I lowered my hands when I saw him. “Marty?”
He was sweating profusely and smelt of waste, as if someone had dunked him head-first into a toilet, which I supposed was possible, he had a habit of getting on the wrong side of people.
“My man!” he said, stale alcohol permeating the air.
His eyes were bloodshot, his hair sticking up at all sorts of angles.
“Jesus Christ, you started on the booze early.”
“Never really stopped.” He grinned.
“Well, good for you, but I need to get going.”
He jogged after me. “Hold up, I have something. Been waiting all morning to give it to you.”
“How’d you know I’d even be here?”
He shrugged. “Lucky guess, hombre.”
“Hombre? Dude, shut the fuck up and get out of my way.”
He pushed something into my hand, a USB stick.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said about that video and I reckon this might help.”
Adrenaline kicked in. Heart thumping quicker than the drum ‘n’ bass I’d been listening to. “You know something about the girl in the video?”
“Yeah,” he slurred. “Brother Marty’s got you covered.”
I heard a train pulling into the station but stayed staring at Marty. I lowered my register. “So, what is it? What did you find?”
I cursed myself for not having my laptop with me. I often carried it in my rucksack in case I got some free time, but I’d figured with everything going on, that was the last thing I was gonna get today.
“This is what you like.”
What I like.
Tell me what you like . . .
“Marty, are you involved in this?”
“I’m your wingman, bro.”
“What the fuck are you going on about? That doesn’t even make sense. Listen, I need you to tell me everything. How are you involved? What do you know? What’s on this stick?” I waved the USB in front of his face and he followed its rhythm. “I need to know.”
Marty belched. “This is just a man helping another man out. You need your fix and I’m your dealer, baby. We’re talking girls in Hello Kitty masks, girls in masquerade masks, some dressed up as anime characters, even got some furries, and let me tell you that shit gets a lot more hardcore than you’d think. There’s even something involving a horse—I mean, I’m not sure if that’s your deal, I threw that one in for fun.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s all on the stick—almost two gigs’ worth. Aren’t you gonna thank me? Buy me a beer or something? That right there’s top quality kitty clunge.”
When it dawned that the stupid bastard had just compiled a load of animal- and anime-themed pornography, I could have floored him then and there. But instead I simply shook my head, gave him a quick “fuck off, Marty” and ran to platform one.
I got into Harajuku early and spent much of the morning and some of the afternoon in Jonathan’s family restaurant where I got wired on coffee and tried eating some food. But alas, I had no appetite and too much worry—about why the girl in the video was doing this, about what she had on me, about Rachel, about her phoning Hillary, about the pregnancy, about raising a child—whether I was capable, whether I was worthy of fatherhood, whether it was reckless to bring up a kid in a world with so much violence, corruption, abuse, and cruelty.
At a loss as to what else to do, I tried meditating.
Like, really tried.
But it was no good.
I was restless and agitated and couldn’t sustain watching my breath for longer than thirty seconds at a time.
Instead, I wound up re-watching all of the videos the girl had sent me, taking notes in the hope I might uncover some clue, some hidden meaning that would help me make sense of it all.
That if I watched close enough, looked hard enough, everything would become clear.
But it didn’t.
I uncovered nothing.
At around noon, Rachel rang suggesting we go to the police together. She sounded shaky and panicked, said that with a baby on the way things had changed and we couldn’t afford to play by the rules of some strange girl. We needed to do things the proper way.
I understood her reasoning and agreed with her—one wrong move could prove fatal.
But I’d made my decision and was sticking with it.
I stayed put.
***
Rachel’s call left me more on edge. She hadn’t said it explicitly, but I’d known she was pissed off with me. At best she thought I was naïve, acting like this headcase girl was someone I could just talk things out with. At worst Rachel thought I was selfish—putting myself ahead of her, our marriage, our unborn child. But that wasn’t how I read the situation. In turning up at our house, armed with a bloody machete, the girl had proven she was unhinged, that she wasn’t the sort of person to play chicken with—call her bluff and she might do something terrible, she might harm Rachel for no greater reason than she could.
I topped up my coffee, hands shaking, sloshing the liquid over the top of the mug as I settled back at the table. Was there any conceivable way this could still be a prank? I’d seen the girl, the blade, my apartment, and even heard Rachel, too. But with computers and technology you could near enough fake anything. I didn’t think it was a joke and yet I found myself dialling Henry, the biggest technology whizz I knew, one of my best uni mates, and responsible for some of the most insane jokes back in the day. If anyone knew how this shit could be pulled off, it was Henry. I hadn’t spoken with him in almost a year—probably it was the coffee, the adrenaline, the sheer fucking absurdity of it all, but I felt I needed to.
The call took a while to connect and longer, too, for him to answer, but eventually he did.
“Hello?”
“Duuuuuude,” I said, a mixture of real and feigned enthusiasm.
“Who is this?”
“Freddie . . . ”
Momentary silence then movement from his end, footsteps. “Dude, it’s almost four in the morning, what do you want?”
“Ah, shit, I’d forgotten about the time difference. Should I call back?”
“Is this important?”
“I think it could be . . . ”
“Go on then, you get me up this early you should at least come out with it . . . ”
I stalled. Henry wasn’t as mellow or jovial as I’d expected, which given I’d woken him up at no-fucking-way-o’clock was understandable.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, man, but I was hoping you could help me out. I’m scared, mate.”
A kettle whistled on Henry’s end.
“Freddie? You still there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Shit. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Well start somewhere. You didn’t wake me up for nothing, did you?”
“You remember how at uni we’d change each other’s backgrounds to Lemon Party and shit like that?”
“Uh-huh.” Henry poured water.
“And sometimes we’d create mash-ups, weird videos, like the time you spliced Geoff’s birthday party video with Meat Spin and Swap.avi?”
He chuckled. “Classic—took a long time. But come on, lad, cut to the chase.”
“You don’t happen to know anything about the girl in the video, do you, mate?”
“In Swap.avi? Weren’t there four of them?”
“Not in Swap, and yes there were four . . . I think I’m being targeted, dude. Someone’s sending me these weird videos, blackmailing me, showing up at my house and—”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Freddie, it’s only just gone one in the afternoon.”
“So, is that a yes or no? Back in uni we’d—”
“I haven’t been drinking, dude.”
“And you’re still in Japan, yes?”
“Right. These videos, they have things about me—where I’ve lived, what I’ve done, bands I like—that not a lot of people know.
Don’t think there’s anyone who knows all these details. Doesn’t make sense, dude.”
“So, you think I did it because ten years ago I changed your desktop background to Tubgirl? That’s what this is about?”
“No! Jesus, dude, why would I . . . I mean . . . I don’t . . . but . . . Well, I mean, are you involved?”
“Fuck off, man. Of course, I’m not involved. You’re off your head.”
“Listen, I’m not doing a good job of explaining. Yesterday the girl came to the house with a machete. She was threatening Rachel.”
“Holy shit, is Rachel okay? Dumb question, I know, obviously she’s not okay but . . . Hang on, you think I sent a girl in Japan round your house with a god damn machete to threaten your wife? What the hell is wrong with you? We’ve done some crazy things but not that kind of crazy. That’s Ted Bundy levels of psycho right there.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t think you did that. Of course you didn’t do that, you would never do that, but—”
“But what?”
“Well, maybe you made it look like that. You faked a video or something, plus, um, a phone call . . . ”
“You honestly believe that?”
“I’m done knowing what to believe. I’m getting strange personalised videos, I’m getting threats and—”
“Go to the police, dude.”
I sighed. “I mean, that’s what Rachel said, but . . . ”
“Rachel’s smart. You have someone threaten to take you out with a machete, you don’t just wake up your mate in merry old England at four in the fucking morning, you call the police. It could be a matter of life or death”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I mean, the girl specifically said not to go to the police.”
“Name a criminal that encourages people to go to the police.”
“Now, let’s see . . . ”
“Don’t actually name one. Listen, Freddie, I’m sorry you’re going through this, but I don’t know what you think I can do from here. How can I help?”
He was probably right. Likely I’d made things worse, looked like a right fucking loon. But then I remembered Hillary. “Rachel has a sister, Hillary, she lives up in Yorkshire. You remember her?”
“Um, no.”
“Well, anyway, Rachel was thinking about ringing her and—I mean, fuck, dude, Hillary will just convince her to go to the police and I’m telling you, that just isn’t a good idea in this situation.”
“Okay, and?”
“Look, I know this is a longshot, but maybe if I gave you Hillary’s address you could watch her or something?”
“Watch her?”
“Or tap her phone, that way if Rachel calls her I’ll—”
“Dude, stop talking. I don’t even know where to begin with this. How about the fact I live in Reading and Yorkshire is what? Over two hundred miles away? Four hours in the car—”
“I could help with the petrol money if—”
Henry’s laughter cut me off. “Stop. Talking.”
“I know it sounds crazy . . . ”
“Yes, Freddie, it does sound crazy. I’m gonna go now. Mostly because I don’t want you to keep making things worse, but you have to talk to Rachel. Communicate with her. You’ve been married a long time—I’m sure you don’t want to resort to tapping her phone. I thought you two had a good relationship.”
“We do, but—”
“Then keep it that way. And honestly, mate, you should go to the police. Keep me posted.”
Henry hung up.
I replayed the conversation several times wondering if there was anything I could have said or done for things to have gone worse. The phone call was supposed to be productive. A way to figure out how the videos had got to me, what the girl wanted, how I could avoid things escalating. A conversation to reassure me and make me feel better about myself and the situation. I’d failed on every level.
I ordered the biggest, most expensive dessert and scoffed it as quickly as I could.
***
I left Jonathan’s with plenty of time to get to the meeting spot. As always, Harajuku was rammed. Tourists and locals jockeyed for position as they made their way up and down the busy streets.
At five to three I stood outside GAP, phone clutched tight, waiting for the girl to make her next move. My eyes darted between my phone, the station entrance, and either side of the street.
No sign of her.
Honestly, what did I think would happen? That she’d race around the corner in broad daylight wearing her trademark mask?
I didn’t know what to think anymore.
And, quite frankly, I was fed up of thinking.
Was beyond thinking.
Was too tired to think.
Perhaps if I’d been thinking it wouldn’t have come to this. I’d have gone to the police after she’d first contacted me. But instead I thought nothing of it and even got off on watching the video. Made me feel sick just thinking about it, but it was the truth.
Should have gone to the police . . .
But who goes to the police over a strange video? What crime had been committed? I imagined how it might play out: “What you showing us that for, mate? Enjoy it. Maybe next time she’ll invite you over for a private session, know-what-I-mean?”
Speaking of the police, there were a lot of them about. I’d seen police around Harajuku before but never in such force. Clad in uniforms of different shades of blue: formal jacket and matching trousers, button down shirts, stab vests, duty belts, and white gloves. The women wore bowler hats, the men peaked caps. Two officers stood on the pavement across the road from me, next to Harajuku Station entrance.
The clock struck three.
No message, no call, no anything.
What was going on? I was where she’d asked me to be. What was the next step?
Another minute elapsed.
I started to write a message to the girl, to ask what now, to tell her I was ready and waiting, had followed her instructions to the letter. But I couldn’t get the tone right. Kept erasing each attempt. Sometimes too needy, other times too acerbic, too desperate, too flaky.
Fuck it, I’d wait it out even if it killed me.
Some stocky man in a red t-shirt approached, holding a sales board listing various items of clothing and prices. “Hey, bro! Come with me, got some great deals, you’ll love it.”
“No thanks.” I scrutinised my phone, as if engrossed in an important message, though I was clearly staring at the home screen.
“Amazing sales—fifty, sixty, even seventy percent off.” His eyes widened as if such a discount had never occurred before.
“I’m busy.”
“It’s your style, bro. You can’t miss it.”
I looked to the board: Adidas, Nike, Reebok, and various other sportswear. It sure as shit wasn’t my style.
“No thanks.”
“Bro, you gotta get in on this.” He grabbed my wrist, I flinched away, instinctively swung a right fist at the man, who narrowly bobbed out of the way.
“Fuck off!”
“A’ight, a’ight, easy bro.” He raised his hands up in peace, like he was fucking Gandhi or something, and backed away. “Maybe another day, yeah?”
The would-be salesman retreated, blending into the crowd. I tried to concentrate on my breath, to lower my heart rate, to calm down.
Deep breaths. In . . . then . . . out. In . . . then . . . out.
Let the negative thoughts pass and the positive remain, negative thoughts pass and the positive remain, negative thoughts pass and—seriously, who the fuck did that dickhead think he was? Touching me like that. Fucking wanker. Let the negative thoughts pass and the—oh to hell with it.
My phone rang. Still full of anger I answered quickly. “About fucking time, you bitch.”
“Freddie?”
“Oh, shit. Sorry, Rach, thought you were . . . Listen, darling, I really can’t speak now, the girl could ring any minute now.”
“You shouldn’t
answer like that.”
“No, you’re right. It’s just this dickhead was . . . You know what, forget it, but I really should hang up.” I looked across the road at the police. “You might be right about going to the police, you know.”
She exhaled. “Oh, Freddie, I’m so glad you think so. Truth be told I . . . ”
“Truth be told you what?”
I looked down—bloody signal had gone. As soon as it returned my phone lit-up, an incoming FaceTime call from the girl in the video.
“Hello,” my voice weak. I saw my face before I saw hers. Christ on a bike, I looked ten years older than this morning.
When the video finally connected the camera didn’t face the girl but rather some nondescript street in a residential area. Her breathing heavy, the camera shook as she walked.
“You blew it,” she said.
My stomach turned. “What? I did everything you asked. What are you talking about? I haven’t fucking blown anything.” It came out angrier than I’d expected, which was honest. I was angry—was royally pissed off with this girl and her infantile bullshit.
She didn’t respond, continued walking, rounded the street corner, passing a series of vending machines. As she walked she swung a machete out in front of her. The camera had to be attached to a headset. The machete was thick and dull grey, likely the same one she’d brandished the previous night.
“Look, I did everything you asked, so put the machete down, and grow up!”
She laughed, not giving a fuck about my renewed confidence.
“Where are you going?”
But it was then that I recognised the back streets and grey concrete buildings. She was in Yamato, heading towards the school I’d worked at a couple of years back. The school I’d glimpsed in one of her videos.
“I should call the police! Walking around near a fucking school with a machete—you head case.”
She started humming ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ as she approached the school.
The Girl in the Video (ARC) Page 6