She shook her head. Be a big girl, stop blubbing that you’ve been lonely. So no one slapped you on the back or took you to lunch when you first stepped into that newsroom, not like the boys. Never mind. Hold your own. She thanked Lucy for the suitcase and went down to call her parents.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” said her mother, by way of greeting.

“It actually is, I’d get fired.”

“I can talk to your boss, if you like.”

“That’s a terrible idea. Anyway, I want to go.”

“Rev, why?”

“It’s where I’m from. I want to see it again.”

“When British people ask you where are you really from, I see you get annoyed. Suddenly you’re from there again?”

“Well, I am, sort of. Where you’re from, then.”

“I’m from Singapore.”

“I’ll see that too. We’re changing planes there.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Things are different now, Amma. It’s fine now.”

“It’s never fine. That’s why we brought you to England. You were supposed to have a better life.”

“I looked up some file pictures. Kuala Lumpur’s a modern city now. Taller buildings than London, even.”

“What about all those men who got killed?”

“That was decades ago! Don’t you see what a big story this could be, though?”

“You are uncovering the truth after all this time?”

“I might. Don’t make fun of me.”

“Your father wants to speak to you.”

Her father took the phone and said, gruffly, “Take care of yourself, Kutti,” which was demonstrative for him. She hung up and went to bed, thoughtful.

That night, she dreamt of Malaysia for the first time in many years. Her parents had driven up north a couple of times, taking her to be cooed over by long-gone relatives. She saw the plantations they’d driven past, those tall trees blocking out the sun. Then she was running between the spindly trees, each trickling a channel of milk-white liquid into a Carnation tin. Her parents smiling as a foreman urged on his workers. She sprinted along the mathematically regular rows as they grew wider and wider, or perhaps she was shrinking, until the latex overflowed and lapped around her ankles, then knees. She struggled to get clear of it, but the viscous liquid made it hard to move. She called her father, but he’d disappeared. Amma? There was no one in sight. Out of nowhere, gunshots tore into the trees, and each wound produced a fresh stream of purest white. She opened her mouth to scream, but it filled with liquid before she could make a sound.

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