The Cult of Following, Book One

And then suddenly there it was, all alone in the last of a long line of glass enclosures. The label read: Skinny Pig, and it was a hairless guinea pig, naked all but for a few strands projecting from the top of its nose. Norm studied it. Had someone put hair remover on it, or shaved it, he wondered. He knew brightly coloured fish were sometimes treated with food dye and after a week or two the apparently exotic faded to natural white, but would someone mess around with a mammal in the same way?

  ‘Is this natural?’ he asked the sales assistant, whose eye he had been avoiding as she followed him around the shop.

  ‘Yes. It is bred that way.’

  Norm felt a fool, because of course the nakedness of the animal wasn’t natural, but how else could he have phrased it.

  ‘I’ll take it. And whatever else it will need.’

  Without further ado, the assistant gathered up all the necessary equipment and feed, which seemed excessive and made a local cat suddenly seem a better prospect than it had been. Eventually the little bag of guts, skin and bones was scooped from the pen and placed in a small cardboard carrier. 

  At the checkout the long process of scanning began; mineral blocks, water bottle, food dish, hay, straw, supplements, it appeared endless. Eventually the cage and the piggy were also scanned.

  ‘Nets or Visa? Visa. Okay, that will be eleven hundred and fifty dollars, sixty cents.’

  Norm choked.

  ‘Eleven hundred and fifty dollars and sixty cents, sir,’ repeated the assistant, courteously. Noticing Norm’s expression she added, ‘the cage is three hundred.’

  ‘So that leaves eight hundred and fifty unaccounted for.’

  ‘I can put it through again for you, if you like?’ The assistant smiled, more than willing to help. 

  ‘Eleven hundred and fifty? The animal was one hundred and eighty, the cage three hundred…’

  The assistant interrupted only because Norm paused. ‘Ah. The skinny pig is five hundred and thirty five dollars, sir. The other guinea pigs are one hundred and eighty.’

  ‘But why?’ Norm was cross and had the hot flush of a person overspending.

  ‘It has no hair.’

  ‘So shouldn’t it be less?’

  The assistant laughed politely, but made no move to abandon the sale.

  Norm groaned and then sighed and then huffed. ‘Go on then. My mistake. I can’t put him back now.’

  ‘Her. The animal is a young female, sir.’

  ‘Her,’ Norm repeated. This was certainly not an experience to share with his wife, Norm decided, for she would laugh a little too hard. And Percy had better accept the animal because he didn’t think he could cope with seeing such extravagance rejected. ‘Could someone help me with everything, please. Just to a cab.’

  ‘Of course. One moment and I will get someone.’

  In the taxi home, Norm realised he would have to go directly to Percy’s house. There was too much equipment to manage, and the animal couldn’t remain boxed for too long. It was far from the perfect vision of handing Percy a tiny container with a small cute face peeking out through fur. Norm caught the driver peering back at him in his rear view mirror and looked away hurriedly. The last thing he wanted was a conversation about what he had bought, how much it cost and whom it was for.

  *

  When Norm arrived at Percy’s house, Percy was out. This left Norm in a quandary. He did not want to take Sinead, the newly named skinny pig, home, but neither could he leave her to steam to death inside the cardboard box. The pervasive tropical heat meant there was nowhere cool enough to leave it. Nor was he prepared to traipse around hunting for Percy, when he knew it would be fruitless. He sat down on the step, surrounded by the accoutrements of first-world small mammal ownership, and considered his options. What had seemed such a good idea was transforming into the rash decision it actually was, and Norm’s spirits sank.

  On a nearby step, a boy was sitting looking gloomier than Norm thought it possible for a child to look. Why was it that such an obviously privileged child looked so profoundly miserable? Even Norm, with his rather odd childhood, had never suffered from gloom. Anguish, emotional wrestling, frustration yes, but never gloom. Norm tried to catch the boy’s eye, but either the boy did not want to communicate or was so caught up in thought that he didn’t notice the attention. Two more children appeared at the far end of the path, a boy and a girl, and once they had reached the sad looking child they too sat down, consoling him with equally sombre expressions. Norm, being of sensitive character, knew better than to make a flippant remark such as it might never happen. Along with the teachings of Joseph Smith, his parents had drilled into him the importance of not making assumptions. Never say that to anyone, they insisted, for perhaps the it had just happened. He had never forgotten.

  The girl noticed Norm watching, and spoke out boldly in the way of many expat children, ‘His mum just died. Well, last week, anyway.’

  It was a shock to hear such terrible news spoken of so plainly from perfectly innocent young lips, news that could crush the devil. It brought tears to Norm’s eyes.

   ‘I’m very sorry about that,’ he said.

  ‘She was really ill. Ate something bad his dad says. My mum says it was a terrible waste, but I’m not sure if she means his mum or the food.’

  Norm looked on, feeling pale, but the girl’s face went blank. There was nothing else to be said.

  The boy she’d arrived with, her companion in consolation, spoke up, ‘He’s just had a row with his dad. Now his dad’s crying.’

  Norm felt his heart tug.

  At that moment the shape of Percy appeared at the end of the path. Norm’s heart ceased tugging and gave a little flip. This was it, the moment of truth. How on earth was he going to tell him? 

  To his surprise, Percy did not scowl at the sight of him but smiled slightly, looking genuinely pleased to see a friend. At least, that is how it seemed to Norm.

  *

  Percy, who had enjoyed too many beers, squinted, trying to make out whom it was sitting on the step to his house, surrounded by boxes. He winced when he recognised Norm. Life had been far less complicated since he hadn’t had to deal with the emotional pressure of a friend without personal boundaries. Had he been less drunk he would have groaned, but as it was Percy’s brain swilled with a carefree emptiness; the purpose of his outing fulfilled. So, feeling genial, he accepted the situation.

  ‘Norm how’re you mate wha’sall the stuff?’ he belched.

  ‘I bought you a gift. Some company for you,’ Norm rushed his words, ‘her name is Sinead. She has big brown eyes and not much hair – well none actually – hence the name. I thought she was a good choice for you. Easy to care for.’

  ‘Sinead?’

  ‘Yes. You know… the singer? She… she…’ Norm’s voice trailed away.

  ‘A girl, eh? Soundsgorgus… I don’t mind about hair… s’overated…’ Percy began to gesture with his hands, a rounding motion ballooning from his chest. ‘Is she… y’know… does she have…’

  Norm was quick to interrupt, ‘No. No. Not a girl. This is Sinead, here, in this box.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Norm, how d’ya do tha?’

  The three children watched, having moved to a safer distance.

  ‘Not a girl, Percy. A pet. For you.’

  Percy was confused. A drunken spasm of anguish knitted his eyebrows and curled his lips unattractively, leaving him with a look of agony. ‘Pet girl?’ he continued, ‘I don’t think you can do tha Norm.’

  Norm began mirroring Percy’s expression, features twisting for no other reason than he was being drawn into the face of the man he adored. Far too drunk to comprehend anything, Percy stared back at Norm, until Norm took the house key from Percy’s hand and moved the show indoors.

  The house was not as it would have been had Sal left Percy while they lived in England. There, it would have quickly become a stinking mass of dirty dishes, discarded socks and empty bottles. Here, Mila kept it immaculately tidy, ensuring the fri
dge remained well stocked, and cooking meals for Percy on the days she came to clean. Although orders from Sal and some extra pay kept things afloat, it was Mila herself that kept Percy eating. If still in the house when Percy got home, she would sit him down and stare hard until he picked up his knife and fork and began. As frightened of her big face as ever, Percy always did as instructed, inwardly vowing to fire her before she had the chance to intimidate him again. Her commitment, however, was not for Percy’s benefit. She made this plain. Rather, it was to ensure her culinary efforts were not wasted. But for Percy it was not all bad, for even though he was eating the strangest combinations, from cottage pie with grapes to lasagne with strawberries and chicken nuggets, everything was perfectly cooked and surprisingly appetising. Satisfied and with full belly, he always mentally re-employed the fearsome maid, leaving her free to terrify him again some other day, relieved to have someone else think about food even if it was just a few times a week.

  Inside the sitting room, the moment his backside hit the freshly cleaned chair, Percy fell into a deep alcoholic slumber, head thrown back, slack mouthed, skin and hair waxy with neglect. The house may have been clean, but Percy was not.

  Norm placed the boxes on the floor and watched as Percy slept.

  ‘Nothin’ compares t’you…’ Percy slurred sleepily, a snippet of dream falling from the fog, ‘nothin’ compares t’you…’

  Norm gazed at his dishevelled hero. He repeated the words Percy had spoken and kneeled. 

  ‘… Put my arms around every Norm I meet… Norm? Norm? Willing to give it another try …’ Percy shuddered as his dream shifted. ‘Lift me up… Show them… Lift them up…’ Percy continued, before snorting into silence.

  Norm scribbled a note, raised himself up, and with a skip in his step, left.

  Chapter 14

  GREAT AND SMALL

  To say it was a city that never slept was not fitting for Singapore. Each day from just before dawn until eleven in the morning, sleep was exactly what much of the city did, and it was as revellers began to make their way home via any one of the hundreds of hawker centres, that Percy was roused from his own numbing slumber. He felt a nagging irritation as he stirred, like a fine sliver of thistle imbedded in his brain, a sense that he was feeling again a thing that had begun to pass, an unwelcome something. Suddenly the thing revealed itself as it did everyday: Sal had run off with another man. Recollections came rushing, an acrid deluge. Was it never to get any better and stay that way?

  At first, Percy did not know where he was. Even as a drunk, he was a man accustomed to waking in a comfortable bed. Crashing wherever his body fell was an activity of the distant past. Leaning back in the chair, through the darkness Percy slowly recognised his own sitting room. Unmoving, he listened to the chi chat clucking of a gecko calling, and what he assumed was the same lizard rustling in the paper bin. 

  ‘Mila…’ he groaned, accusingly, thinking she must have moved the waste paper basket into the sitting room again, a counter manoeuvre in the constant battle of Move The Bin.

  He farted loudly, barely bothering to lift a buttock, filling the air around him with a fruity concoction that coated his teeth. After choking a little and retching, he grimaced. So this was the sum of his life, he thought dismally: bin battles, hangovers, stink.

   In the heavy gloom of early dawn, the gecko clucked a final chorus before retiring. As it called the rustling increased, and only then did Percy realise that call and movement were not coming from the same location. The gecko had tucked itself inside the grill of the main air conditioning unit, or at least somewhere close by, whereas the rustling was coming from the floor.

  Percy’s feet shot up, a wrong move he remembered too late, had the rustling been the snake he was imagining. Dangerous Spitting Black cobra were known for hunting near or in houses, he knew, for the tasty supply of rodents and roaches. Sal had told him, during a discussion meant to encourage him to settle. It had occurred to Percy many times since, however, that perhaps she had been secretly trying to drive him away with all her annoying information.

  Safely curled up in his chair, he looked carefully at the floor before him, littered with shadowy shapes. Heart racing from the fright, Percy struggled up and after tiptoeing lightly across the room, flicked on the light switch. 

  He stared. Unable to clearly remember anything post bar, the boxes and bags presented a mystery. But it was obvious where the movement was coming from. Hesitantly, Percy picked up the travel box.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he croaked, voice gravelly from drink. Inside, the smelly Sinead was covered in faeces, softened by panic and urine. At first Percy held the box away from himself, before drawing it back for a closer look. ‘Look at you… you poor bugger. Wait there, I’ll find something else to put you in.’ 

  Carefully placing the box on the floor, Percy rummaged through the piles of pet accessories. Finding the wire cage and plastic base, he put the bald creature inside and attached a filled water bottle, leaving her to drink while he made something for himself. Three cups of tea and one strong coffee would be sufficient to get him going, this was a proven fact. He glanced at the clock. Six forty-five. It would be light in half an hour or so. Yet another day beginning. His mouth felt as if he had licked the inside of the pig’s shitty container. A vague memory drifted into his mind, possibly a dream? Something about Norm and a girl. Was it sexual? Percy smacked his lips together noisily, frowning defensively, but the recollection floated away before he could grasp it.

  For no particular reason, he again glanced at the clock, and with that fleeting look so his heart began sinking as it did every morning. Constant drinking had brought with it such lethargy that for Percy to actively contemplate any day as it stretched before him was impossible. The hours of waking were pointless, because nothing mattered anymore. There was nothing to be said; there was nothing more to be done. For whatever reason, this sense of futility had begun making him vaguely fearful, though he couldn’t say of exactly what. And he had no real interest in working out what gave rise to this feeling, because to do so would involve effort. Even the peculiar mystery of the tiny uninvited naked guest, burdened his fragile mind with no greater sense of urgency than a biscuit hovering over a mug of tea waiting to be dunked.

  But deep inside, hiding from recognition, was the answer to this underlying question of fear: he was anchorless. Sal’s betrayal, as much as her departure, had unfastened Percy’s sense of security. He was drifting alone in a space he thought he knew, but that he no longer recognised. Having often suspected he was a person who might be better suited to living alone, Percy was slowly facing a different truth. Sal may not have been around often, but she and her things had made the space a home, her foibles and banter keeping beat with his heart, her life maintaining the pulse of his. Just as moving to Singapore had not offered the welcome solitude expected, so Sal’s abandonment left him utterly lonely. 

  At that moment, an empty wretch in an empty house, Percy cried. He cried because he hated her.

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, he watched through the blur as his small guest drank almost a quarter of a bottle of water without stopping, but his thoughts remained with Sal, wondering, as he did everyday, how many lies she had told over the years. He wiped a rolling tear, wondering who knew about the affair before he did, and how many people now considered him an idiot. How many more than usual? And of those people, how many thought he deserved it? And why had no one warned him all those years ago that he was marrying a bitch. He would not have listened, but that was not the point.

  Percy had been thinking a lot about the old expression, what goes around comes around, for Sal had been engaged to someone else when he and she had first got together. She’d been a young student committing to another, before either had finished their A-levels. It said something about her, he decided, that willingness to walk away from her fiancé with a man she had just met. Was it this fundamental lack of commitment that made her so accommodating about not having children? We
ren’t they the ultimate tie between two people, far greater than a formal piece of paper and a ring? Perhaps she always knew she would leave.

  The whistling kettle interrupted his thoughts; eyes now dry. He was not especially hungry but decided the mini beanbag could probably do with something to eat. Before attending to the kettle, Percy rummaged through the mess surrounding the cage and found food and a bowl. The guinea pig immediately began a squeaky whistle of her own, and for a moment the house echoed with what sounded like the beginnings of a mad orchestral movement, the kettle screaming, the piggy whistling, Percy’s head thumping. 

  In an unfortunate mirroring of the seconds before Percy’s heart was pummelled by his wife’s cold words, the note left by Norm slipped to the floor. Percy picked it up, pulse quickening. What now?

  Dear Percy.

  I came to see you this afternoon with a gift. You were not feeling very focussed so I wrote you this note to better explain my reasons. You need a friend and will not let any person be that friend. Maybe you can let Sinead into your heart. She won’t judge you, pressure you or expect anything from you, only that you care for her basic needs. We love you Percy. As a very wise man said: nothing compares to you.

  Your mate, Norm x

  It was all very confusing for Percy’s tired brain. Was Sinead the guinea pig? An indistinct recollection emerged, of Norm coming to the house and bringing a girl with him, although Percy never actually saw her. Was she Sinead? Percy’s eyes lifted to the ceiling.

  Removing the kettle from the heat and leaving the guinea pig to eat in peace, Percy made a quick dash to the bedroom to check for naked girls. Relieved yet disappointed to find his bed empty, he returned to the kitchen, made a cup of tea, grabbed the biscuit tin and went outside onto the deck. 

  The moment just before dawn was the nicest time to be outside, he’d found. Warm air was yet to be saturated with the steamy breath of so many plants and so much rain, a stifling humid stew that would boil up under the hot sun. Singapore had seen Percy change over time, and not just because Sal had shat on him from a great height. He was now a person able to accept life there. More than that, he liked it. Percy had come to rely on the heat, the regular hours of daylight, the fact that his food didn’t go cold in seconds. It amused him rather than riled him that cold drinks were instantly awash with condensation, and that condensation was on the outside and not the inside of car windows. When he first moved to Asia, had someone asked him what his top three activities would be, the first would have been sitting on a plane flying back to England, second would be switching on the air conditioning, third to be asleep.