Chapter 6
I awoke this morning to find myself locked into my room. It is only Tuesday, the second day of my job and already I have been locked up. I had hoped this would not be so immediate. They haven’t been completely cruel to me, however. They did leave a bowl of soggy cornflakes outside the door for me. They’ve also left a radio for me in case of emergency contact, which I was able to get.
I also have a task. As my room faces the back garden, I am to ‘man this post’ and look out for any unusual behaviour. Although I have my doubts regarding the effectiveness of this, I tell myself that it must be important or else they would not have got me to keep an eye out.
It is crucial, as they are currently conducting an interview downstairs. They already went to investigate a house where another suicide occurred, and have just got back, earlier than expected. From the radio I gathered that they brought back a young boy, I think his name is Fellini Bunuel, both his parents are now dead, and he is going to stay with us until he is questioned and new accommodation can be sorted out for him.
But there are some things that a human cannot do when they are locked away in a room, especially when for myself it is so crucial upon waking up. My bladder is on the verge of bursting, and no amount of walking around or jerking my legs around is alleviating the situation. I had been told not to interrupt the questioning, but I now deem this a situation necessary of emergency contact. I pick up the radio. “Can I have permission to go to the toilet, please?”
There is a short pause, then the radio crackles back into life. It is Hemmingway that answers. “No. You need to keep an eye out. What if you should miss something?”
“I only want the toilet. I won’t even stop to wash my hands, if it’s that important. I don’t even know what it is I’m looking out for.”
There is another pause. “Anything.”
“Look, just put your radio by the toilet.”
“Myself and Mitsuko are in the middle of interviewing an important witness here.”
“Do it for me, then I’ll shut up.”
There is an unbearably long pause. Excruciating. I waggle my legs around, violently, the knowledge that a toilet is just moments away means that I can no longer hang on. “Okay, I’ve put the radio by the toilet. I hope you’re still watching the street, though.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
I am already leaking. Not having much time, I undo my fly and shove the radio into my underpants. I don’t even know if this is going to work as I just explode, but the sound of tinkling water coming from the radio at least seems to confirm that I have successfully managed to convert my piss into radio waves. Finished, I do myself up. The relief is awesome, absolutely refreshing, as if I have just achieved the greatest orgasm ever.
“You can flush the toilet now.”
“I’ve got to put this near my mouth. I do hope you realise that.”
“Thank you.”
I go back to sitting at the window. To be honest, it’s not so bad. Boring, but I can handle boring. And as I have nothing else to do, I might just as well. Hemmingway has left the radio on, and I can hear him going back to the front room where they are questioning Fellini Bunuel.
“It’s no good, Hemmingway. I just can’t get him to say anything. I’ve been trying so hard.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, maybe a little. He’s responding to me a little. A smile here, a shake of the head there. But it’s going to take time.”
“Do you want me to leave you alone, then. Maybe the two of us is too much.”
“Perhaps. What about the dweeb?” Well, our little truce didn’t last long, but then what was I to expect?
“I don’t think he’s seen anything. I don’t know what to tell him to look out for, even. Ghosts? Seems our only hope.”
In my head, I half assumed I was looking out for other spies, or mysterious criminals. If they’d have said that to me, I would at least have given them the benefit of the doubt. But to tell me to look for ghosts would just have been insulting. Just how stupid do they think I am?
“I think our hope has become a ghost. Look, I don’t believe in any of this. So what if a couple of people have killed themselves? It’s got nothing to do with us. And it never will.”
“Look in there,” demands Hemmingway. “That kid has no parents. He knows that something has gone on. What are you going to do about it?”
“I feel sorry for the kid. The proper authorities need to be called in. That is who we are not. Don’t you get that?”
“I just want to see this through to the end. If it finishes with you interviewing this kid, so be it. If, however, you manage to get a lead, then Hurrah! We’ve managed to get somewhere in this shit arse case.”
“You don’t get it, do you? There is no ghost in the mirror.”
The mention of this makes me paranoid. What do they know? I’m thinking back to that moment yesterday when I became transfixed with a reflection of myself. But I haven’t said anything, haven’t I? I try to think back, trying to remember when I might have said something, trying to force situations of me telling them as if to make them real, as if to convince myself that it was a genuine memory, but I can’t. I cannot recall, and cannot believe that I once said anything to them. It must have been something that they’ve learned along the way, perhaps Fellini Bunuel told them something or they picked up a diary along the way.
But a ghost in the mirror. It kind of makes sense, but a sense I could not have believed had I not experienced it for myself. I regret not saying anything. I know crucial information that could seriously help matters out. Heck, I know more about it than them. I have a smug sense of pride until I realise that this would therefore make me a witness. It would take me off my work-experience. Granted, I’d get to see how they work, but from the wrong way round. I’d be questioned like they question other witnesses. But they wouldn’t question me like they did Chlamydia Smith or Fellini Bunuel, because they’d only been witnesses. The people who actually experienced it are dead. The victims. I’d be questioned like a victim. Because I am a victim. But the others are dead.
The realisation hits me with full impact. Everyone this reflection has gone to has ended up dead. And now it’s found me. Which means I am going to die. And, if truth be told, I don’t know whether to be scared or not. But only because the full truth of it hasn’t sunk in. I know that I saw something that could have been a ‘ghost’ or a ‘killer reflection’ in the mirror, but the idea of it makes no sense to me in the way it did a moment ago. I think back to what happened yesterday. It showed me as a mess, we danced. It rejected me, then Mitsuko and Hemmingway appeared, and I felt awful about myself. But it didn’t kill me. I didn’t see anything that I’ve never seen before in that mirror. I didn’t hate myself any more than I have done in the past. And the dancing? Well, shit happens when I’m around. People don’t exactly piss through a radio. Sometimes I’m in control, sometimes I’m not. I wanted to dance, so be it.
I walk over to the mirror. I see just myself, just as I always do. The reflection sends dread through me, but then it always does. This is why I avoid mirrors as I cannot bear to look at myself. Because I can stand in front of them for minutes, for hours, staring at myself, looking at every flaw. Knowing both that the flaws are a part of me, but that the flaws are also me. I have tried to avoid mirrors since that occasion yesterday because as much as I want to dance with myself, I did not want to believe that it was just a one off, like so many of the things in my life are. If I could avoid mirrors, I could still believe that it could happen again.
I begin to take my top off, wanting to see myself as I really am. A prisoner, a freak, someone who expresses all this through the acne on their body and the scars I have put there myself. Taking my top off brings me back into the real world for a moment. Mitsuko and Hemmingway are still talking, and it is Mitsuko’s voice that I hear now. “We are just talking about a high level of narcissism here. People who love themselves too much, can’t understand why people aren’t throwing roses whenever they walk past.”
But that isn’t me. Granted, I would like a few glances in my direction, but if that were to happen, then I would be confused. I would never expect roses. I expect to be ignored, to disgust others. I want to shrink, to hide myself away. In truth, I don’t want people to look. I despise public transport, to know that people sat behind me are looking at my disgusting neck. I always imagine what negative thoughts they must be thinking about me. That I want to tell them it’s not a choice. But even if by some bizarre reason they weren’t looking at my neck, that would only then bring attention to it.
Mitsuko continues talking. “The kind that spend all day in front of mirrors, tweaking themselves, trying to make themselves look perfect. “
Again, this is not me. I already know why I spend so much time looking in the mirror. It is to hide the flaws for the good of everyone else. I could never achieve perfection. I just have to put up with what I have. There is no killer reflection in that mirror. It is just me. Mitsuko is right. I am not as narcissistic as the others, and therefore I am in no immediate danger.
I stand here, looking at my pigeon chest, the scars standing out from the pale skin on my left arm, and twisting myself, the acne on the back. I want to believe so much that all that is only a reflection, that the real me is not bad. Like a mirror in the fairground that distorts light to disfigure the reflection. I want so much to believe that is what happens to me in any mirror, that it is not just me stood in front of me. Wanting this reassurance, I reach out to touch the flat glass, knowing that I will not be touching myself. But I recoil my hand when the glass is unnaturally cold, below freezing.
I look closer into the mirror, at the surface itself, but it looks normal. I shift my gaze to look at myself. The first thing I notice that is that the muscles on my chest I always want to believe are there are actually there. Nor does my hair look such a mess. In fact it acts to highlight the shape of my face, bring out its better points and hide the weaker aspects like the crook in my nose. I twist to look at my back. It is still acne ridden, but the acne is on its way out, clearing up as opposed to flaring up. I really look at my face. There is a more confidant expression that gives me a stronger appeal. But I am certain that is not the expression I wear on my own face, because I am certain it is one of confusion. Is this me, or is it a reflection in the mirror? A stupid question to ask, but one that is packed with meaning.
I put my clothes back on, the image in the mirror exactly copying my movements. I have put them on different. I wear them well, they fit my figure, and it is not a bad figure. This really is an image that I want to look at. Attractive. Not perfect, but attractive. I look down at my actual body. The creases of the clothes seem to match those of the mirror, but the shoulders hang forward a bit. The front looks flatter and less defined. I put this down merely to the angle and the light. But I can’t resist a little tweak of my clothes. My reflection still look great, but for some reason it doesn’t look right on my actual body. I continue tweaking.
***
Mitsuko and Hemmingway are still in the hallway. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed just how well dressed each of our corpses looked. I would have taken that as a clue had this not been Camden. Yeah, everybody here is a wannabe pop star. Emming, this is just like every other case we’ve been on. You do realise they call us the Fucking Idiots Bureau, don’t you?”
“Well, let’s just carry on. This is our job, at the end of the day. It’s what we have to do. See what you can get.” Hemmingway heads off towards his room, but not out of defeat. He understands that Bunuel is more responsive to Mitsuko, even if she does now look aggressive. He will join in on the questioning later when Bunuel is more relaxed. Instead, he will go and check up on Annette. Last night was interesting. All he wanted was to be close to her. He knows the danger that she possesses, but all he wanted was to hold her. He begged her and begged her, and when she finally relented, even to hold her was not to get close enough. The rational part of his mind tried to justify it that he was sacrificing his safety to protect many others by physically holding her in place, but in truth, he just wanted to crawl inside of her, to be a part of her, if not to actually be her. And today, he wanted at every moment to give up what he was doing and just go back to her.
Reaching the top of the stairs he immediately notices the Child. His mind erupts into curses. How did it get here? How did it get inside? How did it know where to go? He hesitates for a brief moment, but knows that he has to act as if everything is normal. The Child is here? Then so be it. Anything suspicious could completely jeopardise everything with Annette. He walks up to his door, and the Child waiting outside it who opens the door for Hemmingway. He nods at the Child and enters what he is already coming to refer as the Den.
The room is so cold Hemmingway’s breath hangs in the air. It may be winter, but it is not this cold outside. Perhaps it is just the position of the room in the house, or damp. He mentally makes a note to sort out the central heating. Annette, sitting with her back to Hemmingway, twists her head round to face him. She smiles. There is genuine warmth there.
“Hi!”
Annette suddenly flies towards Hemmingway with such force that he recoils back defensively. When he opens his eyes, she is standing sweetly just in front of him. He knows that this almost certainly happened, but once again tries to rationalise it as just overexcitement to see him on her part and that his perception is disorientated by the sudden cold. It is weak but still he mentally erases the trails of smoke dissipating behind her from his mind. She takes his hand and gives him a kiss on the cheek.
A blast of reality is what is needed now. “It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?”
“I was thinking, maybe you want to snuggle under the duvet?”
Hemmingway smiles. It kind of explains the cold without explaining how it is so possibly cold, but it’s good enough for him. She seductively drops the shoulder of her nightgown down her arm, revealing only bone. The rational part of him gives up. He has to remember who Annette is, and what exactly his job is. But still he just wants to be close to her.
“All right, then.”
Annette strips further, revealing a skeleton with patches of festering flesh and maggot ridden muscle. Hemmingway’s eyes, however, are focused a little bit further down her body. His expression changes from happy surprise to shock. His eyes widen considerably.
“Oh my God. It’s got teeth.”
“Not scared, are you? Think of it as a blow-job, but just down there.”
“Um.”
But Hemmingway can’t hide the excitement. He’s never involved himself in S&M, not wanting to scare away any partners, but would never have said no if it was suggested to him. This is a whole different league, but hey, in for a penny, in for a pound! Annette slips under the covers. As Hemmingway strips, The Child enters the room with a glass of red wine, which he hands to Annette, and delaying Hemmingway’s rush to get into bed. The Child leaves and Hemmingway dives under the covers, partly because of the cold.
“I’ve been thinking, and I want you to start calling me ‘mummy’ from now on.”
“Yes, mummy.”
“Now, I want you to be a good boy for mummy, can you do that?”
“Yes, mummy.”
“Now then, I want you to sort out your daddy for me.”
“But my daddy is big and strong and I want mine to be as big as his is when I grow up.” The words had tripped out if Hemmingway’s mouth before he had even thought them. Still, it is merely involvement in role-play. This must be how improve actors work.
“Yes, but, you see, me and your daddy, when it’s night and you’re not around, we do it. And do it good.”
This has gone beyond mere role play for Hemmingway. It really is as if someone has stuck a dagger in his heart. “NO! But I want to do it with you!”
“Yes, so I need you to kill him for me.”
“Okay, mummy. I will.”
Annette hands him a pillow. Hemmingway unleashes his full fury upon it knowing that it is no mere pillow, that it is in fact his father. The rational part of his mind has gone; he has no sense of who he is, what his job is or who Annette is.
“I hate you! I hate you! Die!”
“That’s good!” says Annette. And she truly is pleased. Hemmingway is so easy.
***
Mitsuko, meanwhile, is enjoying her time with Bunuel. The knowledge that he is only responding to her has awoken something in the normally uncaring Mitsuko. It is partly a challenge to prove her superiority over Hemmingway, but also she genuinely wants to get to know Bunuel more, go beyond just the questioning and get him to tell her all about his life. He is different to the other children in Mitsuko’s eye, who are ugly, small, pathetic and noisy. Bunuel is different, quiet, thoughtful and suspicious, but she can understand that as both his parents have recently died. His thoughtfulness takes away any idea of patheticness because his energies are somewhere else and not in pretending he is an aeroplane. He is taller than the average child, if a bit thin, but she puts that down to an unfounded assumption of neglect from his narcissistic parents caring only about themselves. She will do everything she can to show him proper respect. And he can never be ugly because every now and then she manages to make him smile, a reward for her efforts that goes beyond any promotion within the F.I.B. ever could.
They are sat next to each other on the sofa, he is holding a cup of tea and she adjusts the blanket around him, trying to make him as snug as possible. For some reason, despite the heating being on, there is a bubble of cold that is completely unexplainable. Like Hemmingway before, she puts it down to the position of the room in the house or damp. However, her inexperience with children has run her dry of conversation. She searches for a cigarette, wondering if it is right to smoke in front of a child of ten.
“You, er, you don’t smoke, do you?” Bunuel shakes his head, forcing Mitsuko to opt out of having one for herself right now. “Well, I dunno, with kids your age, you never know. No bike shed round here I guess. Liquor is out of the question?” There is still no response from Bunuel making Mitsuko think she has lost the touch that she had earlier. She searches around for the kind of things that kids like to talk about, the kind of things that she liked to talk about when she was ten, but she doubts that the isolation she went through and the resulting build up of anger that has never dissipated is the right track. She can, however, remember some of the conversations that the other kids had. If she just nicks one of those, and places herself in the protagonists role, she should get away with it. “I can tell you a story, if you want. It’s about me, when I was a child.”
Bunuel just tries to hide himself behind a cushion at this. Probably just as well, as the stories were half remembered fables of hanging around or bullying parents for toys more than a decade and a half ago. Maybe if she just tries to butter up his ego? “No, I guess not. Listen, kid, you’re a nice kid.” There, that should have done the trick.
Unbeknownst to Mitsuko, a ghost of a middle aged, highly preened man enters the room. Even though it is in her plain view, she cannot see it, and never will, unlike Bunuel, having surfaced from behind the cushion, who watches it intently. Acting as if it lives here, the ghost saunters up to the TV remote control on the coffee table. It tries to pick it up, but its hand passes through. Bewildered, it tries again to no effect. Giving up on trying to pick up the remote, it settles instead on just trying to push the power button, nearly falling through the table. It comes to a very firm conclusion, very rapidly. That there are two strangers that have just seen it do something highly embarrassing. Taking pity, Bunuel reaches across and turns the TV on for the ghost. The ghost stands there, looking at Bunuel.
“Er, thanks.”
“Look, let’s not turn the TV on, shall we?” says Mitsuko, reaching over for the remote control in Bunuel’s hand and switching off the TV. Bunuel goes to protest but is cut off by the ghost.
“Oi! I was watching that. Going to.” He swipes at the remote still in Mitsuko’s hand, his hand passing through hers.
Mitsuko doesn’t reacting trying to look both stern and caring towards Bunuel at the same time. Bunuel looks at her, but not understanding why she doesn’t respond to the ghost’s presence. Why it is he that is getting the telling off. Dawning on him he turns to the ghost. “I don’t think she can see you.”
“Who can’t see me?” But this is Mitsuko, and Bunuel knows that the following conversation is not going to be simple.
“No, not you, you can’t see him.” Bunuel points at the ghost to emphasise his point, but as far as Mitsuko is concerned, he is pointing at nothing more than the TV.
Mitsuko puts on a patronising smile, trying to recall a time when her teachers spoke to her to explain something. “Listen, darling…” She’s said too much and regrets saying it, but there’s no way to back track. If she just carries on, maybe he won’t have noticed the ‘darling’, “That’s a TV. It’s not real what you see on there. They’re just actors. The reason why I can’t see him is because I have turned the television off. If I turn it back on, which I’m not going to do, then I’ll be able to see him again.” She finishes it off with another patronising smile, intended to suggest that because of her he is know cleverer and full of a deeper understanding of the world and that she’s only told him this because she cares.
The ghost, however thinks she is just being rude, ignoring him, whilst a little kid keeps pointing at him. “What the hell are you? Get out of my house!”
Acting upon the ghost’s anger, Bunuel needs to find a way to clarify the issue to Mitsuko immediately. “I see dead people.”
“No you don’t. I’ve told you, they’re actors. They don’t live in the TV. And they don’t die when you turn the TV off,” she adds, hoping that he won’t become a square-eyed telly addict forced to keep the telly on in fear of the consequences. Flashbacks of the Granny believing that she could control people go through her mind, causing a shudder. That turned into a nasty situation towards the end.
“I do. There’s a dead person in this room now. It turned the TV on. I think it wants to talk to you.”
But being called a dead person is going too far for the ghost, who hasn’t realised the full consequences of taking an overdose of pills a few days before. “Get out of my house!” It thrusts its arms out in anger. A vase on the mantelpiece a couple of metres beyond his point is knocked off and falls onto the floor. “My, that’s interesting,” it says, pleasantly surprised at the powers he has gained since waking up today.
But Mitsuko is frightened, praying that Bunuel is not going to turn out to be a Crunchy version two. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t. It was the ghost! I tell you, it was the ghost. It’s angry! I think it wants to eat us.”
But the ghost’s discovery has turned into dismay as it realises its expensive carpet is now stained. “Look at what you caused me to do!”
“I think it might be wise if we got out of here, now.”
Bunuel gets up, urging Mitsuko to do the same. Mitsuko hesitates for a second. This is information overload for her. Strange things are happening and Bunuel is telling her that there is a ghost in the room. It’s not that she has difficulty in putting two and two together, it’s the debate as to whether or not four really is four in this instance. The ghost, however, in its fury is directing his new powers towards the TV, but not completely under his control, his fury shatters a light bulb. Finally the TV turns on, and as far as Mitsuko is concerned, randomly flicks through channels, giving her a message; “Leave now…The house…Get out.” The message is simple, direct and clean. Mitsuko scoops up Bunuel and scarpers for the front door.
***
I don’t really know how long I’ve been sat here looking at my reflection, I don’t really care. Slowly it’s changed, right now, I’m looking at a me that could have stepped straight out of some Australian soap opera, that’s how stunning it is, but it is still me. Every one of my features is there, you would not mistake this reflection for anyone other than myself, except for the fact that it is striking. It is all just subtle shifts, highlights, as if some Hollywood make-up artist has made me up. It is both gratifying to see myself look so good, and at the same time, soul-destroying to know that I cannot achieve this. All I can do is to keep looking, to see what else I can be.
I am so sucked into this image that I don’t even hear it speaking, calling me a loser over and over again. I know that my mouth isn’t moving, and I know that I am not saying these words, but the reflection is definitely talking to me, it’s mouth forming the words very clearly, reflecting the words that are in my head; “Loser. You are a loser. Loser.” It’s as if by staring at the mirror this long, I have been giving it power, giving it an identity, giving it a life force of its own, and all it chooses to do is to show its smug authority over me. It knows it is better than me. I know it is better than me. But it has the audacity to show that I know it is better than me. And I am in its trap, allowing it to feed off me.
I try to move, but find that I can’t. Then, out of my control, my arm moves. The fact that my reflection is doing likewise escapes my attention at first, but when I am slapped on the cheeks by my own hand, I realise that the cunt that it is is really proving what power it has over me. It has turned the tables. I am the reflection, that other thing is the true concept of what I should be, and I feel pathetic.
I start off with an intense surge of self-loathing. One that burns inside me, that I can’t keep inside as I’ll burst, that I can’t let out because it will become so self-destructive. I am angry, furious, devastated by the fact that I have allowed myself to become what I have become. That I have taken such a passive role in the story of my life. That I allow others to run rings around me to the extent that I am a prisoner, locked away in a room, locked in my body, my mind and my soul and that I am now locked into the control of a reflection, of a shadow.
And it is there, at bursting point. If my shadow was not so relaxed, I know that I myself would be shaking. It has led me here, and now it is feeding off me once more. My fury projects outwards, no longer on myself. The reflection is the sole point of my focus. And I burst, able to take control of my body, getting the upper hand, by swinging my fist with all the strength that I have at the reflection. I don’t care that in true mirror spirit it is doing the same thing to me, all I know is that I have the power, I’m the strongest here. Our fists connect. And it is our fists, no glass of the mirror. But I am slightly stronger, pushing the reflection’s fist back, even if just by millimetres. As the reflection falls back from the shock I do to, my eyes finally wrenched away from the mirror. The spell is broken. I know that I have to get out of here. This is all getting far too much for me.
I get up and move to the door, covering my eyes to avoid any accidental looking at the mirror. I don’t know if the reflection will be there, I don’t want to find out. I bang on the door, screaming for someone to open up. But nothing happens. I continue for a couple of minutes before giving up. If no-one has come to at least tell me to shut up, then no-one will come at all.
I head back into the room, searching around for the radio, making sure to keep my back to the door at all times. I finally find it tucked under a fold on my duvet.
I speak into it, a simple “Hello?” but no reply comes. “This is Crunchy here. Hemmingway? Mitsuko?” There is still no answer, I just pray that they’ve not turned the other radio off. I half wonder if it is at all possible to climb out of the window, but the ground is three stories down of sheer wall and no drainpipes, and all sorts of crap is at the bottom. But I know of another way to get out of here. One that I’m sure would be a guaranteed sure-fire hit with Mitsuko.
“I don’t know if anyone’s listening to me, but I’ve got something important I’d really like to say. I think that the two of you are right, I’m not made of the right mustard at all for this job. Think of me as own-brand ketchup, if you will. I’m not like you guys. I’m a dweeb. And you’ve got me trapped in here. I just want to get out. Of this room, of this house, of this job and this life. I want to be someone else, someone better, not me. But this door. It just sits there and waits. Waits for someone else to make the decisions for me.”
I sit back and wait. If someone had heard that, surely they would have responded, right? There is a click at the door as it is unlocked. I look over, joy having seized me, catching sight of myself in the mirror. I pull my gaze away, believing that the reflection is still looking at me even though I don’t know that for certain. The door opens, pushing the mirror out of the way, but I cannot see anyone in the doorway. Hoping that I am not walking into a trap, I cautiously get up off the bed and walk through the door.
Outside is a child, I presume that Fellini Bunuel kid, holding a radio. It points back into the room where a message has appeared in blood on the walls; ‘Leave’. I nod my thanks, relieved that somebody other than Mitsuko or Hemmingway got my message. Not wanting to take any more chances, I make a beeline down the stairs and for the front door and out into freedom. A new world, away from the shit of my home back in Wales, away from the F.I.B., and away from myself and that mirror.
I start walking down the street, not knowing where I am going, either geographically or metaphorically. Suddenly freedom seems such a huge concept and I doubt that I am ready yet. The only two things I can be certain of are that I have left the F.I.B., and I am never going back, and that I am myself. I just feel lost and I’m only twenty metres away from the house that I have just left.
A song that I developed a while ago comes to mind, and I begin singing to myself in a chirpy little tune. “I don’t like myself very much. I don’t like myself very much.” I start picking up my pace. Freedom may mean being lost in a choice of streets and options, but regardless of who I am I’m going to do my best to get there a quickly as possible even if the only direction is to get away from what I already know.
I begin singing another song, my voice now stronger and more confident. “Oh tell me why, Won’t I die, I want to die, Right now!” I swing myself around a lamppost and into a passer by. Our heads connect and he falls to the floor. Still upright, supported by the lamppost, I sprint off as the guy gets back up, approaching lost at a quicker pace than anticipated.
***
Mitsuko is still running down the street with Bunuel on her back knowing that if not a ghost then something is still pursuing them by the way that, in broad daylight, the streetlamps ignite and then fade as they pass underneath. Bunuel, able to look behind, sees the ghost slow down to a halt, satisfied that it has got its message across.
“You can stop now, Miss Nakagawa.”
“Has it gone?” pants Mitsuko, still running and wishing she had spent more time in the gym at work instead of the shooting gallery.
“Yes, Miss Nakagawa.”
Despite being on the verge of collapsing, she continues to the end of the street, satisfied that the streetlamps have stopped flashing on and off, but wanting to make sure. Finally she stops, putting down Bunuel. “What was it?”
“A ghost. I think it was angry at us being in its house.”
“But it’s our house.”
The ghost didn’t see it that way. I think It’s gone back. The others are still in there.”
“Ah, sod ‘em. Let’s get a drink.”
This is not the F.I.B., at least, not the F.I.B., that she knew. What has started off as a run of the mill, waste of time case has suddenly got very interesting. This could be her ticket to glory. But first she needs a stiff one or ten to calm down her nerves, already romanticising the alcoholic she’ll become if the F.I.B. start throwing more things like this her way.