Paraiso Subdivision was bathed in the inky blackness of night. Despite its precisely manicured lawns and hedges and the clean perfection of its highway and alleys, stray dogs lay in the middle of the street, sleeping soundly before the tarmac became intolerably hot, meaning that traffic barrelling down the road – of which there was none – would have to slalom round them.
High up on the hillside, in a large, angular concrete villa, the roof of which was clad in satellite dishes leaning intently towards the sky, a shrill electronic alarm smashed through the quiet. A sleepy brown hand reached out of the gloom and slapped it silent once more.
Ethan Peteros, a small, podgy, male figure, gazed at the display on the alarm clock and sighed.
5:45am.
Another early rise. He hated it, but it had to be done.
He rolled out of bed and fell onto the floor, before clumsily detangling himself from his thin blanket and raising himself up onto his feet. He slipped on a silky dressing gown, meandered through to his classy, modern breakfast kitchen, poured himself a large cup of coffee from a bubbling coffee maker and headed through to his enlarged lounge.
In front of him was a huge bank of curved wide-screen monitors, a wireless keyboard and mouse on a dark glass table. In a small room behind the monitors, LED lights on black server cabinets hyperactively blinked and twinkled their activity, as if justifying their existence to no-one but him.
‘Lights on!’ he commanded in his exaggeratingly Americanised Filipino accent, as if he’d just stepped off a Trans-Pacific plane, but the closest he’d got to one was a simulator game on his computer.
The lights woke up and flickered into life, dazzling him as they did so.
He tapped a key on his keyboard. One after the other, each of his monitors flickered on and displayed CCTV pictures from various locations in the Subdivision.
He used his mouse, opened some video conferencing software, and triggered a group chat.
Weary faces of multiple people in the Subdivision appeared, most disgruntled, on camera: the bus driver, the restaurant owner, the convenience store owner, the DJ of a local radio station. Also present was the boss of the Tourism Office down in Ormoc City.
‘Maayong buntag, tanan!’ he greeted them, with forced caffeine-fuelled enthusiasm.
He was met with a chorus of grunts.
No matter.
‘Okay. Well. Never mind.’ He cleared his throat. ‘He’s not yet awake, but I thought I’d call to make sure we’re all ready and have our game face on.’
Their faces were an orchestra of glares.
‘This the only face I have, Sir Ethan.’ the restaurant owner glowered. ‘What game should I play with it?’
Ethan ignored him completely.
‘You all know the plan. I’ll keep you updated. I’ll be watching over it all. Just remember: mas dako nga kalipay, mas dako nga kwarta.’ Ethan tried, and miserably failed, to enthuse them.
He was meant by a chorus of sighs.
‘Just do your best to keep him happy. That’s all.’ Ethan told them, his disappointment plain.
‘Yeah, yeah, we get it. Keep him happy until he remembers.’ the bus driver moaned.
Ethan corrected him. ‘Or better still, he doesn’t.’
The convenience store owner, a greying woman in her upper middle age, folded her hands and stared at Ethan disapprovingly. ‘So we end up serving that afam until when?’ she snapped. ‘How long do you expect us to keep this going?’
‘As long as the money keeps rolling in.’ Ethan snapped.
‘Well, there is that...’ the DJ mused.
‘Then let’s get to it. He’ll be awake in around five minutes. We can do this. Go team!’ he cheered them, before ending the call.
He didn’t hear the restaurant worker mutter, ‘That’s okay for him to say. All he does is sit in the air con and watch screens all day.’
And his wife adding, ‘And that stupid accent of his.’
‘Correct.’ her husband agreed. ‘So fake! He’s less U S of A and more Ormoc Cit-ay.’
‘That’s what happens when you watch too much YouTube.’ his wife sighed.
The sun arrived right on cue. It streamed in through Frank Diggory’s slatted glass window, easily penetrating through his thin curtains and quickly lit up the room. Within seconds, it’s glow fell on Frank’s weary eyes and jolted them awake.
He grinned.
The darkness had fled from his room. The nightmare had gone.
He needed no alarm clock, or cockerel, to tell him it was morning.
He was awake. Wide awake.
And ready for another day in Paraiso.
He leapt from bed and almost danced downstairs, where he clicked open the back door and burst into song as he sloshed cold water and soap all over his naked body.
‘He’s wide awake, people! Stand by!’ Ethan Peteros texted with way too much enthusiasm.
‘Yeah, yeah!’ Emet muttered as the text woke her up, she picked her phone up from her nightstand and read it. ‘He’s wide awake. He’s all that matters.’
Soon Frank emerged from his outside bathroom wrapped in a towel, bolted upstairs and flicked on the radio app on his phone, as he always did.
Sure enough, as they always did, they played his favourite morning song:
It never ceased to amaze him that here, seven thousand miles from their native Scotland, he could still hear Eddie Reader and Fairground Attraction on local radio.
Of course, it had nothing at all to do with a radio DJ who had been specifically paid to play it at the same time every morning.
From his wooden wardrobe Frank fetched a perfectly pressed pair of dark trousers and a plain blue cotton shirt – the same clothes he always wore. Once he was dressed, and his hair had been combed until every strand was exactly in its place, he headed downstairs, put on his shoes and prepared to eat breakfast, as he always did, at the local restaurant: Kainan Paraiso.
The restaurant owner and his wife had a few customers at this time in the morning, but none as regular as Frank, who ran up a tab that was mysteriously paid every week in full – but never by him. However, there were a few things about this arrangement that grated.
One of which was Frank's taste, well, in just about anything.
They were blaring a cheesy bubble gum Tagalog pop song, with its infectious beat and lightweight lyrics, which they bopped along to as they prepared Frank’s daily bland breakfast order of poached eggs on toast and hot coffee, when Ethan called them.
‘What are you doing?’ he snapped frustratedly. ‘You know the plan! Get that off and get his music on!’
‘Maybe the plan is wrong.’ the restaurant owner snapped back.
‘Yeah. Maybe he should like us for who we are.’ his wife echoed.
‘Come on! How many mga afam have ever done that?’ Ethan snarked angrily. ‘Just play the song, will you? He’ll be within earshot soon.’
The restaurant owner sighed and did as he was told. The Tagalog pop was silenced and on instead was an American alternative rock song:
Right on time, as he always did, Frank opened the door of the restaurant, causing the bell above the door to ding. For years, this restaurant had been something of a heat trap. But Frank’s presence in the Subdivision had made them enough money to invest in air conditioning – the only restaurant for miles around that had it – and so it had quickly become his daily go-to.
‘Maayong buntag, Alberto and Andrea!’ he greeted them formally, but jauntily.
‘Maayong buntag pud, Sir Frank!’ they replied simultaneously, like children in a classroom answering their teacher.
‘Will it be the usual again today, Sir Frank?’ Alberto began their daily repartee.
‘Isn’t it always?’ Frank replied, grinning.
‘Of course. Coming right up.’ Alberto confirmed.
And in just a few minutes, with no little ceremony, Alberto threw a tea towel over his arm and smartly delivered Frank his breakfast. Bang on time.
‘Thank you. And I must complement you on your taste in music.’ Frank told him, as the plate was offloaded.
‘Why, thank you.’ Alberto replied. As he always did. Every day.
Fifteen minutes later, with the plate emptied, apart from a few stray streaks of runny egg yolk, and coffee dabbed from Frank’s lips, Ethan Peteros conducted his human orchestra once more.
‘Okay. He’s finished eating. Bring on the bus!’ he commanded.
Sure enough, within a minute, a perfectly white electric bus, with ‘Paraiso Subdivision’ painted in pale blue ornate lettering – almost like a seal – on the side, whirred into view, just as Frank was leaving, again without paying his bill, so that he put one foot over the threshold of the restaurant and another into the bus.
‘Perfect.’ Ethan cooed his appreciation. ‘I love it when a plan comes together.’
That bus took Frank – without stopping – directly to the Tourism Office in Ormoc City, through traffic that was never congested (even though it was everywhere else in the city).
Every employee there knew of him. Every employee there had been paid a handsome bonus. So every employee there, from the security man to the cleaner to his team members to his boss, greeted him with the outward enthusiasm they would normally reserve for their best friend.
And there he spent the morning: coming up with ideas greeted with enthusiasm, but which would never come to fruition, and making plans, which were never questioned, but would never happen.
At lunch time, the owner of a local restaurant brought them all a takeaway to the office, which they never had to pay for. Outwardly, she told them they were doing a ‘great work’ to bring tourists to their wonderful city, so why should they pay for it?
In reality, she was being rewarded more than handsomely for the food she provided.
In the afternoon, Frank insisted they visit hotels and tourist attractions in the city – from the food park to the museum to the Japanese-Philippine Friendship Monument to the many gardens and Lake Danao – to ensure visiting tourists (although there were not many) received an optimum service.
Of course, their visits, on the surface, were free, but behind the scenes the attraction managers received handsome bungs to allow them to happen.
Even though the visits could be burdensome.
And then it was back to the office, in perfect time to catch the bus back to Kainan Paraiso for the same dinner of grilled chicken and rice with vegetables, washed down by a cold glass of Sprite, with vanilla ice cream for dessert.
And then to his regular consultation with local doctor and psychologist Dr Zoya Bedi, where he’d lie on her leather couch and discuss his dreams.
And then home.
Such were the days of Frank Diggory. The way they had always been since he’d arrived in Paraiso Subdivision.
Nothing ever changed.
Until one day.
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