[FICTION] “Detergence” by Jonathan Han

The pantry was getting dirty. A wisp of tissue had fallen on the linoleum floor. Coffee grounds speckled the steel of the machine. A damp cloth, used earlier to wipe the dribble of milk from the carton, lay scrunched by the sink. Somebody was supposed to clean it all up.

Kathy surveyed her domain of sugar packets and wondered why Wun Je still hadn’t clocked in. Her time card remained unpunched, an old mechanism that reflected the ancient responsibility of cleaning up after those who can’t, and that, with each passing minute, measured the dereliction of such duties. A complaint had already been made about the mounting levels of trash, a mound that poked open the lid of the bin, and revealed the brown ends of breakfast. The bathroom was beginning to smell of vagrant urine. As office manager, Kathy was accountable, though not at fault. That she made clear, denouncing the absent woman to whoever was willing to listen, as well as the few unwilling.

Kathy was serious about her work. Seriousness was perhaps the sole characteristic necessary for a woman of her position. It is the same attribute that holds the city together, grounds its buildings, gives weight to its people, enveloping in the same Cantonese phrase: the truth. To be serious is to tell the truth.

She called the contractor responsible for hiring the cleaner and said, in her most serious tone: “How can a contractor work like this? What sort of attitude does this cleaner have? No sense of responsibility, not one bit!”¹

An apology came through, followed by assurances that such an incident should never happen again. The little voice on the other side promised to look into the matter, and a replacement would be sent in the afternoon.

What Kathy knew better than most was that the office must remain a sacred space. After all, work is the city’s religion, the office, its temple. As a guardian of the faith, she set herself on preparing for the new cleaner.

Kathy took stock. She rifled into the cabinet containing the effects of the old Wun Je, but found it cleared out. Under the kitchen sink, the cleaning supplies were missing too, undoubtedly stolen: three green bottles of Dettol, all gone. This was a premeditated crime.

Kathy never imagined Wun Je to be a thief. The diminutive woman was forgettable, soft spoken, almost mute, except when her phone rang, and everyone could hear her struggle with the telemarketer. Kathy suspected her of being half-deaf, and at times, rather dumb. She appeared utterly incapable of handling anything technical or electrical. A whole day was once spent learning to use the microwave-oven, and in the end she resigned herself to eating her lunch cold.

However, Wun Je was exceptional in keeping things clean. Even after a morning of degradation, the office would seem, at least to a visitor, perfectly acceptable. She strictly followed the rota set for her, disinfecting the pantry in the morning, scrubbing the sink and its contents, then vacuuming each cubicle before Kathy arrived. She did her work with such expedience that the office’s pristine condition became its natural state, and her presence was effectively purified by her own work. The sour whiff of detergent still lingered in the dampest corner of the bathroom, the final reminder of the woman missing.

Another phone call: the same little voice. “Wun Je died Friday night. I’m very sorry.”

That stopped Kathy, thankfully, from looking through the men’s bathroom. How did Wun Je die? By drinking the Dettol? Kathy could only assume the worst, both the cleaner and the detergent gone. It would be impossible to explain on the inventory list. Perhaps it would even implicate the company.

“There’s something missing from our office that Wun Je might have taken home. Is there any way we could retrieve our items?”

The little voice admitted that it was possible and, once pressed on the location of those items, revealed that Wun Je’s belongings remained untouched in her home. Having no children, no family at all in the city, nobody had gone to claim her things.

“I’ll send you the address and meet you there, if that’s alright.”

But “there” seemed impossible to find. Once out of the station, Tsuen Wan became a town of bridges, markets, malls, and elevated walkways that stretched for miles. The remains of textile mills could be seen from the residential towers above. Taller still were the mountains, fog-capped, tree-filled, beneath which lay nullahs carrying forth the refuse of industry. Wun Je’s home would be on the ground.

Squeezed between two restaurants, a narrow stairway led onto a gate, already pried open, before reaching four plain doors. The woman with the little voice stood outside, flanked by bags of trash. They were not for recycling, Kathy assumed. The two exchanged greetings but not names, and, with the turn of a key, opened a door.

A terrible dank odour overcame them, rushing through the only source of fresh air. So this was where Wun Je lived, Kathy thought, surprised by the considerable heaps of trash that rose all the way to the ceiling. In that remarkably small room, Styrofoam boxes, newspapers, flyers were put into piles, some tied together by string, others simply scattered. On the table lay packets of ketchup and Thai chilli sauce. The room was entirely enclosed by walls made of cardboard wood, illuminated by a broken light that came through a frosted windowpane, jammed shut. A woman was lying on the floor beneath the window, her shirt rolled over her belly.

“You said she was dead,” Kathy whispered.

“That’s not Wun Je.”

“Then what’s she doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” The commotion must have woken up the woman, who rolled down her clothes as she rolled off the floor. Her whole body sagged as she sat up. She stared at the two strangers at the door, the great mole on her chin trembling.

“Is this where Wun Je lives?” Kathy asked.

“She’s dead.”

“Yes, we’re trying to get something that belongs to us. It’s quite important.”

“Are you debt collectors? You don’t look like debt collectors.”

“No, Wun Je worked for us. She took something from the office that we need to get back.”

“Well, she’s dead.”

“Where did she live?”

“Next door. The room directly across mine.”

They went back and knocked. After confirming the silence between them, Kathy opened the door and found an empty flat. Utterly empty. They could make out the bed frame, but the mattress had been flipped over, the sheets folded atop the pillow. Then a dresser, a desk, a window jammed shut.

“That’s it.” The neighbour stood by her threshold.

“Nothing else?” Kathy couldn’t quite believe it. There must be her uniform somewhere. She opened what seemed to be the dresser, but found moths, all dead, lined up like they would for a lepidopterist. “Where are her clothes?”

“I don’t think you’d be getting those. She was wearing them the day she died. I don’t think she ever took it off,” said her companion, her voice smaller still in that dark room.

“Has her room always been this empty?”

“Only the last few weeks,” the neighbour said, scratching her mole.

“And the bathroom?”

The neighbour opened the third door. The toilet was perhaps the only place in the whole building familiar to Kathy, clearly maintained with the same dedication and detergent. She would have used the toilet immediately, out of respect for the work, if she did not spot the three bottles of Dettol atop the counter.

Kathy was triumphant, and returned to the office shortly before the end of her lunch break. She would have to order another set of uniforms, but that was only a matter of appearance. The critical task of repossession, of justice, was carried out. She handled the whole thing with aplomb. Only when the new cleaner struggled with the mop, or forgot to vacuum the edges of the room, or complained too much about the stains in the bowl, did Kathy mourn, though only as much as she should.

Footnote

1. A rough translation of a gentle woman: 「 點做嘢㗎? 而家咩態度呀? 一啲責任感都冇!」 ↩︎

^{How to cite: Han, Jonathan. “Detergence.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 11 Sept. 2026, chajournal.com/2026/09/11/detergence.}

Jonathan Han is a Hong Kong-based writer. His work has appeared in Essays in Criticism, Hong Kong Review of Books, and Asian Review of Books. His chapbook Quinquennial was published by Pen and Anvil Press. Follow his Substack @jhantheman. [All contributions by Jonathan Han.]