A Normie's Guide To Mind-Reading | ONC 2023

Fifteen ∆ Monkey's Paw

"Na mandala cheu di gera. Na mandala cheu di gera..."

Once again, in a mandala forever at war within. A saccharine voice sings the mantra over the radio, on every frequency. Matters not if it's an English, Chinese, Malay or Tamil radio station.

We're cruising down the expressway. Behind us, asphalt fumes burst out of cracked roads, trees fall, and the sky becomes abysmally black. The waters are packed with cars that pile atop one another, and from afar, people and debris look the same.

During our ride, Jacob speaks of the Interpreter, a shadowy figure who lurks in the waters like an oil spill. The Interpreter was neither man nor woman, merely taking on the shape of a human, which was to say, the mirror image of God. They fed all sorts of distasteful words to the cats and dogs while taking care of their well-being. Being one with water meant time was nonexistent, but the rinse and repeat of abuse and care was stark enough to create the illusion of time. Like the road we are on, however much the surroundings change, we are acutely aware of how we are stripped of space behind us, how the shadows swallow the tiles we stepped, how we are thus made bereft of even the point of no return. It's amazing how I haven't sneezed in his presence.

But Jacob's right. We cannot afford to look back. When one looks back, one swings on the pendulum of nostalgia, feelings and memories compete for attention at present and one is no longer down to earth, but climbing the stairway to heaven like the stratocumulus clouds outside that lead to the void, made apparent in the rearview mirror. But Singapore hardly sees these clouds.

The sole relief arrives when Jacob, unlike typical Caleb, reveals we're rushing to Sentosa. Circumstances allow the cat whose poised body is stretched to reach the accelerator to drive beyond the speed limit and drift however he likes, cut through void decks and fences and basketball courts and wet markets and hawker centres etc. till the ferry terminal in Harbourfront emerges into view like a blood red Push Pop.

"How do you know where to go?"

"Sentosa, in Malay, means peace and tranquility, a rebranding after World War II, and it's now known for being a place of amusement. It's an identity war. Besides, the Sook Ching Massacre took place there. You should know, having studied Singapore History."

The Sook Ching Massacre occurred during the Japanese Occupation of Singapore, then Syonan-to, Light of the South. Chinese men thought to be traitors will sent off to beaches to be shot. Nevertheless, Sentosa is celebrated for its idyllic existence now where Fort Siloso is but another attraction, an anomaly from an era of bloodshed.

Indeed we are southbound, towards the light where Murakami Man, or The Interpreter, as Jacob calls him, awaits like a spider staring at a fly stuck crawling about its web.

Glass shatters as the taxi skids into VivoCity. Jacob's nonchalant expression as he directs the vehicle towards the boardwalk is the least assuring thing when shards pierce the window and windscreen. How the tyres escape punctuation is beyond me.

Reflected in the glass fragments, however, are red-eyed spiders weaved out of smoke.

I slap the dashboard. "Drive faster!"

"The void will take them. They are the least of our worries." Jacob gestured at the cable cars outside with a tilt of his head. Every carriage that hangs frozen on the line is broken and bleeding. Is it possible for anyone to survive a fall from such a height? Slicing through the sky diagonally, the void cackles at us as we speed through the wooden boardwalk. Then, Jacob shrieks. "Or meowbe not!"

I whip my head to the bonnet where the red-eyed spiders have gathered. "The void isn't moving any longer. Floor it!"

"Do you think that's not what I'm doing, hooman?"