‘Fragrant Harbor’ they called it. But Hong Kong was anything but fragrant the night Poh Seng Pang flew in. The air outside the terminal was dank, vegetative—like the smell of the Singapore River in wet season, or the streets of the Jurong Wholesale Market after a deluge. Poh found it strangely comforting.

He checked his Citizen Quartz Titanium; almost dinnertime in Singapore. Betty would be taking first customers at her small chicken-rice stand inside the Hawkers Centre. He tried not to eat on the plane; ‘airline food’ was an oxymoron and it gave him constipation. But this time he’d missed his wife’s lunch in the rush to the airport and had reluctantly accepted the airline offerings; a decision he now regretted as he stood clutching his small overnight bag on the concourse. 

Beyond the terminal, rain fell. With no wind to speak of, it drifted down in an almost vertical fashion across the runway, hangars and the harbor beyond. A black Toyota Lexus sat idling at the end of the taxi rank, its exhaust steaming the night air. The driver was old-school—silver crew cut, permanent scowl, a real toothpick-chewer. His gaze met with Poh’s in the rear view mirror. He lowered his newspaper and the rear passenger door clicked. Poh pulled on the handle and climbed in. They exchanged single-syllable greetings and the car moved away from the curb to join the swirl of courtesy buses, catering trucks, rental cars and limousines leaving Chek Lap Kok island for Kowloon and the night beyond. 

Poh was feeling pensive tonight. This would be his last assignment. On his return to Singapore, he would formally tender his resignation. At 58, he was getting too old to be a “shipping agent”. 

He was looking forward to retirement; he’d help Betty at the chicken-rice stand, maybe join a mahjong club, and take more of an interest in his daughter’s studies in Australia. Microbiology, wasn’t it? What did he know about microbiology? Except that you should always wash your hands after flying because, as his daughter insisted, ‘airplanes are crawling with bacteria.’

Poh yawned. 

The travelling, the hotel rooms, the waiting—the waiting was the real killer. He’d read somewhere that the average human spends a year of their life waiting. The only thing that made the waiting bearable, besides the money, was dining. He loved sampling the specialties of each town and city he visited: the dumplings in Taipei, Medan chicken curry in Sumatra, pork noodles in Sabah, suckling pig in Bali. Dining was his real pleasure, but only after a job was done, and even then it had to be a quick meal en route to the airport. 

He slumped back in the seat, listening to the timbre of the windshield wipers working away the rain. Why had he chosen this line of business? Actually, he hadn’t chosen this business; it had chosen him. His talent had been recognised early. The recruitment process had been quick, the training minimal and his first assignment issued within a few weeks. 

He had never botched a job. Granted, it was possible. Once, in a Kuching hotel, his gun had jammed. The target had woken with his call girl beside him and he’d had to knuckle-dust them both. Then he’d smothered the target with a pillow and walked. He never killed women—as a rule—and he was glad he’d never been put in a situation where he’d had to choose between a woman’s life and his own. It was another reason to retire.

Read the rest of this story in the book here
or more from Simon Rowe on Writers in Kyoto here.