Surrogate Protocol

by Tham Cheng-E

  “Why do you call it FourBees?” she takes a sip.

  He thumbs at the rhyme on the wall behind him.

  “Ah, I see. Cute.”

  She turns to look outside and squints at the daylight, dabbing at her forehead with tissue. There is a sort of distant melancholia in her gaze. “A lot has happened here,” she says.

  “Like what?”

  “Used to be barracks back in the Great War.” She studies the interior. “It’s amazing how resilient places are to change, how they invoke memories, if only we’d let them be.”

  “You speak like a historian.”

  “I like history.” She fingers the condensation on her glass. “Well, the nice bits of it.”

  “This place’s been refurbished many times over,” says Landon. “There was another restaurant before ours,” he pauses in consideration and then pops the question, “How’s the old—” He stops himself. “Sorry, whoever you’re looking after.”

  “Asleep.”

  Landon treads carefully. “Don’t mind me prying, but is he your—”

  “Someone close to me.”

  “I see.” He throws up his hands in a gesture of apology. “Forgive my snooping. You must be hungry.”

  She cups her chin and gives a slow, dreamy blink. “Recommend something.”

  He rattles off a string of delis, and just to impress, a host of names enumerating the range of premium coffee beans available at the café. She decides quickly and settles for a regular Americano with a pecan pie, which disappoints him a little. Nevertheless he dives into the alchemy with a moka pot and twice the vigour he had when he started his shift.

  “Heavenly.” She sips the coffee. “I never thought Americanos could be this good. There’s even cocoa overtones in this one.”

  “It’s all in the temperature and beans.” Landon props himself against the countertop, now more confident of himself. “You have a very sensitive palate. I could make you even better ones if you would like. There’s much more to coffee than just Americano.”

  “You are very good at what you do and being very happy about it,” she says. “Not many people receive such graces.“

  “You would if you’re in F&B. Nothing thrills you more than having people enjoy what you make them. In fact,” he leans over and his voice falls to a whisper, “I think someone likes my coffee so much he’s stalking me as we speak.”

  The young lady plays along and draws an expression of mystery. “Really? And where is this stalker of yours?”

  Landon nods in the direction of where John is standing. She turns to look, smiling as if expecting something funny. Outside, John draws deeply on his cigarette, winces, then ejects the smoke. He turns sharply away when he catches them looking at him.

  The young lady lets her gaze linger on him for another second before returning to her coffee and pie. “He looks upset.”

  Landon shrugs. “Maybe his coffee didn’t turn out the way he wanted.” He watches John stub his cigarette out and walk away, and decides against mentioning how they met. “Anyway,” he goes on, turning away from the window, “sometimes you just have to grow into what you do.”

  The young lady listens attentively, as if trying to delve telepathically into his mind. “This doesn’t sound like a job for someone with a poor memory.”

  “It’s perfect, actually.” Landon laughs nervously, now hopelessly drawn to her eyes. “It’s about scents and flavours, and you don’t really forget scents and flavours. It’s like muscle memory, it all comes back when I touch these things. Thankfully I’ve got a good nose; I identify the beans by their smells and peg names to them.”

  “Really?” she sounds genuinely impressed. “That’s a feat.”

  “It isn’t easy, but the repetition helps with the memories, makes them stay longer.”

  “And you’re taking medication for this—condition of yours?”

  “Thiamin supplements,” he says. “Pretty much all they could give me on top of therapy sessions.” He decides to leave out the part about seizures.

  The young lady squints sadly at him. “Was it an accident or something?”

  Landon wishes he had something heroic to say. “I think I was born with it.”

  “I’m curious.” The young lady tilts her head the other way. “How do you get by? I mean, a day of life is made up of so many little things, so many memories.”

  “Feels like I’m being interviewed.”

  Her eyelids flutter in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  Landon waves off the apology and tells her about the reminders he sets in his mobile and the records he makes in his journals.

  The young lady lifts her brows. “You record everything?”

  “Everything noteworthy.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Since I started my first journal a century ago.”

  That earns him a snap of laughter from the young lady. “You must have many entries then.”

  “Volumes. I try to keep them compact for easy storage.”

  “A rather remarkable life you’re living.” She takes a drink and smiles at him over the rim of her mug.

  She lets it linger an inch from her lips. Her expression is vacant, as if lost in thought. Landon has sufficient tact to leave her undisturbed, not knowing she would remain this way until she has finished her coffee and pie.

  “Do I pay over at the register?” She drops a used napkin onto her empty plate.

  Landon detects a certain detachment in her speech, as if she has decided to put a rift between them. “I’ll punch in for you.” He is sorely disappointed. “That’s five-fifty. Cash?”

  “Only five-fifty? And the coffee?”

  “On me.”

  She retracts her purse. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Take it as a promotional drink from the café,” says Landon, his mood souring. “If you like it, bring your friends next time.”

  “Thank you.” She stretches her lips politely and lifts her knapsack off the bar stool.

  The cash register rings when the drawer slides open. All these years and he hasn’t gained a smidgen of courage. He drops the change into her hands. In the exchange, they make skin contact. Her palm feels cold and soft. The indecision gnaws viciously at him. It’s now or never.

  His hand shoots out, slightly too hastily. “Anyway, name’s Landon.”

  She starts and hesitates. His hand hangs in the air and he cringes at the silence. An eternity later, she takes it and says, “Clara.”

  She presses her lips together but this time there is no smile. Perhaps she had the intention to, but decided against it at the last moment. The door closes behind her with a light judder. At the far end of the café, Donovan turns his head the other way as he naps.

  Landon stares forlornly at the door. Love-at-first-sight is a delusional fallacy. At first sight there’s never love, only a crush—a libidinous, covetous crush. Go on, Landon. Let’s see how far you will go with this remarkable life of yours.

  Sam moves in and clears away the lipstick-stained mug. She picks a folded napkin off the empty plate and tosses it at Landon. “Must’ve made an impression.”

  Frowning, he looks at the napkin and finds two lines of slanted script written in a neat hand:

  Thanks for the coffee.

  P.S. Be wary of the one who warns.

  Landon bolts past the counter, rousing Donovan from sleep. The doors fly open and he leaps into white sunlight. The driveways bake in the heat. The lawns and footpaths lie empty.

  And the cicadas rise in song.

  5

  HANNAH

  EVERYTHING GLEAMS UNDER pale fluorescent lights. Beige partitions, faux wood desks, white venetian blinds: The Police Intelligence Department in Block A of the Cantonment Complex fills an entire floor with sterility, its inhabitants bearing the only hints of colour. Here and there plainclothes officers huddle in cubicles and amble through aisles that separate them. Everyone works in a hush. Even the digital ri
nging of telephones drifts like a soporific melody.

  At the far end of the department, the Rookie Row stretches out against a wall—a procession of austere desks with partitions barely rising above the screens of laptops. Want a snug little box all to yourself with flowers, family photos and a personalised coffee mug?

  Work your way up Rookie Row.

  At one of these desks, Julian works the keyboard. His notepad lies open nearby. He mumbles something to himself as he types, hits backspace, and then types again. He’s recommending a search warrant. The suspect’s probably stashed a few dead infants in a basement and a few more live ones in the bellies of pregnant abductees.

  Someone approaches. Julian looks over his shoulder and sees a portly veteran dressed in a stained white shirt that stretches over an oak barrel of a belly. His bald, meaty head perches on a short neck that melds into thick shoulders.

  The veteran drinks from a foam cup and smacks his broad and oddly pouting lips. “You Julian Woo?” His grin reveals a gap between his central incisors.

  Julian’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “Yes?”

  “Marco, from Field Research.”

  Julian takes his hand. “Nice meeting you.”

  “You a returning scholar?” Marco bites into a fritter cradled in grease-blotched paper. His plump cheeks, pockmarked with acne scars like the surface of an orange peel, jiggles to his chewing. His left eye, forged of glass, sits immobile and catatonic.

  “Joined up two months ago.” Julian answers.

  “Hmm,” he takes another indulgent bite. “Where from?”

  “Whitehead.”

  “Whitehead?”

  “Whitehead Institute, MIT.” Julian clears his throat. “I interned there six months before returning. Forensic science.”

  Marco’s good eye widens. “Very impressive. Top honours?”

  Julian nods modestly.

  “So what’s a top-notch scholar doing with a petty forgery case?”

  “Well,” Julian looks around his desk for his papers. “Detail and data collection is first, had my first contact with suspect this morning. Did first cut testing of allegations, heard his tone, read his body language. Then I’ll have to list the data I need to plug the gaps before I establish the predication and start external investigation. Now I’m still refining the case theory and—”

  Marco holds out his hand and stops him. “You’re well over the challenge, my friend, and you need something better. You with Roland and Syafie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then you’re on my team.” Marco crushes the greased paper and dumps it in Julian’s wastepaper bin. “Here we put the right brains in the right places. I’ll assign you a fatter case, one with a higher profile; looks good on paper if you’re climbing the ladder.”

  “Appreciate that, but I’d like to start slow, get my bearings right.”

  Marco puts on a dramatic display of surprise. “Commendable! We’re in short of sensible rookies like you these days.”

  Julian smiles out of a cheek.

  “You’ll go far.” Marco pulls tissue paper from a box on Julian’s desk. “But I’m going to hang if DSP knows what you’re doing. These forgery cases are for semi-retired jugs like me who can’t even shit squatting. They go easier on the heart.”

  “I’d like to solve my first case,” says Julian. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Don’t underestimate such cases, my friend. They appear light but they aren’t easy when it comes to prosecution. There are many lawyers doing dirty work. Your case might get stuck on you like gum in your hair. Better me than you.”

  “I’m willing to take my chances. The facts are adding up.”

  “Oh, tons of opportunities for that.” Marco shouts across the office at someone. “Hey Thai! Come over and give an update on the Kovan case.”

  Seconds later a dark, bony veteran jogs along the corridor, turns the corner and comes up beside Marco with a pink paper folder. He greets Julian with a solemn nod.

  “Triple suicide.” Marco hands Julian the document. “But we think it’s murder, period.”

  Julian scans the page and Marco watches him out of his good eye. “You okay with bad smells and ugly faces?”

  “I’m in forensics.”

  “Good, cause you can smell the house from the street. Three had to rot in bed while the fourth was on a carpet that soaked up all the nasty stuff. We believe drugs are involved so the K-nines will be coming in.”

  Julian returns the case. “Really appreciate that but I’d like to keep the forgery.”

  Marco chooses not to hear him and turns instead to Thai. “The bodies been shifted?”

  “Still at the morgue.”

  “Good,” Marco winks his good eye at Julian. “For a start you might want to look at them. Not sure what you could find though, they’re almost a week old.” He then slips off Julian’s desk, grabs his foam cup and pats Thai heavily on the shoulders. “Show him around the morgue. This guy’s forensics, treat him well and bring him up to speed.”

  / / /

  Landon passes into the illumination of a streetlamp. Behind him the lights of FourBees go off. The thin scent of frangipanis lingers. The night is so still the crunch of leaves under his feet could wake the dead.

  Loewen Lodge glows with soft, warm light from within. Its lawn is empty, its folks probably in bed or mulling over a final round of checkers. Landon steps into the reception area on the first floor. There is a counter to the left and couches against the beige walls. Shade-tolerant palms and ferns in white cylindrical pots adorn the simple space. A timed air freshener dispenses a floral scent. At the counter an attendant looks up from her tablet.

  “Hi, I came by this afternoon,” says Landon. “I heard that Pam would be in for the night shift.”

  “Pam’s on leave, sir,” says the attendant.

  He sighs and lets his shoulders fall. “Do you know someone named Clara? She’s supposed to have someone here who’s close to her.”

  “Everyone does, sir.” The attendant consults a photo-chart pinned on a wall and then a register on the desk. “But we haven’t got anyone named Clara working here.”

  “Well, she ah…deposits someone here.”

  The attendant dons a sad look. “I wish I could help, sir. But we cannot disclose the names of our guests and contributors.”

  “You’ve only got twenty-eight beds, could you run them through and see if there’s someone named Clara? Please, it’s kind of an emergency.”

  To his surprise the attendant throws him an uncertain glance and starts tapping obligingly on her keyboard. He sees her eyes shift up and down as she reads. “No Clara, sir. Perhaps you could give me her full name?”

  “I don’t have it,” says Landon. “She’s more like a recent acquaintance. Do you happen to have Pam’s number, perhaps I could—”

  She shakes her head again before Landon can finish. “I’m sorry sir, we don’t divulge personal particulars of our staff.”

  “All right, I’ll check in some other time.” He pulls out a pen and scribbles something on a notepad. “I’m leaving my name and number. Please ask Pam to give me a call as soon as she comes in.”

  On the journey home Landon stares at his own reflection in the bus window, trying to rationalise the whole affair. What is the darn mystery behind John and Clara? Are their names even John and Clara? Why do they have to act all enigmatic and mysterious? Maybe it’s about me. Maybe they’re in it together and it’s nothing but a sick, mortifying joke.

  When he gets home he closes the wrought iron gates so hard they rattle on their hinges. He flips a Bakelite switch. The thing sparks before coming on, startling him. He curses profusely at everything in the old house.

  Landon throws his bag on the couch and streaks upstairs to the bedroom. The headlights of a passing car comes through the window shutters and travels across the ceiling. He flicks another switch and the lone bulb feebly illuminates a shelf full of journals. More volumes are stacked inside a m
ouldering leather trunk at the foot of the red silk gown.

  He dives into the pile with the urgency of a cocaine addict, tossing one journal away and starting another. Voraciously he reads, flipping page after page, running his finger along the lines until it stops at a spot.

  20th January 1972, Thursday

  My name is Arthur. Lawyer dropped by with the new deed. Got it vested in the new name. In about thirteen years Arthur will be dead. Though I think I am already dead—my heart, at least. Hannah’s been gone for almost five years now. I thought forgetting was easy.

  Count to Landon: 8 of 5,475.

  No more Hannah after that entry; that was five decades ago. Landon finds tons of earlier entries with Hannah in them. He must have been infatuated with her because he wouldn’t write this much about someone unless she meant something to him. People are always entering and leaving his life in passing and they always end up in his journals like little notes on a grocery list. After the last mention of Hannah, the journal entries become steadily shorter. He realises how selective of his memories he has become.

  No Clara, no John. And now I’ve got a “Hannah” to deal with.

  He sprawls across the floorboards and stares at the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Outside, the hallway is so dark he feels like he’d catch sight of a ghost if he stared long enough.

  Against the call of an Asian koel comes the sound of rustling from his lawn. Startled, Landon steals a sidelong glance through a slit in the window. The garden light is on and he detects a shift in the shadows.

  Someone is on his property.

  He arms himself with the rusty dumbbell rod and patters down the steps and across the living room floor. He tries to identify the intruder through the lacy drapes, but catches only a dark shape as it fleets out of view.

  With his back against the wall, he carefully turns the handle and throws the front door open. He raises the rod at the intruder and Cheok withdraws in fright.

  “Who you expecting?” he exclaims, alarmed.

  Landon rolls his eyes. “You could’ve knocked.”