A wish that he instantly took back. It was too hot to wear anything more than a thin cotton T-shirt. Loose khaki trousers alone was already giving him hell. The murderous sun was burning through skin even at that early morning, and Mahmud's eyes were getting tired from squinting through the brightness for so long. He watched his workers pass him by, slightly envious of their singlets and shorts. They could look any way they wanted to, whereas *he* had to maintain an appearance. Sometimes being their superior was a pain.

        He felt his entire face and neck getting slicker with sweat. He grew even more irritated when a shadow fell over him from behind, the person's breath landing heavily upon his shoulder. Mahmud whirled around with a near-snarl curling up his lips. "What?" he barked.

        The man was wearing a suit, and he raised his eyebrows at Mahmud. Mahmud paled, biting his tongue, and quickly straightened his stance. He wondered if a quick death would be merciful. "Mr. Rasch. I wasn't expecting you -"

        Mr. Rasch appeared dismissive. "I know." He blew on his fingers and rubbed them against his shirt, an old habit of his. "That's because I didn't tell you I was coming."

        "Er, yes, Mr. Rasch, sir."

        Mr. Rasch surveyed their surroundings, humid breeze whisking lightly against his decreasing amount of hair. "Just came to check up on things." He cast Mahmud a certain look. "How *is* everything? I trust it all went smoothly."

        Mahmud nodded furiously. "Oh, yes, Mr. Rasch, yes. The shipment arrived safely last night, we managed to get pass the toll booths without any problems -"

        "And the items. . . they are in good condition?"

        Mahmud paused briefly as one of his workers shoved a wide-eyed, dark-haired girl off the truck and past them, her wrists bound together by cruel cutting rope. Part of her left cheekbone was bright red, its skin having grazed against something rough, and the lower part of her right eye bore a dense blue bruise. She looked terrified. They always did.

        Mahmud returned his attention to Mr. Rasch. "Better than the previous shipment, sir," he replied.

        Mr. Rasch nodded, satisfied as he lit a cigarette. Behind Mahmud, they heard another girl scream.

***

***

        She huddled against the cold brick walls and muffled the whimpers that escaped from her throat. Her tongue felt dry, and the walls of her mouth hoarse. She'd been screaming for six days. After that, she just wept.

        Everyone else seemed to go through that cycle, she noticed. Hysterical bawls as they slammed their fists against anything they could find. Crying furiously as they were forced into trucks and endured hours of travel. Trying desperately to fight the men, who just clamped their hands over the girls' wrists and hurled them aside. Stifling gasps at the bruises and cuts they gained.

        Now the collection of girls in the small room stared with blank looks on their faces, waiting in numb silence. The eerie quiet was broken only by a few shrieks by those who needed to get the fear out of their system. But the fear always came back. It was like a thick wool blanket laid carefully over a child, warm and heavy until it smothers the helpless innocent underneath.

        She could see red welts on her wrists, beneath the ropes that bound them tightly. Her arms refused to stop hurting, pulsing with a dull painful throb. She wondered distantly if the cuts would get infected, but couldn't bring herself to act beyond the unshed tears. She just didn't have the strength anymore. *Giving up so easily?* she taunted herself bitterly. *You're so weak. That's how you ended up here in the first place. Weak.*

        There was the sound of the door unlocking, and the girls raised their heads as a collective whole, as if they had been trained like circus seals. Harsh fluorescent light seeped into the dark dank space, and she flinched. It took a while for her eyes to adjust and make out the shadowed figures by the doorway. They were the same men who had kidnapped the girls and trucked them for hours to the warehouse, groping them all the while.

        They were mostly faceless blurs to her, but she recognised two of them, for some reason. Probably because they were the most well-dressed men in the group, and they had stood outside the warehouse when the girls first arrived. One of them was dark and stocky, attired in a polo shirt and khakis, while the other had a suit, balding hair, and glasses. This one smoked a cigarette and gazed at the girls appraisingly.

        He glanced at the polo guy. "They have too many cuts," he stated, tone displaying the frown that didn't show on his face. He spoke in English with a British accent, although his skin was tanned and dusky-toned. He wasn't Malaysian like the rest of them -- he seemed more East European, or was that West European? Her knowledge of geography had never been that good. "No one wants battered goods. They want pretty girls with smooth skin. Look at her." He pointed at a girl who had a cut on her thigh. "What if they get scars?"

        Polo Guy shook his head fervently. "They won't, they won't, sir."

        "Make sure they're in good shape by the time we ship them off."

        "Yes, Mr. Rasch."

        The one named Rasch turned and left the scene. Polo Guy gestured at the other men. "_Bawa mereka keluar_," he barked. "_Kau cedera mereka, kau kena, faham_?*"

        They nodded. Polo Guy left, and the men advanced into the room. She tried to stifle a sob.

***

        "Well, here we are, Tintin," said Chang. The Chinese boy made a sweeping gesture at the view before them. "Welcome to Ipoh! What do you think?"

        "It's hot," Tintin mused, rolling up his sleeves.

        Chang laughed. "Yeah, that's generally the response everyone gives."

        Both of them had just emerged from the Ipoh, Malaysia, train station and were greeted by hot sun, humid air, and a medley of voices chattering different kinds of languages. Tintin found smatterings of words familiar to his ears, but couldn't understand what the people were saying. Strange smells wafted into his nostrils, a mixture of both things pleasant and not-quite-so-pleasant. The air was pungent with rich earth, distant spices, and oppressing sun.

        Tintin was already beginning to perspire under the heat. Chang had told him that 32Ý Celsius was the normal temperature in Malaysia, and it certainly showed. He blinked against the harsh sunlight and brought a hand up to shade his eyes.

        The eighteen-year-old Chang looked concerned. "Are you okay?" he asked, touching Tintin's shoulder. Tintin glanced at him and smiled.

        "Yeah. Just a bit of sun, that's all. Thanks for inviting me here."

        The boy smiled back. "No problem. Thank you for coming. C'mon, I'll get us a taxi."

        Chang had picked Tintin up from the KLIA airport earlier that day, and they immediately caught a train to Ipoh, where they spent the next few hours of the ride exchanging news about each other. Having already updated one another on the latest, they now spent the taxi ride to Chang's hostel in pleasant silence, interspersed with casual conversation. Tintin gazed out the window and watched the traffic flow around them. So many cars, he thought. Everyone trying to get somewhere. *What happens when they finally reach their destination? Do they stop and breathe, or do they search for somewhere else to go to?*

        He felt Chang nudge his elbow and turned. The boy was looking at him from beneath his black fringe. "What're you thinking about?" he asked.

        Tintin shook his head, not replying, then gestured behind them at the taxi's radio speakers. Music had just faded away and a DJ was speaking in a fast-paced tone of voice. "Do you understand the language?" he inquired, curious. "You've been studying abroad here for a few months now -- can you speak with the locals in their language?"

        Chang grinned. "Just a bit. The DJ's talking in Malay, and I only know some of the important words. I'm still learning. But that's okay, because most Malaysians know English so I usually don't need a translator. Besides, there're Chinese Malaysians here too, so I can speak to them in Mandarin or Cantonese." He shrugged. "Although many people try to speak to me in Malay, since they think I'm a local just because I look like them. You, however, will certainly stand out!" He swiped at Tintin's dark blond hair, and the other man laughed.

        "Yes, I'm the typical European tourist, here to have a good time," Tintin winked. "Using up your holiday to make you be my tour guide."

        "Ah, I'm happy to do it. I haven't gone everywhere in this country yet. You're my perfect excuse." He gestured at Tintin's left knee. "You sure you're all right? Promise me you'll tell me as soon as anything goes wrong."

        Tintin cast Chang a wry look, dampened by pensive irony. "Things 'went wrong' a long time ago, Chang. I've just been trying to get used to it."

        The boy was quiet. "I didn't mean it that way."

        Tintin patted his friend's arm. "That's okay, I know you didn't." He leaned back in his seat and rested his head against the side of the door, returning his look to the moving scenery outside. Places to go, people to see. . .

        They spent the next few minutes in silence before Chang spoke. "How has your treatment been going?"

        Tintin shrugged. "The same. I go through it. Chemotherapy and check-ups and whatever the doctors suggest. They don't seem to help at all, though. At the very least, things stay stagnant; at most, they get worse." He drew in a deep breath. "I don't want to feel tired anymore." It was such a simple little request, wasn't it? Was he too old to make a wish list? "I came here even though they told me not to -- they wanted me 'close by for observation', although there's nothing else to observe."

        "You mean you're missing out on treatment because of me?"

        "Like I said, Chang, they don't seem to help at all. Besides, I'm only here for a month. You and the Captain keep telling me not to stay cooped up indoors for the rest of my life, just because of this. I'm finally taking your advice." He gazed at the car ceiling, noticing the dark spots that decorated the surface. "I can't remember the last time I went traveling since I was. . . diagnosed." He paused. "Osteosarcoma is such an misleading way to say bone cancer."

        Chang sighed. Tintin said nothing and turned to look outside the window. Everything was passing him by.

***

        The men brought them to a secluded house somewhere. Smuggled them, to be more exact. The girls had been gagged with their wrists still bound, and put into a van to be taken away. The house was small and surrounded by thick bushes, all of its doors having too many locks, and the girls were herded inside and untied. The men gestured at an old first-aid kit at the kitchen table before situating themselves at every entrance to make sure nobody escaped.

        She studied the red marks on her wrists before glancing at the first-aid kit. The bottles in it were stained with age, the handwritten labels on them barely legible. The ointments had probably gone rancid by now. The other girls didn't appear to share her misgivings as they savored the clean water from the kitchen tap and shared cotton wool to tend to each other's cuts. They faked support and friendliness in order to fight off their worst fears.

        She glanced at the walls, which were a dark spotted grey. The house was barely decent -- not the Hilton, but it was better than the warehouse, at any rate. But it was cramped and dirty with certainly no privacy, considering the many occupants in its small quarters. She needed to go to the bathroom, but couldn't because she didn't want any of the men to follow her. She didn't want them to watch her, and maybe do something more.

        The girl beside her was putting golden-brown iodine onto a cut. Her hair was short and messy, and had red streaks from a bad dye job. Slanted eyes and pale skin revealed a definite Chinese heritage. The girl looked up and caught her eye, and smiled tentatively. "Hi," she said.

        She stared back, unable to formulate words. What was Dye Girl thinking, that this was a slumber party? Did she actually want to make friends, when they were close to being raped and killed? This was serious, so heart-stoppingly, frighteningly serious, and here she was making "how do you do"s.

        "I'm Jasmine," said Dye Girl, dabbing at her cut. "What's your name?"

        She wanted to cry. "Shut up," she whispered, and Dye Girl looked stunned. "Don't try to connect. We're all going to be taken away anyway."

        The other girl was speechless for a while. "Wha -"

        "We're going to die, be raped, or have worse things happen to us." She was hissing from behind gritted teeth, suppressing screams that she didn't want any of the men to hear. "*Don't* talk to me, don't try to make friends, because none of us are going to last. Save us the hurt. Just - shut - up."

        The tears finally came and she turned away, trying to stifle the sobs. Some of the other girls glanced at her uncomfortably, then quickly looked away, pretending to be enamoured with their hair or fingers or the air in front of them. Anything to keep them from looking at her. Male shadows hovered outside the kitchen door, but low voices revealed them to be talking to each other, not noticing anything going on inside.

        She didn't have time to compose herself before Dye Girl grabbed her shoulder to whirl her around. Dye Girl looked furious. "*You're* hurting you," she snapped. "Go ahead and hole yourself up in fear. Be lonely, be alone! I'm trying to make you - us - feel better, and -"

        "'Feel better'." Her tone was a mixture of scorn and a whimper. "You expect us to feel better like this? Kidnapped? Not knowing what they have planned for us? Or knowing what they have planned for us, but never knowing when it'll happen? To live in perpetual fear, is that what you call -"

        "I just asked you your name, that's all!"

        "No names." She shuddered and drew her knees to her chest, heels resting on the edge of her seat. "No names, God, please."

        "Why not?"

        "Because." She buried her face behind her knees. "Because it would make this nightmare more real."

        Surrounded by so many people in the cramped room, she had never felt so alone.

        Dye Girl put her used cotton wad on the kitchen table, and another girl reached over to reuse it. "It is real," said Dye Girl quietly. Her tone was softer, the words gentler, but still laced with hard solemnity. "This situation is real, and so are we. That's why we have to stick together. We're all we got now -- we're all we can depend on. And if something happens to us. . ." a stricken look crossed her pale face for a brief instant, "then we're all we have to help get us through."

        She didn't want to listen to Dye Girl. She rubbed her hands against her upper arms, not because she was cold -- the air was too warm and stuffy for that. She just needed the movement, the friction, for comfort. They heard a rustle behind them, and the girls backed away as one of the men entered the kitchen. He headed for the door on the other side of the room, but stopped midway and looked at them. The expression on his face was pure gloating satisfaction. 'I can take you,' it conveyed. 'We can all take you, and enjoy every last scream.'

        He turned around and left through the other door. It took five minutes before the girls tentatively relaxed and drew closer, their breaths heavier and their eyes darting more quickly than before. Fear had returned once more -- or had it ever left?

        She looked at Dye Girl, who was rubbing her eyes. There were dark circles under them, revealing the emotional panic and drain all of them felt inside. All of them were exhausted. They were so tired of being frightened, so weary of being helpless.

        "Nora," she said, and Dye Girl glanced up at her voice. She didn't know which hurt more: the rasp in her throat, the tears in her eyes, or the pounding shrieks in her head. "My name is Nora."

***

        Chang slid Tintin's empty suitcase under his hostel bed. Tintin, having already unpacked into the closet space he shared with Chang, was now sitting on that bed massaging his left knee. His fingers rolled small, painful circles in extreme slow motion, the grimace on his face masking whatever agony he felt. He had just taken some painkillers, but the effect had yet to set in. Maybe he needed to take some more.

        After a few minutes and a brief coughing session, the torment eased a little, and he relaxed his shoulders slightly. He felt pale and sweaty, not necessarily due to the tropical climate. Chang reached over with a tissue paper to dab at his forehead, but Tintin took the tissue paper from him to do it himself.

        "Well, as I was saying," he continued hoarsely, right hand still circling his knee. His breathing was labored, but he was determined to behave as normal as possible, even if Chang didn't buy it. "I want to find where my sister is, but I don't know where to start. We've lost contact for years."

        "Does the Captain have any ideas?" Chang asked, switching on the fan. "What did he suggest?"

        Tintin bit his lip, remembering Captain Haddock's reaction. "I never knew you had a sister," Haddock had said, bearded expression slightly hurt. Tintin couldn't blame him. He had never mentioned having a sister before, except to Chang, and even that was just recently. Life and adventures just seemed to get in the way of familial responsibilities, until the diagnosis came and he had to give up his work as a reporter. After that, there was nothing else to do but to sit still and brood. It never occurred to him how much he had neglected his loved ones, until he realised that he hadn't seen or spoken to his sister in years. He didn't even know where she was.

        "Nothing," Tintin answered Chang's question. "Nobody knows what to do, really. I'm not even sure if she's still in the same country." He had never been around for her, after all. Guilt nibbled oh so demurely at his ear, tasting succulent flesh before getting to the nice juicy blood.

        *Okay,* he thought, *stop it. I know I'm not THAT depressed.*

        Chang slung an arm around the other man's shoulder, not noticing the wince Tintin suppressed. Sore muscles often came with the package. "Hope you're not taking to self-pity, Tintin," Chang joked, nuzzling the top of his friend's head with his knuckles. "It doesn't suit you. In fact, if I catch you miserable during this visit, I will force you to undergo several layers of crunchy!"

        Tintin blinked. "What in the world does *that* mean?"

        The boy shrugged, grinning. "I have no idea. I just needed a catchy quote. But it does sound scary, doesn't it? Next to 'several layers of snugglepusses'. No, wait, that sounds obscene."

        Tintin burst out laughing. Maybe this break was exactly what he needed. It was the perfect opportunity to get away from reality for a while.

***

        Dinner had been plain old instant noodles from bright yellow packets with the familiar red Maggi Mi label on them. Nora had eaten enough of those in her lifetime, and besides, she was in no mood to eat. She dumped the noodles into the trash can and went inside to lie down. The girls' "bedroom" was just a cold grey room with _mengkuang_ mats on the floor, but at least it was better than being inside a truck. She laid down next to the wall and rested her head on her left arm, running her fingertips over the colorful criss-cross patterns on the mat. Muffled voices traveled across from the next room.

        Male voices. Some of the men were there. She shivered and drew her knees up to her chest, hoping none of them attempted to come into the room she was in. Already a few of them had leered at her earlier -- although most of them seemed to set their sights on Dye Girl. *Jasmine,* she corrected. *Her name's Jasmine.* Apparently those men thought Jasmine was looser than others just because she had badly dyed hair.

        "_Alaa_, come on, boss," one man was saying in Malay. "Just rent them out for one night. We'll get pocket money."

        "Are you crazy?" another voice hissed. It sounded like Polo Guy. "I told you, no! You *know* they're for Mr. Rasch, he doesn't want anyone using his goods until they get to Bangkok! Are you so ungrateful? He lets you break them in, and you want to take advantage of him."

        "He doesn't have to know," a third interjected. "Come on _lah_, boss. I mean, ya, we always have good fun with the girls, but we also want to make a little money, you know?"

        She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to burrow herself into the wall. She wondered if the trembles were because of the cold.

        "I said no! They're *his* Goodnight Girls and for *his* clients only! I don't want to hear anymore about this!" Anger bubbled, then very slowly simmered down in restraint. "You should be grateful that he lets you 'prepare' these girls. Now, if you want to have 'fun' with this shipment you'd better do it soon, we're sending them across the border in two days."

        The door slammed. A shadow fell across her own room's open doorframe, and she quickly stilled and feigned sleep. When footsteps moved away and she reopened her eyes, she saw Polo Guy's back disappearing around the corner.

        Later that night two men came to the room while all the girls were sleeping. They dragged away a skinny Indian girl and Jasmine while the others cowered in the corner in hysterical fear. Nobody could fall asleep afterwards; the ensuing screams were just too much for them to handle.

***

        "It's 10pm, Chang," Tintin protested as his friend pulled him up from the chair. "Where in the world do you want to go to at this hour?"

        "Out, of course!" the boy cheered. "The night's alive, Tintin! Don't you want to experience your first taste of _mamak_? Now hurry up and put on your sandals."

        "Of ma-what?" Tintin had just barely strapped them on and grabbed a jacket when he was ushered out of the room. Chang locked the door behind them and waved hello at a fellow hostel-mate down the corridor. Tintin's face measured pure confusion. "What in the world are you talking about?"

        Chang grinned as he led the man down the hall and staircase. "We're going to _mamak_ -- that's local slang for hawker stalls. Basically it's where you can hang out with your friends for hours on end while eating food in the open air."

        "Oh, like an outdoor cafe?"

        "Um, you could say that. . . just not as classy." He winked. "Very noisy, not the cleanest place in the world, but hey, it's sociable."

        Tintin slipped into his jacket as a night breeze blew past. "But Chang, why are we going at this hour? Isn't it late? Nobody will be there, and even if there are people, they'd probably run out of food. . ."

        "Ah, but that's where you're mistaken, my friend." Chang led the way as they crossed the tar street and took a shortcut across a flood drain. "The _mamak_ people -- the hawkers -- continue cooking until, well, I don't know, until there's nobody left, I guess. Very late. Sometimes we hang out until 3am, which is when our favorite _mamak_ stall closes." He winked. "Needless to say, the hawkers don't open shop during the day. They need their beauty sleep since most customers swarm in during the night."

        Tintin found that Chang was right when they arrived at his favorite _mamak_ spot, brimming with a noisy crowd. Most of them consisted of young people, "you know how nocturnal we are," Chang explained. It certainly wasn't clean -- spilled drinks and a chicken bone here and there cluttered the ground, and a few flies persisted in irritating the occupants of a particular table. Tintin observed that sanitation was not the key concern on anyone's mind there. Food was. No, actually, that wasn't true -- food was just an added bonus. People came to _mamak_ mostly to chat and have a place to get together, all at a very cheap cost. Order some fried rice and Sprite for two ringgit**, pretend that it takes all night to finish it when, in reality, you just don't want to give your table up for anyone else because you're too busy having fun gabbing right now.

        The two of them shouldered their way through the crowd and Chang seized upon an empty table with the speed of a pro. Competitors for that table quickly moved on, searching for tables that were empty or even had the *potential* to be empty soon. In the latter's case, they hovered behind the current occupants and waited until the seats were given up. Sometimes the occupants grew uncomfortable with the waiting people and quickly deserted their table; at other times, they didn't care who was around them and proceeded to take their time, much to the others' impatience.

        Chang ordered some _char kuey teow_ for him and Tintin, and soon they were joined by a few of his hostel friends, who he introduced to Tintin. They spent the next few hours joking and catching up, letting loose some stress that came from exams, family, girlfriends, or otherwise. They debated on what New Year's Eve celebration would come tomorrow, which was the 31st of December. When Chang finally suggested that they leave, knowing that Tintin needed his rest, a glance at the time revealed that it had indeed flown past. It was 1am -- New Year's Eve.

        Tintin almost laughed and shook his head at this -- who would've expected? He had been so caught up in the conversation that he forgot about everything else. His knee didn't hurt, he didn't feel exhausted, and he'd laughed a lot during the whole three hours. It was so easy for time to fly past while they were doing nothing.

        Although, it wasn't technically nothing. He did gain a deeper understanding of his friend and his friend's friends, after all. Tintin suspected with amusement that Chang would've really liked to stay much later than 1am, but he said nothing. He stretched and stifled a yawn as they started to leave the crowd.

        "So what did you think?" Chang grinned. "One of the best things about this country is its _mamak_, it's practically a national past-time."

        "It was fun," Tintin agreed, and winked. "Definitely suited towards night-oriented teenagers like yourself."

        "Yeah, if we're overstressed from burning the late-night oil, we come here and let loose. Oh, wait, hang on, Jaafar is calling me." Chang ran back into the crowd to see what his friend wanted. Tintin smiled and glanced at the coconut tree beside him. *Funny how coconut trees just grow in the oddest places around here. . .*

        It took him a moment to realise that somebody was approaching him. He turned and saw an olive-skinned man in his mid-20s giving him a disarming smile. "Hi," the man greeted, nodding as he neared.

        The man seemed friendly enough, although he had a tendency to stand a little too close. Then again, personal space varied with culture. "Hi," Tintin replied.

        "You're visiting, yes?" On receiving a nod, he went on, "You want to have a good time?"

        Tintin's eyebrows furrowed slightly. He didn't like where this conversation seemed to be going. Maybe it was just him, but whenever anyone asked, "Do you want to have a good time?", common sense usually stated that the person was not talking about a game of volleyball.

        "Very pretty girls," the man was saying. "Young and fresh. Best, sir." He gave a thumbs-up, face displaying a no-doubt-about-it-or-your-money-back confidence. When Tintin realised what the man was implying, he quickly shook his head and stepped away. The stranger leaned forward, assuring in a friendly tone, and Tintin backed away again, this time giving a resounding "No." The other man looked piqued at not garnering a "sale" before he slinked off into the darkness.

        Chang arrived at Tintin's side just then, puffing and partly chuckling. "That Jaafar. . ." He noticed Tintin staring at something, and glanced at where he was looking but saw nothiing besides a tree and some bushes. He turned back to his friend, curious. "What's the matter?"

        Tintin shook his head, slowly coming out of the shock. "I. . . think I've just been propositioned."

        A pause. "What?"

        "A man. He was just here."

        "A man propositioned you?" A suppressed laugh hid behind Chang's solemn expression. He looked thoughtful. "Was he cute?"

        "No! I mean -- a man came up to me and. . . offered pretty girls."

        Chang's mouth fell open, and it took a few seconds before he recovered, looking disgusted. "A pimp. Jeez, I thought they mostly hung around KL, not Ipoh. He probably headed straight for you because of. . . well, you know."

        "You mean a white foreigner?"

        "Yup. A _Mat Salleh_***, as we put it." He shook his head, still unable to believe. "My God, some people. . . C'mon, let's go home. You must be tired." He touched Tintin's arm and tried to lead him away, but found that neither the arm nor its owner moved. He looked up, surprised.

        Tintin was still staring at the space where the man had disappeared. His eyes were narrowed and his lips slightly pursed, signs that he was thinking. Then he abruptly moved, but not in direction of the hostel -- instead, to the space that he had been staring at. Chang ran to catch up with him. "Tintin? Wha -" He glanced at where they were going, then back at Tintin, still in step. "Oh no, you can't be serious."

        "Why not?" He could make out the faint silhouette of the pimp, who was propositioning someone else now in the distance. "Those monsters. . ."

        "Tintin, you're jumping to conclusions. You're taking your reporter instincts too far. Maybe he's 'selling' older women, women who chose to be prostitutes -"

        "Maybe, but I don't think so." He frowned. "For one thing, if they chose to be prostitutes, *they* would be the one approaching people instead of him, wouldn't they? Secondly, he told me himself that they were young and fresh girls. Young is bad enough -- what does 'fresh' mean?" He cast the boy a pointed look.

        Chang hid a sigh. "If you're so concerned about it, we could call the police, but I don't think they'll do anything -"

        "Then it's up to us, isn't it?" Tintin glanced at Chang with a brief smile on his lips. Chang noticed that Tintin's eyes looked alert, instead of being glazed with weariness. The man pointed at a figure ten meters away. "That's the guy. Looks like he's gotten himself a customer, one who's not a _Mat_ - what is it, again? _Mat Salleh_."

        "But aren't you tired?" Now Chang cast Tintin a pointed look, which was also mixed with uncertainty. "You need your rest. And you can't afford to run or jump over gates -"

        "We're just following him, Chang, that's all. Besides, there's been no pain or throbbing for three hours. Maybe the air here is good for me -- quick! We're going to lose them." He ducked to hide behind a thick bush, peering over the top, before moving.

        Chang hesitated for a brief instant before quickening his pace and matching Tintin's speed. "Okay, count me in. Just be careful not to hurt yourself, okay?"

        Tintin smiled, pleased that he'd managed to convince his friend, and also grateful. "Don't worry, I massaged my knee earlier, remember? Embrocation usually staves off pain for a few hours." He peered around the corner, then gestured at Chang. "They're moving. Let's go."

***

        They ended up following the two men to an old motel -- or rather, an inn, as the broken lights on its sign indicated. The pimp and his assumed client slipped inside without anyone at the front desk looking up, and Chang and Tintin had no problem doing the same. Apparently nobody paid too much attention to who came and went in the middle of the night. The inn only had an old carpeted staircase, so Chang and Tintin had to wait until the two men had reached the top of the stairs before they could hurry up after them. And even then they had to be agonizingly careful, since the staircase was old and creaky. Midway up the steps, Tintin stumbled and halted, clutching the rounded wooden banisters and hissing a breath.

        "Tintin? What's wrong?" Chang glanced down and saw Tintin's left hand on his knee, and knew instantly what was the matter. "Are you all right? C'mon, sit down -"

        "No." Another hiss as he drew and expelled breath from behind gritted teeth. "Come on, let's go. Don't want to. . ." he breathed heavily, "lose them."

        Chang opened his mouth to issue a protest, but the determined look Tintin shot from beneath hooded eyelids cut him off, and he sighed in resignation. "I'll go ahead, you follow when you can," he whispered, then hurried up the stairs without waiting to see Tintin's nod.

        Tintin grasped the banister for support and almost had to drag himself up, step by step. *Perfect timing, perfect timing,* he sang in his head to distract himself from the pain. He slipped a hand inside his trouser pockets and felt around for his painkillers. Had he brought them, or had he and Chang been in too much of a rush to go to _mamak_ that he'd forgotten?

        No, wait. There they were. He took out the prescription packet and dropped three pills onto his hand, palming them into his mouth. No glass of water around, he had to swallow without them. He didn't even have time to massage his knee.

***

        She huddled on the bed against the dirty suede headboard, weeping. She couldn't even hide her trembles from the two men at the foot of the bed -- although they did seem more engrossed in their conversation right now. Ahmad, as she'd heard her other male captors call him, was setting the conditions and price for the night. The customer nodded dismissively, as if he'd already been told this earlier, or as if he wanted to get Ahmad out of the room. He was looking at her, and she shivered. He was portly and wore glasses and a dress-shirt. So unassuming. He looked like he could be one of her friends' father.

        She was so tired of crying. Her eyes had only just begun to stop swelling, after the nightmarish ordeal earlier that night. Her mind felt so numb, her body felt so sore, so sore. . .

        Wasn't it enough that five of them had raped her? Wasn't the sexual satisfaction from that enough, wasn't it ENOUGH? They'd then picked her and three other girls to rent out for the rest of the night. Why her, why them? Was the rape to judge whether they were "satisfactory" enough to sell to clients? Did they still have to subject her to this?

        . . . Oh. They wanted her broken. They wanted all of them broken, so that the girls would accept their fate and be willing, be pliant to future clients. Be the "Goodnight Girls" they were supposed to be. That was how it worked.

        Yes, it was working.

        Ahmad pocketed the other man's money and headed for the adjoining door. Apparently he would wait in the very next room until the client was done. She tried to muffle a sob as the client smiled at her, almost a friendly father-figure smile. She was nearly hyperventilating as he advanced towards her, and when he touched her, she couldn't help herself. She screamed.

        Did he frown? She couldn't tell; the blow to the side of her head hurt too much. Was she still screaming? Maybe, since he was still hitting her. Ahmad certainly wasn't going to come in and help her, although he might probably punish her afterwards for the noise. She wasn't fast enough in deflecting the man's hand, but then again, she wouldn't have been strong enough to hold it back, either. She could feel her teeth rattle, as if someone was jiggling the door handle. The pounding seemed to get louder in her mind.

        Then she felt the blows stop, felt his hands whisk the air in front of her as his weight lifted off the bed. She only realised she was screaming when she began to cough, wheezing at the hoarseness of her throat. Her eyes were still swollen, and she could barely make out the figures wrestling on the ground as she tried to stop choking on her own saliva. A foot -- his? hers? someone else's? -- hit the table next to the bed, knocking the cheap lamp that had been sitting on top of it. It smacked down on the carpet below and broke into four large pieces.

        Two men. There were two other men there. No, wait, one of them looked younger, a Chinese boy -- and the other was a _Mat Salleh_. The front door was open.

        Then the adjoining door flew open too as Ahmad stormed in. He'd been alerted by the lamp. "_Apa ni_ -" he was shouting, then froze when he saw the intruders pinning the client down. He rushed towards them with a furious look on his face. The _Mat Salleh_ rose on his knees - wincing, she noticed - and tried not to stumble to the ground when he deflected a vicious blow from Ahmad. The _Mat Salleh_ looked too weak, sweating too much, and the boy couldn't help him because he had to stop the client from surging up.

        She fell out of the bed and crawled, trying to ignore the painful poundings in her head. She opened her eyes as wide as they could go and fumbled for one of the broken pieces from the lamp, cutting her palm several times.

        The _Mat Salleh_ swiped across Ahmad's knees, crashing him to the ground right in front of her. She froze for a second, staring at the toothy snarl and angry glare Ahmad gave the other man. She didn't realise that her hand was swooping downwards until she saw the bright red slash across his cheek. The vermillion line through his cheekbone and nose seemed to grow wider with his roar.

        Too much for one night. . . body sore. . . nightmares. . .

        She collapsed and faded into darkness, the throbbing of her palm growing louder in her ears, then ushering away like a whisper.

***

        "Did you get that?" Chang frowned. "I don't understand."

        "Hmmmh?" Tintin was massaging the excruciating pain away, red and blue lights flashing against their clothes as they sat outside the inn. It didn't matter that the tiled steps were filthy. They watched as the police officers exchanged words between themselves, standing next to their cars. Passers-by stared at the scene, lingering for a few seconds before continuing on their way. The person behind the inn's front desk looked flustered as one of the officers questioned her.

        "That girl. When she recovered consciousness as the police arrived. She was saying something like, 'No names. Please, God, no names.'" He shrugged. "Then again, she was talking in Malay, so maybe I mixed up in the translation or something. Still. . ."

        "They've taken her away to the police station, right?"

        "Yeah, she and the pimp and the customer, while you were resting in the corner. I've talked to one of the officers, they said the girl told them about more girls being held captive for prostitution. I think they've sent some officers to rescue them. She said something about being sent to Thailand, kept saying something like 'Goodnight Girls', if I've got my translation right. I'm not sure, it's all very vague."

        "Thailand? As in across the border?"

        "I guess so. Probably truck the girls to Perlis or Kelantan or Terengganu and then slip across the border at night."

        Tintin frowned. "Then it wouldn't be a small local prostitution ring, it'd be a cross-national one. Maybe even an international one. Do they know the who the owner is?"

        "Of the ring? No, not yet. They've only just gone to get the other girls, Tintin. It's too early to tell. We still have lots of questions left unanswered. Maybe the girl or the pimp will reveal more at the station." He patted his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry, they'll get to the bottom of this. Let them do it, Tintin. Sit back and let the police handle it."

        Tintin bit his lip. "If only. . ." He released a woosh of frustrated air from behind gritted teeth.

        "What? If only?"

        "I'm so sick of 'if only's." Tintin scowled, and Chang straightened in his seat. Tintin rarely looked so angry. "If only I could move faster, if only I didn't have this stupid disease, I could be out there investigating for myself. I could pursue this case, I could find the monsters subjecting the girls to such torture and make them pay. We were so close to being overpowered by those men, they could've knocked us unconscious or killed us and escaped, and then the girls wouldn't have been discovered and their lives would've been destroyed by monsters like them. They would've kidnapped more runaway girls and -"

        "But they didn't, Tintin! We did stop them, and they *will* be brought to justice."

        The man heaved a sigh and rested his head in his hands. "The first time I've felt so alive for ages, and I feel so useless."

        "Listen to me, Tintin." Chang tugged gently at Tintin's sleeve, making his friend look at him. "You weren't useless. You did something, you discovered this case and brought it to the police's attention. If you hadn't insisted on going after that pimp, if you hadn't persisted in following your instinct and intuition, that girl could've been raped, tonight and for the rest of her life. And other girls would've been, too, and no one would've been the wiser. You helped, Tintin, just like you always do."

        He slung his arm around Tintin's neck and nudged him side-to-side gently, offering a smile. Tintin gazed at him for a pensive moment, then returned a slight, small smile.

        One of the police officers approached them at the steps. "You ready, sir?" he asked, looking at Tintin before glancing at Chang.

        "Wait. . . yeah." Tintin drew in a deep breath. The police had wanted him and Chang to go to the station too, for questioning, but Tintin had been unable to move. They had to wait until the pain left his knee. Now he slipped an arm around Chang's shoulder as the boy helped him to the nearest police car.

        Chang thumped the door shut as the officer brought the engine to life. As they pulled away from the scene, Tintin noticed the stars lighting up the sky outside the window. They seemed brighter, somehow, like bright fireworks that had frozen in time and remained there in the sky for all eternity.

 Fireworks. It was New Year's Eve. 24 more hours and the world would be celebrating a new year, a new century, a new millenium. Or, depending on how you look at it, *not* a new millenium, since it was technically supposed to begin at 2001. . .

 He stopped himself and rubbed his head. The night was too late for thinking.

 He glanced at Chang, and both of them smiled at each other, soft smiles that didn't mean anything except the fact that they were friends sitting side-by-side in a police car, together, in the quiet. When he'd seen that girl in the room, he'd felt a taste of reality so bitter that it hurt. But now. . . maybe the taste wasn't exactly sweet, but it was tinged with saltiness. Saltiness that created a thirst for something better. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe life didn't always have to tend. There was always hope, and the future. The flowers would still bloom.

 "The new year's coming," Tintin murmured, glancing back out the window. New hopes and resolutions lay ahead. He felt Chang pat his shoulder but didn't turn around. Instead, he found Chang's hand and squeezed back.