The Cult of Following, Book One

  In contrast, Percy hadn’t sent Sal anything. He told himself this was not because he was angry, but that he had no particular wish to send one. This wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t sent a card because he hadn’t thought of it until he got hers. From the outset, Sal had been the resident card-sender with Percy rarely signing even his own name. Without Sal, the much-diminished Field household had sent not a single seasonal message to anyone.

  Whatever the facts of card etiquette, whether in marriage or estrangement, the issue hadn’t sat comfortably with Percy for the first week after receiving her card. A peculiar feeling that felt annoyingly like guilt caused him to think of it often, picking the card up for inspection whilst mulling over what to do. She was the wrong doer, so why should he send one? But not sending didn’t give him any sense of victory, or control.

  Eventually he was able to reconcile the irritation after remembering he didn’t have an address for her, since she’d insisted on redirecting her mail instead of making him privy to the location of her love nest. The system was flawed, or she’d not set it up for long enough, because aside from the mail early on, he’d also recently received several cards for her that he’d automatically put to one side rather than toss away, though where they had gone he couldn’t say. Mila had moved them. Bloody Mila. She still made the bed with the duvet cover opening at the head of the bed, and not the bottom.

  Conveniently, Percy overlooked sending a card to his own address for redirection to her, so when on Christmas Eve he again knocked down the silkscreen image of a Japanese mountain, frustrating him with its good taste, his conscience was finally clear. He’d gone to bed comfortably drunk and dreamed of nothing. 

  Leading up to Christmas, right across the island, Singapore had been unseasonably and uncharacteristically drought-like, toasting beneath blue skies; the air so dry that the grass was beginning to brown.

  Stepping briefly into Sal’s role as teacher of all things Singapore, Norm had informed Percy that December could be very wet; the rainy one of the two monsoons experienced each year. ‘It might seem dry now, but it will come. When it rains day after day after day, it can feel a little too cool for comfort. And it can become quite grey and dull. You’ll become bored on your own, stuck inside.’ He urged Percy to go back to England and enjoy the snow.

  Percy had looked at Norm as if he were imbecile. ‘I thought you’d lived in England. It hardly ever bloody snows. That’s just on cards.’

   Norm had been wrong about the monsoon rains, and come the day itself nothing had changed. From the moment Percy opened his eyes, he realised the twenty-fifth was set to be a perfect day. To sit beneath clear skies by the pool felt like luxury.

  Percy had not chosen to entirely close himself off from friends, and very early Christmas morning he sent his only seasonal greeting. It was to Art, a festive message via email. Unusually, Art had not instantly replied even though for him it was still just about Christmas Eve and he never went to bed early. Percy didn’t mind, for Art came from a large family, and though anyone meeting him would never guess, he also had a very nice wife, a wife that liked Percy in a way that Sal had never liked Art, whatever she claimed to the contrary. He would, Percy knew, be very busy. When the reply did come late Christmas evening, it was to inform Percy that Britain in its entirety had woken to a white Christmas, and he’d been busy all day with his nephews and one niece making snowmen.

  By now, back home with his feet up thinking what film he might download for the evening, Percy began wondering if England would have been the better option after all. He decided not. Firstly, he couldn’t have afforded the fare, and secondly, who needed company? More importantly, who needed cold? The day had been marvellous, and in so many ways all the better without Sal. There had been no pressure to put up a tree the moment December came, or to buy gifts any earlier than Christmas Eve, and none to wrap up presents; or even to cook. The fact was, rather than lonely, Percy’s day – Percy’s entire Christmas – had been a triumph.

  Forgotten were the cards addressed to them both that made him feel sick, and forgotten were the many gifts he’d spotted while wandering the shopping malls that Sal would have loved, though he would never have noticed them had they still been together.

  His train of thought regarding wives found a winding path to Joyann. Percy and his neighbours would not be the only ones experiencing Christmas irrevocably changed.

  *

  Joyann smiled and waved to her brother and his family, her mother sitting as a small dumpy bird in the seat next to him. She was liver spotted and rheumy eyed and looking elderly, but her face was as bright as ever. And her hair, Joyann noticed, had been left to turn white, the black she held onto for so long clearly now a habit dropped. It had been sometime since they had seen one another, her mother having chosen to focus herself around her son’s life and not Joyann’s. There was no obvious reason for this that Joyann could think of, save perhaps tradition. Joyann supposed she could push herself into her mother’s life, do more to gain her attention, but why? What for? The favoured son would always mean more and Joyann’s interest in gaining her greater affection had long since waned.

  They had spoken several times since the estrangement and at length, but they had not actually seen one another. Joyann always professed to be too busy to visit, but in truth she didn’t want the kind of sympathy that would be offered. Any further words of comfort her mother might have would be inextricably tied to a face filled with pity that also said, I told you so.

  Meeting Joyann’s eyes, her mother reached up and patted her own hair, as if recognising the change her daughter had not yet seen. ‘Natural,’ she said.

  ‘It looks very nice, Mama,’ Joyann said. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ the old woman replied. ‘And to you, young man,’ she continued, looking now to Lucas. ‘Ah! So tall!’

  Lucas stepped from behind his mother, and greeted his grandmother shyly before scurrying away to sit with his cousins. Joyann watched him, his new clothes and flashy sports shoes shining bright. The morning so far had been hard, with Lucas waking late and weeping for his broken family as much as his absent father. Joyann supposed he had not woken ridiculously early as he normally did because little of this particular Christmas day felt normal. Her heart grew heavy in her chest as she thought of it, remembering herself only hours before sitting alone waiting for the sound of his footsteps, repeatedly checking on him in bed to make sure he was all right, before taking yet another tea outside to be struck once more by the silence. The weather was much nicer than it often was and the maid had gone home for Christmas, so the private peace and beautiful sunshine should have been a luxury. It was not.

  But Lucas had cheered up after opening his presents, the boy’s mood lifting considerably once he was dressed in his new clothes ready for the day ahead. He loved Christmas, raring to get to the hotel and feast on the delights of a Christmas brunch. How very different this modern tradition was from the one Joyann grew up with, she thought, recalling the treat of chicken with rice, a bustling family about her, all lending an excitement that was surely equal to his. And how entirely different it was from her own mother’s childhood Christmases, singing carols at home.

  Joyann took the empty seat saved for her, sandwiching the old woman between herself and her brother. Today there was no sister-in-law to talk with, since there was terminal illness in her family and the call to be by a dying side had come the morning before. Sitting there, Joyann felt there was a certain pretence about the day, something more than those fleeting cynical moments any adult might feel from time to time. Whether borne of her sister-in-law’s strife or her own, the two unpleasant circumstances combined to give a surreal ambience, a sense of being an observer rather than participant.

  Seemingly from nowhere and for no apparent reason, a sudden change of mood came over Joyann. It was so unexpected it was as if someone had reached into her brain and planted a thought: of course this day would feel good again. It was only a matt
er of time. In fact, next year would be entirely different. 

  She smiled to herself. It was nice to feel her old, reasonable self fighting back, to have common sense tap her on the shoulder, however gently. After throwing a tantrum at the bird park, she’d been left wondering what sort of person she was turning into.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’ her mother asked. ‘Has he wished his son happy birthday?’

  ‘Christmas, Mama,’ Joyann said.

  The correction was ignored. Joyann noticed her mother’s gaze slowly switching from her to her brother, as if trying to draw him into the conversation. His attention, however, was on his phone. 

  ‘Yes,’ Joyann eventually replied. ‘He called Lucas while we were on our way here.’

  Her mother exhaled a small, sharp, dissatisfied breath through her nose; lips pursed.

  Joyann was aware that the old woman had hoped to criticise Ethan, and feeling less defensive about the whole matter, added coolly, ‘It was a very short call.’

  Her mother took the bait and pounced, and as she began moaning about Ethan’s low worth, Joyann found herself feeling less and less protective of her unsuccessful marriage. It felt extraordinary, for what she had feared to hear in fact came as an enormous relief.

  ‘Too vain. Vain and selfish,’ her mother continued, head nodding and eyes fixed as if she were talking to the tabletop.

  Joyann listened without comment.

  ‘The first time I met him I knew. I said to myself this man is no good. He is too vain and selfish.’

   She talked on, and Joyann let her until her brother had finished whatever it was he was doing, and interrupted the old lady as if she were not speaking at all. ‘Let’s eat.’ He looked to his cut short mother and smiled, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ Joyann agreed. ‘I am famished.’

  With that, the three young cousins seated at the table leapt up with a small cheer.

  As Joyann helped her mother to stand, she watched Lucas head off, more animated than he had been in a long time. She smiled. Last Christmas, she had spoken with him before he went to choose his food, insisting he first pick something healthy before indulging in the delicacies he most enjoyed. This year saw no room for instruction, or advice, since this year Joyann felt only relief at her son’s seemingly genuine good cheer. If he returned with a plate of lobster, jellied sweets and nothing else, it could not matter less.

  Before selecting her own dishes, Joyann made sure her mother had everything she wanted and was safely settled back at the table with the children. The old woman had a penchant for Champagne, saying it reminded her of an American girl she’d become very good friends with around the time of Singapore’s independence. No one in the family had ever met this American, but all felt as if they knew her since she was spoken of so often. 

  ‘What happened to your American friend, Mama?’ Joyann asked, as a waiter filled her mother’s empty glass.

  ‘Mable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She died. Ten years ago.’

  ‘I was meaning before that.’

  ‘Before that? Before that, she lived.’ Her mother’s smile reached her eyes, as she sipped her drink.

  Joyann chose not to pursue it. There was no scandal or wild story, she knew that much, and clearly her mother wanted a peaceful moment. She left her, chopsticks in hand dipping a dumpling into vinegar and shredded ginger.

  Before walking away, Joyann’s gaze found its way to Lucas’ plate. He had indeed returned with lobster and a pile of jellied sweets, but also a pool of chocolate, beneath which rose a mysterious lump. She looked to the chocolate fountain, where one of his cousins was already refilling, stabbing strawberries with a short wooden skewer before immersing the sweet fruit in glossy brown liquid. 

  ‘I am very pleased to see you have taken a healthy option, Lucas.’ She laughed softly, and was thrilled to see him grinning back at her as he messily popped the strawberry into his mouth.

  *

  Norm and Verity were putting on their swim things, ready to spend the morning by the pool. The condo was quiet since many families were away.

  ‘Don’t you want to see anyone today?’ Verity asked, as she expertly wrapped her new turquoise silk sarong about herself. ‘I know there’s not the church service you’d prefer, but we usually see someone from the church on Christmas Day.’

  ‘No. I’d rather have a quiet one with you.’ 

  ‘Okay.’

  Norm could feel his wife’s eyes lingering on him for a moment. Without even seeing her expression, he knew it was not the look she gave very occasionally that meant he might have to dig deep and muster up some manly interest. Rather, it was a silent question, though what that question was he couldn’t think.

  Changed, Norm rolled up two beach towels and headed out. For whatever reason, their maid had not asked to go home for the festive season, and neither Norm nor Verity had thought to offer leave, since the question was normally asked by her and well in advance. When told to take the day off she had declined, so from the kitchen came the sound of busy hands and the aroma of roasting meat.

  ‘Norm? Is something wrong?’ asked Verity, trailing behind as she pushed pedicured feet into glittery flip-flops. ‘Don’t you like your present?’ 

  In line with Norm’s parents’ shift to German tradition – since as a family it was in Germany they’d lived longest – gifts were given on Christmas Eve. Though his parents came from Christmas Day gift-giving stock, as did Verity with her Welsh background, still this other way of doing things persisted.

  Norm turned to face her. ‘I love it.’ He fingered his new watch, a silver Rolex. He thought back to the night before. It had been a relaxing evening out for dinner, with easy talk of Christmas Eve’s gone by and the places they’d travelled together.

  ‘I hope so. It cost a bomb. But we can change it, if you like. I really don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t want to change it.’ 

  ‘You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you? And I don’t mean just the Christmas present.’

  ‘Of course.’ Norm found two sun loungers side by side, separated only by a small table sprouting a sunshade. He laid out the towels. ‘I’m fine. I always feel a little quiet on Christmas day. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Do they? I don’t,’ she said, sitting down.

  Norm put a hand on her bare shoulder, then leaned in and kissed her rosy cupid lips. ‘But you aren’t like other people, my love.’

  ‘Aren’t I now,’ she said, with a mock sternness. ‘And why would that be?’

  ‘You put up with me, for a start.’ Norm looked down at her squarely, fists resting on his hips. ‘You haven’t got a drink, Misses Sullivan. Let me get you one.’

  ‘It’s a bit early.’

  ‘It’s Christmas. What do you want?’

  Verity lay back. ‘I’d like a glass of bubbly please, waiter.’

  Norm pretended to write the order in the palm of his hand. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Some nuts.’

  He scribbled again, before heading back to the apartment and gathering what was needed. When he returned, it was to a surprised wife.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the tray he was holding.

  ‘This? I thought I would pour myself a glass, too, though now I have it I doubt I will drink it. I just thought, what the hell.’

  ‘Norm?’

  ‘What? Live a little.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘And what about that?’ She again pointed to the tray.

  ‘What?’ he said, pretending not to see the small gift he had placed there.

  ‘Norm! I’ve had my present already,’ she smoothed the fabric of her striking sarong, ‘and it’s absolutely gorgeous.’

  Norm placed the tray on the table and plonked himself down on the edge of the lounger, facing his wife. He picked up the small gold wrapped parcel and gave it to her. ‘This is an extra. This
is the gift that tells you how I feel about you, no matter what.’

  ‘You are a naughty boy. One gift each is what we agreed.’ Slowly, Verity peeled away the paper to reveal a dark velvet box marked Tiffany. She gasped even before opening it, for Tiffany was her favourite jeweller in Singapore. Pushing up the lid revealed a ring set with a single pink stone. 

  ‘Oh my God, Norman Sullivan! You shouldn’t have! It is so beautiful!’

  ‘It’s a pink sapphire. I thought the colour matched your eyes.’

   ‘Stop it!’ Verity laughed, her gaze leaving the ring only briefly.

   ‘It’s set in platinum. It’s a different cut than the diamond was on your engagement ring.’

  ‘Yes, wherever that ended up.’

  ‘Look. You see? It’s glassy, rather than sparkly. I thought it was interesting.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’

   ‘I should and I did. I am not an easy husband to have, Verity, but I do love you. Very much. I want you to know that.’ Norm took the box from his wife and carefully picked out the ring, before pushing it onto her plump smooth finger. ‘It’s an eternity ring.’

  With an outstretched hand, she admired the gift before smiling at him, broadly. ‘We’re all right, aren’t we, you and me.’ There was no question asked.

  ‘We are,’ he agreed, gently.

  Chapter 30

  WITHOUT CAUTION

  The room was vast. High walls held enormous pictures depicting peaceful scenes of lotus flowers and water, delicate grasses gently bowing in the breeze, sun streaked blue seas. The pictures were meant to be calming, Percy could see, and perhaps uplifting, but to him the imagery was incongruous, for they symbolised a peace far out of reach of all who walked below. Or so he assumed. The building was cavernous with marble floors that cooled tired feet, stone beautifully pale and polished, bringing light to a place that, only once you thought to look, proved to have no windows. Beneath the smooth veneer it was what it was, a police station.