The phone rang again. For the fifth time that morning. Noorie didn’t bother answering. She stared at the receiver, let it ring, then watched as it went silent. It had been like this ever since she arrived at the Johor office.
The phone would ring—always around the same time—and when she picked it up, nothing but the sound of a man breathing heavily. Sometimes there was music in the background. No voice. No words. Just noise designed to unsettle her. She wasn’t unsettled. She was livid.
Later, when she checked her voicemail, the familiar woman’s voice greeted her. “A male Singaporean has been following you since the day you stepped into Johor,” she said calmly. “Probably hired by someone back in Singapore. They think you’ll try to contact your brother. Or maybe it’s just to rattle you.”
If they thought she’d be scared, they didn’t know her at all. Noorie was beyond fear now. She was angry. Furious. And anger made her clear-eyed and focused. Whoever was trying to spook her had picked the wrong person. She had come to Johor to close this chapter and nothing, not even creepy phone calls or paid stalkers, would stop her from getting to the truth. Something about this branch operation stank. And she intended to dig until she found out what.
As for Johan? She had no interest in hearing from him. If he had the nerve to show up right now, she wouldn’t slap him. No. She’d punch him. Right in the face. She had warned him before. Told him straight—Your practices are unethical. Stop before it goes too far. But he didn’t listen. And now here she was—scraping through the wreckage.
All the staff had been present when she arrived a few days ago. She called them in, one by one, trying to understand the structure, their roles, who did what. The office was small—just a secretary, a messenger boy, and two account executives. That title account executive still made her raise an eyebrow. She had yet to figure out what they actually did.
One of them, a balding man in his forties, had practically begged her not to shut down the branch. “I have six children to feed,” he said, voice trembling. “Your brother was kind. He gave me a job when I had nothing…” Noorie stared at him with contempt. She wasn’t moved. Kind? That wasn’t kindness. That was manipulation.
Her suspicions deepened the next day when she uncovered payment slips issued to the owner of a bungalow—perched on a hill, overlooking the Straits of Johor. She went there herself. The owner produced a copy of the tenancy agreement—signed, not by Johan, but by that same account executive with six children and a pious-looking family portrait on his desk.
Why was this man signing tenancy agreements on behalf of the company? Why was a bungalow even necessary? When she returned to the office, she summoned the messenger boy.
“They’re having regular parties there, ma’am,” he said, barely making eye contact.
“Parties?” she asked coldly. “Or more than that?”
He hesitated. “Sometimes… they go to the nightclub and bring ladies back.”
“Who’s the one doing this often?” The name came out. The same man who’d just shown her the photo of his veiled wife and six children. It all made sense now. The family portrait was a prop. The speech—scripted. Designed to earn her pity, make her hesitate. How nice, she thought bitterly.
They’re having an orgy at the company’s expense, and I’m supposed to feel bad for them? She was fuming. This wasn’t just mismanagement. This was betrayal. Abuse of trust. And they thought they could keep her in the dark?
They had no idea who they were dealing with.
She continued walking—steady, consistent, deliberate from the hotel to the office. From Office to the Malaysia Immigration checkpoint and from Malaysia to the Singapore immigration checkpoint. Distance had never been an issue. Her feet had always carried her through everything.
Now, walking was her way of grounding herself. Of feeling herself. Her pace wasn’t fast, but it was firm. Measured. For years, she had walked at her own speed. At work, especially in Emergency, speed wasn’t an option—it was a necessity. When you’re fighting for someone’s life, you don’t walk. You run. As a nurse, walking long distances was second nature.
Later, she began taking part in the Big Walk—not for competition, but for herself. She remembered her early attempts: the first year she finished the 10km in 2 hours and 30 minutes. Then 2 hours. Then 1 hour 20. She knew she could break the 60-minute mark if she trained. But she never joined to win.
She joined to walk. She’d wake early, tie her hair up, pull on a T-shirt and shorts, strap her Walkman on, and walk—alone. Always alone. She never liked having anyone tag along. That walk was hers. Her time. Her space.
She waited for no one. She, her Walkman, and the rhythm of her footsteps. Afterward, she would rest briefly, maybe catch a bit of the entertainment before the prize-giving ceremony began. But she never stayed for the prizes. Never bothered with consolation gifts.
She wasn’t walking for rewards. She walked because she loved to walk. Walking had a way of making everything else feel far behind—like running once did. She used to run, fast and often.
Until, one day, she simply didn’t feel the need anymore. The urge vanished without warning. Walking took its place. It was like driving: at first, you speed to escape. Then, once you’re far enough, you slow down—to breathe, to take in the view.
She remembered once walking all the way from Orchard Road to Bedok after an argument with Lukman. By the time she got home, the anger had left her. She couldn’t even recall what they had fought about. She was so consumed by anger it had numbed her. And only the walking helped her feel again.
“It’s all done, Dad.” As she entered the house and her father sitting in the living room watching TV. His face looked older. Sad, but composed. He didn’t speak immediately, just nodded slightly as though the news hadn’t fully landed.
She dropped her bag by the door and exhaled..
“I cleared out the Johor office,” she added. “You wouldn’t believe what they did there.” He motioned for her to sit. She did, rubbing her palms together to ease the tension in her fingers.
“They travelled first class. Stayed in five-star hotels,” she said, her voice tight. “I went through the accounts. The company isn’t making a cent from publishing or advertising. So where’s the money coming from?”
Her father sighed. “Oh.”
“All the documents are with me. The rest unimportant ones I shredded. I’ve copied down several names and addresses. All in Kuala Lumpur. Maybe one day, when we’re ready, I’ll go there. Find out who these people are. See how they’re linked to Johan.” Her father was quiet. Processing.
“We still have the printing license,” he said after a while. “It’s valid till next year. What are your thoughts?” Noorie paused. She looked down at her hands, then back at him.
“We need to think seriously, Dad. Do we really want to continue? I reviewed all the contracts. We’re not making anything. Even during Johan’s time, it was already a loss. He gave us a completely false picture.”
Her father let out a slow breath. “I’m thinking about the kids… the youth group. They came by the other day. Pleading with me to keep the magazine going.”
“They came to see me too,” Noorie replied. “And I do feel we owe them something. But we’re not a charity. We’re running out of money. If we don’t act now, we’ll all be in serious trouble. It’s like trying to save a sinking ship—with too many holes. Every time I patch one, another opens up.”
“Any chance of a buyer?” he asked, though his tone already sounded doubtful.
“Why would anyone take over a sinking ship when they can build a brand-new one?” Noorie said. “Besides, the market’s too small. Our target is the Malay reader. If it were English, that would be a different story.”
“But our magazine circulates in Malaysia too, right? Even Kuala Lumpur?”
“It does. But Malaysia is flooded with Malay magazines. New ones come out every month. Ours is just one of many. The only novelty we have is that it’s from Singapore—and how many really care about Singapore news, apart from maybe Johor readers?” Her voice softened. “Our finances are the real issue. We must be realistic. Better to cut our losses now than let them spiral out of control.”
Her father leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. “We’ve put so much money into this… your mother, you, Manisah. It feels like such a waste.”
“We do have a name, yes,” she agreed. “But it’s tainted now. That’s the truth. I went out there to ask for support. The moment they hear I’m Johan’s sister, the doors close.”
He looked at her, searching. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” she said, giving a faint smile. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. I just want to clean this up. I only have basic experience in publishing. The only two I trust are the editor and the graphic artist. The rest? I have no faith in them.”
“What about the assistant editor… what’s his name again?”
“Jefri? I don’t trust him. There’s something off about that man. I tried to page him once during the controversy, when we were receiving threats. No answer. Then hours later, I get a call back not from him, but from someone else asking, ‘Who’s paging this number?’ I asked where they were calling from—they said, the police station.”
Father sat upright. “What?”
“Next day, Jefri shows up and says he was being interrogated about Johan. I asked why. He couldn’t give a straight answer. Then I checked his records. He only joined the company two weeks after Johan disappeared.” Noorie frowned.
“How could he be interrogated about Johan when he never even met him?”
“Exactly. I think he’s a police informant. Just last week, a friend told me she saw him entering the police station through the back door. The back door.”
Father expression tightened. “Oh…”
“If he’s working with them, fine. Let him. At least we can use him to pass the information. Let them know we had nothing to do with whatever Johan was involved in. We only found out after he vanished.”
“And didn’t Inspector Zainal and that sergeant come to speak to Manisah?”
“Yes. They wanted to confirm whether we were hiding anything. We told them the truth—we knew nothing. If they want more, they should talk to Rosnah. She got Johan into this. She tried the same pitch on us. Failed.”
He looked at her again. “So… back to the company. What now?”
Noorie didn’t hesitate. “We’re not making anything. I even went to see another publisher. He looked at our magazine and asked, ‘How do you even survive?’”
“But subscriptions are up, aren’t they?”
“In publishing, subscriptions are just a fraction. The real money is in advertising. And we’re not getting any—because of Johan’s reputation, and because our people aren’t trying. They’re distracted by personal drama. I don’t get it. I have personal problems too, but I don’t bring them to work. It’s not the same work ethic we’re used to, Dad.”
Her father nodded slowly. “You’re right. It’s not the same.”
“Have you spoken to Manisah?” she asked. “She agrees with you,” he said.
“Told me to support you. Said to do whatever it takes to protect the family from further embarrassment.” There was a moment of silence.
Then Noorie added, “Maybe, one day, we can start fresh—on a clean slate.”
“Maybe,” her father said. “When the dust settles.”
“For now, I’d rather put what we have into property. Mom showed me the house in Johor—it’s too big. But we could make use of it. Once it’s paid off, we can use it as collateral. Maybe get a small apartment in KL. Rent it out. Let the rental cover the loan.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded. “That’s a good plan. Let’s do it.” A short pause. Then he said, “Oh, by the way—two guys, Lukman and Michael they’ve been calling you. A lot. I know Lukman… but who’s Michael? Did you owe him money?”
Noorie smirked. “No.”
Chpt 13 / 36
