“You are very good at what you do and being very happy about it,” she says. “Not many people receive such graces.“
“You would if you’re in F&B. Nothing thrills you more than having people enjoy what you make them. In fact,” he leans over and his voice falls to a whisper, “I think someone likes my coffee so much he’s stalking me as we speak.”
The young lady plays along and draws an expression of mystery. “Really? And where is this stalker of yours?”
Landon nods in the direction of where John is standing. She turns to look, smiling as if expecting something funny. Outside, John draws deeply on his cigarette, winces, then ejects the smoke. He turns sharply away when he catches them looking at him.
The young lady lets her gaze linger on him for another second before returning to her coffee and pie. “He looks upset.”
Landon shrugs. “Maybe his coffee didn’t turn out the way he wanted.” He watches John stub his cigarette out and walk away, and decides against mentioning how they met. “Anyway,” he goes on, turning away from the window, “sometimes you just have to grow into what you do.”
The young lady listens attentively, as if trying to delve telepathically into his mind. “This doesn’t sound like a job for someone with a poor memory.”
“It’s perfect, actually.” Landon laughs nervously, now hopelessly drawn to her eyes. “It’s about scents and flavours, and you don’t really forget scents and flavours. It’s like muscle memory, it all comes back when I touch these things. Thankfully I’ve got a good nose; I identify the beans by their smells and peg names to them.”
“Really?” she sounds genuinely impressed. “That’s a feat.”
“It isn’t easy, but the repetition helps with the memories, makes them stay longer.”
“And you’re taking medication for this—condition of yours?”
“Thiamin supplements,” he says. “Pretty much all they could give me on top of therapy sessions.” He decides to leave out the part about seizures.
The young lady squints sadly at him. “Was it an accident or something?”
Landon wishes he had something heroic to say. “I think I was born with it.”
“I’m curious.” The young lady tilts her head the other way. “How do you get by? I mean, a day of life is made up of so many little things, so many memories.”
“Feels like I’m being interviewed.”
Her eyelids flutter in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
Landon waves off the apology and tells her about the reminders he sets in his mobile and the records he makes in his journals.
The young lady lifts her brows. “You record everything?”
“Everything noteworthy.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I started my first journal a century ago.”
That earns him a snap of laughter from the young lady. “You must have many entries then.”
“Volumes. I try to keep them compact for easy storage.”
“A rather remarkable life you’re living.” She takes a drink and smiles at him over the rim of her mug.
She lets it linger an inch from her lips. Her expression is vacant, as if lost in thought. Landon has sufficient tact to leave her undisturbed, not knowing she would remain this way until she has finished her coffee and pie.
“Do I pay over at the register?” She drops a used napkin onto her empty plate.
Landon detects a certain detachment in her speech, as if she has decided to put a rift between them. “I’ll punch in for you.” He is sorely disappointed. “That’s five-fifty. Cash?”
“Only five-fifty? And the coffee?”
“On me.”
She retracts her purse. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Take it as a promotional drink from the café,” says Landon, his mood souring. “If you like it, bring your friends next time.”
“Thank you.” She stretches her lips politely and lifts her knapsack off the bar stool.
The cash register rings when the drawer slides open. All these years and he hasn’t gained a smidgen of courage. He drops the change into her hands. In the exchange, they make skin contact. Her palm feels cold and soft. The indecision gnaws viciously at him. It’s now or never.
His hand shoots out, slightly too hastily. “Anyway, name’s Landon.”
She starts and hesitates. His hand hangs in the air and he cringes at the silence. An eternity later, she takes it and says, “Clara.”
She presses her lips together but this time there is no smile. Perhaps she had the intention to, but decided against it at the last moment. The door closes behind her with a light judder. At the far end of the café, Donovan turns his head the other way as he naps.
Landon stares forlornly at the door. Love-at-first-sight is a delusional fallacy. At first sight there’s never love, only a crush—a libidinous, covetous crush. Go on, Landon. Let’s see how far you will go with this remarkable life of yours.
Sam moves in and clears away the lipstick-stained mug. She picks a folded napkin off the empty plate and tosses it at Landon. “Must’ve made an impression.”
Frowning, he looks at the napkin and finds two lines of slanted script written in a neat hand:
Thanks for the coffee.
P.S. Be wary of the one who warns.
Landon bolts past the counter, rousing Donovan from sleep. The doors fly open and he leaps into white sunlight. The driveways bake in the heat. The lawns and footpaths lie empty.
And the cicadas rise in song.
5
HANNAH
EVERYTHING GLEAMS UNDER pale fluorescent lights. Beige partitions, faux wood desks, white venetian blinds: The Police Intelligence Department in Block A of the Cantonment Complex fills an entire floor with sterility, its inhabitants bearing the only hints of colour. Here and there plainclothes officers huddle in cubicles and amble through aisles that separate them. Everyone works in a hush. Even the digital ringing of telephones drifts like a soporific melody.
At the far end of the department, the Rookie Row stretches out against a wall—a procession of austere desks with partitions barely rising above the screens of laptops. Want a snug little box all to yourself with flowers, family photos and a personalised coffee mug?
Work your way up Rookie Row.
At one of these desks, Julian works the keyboard. His notepad lies open nearby. He mumbles something to himself as he types, hits backspace, and then types again. He’s recommending a search warrant. The suspect’s probably stashed a few dead infants in a basement and a few more live ones in the bellies of pregnant abductees.
Someone approaches. Julian looks over his shoulder and sees a portly veteran dressed in a stained white shirt that stretches over an oak barrel of a belly. His bald, meaty head perches on a short neck that melds into thick shoulders.
The veteran drinks from a foam cup and smacks his broad and oddly pouting lips. “You Julian Woo?” His grin reveals a gap between his central incisors.
Julian’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “Yes?”
“Marco, from Field Research.”
Julian takes his hand. “Nice meeting you.”
“You a returning scholar?” Marco bites into a fritter cradled in grease-blotched paper. His plump cheeks, pockmarked with acne scars like the surface of an orange peel, jiggles to his chewing. His left eye, forged of glass, sits immobile and catatonic.
“Joined up two months ago.” Julian answers.
“Hmm,” he takes another indulgent bite. “Where from?”