Songs From Spider Street (6 page)

He sniffed
suspiciously, then bent to test some of the fluid with his fingers. He recoiled
at the smell. It was blood.
Blood?!
Paterson’s head reeled. The house
was alive but the girl was a machine – was that it? Was this bizarre reversal
Van Epps’ great secret? And what about the old man – was he just an old man? Or
another of Van Epps’ ‘toys’?

Paterson
looked quickly at the other subterranean space now opened to the revealing
daylight. In the back of his mind, he hoped Framehr had survived and that he’d
be able to reveal everything Paterson needed to know.

As soon as he
looked down into what had been the machine pit, Paterson knew he wouldn’t be
getting any answers.

But there, in
the midst of of the tangled flesh and torn machinery, an eye of deep green
stared out at him from a perfect, pale face. It must have been the way the
light from the setting sun caught it, or maybe he’d got a speck of rust in his
own eye, because it
couldn’t
have winked at him.

His legs refused to work as they should as he hammered his feet down onto
the stone steps. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, a mantra of encouragement to his
reluctant body.

The guard was
just about to close the doors and press the signal for off as Nick got to the
top of the steps. He caught the man’s eye and got a look of impatience as he
hobbled the last few yards.

Why the hell
did the last train have to go so early anyway? All he asked for was a few beers
with an old friend once a month or so, but obviously that was far too
inconvenient for the damn train company. 8.40! You’d swear I was 10 years old,
he thought bitterly.

God, he’d be
glad to get home! What a day – one more deadline and his head would explode.
And he was sure that last week’s announcement about re-structure meant he’d
soon have a desk in the car park!

He pulled out
his newspaper and a small sheaf of ‘sticky’ notes fell onto the floor. Messages
from home left on his desk by his witless colleague, Steve, who delighted in
his being kept on a short leash by his wife.

He flicked
through them and sighed. Most of them concerned his daughter’s ‘operation’
tomorrow. As if he could forget what a mess the little idiot had got herself
into!

He glanced
about him. The train was empty. He was the only passenger. Good, he thought. No
noisy teenagers and idiots having loud phone conversations about nothing at
all. He shook open his newspaper and began to read.

The train
pulled out, heading off into the night as darkness had begun to gather. He tried
to concentrate on the words in front of him but his mind wouldn’t let him rest;
debts, his co-workers sneering about his son’s supposed addiction problem, his
wife’s recent coldness for no apparent reason, all jostled for attention.

After about
20 minutes of chewing his nails, Nick had finally become absorbed in some story
or other. Then he caught the guard’s announcement. “… Taff’s Well, Pontypridd,
Abercynon West …”

“What? There
is
no Abercynon West,” he thought. The voice continued “… Atlantis Central.”

Either the
guard was drunk, or some joker had fiddled the lock and commandeered the
intercom. “Next stop Narnia,” he snorted to himself, returning to his paper.

When next he
looked up he was still alone. Nobody had even got on at Ponty, which was usually
busy.

Suddenly the
carriage was plunged into darkness as they entered a tunnel. The lights
flickered on, then off again, on, off. Nick gave up trying to read his paper in
frustration. He didn’t remember a tunnel, certainly not one this long. Or this
cold; the train was freezing. Perhaps this was a detour because of engineering
works.

But then he
remembered it was a single-line track. And there were no tunnels on this
stretch of line anyway.

Pressing his
nose to the cold window, he could see a blob of light was getting closer. He
caught a glimpse of a sign with a bright, flickering light above it; below that
was a tiny platform big enough only for one or two people to stand on. The sign
had said ‘Abercynon West’. And hadn’t there been a figure standing in the
darkness? With something … no! That
must
have been a trick of the light.

And, despite
the announcement, the train hadn’t stopped at that station.

There was a
sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the train plunged deeper into the
surrounding darkness. Part of him desperately tried to rationalise the
situation. He told himself that the tiny station was simply intended for
maintenance crews and not passengers, hence its small size. That must be it,
mustn’t it? And he must have just misheard the final destination …

He stared
into the cold darkness beyond the window, feeling like a child desperately
clinging to a belief in impossible things – fairies, Santa Claus, happy endings
– then, to his horror, finding that impossible things really
did
exist;
other things, less kind.

Suddenly the
carriage was out of the darkness and the brakes began to screech as the train
pulled to a halt, jerking Nick forward in his seat.

A pale blue
light flooded through the windows, showing up every grimy seat cover and dirty
scuff mark on the floor. Nick looked out at a clean, wide station platform with
not a soul on it. Carved into the shining blue stone at the back of the
platform were the words ‘Atlantis Central’.

Then came the
announcement. “Atlantis Central. Last stop. Change here for services to
Hy-Brasil, Cockaigne, Erewhon and Elysium.” Nick stared up at the ceiling
speaker in disbelief.

He got to his
feet, wondering if this was some sort of marketing gimmick. It looked like a
bloody expensive one if it was. He pressed the button and the doors hissed
open, letting in a blast of cool, fresh-tasting air.

Stepping out
onto the spotless platform, he looked around, then followed the sign saying ‘out’.
Through a window high up he could just see the top of an ornately-carved bell
tower beneath a clear sky. From somewhere the sound of huge waves crashing
against a sturdy sea wall reached him. He knew the route the train usually took
was at least 20 miles from the sea.

But even his
tired mind was beginning to realise that nothing here was usual. Suddenly
feeling self-conscious he checked to see that he wasn’t leaving dirty
footprints on the pristine floor.

At the
platform end, the horse-headed guard with the golden horn sprouting from his
forehead smiled at him as if to say ‘Good to be home, isn’t it?’

Nick glanced
back at the dirty, ugly machine sitting at the platform and knew he’d taken his
last train ride.

Toshio slides the door quietly to one side and peers into the hollow
darkness. It drinks his gaze, giving him nothing in return, the silky blackness
reminding him of the faded old kimono his mother wore towards the end of her
life, despite his daily pleading.

He knows the
room is not empty. Treading carefully, not wanting to disturb her yet, he edges
forward towards the futon. He always feels excited at being there while she is
asleep, before the day’s work must begin. But today the muffled whimpers and
rustling from beneath the sheets tell him she is already awake, aware of him.

The dizziness
comes out of the dark to grip him and he falls to his knees, reaching to switch
on the bedside lamp. Toshio is startled that the girl is staring directly at
him. Her tears stick her short hair to her face and the pillow is damp beneath
her head.

She moans
incoherently through her cloth gag. She gives a gasp of relief when he reaches
over and loosens it, then begins to sob. “Don’t be afraid. No, Ayame,
everything’s alright,” he mutters. She refuses to be silenced by his
assurances. Instead he tries to stroke her hair but she pulls away with an
unhappy mewling sound.

He pulls away
the bedcovers. He is ashamed to see the bruises on her thighs and arms but
tries to block out thoughts of his actions the previous night. Bound at wrists
and ankles, the girl needs his help and he concentrates on that instead.

Toshio
reaches over to pick her up, carefully manoeuvring her, shifting her weight, so
that they don’t topple over. “Let me go. Let me go,” she whimpers, close to his
ear, like a lover’s endearment.

For a moment
Toshio struggles to remain upright, fighting his dizziness. Whenever he is this
close to her, holding her, his mind boils, almost ready to burst. Catching
sight of himself in the mirror, the fragile girl in his arms, Toshio quickly
averts his gaze. He seems to have grown so much older since she’s been with
him.

He carries
Ayame to the bathroom, sits her on the toilet, gently lowers her torn briefs,
then leaves. He watches her slump forward, sobbing, as he slides the door
closed. He walks into the kitchen and supports himself against the fridge,
sweating, glad to be rid of the swirl of voices and images.

The first time he’d seen her had been on the way to his publisher’s
offices for what he knew would be a difficult meeting. Even though rush hour
was already over, the Metro train was still crowded; dozens of people in that
metal box, breathing the same stale air.

She was
behind a large man who stood in front of Toshio. He had seen her face, small
and contemplative, bob from behind the man’s arm once or twice. When the man
had got off the train at the next stop, he and Ayame had been pushed closer as
even more people forced their way on.

For a second,
she had looked directly into his face. Toshio had felt almost dizzy; thinking
it was the strength of her perfume, the heat and the crush, he had looked
around for a seat. Everywhere was occupied, but he couldn’t stay upright any
longer and slumped against the man behind him, who roughly pushed him upright
again while muttering an insult.

Ayame had
stared at him, asked him something that he didn’t hear. Toshio saw her through
a mist and staggered gratefully off the train at the next station. It was four
stops away from his destination at Shinjuku.

When he
finally arrived at the meeting everyone was unimpressed with his excuses. His
last novel had not sold at all well and it was clear his publisher wanted to
release him from his contract. His agent, a smart, stiff middle-aged woman, was
not arguing his case very well.

Toshio still
felt in a daze when he began to interject, talking about his new book, telling
them how wonderful it would be, why everyone would want to read it because it
was a story that would appeal to everyone, absolutely everyone.

Even Toshio’s
agent was astonished at his eloquence. It was something that had been lacking
in his work for some years now. He left the meeting with a fresh commitment to
his cause by his delighted publisher. His agent had been non-plussed by it all.

Only when he
was back at his tiny apartment did Toshio realise that the girl on the train
must have had something to do with it.

When Toshio woke next morning his head felt as if it had been filled with
overcooked ramen. Struggling to shake the feeling off, he rose, dressed and
waited to leave the house at the same time that he had the previous day. He had
to see the girl again.

After
boarding the train, Toshio checked his watch. It was exactly the same time as
yesterday’s meeting. He couldn’t see the girl. With determination and an
uncomfortable degree of rudeness he pushed through the crush until he finally
found her, huddled at the far end of the carriage, a romantic manga dangling,
unread, between her fingers. His gamble that she was a creature of habit had paid
off.

She
recognised him immediately. For a moment she seemed frightened but then she
smiled and asked him if he was feeling better today. He simply smiled and
nodded at her as his head swarmed with words and ideas, fighting against the
dizziness.

She got off
at the throbbing hive of Shinjuku and was immediately lost in the rush.

It was a cold February day, almost exactly one month after he’d first
seen her, when Toshio set out to change his fortunes for good.

He’d
travelled on the same train at the same time every weekday since. Sometimes he
approached the girl but often he simply followed her to the office building
where she worked. On the few occasions when he’d actually spoken to her he made
sure that she thought he was a fellow office worker, on his way to another
humdrum job in another office.

Toshio
followed her to work, then idled the day away in bookshops and noodle bars
before ensuring he was at the right place to follow her onto the homeward bound
train. He couldn’t afford to be too far behind her in the intolerable crush or
he would lose her. Despite his best efforts he was almost elbowed off the train
when it finally came.

He was only
two people away from her. Over the course of the next few stops he managed to
get to a position next to her. He smiled and nodded to her, as if it was a
happy coincidence and she responded cordially to his trivial chit-chat. All the
time he fought the dizzy nausea he inevitably felt whenever he was close to
her.

After talking
with her for a short while, Toshio checked his watch. The next station was only
a few minutes away; it was his stop. She had to get off with him. As the train
went around a bend he quickly jabbed the girl in the stomach. She gasped and
doubled forward towards him. He quickly grabbed the back of her neck and
applied pressure at the right spot, just at the base of her skull. After a few
seconds, the girl slumped limply into his arms. Pressed against the door as
they were, nobody had noticed what had happened.

Toshio
supported her for a few seconds before pulling her limp body forward towards
the doors opposite as the train pulled into the station. He began to yell. “Please,
my daughter is ill. My daughter is ill! Make room, please.”

People
muttered and moved as much as they could, some stepping off the train to let
them through. This was the most dangerous part, Toshio knew.

The guard
came to their assistance but Toshio insisted the girl would be OK. He dragged
her to a bench and sat her down. “She sometimes has these turns. Her medicine
is at home. She’ll be fine once I get her home,” he told the concerned
official. The guard stayed a few minutes but then had to attend to his duties.

The train
finally pulled out, along with all its nosy passengers. The girl hung limply in
Toshio’s arms as they sat on the hard bench. A few concerned passers-by gave
them a glance or two.

Toshio was
sweating heavily. He hoped she did not wake up before they reached his
apartment. Standing in front of her to obscure her from view, he pulled a
lighter wig from his coat pocket and pulled it over her head. Then he dragged
his old overcoat from his bag and put that on over her street clothes. Finally
he reached into his bag and took out a small flask of sake, which he sprinkled
over their clothes.

He lifted her
up and dragged her towards the escalator, swaying and singing at the same time.
Once he’d managed to get her up to ground level he even managed to get the
station staff to help him. He waved in fake drunkenness and thanked them
profusely as they staggered out into the neon-flared dusk.

Toshio made
sure to take a different route home, resting regularly; even though the girl
was light, it was a difficult journey. When he finally reached his apartment
Toshio had never been so grateful for his elderly neighbour’s deafness, which
was usually a problem rather than a blessing.

Once inside,
he removed the disguise and her street clothes and bound her hands and feet
with strong nylon cords. Then he placed her on the futon of the room that would
now be hers. She showed no sign of regaining consciousness and her face seemed
very peaceful. “I need you. Your place is here with me,” he whispered to her.

Toshio studied the newspapers and scanned the TV news programmes for the
next few days. There was a brief flurry of interest in the disappearance of the
girl, who he now knew was a secretary called Ayame Oguchi. The police had no
leads, so either they had avoided being caught on CCTV, which was unlikely, or
his disguises had worked. Or maybe the authorities just didn’t care enough about
one more missing girl. Surrounded by people on all sides, she was still lost to
them.

The news
coverage subsided before the week was out. Ayame had been in Toshio’s flat ever
since; nearly six months. He washed her, clothed her and fed her. From time to
time, he raped her.

Toshio ignores the sobbing coming from the bedroom; he must remember to
fix her gag later. He sits straight down at his computer, still naked, and
begins to type furiously, afraid that he might lose the words, the phrases, the
images that thundered through his mind as he reached orgasm.

In the second
week after he’d brought the girl home he discovered quite by accident, after
his lust had got the better of him, that sex created an avalanche of creativity
in him. He’d written an entire volume of short stories within a fortnight – for
which July’s Akutagawa Prize might be his – and was now nearly halfway through
a long novel.

The story was
all there – the mother killed when the bomb drops, the two children struggling
to survive in the ruins, the eventual return of the soldier father, crippled
but alive, to care for them – and all the tiny incidents and events surrounding
it came so easily from his typing fingers.

He glanced
ruefully at the shelves to his left, at the six novels written over 10 years;
the ones that were so hard won, the ones that nobody wanted to buy or to read.

Turning his
attention back to the keyboard, Toshio know exactly what should come next. It
has to be the right word; the perfect word to follow the previous one. When he
hits the keys, the perfect word appears. He writes in elegant simple language,
owing every word to his muse.