PECAH - a novel by Khairulnizam Bakeri

Chapter 1

Herman slows the taxi down. His hands are a little numb.
Alan is on the passenger seat, sleeping with his mouth agape. At
the back, Radi and Don are arguing about the best movie of all
time. Radi sides with The Shawshank Redemption. Don insists on
The Godfather. Strange, aren’t they even a bit nervous?
“Hey, we’re here,” says Herman, patting Alan’s cheek.
“Herman, are we good?” asks Radi, with his hand on
Herman’s shoulder.
“Of course. Everything’s OK. Follow the plan. Don’t do
anything stupid. I’ll wait here. Don’t rush. Good luck.”
All the doors fling open at the same time, except Herman’s.
As soon as he’s left alone he prays, but he’s troubled by doubt.
Would God answer a prayer for something like this? He turns the
radio off. Herman waits in silence. Each second feels like a decade.

□□□

Majid was scratching his belly when he was approached by

the lady in the purdah. Only the eyes could be seen seen. Dark
green. An Arab, he assumes. Majid gives a crooked smile. Tourists
are to be treated nicely. Another lady arrives; same look, same
style.
“You speak English?”
“Err, yes, little only.” Majid swallows. The scent of her
perfume stings his hairy nostrils.
“I want to get travellers cheque. You know, travellers
cheque? Where can I get it?”
“Err, yes, err,” Majid scratches his stomach, “please to
counter one, yes.”
 “Oh, thank you. Syukran.”
The woman spreads her arms. Her body is close to Majid’s.
He can’t swerve to avoid the hug and instantly finds himself
trapped by her strong squeeze. Majid feels something odd. Why
does this Arab lady have a strong, manly chest?
“Don’t do anything stupid.” Majid is shocked when he hears
the whisper. “Your gun is in my hand. Don’t make a sound. Turn
around and walk in front of me. Slowly. I don’t want any
commotion. If you want to be a hero, your children could visit your
grave tomorrow.”
Majid’s underwear suddenly feels damp and warm. He didn’t
sign up for this. He’s not ready to die. It was just last week when he
quit his factory job. This is his first day working here, and the cold,
piercing barrel of the gun against his back might make it his last
day. His lip twitches. His crotch starts to itch. He knows the person
behind him is neither a lady nor an Arab.
“Everyone get face-down on the floor. Those behind the
counter, in the office, come out. Hands behind your heads, faces to
the floor. If I see any eyes looking my way, your brains will get
splattered,” the man in purdah shouts.
Majid is shocked. Both of them are not women. Majid wants
to lie face-down on the floor but ‘don’t do something stupid’ still
echoes in his ear. He catches a glimpse of the gun brought out by
the purdah man from his bag. While walking slowly, Majid looks
at the entrance. Damnit, who locked the door with Plasticuff? But
there’s a guard outside. What’s he doing? Didn’t he hear the noise
from the inside? His hands are cold and numb. His head swirls
between curses and prayers.
The door behind the counter opens. The second purdah man
runs towards the counter, pointing his Beretta at the door. Two
guards appear, each armed with a Remington.
“Come out slowly,” warns the second purdah man.
“Ho ho, don’t be a hero.” He backs up step by step towards
the bank customers who are on the floor. “If you fire, my friend
gets scared. When he’s scared, he shoots...what’s your name?”
“Majid.”
“OK, he shoots Majid. Understand? So you’d better put your
weapon on the floor, and join the others.” His eyes stay locked to
the barrel of the gun.
Both guards surrender. They know it’s too dangerous. A
Remington could fire up to about 40 metres. It’s risky because a
Remington bullet splatters upon firing. Once fired, things get
messy. Anyone could get hurt. Anyone including Majid, who has a
gun pointed at his head.
The two Remingtons are placed on the floor and are quickly
kicked away by the second purdah man. The weapons skid to the
wall.
“Good. Everyone’s here, ya? Don’t worry, we won’t be long.
You, get up.” The boot tip of the first purdah man pokes the waist
of a woman in a modern kebaya. She’s shaking.
Wani, Majid whispers. The first employee to greet me this
morning. Wani stands up slowly. Her attention is fixed to the barrel
of the gun, or to the husky voice, or to both. She bites her lip,
trying to stop shivering. Her eyes start to water, and tears trickle
down her cheeks.
“Take this, go to the counter, open the drawers. You know
what to take, don’t you? Make it fast. Don’t try to be smart. If you
don’t listen to me, Uncle Majid’s funeral is tonight.” The barrel of
the gun moves to the back of Majid’s head. Majid closes his eyes.
Allah, if I die today, take care of Yah and the children.
Wani walks briskly to the counter, sobbing. The drawers are
opened one by one. Stacks of cash go into a bag.
“You, you’re the manager, right? Get up.”
The man in his late 40s stands up. Today he’s in a black suit.
Majid looks at him. It was just last week that I was interviewed by
him. But today, we’re both shit-scared. I know that Mr. Kazim fired
me as soon as the gunshot went off just now.
“Let’s open the safe. The rest wait here. If anyone gets up,
well, I don’t like to repeat myself. You know the consequences.”
Kazim walks to the safe room, with both hands behind his
head. The second purdah man follows him. Majid hangs his head,
feeling sympathy, regret, anger, shame and trying to stand the itch
in his crotch that’s now spreading. All my fault. How the hell could
I not notice they’re not women?
 “Everything’s cool? Good. Good. We’re leaving.” The
second purdah man appears from the office with Kazim, who still
has his hands behind his head.
“Go join them.” Majid’s heart drops when the pistol again
touches the back of his head. He has no choice. Slowly, he kneels
and lowers his face to the floor. His crotch is still itchy as hell.
“Thank you, everyone.” Both the purdah men go to the
closed door. Both their bag are filled.
TAM! TAM!
The second purdah man falls to his knees. His leg bleeds.
“You wanna rob my bank?” Mr. Kazim advances from the
counter with a gun in his hand.
TAM!
This bullet misses. The glass door shatters.
“Come on,” shouts the first purdah man.
“You go first. Bear the pain.” The guard carries his colleague
who got shot. The first purdah man helps him. With the cash-filled
bags, they move as fast as they can down the escalator.
Kazim takes aim. Before he can pull the trigger, the guard is
in front of him. A fist pounds his face. Kazim’s ear buzzes. He
collapses.
“Stop!” Majid chases the guard who started running after
punching Kazim.
From the top floor, Majid tries to run faster down the
escalator. His eyes are fixed on the guard who’s escaping to the
ground floor.
“Stop him! Stop him!” Alas, the people at the UMNO
building can only watch. Everything’s happening too fast.
Majid almost trips at the last step of the escalator. He runs to
the front door. The guard enters an orange taxi parked at the
shoulder of the road.
“Hey!” Majid’s knees weaken.
The orange taxi speeds off. Majid stands still in the parking
lot, trying to catch his breath. He bends over. His saliva, without
his bidding, drips out of his open mouth. He repeats the taxi's
number-plate. That's the only thing he caught. HBA 2710. HBA
2710. HBA 2710.
 His exhaustion starts to subside. Majid enters the building.
At the cafeteria, two workers who are washing dishes stare at him.
The grocery store is still closed. The ATM area is quite empty, with
only three customers. The building's customers and employees start
crowding the lifts and escalators. Majid walks unsteadily to the lift
at the end of the ground floor breathing heavily. At that moment, he
sees the aluminum sign displayed beside the lift.

OUT OF ORDER. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE

INCONVENIENCE.
SHAH ALAM CITY COUNCIL (MBSA)

If I’m not wrong, when I arrived this morning, the lift was
still working. When did it stop working? If it’s out of order, why are
people forming a line in front of the lift?
Ting! The lift opens.
“Excuse me, let me through, please. There’s an emergency.
Sorry.” Majid lifts his hands, as if to part the sea of people in front
of the lift.
The lift is packed. Everyone in it, including Majid, awaits
their number to light up.
Ting! The lift opens.
“Thank you. Please. Thank you.” Again, Majid goes through
the sea of people in front of him.
Majid stands agape at the entrance of the bank. There's
shattered glass everywhere. Kazim is sprawled on the floor,
surrounded by curious bystanders. His nose and mouth are
bleeding.
“Step aside. Don’t crowd around him. Give him air.” Majid
cradles Kazim’s head. “Anyone called the ambulance yet?”
Kazim opens his eyes. He slowly wipes his nose and mouth.
Wani appears from the office. “Mr. Kazim, the police are on their
way.”