The Girl in the Video (ARC)

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The Girl in the Video (ARC) Page 4

by Michael David Wilson


  They’d have to scour through posts going back years to find it. Who in the hell would go to such trouble?

  The kind of person who’d make and send weird-ass videos . . . but who?

  Someone I’d worked with during my first stint in Japan, perhaps? Truth was, I wasn’t close to many people from back then—I’d worked hard, kept my head low, and spent most of my downtime exploring the country with Rachel. Added to which—how would they know about my university hangouts, my time in Portugal, the train I often took in England? It didn’t make any sense.

  The doorbell rang. Panicked, I lost my grip on the pint glass, sending the bloody thing to the floor where it shattered.

  What if it was her? What if the girl in the video had found me? She’d tracked me halfway across the world, so why not to my current address?

  I crept towards the heater remote, turned it off, its whirring stopped. The room as quiet as possible. I stood silently in the living room making like I wasn’t in. Hoping that whoever was at the door would fuck off ASAP.

  I didn’t have many friends locally and fewer still who knew where I lived and being as Rachel was at work and had presumably taken her key, it couldn’t have been her.

  So, the girl in the video had shown up to punish me for not replying. She’d asked what I liked and I’d ignored her repeated requests. It was time to pay.

  A second ring of the doorbell.

  I looked to the back door. I could easily get out that way—through the crop fields and onto the river path. But what if that made things worse? Ignoring messages was one thing but legging it was quite another. Perhaps if I spoke with her we could work something out.

  I heard movement behind the front door, some kind of rustling.

  Then a loud assertive knock.

  A man’s voice called from beyond, something about a parcel.

  So not the girl then.

  I let out a long sigh of relief. Answered the door, trying to steady trembling hands—adrenaline still coursing through me—as I signed for and took the package from the delivery driver. The driver looked concerned but was too polite to say anything.

  I closed the door, examined the package—Rachel’s Amazon order—then collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, heart thudding against my chest. Couldn’t help but grin. Then laugh. Soft chuckles at first, then a little louder, a little manically, a little high-pitched. A little like the girl in the video.

  ***

  Once my heart rate had normalised and hysterics abated, I returned to the video, pausing on the penultimate frame. That flash of red and white I’d been unable to decipher the first time round.

  It wasn’t what I’d expected.

  Now, honestly, I’m not sure what I had expected but whatever expectations I’d had weren’t met: a close-up of modestly-sized milk white breasts, ‘find me’ written from left-to-right in blood-red makeup.

  I closed the video quickly, like I’d been caught with my hands down my pants.

  My phone lit up, a new text message. “I have more photos if you like . . . ;).”

  What the shit?

  This time there was no Hello Kitty display picture and no attempt to disguise the number either. Just a regular Japanese mobile number.

  What impeccable timing, though . . . What on earth were the chances? Unless she had a way to track each time I watched the video? Shit, was that possible? Oh double shit! The message had been an iMessage which meant she’d got a read receipt.

  More photos, though. . . I felt myself stiffen. What the hell was wrong with me? The girl was scaring the crap out of me and yet my dick still stirred. I needed to get it together and fast. I turned the Wi-Fi and data off of my phone to make sure I didn’t send any more read receipts and got ready for work.

  ***

  That night I dreamt about the girl in the video again, but this time it wasn’t creepy. It was a good dream, a pleasant dream—a fantasy, even. At least in the beginning . . .

  In the dream, I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, searching for patterns amongst randomness. I reached towards Rachel but she wasn’t there. All I found were cold sheets—Rachel’s side of the duvet pushed back. The bedroom door opened and the girl from the video entered sporting her usual Hello Kitty mask. I craned my neck, drinking in all her details: low-cut black top, black skirt, suspenders, high heels. The girl threw the duvet all the way off, climbed onto the bed, and crawled towards me on all fours. She took my hand and gently pressed it to her warm wet sex. I hardened.

  The girl threw her head back and laughed. “I told you, I know what you like.”

  She mounted me, pushed me inside her, and sang. “Tell me what you like, what you like, what you like . . . ”

  She felt divine.

  The perfect fit.

  My muscles relaxed and I closed my eyes, concentrated on her smooth slickness.

  Her celestial sensation.

  With each thrust she went a little faster, deeper, warmer—pushing me towards the divine.

  But then her singing mutated. Became more frantic, until it was panicked, until she was flat-out screaming.

  I opened my eyes.

  Blood poured from the eye slits in her mask.

  The bed floated on a river of blood as we headed towards the ceiling.

  “Save me,” she whispered

  A solitary gun shot.

  Her head exploded.

  ***

  I shot bolt upright in bed, body soaked in sweat.

  Rachel stirred, rubbed rheum out of her eyes.

  She reached out towards me, felt how wet my chest was. “Whoa, you’re burning up, you have a fever or something?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She sat up next to me, accidentally brushing against and feeling how hard I was. “Oh, wow, you are okay.” She gripped my cock. “Want me to take care of that for you?”

  A slow solitary nod of the head.

  But asshe took care of things, all I could think of, all I could hear, was the girl singing.

  ***

  SATURDAY FEBRUARY 6, 2016

  It was happy hour at The Hub in Shibuya. I nursed a Jim Beam highball. The place stank of cigarettes, bad perfume, and desperation. I’d headed there straight after work, mostly because I needed to get out of the house and socialise more, to ensure the few friends I had in Japan remained friends. Honestly, though, it was easier to stay in and be complacent, I had enough mates back in England. Though as Rachel would often remind me: “This isn’t England, Freddie. We need connections here.” I didn’t know what we needed ‘connections’ for but I supposed some friends would be nice. But as someone who was trying to moderate his alcohol consumption it wasn’t easy. No one wanted to go for a glass of water or walk around the local park. It was all about boozing. Least it was with the teachers I’d met. Which was why I’d asked my colleague, Marty, if he wanted to grab a drink that evening. Now admittedly, Marty was a bit of a dick with loose morals and a simple borderline sexist, racist, misogynist, every other fucking-ist way of viewing the world. Rachel had met him once and couldn’t stand the guy, but hey he liked heavy metal and was often free, so there was that. Given how much he hated other people I was surprised he’d ever left his hometown, let alone moved to another country, but here he was and there I was, next to him, because he was a connection.

  “You ever had girls you haven’t met send you strange videos?”

  Marty almost spat out his beer. “You what, mate? That’s a hell of a jump from Fetus.”

  That was true. We’d been talking about the death metal band, Dying Fetus, and how they were due another album soon. But then the alcohol had kicked in. Less filter—more think it and say it.

  “That came out wrong. I’m not talking about sexting or any shit like that, not talking about spam either. What I’m asking is if you’ve ever had any girls—girls you’ve never met—send you personalised videos?”

  Marty sparked up a Marlboro. “Like a sex thing?”

  “No, not like a sex thing. What
did I just say?”

  “But a sexy video?”

  “Umm . . . I mean, not traditionally sexy.”

  “Hey! No judgement here, brother. If it’s sexy to you, that’s cool. You do your thing. I’ve jacked off to some fucked-up shit before. Really nasty unpleasant business. After I’m done, I look at the browser and feel fucking disgusted with myself. I’d give you specifics, but if this place is wired . . . well, you know what I’m saying, I don’t want to go to prison.”

  I cocked an eyebrow, unsure if he was making a bad joke.

  “But let me tell you this, brother. If girls you don’t know are sending you sexy videos, that sounds like spam.”

  “Personalised videos, Marty. Videos only for me.”

  Marty exhaled rings of smoke, tapped ash into the tray. “That’s what they want you to think. But this isn’t the noughties, they’ve got good at spam. They’ll find all sorts of information about you, make it look legit, but you’re just a number. One in hundreds of thousands. Know how?”

  He’d got the wrong idea, but there was no stopping him.

  “Data mining.” He held up his smartphone, tapped it like he was the first one to come up with this shit. “This device right here is tracking everything. Your computer, too. Unless you’re disabling location services, viewing websites through a VPN, taping up your webcam, disabling your microphone, making sure your calls and messages are secure etc. etc. then you’re vulnerable and even then . . . Put it like this, brother, if people want to know about you, they’ll know about you. In this room, there’s a 99% chance of government cameras and microphones. I’m talking CIA, FBI, NBC, all listening in.”

  “In Japan?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Wait . . . isn’t NBC an American television network?”

  Marty grinned, open-mouthed, leaned across the table, voice low. “That’s what they want you to believe.”

  “You’re a fucking head case, Marty.”

  “A thin line between genius and insanity, was Mother Theresa who said that. Or was it Henry Rollins?” Marty put out his cigarette. “Point is, whoever said it, they knew what they were talking about.”

  “Fairly sure neither one of them said that. Anyway, we’re getting off track—”

  “So steer us on course, pilot. You’ve got this.” Marty clapped his hands high in the air, so drunk he almost missed. Marty clicked his fingers twice in the direction of the bar. “Hey! Waiter! Sumimasen!”

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “When in Tokyo, mate. When in Tokyo . . . ” Marty winked.

  A well-dressed barman with short cropped hair and a goatee came to the table.

  “Nama futatsu kudasai.”

  He noted down Marty’s order and went away again.

  “I hate that shit. Calling waiters over with your fingers like they’re your fucking slaves, it’s draconian. Just walk to the bar, it’s five seconds away . . . ”

  “Like I said, brother, when in Tokyo. And besides, I got you a beer so don’t worry about it.”

  “I don’t even drink beer.”

  “Well, now, you do. Kanpai, motherfucker.” He chinked his old beer glass against mine. “Anyway, what’s all this about girls and videos?”

  I shook my head. “You know what, forget it, mate. You were right, it’s a sex thing.”

  ***

  It was well past happy hour and I was feeling worse for wear. No way was I confiding in Marty—the more he drank the more bollocks spewed out his mouth, and the more I disliked him. No good would come out of telling him about the girl in the video.

  Marty was in the toilet when the text came through.

  “I know you liked the videos. Why so shy?”

  The same number I’d received a text message from earlier that week, but this time, with booze inside me, I showed less restraint. Replied straight away. “Why don’t you fuck off?”

  I put the phone back on the table: face down, sound off. I wasn’t gonna deal with her bullshit. At least not then. My body temperature was rising, I tried to steady my trembling knuckles.

  When Marty returned he could tell something was up.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, slapping it down on the table.

  I gazed at it, what if . . . ? Nah, surely not—whoever was sending the messages knew things about me from way back. Marty and I weren’t even connected on social media, and I didn’t reckon he was smart enough to pull that kind of shit. And yet I had received the text message mere minutes after he’d left.

  “Nice phone,” I said, staring right at Marty.

  “Was one of the cheapest handsets Softbank had and still cost me an arm and a leg, fucking rip-off merchants.”

  “Bet it’s good at sending text messages and videos.”

  “Um, yeah, obviously, given that this isn’t the noughties I’d say so. It does the job.”

  “Sent any videos lately?”

  Marty blushed. An admission of guilt?

  I put my hand out. “Show me.”

  “What? Fuck off, I’m not showing you my videos, there’s private stuff in there.”

  “Private stuff involving girls perhaps?”

  The red in his cheeks deepened.

  “Or a girl, should I say. A girl in a Hello Kitty mask, perhaps?”

  Marty frowned. “What the fuck are you going on about? Why would there be a girl in a Hello Kitty mask? There’s some sex stuff on here, sure, but nothing like that. Is that your thing then? Do you have a Hello Kitty fetish or something?” He pushed the phone towards me. “There’s some good stuff. Guess you can look if you really want to.”

  I relaxed. It was dumb to have even considered Marty might have been involved. Paranoia playing tricks on me, blurring reality. I handed him his phone.

  “What is it, mate? Are you gonna cry?”

  I wasn’t gonna cry, at least I didn’t think I was, but it was nice to see Marty had a tender side. Truth be told, it was the first time I’d seen him express anything vaguely resembling empathy. I wound up explaining everything, or at least trying to—the alcohol and anger muddling things.

  “Sounds like she’s a proper psycho, brother. One of your exes no doubt.”

  “I’ve been with Rach for getting on a decade. Last girlfriend I had I was only just out of my teens.”

  Marty shrugged. “Then some bird you’re fucking. I’m telling you, some of these Japanese chicks have a screw loose, this one time—”

  “I’m not fucking anybody else.”

  The folds on Marty’s forehead furrowed like he didn’t understand. He stuffed a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Well, suit yourself. But you’re missing out, brother. Not fucking a Japanese chick while you’re in Japan . . . I mean what next? You gonna tell me you haven’t tried sushi? Haven’t gone to karaoke?”

  “Piss off, Marty.”

  “I’m just saying . . . Besides, it’s not healthy to go most of your life with one partner. Your testosterone might be high now, but it won’t always be that way—take advantage, brother.”

  “I said. Piss. Off.”

  “All right, all right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. You know what, Marty. Fuck this place and fuck you, too.” I necked back the beer, threw down a couple of thousand yen notes, and left the pub.

  ***

  As I walked to the station, passing revellers in fancy dress—because every day’s a party for someone in good old Shibuya—I wondered if I’d been overly dramatic, perhaps even a little harsh to Marty. He was a simple guy, an ignorant guy, an annoying guy who said some dumb shit, but he wasn’t a wholly bad guy. Problem was he wasn’t a very good guy, either. Well, whatever—what was done was done. I didn’t give enough of a shit to go back and apologise. I’d clear the air with him the following week, or, if he kept sinking beers back he’d likely drink so much he wouldn’t even remember.

  I reached for
my phone to check train times and find out whether I was walking or running for my Takadanobaba connection. My phone illuminated: over twenty missed calls all from the same number. I didn’t need to check who they were from, the influx of text messages confirming my suspicions.

  Don’t talk to me like that.

  I know who you are and I know where you are. I always have.

  Say something Freddie.

  Don’t ignore me!

  You’re making a big mistake. Pick up your phone.

  I have something I want to show you, I think you’ll like it.

  Thank you for the other night, I saw what you did for me.

  You and me, we could be something special. This is the start of something incredible Freddie.

  I can give you what she can’t.

  Be careful Freddie! Don’t fuck with me! I can be dangerous. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.

  Sorry. I just want to talk to you. I have something to show you.

  Nothing? What the FUCK? Watch this video. Then call.

  She’d attached the aforementioned video to the message. I started the download as I approached Shibuya crossing—a mixture of commuters with briefcases and revellers with cameras and smiles, paraded across the road like circus clowns. Far too fucking happy. I nearly punched an American tourist in a Van Halen t-shirt, the prick was waving his hands up in the air, shouting about how ‘amazing’ life was, and getting in my way.

  By the time the Yamanote line train arrived the video had downloaded. I couldn’t watch it right away as the train was rammed. When people talk about Tokyo trains being packed like sardines, that’s not hyperbole, that’s how it is and how it was. In front of me stood a young woman in stilettos, smelling of floral perfume, her head practically resting on my shoulder. Behind me, a businessman whose perfume was 100% cigarettes and whiskey. To either side stood school children, kitted out in full uniform, despite the time, complete with rucksacks and sports bags almost as tall as they were.

  Hordes of passengers poured out of the train at Shinjuku and I quickly secured a seat. Admittedly I snatched it away from a Junior High School kid who was nearer, but she simply hadn’t honed the art of seat acquisition on busy trains. She looked dejected afterwards, sought solace in her Nintendo Switch. Well, whatever, kid, you’ve got years ahead of you, you’ll perfect it eventually, that or get used to rejection. Either or—life’s tough.

 

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