By Zhao Xingyu

I was seated between Leong and Teck, and they were close to glassing each other. Leong had stood up, waving his Heineken bottle around. Darts of spit bubbled on the hawker table. Teck remained seated, scratching his chest of acne scars through his singlet. His left hand fished around in his trouser pocket, and I heard the clink of his keys.

"Oi, Teck, diam la, you want make me piss off, isit.' Leong took a swig, gulped as if his bottle wasn't empty. 'Not a boy, it's a man. If boy, confirm kena Mothership liao. You ah, don't spread fake news."

Teck looked scared. The serrated edges of nickel cut into his palm, and left teeth marks. He said, 'Chee-bye, calm down, I saw with my own 'two eye' from on top my condo okay?'

A few days ago, news had gotten around that there was a hit-and-run at Jalan Pemimpin. While queuing at an NTUC, an auntie in front of me, her green cart overflowing with toilet paper, turned around, started whispering to me. "Ah boy ah, you got hear or not, somebody die you know, just nearby only…" I was shocked more by the approach of a stranger, her face glossy and voice sour, as if someone had shoved into my mouth a packet of haw flakes. She didn't look me in the eyes when she told me: "Poor thing, the kid was hit by a car, primary school only leh, the driver probably she, but again who drinks at noon? What if it's my son?" She shuddered; her husband returned with two cans of baby formula. She began stroking her husband's hairy arms, telling him something in a lower murmur, and they laughed.

Teck gave Leong a hard stare. Then, he offered his hand. Leong took it. A chuckle rumbled in their throats. "Aiya, simisai, whole afternoon talking about this." Leong pointed at me. "Paiseh ah Wang, see two unker arguing. Who cares right? Man, boy, whatever la." He passed a five-dollar note to Teck, and when they both left for the carpark, I saw Teck slide the five-dollar bill into Leong's back pocket, the head of Yusof Ishak peeking out.

I met Leong and Teck a few weeks ago. In the early evening, I liked to jog along the boulevard of Upper Thomson, listening to Phoebe Bridgers, breathing in sourdough, IPAs, and the occasional whiff of piss from a pet store. One day, resting on a stool at Shunfu Mart, two men had shouted to me across a chicken rice stall: "Eh, boy, join us la!" I was usually silent while they complained about their marriages, how they caned their siao children, the affairs of their colleagues, and the terrible managers of their football teams. I nodded along, and that was enough for them to like me.

Waiting at the bus stop, I smiled as Leong cruised past me, showed me the middle finger, his other hand on the faux-leather steering wheel. Teck pinched his scalp and, even here, I could hear a faint yowl. I watched the back of Leong's head become the seed of a pomegranate. I wondered if Leong's son looked like him, face curving left like a pod of edamame, frantically doing his homework. He'd spent the afternoon watching television, knew his father would be coming back in 10 minutes. The crack of a Uniqlo belt glimmered in the ceiling fan's reflected light, like the bumper of a Toyota.

I never told anyone I'd witnessed the accident. I was hanging lingerie and suit pants on a metal pole when I spotted him, a teenager in an oversized blazer. His frame barely fit into the foreshortened shadows of binjai trees. For some reason, he was walking on the road, a distance away from the pavement, lost in the navy blue of his headphones. I was disgusted by the way he walked: his toes of both feet almost glued together, his calves clenched and taut, like the leaves of a seizing mimosa. The tips of his bulging ankles, shielded by a thin layer of Converse, scraped the ground. Whatever was inside his canvas bag tinkled, soft as wind chimes. Everyone could see the Toyota coming, painted sangria. The office workers and the maids with preschoolers continued looking at their phones. The car seemed to inch closer, and a couple of people sensed something was wrong. They looked up, and saw that the tall boy was seconds away from being hit. They shouted at him, and a maid let go of her child's hand, sprinting across the broken white lines, fingers reaching, a Caravaggio. The car ran him over, slowly. It felt like a cut scene from Grand Theft Auto. It was so mesmerising, so comical, I couldn't watch until the end. I remember him suspended in the air. His back kyphotic, palm splayed, facing the far-off condominiums.

I was woken up by the crash of cymbals, the boom of gongs. When I walked into the living room, my parents were on the balcony. Joining them, I saw the outlines of families of the terraces around us; everyone was leaning over their balustrades. The silhouette of a child gave me a little wave, before her head jerked back down.

There was a giant yellow tent stretched across Jalan Pemimpin. Rows of garish UNICA chairs were placed behind an altar. In the centre was a portrait of the boy, his hair a low fade, his face white, as if someone had covered it with mahjong paper. Agarwood incense coiled around the bodies of fruits: melons, pineapples, pomelos, apples, oranges. Reams of hell notes were placid beside a large bronze brazier. Paper mansions, Patek Philippes, iPhones and Maseratis smouldered, but, strangely, never turned to ash. Nine ceramic tiles encircled the purple flame, and a priest picked up a sword and cradled it, then leaned forward as if to chant it a lullaby. He stabbed the asphalt, and a tile shattered.

There was nobody else around, except two priests on a makeshift wooden stage, sharpening the blades in the glare. A car turned in from Marymount Road. Then two, then three. They stuttered forward. Beams of light disappeared when they hit the hanging lanterns.

My father said, "What the hell is this? Why are they doing this here, instead of a void deck?"

My mother replied, touching my shoulder, "Boy ah, I've already called the police. Really inconsiderate people again. Singapore is becoming more and more lawless. Go back to sleep."

I couldn't sleep. I returned to the balcony after a few minutes. Everything, and everyone, was gone. Double yellow lines on the road lay still. The night was quiet. A police car crawled by Junction 8. On the bough of the furthest binjai tree, I could see a banner of white cloth. It rippled under the streetlights.

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