[an error occurred while processing this directive]

Were Kitt

Gina Wisker

Half the time
He’s still a little boy to me.
I cook his supper, wait up longer and later
Take him to the dentist
To see to those teeth
Always a problem.
He can certainly sleep
– Most of the day.
But then they’re all like that
Or so they say
He’ll turn into something else soon,
One day, you’ll see,
This is just
A transition, a phase
A mere
Metamorphosis.

And when the night begins to fall
As the short days draw in
Becoming colder, darker,
Earlier, longer,
He’s up and showering, new scents,
Yawning, stretching,
Snacking hastily and
Out.
Mates loiter in cars.
Cell phones track each other across time and space
Linking up through the undergrowth
Of town and country places
Clubs and pubs
Alleys and
Lanes.
Sometimes I hear sirens
In the night
Wailing
Seeking out the remnants
Of some offence – some ripping, tearing
real or imagined
dying out beyond the hospital
down the road somewhere
not down our cul de sac our
dead end.

And most times he arrives near dawn
Dishevelled
Something glinting
In his eye
His hair
His teeth.
Secretive.
Ravenous.
Retiring silently to his room.
Shutting the door.
Keeping the dog out.
The smells too
Are different
Organic somehow
Metallic somehow.

Curling up at last
Through the terminal dregs of night
And the moments of first light
He sleeps again, finally,
Noiselessly, through the day.

Artwork by Deena Warner


Today’s Modern Zombies
(For Mike Arnzen)
Gina Wisker

1) Work life balance

Lumbering painfully late at night
Down the labyrinthine corridors
Of the ancient university
The zombie suddenly realised
The equation was way off.
Something essential was missing.

2) Today’s modern zombies

All razor sharp wit
No head for numbers
Brain boxes wired to their PCs
Scoff at the shuffle and grope
The delving for the real earth
of their forefathers.

3) Fast food

It’s all fast food

For today’s modern zombies.
At the Pizzahouse, Chinese takeaway
or burger heaven, they’re just
Herded in line and queuing or
Driving through and grabbing
Guzzling, leaking juice and spitting
Toothless mouthfuls of bone and gristle.
Barely appreciating the tasty waitress.
Scarcely pausing for embalming.
Too liberal with the vinegar
And ‘ketchup’.
Brain burgers to go.
Chomping down on those
Cardboard boxes filled with
Intestinal noodles.

4) Zombie teenage glory days

Those were the days –
hanging about the malls with your mates
grinning, slouching, grunting
eyeballing the shoppers – then the joy
of the occasional feeding frenzy
gory glory days!

5) Home deliveries

Gone are the days of selecting your
Own morsels. Now it’s
a nice kidney or a piece of liver.
Brains in cling film packaged containers.
It’s not ‘shop til you drop’ but
‘shop and drop’.
Plastic boxes full of internet selected victuals
only compensated for by
the tasty
delivery guy.

Cobra

Gina Wisker

‘Trust me, you will never see a snake,’ she said. Indeed, when you read up on the place you are easily calmed down, are moved from those absurd fears of Otherness and lurking danger. It is just not like that; Singapore is not some place out there in the jungle deep among the rubber plantations or up in the wilder hills of Malaysia. It is the cleanest place on earth, the safest place to walk about at night which I have ever visited. It is regulated and controlled and managed and sterilised to the point of easily forgetting that once it was just another tropical island, surprisingly well placed for trade, a startlingly successful link between East and West, between the exotic desires, fantasies and terrors of the Far East and the business-like behaviours of those who sailed, settled and latterly flew in and out of it, setting up trading companies and corporate finance.

The days were hot and sticky, heat seeping through your clothes and hanging like a blanket, hazy skies cut through by light. During the monsoon season, sudden torrential downpours sent us racing through rapidly growing puddles into shop doorways, anywhere, overwhelmed by the rain soaking though everything, filling the storm drains with floods, hurtling down the streets, washing away guppies and flip flops and litter into the sea. Then the rains stopped and, refreshed, the wind would brighten and lighten and immediately it seemed the streets shone, then dried up. And everyone went about their business, their clothes dry in the sunshine.

The first place to stay was a little hostel on the hill. Beautiful views through the palm trees initially suggested an organised, ordered layout, then you noticed the tangled undergrowth in layers of tropical rain forest, the creepers and the carefully sown black fronds of ferns hiding exquisite, surprising bright yellow and purple orchids. Birds would suddenly dart to sit drinking from the beautiful red flowers in the trees and pairs of green parrots would circle the hostel in the morning, shrieking with glee, returning in the early evening to shriek again, while at dusk a calm, very ordinary tree would erupt for ten or so minutes with thousands of small squeaky bats flying in a lack of formation, beating the air with their little wings up and down, skirting around, back to the tree and silent again.

No snakes, not a single snake, no likelihood of a snake except those tamed, trained and kept curled in a basket by the snake charmer who visited the hostel on a Sunday. With his pipe he controlled the python which swirled around languorously, restrained, powerful, and he caused to dance the lithe little green snakes, their poison fangs milked dry, rendered safe, an entertainment.

But even he looked a little wary of the black cobra. Coiled in its basket, it seemed at first glance just like a black, small, garden hose. The snake charmer had to irritate it, thrust it with a stick from its basket onto the grass, poke it and threaten it until, awoken from its dozing, it would rear upright with back arching, its head, its high, frilled neck, its mouth open wide, its fangs, ready to lunge for the kill --------- then the pipes would play and the cobra, almost despite itself, would sway, mesmerised by the music until calmed down, returned to its basket. Polite and somewhat relieved clapping.

Nice entertainment, but Bill and I had no desire to be there with the little boys, wrapping the python round our necks, posing for a photograph. I was too aware of the black cobra, alert in its basket beneath the lid, waiting for another chance to rear and strike.

In Holland Park the ex-pats gathered to down sundowners and drink gin, eat Mexican food or Italian (you don’t want something local?!), exchange stories. ‘No’, laughed Christine at my question, ‘you’ll never meet a snake, are you kidding? I’ve been here seventeen years and the only snakes I’ve seen are in the zoo!’ ‘Not the same with the cockroaches of course, everywhere – however your amah scrubs and cleans they reappear through the drains and the cupboards – don’t forget – when you go into the kitchen at night first switch on the light and wait until you’ve counted ten, then go in – you’ll see nothing – there will be no cockroaches. But go in first, before you switch on the light, and you’ll tread on them.’ I resolved never to enter the night kitchen without switching on the light and counting to ten. A good lesson.

‘Did see a snake once.’ Gill was apparently the only one round the table with this experience – ‘when I was here, as a child, I was in my pyjamas, it crossed the garden and I watched it as I ate my breakfast, big, I would have to say, knowing more now, that it was a python. It wasn’t interested in me, and I was fascinated by it – going about its business, crossing our garden, which lay in the way of its journey down the hill.’

But now – the tower blocks and the motorways have got rid of any snakes there were. Believe me, Singapore is clean, cauterised, singularly free from the old ways like it is free from the smells of the river which made you hold your nose as you went past in the school bus – now it’s dredged, cleaned, a perfect spot for a meal.

Something tugged at the back of my mind, slithered, reminded of that tale of the breakfast snake, just out of reach of my consciousness – a possibility.

When it was time to move to the town to a house, we were ready, excited, eager for some space of our own. It was a grand old colonial house, balconies, fluted rails and filigree metal at the windows – and at the day’s end a fabulous sunset streaks the entire sky as if burning, setting through turquoise and purple, orange, green, down to the night darkness, with those strange noises, unrecognisable, the other side of the world – which are familiar here in Singapore, in the Far East. Something, somewhere alive, everything out there is alive, in the garden, ----- and the sound of shirring cicadas, lizards appearing on the walls, round the window frames, across the balconies, little heads upright, looking round, seeking the night, -- insects, golden pale, some light green or brown with markings, eyeing you, friendly, each seeking its domestic space in the domestic interior, and some in and out because there are no real demarcations here in the tropical evening air, windows flung open, fans slowly moving inside, a light breeze thinking of picking up, moths, peace.

The old house was just beyond the grounds of a school, fairly new. It had all been part of the same colonial estate some time in the past, but now just round the back of the busy streets, down a slight path, lined with traders and old men haggling, lying on pallets, women cutting up food, children playing, a cycle track really. And hordes of children would pour down the track, once the road to the big house, out of their buses or on their bikes, from their parents’ cars into school in the morning sun and out again late afternoon, bustling, shrieking with laughter at playtime. And over the lunch time we could watch this coming and going business as we settled into the house, discovering its nooks and crannies, its delights, speculating on its history. It was raised up several stories to the veranda, which kept off the heat, as did the shutters on the windows, closed against this worst heat of the day and open in the evening, the barred windows rendering it safe from any potential thief. But this we have all been told is really unlikely in Singapore, where obedience to the law is considered as compelling as obedience to religion and family values.

We had to have a cat – and your cat, dog, whatever animal, always finds you I have always maintained. Tiger, she was unusual, a big ginger stripy cat, and there are very few female ginger cats, so Tiger was something of a rarity here. It wasn’t long before Tiger made a friend, a skittish little black cat with the Singaporean kinky docked tail, almost feral, huge green eyes, but easily lured in for friendship and regular meals, soon settling down next to Tiger, splayed out on the bed or the balcony, sleeping in the afternoon, one eye open for the arrival of the evening lizards. She, for little Tang was also a she, was brilliant with the lizards, would stare at them for hours then snatch and they’re gone, rather amazing to watch, if a bit disturbing. We kept her away from the bright yellow birds, the parrots were too fast even for her and the mynahs would race off shrieking into their own tree tops only to reappear searching for fruit, nosing their way around, entering the house as if there were no walls and doors, seeking whatever was there for the picking, entertaining, laughing at us.

It was while we were unpacking the crates, pausing for a beer, that the first dark shape seemed to appear right out of the corner of my eye and then gone. Nonsense, nothing, just a trick of the light – and later again over by the end of the veranda out of sight in the darkness of the garden. Getting a flashlight I moved cautiously out down the steps, cats at my heels, nothing there, nonsense. Back to the unpacking. Nothing.

Several days later the same incident, something at the corner of your eye flickers in the darkness, Tang arched her back and hissed, Tiger looked interested, down the veranda steps with the torch, Tang well in front and this time not so elusive, not so scared of us it seemed. There was the cobra.

In the moonlight and the light from the veranda it did not look much, really, rather like the black hose watering the garden and maybe was no more frightening. It slithered through the grass, they always want to get away, they won’t attack you if you don’t attack them, or so they say – but Tang was not interested in this or hadn’t heard about this rule – so she was off, snarling, claws out, heading off the snake, daring it. It seemed only a small snake, but it turned, and growing upwards to its height it was suddenly level with my stomach. Back it reared, spreading its ruff, its frilled back, its green eyes glinting evil and threatening in the moonlight ready to strike. Grabbing the broom I pulled Tang back off away out of reach – she wasn’t an easy target, was ready for the fray, ready to protect, ready to attack, ready for anything, had she ever seen such a snake before? Did she know how venomous it could be? Had she any idea, as a cat, what this means? Grabbing Tang as the snake, bored down in the ground, slithered its way away into the dark night garden.

And now milk for the brave, still rather alert and ready for action cat. Nothing outside, perhaps it would be wise not to venture into the garden at night, perhaps it is better to stay here on the veranda and trust to Tang and Tiger to alert us if this snake should reappear.

But as the months went on there were no more incidents, at least not at the house. At the little school, however, it was another story. A child had been spat at, blinded, the poison seeping into his eyes. He had accidentally cornered a cobra, and it had attacked. He was only seven, it was in the shed where they keep the cricket bats. And then, a week or two after, another mesmerised and terrified child walking home from school, arching itself threateningly at the side of the school path, mothers frantically whisking up their children, those on bikes racing off, those on foot taking circuitous routes to avoid it, and in the days to come everyone dropped off from cars right up at the school, everyone alert, but there were no more cobras up at the house. Not until that dreadful day.

I was going out to work, Tang and Tiger were hanging around in the garden, playing with the butterflies, lunging with their claws trying to catch the yellow and black butterflies, the bright blue large butterflies in the sunshine, ‘Come in cats, time for a sleep!’

Tang was particularly skittish, she did not want to settle in the kitchen, but there was no time for this, ‘Tang curl up, here’s your rug, here’s the milk, be a good cat.’ Tang was not pleased, but there was nothing to be done.

Coming back in from work, in from the furious monsoon, the pouring rain, home, as I open the door, Tiger racing out rubbing herself madly at my legs, obviously agitated, shaking, alarmed and, so glad to see me home, and Tang, Tang lying motionless on the floor whimpering.

The cobra, which had spent the day with the cats, had claimed little Tang. It streaked out of the door, terrifying us, gone. The vet revived Tang but her eyesight was harmed and he said the serum to reverse the poison might help, but she would die. She never regained her energy. It was tragic to see this little cat, the energetic lively one, being reduced to hobbling around as the poison ate at her eyes, seeped itself into her system until it paralysed her bit by bit, blinded, hobbling. A few months later, three months, it was time to take her to the vet’s.

There is no consolation for the loss of a dead friend like Tang, the buoyancy and liveliness of the little cat was horribly missed, she was a victim it seemed of a freak, because the cobra had left the area, no more sightings at the primary school and everything back to normal. But it was not the same house now, without Tang’s miaow and her leap from the ledge to the butterflies, her stalking the geckos and her winding herself around your legs, so we packed up again. Bill went ahead with the boxes loaded onto the truck in the morning.

A third floor flat this time with a nice view, nothing to fear from snakes, not even the odd cockroach probably, sea view, sea breeze, no claustrophobic back alley space, no weeds in the garden hiding the unmentionable, and Tiger could have a new companion, since we would have time to visit the cats’ home, and seek out another Tang. I would not miss the house. I decided it had been great to be in the middle of the town, so close to the sights, sounds and smells, and the school had been a delight, but the memory of little Tang, and more importantly the invasion of the cobra, was too real, too recent.

The flat was bright and cheerful, Tiger settled in, scaled the balcony, didn’t want to hurl herself off it, and decided to curl up in the air-conditioned bedroom, another nice touch, under the air conditioner, to cool off. Work had also picked up, less of a slough, more movement, more challenges, more amusing.

Racing home this Thursday through a torrential downpour, out of the horrors of the overflowing drains and roads turned momentarily to flooding rivers, with a bag of food from cold storage supermarket, I turn the key in the lock and enter the hall. 'Tiger!'

But Tiger is dead on the bed in the bedroom. I go over, shocked, startled, bend over the big cat, my back to the door, until I hear a slight noise, and waiting for me now, in the darkness of the bedroom, with the windows shut against the heat, in the doorway, blocking the exit, the largest black cobra, beyond the imaginings of TV horror films and the sighting in the garden, down the alley, beyond the nightmare stalkings of my dreams. And it rears up, its frilled neck standing out, laid back, my eyes in its cold green gaze.

• Home