by Leigh Lyn
I once asked Frieda if she talked to other patients too. “You’re my only confidante,” she said. “Dr. Wen will not like it if he knew, but I’ll go bananas if I can’t release steam somehow.”
A few minutes of chitchat later, a patient walked in requiring her attention, so I left to join the streets of Causeway Bay once again.
Chapter 10
Causeway Bay was a 24/7 kaleidoscope with cars, people, buildings, light, sounds, and smells perpetually colliding. At this time of the day, old women were collecting old newspapers and soft drink cans; banned smokers gathered around dustbins; joss sticks and ghost-money were burning in metal buckets along the road for lost souls; coolies dragged humongous bundles and animal carcasses on their backs. These were the slack hours before the lunching crowd flooded the area, when display windows formed a mere backdrop to the peripheral life the precinct sustained. A street sweeper in a fluorescent vest cleaned the pavement with his water spray. I walked past the expensive watch shop rumored to command the highest rent in the world next to Fifth Avenue.
After a few turns, I reached Dicken’s Bar in the basement of the Excelsior Hotel—one of the oldest establishments where they served scrumptious curry brunch buffets, but today, it was closed. I peeked through the stained-glass window and saw construction workers inside doing a refurbishment.
I was wondering where to go instead when I caught sight of a little acrylic sheet construction in the tiny alley to the right of the Excelsior. Like a Ramona fish attached to a shark with his tiny suction cup, the Daipaidong was feeding off its upscale neighbor. Large plastic sheets hung from the building projection above, screening the less than ten-by-ten feet space off from the rest of the alley. I swept the thick acrylic aside and entered. The place was deserted apart from an elderly man in a sleeveless undershirt watching horse races on a wall-mounted flat screen behind the counter. I settled at one of a handful of shaky fold-up tables and ordered a Wonton noodle.
While waiting for my food, I put the USB in my iPad to play the video file I had stolen in my momentary sway from civility. Two Chinese men with crew cuts and black windbreakers came in and sat at the table next to mine. The younger one glanced at me while leaning forward to talk to his friend. Perturbed by the way his eyes were glued to me, I stopped the video.
Paranoia was a rather exhausting trait, but in the eighteen months since my discharge, surveillance had become an unshakable part of my life. Chinese emperors had proof tasters who used silver chopsticks to sample their food to ensure it wasn’t tampered with. Likewise, human “needles” had always been inserted at all levels of Chinese civilization to monitor the level of loyalty to the reigning emperor. The truth? It had gotten worse.
I bowed my head and pretended to check my messages. When I looked up, the young guy was still staring at me. Yep, the needles of yesteryear had only been replaced with milder versions who valued low-key profiles and day jobs as scholars, scientists, businessmen, and socialites—anything to cover up their double lives. Of course, one could ignore them, presuming one had nothing to hide or that nothing was of any interest to them. That was what I used to do, but something had changed. Although I was not sure what, something had made me worth their while.
One day, I had lunch with Suki, and she told me her version of the triple-nighter.
“The second day when you asked Matt to come over, your voice sounded so upset he dropped everything and dragged me with him.”
The memory came back to me as I listened to her. The two of them showed up looking disheveled. Suki’s hair had slipped out of her normally impeccable bun and Matt’s shirt was hanging loose. He was still wearing his tie around his forehead, guerrilla-style, even though it was ten in the morning and everyone else was in suits.
“Matt was already frantic about the changes you asked us to do just a day earlier but, when you said we had to change it again, he went nuts. I thought we were screwed. And then, to make it worse, you two started arguing what the new changes would be used for.”
Did we argue? I remember Matt picking up the stack of Clancy novels from the chair and beckoning Suki to sit. As composed as I managed, I told them what the Corp wanted, but I couldn't remember if we argued.
Suki insisted, “Sure you did! Matt asked what a sub-basement with observation rooms with doors that only lock on the outside could possibly be used for.”
“He did?”
Suki frowned. “You don’t remember? He said they were turning the laboratories into a madhouse with operation theaters and prison-style maternity wards. The bloody presentation was in twenty-eight hours, and I was thinking how ludicrous it was to change anything at all.” Suki shook her head. “Instead of getting on with it, you two were arguing about what kind of human studies they were doing. I mean, come on!”
I offered Suki the last crab-cake.
“I was so relieved when you gave me the layout sketch with the design worked out already. You told us to give it straight to the draftsmen.” Suki took a bite.
“What draftsmen? It was five in the morning,” she said, with her mouth half full. “Thank god for Matt though. I was like a zombie, but Matt was possessed. He kept fidgeting with the design, analyzing and dissecting it the whole time with this distorted logic of his. And you know what the craziest thing was?”
A difficult question to answer for someone who had been recently released from an asylum, but Suki was the nearest thing to an eye-witness I had. So, if she said others thought it crazy too, this was a good thing.
“What was the craziest thing?” I asked.
“Well, you don’t remember, but you and he were arguing about what those paired rooms with one-sided mirrors were used for, right?”
She was right. I had no recollection of that.
“You were talking about an interview room, and then he said it was a detention room, and you were an accomplice, whether you like it or not, whatever that means. I must have dozed off, because I don’t remember the rest of the conversation.” She rolled her eyes. “The craziest thing was that, after we returned to our desks, Matt kept saying it was not about the intention of the design as if he had a mysterious channel to God-knows. And he insisted on changing it until it worked perfectly.”
“What’s your point?” I stared at her.
“He considered how the prisoners and dissidents were smuggled in and out of the facilities and how to lay out the tunnels so no one would cross paths as the dissidents were taken for procedures and the medical staff went about their business. It all made sense except for the question of why there would be dissidents. When I teased him and said he was remarkably knowledgeable for a non-accomplice, he shrugged and said the only difference between the accomplice and non-accomplice was if you admitted it or not, if you chose to know or repress it!”
Was Matt in on it? But why would he make such a fuss if he was? Was he just being professional and thorough? A better question was why G.Y. didn’t ask their in-house design institute or designer to do it if the use of the facilities was controversial. And why they keep asking for me by name.
Suki went on. “By midnight, I was dozing off again, and Matt told me to go home. He said he would take care of it.”
“Matt was nice that way, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yes, he’s a little nutty, but he’s alright. What was this thing he said that gave me goose-bumps? He said, ‘If you want to kick the tiger in his ass, you’d better have a plan of how to deal with his teeth.’”
Didn’t Clancy say that? Bit by bit, it came back to me. Clancy was my favorite author, and it was I who quoted him, and Matt must have been quoting me.
With sudden, unnerving clarity, I saw Matt sitting on the corner of my desk again, his dark brown eyes pierced mine coldly as he asked, “Is what happens in these observation rooms classified information?”
It had crossed my mind to ask Lao Bo or his assistant, but I was too tired. Contractually speaking, G.Y. had taken up the whole rentable area. If they had wanted the plan to be laid
out like Gotham City, I would have let them unless I could prove it was illegal.
Exhausted, I said to Matt, “Whatever humans fancy studying, I don’t know.”
“As opposed to animals study?” he asked. “Or more like what Tony Stark does in Ironman?”
To get Matt off my back, I vowed to investigate and reminded him the interview room had been paired up with a surveillance room.
“And do they need to be fitted out with one-way mirrors?” he asked.
It did, as a matter of fact, as well as audio and visual recording equipment, and CCTV.
“What about handcuffs chained to the ceiling?” Matt had sniggered. Slit-eyed, I ignored him and moved on to the operating theaters.
“Operating theaters? Is this a science park or a hospital?” he’d exclaimed. The dark stubble covering his jawline had aged ten years in ten hours. “Their new requirements are crazy, Lin.”
We had eight hours before the presentation, and I was on the brink of collapse. Noticing Matt’s stealthy glance over my shoulder, I turned to look at Roger, my direct supervisor, straight in the eye.
“How are we doing here?” he asked, staring at the new sketch.
“Now Roger is here,” Matt said. “Let’s discuss what’s really going on.”
Roger frowned. “I’m counting on you to help Lin, Matt,” he said. “She runs the show, not me. And you—” Roger said, looking at me before he left the room, “—make sure the presentation is in perfect order.”
After Roger left, Matt and I had gazed out the window and decided we both needed to go home.
“Matt was smart to leave,” Suki said, when I settled the bill.
I asked her if she knew where he went.
“He didn’t say. It was rather sudden.”
“Did it have anything to do with Roger leaving?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know Roger that well.”
I was pushing my luck. Roger kept to himself and seldom talked to anyone, let alone the junior architects. Ever since this lunch a few months ago, I’d been convinced Roger was a needle, like the two men at the next table.
My phone’s tremor heaved it off the face of the table, pulsing toward the edge in tiny jerky movements.
“Lin?” a soft male voice asked.
“Speaking,”
“It’s Dr. Wen,”
I sat up.
“I want to talk to you about your appointment,” Dr. Wen continued. “I’m flying off to Fiji tomorrow. Frieda forgot about it when she put you down for the new time-slot. I won't be available that day, I’m afraid.”
“No worries, Dr. Wen.” I slumped down again. “Just tell me when.”
“How about Friday, same time, in two weeks?”
“That’s fine.”
“What do you want to see me about? Something urgent?”
“No, don’t worry, it’ll be fine to talk about it in two weeks.”
“Are you sure you’ll be OK?” Dr. Wen asked again.
“I’m fine, Doc.”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“About the medication,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “When I’m on those pills, I don’t seem to care if the sky comes tumbling down and that’s not good! So, I thought—”
Dr. Wen cut me short. “We talked about this, Liz. I told you that, like an elastic band will break when stretched too tight, your mind has a tendency to malfunction if not break.”
“I know, Doctor, but it’s been a year and a half. I really am fine now, although I’ve been having flashbacks.”
“The flashbacks are normal; that’s why the medication is important, dear. It helps to keep your mind clear. From what you just told me, you need it.”
I should have kept my big mouth shut and just skipped the medication. He would haven’t noticed.
“I’m thinking, rather than drugging myself, I can do something more constructive and therapeutic, like channeling my overactive brain into writing down stuff; a journal or memoir.”
“You can write. I’m not objecting to that, but the danger in writing a memoir is that you buy into the fantastical part of your life, dear. You don’t want to risk your future by focusing on an obsession and, worse still, enroll others to follow you.”
Did my shrink want me to turn a blind eye?
“You don’t want to chase ghosts, which do not exist.”
“Risk or not, Doc, these flashbacks are raiding my mind like tornadoes. I need to put them to rest.”
The young man at the next table turned his head and looked at me. The two men had stopped talking and were clearly pricking up their ears. I dipped my head to avoid eye contact. The waiter in the singlet brought my Wonton noodle. The intense smell of prawns and ammonia rose up my nose.
“Hang on,” I said, shielding my mouth with my hand.
I waved at the waiter, but he was too preoccupied with the horse-racing on TV. I grabbed my bag and got up to leave. When I passed the men’s table, the young man said, “Her face is the shape of a sunflower seed, save for the missing chin. Kind of strange.”
I left the noodle money on the service counter and stepped outside the plastic-sheeted enclosure when the cook shouted after me, “Hey, Miss, anything wrong with your wonton?”
“It’s fine!” I shouted over my shoulder and started my way back to the car.
Dr. Wen was still talking on the phone. “If it works, it will be good; if it doesn’t, it might spark up new flames burning new holes in your memory.”
“I doubt it, Doc. Like you said, my problem was physiological. I’ll be good as long as I get my sleep.”
The smell of exhaust gas and the humming of engines filled the air. A row of empty minibuses was blocking my view toward the opposite side of the road but, seeing it was clear on my right, I sped across. I had barely made two steps when I heard a scream, and a large impact threw me to the ground. As I lay there, it slowly dawned on me I’d been hit by a car. I gulped for air like a frog coming up to the surface of a pond for air. The side of my body, which had been hit, felt aglow and heavy.
The long, thin face of a man hovered over me and asked if I was alright. Dazed, I sat up, ignoring the man’s advice to lay still. I could move my hands and all my limbs. Apart from an all-pervading numbness, I was okay. A hefty old woman with a head shawl and a walking stick handed me back my mobile while talking fast in Cantonese to a man who said, “She’s lucky the car was only going at 10 miles per hour.”
Frazzled, I put the phone to my ear. Dr. Wen was still talking, but the shouting by people around rendered his words inaudible.
I squinted my eyes. Had one of my contact lenses been knocked out by the impact? I blinked and felt the flimsy lens shift under my left eyelid. My sight sharpened enough for me to see it was a black Lifan that had hit me. I couldn’t make out its license number, but what were the chances of spotting three of these cars in one day?
A bloody Ray Bans donning driver got out of the car and commented that I should look where I go. I mumbled something about not realizing this was a one-way street, scrambled up as fast as I could and walked away from him into a small shop selling Swarovski jewelry. Shop attendants moved toward me like lions approaching prey. I ignored them too and scurried to a corner, where I resumed my conversation with Dr. Wen.
“What on earth was that noise, Lin?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Listen, Doc. I have made up my mind. I’ve got to write this memoir even if it’s over my dead body. I would like your blessing though.”
Dr. Wen fell silent and, as I waited, I felt a slow surge of pain like a thousand needles pressing into the left side of my body at a blood-curdling slow pace.
“In that case, promise to keep me up to date and send me entries of your memoirs the minute you finish them.”
“Why? It’s just scribbles.” I paused, realizing Dr. Wen had said yes. I could go ahead and write my memoir, which—should the day come when they decide to obliterate me—would tell my story and explain why I
did what I was going to do.
I thanked Dr. Wen, after which I left the shop. Looking around, I noticed the black Lifan and its driver were gone.
“You disappeared,” the granny said. Her beady eyes and grayish skin suddenly reminded me of Wu Zetian from the asylum. “A car hit you and you ran, silly girl.”
“It’s not a car, it’s that car.” I looked at her. Wu Zetian’s eyes were quick and alert like a rat’s while this old lady had the glassy eyes of a dead fish. “Never mind, I’m okay.”
“You should have yourself checked out at the hospital,” the lady said.
“I would if it wasn’t so treacherous.”
As I walked toward the car park, a voice in my head asked me what had made me paranoid of old grannies whose only flaw was to care for a total stranger.
Chapter 11
Standing outside the door of my apartment, I listened. In the past, the minute or so before I turned the key had given me glimpses of the twins’ antics, but today I was too bruised to pay much attention. I dragged my sore body over the threshold.
Through the plastic sheeting, which screened off the dining and open kitchen, I saw that the handymen had installed my bottle-chandelier. Our apartment had been in disarray since we had moved in because I kept changing my mind about the design. The refurbishment was ongoing, sustained by Nick and Harry; two handymen, who came over between their other jobs.
I dropped my bag on the floor, grabbed two painkillers from the first aid box, and rinsed them down with a big gulp of water. Feeling no effect, I took one more before, numb and tranquilized, I collapsed on the sofa.
My eyelids were heavy, and I felt myself slipping away. The room swooned as light seeped out of my vision.
When I opened my eyes, Maxy’s face was hovering over me. She had cut her bangs again—which were short and shaggy to begin with. The room had darkened, and someone had laid a canapé over me.