would buy a packed lunch before she left for her own break. She had long since given up trying to work out what it was he wanted or liked. Now, keen that purchasing lunch for the boss should not encroach on her own free time, she usually bought him something from a nearby food court, her choice as to his meal based entirely on the length of the queues at the different outlets. Kian Min was indifferent and did not seem to notice if he was fed a leathery lamb steak, an oily biryani rice or fried noodles.
*
Much had changed recently in the dining habits of the Lee family. Chelsea was in prison, picking over a mess of white rice and unidentifiable gravy. The two younger children of Alan and Chelsea were being served bowls of congee with finely sliced ginger and fish cakes. The eldest, Marcus Lee, had refused lunch because he had a hangover.
Jasper Lee, back from his fleeting visit to Borneo, was at a Chinese coffee shop. Since leaving the family business, he had managed on a shoestring budget, eschewing by choice his prior lifestyle. He sat on a stool at a brown, Formica–topped table. The four–legged stools were from Ikea. Their aluminium stools with plastic coloured seats were cheaper than the rattan or wooden ones that used to adorn cheap restaurants. Jasper paused to regret yet another casualty of globalisation, unnoticed and hardly regretted, but affecting some of the charm that had once been prevalent at food outlets, even those as grubby as this one.
The smell of koay teow frying, the flames leaping around the wok, perched on a portable stove and attached by a rubber tube to a nearby gas tank, triggered an explosion of gastric juices in his stomach and sent a sharp stab of acidic pain towards his chest. The meal, with a glass of fresh icy soya bean juice, would cost less than five ringgit. Despite this, Jasper knew he would enjoy it far more than the expensive dishes of exotic, endangered species with self–consciously lyrical names that an expensive Chinese restaurant would offer him.
The cook wiped the sweat from his brow and a few drops fell into the wok, sizzling against the hot sides. He said to Jasper, 'Want extra chilli?' and when Jasper nodded, scooped up a gob with a spatula from a large plastic container and flicked it in.
Jasper tucked in heartily. In the old days, he would have been unable to eat under pressure as great as he was suffering now. But years on his own had taught him that a failure to eat regularly only exacerbated the nature of the problem he faced. He picked the mussels out of his food carefully. One slipped through his guard, filling his mouth with its stale metallic taste – like the warm iron taste of blood. He almost gagged but managed to spit it out, half chewed.
A cat slipped out from a drain where it had been waiting for just such a moment. Heavily pregnant with large teats almost brushing the ground and a mangy coat through which ribs were visible, the cat was no different from the hundreds of other strays that lived in the vicinity of hawker centres and fought over scraps while avoiding the odd kick from a disgusted patron. Jasper felt sorry for the beast. Leaving money wedged under his empty glass, he quickly tipped his plate onto the floor. The cat barely waited for him to step away before attacking the food with the ferocity of a mother driven by a biological imperative to look after her unborn young.
Crudely, it put him in mind of his brother's wife, Chelsea. It was no hardship for anyone to believe that she had gunned down his brother to protect her children. He did not feel any anger towards this woman accused of killing Alan. Instead, he wondered what she had eaten for lunch. He had no idea what prison food in Malaysia involved. He shuddered and then steeled himself. He had made up his mind what to do. There was no turning back now.
His father had accused him of being feckless and disloyal when he had walked out of the family home. He had always felt that it
*
Much had changed recently in the dining habits of the Lee family. Chelsea was in prison, picking over a mess of white rice and unidentifiable gravy. The two younger children of Alan and Chelsea were being served bowls of congee with finely sliced ginger and fish cakes. The eldest, Marcus Lee, had refused lunch because he had a hangover.
Jasper Lee, back from his fleeting visit to Borneo, was at a Chinese coffee shop. Since leaving the family business, he had managed on a shoestring budget, eschewing by choice his prior lifestyle. He sat on a stool at a brown, Formica–topped table. The four–legged stools were from Ikea. Their aluminium stools with plastic coloured seats were cheaper than the rattan or wooden ones that used to adorn cheap restaurants. Jasper paused to regret yet another casualty of globalisation, unnoticed and hardly regretted, but affecting some of the charm that had once been prevalent at food outlets, even those as grubby as this one.
The smell of koay teow frying, the flames leaping around the wok, perched on a portable stove and attached by a rubber tube to a nearby gas tank, triggered an explosion of gastric juices in his stomach and sent a sharp stab of acidic pain towards his chest. The meal, with a glass of fresh icy soya bean juice, would cost less than five ringgit. Despite this, Jasper knew he would enjoy it far more than the expensive dishes of exotic, endangered species with self–consciously lyrical names that an expensive Chinese restaurant would offer him.
The cook wiped the sweat from his brow and a few drops fell into the wok, sizzling against the hot sides. He said to Jasper, 'Want extra chilli?' and when Jasper nodded, scooped up a gob with a spatula from a large plastic container and flicked it in.
Jasper tucked in heartily. In the old days, he would have been unable to eat under pressure as great as he was suffering now. But years on his own had taught him that a failure to eat regularly only exacerbated the nature of the problem he faced. He picked the mussels out of his food carefully. One slipped through his guard, filling his mouth with its stale metallic taste – like the warm iron taste of blood. He almost gagged but managed to spit it out, half chewed.
A cat slipped out from a drain where it had been waiting for just such a moment. Heavily pregnant with large teats almost brushing the ground and a mangy coat through which ribs were visible, the cat was no different from the hundreds of other strays that lived in the vicinity of hawker centres and fought over scraps while avoiding the odd kick from a disgusted patron. Jasper felt sorry for the beast. Leaving money wedged under his empty glass, he quickly tipped his plate onto the floor. The cat barely waited for him to step away before attacking the food with the ferocity of a mother driven by a biological imperative to look after her unborn young.
Crudely, it put him in mind of his brother's wife, Chelsea. It was no hardship for anyone to believe that she had gunned down his brother to protect her children. He did not feel any anger towards this woman accused of killing Alan. Instead, he wondered what she had eaten for lunch. He had no idea what prison food in Malaysia involved. He shuddered and then steeled himself. He had made up his mind what to do. There was no turning back now.
His father had accused him of being feckless and disloyal when he had walked out of the family home. He had always felt that it
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