There is a silence as they purr down the long, straight road from the airport, the arrays of pink flowers on either side fetching in the early morning light. They’ve gone straight from air-conditioned airport to air-conditioned car, and thus been spared the sharp burst of heat to the face that tells Henry he’s home, though the shimmering haze on the road ahead reminds him of what he’s in for.

He asks Janet about her husband and children, treading carefully so she doesn’t discover that he only ever skims the long e-mails she sends anatomising their lives. He remembers the highlights: the younger nephew’s exam results and Winston’s ministerial position, but otherwise her messages are a blur of banal detail, sandwiched between forwarded jokes and Christian tracts.

“So how do you two know each other?” says Janet, in a tone of voice that indicates she doesn’t really care. Henry says something about all the Singaporeans in London being acquainted, swapping tips about where to find the best laksa, which is the cue for Revathi to launch into an anecdote about how they first met at some ghastly Singaporean Chinese New Year event, god knows why she was even there but good luck trying to find anything for non-Chinese Singaporeans, and Henry was the only one who’d looked as appalled as her by the emcee’s awful jokes, so they’d bonded over that.

“We’re going to the Tiong Bahru flat, by the way,” says Janet. “It’s Henry’s idea. Not that we have room to put you up anyway. I hope you’re okay with that.”

“It’s fine,” says Revathi, “I’m not superstitious.”

“He didn’t die there, if you were afraid of that.”

She turns off the highway, wrenching the wheel a little harder than necessary. The buildings here are low-rise—shophouses and four-storey apartment blocks—and the streets named after people who were once famous. Eng Hoon Avenue. Yong Siak Street. Who were these men? He has never bothered to look them up. Revathi would probably know.

“They’d like to tear all this up, but it’s a conservation area. Waste of space, all this prime land.” Parking makes Janet short-tempered—she is enraged by anything she can’t do well.

The open-air car park sits enclosed by the horseshoe-shaped block, shaded by old trees. Emerging from the car, Henry feels the moist humidity, smells the sweet sap of seed pods crushed underfoot. Funny to think of Englishmen, two hundred years ago, embarking on an adventure to this small island, many dying from the smothering warmth and vicious diseases. The Victorian novels he used to devour barely mentioned the colonies, yet all their wealth was plunder.

“Come on,” says Janet brusquely, and he shakes himself free of his jet-lagged thoughts to help with the bags. The flats are old enough not to have lifts, which seems eccentric in high-tech Singapore. He struggles with his suitcase while Revathi, the seasoned traveller, has shown up with no more than a light rucksack and her capacious handbag.