I spent a few hours drinking tee tarek. Wired and witless, I made my way back to Singapore the same way I came.

I don’t run into any  Bangladeshis while hugging the water pipe across the causeway into Singapore. They must do the night run. I hear the local mosque across the causeway charge some kind of tariff. Everyone was on the hustle in Singapore. If I was spotted, they’d leave me alone. Everyone ignored white guys in Singapore, even the Muslims who wouldn’t want me to jeopardise their lucrative little people smuggling sideline.

I was nearing the end of my tour in Singapore. I could feel it. Something was about to go down and I wasn’t going to miss it for anything.

How do I know this stuff? It’s all in The Girl in the Window. It’s not only a guidebook but a thriller novel set in Singapore.  Tay was about to face his maker. The critical crunch was arriving and I wasn’t going to be a passive tourist. I jumped in a taxi. Abdul, the Paki driver recognized me. ‘No silly buggers this time,’ I said, ‘as I pulled out a realistic hand grenade I had bought at one of the street markets in Johor where they sell sex aids.



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