Chapter 13 (Part 1)

It is the next morning, and Bunuel awaits the arrival of either Mitsuko or Hemmingway in the living room as there is something that he needs to tell them. He cannot bear the thought of having Mitsuko as a mother, less so anyone else. His parents are his parents, dead or alive, and either way they are still around. They are dead set on ceasing to exist to ensure that Bunuel can live in a better world, but Bunuel cannot bear the thought of them going away. He has kept this to himself, but he intends to sabotage their plans, keeping Bateman alive if necessary, just to keep them around. To do this, he needs the help of Mitsuko and Hemmingway, knowing that as soon as he leaves with Squiggle, he will have nothing more to do with the FIB, packed away to a new family. Even if his parents manage to survive, he can’t be sure that they will find him or he will them. At all costs, Bunuel needs to make sure he doesn’t go with Squiggle. 

It is Mitsuko who enters first, a nice shiner indicating last night’s fight. Her manner, otherwise, is much more relaxed, her tension released, only getting slightly more contrived in the presence of Bunuel. She sees his miserable expression.

“Oh, diddums. What’s happened?” She acts up the mother, still fighting for her chance. 

“It’s not gone, you know. It’s still there. It’s waiting. Waiting for its chance. You haven’t won, nobody’s won.” 

“No, but we’ve been pulled off the case, haven’t we? Smashing up mirrors. What was that going to achieve? Still, got to find something to do with you, haven’t we? We can’t look after you anymore, darling.” She winks at him, letting him know that this isn’t necessarily the case. A chill runs down his spine.    

“I’m looking after you. Listen, something’s going to happen. We’ll need to be there when it does. It could be dangerous.”

Mitsuko is excited by the prospect of new information. She remembers that it is going to take her nowhere except jeopardising her career more. “You’ll have to take it to the police.”

“The police won’t help! They’re not going to believe some ten year old child!”

“Well, they’re not going to be believe crazy old Mitsuko Nakagawa from the Secret Government organisation the F.I.B. who goes around vandalising and breaking into other people’s property, are they? Listen, I don’t want to see you end up in some orphanage. I’ll see what I can do to adopt you. How would you like that? For me to be your mummy?”

“But you go around vandalising and breaking into other people’s property. That’s not the point. We’ve got to do something. Here and now. This monster will kill! It has killed. It will again. Until we stop it. Vindicate yourself. Prove you’re not the crazy bitch people think you are. That way you might become my mummy.” Bunuel hates himself for the low that he has just sunken to. Anything to keep Mitsuko on his side until he can save his actual parents. The look of joy that crosses her face frightens him. You don’t need to be older than ten to realise that in a situation like this you have to change the track pretty quickly. “Look, I can get you back on the case. I know things. When that man arrives, I’ll tell you what I know. He’ll be so impressed that he’ll have to keep you on the case.” Bunuel looks around him, hoping his parents aren’t around. This would be the ideal time to say things. He only hopes they aren’t around when Squiggle arrives, as then he won’t be able to say anything, his plan will be ruined. 

As for Mitsuko, Bunuel is just the son that keeps on giving. 

***

I wake up in a foul mood. I know that there are only two options to me. Run away, or face up to my troubles through oblivion. With oblivion I have three options. One, continue to starve myself as I kind of have been doing the last few days, eating only a minimal dinner, bypassing breakfast, lunch and any other temptations of food. Two, get drunk. I am really tempted to get drunk. It doesn’t take any problems away, rather it intensifies everything, squeezes it into a ball of self-loathing so tight that nothing else exists. And a twisted kind of comfort comes out of that. Third is to cut myself, damage myself in some kind of way. To leave a mark on me. This is because I am so desperate to find an answer to why there are so many problems, why I feel so fucked up, that I need to construct a problem. So I cut myself.   

I starve, so my blood sugar drops. With that goes my esteem, my energy. I am miserable and tired, unable to focus. I enter into a dream where everything is distant, and I am only looking at my body, having to remind myself I am in control of it, ultimately by starving it, but remembering that every movement of my fingers, my legs, my physical presence in space, is my insertion into it, and is an interaction with the people around me. It is like stepping into a TV set. The world goes around you as if it is scripted, and you are a mere spectator but you are there. But my lack of focus makes it difficult for me to relate to people, so I end up creating more problems than solving any, or at least being able to cope with them. I then wish to cut myself. It will give me confidence. Immediately after cutting myself, I always feel a calm, all my troubles whilst still in existence matter little. I feel complete, I feel myself. To cut myself, I have to drink, because I do it so rarely these days and in fact I have not done it for a long time. Cutting myself gives me confidence because it gives me power. I know something that everyone else does not. Just how fragile, just how weak I really am, just how human I really am. And I know who I am. People can call me any name under the sun, it doesn’t matter, because I already know. I can attack myself much more than they can and no-one can take that away from me. No-one. I cut myself as punishment, to mark the end of something, as a release to calm myself down. I can do this through drinking, because drinking highlights everything. Alone, it highlights just how sensitive and out of touch I am with the world. In groups, although more manic and with lower inhibitions, it shows my hatred for other people in passive-aggressive ways, how I will push them away, but pushing them away in a needy desperate attempt to gain their company. 

All these things feed into each other in some way, all part of a process known as Nosferatu Crunchy. It is possible for me to be sober. By sober, I mean not deliberately trying to fuck myself up, as all the above are addictions that take me into a different state in some way. For someone who despises drugs so much, I spend a lot of time altering the chemical balances in my body. Hypocrite, huh? Sober, I am scared, and I am fearful. I am closed off and unapproachable. I know that I can end it. I have always known that I can end it all. So far I have chosen not to, because I do not want to stand there on my judgement day and say that I threw it all away. I want to say that although I failed, I at least tried. I believe that anyone and everyone deserves a standing ovation for at least trying. And showing their support for others who try. I try because I want to find out about myself; what is good for me, and what is bad. I am a human guinea pig in my own experiment. I don’t believe that to be an argument for trying out chemical substances. They are not ambitions, nor dreams. I punish myself for not trying hard enough. I despise myself for allowing myself to stay in a rut. 

I don’t know what to do with myself. I know that something is going to happen, though. That is a certainty. 

As I decide, I pack. It takes me no time. All we are talking about is one pair of underpants. Finished, I look around the room with myself written all over it. Finding the magic marker, I begin writing the same words all over my body. Finished, I look over to my reflection. I do not fear Bateman. He cannot defeat me. Only I can do that. I look at my messed up face, the blood from last night that I have not bothered to wash off, although there are no bruises. I like the dried blood. It just makes me feel messed up. It reminds me of the pain. It reminds me of what is inside me. It reminds me of the many times I have watched the blood running down my arm. I am angry at Mitsuko, because I should have done this to me. 

“We had some great times in here, didn’t we kid?” I say to my reflection. It says the same thing back to me, but I don’t hear its words. I look down at my hands. There are still one or two cuts that I received when I smashed the mirror. They still hurt. That at least I did to myself. The shards will still be in the bin. They are sharp. Fuck it. 

I cut myself with one of the pieces. Blood runs down my arm. I cut my chest, over my heart. Blood runs down my chest. The shard of mirror is to my satisfaction. As well as being tainted with my blood, it mirrors the blood, allows me to have a good look at my cuts. 

I hear a faint click on the door. I look, but I can’t see anything. There is another click, some movement has caught my eye. But I cannot work out what it was. The shard flies out of my hand. It connects with the mirror, as do all the pieces, flying out of my bin, working their way out of the carpet where I have not picked them up, until the mirror is complete, glued together at the cracks with my blood. 

From where I stand, my reflection is dead centre. Now the mirror begins to bubble outward, morphing itself around my reflection until it takes the complete semi three-dimensional shape of my reflection. Of Bateman. Half of me, of it, the front. The back does not exist. The back is attached to the door. Bateman holds out his arm and it grows from the door. I think that it’s trying to make some kind of gesture, but Bateman looks too much in pain. So absorbed in this that I do not even realise, initially, that my arm, too is extended outwards. I do not fight it. Though I am surprised. 

“What the hell?”

“You really fucked that one up, didn’t you?”

Bateman still talks over me. We both fall to the floor, writhing around under Batman’s control. His arm is trying to reach the ground. Trying to anchor itself. And then there is a concerted effort, both of us pulling ourselves towards each other. Me towards the mirror, Bateman out of it. It is nearly there, and I notice that the glass has retained its shape, it is purely the mirror part of the mirror that is taking Bateman’s form. The glass ripples, despite its rigid nature, and as Bateman pulls the last of him out of the mirror, the glass smashes. Bateman is free. And completely in control. It gets up. I don’t. I am currently completely under my own control. Bateman walks over to me and pulls me up. He is shiny. 

“Going around smashing mirrors. That’s not the way to defeat me,” he says with pity. I am stunned, unable to speak. I am certain that I have done something bad. “I showed you how to be a better you. But you shoved it right back in my face. You want to beat them, don’t you? Prove that at the very least you can equal them. Match them. You know you have it in you. You are that person. But they just frustrate you. Drag you down to levels where you just drown. But you are better than them. That is why I am here. To help you. I am not a monster. I am your guardian. That person you see in the mirror. The one who is both strong and feeble, sexy and ugly, charismatic and death defyingly dull. That is who I am. You think you suffer alone? I suffer with you. And I hate my weaker aspects. That is why I choose to eliminate them. But I can only do that with your help. But I need to help you first. I need to show you who you really are just so that you can believe in us. Come.”

Bateman offers out his hand. “You’ve always dreamt about flying?” I nod and take his hand. “Look down.”

I gasp, something that I have never done before. I also have never been suspended a foot above the ground. “You see, it is possible.” 

I want to fly. I want to fly as I want to escape. I want to run away. Fuck oblivion.

***

Squiggle has arrived, annoyed that they are all still there. Hemmingway sits, drinking his morning coffee, refusing to do anything until he has had his first caffeine fix of the day. He watches Squiggle pulling on a pair of marigolds and an apron and begin tidying the house. Mitsuko sits with him, with the same attitude, watching him and doing nothing else except smoke a cigarette. When she finishes, she simply reaches for another one, dropping the extinguished butt to the floor. She has tried to cover up her black eye with make up. She has on a layer of foundation that could be removed and sold as a rubber mask. 

Trying to get them to take a hint, Squiggle is vacuuming in the living room and deliberately so right by the two agents. He knows they are not going to move their feet and he is proved right. Just as well he uses a bit of extra force as he bangs it into Mitsuko’s shoeless ankle. He needs the place clean for tonight when two new, although not quite so good agents arrive. Media attention is a wonderful thing. Too much exposure, however, exposes. Mitsuko has certainly achieved her job and Squiggle is proud of her. He bangs her ankle again, harder. 

Bunuel has found a way of keeping his parents busy. He is using the ghost that occupies this house to distract them whilst he says what he needs to say. He does not care how the ghost distracts them, he just hopes it is for long enough. Bunuel approaches Squiggle, reaches up and tugs him gently by the cloth on his arm.

“Mr” he does the tiny gasping thing forcefully as he wants to ensure that he is heard, “A.K.A. Squiggle, sir. I have some news about the reflection.”

Squiggle waves the end of the vacuum in his face, wanting him to go away. “Never mind about that. There’s nothing you can do.”

Hemmingway holds Mitsuko back as she has reacted to the way Squiggle has treated Bunuel. He leans forward himself. “Let the kid speak.”

“It’s all classified information. You are no longer privy to it.”

“It’s a classified world, what you gonna do?” Hemmingway knew this didn’t make sense. He just needs the momentum.

“I want them to hear,” Bunuel says, otherwise I’m not going to say anything.”

“Jolly good!” Squiggle waves the vacuum in his face again. As far as he is concerned, the case is closed.

Bunuel just needs to push on regardless. “I don’t know what it is that they’re going to do. I just know that they’re going to do it.”

Squiggle turns off the vacuum. This is getting tedious now, and unfortunately, the issue needs to be addressed properly. “Young man. I realise that you are excited and that you have talked to the ghosts. These are quite decent attributes, but your age and experience are unnecessary concepts here.”

Bunuel is confused by this. Clarity is obviously a valuable commodity around this man with the hairy nostrils. “They are going to attack. The ghosts. They are going to kill it.”

Squiggle affects a big beaming smile. “And that’s a good thing. What’s also good is that you are not going to do anything about it. It’s a good thing that you are not trying to stop this monster.” He makes the typical mistake of patting the boy on the head. Bunuel swipes his hand off.

“But people are going to get hurt. Innocent people will die.”

“You have been taken off this case. And that’s a good thing. Lots of good things are going to happen now.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“Mitsuko and Hemmingway are going to go back home. Crunchy is going to leave our organisation. And I am going to have a chat with our Prime Minister. Do you know who the Prime Minister is? He’s our leader. And if we need to stop anybody, it’s going to be him. Lots of good things.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“Don’t you want to go back home?”

The mention of this is too much for Mitsuko. She can predict where this is going and interjects before Bunuel’s feelings get hurt. “Sir…” But she is cut off.

“See mummy and daddy?”

“Sir. He hasn’t got those anymore. His parents were killed. He has no home. We’ve taken him in. He’s got no-one else.”

“Ah, bless you,” says Squiggle, patting Bunuel on the head once more. But he forgot. Damn it, how could he have forgotten? Nothing has been lined up for the kid. Something needs to be done. Wasn’t there an uncle? A Granny? But no family members have been contacted yet. Just lock him up in a cell for a couple of days. That’ll keep him out of the way. But the kid can’t know this. No-one can. Stick with the orphanage story for the time being. “Then I know a place where there are lots of children just like you.”

“No, sir. He’s mine,” says Mitsuko, rising from the chair. 

But Hemmingway can see the frustration mounted on Bunuel’s face. “Do you know something, Fellini?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a matter for the police. They won’t do anything. Which is what we want if you want to destroy this thing. You are off this case. We’ll handle it and let you be laughed at by the police.”

“What do you know?”

“They are organising a counter strike. They’ve begun already. They are angry and they want their revenge upon the monster that killed them and the people that dragged them down their entire life.”

“What people? They were just vain, narcissistic wankers. It was their own fault. They just blamed others.”

“Yes, precisely. There’s going to be a lot more dead very soon.”

“But then what? We stop the ghosts? How do we kill the reflection? If that’s the only way to defeat it, aren’t we just aiding it?” 

Bunuel shrugs. It’s that or admit he only wants to keep his parents around, and somehow he doesn’t believe that is a reason that is going to wash. “We’ve just got to choose one evil over the other right now. We kill the ghosts after.” He shudders. He’ll have to make sure his parents are safe. “The sooner we act, the less people the reflection can reach, the less people will be murdered by the ghosts. And the ghosts will kill much more, much more quickly.” 

This is a lot of information for Hemmingway to take in. He looks at Squiggle, who is equally as dumbfounded by this shocking turn of events. The contract was only to kill one reflection. Had he known about the ghosts, he would have marked up the price big time. “What’s going to happen?” asks Squiggle, intrigued.

“The ghosts are going to unify. If the ghosts are united they will never be divided. They want to become one. Enhance their power and their strength. They will create a trap for the monster. Entice it into themselves. Once it’s in them, it won’t get out and they will kill it. I’m sorry. I know that is not good enough. It’s all I could pick up. They are being very secretive about this.”

“So, it’s not about smashing up mirrors, then?” asks Mitsuko, embarrassed at her willingness for such a stupid plan from, of all people, Crunchy.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I knew it. He’s a dweeb!”

But too much has been said as far as Squiggle is concerned. Fuck the cleaning. The two new agents are just going to have to put up with a mess. He grabs Bunuel’s arm and starts pulling him out. “Come on Bunuel. It’s time to get your new parents.” But he finds it difficult to actually exit the door. Something to do with Bunuel suddenly kicking and screaming, and being very genuinely distressed, if not fearful, and something to do with Mitsuko using Bunuel’s lack of momentum to get past Squiggle and block the front door. However, Squiggle finds this easy to remedy, pulling out a gun. “I have a licence to kill you know. I am a double O. Forty Seven, if you need to ask. But I don’t think you will be asking.”

Mitsuko refuses, actually touched by Bunuel’s desperate attempts to stay with her, his pleading eyes saying ‘die for me’. She wants to tell him that is the wrong gesture for her to do. Unfortunately, she has no other ideas. She moves out of the way and watches Bunuel kicking and screaming his way out of her life. 

Bunuel is kicking and screaming his way to a life without his parents. His parents will die, and that fucking stupid bald woman didn’t do a fucking thing. Bitch. 

***

Camden is below us, in fact London if not the entirety of the home counties are below us, we are that far up. And we are falling fast, myself and Bateman. I wonder how long it is going to take to hit the ground as it does not seem to be getting any closer yet. But that is just an optical illusion. We are falling. I know that from the wind that hits us from below and the simple, undeniable fact that we are no longer flying.  

It was Bateman that brought me up here, showed me that flying is a reality, and not just restricted to fantasy. He took my hand, and much like Peter Pan and Wendy, together we flew. Much like Peter Pan, happy thoughts are central to the process. But unlike Peter Pan, the happy thoughts are because of the flying and not the medium with which to fly. Flying is freedom. There are only two boundaries, the ground below and space above. But I couldn’t give a shit about that, because there is so much space, that is ours and ours alone. Finally I really feel like I can think, much like I used to sometimes back home, looking out at the sea, knowing that my thoughts extended as far as the horizon, the actual curve of the earth, and beyond, into the rest of the universe because there was nothing in the way. No buildings or hills, no anything. I could think, I could be as far as I could see, which was light years, countless, endless light years. And now my body has caught up with my mind. Finally they are combined. I feel myself as a unity. I feel myself as myself. I have waited my entire life for this moment and I do not want to let it go. 

And now we plunge to the ground, myself and Bateman, for I still hold his hand. I have left my stomach far, far above us. And now the ground is coming towards us because I can see buildings and trees growing. But I am not scared. It was Bateman who did the flying at first, he who was carrying me. Then, when I believed it was possible, when I believed that I could, it was me who took control. Me who was doing the flying. Me who was carrying him, my guide, my mentor. Because I could, because I found that it was possible. 

Between Superman and Spiderman, I always believed it was Spiderman that had the greater freedom. Superman could just fly. He could just lift himself into the air and be faster than a speeding bullet. Spiderman, admittedly, always had to rely on webs anchored to buildings, but it was the skill with which he manipulated the webs, as he swung himself across the city. He would not be much use in a desert, but his acrobatic skills were far superior to the man of steel. A greater awareness and need for much more talent always led me to believe that Spiderman was much freer than Superman because Superman never earned his abilities unlike Spiderman. I do not possess any of Spiderman’s abilities, but I feel as if I have earned my right just for having lived my life, immediately making me feel superior to Superman. And if I can feel superior to America’s greatest hero, then that makes me one very special person.

And now we plunge to the ground. Because it is still me that is in control. Because I desired to do this. Finally I can fulfil years of suicide fantasies, put the physical experience behind the desire to plunge to the ground. To know what the sensation of falling is, not just to yearn for it. And it feels sublime just to be able to let yourself go like this, to be in control, and be under the control of the universe as and when I decide. Because as the ground gets ever closer, I pull us up in a graceful arc, my body just centimetres away from the ground, and I learn that my stomach has returned to me, only to get left behind once again. 

I take us up a few hundred metres above the ground and stop, just suspended in the air. Surprisingly it takes no effort to float like this. I would have imagined it would take just as much effort as it would to move through the air because, in both situations, I am defying gravity. I imagined that I would need to do the equivalent of treading water in the air. It takes no effort, because I am in control, because it is possible, and because it is merely a choice, as if ordering food at a restaurant. A behind the scenes process happens, but it matters little, because I get what I want without having to do a thing except make that decision. 

Bateman turns to face me. “If you could fly, wouldn’t it just make everything better? Think of the awe you would receive. The respect. People would think of you as a superhero. You’d be famous! All of these people down there. Looking up at you every day. You could do whatever you wanted. All this freedom. All this power. But it would do more than that. It will give you a strength that you’ve never felt before. Confidence. People will want to listen to what you say. And, boy, would they find you attractive. Some of that work you are going to have to do for yourself. But talk about a head start.”

“This is amazing.” The words don’t even convey my feelings, but Bateman is me. He knows what I feel. Neither of us actually need to speak any more, the words are a mere formality, an acknowledgement of each other. 

“It is. But there’s something you need to do first.” The words cut me down. Everything comes at a price, and I have not yet earned this privilege after all. He takes my hand once more. He has to, because I am entirely reliant on him as I now no longer have the ability to be free. He is the one keeping me in the air. “They’re dragging you down. Every move you make, every word you utter, they scrutinise and criticise. Every suggestion you make they ignore. They are not letting you progress. And it hurts you. Doesn’t it?”

Bateman is deliberately not being specific. He doesn’t need to, as his words could apply to anyone and everyone. I make it specific, however. I bring to mind two people. Two people to represent the many that have passed through my life. I know who they are and so does Bateman.

“It is. I wish they would not do that.”

“Well, you can stop them. You know that, don’t you?”

I can feel Bateman’s ability to deal with problems, his confidence but it is still only second hand. I cannot feel it for myself. “I’ve tried. I can’t.”

“But you haven’t tried. Not really, have you? You allow them to come back and mock you again and again. You need to stop them for good. You can do that, can’t you?”

I am shocked by Bateman’s words, they are so moderate compared to what his soul is saying and it is dark and necessary, but a part of me knows that it is right. The smaller, more rational part of me tries to reject the thought, locking me into conflict. 

“I… Is that the answer?”

“You’ve got to think of the answer yourself. It just has to be a permanent solution. Understood?”

But Bateman has made himself clear. His suggestion is vengeance. His desire is murder. Do I understand? I do. Is this the answer? I don’t know. But I do understand. I understand that I want freedom, because I have been shown a gift that if I can gain, can never be taken away from me. For the first time I have really and truly utterly believed in myself so much that I could fly. And I am hooked. And I will not believe in myself until I can fly again, because how else can I prove to myself my self-belief? How else can I begin to believe in myself until I have removed all doubt and all doubters? I know this and Bateman knows this. 

I don’t know if murder is the right answer, but I know that vengeance is and so I confirm that I understand. “Yes.”