Surrogate Protocol

by Tham Cheng-E

  The aide is scribbling on his tablet. Marco takes a perfunctory glance at him and turns back to Landon. “You sound educated, but we didn’t find any school records to your name.”

  “I was in school since I was five.” Landon dictates the account which he has rehearsed many times over. “I was born in 1972. School was made compulsory only in the year 2003. The administration must’ve missed it.”

  “How far did you go?”

  “I dropped out of secondary school.”

  “And where did you learn that barrister thing?”

  Landon knows he means barista, and considers it prudent to omit the part about his stint at the Ace Café in London. “Got trained on the job, a little bit self-taught. It’s a passion thing.”

  Marco chuckles and nods. “I might have made the comment before but I must say you look extremely youthful for someone over forty.”

  “Good genes.” Landon smiles.

  “Well, I shouldn’t be bothering you any longer.” Marco rises from the chair and bids farewell with a shallow bow. “I must thank you for putting up with us for the second time. It is such coincidence, Mr Lock.”

  He shakes Landon’s hand again and turns to depart when Landon suddenly calls out to him. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”

  Marco steps away from the door. “At your service.”

  “There’s someone who follows me around and says he’s supposed to protect me from some danger.” Landon lapses briefly into silence as he considers his words. “I was wondering if it’s an official police thing.”

  Marco’s good eye appears to sparkle with interest. “To my knowledge no such operation exists. I’d be wary of him if I were you. Did you see his pass?”

  “No,” says Landon. “That guy said he’s some…pseudo-policeman or detective.”

  “Sounds like a fraud,” Marco concludes. “Even twelve-year olds are trained to spot them. If he sticks to you I’d advise you to call the police right away.”

  “I’m not in any danger, am I?”

  “Your case smells of foul play, Mr Lock.” Marco looks across his thick shoulder at him. “But there’s certainly no urgency to send you a bodyguard, yet. If any, I think the immediate danger lies with whoever’s tailing you.”

  “I understand.”

  Marco backtracks just as he is stepping out. “Before I forget,” he says. “Leave the press to the police. Don’t speak to them even if they approach you. They’ll distort the facts right from the tip of your hair to the head of your dick.”

  22

  AUGUST 1963

  ALONG THE FIVE-FOOT ways of conjoined shophouses Poppy bungled his way past rows of itinerant hawkers peddling trinkets, and the crate-tables of letter writers. Scraggy fortune-tellers, themselves denied of fortune, lobbied for business behind their wicker baskets of ink, coloured paper and hollowed tortoise shells.

  Arthur grabbed Poppy from the five-foot way just as he hobbled past Prosperous Hong. For the audacious escapade the child received a stinging slap to his bottom. Then, to coax him back to his rightful play space at the back of the eatery, Arthur gave him sips of orange soda.

  A row of bell jars containing sweet confections lined the front of Arthur’s coffee stall. Water boiled inside steel pots. Coffee-tainted filter socks hung flaccid by the tiled wall. There weren’t any labels or brands whatsoever. The aroma of Arthur’s brew alone was sufficient marketing.

  Shortly before noon the clatter of clogs heralded the arrival of a podgy woman dressed in a white cotton coat and black silk trousers. She wore her hair in a long braid that reached the small of her back and was equipped with the usual paraphernalia of an amah: a wicker basket and a waxed umbrella. Curiously, however, she also had a Baby Brownie camera slung from her shoulder.

  A noodle-seller greeted her. “Ah Pou, gam zou lei, mei sek ah?”

  The woman whom they called Ah Pou, and whom Arthur recognised as a laundress working for a wealthy family living in Bendemeer Road, was a rather companionable patron at the eatery. Once she made the newspapers for her pursuit of photography—a rather singular and noteworthy hobby for someone of such humble vocation, and was reported to have allegedly used up hundreds of rolls of film. A week ago the owner of Prosperous Hong had chanced upon her on one of his rare visits and unabashedly asked for a portrait of himself. Ah Pou gladly acceded to the request, and ended taking portraits of every stallholder.

  “Mou see gan sek la.” Ah Pou, all clammy from the sweltering tropical heat, fanned herself with flicks of her wrist. “Gam yat lei bei nei dei seung pin mah.”

  The noodle-seller laughed. “Nei mou gong ngor dou mm gei dak.”

  The laundress began dishing out the monochromatic photographs like they were pay cheques. Everyone received theirs with bows of the head and gilded words, probably because most of them never had their photograph taken, especially one that required no payment.

  With similar conduct Arthur received his photograph from the laundress. It showed him sitting on one of the wooden stools at the eatery and resting an elbow on the marble table. Poppy was perched on his left thigh wearing the grandiose smile of a simpleton, his head thrown pompously upwards.

  The portrait, well-composed and proportioned, revealed its photographer’s skill. If it weren’t for the newspaper article Arthur wouldn’t have believed that the portrait had been the work of a common laundress. He offered Ah Pou cakes and tea in return for the photograph, and instead attracted a salvo of laughter for his mispronounced Cantonese. For the rest of her visit Arthur spoke no more.

  Later, Arthur went to the back of the eatery, where Poppy had been toying with a ball of crushed paper alone. He presented the photograph to Poppy, holding it conspicuously between his thumb and forefinger. Enticed by the novel inducement Poppy inched closer, and plucked it from Arthur’s hand. He tenuously ran his little fingers along its edges. Then they stole over the faces of Arthur and himself.

  Poppy concealed his glee by precociously miming the frown of an adult, as if deep in thought, and then scurrying into the backroom to retrieve his biscuit tin from a rickety wall-shelf. He pried open its lid, cleared a space among the other paltry trinkets and laid the memento at the bottom of it.

  At the table Poppy began removing the tin’s contents one by one and arranging them neatly in a sequential order, just so that he could go on admiring the photographic miracle beneath them all. Arthur had to sit through the safekeeping ritual before the child would agree to eat his lunch.

  Lunch was congee that day. Arthur ladled it steaming from a clay pot into ceramic bowls and doggedly tried to whistle a tune that came out hopelessly flat. It was a special day because Hannah had at last agreed to a ‘date” that evening at a nearby fair. The prospect of it kept him in excellent spirits even though a relationship had scarcely existed between them.

  He hoped it might be embryonic at the very least.

  / / /

  Between Geylang Road and Grove Road a triangular tract of land sported a glittering fair known endearingly to locals as Happy World. It still crackled with a bustling atmosphere, particularly in the evenings, though the spot had seen better days.

  Coloured electric bulbs flared against a smouldering evening sky. The colonnaded gateway to Happy World retained a good deal of its former grandeur. But its weary paintwork and shabby interior were testament to the inexorable erosion of the changing times.

  Arthur and Poppy alighted at a stop near the Kallang aerodrome and picked out Hannah in a snug floral dress. She was strolling the length of the gateway, under a series of neon Mandarin ideograms, watching them approach with a sidelong glance.

  Arthur’s heart grew heavy; he was supposed to be early. Without mercy he lugged Poppy along and broke into a run.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said as he reached her, his lips parting in a wobbly smile.

  Hannah twitched an eyebrow. “Quite a fawner, are you?”

  Arthur, his chest heaving, gave her a quizzical frown.

  “Wh
at’s there to apologise for, except to please me?”

  Arthur’s face burned. What was she expecting him to say? His mind wrestled with the dispiriting prospect of a botched evening.

  “I’m always early for dates because I like a leisurely wait.” Hannah’s cheeky titter subsided into a coy little smile. She thumbed at the entrance behind her. “Shall we?”

  “You don’t mind Poppy tagging along?” asked Arthur. He had meant to ask if she had many dates before.

  “Of course I do. Dates are meant for only two.” She flapped her fingers at Poppy, who responded with an effusive, innocent smile. “Stop being neurotic, Arthur. Let’s go.”

  / / /

  An octagonal roofed stadium stood like a monument at the centre of the fair. Inside, a wrestling match was taking place. Tickets were still on sale, but Hannah said she loathed violence and suggested the game booths instead.

  At one rickety shack Poppy was beside himself with joy after winning a sack of glass marbles on his first attempt at tikam tikam. At Poppy’s insistence, Arthur was inclined to allow a second attempt at the game, but Hannah disagreed. Arthur had to drag the bawling child away from the shack when Hannah marched off.

  “Don’t be naïve, Arthur.” Hannah scoffed over her shoulder. “He’s won the only prize in the game. There’s no sense in slashing profits for more prizes when the very rarity of winning is the name of the game. It’s like getting nations to drop self-interests for the pursuit of world peace.”

  Arthur felt the numbing pangs of embarrassment. “Shall we catch a movie?”

  Hannah turned glumly to the direction of the Victory Theatre. “It’s the dullest of dates to be staring at a screen. You have two more tries before I dump you, Arthur.”

  “Dance?” Arthur suggested. Poppy, impatient with the grownups” indecision, swung his arms and began to stir a ruckus. Arthur ignored him. “There’s a nice band going on,” he added. “I heard the big blues when we passed the hall.”

  “Nice try,” she said. “But we need a prelude.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Hannah joggled her eyebrows. “The Ghost Train.”

  Arthur laughed aloud and led the way. Hannah cajoled the operator into letting them cut the queue for in a final pair of seats on the next ride. They had to pack their bums into a fibreglass crate and Arthur never felt so privileged as to be rubbing shoulders with Hannah, literally, even with Poppy propped stiffly on his knees. As the train jerked and rattled through the farcical, macabre props he caught the scent of her hair. Perhaps it was intentional.

  They poured out of the raggedy ghost train shack chortling over the ride, which had tickled rather than terrified. Arthur headed straight for the dance hall. This time Hannah expressed no objection.

  The space was copious. Marble columns skirted an elliptical dance floor of excellent waxed teak. Three-quarters of the tables were filled, and on stage a band in white jackets was playing Let’s have a Natural Ball by Albert King.

  “I’ll have the first dance with Poppy,” said Hannah as she took her seat before Arthur could pull a chair for her.

  “What about me?” said Arthur.

  “You can get a taxi-girl at a dollar for three dances.”

  “You’ll get jealous.”

  “No, I won’t,” said Hannah sweetly. “We haven’t taken anything that far.”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  Just then Poppy gave a raspy wail and grabbed at his crotch, indicating an urge to urinate. He took the boy’s hand. “I’m taking him to the shrubs.” Just as well; the silence after their conversation had grown discomfiting. He thought Hannah appeared a little regretful over her remarks, at least.

  / / /

  After Arthur left with Poppy, Hannah ordered a drink from a liveried, lanky waiter. When it came the air turned heavy with a dreadfully familiar presence. She looked up and met Khun’s gloating eyes.

  “This island’s too small for the both of us,” he said, lowering himself into Arthur’s seat.

  Hannah looked away. “What are you doing here?”

  “The usual.” Khun popped a cigarette between his lips. “Minding my own business and deciding who gets nicked and who doesn’t.” He struck a match.

  On the dance floor patrons were twisting to a number by Chubby Checker. Khun puffed a cloud of smoke into the space above him. “So what brought you here?”

  “Why ask the obvious?”

  “It isn’t obvious, that’s why I asked.” Khun leaned closer. “You’re either on a case or you aren’t.”

  “I’m here for leisure.”

  Khun guffawed, the sleeves of his shirt taut over his muscled arms. He stuck his nose scarcely an inch from her ear and whispered, “I think I know what you’re up to, dolly. Maybe you could give me some leisure of yours to shut me up.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Khun inhaled the scent of her perfume. “It’s something I can never get enough of, like money. Something I once had and lost.”

  Hannah bolted from her seat and stormed out of the airconditioned hall and the humid night air struck her like a steam bath. Khun sauntered up after her and began roving about like a shark; the end of his cigarette glowed fiercely in the gloom.

  “Keep to your end of the agreement, Khun,” Hannah said, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

  He placed his hand on the small of her back in the pretence of amity. “I know you deserve better,” he wheedled in a tender voice. “We’ve been good together, haven’t we? We could still be.”

  “Leave us alone.”

  “Now you have a reason to stay alive.” Khun wrapped his beefy arms around her slender waist. “I don’t blame you; I know how lonely it gets. But careful, my dolly, now you have something to lose.”

  The leverage Khun possessed was evident. Hannah knew she had been careless. She briefly considered blowing herself up there and then, taking him along.

  But in the midst of their conversation they had failed to notice Poppy’s arrival. He was standing beside them with a stick of kacang putih in his hand. He was doggedly chewing away, masticating the sugared peanuts between his rear molars and shifting his gaze from one grown-up to another.

  Arthur came up from behind him and wedged himself between Hannah and Khun with deliberate recklessness, putting a friendly arm on Khun’s shoulder.

  Khun, being the larger man, regarded his aggressor with a downward gaze and showed his teeth in a forced grin, his fists poised to deliver a knock-out blow.

  “A hundred a week,” Arthur blurted. “That’s more than twice of what I’ve paid you for the documents.”

  Behind furrowed brows Khun sneered at his unexpected offer. “If it’s about her, you’ve got it wrong, my friend.”

  “I’m paying for her services,” said Arthur. “Eight weeks.”

  “What makes you think she’s up on the market?”

  “Do me a favour, Khun,” Arthur grovelled. “Everyone says you are a reasonable man.”

  Khun shook his head, as if admiring Arthur’s gumption. “She’s going to cost you.”

  “Whatever that’s in my means to pay.”

  “One thousand six. Eight weeks.”

  “One thousand four.” Arthur counter-offered. “That’s all I can afford.”

  Khun grinned at Hannah and stuck a fresh cigarette between his lips. “He just saved your ass for the next eight weeks.” He lit the cigarette with a match, took a long draw and popped a smoke ring into Arthur’s face. “A hundred seventy-five a week, every Thursday, number forty-three, Orh Kio Tau. Look for Kiong, he’ll work out the interest.”

  / / /

  Khun swaggered away. Hannah was lost in a flood of memories that reminded her of a vulnerability she had never confessed to. Killing Khun was never an easy option. There would be consequences, and CODEX had punitive measures that made death desirable, a luxury even. Once, she had sought to leave the service and had paid dearly for it.

  Poppy was crouching by her feet, wearied by th
e prolonged standing. She looked at him and suddenly felt drawn to him. Amid her turbulent existence he was a fading glimmer of innocence. She found his presence calming. It put her in a trance, somewhere far away, living out the emotions she thought she had kept buried.

  “I’m paying for peace,” Arthur told her. “And it’s worth every cent.”

  Hannah’s lips quivered, teetering on the verge of speech. But she held back because she was suddenly filled with distaste for the way Arthur had bailed her out of the situation. She had never needed help, certainly not from him. Her heart swelled with pleasure whenever she recalled the day they met, yet there were times like this she wished they hadn’t. Life would’ve been easier. She would’ve remained impervious to whatever came her way.

  Yet when he took her hands into his she did not resist. She didn’t know why, and it set in her an inexplicable self-loathing.

  His face began moving towards her and she stiffened. It was the best she could do.

  “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

  “Not on the lips.”

  She closed her eyes. A pleasant sense of mystery accompanied Arthur’s request. The anticipation offered unexpected warmth, like the caress of a bed beneath a wearied body.

  Arthur kissed her between her eyes and she broke into tears. The tenderness of it carried a terrible sorrow. Her breath slipped, her shoulders convulsed. And Arthur held her.

  It was something she ought to have forgotten.

  23

  RETRIEVAL

  MARCO PERCHES A palm-sized display over the steering wheel. It shows the driveway, the garden, and Cheok sweeping away where the trimmed branches have fallen. Nothing peculiar, nothing happening. The door opens and a colleague sinks into the seat beside him with takeaway coffee in condensed milk tins. Marco takes his share, holding it carefully by a string tied to the top of the tin.

  “Status went up a notch after the fire,” says the colleague.