by Неизвестный
“Dad, where are we going now?” Jimmy asked, his unsure voice betraying the calm attitude he was trying to display.
“I don’t know, Jimmy. Can’t think right now. First, we need to get far from here,” Pete answered, cranking the next gear and pushing on the accelerator. When they reached the edge of the town, Pete took a familiar road. The gates of his final destination soon loomed up, and slid open once activated by the remote control Pete usually kept in the glove compartment. He mentally congratulated himself on his great idea. No one was working tonight.
A moan resounded behind him, followed by ruffling sounds. Spurred by a sense of emergency, Pete cut off the engine, and got out. He’d stopped in the perfect place, given the considerable surface of the recycling site. Quickly, he yanked his drowsy passenger out of the door by the collar of his coat and forcefully towed him all the way into the dark tool station beside which he had parked, before letting him drop, the man’s legs obviously too weak to support him. The light came on in the room. Pete stood still for a moment, towering over the moaning mass that was trying to worm its way far away from his feet.
“Please, don’t hurt me…” The man’s weak voice trailed out, transforming into a groan.
“No chance for that, you sick nonce!” Pete retorted. “Mate, you’ve hurt my baby girl, and you’ve got to pay!” And while shouting the last word, he administered a well-placed, rib-breaking kick of his safety shoes.
The air came out of the man’s lungs as a scream of agony. When his breathing recovered, despite still showing signs of struggle, he defended himself. “I have done nothing! I don’t know her! I’ve never hurt anyone in my life! It’s not–”
In retaliation to the protests grating his nerves, Pete smashed the sole of his shoe on the face of his victim, instantly shutting him up.
“Dad!” Jimmy screamed, finally voicing his concern. “What the fuck?” Pete turned around to face his son and give him the sternest stare he could. With a certain pride, he watched the boy step back in cowardice. “Dad, please, let it go. You’re going to go back in,” he whimpered.
The words uttered by Jimmy struck a chord and threw an icy bucket of water over Pete’s anger. The man was lying flat on his back, lifeless. His mouth was closed, his nose bent at an unnatural angle, and there was no sign of air passing through. “Oh my God! He’s dead!” he realised.
“Dad, what happens now? We can’t leave him here. He’ll be found tomorrow.”
A thought flashed in Pete’s mind. “I know!” They were definitely in the right place.
Pete went out scavenging the dump bins, searching for something that could be handy, and found an old wardrobe. ‘Got to love MDF,’ he thought, as he leaned over and pulled that joke of a piece of furniture onto his back, before setting himself in motion towards the workshop. With the help of his son, he ditched the man’s body inside, then heaved the makeshift box into the company truck.
In silence, they drove to the landfill area of the site. Pete, in his position as team leader, knew that a hole had been freshly dug up. In it, they disposed of the wardrobe and its contents, before the tractor filled the trench with enough soil and rubbish to justify Pete’s excuse. Tomorrow, if any questions were raised, he’d just have to say that he had come up to do some extra hours.
* * *
Jolene’s first day back at college was a real breath of fresh air. During her recovery at home, she’d become irritated by her mother’s mollycoddling and her father’s constant request for updates on how well she was doing. Besides, she had been feeling uneasy around Jimmy, who, for some reason, had transformed from a fun and friendly guy to a recluse around his own family, to the point where he would cower under his father’s gaze and, for no obvious reason, retire to his bedroom. The atmosphere had turned really stuffy. So when Jolene was offered the opportunity to attend classes again to avoid falling too far behind with her lessons, on the provision that she kept her arm in a supportive sling and didn’t carry too much weight in terms of books and notepads, she jumped at it with both feet.
As she waited for her girlfriends to arrive at the usual spot that was their meeting point for a quick chat before things got serious, filled with trepidation at the idea of surprising them with her return, Jolene had a quick glance at the information board to check if any of her teachers were absent.
Her heart dropped into the sole of her shoes as she saw a missing person’s notice. It showed a black and white smiling photo of a familiar face, that strange man who was always hanging around the school, that man who everybody identified as ‘Uncle Robert’ without his knowledge, and who was rumoured to kidnap the children of Einstein Primary School. The bit of text below the photo read:
MISSING: ROBERT SEELEY
Please help find my son, who never came home during the evening of April 16th. He was wearing a black duffle coat and dark navy trousers. 5’5 tall, weight 17st. Non-violent, but suffers from intellectual disability, and prefers contact with children because he find adults confusing and threatening. If you see him, please call me, Linda Seeley, on 07653-325558
A pang of guilt consumed Jolene. Trying to find signs supporting her hopes that she had nothing to do with the man’s disappearance despite denouncing him to her parents as being her attacker, she went back through the events inside her head.
“Jolene, I love you,” Mike – ‘Dashing Mike’ as she called him – whispered in her ear, the secrecy unnecessary given that they were walking hand in hand along a lonely street. Jolene stopped to face him, her legs turning to jelly and butterflies filling her stomach.
Looking straight into his eyes, she expressed the same feelings through a nervous smile. It was all new to her. Mike had been her first crush, and now things were becoming more serious. He leaned over to kiss her and seal the deal. Jolene wrapped her arms around his neck to bring him closer, to feel him better, and Mike started slowly moving forward, making her step back, until they covered a short distance and Jolene found herself wedged between her boyfriend and a wall. Or rather, between Mike and his hands, which were groping her buttocks. Growing uncomfortably helpless, Jolene attempted to wriggle out of his embrace, but his grip on her tightened as he used his body to crush her, freeing one of his hands so it could explore her breast instead. His tongue plunged forcefully inside her mouth, muffling her sounds of protests.
Summoning the last of her strength, Jolene inserted her hands between them and pushed him away. “Stop it, Mike!” she shouted.
“But I thought you wanted it too, Babe,” he explained. He proceeded to get close to her again.
Jumping swiftly to the side, Jolene continued yelling. “Well, you thought wrong! I thought you loved me!”
The sweet face Jolene loved so much turned fiery red. “You bitch. You tease me and then you hold back? You’re my girlfriend, I do what I want with you.” And with this, he resumed his threatening advance.
This time, he didn’t get to touch her again. Jolene ran as fast as her legs would let her towards the end of the street, and, in an effort to put as much distance between herself and her now ex-boyfriend, jumped onto the road. And everything went black.
The next thing she remembered was that moment in the hospital, that day after her accident of April 15th, when she had a last-minute change of mind, and had decided to protect her boyfriend, and ultimately herself, from the insults and rumours she would have been the object of when the truth came out. Her dad had been furious. She had known him to get angry, but never in such a state. But he had gone out to speak to the police, she urged herself to recall.
Her friends’ squeals drew Jolene out of her thoughts. Kisses and soft hugs were exchanged, displaying the happiness at seeing each other again. Light banter ensued, everyone eager to catch up.
When the bell rang, Jolene glanced one last time at the picture of Robert, sadness filling her. Her best friend, Sophie, didn’t fail to pick up on this.
“Any idea what happened to the guy, Jolz?” she queried, looking for some
gossip.
To put an end to the inner onslaught of questions which was nowhere near abating, Jolene ruled the events were mere coincidences not worth investigating. She dropped her gaze to the ground and breathed in a heavy dose of courage.
“Not really.”
And with these words, Jolene banished all thoughts of Robert Seeley to the furthest, darkest place in her mind, never to revisit them again.
An avid reader, Lorraine Versini spent most of her free time reading fiction of various genres, until one day she started giving shape to her own stories. Inspired by different authors such as the Brothers Grimm, Voltaire, Molière, Nora Roberts, and Thomas Harris, her voice ranges from romantic to dark, with a hint of humour. She is a professional translator and proof-reader. Her hobbies include photography, makeup, and trekking. She is mother to a witty little lad, who enjoys nothing other than keeping her on her toes by coming up with the quirkiest questions.
SAKURA TIME
by
LOREN RHOADS
The uncommonly polite email surprised Alondra. She smiled at Hiroshi Hiroshige’s name. He wrote, “Dear Miss DeCourval, I hope you remember me. It has been too long since we met at the Moon Viewing Party in Ueno Park. I know you are a collector of books.” Not exactly true, but Alondra could see how he’d concluded that. “Perhaps you can help another type of collector: a doll collector. I don’t know where else to turn.”
Hiroshige was a Columbia-trained journalist who wrote for the Tokyo bureau of the New York Times. She remembered him as matinee idol handsome, dressed in a pinstriped western suit and pointy cowboy boots. She didn’t know him well enough to guess which part of the costume, if either, was an affectation. She did know that his writing, when it appeared in the newspaper, was spare and to the point.
Intrigued, Alondra responded immediately. “I remember you, Hiroshige-san. You were kind when I visited Tokyo. I’m sorry we never caught up after the Moon Viewing Party. How can I help?”
Next time she opened her computer, he’d sent his airline miles and asked how soon she could arrive at Narita. He would meet her in the lounge past Customs.
Alondra booked the ticket, sent him the itinerary, and researched the weather in Japan in April. With luck, she would catch the tail end of cherry blossom season. Sakura time.
* * *
She’d forgotten how brutal the jet lag to Japan could be, so she was relieved when Hiroshige merely took her to a quiet hotel and wished her a good night’s sleep.
In the morning, he phoned Alondra to offer breakfast. The dark, low-ceilinged coffee shop he chose seemed too full of tables. Alondra bumped into several like a clumsy gaijin. Hiroshige pretended not to notice. He read her the katakana on the menu, a litany of western-style pastries. She ordered toast, never expecting the warm, soft pillow of white bread that came with a pot of strawberry jam.
“What do you know about dolls in Japanese culture?” Hiroshige asked.
“Not enough.” She’d done a little research before she got on the plane in San Francisco.
“Dolls can’t be thrown into the trash. Japanese believe you can’t throw away anything that has eyes or a mouth. In fact, it’s believed that dolls are like mirrors. They take on parts of their owners’ souls. In Tokyo, the Kiyomizu Kannondo shrine collects dolls to give them a Buddhist cremation.”
Alondra wondered where this was going. Hiroshige hadn’t struck her as the sort to play with dolls.
He doctored his coffee with a carafe of sugar syrup. “The problem is my brother’s. His American wife was a doll collector. Art dolls, mostly. Some of them are very disturbing. When Michelle died, Koichi was left with all of these dolls to dispose of. It’s been difficult for him, because he believes each of the dolls has a little piece of his wife’s soul.”
“How can I help?” Alondra repeated.
“I would like to take you to my brother’s apartment,” Hiroshige said. “He’ll be at work. You can meet the dolls.”
Alondra sipped her tea. “I’m not sure what you’d like me to do, Hiroshige-san. Grief is a terrible strain on a person. Perhaps your brother just needs time…”
Unwillingly, Hiroshige said, “I need to know if there is something to his belief, if there is something of his wife left behind. Or if my brother has gone mad.”
“I’m ready.”
Hiroshige led her through a maze of streets to the subway. As she remembered, few streets in Tokyo ran straight, as if the city’s designers had been consciously trying to misdirect something.
In an apartment building of bland, white cement, Hiroshige led her to a tiny elevator, then out into a bare hallway with faux-wood paneling and a linoleum floor.
His brother’s cramped apartment consisted of a kitchenette off the living room, one bedroom, a split bath. Dolls thronged the apartment. They sat on every surface, including the sofa and bookshelves. They slumped atop the kitchen table. They hung suspended from the light fixtures. Everywhere she looked, eyes met her gaze.
There were folk dolls from many countries, but a majority of the dolls were Japanese. A tansu chest stood against one wall, its surfaces lined with Hinamatsuri dolls, representing the Emperor, Empress, and members of their court. A roly-poly Daruma doll hulked beside the computer monitor, its right eye still sightless and white, signifying that the wish made by its owner had not been granted. Beside the TV clustered a virtual forest of Kokeshi dolls. They all had columnar bodies without arms or legs. Similar straight black caps represented their hair. Those dolls represented the sum of Alondra’s knowledge about Japanese folk dolls.
Her gaze caught on a china doll seated in a little wicker peacock chair. Her skin looked white as bleached bone. Straight white hair fell to her waist in a silken veil. Her oversized eyes shone, reflective silver. Something about them looked unfocused, almost drugged. Her slightly parted mauve lips revealed needle-sharp feline teeth.
“Her name is Miriku,” Hiroshige offered. “It means Milk.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“She was made by a Japanese doll-maker twenty years ago or so. She’s solid; at least, her torso is. She’s like a brick when you pick her up.” He lifted the doll from her throne. Her jointed limbs swung in a way that made Alondra queasy, their movement altogether too corpselike. When Alondra didn’t reach out to take the doll, Hiroshige gently put her back.
“Could I have a moment alone?” Alondra asked. “I won’t touch anything. I just want to see what I can hear.”
Hiroshige moved toward the door. “I’ll be right outside. Ten minutes?”
“Five will be long enough. Thank you.”
Alondra settled down on the ivory carpet in the living room, as far from the dolls as she could get. She heard the outer door click behind Hiroshige.
She drew a deep breath, held it a beat, then blew out hard in a steady stream. In the silence between that breath and the next, she listened. The room filled with little electronic noises: the hum of the refrigerator, the whir of the computer’s fan, the whine of a digital clock.
She took another breath and repeated the process. This time she heard something like whispering, snatches of sentences, short melodic phrases, humming, sighing. After another breath, she recognized dozens of tiny voices, speaking at once in a gabble of languages. She understood a word of Japanese here and there, but also heard French and German and a chorus of voices in English.
Either the doll collector had been a polyglot or, Alondra suspected, the dolls conversed in their native languages: mirroring not their owner’s soul but their creators’.
She kept her eyes closed, trying to sort out the babble. Perhaps this was what Hiroshige’s brother heard. The cacophony could drive anyone mad.
The voices fell silent. Quite clearly, Alondra heard a child beg, “Save me.”
A chill wrapped Alondra’s neck. The shiver that followed threw her out of her trance. She strained to hear over the rush of blood in her ears, but the voice was gone.
Rubbing her arms, she
stood, wanting as little contact with this room as possible.
Hiroshige came in a moment later. Alondra asked, “Did your brother ever have a child?”
Hiroshige shook his head sadly. “No.”
“There’s something here. A child’s voice. She wants my help, but I couldn’t hear any more than that.”
“So my brother isn’t crazy.”
Alondra offered a hopeful smile. “I’d like to meet him, to have him tell me about the dolls. Maybe he will realize he could part with them if they’re going to a good home.”
“You don’t actually want to buy any of them, do you?” Hiroshige asked.
“No. But if I put the thought into his head, maybe it will help.”
She still felt chilled. “I know we just had breakfast, but is there somewhere nearby I could get a bowl of soup? I need to warm up inside.”
“Of course.” He gestured toward the door. She stepped down into the entryway and slipped her shoes back on before escaping into the hallway.
* * *
Outside a restaurant scarcely larger than a closet, Hiroshige showed her a lighted board with picture after picture of bowls of noodles. She pushed a button, took the ticket spat out by the machine, and huddled on a stool at the counter until a large, steaming bowl arrived in front of her. Then, using her chopsticks, she shoveled the noodles into her mouth.
To block out the memory of the child begging for her life, Alondra asked, “Do you know anything about the doll-makers?”