The Cult of Following, Book Two

by Barbara Jaques

  *

  A picture of a large smiling cartoon frog greeted visitors, paint fresh enough to suggest a thriving trade within. At first Percy hesitated, instinctively drawing his phone from his pocket to call for a taxi. But, given the open mindedness that was scratching at a leathery corner of his judgemental brain, a certain curiosity grew. Tucking the phone away, Percy wandered through the gates.

  It looked very much like any other farm, he thought, with low modern sheds and a concrete yard. It even had a shop, which from the outside looked like so many that had sprung up all over the United Kingdom; Farm Shops, selling local produce.

  Here and there, small information signs were carefully placed to make the whole process of frog farming seem more cheerful. The business was clearly set up for visitors, and from the multitude of fun-froggy-facts available, more specifically school tours, Percy guessed.

  Watchfully, he browsed the various signs, wondering if someone might appear and warn him not to wander so freely. They didn’t. It seemed exploring was what he was meant to do. Relaxing a little, he entered a long covered area, and looking over one low barrier saw hundreds of huge green frogs. Some were huddled, others moved around, some stared aimlessly. The sign read American Bullfrog, and all were in perfect condition, living communally within an expanse of concrete with a large shallow pool, algae coating much of it. It seemed to Percy, an odd creature to farm.

  Moving on and rounding a corner, he caught up with a group of children from one of Singapore’s international schools. A boy stood at the front with an enormous bullfrog on his head. An assistant kept one hand at the ready, while a teacher took photographs and children laughed.

  Percy recognised the child under the frog as his neighbour, and was just about to sidle off, when the boy spotted him. Percy nodded, and offered the smallest of smiles. It seemed today, even here, on a frog farm in the middle of nowhere, there was no way of escaping unwanted attention.

  The boy grinned, wildly. ‘Uncle Percy! Look at me!’

  Percy nodded again.

  ‘That’s Uncle Percy!’ the boy continued, loudly, upsetting the balance of the amphibian. The assistant lifted the animal off, and the boy rubbed his head where the frog had been sitting. He turned to his friends, arm outstretched as if reaching towards Percy. ‘He’s the one who gave me my piggy!’

  Bright eyes turned on him. The wow aimed his way, was collective.

  ‘You’re right, he is sort of sad looking,’ said a child, whose face, Percy thought, would sit better on an adult.

  ‘Does he have any more pets?’ asked another.

  Percy felt a small hand slip into his. A sweaty little blond girl had attached herself. ‘Do you? Do you have any more of them guinea pigs without hair? Do you?’ Percy tried to withdraw from the girl’s tacky grip, but despite tiny fingers, she held on as if glued. ‘Do you?’ she asked again.

  ‘No,’ said Percy, truthfully.

  Without further comment, the girl released him and returned to the main group. With a degree of admiration, Percy could see that she was more interested in having a frog on her head, than pursuing a dead-end lead for the sake of politeness.

  Stiffly, he waved goodbye to the boy as a teacher rounded the child up. All about, Percy could hear talk of what a wonderful man he had been; finding exactly the right pet and handing it over just like that, and animals like that were expensive. The kids were almost frenzied in their talk of what a kind and generous person Percy was, the overheating teacher trying to hush them.

  But while their chatter centred on him, visual focus remained on the frog, many of them impatient for a turn wearing it. For some, standing on the sidelines, Percy could see that hairless guinea pigs and generous men were far from their thoughts. It was plain they wished only that the large amphibian not be brought anywhere near them. He remembered feeling very much like that at around the same age, when some new mother, blinded by enthusiasm for her own gristly offspring, foisted her baby onto his lap with the coercion of his mother. Had it been green, the baby could have easily passed for a frog, he recalled. His mother grew irritable with him when he refused to show any interest.

  Soon, with nothing to offer that could equal the excitement of a frog on the head, Percy’s presence was forgotten, and so he turned his attention to the shop, hoping to buy a bottle of water. He had been wandering around for at least thirty minutes ignoring his thirst, but in the stifling heat, the lethargy dehydration brings was starting to take hold; he knew he urgently needed a drink because he had almost lost interest in finding one.

  Inside the small and basic store, a fan was turning rapidly on the ceiling, cooling the room pleasantly. Instantly Percy felt a little brighter. Against a wall, an old refrigerator hummed, inside it canned iced-tea in a variety of flavours. Percy couldn’t see any water. In desperation, he took two of what looked to be the least unpalatable teas offered, noticing then that most of the fridge and the tall freezer beside it brimmed with bags of body parts. This, it seemed, was the fate of the frogs: the dinner table. The bags were displayed in even greater quantity than Essence of Chicken, a mystery ingredient boxed up in the same manner as British teabags, and in every local supermarket and convenience store Percy had visited in Singapore. He was baffled as to what Essence of Chicken actually was. He had never asked Sal, that great knower of all things, and certainly he never would. Seemingly from nowhere, satisfaction touched him. She would never have been to the frog farm. Finally he knew something – somewhere – that she didn’t.

  He peered back out to the main yard through a small window. The big frog was perched upon a new head. As a being whose own life felt to be on the margins of control, Percy pitied this innocent frog, forced to accept the desires of others. Did the wide-mouthed chap also have his own froggy-Sal controlling things? What would a reconstructed frogette even look like? Which bits would be nipped and tucked, firmed and smoothed? After surgery, would the rejuvenated froggette resemble a newt, with its youthful tadpole-like tail? Is this what newts were?

  Percy drew a small, airless, gasp of horror. Clearly the frog had an unwelcome following, just as he, Percy Field, had an unwelcome following of his own. What was his own insane fan club’s real intention? He was here at the farm because of them. Was it a sign? Would he, too, end up in bits? Percy looked again to the bags of meat.

  ‘You like?’ asked the assistant, noticing his interest, ‘good quality and not too expensive. One kilo cost just…’

  ‘No,’ Percy interrupted, ‘the drinks only, thank you. You do well here? With the frogs?’

  ‘Yes, very good business. Old business!’ The assistant laughed, ‘Chinese people enjoy frog. Good for you. You like to try?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Okay. One dollar each, so two dollar, thank you.’

  Percy handed over a two-dollar bill.

  ‘Ah, many more customers,’ the assistant sighed, gesturing to the entrance. ‘I need a break.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Percy hissed. There, streaming in the gate, were his pursuers. ‘How?’

  ‘You have problem?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t suppose you have somewhere I could hide? Just until that lot have left? I know it sounds odd.’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  Percy startled at this refusal to help.

  The assistant left, after apologising once more.

  The group were taking the same route Percy had, walking away from the shop and into the network of sheds. At that moment, the school children came streaming out at speed, and Percy noticed a large coach parked just outside the entrance.

  He grabbed the moment. Scuttling out with a look of affection firmly placed upon his face, he found his young neighbour, took his hand, and went to talk with the teacher.

  24.