Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

“What do you reckon we should do with him?” Arthur asked.

Hannah’s fingers worked deftly. “Nothing. Take him back.”

“Aw, Hannah, have a heart. He’s so cute.”

“Get his birth registered,” she said, her tone laced with unmistakable sarcasm. “Forge an identity in case you want to ditch you current one.”

“Funny you should bring that up,” said Arthur, looking rather uncertain of himself. “I don’t see the sense in that. What’s going to happen to him when I become him?”

“Erased,” Hannah answered coldly. “However you do it as long as it’s clean.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Hannah looked away and confessed: “No, I don’t.”

It was unwise of Hannah to have spoken so spitefully. The conversation triggered the same painful memories. She’d like to think it was a mistake—someone else’s, not hers. Someone had paid dearly for it and she had nothing to do with it. But the truth was that she never managed to convince herself of it.

After she pinned the towel in place Arthur held up the child by the armpits and inspected her work. “You’re very good at this.”

“Are you going to name him?” said Hannah.

“I don’t know yet. Suggestions?”

“Langdon.”

Arthur chuckled. “Where did you get that?”

From the shelf beside the couch Hannah pulled out an old hardback book titled The Fifth Column by John Langdon-Davis. “He’s got three names,” she said. “Pick one. But I think you might end up looking like a Langdon.”

“Before I consult the experts on an auspicious Chinese name I think I shall name him Poppy,” said Arthur.

“Like hell you will.”

Arthur flipped over the sodden pair of shorts and there at its back was a large red poppy flower with a black core of velvet. “There, written all over his bum.”

“That’s a girl’s name.”

“It’s a cute name for a toddler,” said Arthur.

“When he grows up he’ll hate you for it.”

“Suits him. Poppy the Floppy.”

Hannah broke out a brief smile, which swiftly receded behind a mask of deliberate sobriety. “Actually it might be nice to have a child.”

Arthur leapt at that. “Really? We could raise him together.”

“He’s yours, Arthur.” Hannah got up and gathered whatever she had brought out from the closet for the nappy change. “Didn’t you see his legs? I never wanted a cripple.”

Her remark ruined the mood between them. In the silence she watched Arthur rock Poppy to sleep. This time the soporific charm seemed to work. The discomfort in Poppy’s face eased, and his lids soon grew heavy.

She unrolled a blanket on the floor beside the couch. “Lay him here, so he doesn’t fall and hurt himself. You can take the couch.”

Arthur was rocking the child and pacing around the room, humming the only lullaby he knew.

“Only for tonight,” she added. “You have to leave in the morning, with the child.”

Arthur didn’t reply. He was pretending he didn’t hear her, she knew. But she saw no need to press the point that she couldn’t deal with another child in her life. He cuddled the child and peered adoringly into his sleeping face. “Oh, the poor boy,” he whispered, gently stroking a cheek with the back of his finger. “He’s so tired.”

JOHN PRAYED FOR the first time in years. He did it kneeling at the farthest end of the empty worship hall, hidden between pews. He was silent, not out of reverence, but because he did not know how to begin. He kept his eyes closed, and in the darkness he knew he was talking to God somewhat cognitively, lamenting about his plight and his fears. But no words came to his lips. The guilt of hypocrisy had sealed them. It had been many years since he came to church.

“I could help,” a voice said softly. “With your permission.”

John’s eyes flashed open. An elderly Reverend had sat down next to him. In ordinary circumstances he would’ve noticed if someone came this close. He stared at the Reverend melancholically as he slowly recovered his composure. His back was humbly hunched, but it still loomed large and formidable against the Reverend’s frail frame.

“Bowen, right?” said the Reverend. He had small, smiling eyes and thin, ducky lips. His hair was thick and silver and neatly parted. “You are Ginn’s husband, aren’t you? Did I get your name right? Bowen?”

“Yes,” said John. He left it that way. It was onerous to explain otherwise.

The Reverend shook his hand. “I never forget a face.”

“It’s been a long time.”

The Reverend’s eyes glinted with a tinge of humour. “Did Ginn pester you into coming?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said John.

They moved on to talking about Fanny’s treatments and how brave Ginn had been by teaching Sunday school to perfectly normal, albeit rascally bunch of kids while coming to terms with the needs of her own special child. They spoke about how Ginn, in her bid to dispel fears over Fanny’s deformity, had explained to inquisitive young children that the growing lump on Fanny’s head held special powers that would make everyone around her stronger than they thought they could be.

The men broke into laughter, which ebbed quickly into a cheerless silence.

“It is always difficult for a prodigal son to utter the first words to a welcoming father,” said the Reverend. “And knowing he has been forgiven only makes it harder.”

“It’s pretty much the way you put it.”

“The last time we met I recall you were in the police force.”

“You have a good memory, Reverend. I still am.”

“May I ask if your job is part of the reason?”

“Everything.” John polished his face wearily in his hands. “I can’t get out of it and I can’t really speak about it. Nothing else would give me that kind of insurance for Ginn and Fanny.”

“It’s hard,” the Reverend agreed. “And I’m not talking you out of it as long as it’s legitimate. Render unto Caesar what’s Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s. You are doing a beautiful thing for your family.”

“Thank you,” said John. “Ginn told me you’ve got two sons yourself.”

“Missionaries,” the Reverend replied. “They have families in Delhi and Bangalore. Both are earning peanuts but the Lord provides.”

John smiled with him, nodding. “I admire your passion. It’s a small church, so I don’t suppose we give much in offerings.”

“It works better,” said the Reverend. “I prefer many small churches to a large one; that way you get to know your church more intimately. Money’s not such a big thing once you learn to live humbly. It’s actually quite liberating.”

“Just the other day,” John said, thumbing across his shoulder at an imaginary person, “a colleague told me he spent thirty-K on a wine appreciation trip to a Grand Crux vineyard in Bordeaux,” he interrupted himself with a laugh. “I didn’t tell him I spent thirty-K on Fanny’s fourth surgery.

“Another told me about the northern lights he saw at Ivalo, Finland. That’s his third vacation in a year. He went to Santorini in spring and the Bahamas in summer. Ginn reminded me last week that we haven’t been to the cinema in three years.”

The Reverend listened.

“The faith is inside me.” John bit his lower lip in careful thought. “I know it all comes to that at the end—faith alone, however you try to reason. I have no qualms in accepting the love Christ has for me but I can’t stop myself from questioning. Why us? Why Fanny?” John exhaled lengthily. “I overcame my doubts, Reverend. But I can’t overcome my bitterness.”

The Reverend spent a moment in thought before he spoke. “Ginn is a very wise woman. There are things in life that bring out the unseen strength in people. It is such strength that stirs and inspires courage and hope, and above all these people reflect a love that the world doesn’t recognise. There are those who think we’re comforting ourselves by saying such things but seriously what do they know?”