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sticks, coffins and wreaths lined the road and above these the dying awaited their time in Sago Lane’s many Death Houses. Next to the coffin maker, whose deep boxes were stacked to the ceiling of his shop, were paper effigies of worldly things the dead would need in the afterlife. Sleek limousines, many-windowed mansions, beautiful women, a boat, servants, a bicycle, a mah-jong set and stacks of paper money would be consigned to the flames for transition to the afterlife. Mei Lan ran ahead along the narrow street towards the big Death House that Ah Siew had earlier pointed out.
    It was not easy to run in Sago Lane so thick was the traffic of the bereaved, vagrants, lepers, hawkers of food, stray dogs, beggars and keening women singing the Song of Mourning. Food stalls and confectioners catered to the road’s never-ending wake and smells of sugar and roasting pork floated on the perfume of incense. At the rickshawstation the big-wheeled carts were clustered closely together, hoods erect like an army of spiny insects. The runners smoked and chatted, washed their vehicles or sucked on bowls of noodles. The odours of food and sewage and joss sticks filled Mei Lan’s nose; she had never been to Ah Siew’s fong before.
    â€˜Slow down,’ Ah Siew panted but Mei Lan ran on.
    The mouldering buildings, infested with cockroaches and human suffering and festooned with laundry on bamboo poles throbbed with a pulse that excited Mei Lan. Hardened undertakers and red-eyed mourners turned to stare at this manifestation of starched pink linen, complete with black patent pumps, clean white socks and shining well-brushed hair.
    When at last Mei Lan drew to a halt before the big Death House its grim façade, devoid of colourful laundry, appeared suddenly daunting. A grey-haired coolie slept on a bench outside and through the open door a yellow-robed priest could be seen moving about. The dark interior was filled with rows of wooden bunks upon which lay the sick and dying. As Mei Lan wondered if the departed spirits who roamed the house were visible to those inside, Ah Siew came running up to take her hand.
    â€˜Not here, little goose. We have not brought sister Ah Pat here yet,’ Ah Siew said and pulled Mei Lan into a narrow alley leading off Sago Lane.
    They entered a slim opening in a dank wall, and climbed the steep stairs to Ah Siew’s fong above, Mei Lan clinging tightly to her amah ’s hand. The stench of garlic, urine, fermenting rice and all manner of vile effluvia enfolded her in a greasy blanket of odours. Eventually, they reached the top of the stairs and in the half-light filtering through a broken shutter, Mei Lan saw a long, grimy corridor with cubicles lining each side. A rat moved in the shadows and she stepped closer to Ah Siew who now walked briskly ahead, the pleasure of homecoming filling her step. She turned suddenly into one of the grimy cubicles, ducking under a ragged strip of curtain to a chorus of greeting. The sisters were seated in a group about the dying Ah Pat who lay upon a sleeping shelf in the dark and tiny room. A narrow rack stacked with boxes and jars ran along one wall; light filtered through from the corridor. Baskets of foodstuffs hung on long strings from the ceiling beyond the reach of rats. Ah Siew thrust Mei Lan forward and began the introductions.
    â€˜This is Ah Thye, Ah Ooi, Yong Gui and Ah Tim. And that is Ah Pat,’ Ah Siew smiled at the invalid.
    Ah Pat’s face was as yellow as old parchment and her hair unravelled from its knot. A pillow of rolled up clothes supported her head, a swelling deformed one side of her neck. The shelf was shorter than her legs and her bare feet protruded over the end. Mei Lan observed the sisters apprehensively. She knew they were not real sisters, yet they all bore a resemblance to Ah Siew. Each had hair pulled into a neat bun and wore identical black trousers and high-necked white blouses. The sisters were from the Pearl