets of sweet iced drinks that had to be shared.

The cell stank worse at night and they heard cries from other cells that held the women. The hours bled into each other, there was little conversation, there was no desire to talk, share their lives, bond. There was humiliation. Marina was made to feel shame.

In the Black Maria, she had been handcuffed. She sat in the back on her own, dazed as the vehicle drove through the streets of KL. And when she arrived at the police station, the cop at the counter wrote out the charge. He leered at her and said.

“You ni…prostitute?”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

He laughed at her. “You? Lawyer?” He turned to his colleagues and shouted, “Eh, this pondan wants to call her lawyer. Betul ke ni?” He then stood up and said, “You are being charged under Section 28, where you can be fined one thousand ringgit or be jailed for one year or both. Do you understand the charge? Faham tak?”

Marina nodded. Then they took her into a room and a female cop asked her to take off her clothes. Marina looked up at the fan, which was covered in black dust. The window had bars, and she heard crickets outside. Goose bumps covered her flesh and her nipples hardened. She was cold.

“Panties okay,” the cop said picking up Marina’s clothes. Marina was clad in a red g-string, she tried to cover her breasts.

“Bend over,” the cop ordered. “Cough.”

Marina asked for the toilet. It was a squat toilet with no door. The female cop stood nearby facing her. Then she was handed a gown, which looked like a hospital garment. It was dirty and smelled of sweat. The female cop’s eyes showed concern, but she was silent. Marina was taken to her cell at the opposite end of the hallway from the toilet. Her bare feet felt sand, slime, things she dared not imagine. The cell was a room with a bare floor. There was a stack of cardboard in one corner. Marina found a corner, unfolded a piece of cardboard and sat on it. The female cop locked the heavy metal doors and walked away. Marina was alone in the cell, in the dark.