Samurai and Other Stories (17 page)

Not yet.

“Please,” she whispered.

He wasn’t about to allow any more of
that
. He taped her mouth with duct-tape and went downstairs. He sat in his armchair and listened. There was no sound from above.

It’s as if she’s not even really here.

He went to work and managed to act concerned when Mrs Carruthers failed to show up at her office. People came and went during the day, and at one point the police arrived, but Thorne kept his head down. No one paid him any attention at all.

When he got home the house felt different, somehow
fuller
. As he walked through the front door a cool breeze played at his ankles, a portent of winter to come.

And long dark nights of fun.

He was almost surprised to find her there on the bed in the spare room. She’d been crying again, and moaned quietly at him through the duct tape. Goose-pimples sowed along the full length of her body so he laid an old quilt on her.

I’m not a cruel man.

During that first evening he checked on her often, but over the coming days—days that stretched into weeks—his visits to the upstairs room grew less frequent.

He lived for the dreams.

*
   
*
   
*

The Watcher is in the bedroom—just standing in the corner. A woman cowers on the bed, the quilt tucked tight under her chin. The Watcher wants to tell the woman that everything will be all right.

But that would be a lie.

*
   
*
   
*

He woke, sitting upright in the armchair. The TV showed only white static, messages from the beginning of time. Something
creaked
above him, like a body weight shifting.

The Watcher!

He was up and heading for the stairs before he realized the stupidity of his action.
 

You’re the Watcher you idiot.

But he still checked the corner of the room when he got there... just to be sure. A breeze cooled his ankles, and shadows moved in a swirl, but he paid them little heed. The woman
cowered on the bed.
 

He
pulled aside the quilt. The woman’s body was thin, painfully so, each of her ribs showing a proud ridge in her flesh. Her skin looked almost translucent.
 

It’s time.

He undid the ties, tearing off strips of pink-tinged flesh along with the line in his eagerness to get started.
 

The woman still had some fight in her. She swiped a hand at his face, fingernails grown torn and ragged raising a trio of welts on his face. He slapped her, twice, once on each cheek and her head jerked like a marionette, first right then left. She fell back in the bed, her legs pushed tightly together. He hit her in the stomach, just one punch, but it caused her to curl up in a ball. Her buttocks pointed at him, and that was all the excuse he needed.
 

He moved forward, lips wet with anticipation.

Once he was done she had no fight left in her, but he tied her up again, just in case. As he left the room a cool breeze played around his lower legs, and a black shadow shifted in the corner, but Thorne was too
full
to pay any notice. He had a broad smile on his face as he went back downstairs.

I’m living the dream.

That night the Watcher was there again.

*
   
*
   
*

The Watcher stands at the door of the house, listening. And then it comes, the soft thud, as of a chopper on bone.

The Watcher moves forward and pushes the door open.
 

Inside everything is red. The Watcher heads for the stairs. A wind howls through the house like a scream, the walls pulsing in time with a frightened heartbeat. The noise seems to be coming from the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The Watcher heads in that direction and walks inside.

The room is empty, just a bundle of bloody rags on the bed.

*
   
*
   
*

Thorne woke once more sitting in the downstairs armchair.

That’s not right. Something’s changed. That’s not how the dream goes.

He made for the stairs. He stopped just before going into the bedroom.

What do I do if she isn’t there?

But that wasn’t an option. He was living the dream, and the dream waited for him, just beyond the door.
 

He went inside.

The woman lay there, staring straight at the ceiling, not even seeing him.

“I’m living the dream,” he whispered.

He undid her bonds and carried her to the bathroom, laying her down in the bath and standing for long seconds looking down at her. He took in the thin bruised body and his lips pursed in disappointment. But it was the look in her eyes that sent him over the edge—there was no spark left, no fight.
 

She’s all used up.
 

He lifted an open razor from the sink and climbed into the bath with her, his folds of fat rippling in anticipation. A cool breeze came from beyond the door, raising the hairs at the back of his thighs, but by now he was too busy to notice.

As his weight settled on top of the woman she let out a sigh—more an exhaled breath than an intimation of pain, but it was enough to get him started.
 

He made his first cut just above the navel.
 

There were no screams, no exhortations—only a painful acceptance and, deep down, a longing for release.

In the corner of the room behind him dark shadows gathered.

His cuts got more frenzied as he searched for deeper pleasures. With one thrust of the razor he opened her from groin to chest, and this time he was rewarded with a moan—a small thing, but a sign of possibilities. He gloated over the small intestines as they glistened, marvelling at their hot life before reaching into the gore and, both hands already red, began to pull. She screamed one last time as her guts reeled from her body and Thorne rolled around in them, revelling in the heat and the stink. His penis jerked, once, twice, in spasm as he spurted long and hard into the body cavity.

He lay there on top of the husk that was all that remained of the woman, lost in an ecstasy that threatened to engulf him completely.

The body was cold and sticky by the time he prised himself out of the tub. A breeze blew, bringing a snell winter to the bathroom and an icy touch to the tiles underfoot. A dark shadow loomed in the corner, catching Thorne’s eye. He turned in that direction.

I’ve been watching you, Mr. Thorne
, a cold voice whispered.

Mrs. Carruthers stood there, a heavy meat cleaver in her hand. She wore her black, no nonsense, business suit, the skirt hitched up to show smooth white thighs and the merest glimpse of pink panties.

She’s put the weight back on.

She came out of the corner slowly, gliding, as if on smooth, soundless wheels. Thorne backed away, whimpering, until he felt the cold tub behind his knees.

Living the dream
, the Watcher whispered, raising the cleaver.

Thorne fell back into the tub, his last scream cut short.

And then it comes, the soft thud, as of a chopper on bone.

THE SHOOGLING JENNY

I found the lyric I sought in a small town in the Appalachians. I’d been looking for the origins of the song for some time, but now I wish I had never heard it. It is a hard story to tell, but I’m setting it down here and leaving it in the archive in the hope that it might dissuade others from following in my footsteps.

It started in hope. Even the long drive after an even longer flight failed to dampen my enthusiasm. I was on the trail of something that would justify the money the Miner’s Union had given me—I would prove a link between Scottish and Appalachian mining songs.
 

And I might even find the one song that unites the traditions.
 

That was the golden ring, and I felt nearer to it than ever. The nights spent poring over dusty books in badly lit rooms were about to pay off. After checking in to my hotel I wasted no time in getting down to business. I asked to be directed to the miner’s bar.

Every mining town has one—the place where the men go to wind down and gripe about conditions. I found that in this regard Appalachia was no different to Scotland—on entering the bar I immediately felt at home. Country-blues played in the background, and was punctuated by the clack and thud from the pool table. The murmur of conversation was a low constant hum that only stilled briefly as I entered. Even the faces looked familiar—ingrained grime and a paleness won by years spent in the dark, tired eyes deep set under heavy brows.
 

I had grown up in places like this, and even the local accent held a twang that wouldn’t be out of place in a Scottish community. I bought a beer and sat, taking in the atmosphere before getting down to business.
 

The barman immediately knew the person I needed to speak to.

“Jack Green’s your man,” he said. “Over there in the corner. He knows the history of the mine better than anyone else.”

Jack proved more taciturn than I’d have liked, but a brace of beers loosened him up somewhat. We talked for some time about mining songs in general, and I told him of my quest to find links across the ocean. He seemed genuinely interested as I told him of my viewing in Cambridge of the original manuscripts of Sharp and Karpeles’ tour, and of the note in handwriting on the page, the scrawl that had brought me all the way to this bar.

“The tale of the Shoogling Jenny has been removed at the request of the mine owner.”

Those words had been like a light going on over my head, for I well knew the song, having heard it from my own grandfather many years before. If I could show it came from this mine, it would make a fine central linking motif for my book.
 

I sang the first few lines for him, softly so that only he would hear.

Tam was a miner born and bred, he worked hard for his penny

Tam had a love and she turned his head, and her name was Shoogling Jenny

I hadn’t noticed Jack Green had gone quiet.

“I know the song you mean,” he said softly. “We call it
Shaking Jinny.
But I wouldn’t go around this town asking questions about it. It ain’t been sung in these parts for fifty years and more.”

“Why?”

He refused to say. Even four more beers wouldn’t sway him. All I got out of him was a name.
 

“Tom Malone,” he said as I stood to leave. “The mine owner. If anybody will talk to you, it’s Malone. But I didn’t tell you that.”

I took my leave and made a call, setting up a meeting with Malone in the morning. I told him I was researching links to the Scottish mining community, and he seemed happy to talk to me. Then again, I didn’t mention the song. Maybe if I had things might have gone differently.
 

I stayed in the bar too long that night—I guess I felt
too
at home. The beer flowed freely, and the locals were only too happy to share anecdotes about the mine and its history. I remained just sober enough to remember Jack Green’s warning about the
Shoogling Jenny
and I kept quiet on the subject, hoping that the next day would yield the long hoped for result.

It was late by the time I dragged myself to bed. They had left the heating on too high and the room felt stifling, threatening to send my already unsteady head swirling. I turned it down and threw the window open. At first all I noticed was the pounding of blood in my ears, then I heard, from a great distance, a well-known refrain.

The rails they ran both fast and true, as fast and true as any

And for all I know she runs there still, the birling, Shoogling, Jenny.

And as quickly as that I felt too cold and far too sober. A shiver ran through me, forcing me to retreat to the too-warm room. I raided the mini-bar for some Scotch and watched a glossy cop show on cable with unseeing eyes. I still heard the song in my head, and it was there when I lay down fully clothed, and fell into a restless sleep.

In the morning the hangover was the foremost thing in my mind, but even as I showered the tune still ran, and I had to stop from bursting into an impromptu rendition. I tried to focus on basics—coffee, breakfast and the making of notes prior to my meeting with Malone. I felt almost human by the time I walked through town to the mine’s main office building.

Tom Malone proved to be younger than expected—fresh faced in a smart suit with a smile that was just a fraction short of sincere. Over more coffee we talked about the purpose of my trip and the
Shoogling Jenny
in particular. Unlike the miners in the bar, he seemed more than happy to expound at length on the song.

Indeed, his very first statement almost floored me.

“It’s a true story you know?” he said. Before I could reply he burst into song, a fine high baritone that rang through the room.

Now the boss Malone was a jealous man, and Jenny was his lass

So he followed Tam down to the hole, and shot him in the back.

He stopped and looked straight at me.
 

“Malone... my great-great-grandfather. I’ve been hearing the story since I was a lad—how Tam seduced his woman, and how Great-Great-Granddaddy killed Tam and stuck him in a cart.”

“The original ‘
Shoogling Jenny
?’”

Malone smiled. “That’s right,” he said, waving his hands theatrically. “The haunted mine cart—the excuse of miners everywhere for not doing any work. Old wives tales... I’m sure you’ve got
plenty
of them where you come from.”