Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“You have violent dreams often?” Dr Peck’s voice kills the silence.

Landon shakes his head.

“Did you see any recurring scenes? Or vague impressions of them?”

“Vague.” Landon feels awful lying to the doctor.

“Sure,” says Dr Peck, catching the doubt in his tone. “Do you want to continue with the sessions? I would respect it if you feel— uncomfortable with them.”

“No, I’m fine. We should continue.”

“Good.” Dr Peck clicks his pen and makes a note. “We’re getting close. It means the therapy is working, to an extent. It could be triggering engrams to release locked memories. They might appear as chronological sequences in dreams, but upon waking they scatter into disparate fragments. Our next task would be to try locating and retaining them.”

“What are engrams?”

“Hypothetical elements of the brain that store memories,” says Dr Peck. “They are not proven to exist physically but traces of their functions could be observed in the cortex or cerebellum of your brain. It’s something under study.”

Over his reading glasses Dr Peck looks at Landon and holds the stare a little too long for comfort. “Invoking your memories is only a part of the treatment,” he adds. “The other part involves finding the cause of your amnesia.”

Landon nods obligingly, taking care to reveal nothing by his expression or the movement of his eyes. If what John told him was true then the doctor would be better off knowing nothing about it. He is still reeling from the excitement of discovering the connection between Hannah and Clara. Could it be possible that both of them are—

“Your blood tests,” says Dr Peck, reaching across his desk to retrieve a document. “Mystifying.” He runs his finger along a column of data. “The markers point either to a rare, congenital blood disease or some form of synthetic chemical infiltration. They might have some connection to the functions of your striatum and cerebellum. You got any family history of blood problems, brain tumours?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Somatosensory issues like touch or pain or…”

“No.”

“Are you using any illegal substance that I should know about?”

“No.”

There is suspicion in Dr Peck’s gaze and Landon pretends not to notice it. He looks away and sips at his water, wondering if he’d lose credibility by doing so.

“Well, tell me if you are, Mr Lock,” says Dr Peck. “We have to be truthful with each other if any of this is to work. I assure you that every bit of this is confidential. Even Casey is not privy to this.”

The assistant throws Landon a cold, fleeting glance and dutifully exits the room. Landon imagines her at a table full of girlfriends with iced mochas, chortling away over the Landon Freakshow .

“Anything you want to tell me?” says Dr Peck.

“No.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to do a urinalysis and a sperm count— you know, just to rule things out.”

“You think I’m a druggie.”

“Like I said, I hope there is trust between us. It affects the treatment.”

“Well, it could start with you, doctor,” says Landon.

The candour in the response draws a brisk chuckle from Dr Peck, even though he probably doesn’t condone the ill-placed wit. He tears out a chit from his pad and slips it through a little window in the wall. “I’ll prescribe the usual for another week and we’ll reduce the dosage from there. And I’d like to be thorough, so—I’d recommend going ahead with those tests.”

“Bring it on.”

“Thank you,” says the doctor. “Casey will fix your next appointment.”

Loewen Lodge basks in white sunlight. Just down the road FourBees has been hoarded up like a walled city, looking hermetic and forbidding. Around it bistros are waking up from their siestas and gearing up for dinner.

From a distance Landon picks out the old man and his usual caregiver. No Clara in sight. Having lost his latest journal to the fire he consults the notes on his mobile and finds the name Pam. He sees them at the lawn, in the shade of an angsana tree. When he goes over to them the old man turns vacantly to him. A glob dribbles from his jaw where three gangly teeth perch precariously in receding gums.

“You must be Pam,” says Landon to the petite caregiver.

“No, I’m Ruby.” She nods at her name-tag.

“I’m sorry,” Landon mutters. “I met another caregiver the other day. Do you know if she is a relative of this man?”

“We have relatives from time to time.”

“Her name’s Clara. She’s a slim young lady with a red knapsack, long black hair.”

“Ah, she visits sometimes.”

Landon pricks up. “When?”

“She doesn’t come on a fixed schedule.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”

“I’m quite certain you have a number.”

“Sorry sir, we cannot reveal personal information about our residents.”

Landon rolls his eyes. “I desperately need to contact Clara, a phone number would do.”

Ruby utters an apology. “Perhaps you could speak to the front desk?”

No, thank you. It’s worse than talking to an actual desk.

Now the old man is making raspy hooting noises, as if trying to participate in the conversation. Landon leaves them and storms into the nursing home against a river of wheelchair-bound residents being trundled out to the lawn for their afternoon walk. Under the curious stares of an elderly audience, he walks up to the counter and engages in an acrimonious exchange with the seasoned matron, who threatens to call security if he doesn’t leave.

“Call her for me then.” Landon barks in a dare. “Tell her she wrote me something on a napkin. She’ll know who I am.”

The matron parses with a frown, and then surprises him by leaning over the counter and whispering something to a nervous colleague, who picks up the handset and punches in the numbers. In the waiting silence they hear the Mandarin dialogue of a soap opera from a nearby TV.

“No answer,” the counter lady tells the matron.

“Could I have an email at least?”

The matron holds up her hands. “I’m sorry, you have to leave right now.”

“All right, I’m sorry,” Landon realises his folly and slaps his forehead. “No address, no emails, no phone numbers, right? Could you tell me the probability of her visiting? Once in a fortnight? A month?”

“We don’t know that.” The matron gestures at the door. “Please.”

“Anything would be good. Anything on Clara.” Landon twists his hands together pleadingly. “Anything.”

“You have to leave.”

Desperation rends his heart. He pulls his hands miserably across his face and coughs up a sardonic laugh. Surely they would remember him for this. It’s now or never.

“You don’t understand; she doesn’t have a father.” He struggles to articulate his speech. “That man isn’t her father or grandfather or whoever she might have told you. She has no kin.”

The matron shows him the door. “Please leave.”

Landon raises his voice. “You don’t know who she is!”

The matron ushers him on.

“You don’t know who you’re keeping here!” Landon stops at the door. “You cannot keep anyone you don’t know about!”

“He’s her husband.”

The reply turns Landon cold. “Oh, eat that…” He mutters in disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“Eat your own filthy lies!” He throws off someone’s attempt to hold him. “She doesn’t have a husband! She isn’t supposed to have a bloody husband!”

The matron waves her arm and two liveried men converge upon him. He braces himself against the door frame and prepares for a humiliating grapple. A large hand closes firmly over his arm. He turns and sees John steps placidly past him and holds the door open.