Surrogate Protocol

by Tham Cheng-E

  “What’s the code?”

  Thaddeus gives his arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll know it.”

  / / /

  The seven-bulb surgical lamp comes on like the thrusters of a rocket. The shot of ether hasn’t yet taken effect and Landon is wide awake on the surgical bed. Bags of blood hang from a steel rack; tubes lead from them and enter a garishly golden contraption of gears, cylinders and narrow vitrines of glass. From four little golden taps four tubes emerge, tipped with hypodermic needles that enter the saphenous veins of Landon’s thighs and the cephalic veins of his forearms. An assistant powers the contraption and it whirrs alive, its gears and cylinders working away like a miniature V-8 engine. The source of its power remains a mystery, for Landon sees no wires trailing from it.

  He watches the blood leave his body in a dark red stream and fill up the glass vitrines one after another. The sight of them breeds in him a sorrow that he does not expect.

  Thaddeus eyes him closely. “You are receiving a new life, Mr Lock. Its brevity will give it meaning. So live it well.”

  A powerful bout of emotion racks every muscle and nerve in Landon’s body. He finally weeps for all that has come to pass, for the ones who lived and died, and for the part of his father that now drains out of him. Yet his tears flow also for the joy that now attends his heart, in knowing that the past two centuries of his life have at last ended.

  And that a new one—a real one, has just begun.

  42

  APRIL 1852

  THAT AFTERNOON SWELTERED in the rhythmic shrilling of crickets. The sun was white and harsh. Aldred held up the two shafts of his plough in his skinny arms and conducted a pair of buffaloes along the length of a twenty-acre field that was recently cleared for a new batch of nutmeg seedlings. A cloud of midges accompanied them.

  Aldred was only 13; his skinny frame lost in the oversized linen shirt with sleeves that went past his elbow. But the garment was cool and airy and he wore it whenever he took to the fields. The sun had wrung so much out of him that now and then he had to rest and drink from a calfskin waterbag.

  They turned an angle to the first furrow and skirted along the southern edge of the plantation bordering the jungle on the right. The red clayey earth tore open as they went. Up ahead the fronds of a nearby coconut plantation wavered in a breeze. At a patch of clearing behind them six untethered buffaloes grazed.

  Above the crickets’ shrilling the boy heard the hoots and calls of creatures hidden in the jungle. On occasion he would catch glimpses of birds of paradise and their gaudy plumage. Just two days ago he had seen a few wild peacocks waddling among the undergrowth—a rare sight that augured good fortune.

  But that afternoon the calls of the jungle were different. They sounded distressed. The stalks of lallang quivered, and so did the thistles and hedges at the forest fringe. Aldred dropped his plough and listened. If there was to be any danger lurking in the shrubbery he had to discover it before it did him harm. He inspected the length of the fringe, rustling the tall grasses and peering into the jungle’s gloomy interior. After having exercised caution the boy turned into the winds that carried his scent.

  And then it sprung like the Devil himself.

  It was there the whole time, crouching, waiting—a tremendous hulk of muscle and bristly fur. It dragged Aldred to the ground and fastened its jaws over his shoulders, somewhere near the trapezius and dangerously close to his nape.

  The boy screamed.

  Having been forewarned of attacks by man-eating tigers, Aldred began thumping the beast with his fists. Briefly the vice-like hold on his shoulder eased and gushing blood warmed his skin. His fists were still flailing, and one of them seemed to have caught the snarling beast in the eye. From nowhere came the swipe of a paw that lacerated the boy’s forearm and tore the flesh diagonally across his left clavicle and chest.

  His scream ended in a gasp when his vocal cords swelled beyond their ability to function. He now felt the same fangs upon his right thigh. They entered easily into the soft flesh, the bite firm and unyielding.

  Aldred began convulsing in shock. His limbs, bloodied and slick with beastly dribble, were turning numb from the loss of blood. Flesh tore when the beast dragged him a few yards from where he had fallen. He felt the rumble of the tiger’s growl with his legs immobilised in its jaws. It was a growl of caution, and then something remarkable happened.

  In a terrific trampling of hooves, the pair of buffaloes came charging towards them like cavalry, their gait firm and tenacious despite the drag of the plough behind them. They broke free from their yokes, fanned apart and advanced upon the tiger from its flanks. The tiger abandoned its prey and fled into the forest.

  But the buffaloes did not leave. One of them circled its little attendant while the other stood sentinel by the jungle fringe against any possibility of the tiger returning.

  Wisps of dandelions passed across the crisp blueness of the sky, borne upon arriving winds that carried the pungent scent of the buffaloes. Aldred lay on the ground tainted with his blood, watching the clouds and listening to the rustling grass. The shrilling of crickets sounded far away. In his narrowing vision he saw a wet snout appear and disappear. Then he closed his eyes and saw home.

  / / /

  When Aldred awoke, three kerosene lamps were flickering from rafters above him. He felt the texture of the straw mat on which he lay. The cloud of flies over him gave an unsettling intimation of the state of his wounds.

  His mother was nearby: he could heard her snuffling. She wasn’t a woman who would snuffle. His father passed into his sight and looked down at him. Flecks of grey stubble above his ears were all the hair that remained. He had a large hooked nose that made up most of his broad, strong face. His eyes were long and narrow and were deeply wrinkled at the corners. His gaze was soft, and Aldred saw moist tracks across his parched, leathery skin. It was he who appeared to have been crying.

  “Our buffaloes saved me,” Aldred found himself uttering in a throaty whisper.

  “I know.”

  Aldred felt a callused but gentle hand upon his forehead.

  From the far end of the room he heard mother whimper. If she whimpered then things had to be very bad. Footfalls drifted into range, sounding strong and resolute. A large man appeared. He was bald, his hairless skin pulled taut over a craggy face and looked to be crafted of fine porcelain. Although Aldred didn’t recognise him he thought that he and father had to be very good friends because they embraced each other very warmly.

  Afterwards he bent over to look at Aldred and beneath his protuberant brows Aldred saw that one of his eyes was green and the other yellow.

  “He will survive the Transfusion if he shares your blood,” said the man in a voice as thick as tar. “But I cannot speak the same for you, Great Bear.”

  Aldred heard nothing else. Father took the strange man by the arm and led him away to a spot where they could continue their conversation in private. The last Aldred heard was mother’s anguished cry.

  / / /

  By the light of dawn Aldred woke up to find most of his wounds already bandaged in strips of frayed linen. Beside his bed stood an elaborate metallic contraption that fitted neatly in a leather valise. Tubes of a strange gelatinous material ran from it and entered Aldred’s arms and legs. He heard movement and the tinkle of glass vessels but he couldn’t turn his head because of the pain. By the lamplight shadows shifted, and the tall, strange man appeared over him and touched his face. Aldred wanted to ask for his father and mother, but his glands and tonsils, now swollen with abuse and infection, afforded not even a whisper.

  “My name is Origen and I am a friend of your father’s,” said the strange man in all his vocal richness. “You will go back to sleep and you will heal.”

  Origen hovered something over Aldred’s eyes. It was an egg-shaped device with a surface so reflective that Aldred saw in it a contorted image of his brokenness. A beam of red light filled his sight, and he fell back into slumber.

/>   43

  REBIRTH

  OVER THE LAST four days a spell of influenza has confined Aldred Lock to his bed and reminded him of his newly-acquired vulnerability to everything human. The old house at Clacton has been sold for a handsome profit. After deducting part of it for the purchase of new accommodation and adjusting for inflation, the money will last him a while. Aldred doesn’t swim so he figured he doesn’t need a condo.

  At present the windows are wide open. Muslin curtains sway to a breeze. The morning is bright, but not yet scorching. A light haze lingers and masks a sleepy skyline in the distance. Aldred rests his hands on the aluminium sill and watches the world from his twenty-ninth storey apartment just off Dawson Road. He is looking at traces of the old estate where an elderly Sikh once peddled milk with his scraggy cows. There’s the Princess House that has been preserved. There’s the spot where Hannah’s flat once existed.

  On a low antique shelf a turntable sings. Aldred’s finger taps to the melody and his lips move to the lyrics:

  Day will break and I’ll awake

  And start to bake a sugar cake

  For you to take for all the boys to see

  We will raise a family

  A boy for you, a girl for me

  Oh, can’t you see how happy we would be

  He now knows why Hannah loved this song. In it there is optimism. It’s good to have optimism. Perhaps it’s the only thing that’s truly free, that you can have as much of as you want without having to worry about consequences. At most you’d die an optimist. It beats dying a neurotic.

  The catch? You need faith for optimism to work.

  Aldred moves away from the window and takes up his journal. He riffles through the empty pages after his last entry. They’ll have to remain empty because there really aren’t many things to write about now. For a long time his pen hovers over a page. He hasn’t got the best memory in the world but at least a grocery list is now enough to get him through the days without a hitch.

  At last he begins to write, with slow, careful strokes of the pen:

  The expectation of death sets in us a vulnerability that humbles. And with it comes wisdom. It obliges one to plan, to make arrangements, to be responsible. It drives the urge to set things right, to correct one’s mistakes before the appointed hour, and to love before we can no longer love.

  My name is Aldred and the Count ends here.

  / / /

  Dempsey Hill is as quaint and tranquil as Aldred had left it. He observes the FourBees site from afar. A perimeter of bland hoarding encloses it like the hermetic walls of a forbidden city, revealing not a sliver of its mysteries and secrets. They are but a concluded chapter of a past that is best forgotten. It won’t do him any good to pry.

  Haltingly he plods on towards Loewen Lodge, fearing that someone might recognise him. Upon arrival he is relieved that the matron who threw him out during his last visit is away, and no one else seems to be paying him any attention. The lady at the reception is rummaging through something under the counter when Aldred taps the bell.

  Her head pops up and Aldred notices her name-tag.

  “Pam, right?” He directs both fingers at her and tries to sound friendly.

  A slight frown of annoyance. “Yes, sir?”

  “The sustenance allowance for the patient in 8-C?” He draws circles with his finger over the countertop. “I called earlier.”

  “Ah yes,” Pam rises to her feet and starts flipping a ring folder. “It’s a transfer from a previous donor, yes?”

  “Exactly.”

  She pulls out a document. “It’s been arranged. You’re Mr Landon Lock?”

  Aldred hands her an old IC that bears his previous name. Pam takes it, references it against something and then returns it to him. Everything checks out fine. Hannah had apparently planned it to the detail.

  “Did you know the previous donor?” says Aldred.

  “The young lady?” Pam is bending over the desk and scribbling something.

  “I heard she was his wife.”

  “It’s written in the records, sir. We don’t usually look into such matters. Some donors prefer to remain anonymous and we respect that.”

  “Ah.” Aldred looks away and drums his fingers restlessly on the counter. After all that had happened, the mystery remains.

  “Did you bring the cheque, sir?”

  Aldred slides it to her and she passes him a document along with a pen. He sees the old man’s name and IC number printed on one of the sheets. It is a name in a Mandarin dialect, and one which he does not recognise. He signs the document.

  Pam gives him a receipt, some pamphlets and thanks him for the donation with a standard, service-quality smile.

  “Can I see him?” asks Aldred.

  “Perhaps in half an hour?” Pam suggests. “They’re all out for their afternoon walks, sir.”

  Aldred glances over his shoulder. “Could I go see where he lives…sleeps…?”

  Pam accedes and leads him past a games room and a diner of multi-coloured tables and peonies before they reach a corridor flanked by rooms of six beds each. Above each bed a ceiling fans spins soundlessly. They enter and Pam directs Aldred to a bed near the window. A tag at the foot of the bed reads “8-C”.

  The bed is made, and beside it Aldred finds a nightstand in faux ashwood laminate which contains the resident’s possessions. In a drawer he finds bottles of ointment and packs of unopened catheters and syringes. One compartment holds adult diapers, the one below it carries a heap of old magazines and a rumpled telephone directory from the year 2002. And underneath them all Aldred discovers a rusted tin that still bears traces of the brand of biscuits it once contained.

  He lifts its lid to a heap of worthless trinkets—little stringed plastic beads, a brown rubber ball cracked with age, a peeling wooden top and a crinkly cellophane bag containing a few old coins. Deeper into the strata he uncovers a stack of magazine clippings, a faux jade necklace, a few old 70s sticker pads. And in the final stratum—a monochrome photograph of himself seated in an eatery with a young boy perched on his lap. The young boy’s head is thrown pompously upwards, and there is a playful, magnanimous smile on his face.

  Life deals its blows. Serendipitous or not, it’s often hard to tell.

  The full measure of the recollection hits home like the passing of a heavy, judicial sentence. He runs along the corridor, photograph in hand, his footfalls shattering the calm, his eyes burning; and under the disapproving glares of the attendants he bursts out of the lodge.

  On the right he sees a kindergarten down Harding Road, and on the left the road leads off to the hospital block of the former Tanglin Barracks. A football pitch stands in place of the former cricket lawn where he had seen the dead over a century ago. Farther away the road forks and bends uphill along a wooded grove. And there a wheelchair-bound contingent descends in a single file.

  He sees him—the old man, four chairs from the front, his head at an angle, his hands upturned like Madonna herself in the likes of Michelangelo’s Pietà, carrying the dead Christ—a Madonna battered by age and whose saliva freely flows from a hanging lip.

  Aldred races up to them flushed and wheezing. He scares the attendant to a state of guarded animosity but the old man pays him no attention. Fortunately Pam, who judiciously followed Aldred out of the lodge, catches up with him and, in a string of Tagalog, calms her colleague’s frazzled nerves.

  Under the attendants’ supervision Aldred wheels the old man to a wooded grove where they can see the afternoon sun burning red and golden through the trees. He goes over to the front of the wheelchair and crouches so that their eyes can meet. But the old man’s unblinking eyes see nothing; his saliva dribbles on in thin, clear strands onto a blue, sopping handkerchief. Aldred, uncertain of himself, brings his arms around the frail, bony shoulders and pulls the old man into a tentative embrace.

  At first the old man does not respond. But as Aldred continues to hold him, his drooping lips twitch, as if in speech,
and a seemingly deadened hand lifts slowly and embraces Aldred in return.

  Pam and her colleague behold the spectacle from afar, their jaws falling open.

  The old man hasn’t lifted a limb for over a decade.

  Aldred, now laughing and crying all at once to waves of joy and sadness, plants a kiss on the old man’s head and cradles it gently. “Sorry I’m late, Poppy.” His voice quavers and cracks. “I’ll never leave you again. I promise.”

  The long shadows of the dying day stretch over them. They hold each other for as long as it takes to assuage the guilt in Aldred’s heart. All around them branches and leaves stand unmoving, as if in reverence to the wondrous reunion. A tear finally runs down Poppy’s hollowed cheek. And in the brevity of that moment Aldred glimpses eternity.

  / / /

  In the backyard of the Botanic Gardens, Evans Hostel sits in the mottled shadows of pines and Senegal mahoganies. Much of its charm consists of its tranquillity, and the tiny street that passes in front of it is empty and quiet most of the time.

  A café is tucked into the corner of the hostel’s red-brick façade. Behind its counter Aldred pours a stretch of lustrous milk froth into a tall glass and fills its bottom with espresso. The froth, displaced by the coffee, rises above the rim and keeps its form. He then gives it a light dusting of ground coffee and taps the bell.

  “Latte macchiato,” he calls.

  The brew heads out to a studious-looking young man snuggling by a corner with his books and headphones. The door swings open and the sound of the outdoors interrupts the air-conditioned quietude inside the café. A woman tries to enter with a stroller but a step at the entrance traps the wheels. Aldred goes to her assistance and sees that the stroller holds a young girl who appears a little too tall for the seat. She has slightly protuberant eyes and wears a beanie over her bulging forehead. An adventure novel sits on her lap. Aldred carries the stroller over the step and she smiles timidly at him.