I loaded the video.
***
Rain beat down outside Atsugi station. The sky a white sheet. The camerawork shaky and handheld. Video quality not especially good—probably shot on an old phone.
The camera made its way up the road and away from the train station, passing the Indian restaurant and independent coffee shop I’d often visited not long after arriving in Japan.
Stopped at the intersection: straight for the Sports Park, right for Hon-Atsugi, left for Ebina.
Made a left.
Past the old bakery.
Past the turn-off for Create Superdrug Store.
Past the multitude of vending machines that peppered the street like road markers.
At the martial arts school and independent supermarket, the camera turned right and headed towards an apartment block.
My old apartment block.
I’d lived in a cramped 1K there when I’d first arrived in Japan.
The camera shot up towards the second floor—my floor—lingered, then cut out.
A new scene. Evening. Black skies and heavy rainfall. The focus: a house with the lights on, both upstairs and downstairs. There was no mistaking it, the second place I’d lived in Japan.
“You’re in there,” a soft off-camera voice said. The audio somewhat tinny, but it was a voice I knew, that had sung to me in dreams and videos. Her voice hardened. “But so is she.”
The camera cut off abruptly, replaced by a sharper image of higher quality. An evening walk alongside the Karabori river, street lamps and house lights illuminating the path. A girl—the girl—hummed a tune off-camera. Passing the elementary school on the right, the junior high school on the left. She rounded the corner and made her way into the residents’ car park. The camera tracked the houses, left-to-right, then right-to-left.
Settled on a house.
102.
My house.
“This is live, Freddie,” the girl said.
She walked around to the back of the block. Stopped at my door. Inside the living room light was on. The camera panned the washing, hanging on the line outside. She reached a hand out, touched a pair of black boxers. “Yours,” she said, then tutted. “They’re getting wet, Freddie.”
From behind the back door I heard music: Lady Gaga. And if I listened carefully, if I really strained, I could hear Rachel singing along.
“She’s in! She’s in!” The girl’s voice an ecstatic squeal.
The camera jolted, faced the floor temporarily, the view switched.
The camera no longer directed towards the back door, it now faced the camerawoman.
The girl in the Hello Kitty mask.
She held up a thick blade, some kind of machete.
“You need to take me seriously, Freddie. I have something on you, something you thought you’d buried a long time ago. So don’t fuck with me and don’t go to the police . . . unless you want your wife to spend some time with me and my friend.” She waved the blade, then broke into laughter. “Bye-bye!”
As the video finished, the train pulled into Takadanobaba. I raced to the Seibu line, making my connection in under a minute.
Standing room only. I leant against the door connecting one carriage to the next.
Heart pounding, head full of noise.
Takadanobaba was still half an hour away from Kumegawa and from there it was a fifteen-minute walk to the house. I had to do something now. Kept ringing Rachel but she wasn’t picking up.
Because she’s dead. Because that psycho bitch whose messages you’ve ignored has got to her.
No, that’s wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. There was no way.
She’d said, in so many words, Rachel would wind up dead if I went to the police, if I fucked with her. I’d done neither. So Rachel wasn’t dead.
Yeah, because psychopaths are known for their moral codes and playing by the rules. This isn’t fucking Dexter, mate. Ring the police!
But if I rang the police and she killed Rachel . . . how could I live with that?
And yet if I did nothing and she killed her, anyway . . . how could I live with that?
I was fucked.
There was no right choice, only a sliding scale of wrong ones.
“Are you okay?” A twenty-something woman with a kind face tapped my shoulder.
I tried to reply but no words came out, just incomprehensible grunts, tears streaming down my face.
She passed me a tissue and I dried my eyes. Blood stained the white tissue red.
“Your nose.” She handed me more tissues.
I cleaned up the nosebleed. The woman backed away, receding into the crowded train.
I tried ringing Rachel again. Sweaty fingers barely hitting the right keys.
This time she picked up.
I slid down the door to the floor, whole body shaking.
“Hey you . . . hello? He-llooo? Freddie? Freddie? Is something the matter? Freddie? Hello?”
“Rachel.”
“Yes?”
I snapped to attention, adrenaline kicking in. “Lock the doors. Lock the fucking doors right now.”
“Huh? What are you talking about? I’m making tagliatelle.”
“Lock the fucking doors, Rachel!”
“The doors are locked. They’re always locked. Why wouldn’t they be locked?”
“Check them!”
“Okay, okay . . . ” I heard her move from the living area with the whir of the heater and background music to the quieter hallway. “Yes, the doors are locked.”
More footsteps, music again, back in the living room.
“You need to stay in the house . . . or perhaps you need to get out of the house. Fuck . . . I don’t know. Thing is, there’s a psychopath on the loose, but I need you to stay calm.”
“What are you talking about? A ‘psychopath on the loose’? Is this one of your jokes? Or a strange euphemism? What’s going on?”
An old man with a walking stick hobbled over, tried to get my attention. “Please, no talking on the train.”
“Fuck off.”
“Huh?”
“Not you, Rachel. Stay calm. Let me figure this out.”
“I’m calm, but I don’t understand. You’re not making sense.”
“The girl in the video, she’s real, and she’s outside the house. She has a knife, she wants to hurt you.”
“What?”
“The video, the girl—she’s fucking mental, Rach.”
“I can’t understand you—the signal’s breaking up and you’re speaking too fast. You mean the girl in the Hello Kitty mask?”
“Oh Christ, you see her?”
“Erm, no. But I remember the videos. Very strange indeed.”
“How can you sound so calm?”
“You literally just told me to stay calm. Not that I really understand. Listen, I don’t think there’s anyone here. Let me have a look.” I heard a door creak open, footsteps down the corridor.
“No! What are you doing?”
“Checking the peephole. There’s no one there. Just cars.”
“Round the back—she’s round the back!”
“Let’s see . . . ”
“No! Do not open the fucking door. She’ll cut you. I swear to fucking God, you cannot open that door.”
“Okay, okay, I’m not opening the door. But if what you’re saying is true, I should call the police.”
“No, you can’t do that.”
Someone pulled at my shirt sleeve. I looked up, it was that bloody man with the walking stick again. “Mister, could you please . . . ”
“Fuck. Off.”
\“Who are you talking to?”
“Sorry. Some old cunt keeps telling me to get off the phone. Are you sure you’re safe? Are you sure she isn’t there?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Look, I better go. Don’t want to get kicked off the fucking train. But make sure all the doors and windows are locked. Better yet, barricade them. Arm yourself with a weapon�
�a knife or something. And don’t call the police. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
I hung up.
Forehead sweltering, vision blurring.
Lightheaded, like I might pass out any minute. I looked to the old man, standing next to me. Scowling. A bottle of mineral water peeked out of his coat pocket. I grabbed it, necked the lot. “Thanks, mate.”
The old codger didn’t look pleased.
I felt the weight of the other passengers’ scorn for the rest of the journey. Saw the occasional glimpse up from a mobile phone or tablet, only for them to return their attention back to their screen with overly dramatic gestures.
I sent Rachel numerous text messages to check she was hanging in there. She quickly replied to each. If she sensed danger she didn’t show it—didn’t ask why I’d asked her not to call the police, either—was pretty blasé about it all.
Once my heart rate had calmed and vision settled, I wrote a text to the girl. “What do you want?”
She replied almost instantly. “You.”
I stared at the screen. The fuck was I supposed to do with that?
Another message flashed through. “Tomorrow 3 p.m. Harajuku. Next to GAP. Go there. Call me. No police or else.”
***
When I arrived home and saw Rachel—alive and beautiful and radiant—I held her so close and so tight she had to push me off of her. “You’re hurting me.”
“I love you so fucking much.”
After checking the house and surrounding areas outside and coming up empty, I headed back inside where I collapsed on the sofa. I explained everything to Rachel—showed her all the videos, the text messages, even the calls from the girl in the video.
“We’re ringing the police right now,” Rachel said.
“We can’t. Don’t you see? She’s blackmailing me.”
“Blackmailing you with what?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know—it could be anything. Says she has something on me, something from a long time ago.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it, though? Christ knows how, but she knows where we live and places we used to live, too. Is it such a stretch that she knows something from the past that could fuck me over?”
“She’s not got anything on you because there’s nothing to get on you. Right?”
My face flushed. I’d done a lot of stupid shit in the past.
“Right?” Desperation in her voice, a touch of vulnerability, too.
“Just don’t call the police. Let’s play along for now. I’ll go to Harajuku tomorrow—see if anything comes of it. Then, depending on what happens, I may or may not go to the police after.”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t like the sound of this. Not one bit. What if it’s a trap?”
“Harajuku’s busy, what’s she gonna do in a crowded place in broad daylight?”
“Who knows? But I don’t like that she could do something. She knows who you are and what you look like—you know next to nothing about her. And what you do know—what we know—is terrifying. She turned up here, at our apartment, with a fucking machete!” Rachel paced the living room, clutching a glass of red wine. “What if this isn’t about getting you to Harajuku but about getting you away from the house and me?”
“I’d never thought about it like that.”
“You’re not thinking at all.”
“But, wait, if she wanted to strike when I was away she could have done so tonight. She chose not to . . . ”
Rachel put the glass of wine down on the table, folded her arms. “Either way, I don’t feel safe here. We should sleep somewhere else tonight.”
“Where?”
“Someplace she doesn’t know about. Christ, what if she is they? What if there are numerous people behind the video?”
“I think it’s just her.”
“Based on what?”
I looked to the ground.
“Based on fucking what?”
She pushed me hard in the chest, then fell into me, sobbing and shaking as I held her tight.
“I’m so sorry. For all of this, I’m so very sorry.” I tried to keep my voice steady, to stay in control, to remain strong. “I think we should stay put. She isn’t in the house, we know that at least. We’re safe here. Safe inside the house.” I kissed the top of Rachel’s head and stroked her hair, her tears and whimpers abating.
If we left and the girl was somehow keeping tabs on the house, she’d see us leave and might well follow us. And without a car, we’d be out in the open for a good while—exposed and vulnerable. Yes, on balance, staying inside the house was best.
Rachel got up from the sofa and poured her wine down the sink. She took a packet of coffee from the cupboard.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m clearly not getting any sleep tonight.” Rachel heaped a spoon of coffee into the French press.
“Don’t be silly, this is my mess. I’ll stay up tonight—you shouldn’t have to suffer . . . any more, that is.”
“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, this isn’t your fault either. Besides, I won’t be able to sleep with this . . . this . . . this knowledge of a fucking psychopath roaming around.” Rachel poured water into the kettle, set it to boil. “I really would feel better if we spoke to the police, though, or at least spoke to someone. Isn’t it safer that way? Suppose she attacks both of us, suppose she worse than attacks us, who would know?”
Rachel made a decent point, but who to tell? There was always Marty, who was halfway to knowing anyway, but he was a drunken fucking idiot and might not remember come the morning.
“I’ll call Hillary,” Rachel said. “And forward her all the videos, too.”
“What if she calls the police?”
“How’s she going to call the Japanese police from the UK?”
“I don’t know, but I imagine it’s possible . . . I don’t think you should call her.”
“Because?”
“Because she freaks out about everything, blows little things completely out of proportion. And this right here is no little thing. This is a fairly fucking big thing. Trust me, she will freak out.” I stood up, helped Rachel finish making the coffee. “The situation we’re in, it’s fragile. Scrap that, it’s volatile. One wrong move and who knows what will happen.”
“I’m calling Hillary.”
“Can you trust her?”
“She’s my fucking sister, of course I can trust her.”
Rachel tried calling Hillary several times, via Skype, but for whatever reason she didn’t answer which I was thankful for. I crossed my fingers Rachel would forget about Hillary. At least until after Harajuku.
Rachel kept bringing up the police, but honestly, I wasn’t sure what good it would do. Hadn’t dealt with the police in Japan but had heard less than glowing stories about them.
And okay, I hadn’t dealt much with the police in England either. Just the once when some twat had lamped me in a pizza shop because he didn’t like the way I looked at him. He was a known criminal, but no one had been prepared to testify and the police told me he’d said I’d hit him, too, so with no witnesses it was his word against mine, never mind the bruise on my eye or permanent astigmatism.
I hadn’t bothered with the police since.
Rachel and I spent the rest of the night downstairs, awake for much of it, old episodes of The Inbetweeners and Peep Show playing in the background. It might seem messed-up to put a comedy on at a time like that, but we couldn’t stand the silence and it was a welcome distraction from reality.
Fatigued and exhausted, we flittered in and out of sleep. Periodically I’d jolt upright, afraid someone or something stood in the room with us. Through squinting eyes I’d scan the room, but I never saw a thing.
***
SUNDAY FEBRUARY 7, 2016
At 6:30 a.m. I conceded I wasn’t getting any more sleep and got up. Rachel was already in the shower, though there was no singing amongst the pitter-patter of water.<
br />
By the time Rachel emerged, I’d made us a big vat of coffee and had ground beans ready for a second. It was that kind of morning. Rachel wore a grey hoodie and black leggings, there were bags underneath her tired eyes, and she’d made no attempt to conceal her exhaustion with makeup. Which was how Rachel often rolled, her outward appearance projecting her inner feelings. It was an honest way to live. We sat on the sofa, sipping coffee, Tangerine Dream playing in the background—we weren’t really listening but it gave us something other than our inner thoughts and turmoil to focus on.
Rachel took my hand. “I’ve got something I need to tell you. I’ve been going back-and-forth on whether to say anything, but it seems right— it might change what you do and don’t do today.”
I adjusted my slouch to a more upright position. “I’m listening.”
She took something from the front pouch of her hoody, placed it on the coffee table in front of us. My eyes followed. A pregnancy test, a thin blue line on the display which intersected with another to form a cross.
“It’s only faint, but it’s definitely there. I took a test yesterday, and another this morning, to be sure. I’m pregnant.”
I rubbed my eyes. I was drained and exhausted, veering towards broken thanks to the girl in the video. I looked to Rachel, then to the test. It was real all right, not another messed-up dream—it was actually happening. “And you’re sure about this? You’re sure you’re pregnant?”
“Yes. The strength of the line depends on the hCG in your urine and the sensitivity of the pregnancy test. But it’s there. It’s positive.”
“Not one of those phantom pregnancies then?”
“Well . . . I suppose it is possible. We’ll book a hospital appointment this week to confirm the pregnancy, but I have a really good feeling about this. I’m pregnant, Freddie. We’re pregnant.”
I pulled Rachel closer and held her tight, held her like it was forever.
***
With fatherhood looming, complying with the girl in the video seemed more important than ever. On the way to the train station, I listened to dark drum ‘n’ bass and pored over what I’d say and do if I ever came face-to-face with the girl. As I approached the entrance, someone slapped my shoulder from behind. I spun around, fists raised, which wasn’t how I’d ordinarily greet someone but what can I say? It was no ordinary day.
The Girl in the Video (ARC) Page 5