Two old friends meet

They do.

The two old friends met, not so coincidentally, at the corner between Braddell and Ang Mo Kio. Marianne recognised the man with the tie hanging from his t-shirt, and instinctively backed away. She was too late.

 

‘Marianne!’ the man exclaimed, literally throwing himself forward to clasp her arm. In response, she slapped him across the face, and he reeled back.

 

‘Hello Johnson,’ Marianne said icily, folding her arms. Johnson grinned, letting the fresh mark on his cheek bask in the sun.

 

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘let’s go eat.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘Come on. We’ve got to catch up and stuff. I know a good bar chor mee place.’

 

Before she could open her mouth to utter a vulgarity, Johnson had already grabbed her by the hand and steered her in the direction of the town. She jerked back, and he renewed his efforts. Curling her hand, she prepared to punch the little rascal with all her strength.

 

‘Wait,’ Johnson ducked as a fist sailed over his head. ‘Relax, willya? You’ve got to learn to fun have fun in a while. Besides...’

 

Marianne was drawing back her other hand, when she saw an Indian policeman standing at one corner, silent as a spectre, watching them stonily. Reluctantly, she let her fist fall to the side. They both walked past the policeman, who continued glaring at them like they were condemned criminals.

 

‘Police a bit high strung these days,’ Johnson commented lightly. 

 

‘It’s because of people like you,’ Marianne snapped.

 

‘No-uh, it’s because of that thing with Malaysia,’ he stopped, and Marianne found herself stopping with him. They had arrived in front of a tiny restaurant with a rusty old sign reading: BAR CHOR MEE HOUSE.

 

The owner, a wizened old Chinese man, emerged from kitchen, and into the grubby dining area. He took one look at the two customers outside and his face turned red. Garbled hokkien issued from his lips. Marianne didn’t know what he was saying, but she knew it was something impressive. On instinct, she balled her fists again.

 

‘Relax, Uncle,’ Johnson raised a hand. ‘She’s with me.’

 

‘I don’t care,’ the owner switched to English, so that Marianne would understand. ‘This Malay not welcum in my shop!’

 

‘What’s the problem, Uncle?’ Johnson raised his hands. ‘She’s not going to be any trouble.’

 

‘These jibais I do not want!’ the old man yelled, swinging his hand forward in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Blackies!’

 

Marianne felt familiar anger bubble to the surface. Without warning, she strode forward and plonked herself onto one of the plastic chairs.

 

The owner looked like he was about to explode, until Johnson waved a blue dollar note in front of his face. That calmed him down a bit.

 

‘Two bowls of bar chor mee, jia la jiao,’ Johnson said. ‘Keep the change,’

 

‘You eat outside,’ the shopkeeper demanded, and shuffled back into the kitchen. Marianne heard him muttering ‘no business’ on the way in.

 

Ten minutes later, they sat outside the shop, slurping up greasy noodles by the pavement. An awkward silence hung between them. Marianne swallowed the last bit of her pork ball and said one word. ‘Thanks.’

 

‘Why are you still here?’

 

‘A number of reasons. Mostly because I don’t want that m**********r back there to get too satisfied.’

 

‘You’ve never changed,’ Grinned Johnson, and tipped his bowl over, finishing the last of the noodles. He then wiped his mouth with his tie, shamelessly staining it. ‘Anyway, are you busy?’

 

She regarded him cautiously, deciding whether or not to reply. If she had learnt anything from her childhood, it was that maniacs like Johnson were unpredictable.

 

‘I work in an office.’ She said at length. ‘At the Bank of China.’

 

Glancing at Johnson, she noted that he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. He nodded at her to go on.

 

‘Nothing special really,’ she continued. ‘Just some grunt work like stapling and s**t. At least I get paid.’

 

‘I was wrong,’ said Johnson. ‘You have changed.’

 

Marianne chose not to respond to that, although a strange warm feeling fluttered in her heart. For a moment a curtain of silence descended upon them once again.

 

‘The Americans are going to reach the Moon,’ Marianne eventually said, for lack of anything better to converse.

 

Johnson shook his head. ‘Disappointing.’

 

She frowned at him. ‘Really?’

 

‘l know, the concept of man into space, America about to send a few to the moon, amazing, but frankly they They could have done this as early as the 16^th century. That silly little competition hampered their progress. Disappointing.’

 

He rounded off his monologue with a burp, before continuing. ‘Anyway, wanna join a club?’

 

‘W-what?’

 

‘It’s a cool new thing I’m starting. A club called MB. Wanna join?’

 

Marianne had visions of hooligans starting fires and destroying hapless furniture, and said no thanks.

‘The offer is always open,’ he tossed her a scrap of paper, which floated into her bowl. It had an address on it.

 

‘I said no thanks.’

 

She had barely finished her sentence when something long was thrust into her face, and she recoiled. A young white man was glaring at her in pure vehemence, pointing at her with a stick.

 

‘Hi,’ Johnson said. The stick darted to his face, veering dangerously close to his eye.

 

‘Traitor,’ the young man said. ‘What, you two lovers?’

 

‘Huh?’ Johnson said. Marianne was halfway up from the pavement by now, but Johnson was faster. From some unseen hiding place he whipped out a deadly, black object which looked very much like a gun.

 

The young man turned pale instantly, dropped the stick, and ran.

 

Johnson slipped his weapon back under his shirt. ‘You were saying?’

 

Remembering there was a policeman around, Marianne decided that she’d better make herself scarce. She stood up, setting the bowl on the pavement, ignoring the piece of paper inside.

 

‘Come on, this isn’t like you. You used to like fun.’

 

‘That was before I became mature.’ She stood up, placing the bowl gingerly onto the pavement. ‘You haven’t. Thanks for the free meal.’

 

‘Anytime,’ Johnson chuckled. Marianne shrugged and began walking away.

 

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Johnson called after her, and she could imagine the grin on his face. ‘My club MB is going to change the world.’

 

His voice drifted away like a long forgotten buzz of a fly. She turned a corner, and stopped dead. The policeman from earlier was there, leaning against the railing and glaring at her with judgemental eyes. There was a fresh wound on his cheek.

She quickly increased her step and walked past him.

Reviews

[Erika Kim Harris]

In the beginning of the chapter your language and sentence structure is wooden, and this whole chapter could use more of what is called "show, not tell."
"The two old friends met, not so coincidentally, at the corner between Braddell and Ang Mo Kio. Marianne recognised the man with the tie hanging from his t-shirt, and instinctively backed away. She was too late." Instead of telling us they're old friends, indicate it with dialogue. Instead of telling us what street corner they're at, have it incorporated somehow into the dialogue. I wasn't too interested in it content wise until they got to the diner-place, which is, coincidently, when the dialogue picked up. Unlike some genres which rely heavily on description, the genre you're working in relies more on dialogue driven action. But all in all, a good start.