Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“But I’m working at lunch.”

Rachel raised a hand with her back turned. “After work then.”

Robert, the store’s general manager, passed her on his way to the café. He was a large man of broad waddling hips, stout shoulders and a belly on which his tie rested. Splashes of silver crowned his greased hair. His eyes, large as a hawk’s, peered through a jarring pair of heavy-framed glasses. He thumbed at the departing Rachel. “I hope she paid. They only get staff discounts, not free meals.”

“She even gave a tip,” said Arthur, clearing Rachel’s empty cup. “What can I get you, Robert?”

“The usual.” Robert sat down with a grunt. “Grab a pie for yourself too, Arthur. Put it on my tab.”

“Thank you, but Rachel got me a muffin.”

Arthur went about his preparations for the café’s opening at ten. There was the hissing of steam, coffee cups clinking softly against one another, the metallic rustling of cutlery being poured onto a tray. An assistant went into the kitchen, and in that moment they were alone.

“Arthur.” Robert’s voice rose and thickened.

Arthur peered over the stacked trays. That tone usually meant something.

“The grapevine says your ID isn’t legitimate.”

Arthur went on working with deliberate casualness. “The authorities had no problems with it.”

“Suppose it isn’t in their records. I’d be hiring you illegally.”

“So you’re firing me?”

Robert landed his cup hard on the saucer. “I just want to know what’s going on with you, Arthur. I’ve heard things about you in London.”

“I trained there as a barista for three years.”

Robert took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. “I heard you got into a tangle with the triads.”

“No tangle, Robert,” said Arthur. “I loved the brew and that was it.”

Robert regarded Arthur sternly from beneath his brows, his gaze unflinching. He permitted a few moments of silence while Arthur worked on. Then at the height of Arthur’s discomfort, he spoke, “Tread carefully, Arthur. I don’t want trouble and I don’t want some other bloke running this café either.”

Arthur twitched the corners of his mouth into what he thought was a smile. “I won’t get you into trouble, Robert. You’ve been very kind to me.”

The café’s phone rang; Arthur picked it up. It was from administration and he handed it over to Robert. The conversation went on inaudibly, with Robert nodding away while shoving forkfuls of pie into his mouth. When it ended Robert returned the handset, emptied his cup and hurriedly departed.

The clock read 9.15. Along the way to the latrine Arthur met Aini, a petite young salesgirl from the food department on the same level. She uttered a soft, polite greeting and Arthur returned one. He didn’t know much about her, except that she was about six months pregnant and that whenever she had time she would be knitting little woollen clothes for her unborn baby.

In the washroom Arthur doused his face and shut the tap. The mirror before him reflected the same youth—a face framed in countless, forgettable mirrors, hair falling thickly over his ears and in an incline across his forehead. Someone who has committed a great sin isn’t meant to live that long. But life isn’t fair. Only with justice and judgement can there be fairness. And to which he knew he had to be judged someday.

The irony was that he couldn’t even remember the source of the conviction in his guts. It felt as if it had been there the whole time, taunting and reminding him that he was a vile person who had done a vile deed.

Arthur left the latrine to a rush of footfalls along the corridor. He found the store’s peon scurrying past him in search of someone.

“You see wireman Song?” asked the peon.

“No. What happened?”

“Loft store, the fuse blow lah,” said the peon.

“Maybe he’s there already.”

The peon pointed petulantly at an imaginary space. “I come from there lah, got smoke. Sekali blackout lah.” Then he scurried round a corner and disappeared down the stairs.

Arthur followed him. There was a foreboding stench of burning rubber as he descended the staircase.

He lost the peon on the second floor and ended up along the corridor that accommodated the store’s administrative services and Robert’s office. He could hear the ring of a telephone behind closed doors, the buzzing of a fluorescent light tube.

From somewhere a bell rattled. It sounded slightly flat, as if someone had dampened its insides with paper. The frequency of false alarms had desensitized store employees to the fire bell. But coupled with the stench of charring rubber, the implication became obvious.

The door to Robert’s office flew open, and Robert’s head emerged. “Did you smell that?”

Arthur told him about the loft store.

Robert yelled across the corridor. “Does anyone know if maintenance sent anyone?”

Vacant stares, faces turning left and right.

“All right then, we’ll take no chances now.” Robert swung his thick arm across his belly. “Down the stairs in an orderly fashion; gather at Raffles Mall and wait there until I give the green light to come back in.”

The troupe passed him like a procession amid the bell’s throbbing rattle. Robert and Arthur joined the back of the line and they trudged down the steps that would take them to the rear of the men’s department on the first floor.

The lights went out. A gasp swept through the procession. Robert’s attempts to calm his fear-stricken employees were soon drowned in the din of escalating screams. For the first time since it happened, Arthur took notice of the panic that was sapping strength from his limbs. There were the palpitations, the numb tingling at the fingertips. His eyes burned from unseen fumes; its stench pricked his throat, and he knew a fire was truly at hand.

The bottom of the stairwell promised illumination—of misty daylight filtered through the welters of grey smoke that were already gathering near the ceiling. No sign of the fire yet. The store employees flowed between racks of merchandise and poured into the foyer. There, an angry orange glow and a fearsome wave of heat beset them from the left.

An eruption of screams.

Draperies near the watch section burned. The flames licked high against the ceiling boards but were confined to the heavy fabric. Arthur searched the fleeing crowds, but couldn’t see Rachel anywhere.

Arthur grabbed a fire extinguisher from its place behind a column, and ran towards the fire like a capricious fool. Robert was already there with two others, one of them the store’s wireman whom the peon had been looking for.

Arthur directed the shaft of foam at the fire. “Have you seen Rachel?” he asked Robert.

“Who?” Robert sounded tetchy. His extinguisher, almost empty now, protested in stuttering spurts.

“Rachel!” Arthur yelled into Robert’s ear.

Robert did not answer. The men who were with him had already retreated yards behind him. Part of the burning drapery had fallen over the watch counters, and the glass cases were shattering in the heat. Flames rolled across the ceiling, voraciously consuming the snowy trails of cotton wool that hung from them. Catenary lights stretched and melted and dispensed drippings of molten plastic.

The men recoiled from the heat. A flash shot across the ceiling boards and flames appeared over the lingerie section just across the lobby. Molten drippings ignited racks of nylon petticoats. Nearby, mannequins at the women’s section fell prey to the radiant heat. Behind them rows of taffeta dresses flared in the updrafts before disintegrating in the billowing flames. Headwear shrivelled and succumbed to the conflagration.