*
Sitting in the small café, Joyann was aware of a commotion. She had been enjoying a cup of coffee with a few others from the group, when she’d asked Percy if he had considered returning to England. Nothing was meant by it, the comment intended only to draw his focus to a possible solution. Percy’s latest moan-of-the-day was that he had nothing to occupy his time in Singapore. He’d scowled, and marched off, but she wasn’t sure if it was the comment that had driven him away. Often, he did not seem to hear what was said to him.
She noticed the form of Sal race by a doorway, flustered. Joyann sipped her coffee and returned her attention to a woman she’d been talking with before Percy had begun moaning. She was also Chinese-Singaporean, and they’d found a number of things in common.
Norm took Percy’s vacant seat. ‘There’s a bit of nonsense going on,’ he said, not seeming to notice or care that he had interrupted a conversation. ‘Ethan got Percy into a headlock, and then Percy broke loose and punched him in the face.’
It was as if Norman had forgotten that Ethan was her husband, Joyann considered. Urge to view the aftermath denied, she nodded a little by way of showing she’d understood what was said, before once more picking up the threads of her own discussion. The question she and the other woman were trying to answer was whether or not it was ethical to discard a body that had been donated to the organisation, without using any of its parts. It had occurred to them both that some bodies might have no worth. Presumably, each corpse could realistically be harvested for only one or two physical elements. What if those elements were not needed because Gunther already had enough, and the rest of the body was too fat or thin, old or whatever, to use for anything else? Ideas seemed to go round and round in circles, any form of conclusion proving elusive.
Shortly, a red-faced Percy returned to the group. Behind him, Joyann noticed some members of staff watching, though none appeared keen to eject him. Ethan and Sal walked by, hand in hand.
Unprepared for such a sight, Joyann felt sad.
‘You okay?’ Norm asked Percy, who’d pulled up another chair.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘You’ve been fighting.’
‘Not really. A disagreement, that’s all.’
‘You punched him.’
‘Lightly.’
Joyann was now entirely distracted from the ethical issue of wasting body parts. She’d spotted a twinkle in Norman’s eye, and some polished pride apparent in Percy’s, and it made her cross. She was crosser still with herself. She wanted to ask him what had happened, hoping that Ethan had a bloody nose and that his shirt was stained red. He was wearing his favourite. Attention caught between surplus dead flesh and the problems of the living, she then spotted Trudy and Hester.
Meera, who was also nearby, seemed to be looking in Joyann’s direction, but as she suddenly rushed across it became apparent it was not Joyann she wanted, but Percy. Apparently, there was another disturbance, this time involving a woman Meera determined to be Australian.
Joyann commented to her fellow Singaporean that it only ever took a couple of expats to shatter the peace.
Percy immediately followed Meera, an act in itself that surprised Joyann, since no persuasion had been required. She could not see what happened next, only that there was a great cry of excitement, almost exultation, before an even more red-faced Percy returned to his seat.
Trudy was in hot pursuit. ‘Percy! Come back. She wants to thank you. Please.’
Percy’s face was tight, and he said nothing.
Meera appeared behind Trudy. ‘So sorry, Percy.’
Again, he said nothing.
Meera looked to Joyann and began to explain. ‘There was a woman whose arm was dislocated at the shoulder. She’d fallen. Percy touched it and it just slipped back into position. No pulling, lah, just touching.’ Meera placed a hand on Percy’s shoulder, a hand, Joyann noticed, that he did not immediately shrug off. It was as if he were plasticised himself. ‘Amazing, huh?’ Meera said.
Joyann sighed. ‘Percy, what is going on?’
Finally, the hand was pushed away. ‘You told them, then?’ he said, turning to look at Meera. ‘Told them I was coming here?’
‘I swear I did not breathe a word of it.’
‘What about messaging?’
She hesitated.
‘Exactly,’ Percy said. ‘Cheers for that, Meera.’
‘But Percy, look what you did. Think about that. You have helped someone. Again.’ Her face bore a look of appeal. ‘And didn’t Phrike tell you to stop worrying about what other people say and do? Yeah?’
Trudy slipped her hand onto Percy’s shoulder, exactly where Meera’s had been. Joyann watched, noticing she appeared to be getting pleasure from this contact.
‘Get off, Trudy! Get back in there, where you belong, amongst the bloody plastic!’
Though his tone was vicious, Trudy seemed unmoved. Joyann took it upon herself to reprimand him. ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘These days,’ he replied, ‘nothing is uncalled for.’
A new voice came, echoing ethereally in the small marble atrium of the cafe. ‘You have been called for,’ it said.
A whimper of resignation slipped from Joyann as she watched Percy close his eyes, trying to shut out the world. She did not know the woman who said it, or even if she was the owner of the mended shoulder. What she did understand, however, was that the idea of Percy as Prophet was gaining impetus. Over a relatively short period of time, one man’s crush had infected others. The issue of adoration was no longer simply a matter of Norman’s blind passion. Nor was it a question of whether or not two or three bored women were playing some ridiculous prank, as, from time to time, Joyann privately suspected they were.
Though aware that adoration of Percy had been slowly escalating, Joyann felt today she had witnessed the genuine birth of this new thing, whatever it was; and this new thing was something troubling. She thought back to the preserved egg. Norman Sullivan was that egg. The women had fertilised him. Whatever was happening now, whatever this new group was, it was their offspring. So what did that make Percy? Joyann frowned. Now she was going mad too.
One thing was certain, unless Percy Field stood up and rebuffed them all, the problem of a failed marriage and the unwanted love of a good man would be like drinking beer in The Tired Turtle by comparison.
‘Percy,’ Joyann urged. His eyes opened, but she couldn’t read what was there. ‘Do something and do it now.’
He paused, and then stood up, sharply sending his chair clattering backwards, before running. In seconds, he was gone.
Those left in his wake stared after him, dumbstruck. At the table, Norm’s mouth gaped. Coming from around the corner, out of sight, a calling voice could be heard asking Percy what he was doing.
‘I believe he has to leave because there is another miracle to perform,’ came the faint reply. Joyann recognised this voice as belonging to Hester.
Joyann finished her coffee and apologised to her new friend for having to leave. She simply could take no more. Her day had been an odd one, but not nearly as odd as Percy’s. If only he had stood up and said something useful. Now it was a case of how widely word would spread, and how fast that word would gather momentum.
21. AND THEN THERE WERE MANY
Hester’s veranda was more full than it had been in a long time. The new maid, Girlie’s niece, Davina, was trying hard to satisfy the many requests, her expression anxious.
Though comfortable in his seat, and hoping not to lose it, Norm got up to help. Hester reached out a hand to stop him.
‘Even Girlie would have struggled to cope with this many,’ he said, ignoring her.
A month had passed since the Science Centre miracle. The woman whose shoulder was repaired had not been seen or heard from since. Initially, Norm thought this odd, because quite plainly she was in awe of Percy. When he’d raised it with Hester, she’d said the woman had told her she was visiting, a tourist flying home the foll
owing day. This, Hester had declared, was one reason why the woman was so grateful.
In spite of this information, Norm found himself scanning faces in search of the woman. He wanted to talk. He wanted her to expand her statement you have been called for. There had been such wide acceptance of what she’d said that Percy had gained more followers that day than Norm had been able to persuade since. What did he need to say to make people believe, was his real question? He’d moaned about it to Trudy, who’d told him that evangelical camp men didn’t have much of an audience; certain ears might be closed to him. He wasn’t trying to convert as much as convince, he’d replied, ignoring both the word camp and the use of the word evangelical. Trudy said she couldn’t see the difference. When he’d thought about it, neither could he. Still, he wanted to talk with the woman.
After following Davina to the kitchen, Norm smiled at her. ‘Let me help.’
‘No thank you, sir Norm, I can do it.’
‘I know. But I am bored. I want to help.’
Davina hesitated, eyeing him warily; a natural suspicion, Norm felt. He doubted she received many offers of help, and perhaps was worried that he wanted something more than to be of assistance. ‘If you could take that tray, please, sir Norm.’
He picked it up, and set off. Circulating with a bright smile, Norm offered chilled white wine and tiny bowls of dried anchovies mixed with raw peanuts. When the tray was empty, he gathered dirty glasses and returned to the kitchen, where he started washing up.
Hester was possibly becoming too old to be a very active host, he realised, but he wondered if she had ever been involved in the grafting side of it. She was the sort who preferred to sit amongst her guests, leisurely enjoying her own hospitality. She did it so naturally that he assumed she must have always lived a life of privilege, cruising in a world where memories of her own labours – had these reminiscences every existed in any empathetic form – were faded to nothing.
She could be a fierce old thing, though, he thought, smiling to himself. She didn’t pull any punches. Before he’d got up to help Davina, she’d crushed a new believer who dared to look for answers regarding how Percy performed his miracles. As far as Norm could tell, the young woman wasn’t expressing doubt, more finding a means of making conversation.
‘I see you lot are everywhere.’
Norm turned. Hester’s husband was in the doorway. ‘Sorry,’ Norm said, ‘I’m just helping out.’ Observing displeasure in the old man’s face, Norm stopped what he was doing.
As he left the sink, Norm apologised once more. By way of reply, a filthy look was cast his way. Norm passed uncomfortably close to a man he already knew was hostile towards the group. Hester was free to do as she pleased, but her husband did not have to like it.
Emerging from the cool of the house into the heavy air, Norm could see she was in her element, holding court as she often did. No doubt her husband saw this too, though what this might mean to him, Norm couldn’t imagine.
Also seeing his comfy seat had been filled, he wandered over to Trudy, who was leaning against a balustrade, looking out across the garden. She was talking with an eager faced young woman. Norm had noticed that many of the people there were young women.
‘This is Norman,’ Trudy said.
The young woman smiled and introduced herself, before declaring how thrilled she was to be part of something so new and exciting. Her words tumbled, and Norm found himself grinning. It was exciting; in fact, it was the most exciting thing he had ever been involved in.
Years of denying himself the sexuality he was entitled to had left Norm skilled at boxing up his emotions and fantasies. The box was so real to him, and so useful, that he could almost see it in his mind’s eye, a plain, seemingly innocuous brown cube. Meeting Percy Field had ripped the box apart, and the self-reproach conjured up proved difficult to manage; time spent carefully honing his put-it-in-a-box ability was time not used for learning how to cope with guilt. It had shaken his faith in all things. Once the box was burst, there was no means of denying his attraction to Percy, and diminishing devotion to the Mormon faith hadn’t helped as it might. This shift away from constraint had offered no significant release. Ingrained was ingrained, and it was still easier to deny than to face that which others may not accept. But since Hester, Trudy and Meera had also become drawn to Percy, so Norm’s guilt had lessened. He rediscovered and refined his packaging skills to reassemble the remnants of his box. He had a wife. He had a perfectly balanced life. He still had no tools to help come to terms with one part of himself he found challenging. These were facts, Norm felt. This new faith offered a bridge. His adoration was legitimate.
Having exhausted Norm and Trudy with her account of her past and the relief she felt in finding Percy Field, the young woman excused herself and went off to talk with Hester and the gaggle of bright eyed recruits sitting at her feet.
‘What shall we call ourselves?’ Norm asked Trudy.
‘Who?’
Norm gestured to all those gathered. ‘Us.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Matahari,’ she replied. ‘It means eye of the day, in Malay.’
‘What’s the significance?’
‘The sun, the East.’
‘But Percy is English.’
‘This is Singapore, once natively Malay.’ Her gaze settled on a young Chinese man. ‘I thought it was relevant.’
‘I’m not sure. In my church, the name fits the faith. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It says what it is.’
‘And Matahari doesn’t?’
‘I…’ he paused.
‘What?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love Percy, but I cannot say he is the sun. The sun is a wonderful thing to bathe in, to warm you, to make you forget. For me, Percy isn’t like that. He challenges me. He makes me think. He makes me want to be with him.’ Norm’s eyes lifted to the sky. A pale grey orb glowed eerily through the cloud. ‘No, he’s not the sun.’
Trudy stood quietly for a moment, and Norm was pleased to see she was thinking. He liked Trudy very much, but she could sometimes appear shallow and dismissive. He felt he knew what she really was. She was a lonely person in need of a guiding hand, and had found it. The much older woman, the person Trudy might have aspired to be, had been replaced by a man.
She sipped her wine, attention roaming across the vast lawns. ‘You’re right,’ she said, turning to Norm, ‘he is not the sun. Though I could argue that the sun is traditionally used as a means of navigation. But he’s not traditional, he seems to want us to find our own way, if you know what I mean?’
‘I do. Perhaps this is a corny metaphor, but it’s like walking along a track, and every time you stop and turn to look behind, a hand pushes into your back, shoving you forwards. And when you look forward, you’re no longer walking a single track but faced with a fork.’
‘Hmm. I suppose.’ Trudy’s eyebrows twitched.
‘You don’t agree?’
‘It’s not that I don’t agree, more that… something else…I don’t know…’
Norm was struck by an idea. ‘I think I do. It’s as if not only is he pushing us away when we ask for direction, but he also walks ahead of us at the same time.’
‘He chooses the fork?’
‘No. He’s behind us when there is a fork, ahead of us when there is a path.’
‘So why would we turn around.’
‘To see what we’ve left behind.’
Trudy straightened. ‘Just hang on one moment, and let me get my head around what you’re saying. You’re saying that when Percy is walking in front he is actually walking behind? No. The other way around?’
Norm talked over her. ‘I’m saying we have a Prophet who will not preach, because he believes we should find our own way.’
‘So what’s the point of him?’
Norm thought he could see tears of disappointment welling. Not only had she drunk too much wine, clearly Trudy had never
engaged in any form of theological discussion that actually mattered to her, not if she felt upset simply because an idea wasn’t straightforward.
As an adult, Norm had always enjoyed discussing the finer points of his faith with his peers. As a child he had not been actively encouraged in this. The occasion he had questioned his mother about the golden plates Joseph Smith claimed to have found, and then translated into English, had left Norm with a thick ear by the end of it, but also an apology. It’s good to talk, his mother had admitted, adding that he should think a little harder about the way in which he spoke to his elders. She’d delivered a second thick ear, he recalled, when she found out he’d been watching The Greatest Story Ever Told again. It wasn’t so much Norm’s passion for John the Baptist that was an issue, she didn’t know about it anymore than he understood it; it was more that he’d claimed he was going fishing.
Norm pushed hair from Trudy’s face, a few skinny strands caught across the false black lashes of one eye, waggling up and down as she blinked. How it didn’t drive her mad was a mystery.
‘Listen,’ he said, kindly, ‘these things cannot be straightforward. If they were – if life were – there would be no need of a Prophet. And you don’t need to be anything other than human to accept God’s love into your heart. I had thought people needed to be part of the LDS church. They don’t.’
Trudy sniffed, and smiled a little. ‘I don’t want it not to be true. Him, I mean.’
He laughed, kindly. ‘It is true. He is true. But halos aren’t, Trudy. You can’t spot one of God’s messengers just like that.’ He took Trudy’s wine, and sipped it himself, smiling inwardly at the shocked look on her face. ‘Religious belief requires a leap of faith, because it is faith. You and I, all of us here, have found ourselves one step ahead of that. Already we have seen what he can do, and of course we know how he makes us feel. We don’t really need to work out what he wants or how he wants us to follow him. We don’t need to define anything. I should never have begun on that terrible metaphor.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We learn.’
‘How?’
‘Through patience. And following his lead.’
‘Following?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that should be our name, Norm. Following.’
‘Following!’ came a great cry.
Norm looked about himself and realised that while he had been focussed on Trudy, a crowd had gathered. It seemed the first sermon had been given.
22. SAVE ME
Percy was in the pool and out again before he knew what had happened.
Somewhere there was a screaming cry, the sound of a terrified mother rushing towards him. He didn’t wait. Placing the child on the ground and unable to detect life, Percy pressed his mouth to tiny cold lips, and began to breathe. Very quickly, the girl spluttered. Before Percy was able to think what to do next, he and the child were surrounded. The voice explaining was rushed. He realised the voice was his own. He calmed himself.
‘She was near the bottom,’ he said.
The little girl started throwing up pool water. Someone muscled in and rolled her onto her side, while the mother strained to be face-to-face, nose-to-nose; caring hands cupping fat little cheeks. Percy moved.
Sitting in a nearby seat, he stared. What the hell had just happened? He was walking past the pool area, making for the back exit from the condo, on his way to The Tired Turtle for an early teatime drink with Phrike, when he had gone to retrieve the novel he wasn’t enjoying. He’d have happily left it there, abandoned on a poolside table, except the bookmark had sentimental value. A few short steps from the main path, and his eye had been drawn to a distortion in the pool, a dark shape floating someway beneath the surface. He’d jumped in.
Percy checked his pocket. He’d need a new phone.
He watched while the child’s wet dress was peeled off and she was wrapped in a dry towel and carried away. The mother kept looking back to him, her gratitude painful to see.
After walking a little way with the small group, a figure returned to talk to him.
‘Thank God you saw her.’
It was Amanda, beautiful friend to the equally beautiful unnamed Kiwi. Amanda’s own child was hanging on the frayed leg of her denim shorts, clutching close in, understanding something terrible had happened; almost happened.
‘Yeah.’ It was all Percy could think to say.
For the first time since he’d been in Singapore, he felt chilly. There had been a run of cloudy days with heavy rain at night, so the pool had lost all its comfortable heat and felt cold. This was the reason it had been empty, empty of all but one, a little person who perhaps slipped or jumped or leaned too far. The warmth of humid air passed him by. He excused himself, and set off home to change his clothes.
‘Is this yours?’ Amanda called after him.
Percy turned to see the novel, held high, and automatically went back and took it from her. She said something, but the words passed through his head unheard. He could think only of the girl.
On the walk back home, dripping his way along the path, Percy felt himself lurching towards something emotional. The feeling didn’t exactly prompt tears, but it wasn’t far off. The day fitted horribly; its low suffocating greyness, the unremitting silence of late afternoon on such a thickly overcast day; footpaths offering only the occasional rogue child, silently scooting. No birds singing, no huge blue-black carpenters bees busy with purple flowers, no lizards shifting amongst the trees. He had acted in isolation and the moment had passed; yet the sense of being alone remained.
Ordinarily, a quiet grey day with breathable air, no hot sun burning a hole into his scalp, and no shrill voices making his eardrums shed tears of blood, would have pleased him. Today, the murkiness stood at his elbow, a strange and unwelcome companion. He hated the feeling and longed for the familiar sensation of boredom. Turn back the clock, and he would go to the pool five minutes earlier and send the child away with a flea in her ear.
He looked for the boy, who wasn’t to be seen. What if it had been the boy? And what if he, Percy Field, had not left behind the dreaded novel? What if he was the sort of person to fold a corner to mark the page, so had no bookmark to retrieve? What if he had never had the book to start with? What if the book was never written, would he have left another? That would be a different story, all round.
There were too many what ifs for a man like Percy. Threatening emotion took him, and a tear rolled. He tried to wipe it away but succeeded only in making his face wetter. He was confused. Why was he feeling anything other than satisfaction? He’d been of assistance, nothing more, though it was a significant incident, certainly. But worthy of tears? The child was not dead; he had not hauled a corpse. He had not been primary witness to the momentous destruction of one family’s world.
He passed by a doorstep with a skipping rope coiled upon it, the painted red wooden handles scuffed. Another tear rolled. He sniffed, and told himself to get over it, but the tears kept coming.
Soon he was home, and from the steps of his own house, Percy could hear a radio playing. The Kraken, it seemed, was ironing in the basement. He went inside and found a plump girl crammed into tight jeans busily scrubbing the marble floor of the sitting room. She glanced at him shyly. Percy scowled, before a jarring breath recalled the tearful moment just passed, the staccato nature of such a sigh not as unfamiliar to him as it was the morning before Sal left.
Now, he was no longer miserable but annoyed. Someone really should tell his big-faced helper to stop being a lazy cow; there was no way what she was doing was legal, he was sure. Percy was convinced as always that The Kraken used other people’s maids to do her work, under-paid helpers desperate to earn a little extra on the side. The last thing Percy needed was the authorities breathing down his neck, he thought. It was bad enough with Sal nagging him about moving, Hester patronising him about his calling, and Trudy trying to stuff her vagina in his face every five minutes.
&nb
sp; Percy resolved to think about speaking to The Kraken, picking up the wastepaper basket as he passed by, and placing it back where it belonged. Only on a day he had saved another’s life would he have the courage to make such a bold move while The Kraken lurked in the basement. Soon changed into dry clothes, he made to leave the house once more, observing that the bin was already repositioned.
‘What the fuck is it with that bin?’ he muttered.
Silently, a big-faced form rose from the stairwell.
He’d move it back later, he decided; he was meeting Phrike and was already quite late. Clearly, there was no time to move it now. As he left, he felt a dark stare boring into his back. There was food cooking, he then realised, noticing the smell for the first time. He recognised The Kraken’s favourite capsicum, chicken and tomato spludge that he’d once mistakenly admired. His approval had been rewarded two fold, firstly with the suggestion that he was privileged, since the food was usually cooked only for celebrations, and secondly by the repeated serving of it. He’d now been given it so many times that even the smell of it killed his appetite instantly. He loathed the dish. It made him angry, he hated it so much. And he suspected that it wasn’t the special meal that she’d claimed. He’d tried to find the name of it on the Internet, for an email to Art, but could find nothing. Hopefully The Kraken would have her great plastic food container at the ready to rob him of most of it. Percy resolved to eat out, just in case.
He had used the time in the house to email Phrike a message, but unsure how often he checked his emails, Percy decided to take the main road to the bar in hope of flagging down a taxi. He couldn’t remember the rules regarding kerbside pickups. Was it banned only in the Central Business District, or everywhere? He’d try anyway. It wasn’t that much further than the back route, if things didn’t work out.
As he walked, he had to keep looking back to check for cabs. Usually there were hundreds of them piling by, each with an illuminated green roof-light, but today he counted only six, and all lights were red. There came a point when he gave up looking and settled on the hope that Phrike would still be waiting once he got to the bar. Whatever happened, a pint of Guinness and a plate of burger and chips had his name on it, he decided.
Percy was within a few minutes of arriving when a car drew up beside him, passenger window already down. He stopped and looked in, cautiously.
‘Can I offer you a lift?’
Percy did not recognise the youthful looking driver. He was smartly dressed and seemed Singaporean, though his accent was edged with American. ‘No thanks.’
‘Okay.’ The driver pulled away without asking twice.
Percy looked after the car with a mystified gaze. Who was this person? And whatever happened to normal days? He decided the last normal day he’d had was probably his final night out drinking with Art in England, before he and Sal had left for Singapore. That night he’d got very drunk in his favourite, now defunct, pub, with his favourite, definitely not defunct, friend. It seemed an age ago, another era when life was good. Of course he and Sal were blindly plummeting towards disaster, him blinder than her, but looking back that time felt pleasantly regular. There had been a satisfying monotony to it all, a dullness otherwise known as reliability. What was reliable now? The only thing Percy felt he could count on was that something always happened to upset him. In Singapore, he’d discovered the unlikely combination of being bored in a place he enjoyed, where he often experienced the extraordinarily unwelcome.
As he pondered the unpredictably of all this, Percy realised the same car had come back and was parked a little way ahead, again waiting with the passenger window unwound. He drifted away from the kerb a little, to be sure that he would pass by at a safe distance without obviously swerving. He didn’t want to appear an idiot.
‘Percy?’
Percy stopped, but kept his distance. Was this something to do with Norm’s crazy gang? Or maybe The Discussion Group? Had the group strayed into unsanctioned territory? Had Vlad the Impala started talking about politics, or religion? Had she discarded the set of rules Percy himself had drawn up to keep them within the law?
‘I don’t go to the group anymore’
The driver said nothing, but looked at Percy quizzically.
‘The Discussion Group,’ Percy clarified.
‘Oh. But you are Percy Field?’
Percy weighed it up. If this was something serious, then the question was rhetorical. There would be no point denying his identity. ‘I am. Yes.’ He was thankful the man was alone and showing no desire to get out.
‘I thought so!’
‘How can I help?’
‘I’m Amanda’s husband.’
‘Amanda?’
‘At the condo.’
‘Oh?’
‘She was worried about you, and sent me after you when she saw you heading out. My wife felt you looked a little upset after what happened at the pool. I should have said something when I first stopped, but I was not sure it was you. And anyway, I thought you seemed okay. I phoned her and she made me come back. You know how they can be. You are okay, yeah?’
‘I’m late for a drink, that’s all.’
‘I can still give you that lift?’
‘I’m nearly there now. But thanks.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure. And she asked me to tell you that we’re having a get together on Saturday. A small party. She’d like you to come. It’s a farewell… her friend is heading off…’
‘The Kiwi?’
‘If you mean the Kiwi, then yes.’ The driver’s eyes smiled. ‘Beautiful, right?’
Things were looking up. ‘Sure. I’d like to come. Thanks.’
‘May I SMS you the details?’
‘No phone. It got wet.’
The driver frowned, ‘Of course. Poor you. Make sure you take a packed lunch when you go to get the replacement. The queues are terrible. Okay. She’s knows which house is yours, we’ll drop you a card.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re sure you’re okay? I don’t want to get into trouble for not bringing you home.’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘You made a difference today, Percy. You saved a life.’
Percy nodded and started walking again, after reminding Amanda’s husband that he was already late. Her husband seemed satisfied that he had completed his assignment, and drove off with a wave.
As Percy walked the final part of his short journey, he looked ahead and saw Phrike sitting waiting for him. He was looking at his phone. An unexpected realisation crept over Percy. Certainly strange things happened to him out here in Singapore, but the overriding theme seemed to be one of friendship.
He shuddered. Thoughts like that were surely induced by shock.
23. THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Percy did not know how long he had been running. The whole event resembled the first great chase by the original four believers in The Sixth Avenue Attack, which ended in the still puzzling straightening of a stranger’s back. Except this was worse. Far worse.
He calculated that at least fifteen people, mostly young women, had been tailing him since he left home intending to spend some quality time in the Botanic Gardens, walking and thinking. The crowd had piled onto the bus with him, each swiping a travel card in orderly fashion. Disembarking at the Gardens, all cards re-swiped, they had trickled off the bus one by one, following Percy as he walked. At first they created a line, but eventually they had formed a cluster close behind. He’d stopped a few times and turned to glare. Not shying from attention, some of the girls smiled happily and waved back with their waggles of infatuation; he might have been a pop star. Irritated, Percy had hastened away, his fast walk developing into a jog. The gaggle kept pace, touching anything he touched, reviewing anything he cast an eye upon.
As he was fleeing, Percy wondered yet again if he was asleep; fallen into a strange dream so real it was terrifying. And again the idea seemed to reject itself, subconscious-self acknowledging that in t
he waking moments of life, though there are not so many more than those blindly slumbered away, reality is crisper.
Leaving the park via a set of ornate metal gates, he scurried on, soon hurrying along the crowded and seemingly infinite Orchard Road. Having spent so much of his endless free time wandering the huge shopping district, Percy had a good feel for direction. He crossed here, went under the road there, until he had covered enough ground at such speed he was sure he had shaken them off. He stopped, hot and breathless, gazing longingly at a bar, thinking a cold beer was the only way forward for a man in his situation. Looking behind, however, he saw them, unrelenting in sweaty pursuit. Percy took a deep breath and moved on. It was no easy task navigating pavements where no one was prepared to give ground and stand aside.
Passing the Istana, Percy skirted military security guards as a line of adoring fans streamed after him. The guards could only look on, arms at the ready in case any of the crowd might divert attention their way, seeking out the President. But there was no interest in Singaporean hierarchy today. Eventually, soaked in perspiration and feeling as if he were going to vomit, Percy turned into the cool of Plaza Singapura, a large shopping mall. He zigzagged on, shouldering his way through, knowing not a single door would be held open nor the opportunity to go ahead offered. East always met West with a bump when it came to shopping, he’d noticed.
He raced for the lift. The doors slid shut with him safely inside, just as his pursuers were nearly upon him. When the doors reopened, Percy heaved a sigh of relief. He would not put it beyond the group to be standing there waiting for him. Peering over the balustrade, warily examining the busy mall, Percy’s attention was drawn to a tight group moving swiftly two floors below. Collectively sensing his gaze, they looked up. And so the chase continued.
A small part of Percy wondered if he should give up, if he should stop and speak to his followers and find out exactly what it was they expected from him. To be fair, none had approached him, choosing only to walk, jog or run quietly behind. But the greater part of Percy’s nature felt too cross to bother, too annoyed to allow them a moment more of his precious time; he wanted to be in the Botanic Gardens, relaxing. He recalled too easily the result of stopping the first time he’d been chased and what madness that had brought about.
As the group moved ever closer, carried steadily upwards by a nearby escalator, Percy noticed he was directly outside a cinema complex. Swiftly buying a ticket, he gave the attendant ten dollars extra not to reveal to anyone which hall he was in. To his amazement, none of the group followed as he walked away. Instead, as the escalator delivered them in pairs onto the landing, they simply joined the queue.
The auditorium was virtually empty and Percy sat down with relief, the sharp super-cooled air a luxurious respite from the tropical porridge he had been running through. He sighed contentedly, feeling the group would finally find something more interesting to do with their time than follow him. But within moments, a multitude of shadowy forms quietly filed in. Through the dimness, he could see they were searching the room. An arm extended his way, presumably with a pointing thumb at the end of it. Moving as a single unit, inching through vast rows of velvet seating, the group sat down directly behind him, whispering.
Livid, Percy stormed out and demanded the return of his ten dollars. The attendant, upset, denied everything, saying he hadn’t revealed the screen number only the name of the film. Percy snatched the proffered money and left the mall as quickly as his weary legs would carry him, growling all the while.
He took the first bus he could find. The group followed, grown in size now. Still they trailed him in silence, content merely to follow. Percy changed buses repeatedly, until eventually he struck lucky. A bus heading for Kranji was already pulling out as he leapt on, its doors unusually late to close. Safely aboard, Percy gazed back and watched some twenty-five people wilt with disappointment, one or two hurriedly photographing the bus with their phones.
The relief was so profound that even Percy Field could not help smiling. He swiped his card and sat down. A tiny old woman in the seat next to him shifted uncomfortably, black eyes averted but clutching something in her gnarled fingers, tugging at it. Percy realised he was sitting on her thin jacket; raising a buttock enabled her to slide the crumpled article to safety. Percy considered how terrible it would have been if his bowel were in the unruly state it sometimes was. He remembered then that he had made a doctor’s appointment, and cringed at the thought of a stranger’s finger being inserted into his backside. They were bound to do it. He apologised to the old woman for sitting on her things, although not convincingly, and she nodded her acceptance to the window. Percy patted his pocket, checking for his wallet and phone. Replacing it had been a nightmare. As warned, he’d queued for hours only to find he needed his passport and identity card to sort things out. After moaning about it to Joyann, she told him to go to Lucky Plaza and get one with no contract, which he did.
Now satisfied he would be able to get back from wherever he ended up, Percy began to enjoy the journey. Even if he were headed for the border with Malaysia, he could easily afford to get home. Singapore was, at times, reassuringly small. He wondered if the bus might stop in the car park, near the wetlands of Sungei Buloh. He could go for a walk there, and make up for missing out on the Gardens. But if the last stop was in the grimy looking industrial estate, he would simply stay on the bus.
Rolling onto the expressway, the bus joined the steady traffic. Rain trees studded the central reservation, long upturned branches holding a canopy of sensitive leaves, as fingers balancing a tray. The journey progressed, and these shading trees from a far away continent made way for tall native palms, grey-green and full, or lean and glossy. The road ahead appeared to open up. Bougainvillea, every shade of pink, tumbled from overhead bridges, each opportunity for natural decoration taken and filled with life.
While the vegetation of the expressway was a sight in itself, the surrounding area was slowly changing. Beyond the green core of the city came the verdant sprawl of the central nature reserves, soon followed by low buildings containing light industry. Beyond that came a sea of well kept pastel-coloured tower blocks, interspersed with more green.
When eventually the bus turned off the expressway, it continued on, passing the car park Percy had been thinking of. He was now entering new territory. As he watched, head resting lazily against the glass, the undergrowth grew less and less cultivated, until it thickened into jungle, tight and dark except for winding roads meandering through. These thin scars alluded to a time gone by, old buildings lying smothered beneath the tangle of vine and leaf, confirming a piece of history Percy did not know. The narrow lanes, he observed, were more like home than anything he’d seen before. He thought of England, and wondered if Joyann were right. Perhaps he should go. What was he doing here? Who was he, this lonely man on the run?
When the bus drew to a final halt, the few remaining passengers disembarked. Percy joined them, puzzled. Observing his expression, the driver directed him, as if he knew why Percy was there even if Percy didn’t. Following the driver’s directions – that now familiar pointing of a thumb – Percy discovered he had arrived at an enormous frog farm.
The Cult of Following, Book Two Page 16