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Authors: Shamini Flint
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policeman dragged himself away from his newspaper long enough to look up and ask grumpily, 'Ya?'
Jasper Lee said firmly, without hesitation, 'I have come to confess to the murder of my brother, Alan Lee.'
----
Seven
The young man of mixed parentage looked at himself in the mirror. It was a full–length, teak–bordered mirror set in the lightest part of the room. Ravi liked what he saw. His stone–washed jeans were moulded across his thighs and artistically frayed at the knees. He had bought them like that, of course. He'd never worn a piece of clothing long enough to wear it out. He wore a black T–shirt firmly tucked into low–cut, hip–hugging denim jeans and a broad belt with a square, masculine buckle. His hair was cut close to a well–shaped head. He looked good, he thought. He took care of himself. He exercised daily at a big, glass–enclosed gym. He looked after his skin and his hair. But he made sure to keep his look natural. Only he knew the effort that went into his careless good looks.
Looking at his reflection with admiration, he could not understand why Chelsea had refused to see him. After all, he had taken a big risk asking for her. Nobody knew about him. About them. He had been willing to take a chance on being found out but she had rebuffed his attempt without even the courtesy of seeing him first. A policeman had broken the news to him, the smirk on his face suggesting he was being laughed at because a woman in jail, whose options for company were limited, did not want to see him.
Mind you, she had rebuffed his early efforts to get to know her as well. But he had played his cards well. He, Ravi, was experienced in the ways of rich, lonely women. He had maintained a physical distance. He had treated Chelsea with studious, old–fashioned courtesy, listening to her stories with a sympathetic ear. He had never once put himself first in his dealings with her. Finally, she had started to open up, unburden herself. Really talk to him. As he had guessed from the start – it was the same with the other abused women he had targeted – she was only too willing to sleep with him the moment she started talking to him. For women like Chelsea Liew, the commitment was communication. Sex was a reward to men who had earned her trust.
They had managed their relationship very well. The husband had never suspected. Alan Lee had been a little bit too confident that he had beaten his wife into submission. It was easy to arrange assignations. Interludes between shopping trips while the kids were in school. He had Chelsea precisely where he wanted her – dependent on him for emotional solace and physical pleasure. The small gifts she gave him had turned into cash handouts.
But to his intense annoyance, she had broken off all contact the minute the custody battle for the children had begun. He had protested that they were discreet, nobody need find out about their liaison, but she was firm. She was not going to give her husband any ammunition in the battle for the children. She, who was alleging adultery as grounds for divorce and custody, did not intend to be caught, literally, with her pants around her ankles. Ravi had hoped to go back to the well a few more times. But if it was not possible, he could live with that. He knew when to cut his losses and walk away. There were plenty of other rich, lonely women in Kuala Lumpur.
But then Alan Lee had been killed. What a euphoric moment. He smiled at the recollection of his own short–lived delight. He had sent her a letter immediately, professing undying love, predicting a future together, talking about his willingness to be a father to her children. She did not respond but he had not been worried. He knew she had been too busy and careful during the divorce and custody hearings to have replaced him. With the husband out of the way, he would soon insinuate himself back into her good graces, her bed and hopefully marriage –his ticket to the good
Jasper Lee said firmly, without hesitation, 'I have come to confess to the murder of my brother, Alan Lee.'
----
Seven
The young man of mixed parentage looked at himself in the mirror. It was a full–length, teak–bordered mirror set in the lightest part of the room. Ravi liked what he saw. His stone–washed jeans were moulded across his thighs and artistically frayed at the knees. He had bought them like that, of course. He'd never worn a piece of clothing long enough to wear it out. He wore a black T–shirt firmly tucked into low–cut, hip–hugging denim jeans and a broad belt with a square, masculine buckle. His hair was cut close to a well–shaped head. He looked good, he thought. He took care of himself. He exercised daily at a big, glass–enclosed gym. He looked after his skin and his hair. But he made sure to keep his look natural. Only he knew the effort that went into his careless good looks.
Looking at his reflection with admiration, he could not understand why Chelsea had refused to see him. After all, he had taken a big risk asking for her. Nobody knew about him. About them. He had been willing to take a chance on being found out but she had rebuffed his attempt without even the courtesy of seeing him first. A policeman had broken the news to him, the smirk on his face suggesting he was being laughed at because a woman in jail, whose options for company were limited, did not want to see him.
Mind you, she had rebuffed his early efforts to get to know her as well. But he had played his cards well. He, Ravi, was experienced in the ways of rich, lonely women. He had maintained a physical distance. He had treated Chelsea with studious, old–fashioned courtesy, listening to her stories with a sympathetic ear. He had never once put himself first in his dealings with her. Finally, she had started to open up, unburden herself. Really talk to him. As he had guessed from the start – it was the same with the other abused women he had targeted – she was only too willing to sleep with him the moment she started talking to him. For women like Chelsea Liew, the commitment was communication. Sex was a reward to men who had earned her trust.
They had managed their relationship very well. The husband had never suspected. Alan Lee had been a little bit too confident that he had beaten his wife into submission. It was easy to arrange assignations. Interludes between shopping trips while the kids were in school. He had Chelsea precisely where he wanted her – dependent on him for emotional solace and physical pleasure. The small gifts she gave him had turned into cash handouts.
But to his intense annoyance, she had broken off all contact the minute the custody battle for the children had begun. He had protested that they were discreet, nobody need find out about their liaison, but she was firm. She was not going to give her husband any ammunition in the battle for the children. She, who was alleging adultery as grounds for divorce and custody, did not intend to be caught, literally, with her pants around her ankles. Ravi had hoped to go back to the well a few more times. But if it was not possible, he could live with that. He knew when to cut his losses and walk away. There were plenty of other rich, lonely women in Kuala Lumpur.
But then Alan Lee had been killed. What a euphoric moment. He smiled at the recollection of his own short–lived delight. He had sent her a letter immediately, professing undying love, predicting a future together, talking about his willingness to be a father to her children. She did not respond but he had not been worried. He knew she had been too busy and careful during the divorce and custody hearings to have replaced him. With the husband out of the way, he would soon insinuate himself back into her good graces, her bed and hopefully marriage –his ticket to the good
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