Now, at a distance of fifty years, Jason’s instinct for revenge feels blunted. It makes no difference what these men did, why their leaders told them to, if it could have been avoided. It doesn’t matter that they were punished. Entirely irrational, he thinks if only his sister had not died, if Mollie had been in another room that day, if she had taken an early tea break, then he too might have been saved. Lying now on his iron bed, aware that he is dying, there are moments when he can think only of Mollie, can wonder only whether it was fear or peace that filled her mind as she looked up and saw the world, unimaginably, begin to fall apart.

•

In the minutes immediately after waking, Jason Low cannot remember where he is. There is no guarantee it will be morning, and in fact it often isn’t—he needs so little sleep these days. He lies in the indeterminate pre-dawn gloom, squinting to make out shapes in the dark. He can hear laboured breathing, smell disinfectant. Reaching for his wife, for Siew Li, his fingers hit only the metal railing around his bed, and he thinks prison for a moment, before remembering he’s in hospital.

The bed is in a Class C ward, which means there are seven other bodies in the room. He would rather be alone, but his Medisave account is running out after several years of lavish disease. Whenever he tentatively mentions going private, like a nice room in Mount Elizabeth, his daughter Janet’s mouth snaps shut like a purse. She appears to regard her inheritance as a fait accompli, and any unnecessary spending as straightforward theft from his grandchildren. He could go against her wishes, but if he angers Janet and she stops visiting, then no one will. Light begins to seep into the room, and the grey walls take on their daytime shade of bilious green. Next to him is Madam Ngoh, the mouth breather, who cries out in her sleep to absent children. Although they have nothing in common—she barely speaks English—he has come to depend on her. They are both here for the long haul, surviving as the other beds fill and empty with transients, dilettantes who breeze in with cataracts and leave without. They don’t even have to cut you open for kidney stones these days; a laser goes right through without breaking the skin.

None of the beds have curtains drawn around them, which is a good sign—it means no one has died during the night. In the fortnight he’s been here, he’s seen three bodies removed from the ward (discreetly, under sheets). Each time, he glanced across at Madam Ngoh, and she looked as apprehensive as he felt. Time is picking us off one by one, he thought, like characters in a horror film.