There were two of them outside, shouting in unison. “Pay up! Pay up! Know how to borrow money, don’t know how to pay!” Their voices echoed through the narrow street, drawing curious looks from passersby. No one intervened. Not their problem. As far as they were concerned, it was a personal dispute—just another family mess spilling into public view.
Inside the office of the two-story shophouse, Noorie remained frozen behind the locked door. She had kept it bolted for days now. The main entrance had been vandalised—splashed with red paint, covered in angry scrawls.
Since then, she’d been slipping in and out quietly through the back. Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Shafie, the family’s legal adviser and long-time friend.
“He can’t touch you,” he said firmly. “He can’t enter the premises or take anything. Stay put. The police are on their way.”
“I am,” Noorie replied, her voice steady, but her hands were trembling. “Honestly, I don’t know what to feel.”
It was surreal. A nightmare. She never imagined she’d be in this position—trapped inside her brother’s office, hiding from debt collectors. The man outside kept pounding on the door, his curses growing louder. She owed him nothing.
The debt wasn’t hers. It was Johan’s. But now that he was gone disappeared without a trace everyone had turned to the family to settle his mess. Her phone rang again.
This time, it was a woman’s voice. “You okay?” the caller asked gently.
“Yes… I’m okay. Damn—I’m scared,” Noorie confessed.
“Don’t be. We’re with you. Be brave. The ladies are all in place. If that guy tries anything funny, we’ll step in. But I don’t think he will. He just wants to scare you.”
“Thank you,” Noorie whispered. She didn’t even know who this woman was. A friend of a friend. Someone who had been checking in on her over the past few days. Always through the phone. No names. Just solidarity.
“A friend highlighted your situation to me,” the woman had said during their first call. “We’re here to help.” Noorie had clung to that unexpected kindness. It kept her from falling apart. The truth was, this chapter was ending.
In a day or two, the office would be stripped. She had found a buyer for the furniture, the computers, the copier—everything that could be sold. The money raised wouldn’t cover everything, but at least it could settle some of the smaller debts, prevent further threats.
As for the old issues of the magazine, she had spoken to Pak Cik Man. Everyone called him that—Pak Cik Man, the quiet distributor who had been there since the beginning. He was in his sixties now. Retired from public works, soft-spoken, dependable. He had stuck around even when the magazine's future looked grim.
Noorie had come to rely on him. He didn’t talk much, but he drove her to appointments, filled in missing details about the business, and watched over her without asking questions. “Take the old stock,” she told him. “Do whatever you can with them. Sell them if you want. Keep the money. You’ve earned it.”
That was all she could offer. Since Johan’s disappearance two months ago, Noorie had been picking up the pieces alone at first, then with Manisah’s help. They had started combing through the records. The numbers didn’t add up.
Huge sums had been withdrawn. Cheques signed. But by whom? If Johan was gone, who had access to the accounts? Why did no one come forward earlier?
Why now—two months later were debt collectors suddenly appearing at their doorstep? Where had the money gone? The more they uncovered, the more questions piled up.
Noorie wasn’t sure whether she was chasing the truth—or slowly realising it might already be gone.
Chpt 10 / 36
