“Then why are you helping me?”
“Sympathy,” said Hannah. “I was also a vagrant once.”
“Vagrant?” said Arthur, his tone dripping with disdain. “You don’t know me, Hannah.”
“And you don’t know how to stay out of things.”
“Can I date you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Hannah’s eyes flitted down to the bundle in his arms. “What’s with the baby?”
“From an earlier marriage.”
“Not in the mood for jokes, Arthur.”
Arthur told Hannah about how he had found the child at the fire and that he had decided to keep him because the crèche didn’t want him.
“That’s stupid of you,” said Hannah.
“You don’t know children, Hannah.”
“I don’t like children.”
“Poor thing.” Arthur gently rocked the bundle. “When death becomes imminent we prepare ourselves for it. Children cry their eyes out till death takes them. It’s very heart-breaking.”
“Where’re the papers?” Hannah broke in as soon as he had finished, apparently with the intention of changing the subject.
He handed them to her and watched her swallow, as if with emotion. She checked the edges, bent it a little and felt its printed text. “Looks like Khun didn’t cut corners this time round,” she said, sniffing it. “I wanted to make sure the base was transferred off a real one. It’s a nightmare to replicate the watermark and most copiers make a good mess of it. Once the colonials pull out you’re going to need them to exchange for a legitimate one. It’s going to be anytime now, with the talks about merger and all.”
“Glad to know.”
“Bottom line,” Hannah held him in her sight. “Never put yourself in a position where your past might be dug up and scrutinised.”
Arthur took time to admire her sombre visage. “You’re one beautiful, naggy old hag. But I’ll bear that in mind.”
Just then the child, distressed by the heat from Arthur’s body, started whimpering.
“You got something I could use as a nappy? He wet his pants an hour ago.”
Hannah went to the closet and returned with a few safety pins and a small towel. Arthur’s feeble attempt at rocking failed to work and the child was becoming increasingly upset. His mouth popped open and out came a muted cry that sounded like asthmatic wheezing. With an air of authority Hannah took the child over, pulled off the shorts and began dusting the child’s bottom with talcum powder and wrapping the towel over it.
“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.”
25
VIGIL
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.