The Cult of Following, Book Two

  *

  Hester would have drummed her fingers hard on the table, but they were full of arthritis and today particularly stiff, so she opted for light tapping instead. Finally, she caught the waiter’s eye.

  ‘A small cappuccino, please, and some date and walnut cake; the biggest slice you have. Thank you.’

  She was waiting for Norm and Trudy, after arranging a meeting that deliberately excluded Meera. Today, she did not want any of that grounding common sense interfering with other people’s more flexible thought processes.

  Hester looked from the window and down to the sea of people moving below. The area around the fountain, which aside from reddish brown stonework was the signature of Ngee Ann City mall, was the least crowded space. Somewhere else, in another country, this area would be packed with gatherings of tourists enjoying a rest while running fingers through cool water. Not here. In Singapore, public benches were for sitting on, steps for walking up or down, low walls for the briefest pause for a photograph, or better still, passing by. So many years, and still she noticed such things. Not for the first time, a particular irony struck her. For the underclass, the group whose labour still built the walls and steps, fountains and malls, the rules seemed to bend. As for all, immigrant workers must not sit here or walk there, but were free to sleep on the pavement, or wherever else they happened to be working. But then maybe they just did it, regardless, she thought.

  Very quickly her gaze was caught by the nimble form of Norman Sullivan, trim as ever, and crisply dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and mid-blue trousers. He always cut a very clean figure, she thought, as he moved through the masses with the elegance of a swan gliding across a lake. Hester watched him, wondering if he was as happy as he always seemed. She suspected not. In her experience, almost eighty years, it was not possible to be truly content if one part of life conflicted absolutely with another. It was a favour, then, to finally free him from the bigotry of the Mormon Church. She followed his movements until Norm disappeared from view, making his way to the main entrance.

  She would not spot Trudy, Hester knew, for Trudy would already be inside somewhere, browsing shoes and clothing, jewellery possibly, and thoroughly enjoying Takashimaya, the mall department store. What would she buy today, Hester wondered? For she would not arrive empty handed.

  Her order came, and Hester immediately took a forkful of cake, revelling in the sense of satisfaction offered by the burst of endorphin, as sweet richness filled her mouth. It was delicious, and if it were all gone before the others arrived she would have another slice. Today was not a day where moderation had any place. Another mouthful. Her attention returned to the task at hand. If this game was a favour for Norm then what was it for Trudy? A favour also, Hester decided, without a great deal of effort, and for several reasons.

  She had seen the way Trudy looked at Percy. He was not a bad looking man, with a manner people either enjoyed or disliked. But more significantly, when he spoke, he did so with a candour Trudy was clearly finding irresistible. Trudy was a purposeless sort of woman, Hester knew, the variety of drifter who instead of finding pleasure in the ambling ride of life always preferred for others to take the reins. In this way, she and Norm were very similar: voluntarily directionless yet desiring management. Strip them to their bare bones, and they were nothing more complicated than two people avoiding responsibility.

  Trudy was not looking for complication; she wasn’t seeking an antidote to the monotony of her own luxurious way of life. Nor was affirmation her goal, for she knew who she was, like herself or not. What she unwittingly sought was similar to that which certain types of high court judge seek, Hester felt, the gavel-handling wig-bearer looking to a specialist brothel, longing to slip into a giant baby-grow and suckle an over-sized teat. For a few hours, relieved of the burden of decision-making and power, and of course hundreds of pounds, the judge would enjoy a thoroughly powdered bottom. Trudy’s burden of power came in the form of limitless freedom and effortless wealth, a useless combination in a woman believing herself to be of no interest to anyone. To be gathered up was her fantasy; she was reading Percy’s behaviour as masterful. It was a short step from masterful to all-knowing. Another reason Hester’s planned deception might benefit Trudy was in the refocusing of an artificially shaped eye that too often looked upon resection as positive change. If she had more to think about than delaying ageing, she would be far happier. This was Hester’s verdict.

  Hester shook her head a little as the final mouthful of cake went in. Too many women, and, she supposed, men, thought they could cheat time. Well, one day they would have to stop and confront that ticking clock; and what a meeting that would be. Skin stretched too thin, fat-sucked flesh gone scrawny, facial muscles withered and sagging from lack of exercise and paralysis. What a face they would be faced with. If she could help Trudy avoid this fate, prevent her from revisiting teenage angst in later life, then more than a little good would have come of the ruse.

  Looking up, Hester saw Norm and Trudy together, waiting to be seated. Her grey eyes sparkled. For all the positives, the greatest was very simple: the whole thing would be enormously good fun. It was many years since she had fabricated something intricate, and she had never attempted anything so extreme. This was to be her pièce de résistance.

  Smiling, she waved them over, but they were coming anyway. Norm sat down, and taking a seat, Trudy placed several bags by her feet.

  ‘Something nice?’ Hester enquired.

  ‘Just a few pairs of sandals, and a couple of new bikinis. The elasticity fails so quickly here, I’m not sure if it’s the humidity or the chlorine or salt or whatever, but I seem to buy a new swimsuit almost every two months. Have been for years.’

  Hester made sympathetic noises. It really did amount to a very large number of swimsuit purchases. Norm also commiserated the regular demise of Trudy’s swimwear. Hester was unable to recall the last time she had been for a swim or even lounged in a pool. Her own was used only by her husband for his morning exercise. He still worked despite his age, rising with the sun and arriving back home as it set.

  ‘This is pleasant,’ Norm said. ‘I do love a cup of coffee in a nice café. Feels very civilised.’

  On this occasion, Hester overlooked Norm’s use of the word coffee. A waiter came to take the order. ‘You should both have some date and walnut cake,’ Hester encouraged, ‘it’s delicious. I’m having another piece.’

  Trudy declined and ordered green tea, while with no further persuasion Norm agreed to the cake, also requesting a small hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows.

  ‘A treat,’ he claimed, ‘because it must be somebody’s birthday, somewhere.’

  When the waiter had gone, Hester felt obliged to ask him why he suddenly felt able to drink chocolate. ‘It contains caffeine. I know you have avoided it in the past.’

  Raising open hands, shoulders lifted, head slowly moving side to side, Norm looked as if he were weighing something very heavy. Hester watched while he did this for some moments, his open mouth seeming to be on the verge of speaking. He sagged, and said nothing.

  Hester had been carefully working towards this moment for some time, creating, she hoped, an atmosphere where her influence would have all the scope needed to inject an idea into ready minds. Trudy was in need, as much as she could possibly be, of something extraordinary happening to her, and Norm, Hester now knew for certain, was a man whose faith in the LDS church had cracked. Moments such as this were never guaranteed to present when called upon, indeed, to ever present at all; wasted effort the price of playing any game. She could only trust that everything would come together.

  Trudy remained quiet, looking for the waiter to bring her drink.

  Norm was studying a serviette.

  Hester prepared herself for the launch.

  She pushed a long slow breath through her nose. Sitting perfectly still, with her hair bundled up on top as always, elegantly draped shawls and skirts today in shades of ochr
e and terracotta, her neat fingers now covering her clever mouth, she might have been posing for a portrait; an introspective of the ancient expat.

  Norm was first to notice the change in mood, though it took a few seconds more than expected. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

  Hester didn’t respond.

  ‘Hester?’ he said again.

  Trudy’s attention followed Norm’s. ‘Hester? Whatever is it? Whatever’s the matter?’

  The grey gaze withdrew from the dramatic middle distance and fell upon the table, as if inspecting with horror some invisible mess. Swollen fingers remained where they were, bridging thin lips.

  ‘Hester?’ Norm insisted. ‘What is it?’

  With considered control, her hand slowly fell away from her mouth, coming to rest on Norm’s bare arm. It was an intimate gesture. She squeezed gently, and remained silent.

  Trudy reached out, mimicking the action, placing her hand on Hester’s forearm, creating a chain of three.

  ‘I saw something,’ Hester muttered.

  Norm and Trudy waited.

  The pause extended until Norm pressed Hester to explain herself. ‘It was on Orchard Road,’ she said.

  ‘And?’ Trudy looked to Norm, then back to the elderly woman.

  ‘Percy.’

  ‘What about Percy?’ There was deepening interest apparent in Trudy’s tone.

  ‘I saw Percy on Orchard Road.’

  ‘Isn’t he out with Phrike today, walking in the wetlands at Sungei Buloh?’

  ‘It wasn’t today that I saw him, Trudy,’ Hester said.

  The waiter came with their order, and all hands retreated.

  ‘You saw Percy on Orchard Road…’ Norm encouraged.

  ‘I did.’ Hester took a trembling breath. ‘I feel foolish now. Forget I said anything.’

  Norm frowned, wrinkling his brow, darkly tanned beneath his white hair. ‘But you’ve hardly said anything at all.’

  ‘I know that Norman, but… well… I felt a little uneasy with what I saw, and now… well… saying it out loud makes it seem…’ she shook her head, then stopped.

  ‘What?’ both insisted.

  ‘No. I feel a total fool saying it, so forgive me if I choose not to. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.’

  ‘I will forgive no such thing,’ Norm retorted. ‘Come on, we’re all friends here. You saw Percy on Orchard Road. And?’

  Hester pushed her shoulders back and sighed. Her gaze switched from Norm to Trudy and back again, eyes narrowed as if assessing something. Her fingers returned to her mouth, this time only briefly. Frowning slightly, she said, ‘Okay. I’ll tell you. But don’t blame me if you end up wishing I hadn’t. And do not accuse me of being mad. I am not mad.’

  Norm rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, listening; Trudy mirrored him.

  ‘Oh Lordy, where to start?’

  ‘The beginning is always a good place,’ Norm said.

  Hester permitted the smallest of smiles, ‘Cheeky.’

  Unsmiling, Trudy and Norm stared at her expectantly.

  She allowed a long weary breath to ease out, before closing her eyes and clasping her hands together on top of the table. ‘The beginning,’ she opened her eyes, making certain to look equally at both. ‘I needed to buy some underwear from Marks and Spencer, and so thought I would walk there from a friend’s house; she lives on Nassim Road. Sometimes her driver drops me off, especially if she’s decided to join me. She’s my age but not as fit, believe it or not. Hard to imagine anyone less fit than me, eh? Well, I can tell you I am not half bad for my age.

  ‘Her home is lovely, a great pile of a place. Beautiful. I usually stay for lunch and then if I am shopping on my own, I go for my walk. Walking is good exercise for me, a little hot, of course, but pleasant enough in its own way. Orchard Road is not exactly the Botanic Gardens, Norman, but it offers me a little reminder that life still buzzes on busily, out there, beyond my quiet and comfortable world in Alexandra Road. Also, there is purpose in the exercise. Unlike you, I no longer have any dogs to keep me active. Frankly, unless I have to walk, I can’t be bothered.

  ‘I like taking this particular route because if the heat becomes too much I can move into the air-conditioning and walk inside instead, or stop for a drink, or find a taxi home. I have done this – given up – once or twice, getting only as far as Forum before wondering what on earth I was doing. Anyway, this particular day wasn’t quite as humid as usual, and everywhere was fairly quiet, so I managed to walk almost the whole way to Wheelock Place without stopping for a rest. Do you go to that Marks, or the one at Vivo?’ Her focus was on Trudy.

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ A pause followed.

  ‘Percy?’ Norm reminded.

  ‘I am getting there, Norman. You said start at the beginning.’

  ‘I didn’t mean the beginning of the year,’ he smiled, gently.

  ‘You’ve got it about you, today, Norman.’

  ‘Percy?’ he said again.

  ‘I was at Wheelock place when I thought I saw Percy. He was waiting to go over the road, the crossing by Ion, and I thought I would speak. Well, by the time I was close enough, the lights had changed and he was off, and so, swept up by the crowd, I found myself crossing too. It was then I noticed the man.’

  ‘The man?’ Trudy said.

  ‘Yes. As Percy was walking he was also talking with an elderly Chinese man, the poor soul had the most terrible limp. He was staggering around after Percy, and you know how Percy can be, I could see that he was trying to get away. They were almost arguing, I’d say. Percy stopped once they were outside Ion…’

  ‘I love Ion,’ Trudy interrupted, ‘beautiful mall. Great shops.’

  ‘Expensive,’ Norm said. ‘Verity loves Ion, too. Carry on Hester.’

  ‘They were in the large open area to the front; you know the one, where the huge Christmas tree is every year? It was the most extraordinary thing to watch, to see Percy wrestling himself free from the grip of this funny old man yet never walking off as he might, as he easily could have. The old man was determined, and he utterly refused to be rejected. But Percy could have got away. They were sort of tussling, the man clutching at Percy, though sometimes he was banging Percy’s back. As I said, Percy certainly could have walked away, and very easily. I would say this was evident to anyone watching, and there were a few of us. But he seemed to be tussling with himself as much as the man.’

  ‘How peculiar.’ Trudy said, though no part of her stiff face appeared to express puzzlement.

  ‘Very peculiar, dear. But not half as peculiar as what happened next. After this had gone on for some time, long enough for me to be quite close and really observe them, though not close enough to speak…’

  ‘You didn’t call out?’

  ‘Trudy! How long have you lived in Singapore? I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  The slight sharpness of Hester’s tone seemed to offer a natural break, and so they all took a sip of their drinks, Norm and Hester both eating a little cake.

  ‘Besides’ she said, shortly, ‘I am not as steady on my feet as I used to be, and didn’t want to risk them bumping into me. You can’t risk a fall at my age. Especially not on hard ground.’

  ‘So what happened next?’ asked Trudy.

  Hester drew herself up, ‘Well, somehow the man finally managed to persuade Percy to stop fidgeting about, and then a rather subdued Percy put his hands on the man’s thigh. His left leg, I think it was, not that it matters. Percy stayed like this for… goodness… I would guess thirty seconds or so, though at the time it felt like several minutes. Then he stopped and let go.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, Trudy, the man started leaping about excitedly, before shaking Percy’s hand until I thought it might fall off! Percy was very quiet compared to the man, though I thought I saw a small smile. Of course, that could be wishful thinking. After that, the old Chinese man walked away very quickly, as if walking were the greatest gift h
e had ever been given.’

  ‘You said he’d been limping; crippled in some way?’ Trudy said.

  Hester took her time before replying. ‘Exactly. So what on earth do we make of that?’

  9. SUNGEI BULOH

  ‘Be Aware, Crocodiles. Not Beware of the Crocodiles, just Be Aware.’

  ‘It’s a nature reserve, Perc.’

  ‘What sort do you think they are?’

  ‘Same as they get down-under,’ Phrike said, ‘salties.’

  Percy and Phrike were walking. The day was hot, the high humidity smothering Percy’s skin as if attempting to kill him, soggy tendrils of moisture filling every pore with water. The back of his shirt was wet, underpants and socks soaked with sweat. Not so many months ago he would have angrily railed against the inhumanity of a person being expected to survive such a climate, but now he simply drank more water and carried on as if being steamed alive were quite normal. He slugged from his bottle a routine mouthful of water, having learned that dehydration doesn’t feel like thirst.

  ‘Reckon there are monkeys?’ Phrike asked.

  Percy shook his head, and recalling the assault upon him by a male long-tailed macaque in MacRitchie Reservoir Park, was pleased to be somewhere monkeys were not. ‘At least crocs don’t rob you.’

  ‘Just eat you.’

  ‘At least they’re not eating your favourite biscuits.’

  ‘Unless they’re in your pocket.’

  ‘Yeah, unless they’re in your pocket.’ Percy raised an eyebrow and looked to his friend. ‘You keep biscuits in your shorts?’

  Phrike withdrew two rich tea biscuits. Neither was wrapped. He offered one to Percy, who declined.

  Percy had been looking forward to this day, long planned but even longer in coming to fruition. Both lovers of natural history, he and Phrike often visited the various reserves located around the more central parts of Singapore, but this outlying wetland had been hard to reach, since neither man was in possession of a car, Phrike having lost his when his expat package was cut. These days, all packages are eventually cut, he had told Percy, regaling a time when even his grocery bill was included.

  When Percy finally bothered to check the Internet, he quickly learned they could travel by MRT to the district of Kranji, and at Kranji catch a bus stopping within a fifteen-minute walk of Sungei Buloh.

  The over-ground element of the journey had fascinated him, watching in awe as polished sophistication gave way to the scruffy and dirty streets of light industry; a view back into Singapore’s recent past. Scattered throughout were derelict buildings, some with the look of the military about them, others so overgrown it was hard to tell.

  As the bus moved on, Percy discovered a small part of himself was feeling regretful. Sal, his wife, who in better times was affectionately named Oracles in deference to both her knowledge and her voluptuous figure, would have had plenty of stories to share about what he might see on such a journey. She would have thoroughly armed him with information over dinner the night before. For all he knew, the warehouse he and Phrike were now driving by was actually one of the infamous bases for immigrant workers, beds piled high and hot. But how could he now be sure, without the benefit of Sal’s on-tap knowledge? Another thought; was this type of housing illegal? It was hard to know, because a profitable divide often dictated rules.

  Percy had stopped looking from the window and frowned. Sal must have said something about it all at some point, otherwise how would he know as much as he did? He hadn’t learned it from anyone else. The frown deepened. That she still wormed a way into his psyche was annoying. His angry eyebrows lifted and formed a look of despondency. Her knowledge had been learned from Ethan Tan, which meant that all he, Percy Field, had learned was from Ethan Tan. Ethan fucking Tan! Ethan. Ethan! What kind of name was Ethan, he asked himself; a question Percy never ceased to ask Sal. Why did all Singaporean men have this name Ethan? She had been so unoriginal, but then that was Sal, he griped to himself; busily transforming herself into a human Barbie doll, because conformity was all she knew. He reprimanded himself for imagining what he would have learned had they taken dinner together, because more often than not, towards the end, they never did. Percy felt his brain had been violated, ignoring the fact that he himself had searched out the information buried there, and therefore only he could be held accountable for revived awareness; of the vacancy for human encyclopaedia on all things Singapore.

  He forgot about Sal soon enough when the bus stopped. At a rural looking car park, he and Phrike climbed off with adventure in their hearts. Though undoubtedly countryside, the area wasn’t exactly wild. It was, however, open and green and obviously filled with living things. Comfortably cool from the bus, the hot air had felt thick and clinging, but both men threw on their rucksacks and started the short hike to the wetland reserve without a single moan.

  ‘Do you reckon the crocs here know about that crocodile farm we walked passed?’ Phrike said, as they rounded another bend on a wetland trail. Here, raised paths surrounded former prawn ponds, slowing the retreat of the tidal waters between Malaysia and Singapore, the flood tide pouring in through various old sluice gates twice daily. ‘Imagine knowing you can come and go whenever you want but your cousins have to live in tiny concrete pools waiting to die.’

  ‘That’s cheerful,’ Percy remarked.

  ‘It’s not my farm.’

  ‘I don’t think empathy and compassion are features of the average croc.’ Just then, Percy was stopped in his tracks by Phrike’s arm.

  ‘Look,’ Phrike whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that a crocodile? There.’ Phrike indicated a mass of old branches and muddy water, ‘A few feet out. Not a big one.’

  Percy struggled to find it, but then could see exactly what Phrike was pointing at. ‘Maybe.’

  Stealthily, the pair moved closer. Phrike slowly withdrew his binoculars, and Percy his phone, hoping for a picture. It was hard to know exactly what it was, though plainly it was something more interesting than a log. Percy could feel excitement rising.

  While they watched, the dark form began to move, heading for the shore. What was revealed to be nothing more than a Malayan water monitor lizard clambered out, flumping down on the path a short distance ahead of them. Percy felt the creature had done it deliberately, not to reveal its true identity, more in an effort to disappoint. It was the way it looked at him, its small head angled his way, eyes filled with dull satisfaction. Percy scowled.

  ‘Shame.’ Phrike said, ‘But he’s a beauty. Walk round him?’

  ‘Sure,’ Percy agreed, while remembering a time at MacRitchie where he’d rerouted his entire walk to avoiding getting this close. He was fond of reptiles, but never felt fond should equal foolish, not with an animal as big as this one.

  Keeping to the edge of the path, they passed the lizard by. Restricting himself to a single backward glance, Percy then continued to scan the paths and trees, water’s edge and muddy banks, for wildlife. As a nature lover living in a city where wildlife maintained a significant presence, the habit of looking was well formed.

  But as they strolled and searched, ever alert to the possibility of crocodiles and snakes, Percy began to sense that it was to be one of those days. Most days spent trekking in search of nature rewarded him with some interesting sighting or another, but occasionally there were days when all he saw were things he had seen many times, such as the giant monitor.

  The unfolding of one of those days usually made Percy tense as he searched, growing angry at the slightest noise made by other people, especially strangers. He’d been in a reserve where two people could be heard talking from so far away that Percy had time to both fly into a rage and plot his revenge. As he ‘jogged’ past the couple – two middle aged lovers so never likely to draw his sympathy – he tossed a hat-full of large red ants at them, the sort to bite and hang on. To be fair, a few had done exactly that to his hand, but Percy had taken the view of a martyr, willingly suffering for the
greater-good. This event represented the only time he had ever chosen to run in Singapore, a decent length sprint as it turned out. Pulse pounding in his ears, red face fit to burst, left Percy pledging never to run there again.

  Whether it was the extra walk in the form of getting from the bus stop to Sungei Buloh, or simply the fact he had finally made it there, Percy found himself feeling fairly relaxed about the lack of sightings.

  His phoned pinged.

  ‘A friend came here once when the tides were very high,’ Phrike said, focussing on the low water beside them. ‘He had a good day. I mean, of course he was crapping himself because the water was overlapping the paths, which meant he would make an easy meal, but he saw a lot of stuff. All pushed up because of the water, I guess. He’s got a great photo of a mangrove pit viper.’

  ‘Not sure we’ll be as lucky,’ Percy said, reaching for his phone. He looked at it, and then put it back in his pocket.

  Phrike didn’t ask, but unusually Percy felt the need to explain. ‘Message from Norm.’

  Phrike nodded. He stopped to investigate movement in the leaf litter beside the path.

  ‘What is it?’ Percy asked.

  ‘A skink. It’s gone now. Messaging a lot again, is he?’

  ‘He’s never stopped.’

  Phrike slapped the back of his hand, ‘Gotcha! I’d watch out, Perc.’

  ‘I’ve been fine, actually. I’m wearing a new repellent; seems pretty good. Better than the old one, anyway.’

  ‘Not the mozzies. Norman Sullivan. Meera was telling me how fond he is of you. Reckon he’s thinking of making a move, mate.’

  Phrike’s subtle accent drifted, an English speaker clearly, and mostly with an English accent, but some other tone surfaced every now and then. He was a little known man whose heritage remained unidentified, occupation equally vague. Percy had never bothered to ask, and only now thought of it because Phrike’s tone shifted about, rising and falling curiously.

  Percy shook his head, and then swigged from his bottle. ‘Nah. It’s not like that.’

  Phrike laughed, ‘Then how is it? Face it; he’s had a thing for you since the day you met. It’s obvious.’

  ‘He’s Mormon.’

  ‘Norman the Mormon. And I thought my folks were fucking barmy. He fancies you, mate.’

  Percy refused to agree. But he had thought about it, because the unavoidable truth was that Norm’s affection for him ran deep. Joyann knew it, Norm’s wife, Verity, certainly knew it, and Percy himself had known it for some time. Processing this had at first been very simple: Norm had a crush; people have crushes. But the crush as Percy saw it refused to pass, and so Percy eventually felt forced to accept that Norm did indeed fancy him.

  And so what if he did? This was Percy’s overriding thought on the matter. But this blasé attitude wasn’t easy to maintain, because Norm’s open adoration sometimes made it impossible. And nor had Percy always taken such a relaxed view. There was a time when feelings close to disgust had stirred, revulsion, even; abhorrence that a man he knew quite well might be so attracted to him. This repulsion was brief, but it shocked Percy. It proved he wasn’t tolerant of others sexuality, let alone accepting of it. This was a difficult reality to face, because though Percy was a man inherently intolerant of others, what he hated most was bigotry. Yet here it was, a part of Percy’s inner self, risen up and exposed as exactly that. Thankfully this uncomfortable phase fizzled out, to be replaced by uncharacteristic feelings of guilt. Guilt, because even though Percy finally understood he wasn’t a homophobe, he still had to face the fact that for a time, however short, he had thought like one.

  Now, he both liked and pitied Norm. The pity was a sorrowful thing, and not because Norm was gay. If Norm were homosexual that was Norm’s business entirely. After the merry-go-round of emotion Percy had endured, he’d arrived back where he’d started, thinking nothing of it. Gay, straight, whatever; so what? No. He pitied Norm because Norm was one of the good guys in the world, and what this good guy wanted he could never have; what he wanted he denied himself because of his own nonsensical beliefs. The magnificent Nativity visit to the LDS Church during the previous Christmas had made concrete a feeling of injustice in Percy. He had watched Norm embrace a faith that would not in turn embrace him, a man who loyally followed it, despite himself. So evolved the Percy Field that refused to engage further on the subject of Norman Sullivan with his good friend Phrike.

  Phrike did not pursue it. ‘So what have we seen today?’

  ‘A monitor lizard, plus some egret.’

  ‘And the skink.’

  ‘Yes, you saw the skink.’

  ‘It’s all here, you know,’ Phrike said.

  ‘I know. And we’re barely half way round so we might get to see a croc yet.’

  ‘D’ya want to check out the next bird hide, Perc?’

  ‘Absolutely. I can see one just up there.’

  The two men made their way into the hide. It was empty, the long, narrow rectangular window running the length of the room, allowing a wide view across the mudflats. Immediately Percy spotted something.

  ‘What are those pools? Look, round things in the mud?’

  Phrike smiled. ‘Mudskippers make those. Look down there.’

  Percy followed Phrike’s direction, and saw a large, wedge-shaped fish lying in the mud; eyes perched on top of its head. When Sal wore a face-pack, she looked very similar. It was a first for him, and there was nothing Percy liked more than a first sighting. The longer he looked, the greater numbers of mudskippers he saw, as if his eye had cracked a code. Then he looked down, close to the wall of the building.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s big. Some kind of dog, maybe.’

  Phrike looked and then stepped back. ‘It’s a feral dog,’ he said, quietly. ‘Did you see the massive sore on its back?’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’ Percy was thinking that there were no barriers anywhere, and though he wasn’t afraid of the dog any more than he was afraid of the monitor lizard, he felt some things were best kept at a distance; that horrible sore, for one. He racked his brain for information regarding rabies, trying to haul the human encyclopaedia back into use. She refused to budge.

  ‘There’s no rabies here, as far as I know,’ Phrike said, helpfully. ‘I reckon this dog is why that cage is there.’

  Percy could see a square wire trap on the far side of the mudflat, sprung door open.

  ‘Baited, I imagine,’ Phrike went on. ‘Poor bastard didn’t ask to be born, did he?’

  As they quietly talked, so the lame dog began moving off, and only then could they see her long teats. ‘Bitch. Jeez,’ Percy sighed, ‘there must be loads of them. Maybe the crocs eat the pups?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  As the animal slowly wandered across the mud, Percy suggested they move on. Clearly there wasn’t much here, thanks to the dog. It was always good to blame.

  But Phrike was motionless, staring through his binoculars. ‘Look,’ he said handing them to Percy, ‘a night heron.’ He directed Percy’s aim.

  Percy spotted it, standing amongst low branches on the bank beside a shallow trickle of muddy water. Another first. Though no fan of birds in general, a youth spent wandering here and there exploring fields and riverside, had allowed waterfowl to creep in and fill a little niche in his heart.

  The bird was similar to what Percy considered to be a regular heron, the widespread grey heron hunting in streams across Europe. But the night heron was squat by comparison, with the appearance of having had a piece of its neck removed and its head sewn directly onto its shoulders. Also, its legs looked as if they had been subjected to the same surgery. Was it attempting to be something it considered more exotic, a bittern perhaps, while a bittern might look up to the grey heron with an equal envy? Why couldn’t birds just be satisfied?

  He returned the binoculars to Phrike, wondering why the hell he was again thinking about his wife.

  10. TRUDY r />
  A youthful beauty excited by the attention of others: Trudy’s mental summary of the young woman she was speaking with had left her feeling peculiar. It was neither sadness, nor regret, nor embarrassment, and neither was it jealousy, but it was something, and she had not felt it before.

  They were standing in the large foyer of a grand residence located very close to the Prime Minister’s private abode. The white marble staircase rose up on both sides, as two great water buffalo horns, turning onto wide landings joining to create a second, smaller, hall. From the magnificently high ceiling hung not one chandelier, but five, illuminating every corner. This was the house that Trudy’s premium friend called home. The woman was a much renowned socialite, seeming to sail through life with a straight back and a stern but beautifully shaped eye. To be invited to one of her parties meant more than a simple invitation to drink and eat at the host’s great expense, it meant a leap from standing outside of the expatriate elite to walking amongst its inner folds, to feel the chill of a judgemental embrace. It represented success.

  What made Trudy feel so strange was recognising herself in the young woman. She understood the pleasure that had been found on entering a world others dreamed of. The idea that people existed who did not wish for such a thing was impossible to entertain. Just as the proud resident of a capital city would not have a mind to believe that more people choose not to live amid soot and noise than do, certain their counterparts are resentful and feel denied the privilege, so it was amongst this tiny band of self-proclaimed elite. It simply was not possible to wish for different or consider anything greater. At least, for Trudy it hadn’t been, until Percy came along.

  A passing woman with whom Trudy used to play tennis interrupted their conversation. ‘Have you seen Marietta Morgan’s shoes? Ghastly.’

  Trudy had, and they were, but there was no point saying so, since the bearer of this shocking news had already wandered away, blatantly spreading the word as she went. Returning her attention to the young woman, Trudy apologised and asked her to continue with what she had been saying.

  Her companion was groomed with a precision few could achieve. Her long white gauzy dress draped and sparkled perfectly, this image of a goddess beautifully topped by a tiny diamond tiara sitting precisely where her sunglasses would the following day. Her makeup was immaculate, her body lithe and sculpted, hands and nails flawless. The only difference between the two women was Trudy now had to work for it, and what wouldn’t come through work was bought. It was not a game and nor was it without limits.

  Trudy still enjoyed such events. Though her ambitions now lay with Percy Field and fantasies as yet unfulfilled, she remained a loyal member of the elite. This was not a world that Hester moved in. Hester’s world was one of deep-rooted power and money that created money; countries made up its core, industry its mantle. This world, the place where Trudy’s own smaller space found room to overlap, was a place where clothes and holidays, beauty and real estate made up the currency; exchange rate fluctuating according to who knew whom, and what had sold when.

  A tray of canapés came by. Trudy declined the offering. She’d noticed small pieces of food had started catching in her teeth, and daren’t eat the tiny balls of black caviar. There was no way of recovering the fleshiness of her gums, so she’d recently begun a new regime of teeth and mouth cleaning. She could only try and stop her gums receding further. It was a nightmare not anticipated.

  What she wanted to eat were the miniature spring rolls she’d had the last time; a single bite size shallow-fried delight, bursting with mystery. But no Asian food was being served, since the theme was France. The parties always had a theme. A few of the rowdier men might dress up, but generally only the food and wine adhered to whatever whim was being fulfilled. Tonight’s party was no whim, but thrown in aid of charity, supporting one school’s efforts to raise money for a new school in a remote part of Cambodia. Trudy had spoken with one person who had sniffed at the fact that it was France being celebrated, and not independent Cambodia. Trudy remarked that as far as she knew, France’s wine was nicer. It was a joke, but the person had taken offence. Trudy never dare ask her host why she made the choices she did.

  As the young woman talked about a project she had worked on as a student of the same school, building houses in Laos, Trudy presented her most interested expression. Her head nodded slowly and she smiled periodically, asking the occasional question without having to really listen or think first. It was easy. She fitted in with superficiality, found pleasure in luxury, and knew herself well enough to simply sit back and enjoy what came her way; she knew what was expected of her. But however much she revelled in the sounds and aromas of high living, one person was proving to be an enormous distraction. Percy. She could not help but think of him. What would he think of her assessment of the young woman before her? What might he have thought of the young Trudy herself?

  Soon, Marietta Morgan joined them; a woman who, years before, was better known to Trudy as Tom’s mum. She teetered on the heels of her denounced shoes as if she had been with Trudy all night; not asking what was being discussed, or if she could join the conversation, but merging regardless. This was a classic manoeuvre for the socially confident, Trudy knew. By doing this, a guest could appear to be any number of things and achieve any number of aims, even avoiding talking altogether. Marietta would wait approximately one minute and then interrupt, Trudy guessed.

  The glamorous young woman before Trudy was recounting tales from her recent trip to Tokyo, reeling off a list of things she had bought there whilst pretending to moan about the exorbitant prices charged for teppanyaki.

  ‘The ingredients are very special, though, aren’t they?’ she added.

  At that moment, the predicted interruption came.

  ‘I have the funniest tale to tell you about teppanyaki,’ Marietta began, laughing.

  Trudy stood and listened while the tale was told, all chance of enjoying the humour lost the moment it had been declared funny. Trudy’s face, though these days far from athletic, moved through a series of subtle expressions. First came interest, then intrigue, followed by shock, finishing with a smile to show approval of the punch line. Truthfully, even seconds later, Trudy could not have retold the story.

  She was thinking about Percy and, in a way, this made her feel sad. Though she had begun to feel worthless, grown bored of advantage, part of her looked back upon mindlessness with pleasure; it was a place where idleness had no price. The arrival of Percy had shaken things up and excited her, but losing an easy conscience was the forfeit. Percy was like a drug, complicating things but too hard to give up, and the more she had, the more she needed. While it was refreshing to feel removed from her long held reality, living secretly in this new way was exhausting. She had confided in Hester, who had taken the view that she should allow things to run their course without pressure, saying that it would all be all right in the end. Trudy did not know what this meant, but since it sounded as if Hester thought her feelings for Percy were simply a phase, Trudy had dropped the subject. The idea that it was nothing more relevant than a passing crush was offensive.

  Marietta asked if Trudy had come alone. She said she hadn’t, before repeating Marietta’s question to her young companion, who she could see was itching to move on.

  Though he hadn’t been seen for some time, Trudy’s husband was with her; whisked away by some people Trudy had no interest in, the moment they’d arrived. She was happiest circulating alone, without the pressure of his eye upon her, as if he were judging her every statement for merit. She enjoyed his confident ways and the carefree life it brought, except she was beginning to wonder how free she really was, given she had become incapable of caring for herself. She had no worries except one: what would happen if they moved? What if change took them somewhere with no expat community, or live-in help, somewhere other people did not take care of the bills as a matter of course? Trudy could not recall the last time she had entered a supermarket or paid a utility bi
ll. Had she become a parody of the country itself, with her nips and tucks and hopes for eternal youth?

  Unlike her husband, Percy did not hang on her every word and take issue with whatever she said. Percy did not ask anything of her, though she wished he would. The few times he had been rather sharp she had taken as a sign of closeness, of him revealing that she meant something to him.

  ‘You seem rather far away tonight,’ Marietta said, as the younger woman excused herself and hurried away. ‘Distant. Everything alright?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. A little tired perhaps.’

  ‘Already? Come on. Let’s find the others.’ Lightly, she took Trudy’s arm and began walking. ‘Tell me, how are your children? Tom is doing so well for himself in Hong Kong.’

  Trudy had no idea who the others were, but went along happily enough, only half listening as Marietta bragged of her son’s brilliance, never asking again about Trudy’s children.