by Rhys Thomas
Miho curtsied and nodded. Sam smiled and bowed.
The house was clinically clean, which instantly put Sam at ease. He was shown into a dining room, a plain space with black wooden plank flooring, a simple table and chairs, and some fresh flowers in a vase standing in a stone alcove, giving the room a burst of colour. Sam could see the kitchen next door, with the smell of spices and the heat of pans boiling. There was some thumping from upstairs and two children came running down. They were young – younger than ten – a boy and a girl. They threw their arms around Mr Okamatsu, and Sam watched his shoulders relax and, just discernible through the light-sensitive glasses, his eyes close in a serenity that sent a shudder through Sam.
After getting cleaned up they sat at the table and Miho brought out the dishes: a bowl of sticky white rice, a steaming bowl of vegetables, some miso soup and a plate of shredded pickled ginger. The food was simple but delicious. Nobody spoke English, apart from Mr Okamatsu, and when they tried to include Sam in the conversation it was to explain to him how to pronounce the names of certain foods, and the kids loved it when he got it wrong. The family chatted quickly and loudly in Japanese and Sam didn’t have a clue what they were saying, though it didn’t matter. This was the first family meal he’d been involved in for a long time, the unguarded nature of the unit. He should have felt like an interloper, joining Mr Okamatsu on his first visit home in almost a year, but they didn’t allow him to.
After dinner they went out to the garden at the back of the house. It was a large space, a fortunate accident of how the other houses built around it were positioned. A tall wooden fence hemmed the garden, with bamboo trees and cherry blossoms, and a small wooden teahouse on the left-hand side. A stream meandered over round pebbles, with two little red bridges for crossing over and crossing back. Stone lanterns led the way around a path and they walked together, Mr Okamatsu with his hands behind his back.
‘Be careful you don’t slip,’ he said. ‘We design the path to be bumpy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you need to look down all the time. Then, when you look up, the garden has changed and you are looking at a new scene.’ He nodded at a patch of white sand, raked neatly, with a few sharp rocks sticking up. ‘It is the world. The sand is the oceans and the rocks are the land.’
Part of the path was moss with stepping stones embedded in it. At one point they came to a stone washbasin that had started freezing over. It was distractingly beautiful. Islands of shrubs were dotted here and there and it was hard to comprehend how lonely Mr Okamatsu must feel, stuck in his flat in the UK.
‘Mr Okamatsu, what’s happening with the air invoices?’
‘It is nobody’s fault,’ he said. ‘They pay half, we pay half. This is fair, no? The cost always has to land somewhere.’
‘I’m sorry for what I did.’
‘I am sorry too. For being angry.’
And that was that. They crossed the second red bridge that led back up towards the house and they sat on the porch, heated by lamps and blankets, drinking warm sake that Miho had brought out.
‘You see that?’ said Mr Okamatsu, pointing at a tall stone lantern inscribed down the side with some Japanese characters:
‘It says mono no aware. Have you heard this?’
‘No,’ said Sam.
‘We have it in Japan. In Britain you have it, but you don’t have a word for it. We worship the cherry blossom here. It is beautiful, but it is sad too. The cherry blossom will not last, and that is what makes it even more beautiful. Do you understand?’
Sam felt numb. ‘Everything is transient,’ he said to himself.
‘Everything must pass.’ Mr Okamatsu took a drink of sake and they sat in silence for a moment before Mr Okamatsu said, ‘Sam, you have many problems.’
The lights in the lanterns flickered, and Sam said nothing.
‘I know about your family, Sam. And I know about the superhero.’
The trees ached in the breeze, and in that moment Sam felt himself open up.
‘Is that why you brought me here?’
‘You needed to fly, Sam. I knew you would not come unless you thought it was for me. But you need to understand. Everything must pass.’
‘I know,’ he said.
The red lights on the wing of a passing aeroplane blinked in the distance.
‘My father died when I was fifteen. It made me very sad. But I am older than you and I can tell you something you maybe don’t know. Your family are still there.’ He spoke so kindly – modulating up and down, as he did when talking in detail about a set of technical drawings. ‘They are in your heart always. When someone dies you must change. But it is not bad. You change and you grow around that death. Later on, it becomes not sad. It makes you stronger, not weaker.’
Sam dried the corner of his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
‘You are a good man, yes?’ Mr Okamatsu’s eyes remained steadfast on the garden. ‘And it is like the dog, Hachikō. People will always help good people. My father used to say something to me, about people. He used to say, if you look closely, you can see the magic.’ He finished his cup of sake and poured himself another. ‘You must accept help. It is how you heal.’ And after that he said nothing more on the matter.
They sat and drank in silence for a long time and over the course of those moments Sam’s emotions flattened, and he started to move past something.
His bedroom was simple and sparse.
He lay down and pulled the cotton sheets over him. He did not need to put on the radio to block out his thoughts, for he had none.
As soon as his head hit the thin pillow, he slept the sleep of ages.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The stool through the middle of his TV had slumped in the few days he’d been away. Shards of glass in the carpet in front of it glowed in the blue twilight. He turned on all the lights. He’d tracked mud right through the house, and it was all over his sheets upstairs. He called a professional carpet cleaner and felt much better with the thought of his carpet being restored to near show-house standard. He pulled the stool out of the TV and put it back under the breakfast bar. He washed his sheets and pillow cases, and returned to the tip, where he deposited his TV, and then went to Tesco to buy a new one. The vivid brightness of the store was a balm for his soul. The sight of all those TVs, of how much happiness they would bring to so many families, made him feel joyous. In the cavernous store he told himself feeling joyous in Tesco was something he had to move away from now.
On his way home he stopped off at his favourite chip shop and bought a chicken and mushroom pie and chips with gravy and a can of Coke, which he ate silently in the kitchen.
This wasn’t so bad. He could live like this quite happily for ever.
It was when he was setting up his new TV that he heard voices and footsteps coming up the driveway and a knock at the door. For a moment he thought about ignoring it, but then something spurred him to answer; the will to be normal.
As he opened the door, Blotchy raised his hand.
‘Just listen,’ he said.
Standing next to him, Tango said, ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Japan.’
They stared at him.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Tango, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head dramatically. ‘We saw the stool through the TV and . . .’
‘I’ve been on a business trip to Japan,’ he said.
Blotchy was being very quiet, and Sam deliberately didn’t look at him.
‘Well, you’re back now,’ said Tango. ‘And you’re coming with us.’
‘I can’t, I’m busy.’
‘Quasar.’ Tango opened his eyes wide and stared into Sam’s soul.
‘I’m not going to Quas—’
‘No!’ Tango reached forward and curled his fingers around Sam’s wrist. ‘Quasar.’
Down a dark corridor Sam raised his laser gun. Futuristic neon lights flashing on and off illuminated the shoulder of somebody crou
ching behind a barrier. He moved towards the target in the same way FBI swat teams do it on TV, side on, legs crossing legs. His back vibrated, and he swung around as a little kid punched the air and scampered into the darkness.
‘Dammit,’ he said, dropping his gun at his side.
‘Sam.’
It was a hushed call. He turned and saw Blotchy and Tango hiding in an alcove.
‘Get over here.’
All three of them were bunched tight.
‘Tell him,’ said Tango.
‘Sam,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why you went crazy on me in the community centre.’
‘Can we not talk about this now?’
A noxious plume of smoke billowed out from a pump and they all held their breath and closed their eyes.
‘I want you to know that I didn’t tell anybody about your superhero thing. I know I’m a bit of a prick but I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Well how else would they know?’
Blotchy’s face was all different colours in the dark.
‘No idea.’
Sam spotted the little kid again, open and unaware that he was being watched. Sam’s laser gun was active again after being hit and he raised it up and fired off a laser beam. It found its mark and the little kid fell to his knees, as if he’d actually been shot, bowing his head.
‘Nice shot, Sam,’ said Tango, patting his shoulder enthusiastically.
‘Cheers.’
‘But listen,’ said Blotchy. ‘Now I don’t want you to get mad. That’s why we’ve come to Quasar. I’ve been to see Sarah.’
‘You what?’
‘We didn’t know where you were, and I didn’t know you’d split up. Though I guessed you had. I was trying to help.’
Sam shook his head and thought.
‘What did she say?’
‘Well here’s the thing. There was this guy outside her flat shouting all kinds of shit. She was there, and opened the window and told him to piss off.’
‘Was he Scottish?’
‘Probably, I don’t know.’
‘What happened?’
‘Eventually, he went away.’
Blotchy took a knee and Sam joined him, leaving Tango to defend.
‘I went to visit her after he left, to check she was OK.’
Blotchy half smiled. It wasn’t like him to be brave or concerned.
‘She was fine, a little shaken up. She said you and her had broken up. I’m sorry, man.’ He put a manly hand on Sam’s shoulder, which felt forced and weird. ‘But she also said you were still friends.’
His heart sprang up.
‘I just wanted you to know. So that you didn’t think I was going behind your back. I promise you though, on my mum’s life, I didn’t tell anyone about the Phantasm.’
‘Guys,’ said Tango. ‘We can make a break. Don’t think. Just follow.’
He barged past them and ran down the corridor. A man in his forties turned to them but it was too late. Tango had zapped him. The three of them charged past, Blotchy’s footsteps incredibly loud as they ascended a wooden ramp painted black, swung round a corner between black netting, where they dived behind a low barrier. The opposition’s base was in sight. There were two guards, well protected by a waist-high wall.
Blotchy grabbed Tango’s arm.
‘Fucking brilliant work, Tango.’
They fist-pumped.
‘Sam, listen,’ said Blotchy. He put his hand on his shoulder, and this time it felt natural. And Tango put his arm around him too.
‘I know you don’t see our friendship in the same way but, to us, it’s very special.’ Blotchy’s face shifted colours with the lights. ‘We’re going to be better at being there, just like you’re always there for us.’
Somewhere off in the distance they heard a skirmish.
‘We never thought you’d take the leap you’ve taken but you did it, and it’s awesome that you did. We know what it took. So. Friends?’
Nothing happened for a second. The lights stopped flashing and the sounds died down.
He did take the leap. He had done all those wonderful things with her. His eyes flicked between Tango and Blotchy in the stillness. Everything they’d been through zipped across his mind.
If you look closely, Mr Okamatsu had said, you can see the magic.
He smiled, his friends staring back at him, their heads close together, and gave a quick nod.
‘Friends,’ he said.
‘Now let’s stop being a bunch of fannies. This is a war situation,’ said Tango, bouncing on his hams, readying himself. ‘Let’s do this!’
And he leapt up, the others following, and they charged for the base. The two sentinels were caught off guard. They raised their guns but it was too late. Blotchy, Tango and Sam were firing wildly at them, whooping with joy as the vests of their enemies lit up like Christmas trees.
The Phantasm #013
Bait and Switch
A misty night in a bad part of town. Candles in the apartment window flicker but to him they appear as half-formed suns in the gathering dust of a new galaxy, for tonight there is a thick mist.
Perfect.
When cars roll past their headlights are like the beams of a lighthouse. He waits. Been a busy few days. A deep cleansing has taken place and the horizon stretches out before him, a glorious new day. Except it is night-time.
Acceptance is the final turn of the key. Some find it easier to achieve than others. Some people need a helping hand. A hand of justice.
The target emerges from the dark maw of the block and goes out into the misty night.
Once upon a time a girl got herself mixed up with a bad person. One day she managed to escape but the bad person came after her. Fortunately, a black gladiator was on hand and one misty night he sent the bad person back to the dark lands in the north from whence he came. Scotland.
Like a phantom he glides through the atoms of the universe in pursuit. He knows these roads now like the back of his hand. But the target has switched it up. He’s not using the alleyway to deal his poisons any longer. There’s a canal now. One of the street lamps is out, and in the mist it is near blackness – the ultimate environment for dark dealings. Three steps lead down to the path alongside the murky waters, and the target descends, as if into the Underworld.
Nerves? Yes. Fear? Some. But fear is there for one reason: to be overcome.
He jumps down all three steps and lands like a cat on the path.
‘Citizen!’
The target doesn’t jump with shock as our hero hoped. Instead he stops, pins his ears back, and turns slowly. Not so the other figure, who is young and panics at the prospect of authority. He makes quick his escape down the canal path in the opposite direction. Hope you don’t fall off the track and into the canal, the crusader for justice calls in his mind, his eyes narrowing. Though you have already strayed far from the path of righteousness.
The champion growls, ‘I have a file of photographic evidence, which clearly shows you selling drugs.’
The target is just a figure.
‘And you have just come from prison for the exact same offence. But let us on this night broker a deal. Leave town. Leave this place.’
‘I know it’s you, Sam,’ says the target. ‘Who do you think told the papers about you?’
The words stun the Phantasm. His mind falters. At the beginning of the sentence this man was just another hood. At the end of it he has changed. Anger burns through the vigilante like hot quicksilver. The hood is now an arch nemesis, and the anger is laced with panic.
‘You’re not as good as you think you are, wee man.’
They both stand, feet planted, ten yards from each other.
‘You think I don’t know when someone’s following me? You think I’ve nae been doing this for years? I knew you were there, and I followed you home. And then I told the papers so that she’d dump you.’ The figure shrugs. ‘You’d do the same. Look what you’re doing now.’
‘I’m doing this for her,
not me. We’re over. I can accept it. Why can’t you? Just leave her alone. She doesn’t need me in her life and she definitely doesn’t need you.’
‘You’re out of your depth, man. You don’t tell me where I can and can’t live. How fucking dare you? And just remember, you send any photos anywhere, I know where you live. And I know where she lives. I don’t want anything bad to happen but if you think I’m nae gonna defend myself you’re tripping.’
The waters of the canal ripple. So this is how kryptonite feels. He needs to regroup and think. Quick as a flash he takes a smoke bomb from his utility belt.
‘Hark my words,’ he says, sensing the sudden lack of power in his voice.
The dark figure of the target remains perfectly still.
The smoke rises from the path and when it clears, the nemesis will find nothing but fresh air.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Only when the mask came off did the fear flood in. But it was fear for Sarah. How could he have been so stupid? So naive. He thought of school and the old sensation of being powerless. Why did he bother doing anything? He simply wasn’t strong enough for the world – in a true, physical sense – not big enough to make a mark.
He got showered and thought about getting some extra security latches for his front and back doors. Anger was creeping into him again, about the newspapers. How was it fair that someone who dealt drugs, which ruined people’s lives, had the right to ruin Sam’s? Because that’s what he’d done.
Letting the water rush over his head and down his face, he realised at last the consequences of never again being anonymous in the one place he loved. Whenever he went to the café for his breakfasts or the pub for his lunches, or out with his friends, or to his favourite takeaways, or when he went out running, or when he went to the shops. And it was all because of Zac.
And Sam didn’t even have any photos. He’d been bluffing. After a crisis of conscience he’d deleted them from his camera, and there was no way of getting them back. He looked out the bedroom window into his back garden. The street light in the alleyway behind his house was blurred by the mist. He wished he hadn’t thrown out his comics. He wished he could climb up into the attic and curl up and go to sleep.