Page 81 of The Friend Zone Experiment

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Presumably Renee gota taxi home. Ket Siong’s journey home was a little more involved, requiring a Tube train and a bus. He had a book on him—a Wallace Stevens collection—but he didn’t take it out.

The conversation with Renee replayed itself over and over in his head, but almost without the power to hurt him. He watched it with the bafflement of a viewer of a film in a foreign language, wondering how those people had reached the state in which they found themselves.

He had to get off at Seven Sisters to catch his bus home. He remembered, dully, that he’d texted his family earlier, to say he was going to be late and wouldn’t need dinner. He should check whether there had been a reply.

Renee wouldn’t have messaged. Though if she’d calmed down and was regretting what she’d said, it would not be out of the question for her to get in touch. Her moods shifted quickly, and she was never too embarrassed to own it.

There were no texts from his family or Renee. But there was a notification of a new direct message on Facebook. He’d forgotten he’d downloaded the messaging app after writing to theHornbill Gazette. Four weeks had passed since then. He’d given up on hearing back.

I’m sorry for the delayed response. Your message went to my spam folder, so I didn’t see it before.I’m working on an article for a major broadsheet here about the situation in Sarawak, and would be very interested in talking to you and your brother. I hear your brother is in London now. Could we meet in person? He can rest assured that I protect my sources. I can put you in touch with people who could vouch for me, if needed. Let me know.—HD

Which could be none other than Helen Daley—editor in chief of theHornbill Gazetteand author of a thousand screeds on the venal corruption of the Malaysian political body. She’d followed up with another message, supplying her phone number:

Feel free to call me if it would be easier to talk.

She would see that Ket Siong had read her messages the next time she checked. He put his phone away in his pocket.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to hear from Helen Daley herself. That was what he’d been hoping for. If he’d written in thinking the message would be read by an intern, he would have explained who he was and why he was asking. He’d been assuming that would all be understood.

But he hadn’t expected this. Mrs. Daley had, at various times, been denounced in Malaysian mainstream media, banned entry to the country, and had an Interpol notice issued against her because she had pissed off the Malaysian government just that much. She had to be careful about giving out her personal details.

Yet she’d given Ket Siong her number, unasked. And she knew Ket Hau was in London. That would, presumably, have taken her some digging to find out. What had she been looking for?

Ket Siong had said to Clarissa Low that Stephen might have known something, echoing theHornbill Gazette’s speculation. It had never previously occurred to him that his brother mightwithhold anything of importance from him. But he found himself wondering, now, what Ket Hau knew.

It wouldn’t be long before he could ask. But the journey home that night felt even longer than usual.

It was past eleven by the time Ket Siong got home. Ma’s bedroom door was shut, but Ket Hau was lying in wait for him. He loomed out of the living room, arms crossed, when Ket Siong got to the top of the stairs.

“Come on,” he said curtly.

Ket Siong hadn’t been planning on talking to his brother about theHornbill Gazette’s messages that night. He’d had enough emotional scenes for one day. But it looked like he was due another, and he wasn’t going to be able to opt out.

“What’s wrong?” he said, but Ket Hau was already heading to their bedroom.

The first thing Ket Siong noticed, when he entered their room, was the desk. The desk was Ket Hau’s domain, since it was his office job that brought in the bulk of their income, his legal studies that were their best bet of financial security in the future.

Usually it was a mess of law textbooks; copious notes on foolscap paper; bills old, new, and overdue; takeaway flyers; and assorted stationery Ket Hau had appropriated from his firm: highlighters, Post-its, sticky flags, and pens.

But the desk had been cleared of its usual chaos. Two manila document wallets sat on it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Ket Hau. “It’s not enough to chat up Low Teck Wee, you have to go look up his daughter as well? Are you playing the fool or what?”

Ket Siong had known he would be in trouble when his family found out, but his imagination hadn’t taken him quite far enough in predicting how unpleasant it would be. “I was just trying—”

“To find out what happened to Stephen.” Ket Hau’s mouthtwisted. “I can tell you, all right? Those thugs drove off with him, they took him to some deserted place, and they shot him in the head—if he was lucky. If he was lucky, he only had a short time to know he was going to die alone and nobody was coming for him. Then those bastards dumped him somewhere. OK? What more do you want? You’re so desperate to know every last detail?”

Ket Siong said, “Maybe if we knew the details, you could stop thinking about it.”

Ket Hau lowered himself heavily to his bed. “I’m never going to stop thinking about it.”

There was nothing to say to that. Guilt lowered Ket Siong’s head. But even to apologise would be an insult, at that moment.

“Can I look?” he said instead, gesturing at the manila folders.

Ket Hau no longer looked angry, but sad and tired, older than he should be. “Help yourself.”

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