Number9Dream (29 page)

‘Scourers! Detergents!’ Mrs Comb covered her ears.

ScatRat hollered all the louder. ‘Act ya age, not ya egg size! Ya in da real world margins here!’ ScatRat saluted with one finger. ‘Rats, 4ever! In Union Are We Linked! ScatRat never never never, is extinct!’ With that, the rodent vanished into the benthic bowels of his pyrrhic pile.

Pithecanthropus grunted a question.

‘I agree, sir,’ said Mrs Comb. ‘Don’t care should be made to care.’

Goatwriter shook his head sadly. His arthritis hurt. ‘Certainly, friends, ScatRat is an exceedingly unpleasant character, but a lack of m-manners per se is no crime. I am afraid the m-mystery of my m-missing m-manuscript must go unsolved. Let us return to the venerable coach. I believe we will be leaving the m-margins tonight.’

Evening on the margins was an unrequited requiem. Mrs Comb was baking a burdock fairy cake to cheer Goatwriter up, and Pithecanthropus was repairing a hole in the roof. Goatwriter proof-read his last page, and laid it to rest in his manuscript tray. His rewrite lacked the magnificent glow that the original truly untold tale retained in his memory.

‘Dinner-time, by and by,’ called Mrs Comb. ‘You must be starving, sir.’

‘Peculiar to pronounce, I could not entertain a m-morsel.’

‘But, sir! You haven’t had a bite the livelong day!’

Pithecanthropus grunted in concern through the hole in the roof.

Goatwriter considered. ‘So I haven’t.’

‘Still fretting about your missing stories, sir? We’ll be leaving the margins and burglars and the like far behind.’

Pithecanthropus double-took and grunted frantically.

‘By ’eck, you savage! Clap that trap! Sir is out of sorts enough as it is!’

Goatwriter frowned. ‘M-my dear fellow, whatever is distressing you so?’

Mrs Comb dropped her cookery book. ‘Sir! What are you eating?’

‘Why, only a little paper cud—’ Goatwriter’s jaws froze. The truth dawned. Mrs Comb spelt it out. ‘Sir! You were eating your own pages as you wrote them!’

Goatwriter’s words stuck in his throat.

When evening comes I turn off all the lights and wait for Buntaro in the kitchen, so nobody knows I am here, and so I can see Buntaro arriving and know it is him and not anyone else. I stare at a wall-tile whorl as minutes spin by and die. Here come the headlights of Buntaro’s car now, swinging into the car porch. It still seems weird to think of Buntaro existing anywhere except the counter at the Shooting Star. I hate needing. I spent the last nine years trying to avoid needing – generosity, charity, affection, sympathy, money. And here I am again. I unlock the front door. ‘Hi.’

‘Sorry I’m late. Heavy traffic. Has your fever gone?’

‘It turned into this cold.’

‘So that’s why you sound like a parrot. Here, I bought you an emergency six-pack of Ebisu Export and a Hokka-Hokka take-out. Eat it before it gets cold and starts tasting like what it’s made of.’ He hands me the bag as he slips out of his sandals. ‘And some cigarettes. Wasn’t sure what you smoke, so I bought Peace.’

‘Thanks . . . I’m sorry, but I lost my appetite.’

‘No matter. I trust your nicotine craving rages unabated?’

‘Peace is fine.’

‘What are you doing all shut up in the dark?’

‘No reason.’ I switch the lights on as we go through to the living room.

‘Whoah!’ Buntaro looks at my black eye. ‘A beaut!’

‘Who’s looking after Shooting Star?’

‘My wife. Who do you think?’

‘But she should be taking it easy. Being, uh, pregnant, I mean.’

‘Worse than pregnant – bored and pregnant. In fact we had a mini-row this morning. She says she is tired of being treated like an invalid whale, and that if she sees another daytime TV programme about how to make pep bottles into traditional dolls she is going to buy a gun. Yes, if you are wondering, she knows what happened. But the good news is, it seems she is the only person in the whole wide world who does know.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing on the news. Nothing in the papers.’

‘Impossible.’

Buntaro shrugs. ‘Lad, it never happened.’

‘It happened.’

‘Not if it didn’t happen on the news.’

‘You do believe me?’

‘Hey! I drove around all night, remember, you idiot.’

‘So everything – the guns, the explosions?’

‘Censored. Or probably cleaned up before the police even heard about it. Yakuza clean up their own shit, if only to hide how much they eat. Be grateful, lad. It gives us one less thing to worry about.’

‘But what about the pachinko manager?’

‘Who knows? Fell through a window while changing a light bulb.’

We go outside and smoke on the step. Dusk fades away. A carp plishes, now and then. I switch off the lights to keep the insects away. The frogs croak and crike. ‘What’s the difference between frogs and toads, country boy?’ asks Buntaro.

‘Toads live for ever. Frogs get run over.’

‘My taxes went on your education.’

‘Buntaro, one other thing. You remember I told you about a cat—’

‘That animal? Yeah, her and my wife are already the best of friends. Her future is guaranteed. Time to feed the fish.’ He goes inside and emerges with a box of mealy stuff that smells the same as the Hokka-Hokka take-out. We take it in turns to chuck a pinchful into the pond. Carp thresh and slurp.

‘Buntaro, I really need to thank you.’

‘Fish feed? Dirt cheap.’

‘I’m not talking about the fish feed.’

‘Oh, the cigarettes. Pay me back later.’

I give up.

Mrs Comb laid her final egg for the week. She nestled it in cotton wool, placed it with the others in her wicker basket, and covered them all with a tea towel. Then she ran through her shopping list a final time: size nine knitting needle, nit lotion, Indian indigo ink, Polish polish, Zanzibar marzipan, two cans Canadian toucan candles. A knock on her boudoir door was followed by Goatwriter’s ‘Ahem’.

‘Yes, sir?’

The door creaked open and Goatwriter squinted over his glasses. ‘I believe m-market day is with us again, Mrs Comb?’

‘Aye, sir. I’m off to sell my eggs.’

‘Splendid, splendid. I sense a shocking shortage of short stories hereabouts. I thought perhaps you could take one of my volumes to the m-market, and see if a storybroker comes along. You never know. Supply, demand, and all that . . .’

‘Right you are, sir.’ Mrs Comb was sceptical, but she didn’t want to hurt Goatwriter’s feelings, so she slipped the book into her apron pocket. The door banged open and the wind sprang in. Pithecanthropus stood on the threshold, and grunted a question to Mrs Comb. ‘Aye,’ she answered, ‘I’m leaving now. And no, you can’t come with me – I don’t want you scaring away all the customers like that time in Marrakesh-under-marsh.’ Pithecanthropus grunted a favour, and opened his cupped palms at Mrs Comb. She nearly dropped her basket. ‘
Worms!
In my boudoir! Respectable, well-fed folk live in these parts! Nobody eats
Worms!
How dare you even think of putting those slimy creatures in with my lovely fresh eggs! Get away with you this instant! Lout!’

Bless my weathered feathers! thought Mrs Comb as she made her way across the blasted heath. Whatever became of this place? The landscape had once been beautiful, but now crops were dead or dying, trees stripped or ripped, and craters pocked the scorched, torched ground. Virile red-hot pokers thrusted from rusted, busted tanks through uranium shell-holes. Thistles whistled. A pipe dribbled sewage into a mire of wire. The stench made Mrs Comb cover her nose with her headscarf. ‘By ’eck!’

Suddenly the sky screamed at the top of its lungs.

Mrs Comb barely had time to shelter her precious basket of eggs and cover her ears with her wings before the sonic boom hit, blowing her apron over her head and ballooning her knickerbockers. The shock waves ebbed away. Mrs Comb peered out and got to her feet. Looking up, she saw a peculiar sight – a hippie and his psychedelic surfboard, falling out of the sky, straight towards Mrs Comb! Acting on reflex, she scooped up her basket and fluttered behind a large barrel labelled ‘Agent Orange’. The hippie hit the dirt at terminal velocity. Stones and collision noises showered from the impact crater. Mrs Comb watched the dust settle, too buffeted to say a word, even to herself. From the crater she heard a groan. ‘Oh,
man
!’ The hippie heaved himself over the edge. His dreadlocks were ginger, his sunglasses wraparound and his halo wonky. ‘
Man
.’ Seeing Mrs Comb, he made the peace sign. ‘Good day, ma’am.’

Mrs Comb found her tongue. ‘That were a nasty tumble, and no mistake.’

‘Darned Phantoms!
Totally
blew me away! Never even saw ’em coming. They must be bombing the town, if they can find anything left to bomb. Still, the munitions are there, so they gotta use ’em up.’

‘Is owt broken?’

‘Only my pride, ma’am, thanks for asking. I’m immortal, y’see.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Immortal. My name’s God. Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance.’

This unsettled Mrs Comb. Should she curtsy? ‘Charmed, I’m sure. But if a town is about to be bombed, shouldn’t you do something?’

God readjusted his halo. ‘Would if I could, ma’am, but once the military decides to bomb the living bejesus out of a country . . . well.’ He shrugged. ‘Time was, we had a divine veto on wars, but our executive powers got whittled away, bit by bit, and now nobody even bothers consulting us.’

‘Fancy . . . just what does it take to stop a war, may I ask?’

God made a ‘search me’ face. ‘Tell you the truth, ma’am, I never wanted to be no God. My daddy insisted, it running in the family and all. I flunked the Ivy League divinity colleges, and wound up in California.’ God grew nostalgic. ‘Surf was high, the sand was gold, and the babes! The babes . . . Divine intervention was compulsory on the syllabus, but I skipped most of the lectures for the breakers on Big Sur! Stopping wars? One sticky spittoon of guacamole, ma’am. So, I graduated, third-class dishonours, and the only thing I learned was the water-to-wine scam. Daddy tried to pull strings, but heaven, ma’am’ – God lowered his voice – ‘is another word for nepotism. Golden City makes the freemasons look meritocratic. Ain’t what you know – it’s who you know and where you know ’em from. The cronies of the Almighty get given the stable democracies, and us nobodies get the war zones and peacekeeping missions. Ma’am, do you have the time?’

Mrs Comb checked her wristwatch. ‘Five and twenty to eleven.’

‘
Bony
ma
ronie!
I gotta get my videos back to the shop or they’ll fine me again!’ God clicked his fingers and his surfboard levitated from the impact crater. God jumped aboard and waggled his sunglasses. ‘Been mighty fine passing the time of day with you, ma’am. If you run into any trouble, just send me a wing and a prayer!’ He crouched in a kung fu position and surfed away. Mrs Comb watched the dwindling divinity disappear. ‘Aye. Well, I won’t hold my breath.’

In the parched fog and half-light I wake with a yell because an old woman in black leans over me. I sort of spasm, and fall off the sofa. ‘Steady,’ the old woman says, ‘steady, child. You were dreaming. It’s me, Mrs Sasaki, from Ueno station.’ Mrs Sasaki. I unclench, breathe in, breathe out. Mrs Sasaki? Fog blows away. She smiles and shakes her head. ‘Sorry I startled you so. Welcome back to the land of the living. Buntaro neglected to mention I would be visiting this morning, am I correct?’

I untense and breathe deeply. ‘Morning . . .’

She puts down a sports bag. ‘I brought you some items from your apartment. I thought they might make your stay here more comfortable. Though had I known about your black eye, I would have brought a T-bone steak.’ I am embarrassed that Mrs Sasaki saw the mess I live in. ‘I must admit, I thought you would be up by now. Why don’t you sleep in the guest room, you foolish youth?’

My mouth is dust and glue. ‘I feel safer down here, I guess. Mrs Sasaki – you, Buntaro – how did he know your number at Ueno? How do you know Shooting Star, and Buntaro?’

‘I’m his mother.’ Mrs Sasaki smiles at my astonishment. ‘We all have a mother somewhere, you know. Even Buntaro.’

Pieces slot into place. ‘How come neither of you said anything?’

‘You never asked.’

‘It never occurred to me to ask.’

‘Then why should it occur to us to tell you?’

‘My job?’

‘Buntaro got you the interview, but you got the job yourself. None of this matters. We shall discuss your position at Ueno over breakfast. One thing at a time. First, you are to clean yourself up and shave. You look as if you spent the week camping out with the homeless in Ueno park. It is high time you stopped yourself going to seed. While you shower, I shall cook, and I expect you to eat more than me. What is the point in saving your hide if you go on hunger strike?’

I stay in the shower for ages, until my bone marrow is hot and my finger pads wrinkle. I body-shampoo myself three times from scalp to toes. When I come out, even my cold is better and I weigh less. Now I shave. I am lucky, I only need to shave once a week. The boys in my class at high school used to boast about how often they shaved, but there are a hundred other things I would rather do with my time than drag steel over my hair follicles. Still, a suggestion from Mrs Sasaki is more or less an order. Uncle Money gave me a shaver a couple of years ago, but Uncle Tarmac laughed when he saw it and said real men use blades. I am still on my first packet of Bic disposables. I splash on cold water, and rinse my blade under the cold tap – Uncle Tarmac says the cold makes the razor contract and sharpen. I think of him every time I shave. I smear on Ice Blue shaving gel, especially the groove between the upper lip and the nose – why is there no name for that? – and my chin cleft, and the lower jaw hinge where I usually cut myself. Wait until the gel stings. Then start on the flatlands near the ears where it hurts least. I sort of like this pain. Tugged, uprooted. Some pain is best conquered by diving into it. Around the nose. Ouch! Rinse away, stubbly goo, I chase it down the plug-hole. More cold water. I touch my black eye until it hurts. Clean boxers, T-shirt, shorts. I can smell cooking. I go downstairs and put my shaving stuff back in the sports bag. I catch the eye of the lady in the shell photograph. ‘There, feeling better now? You worry too much. You are quite safe here. Tell me what happened. Give me your story. Speak. Give it to me.’