Songs From Spider Street

by Mark Howard Jones

  Framehr let out a wail and tried to strike Paterson. “You killed her! You killed her, you bastard! Give her to me, give her to me, give her back!” Paterson extended his arms so that Framehr could lift the figure from him.

  Idiotically he repeated: “She was mechanical.”

  Framehr’s eyes blazed at him. “I know what she was. She was my daughter. Julia and I couldn’t … It took Van Epps years … years …” He sobbed, holding the machine’s hair to his face for a moment before laying the body gently on the floor.

  “I came looking for her,” confessed Paterson. “Even though I didn’t know it.”

  This seemed to make sense to Framehr. He gave a short, bitter laugh. “So you knew. Well, you’re not the first to come looking for Van Epps’ secret masterpiece! What did they offer you for finding it, eh? What will they give you, now that you’ve destroyed it?”

  Paterson shook his head. He stared at the floor. “You hated it here, didn’t you? You were both trapped here.”

  Framehr’s face turned red as he became even angrier. “Yes. But if you’d done what you said you would, you fraud, I could have sold this place and lived out a proper life elsewhere! I shouldn’t have trusted you so easily. You haven’t done a single thing since you’ve been here, have you?”

  “But what about her? Could she have lived anywhere else?” Paterson asked, nodding vaguely in the direction of Eve’s remains.

  The old man’s face dropped. He half-turned away, as if he’d suddenly remembered an unfinished task, before looking back at Paterson and nodding once.

  Framehr staggered back a few paces. He bent and scooped the thing he’d called his daughter from the floor. A look of immeasurable sadness crossed his face as he moved towards the opening to the machine pit.

  Despite his age, he hopped quickly onto the ladder, cradling the disintegrating form of Eve in his arms. Paterson heard small metal parts dropping into the pit, clattering on the floor. Framehr looked back at him, an expression of awful loneliness on his face.

  “What? What are …?” Then Paterson realised and dashed forward. He stretched his arms through the opening, trying to grab Framehr. But the old man had already jumped, his mechanical daughter clutched to him, plunging down into the darkness and rust and relentless motion of the dark pit. Paterson heard something hit the huge wheels and cogs, then came a strangled scream and the sound of gears straining against something less yielding than flesh and bone.

  He tried to peer down into the pit but a cloud of rust and darkness rose to meet him. Shielding his eyes, he turned away as the floor began to shake and rivets complained and then popped. Ripping through the threadbare carpets, the giant metal plates of the floor began to tilt and crumple as the machinery of the house tore itself apart. Paterson ran for the stairs.

  Once upstairs, he ran through the lurching structure and almost leapt out of the front door. He threw himself on the sparse grass and hid his face from the cloud of dust and debris rolling out from the grinding, groaning despair of the house.

  After ten minutes, the noise subsided and Paterson dared to raise his head. He felt sick as he saw that Van Epps’ masterpiece was now a tumbled and tangled heap of metal, rust, sticks of wood and God alone knew what else. He stood and walked over to it. The house seemed to have toppled over backwards, away from where he had lain, revealing the machine pit and another room hidden beneath the structure.

  He knelt, fascinated, and peered in. He hadn’t discovered this other, hidden room during his examination of the house. It contained two huge tanks and an elaborate pumping system; the hydraulics that Paterson knew had to exist. A metallic smell rose from the room and, as he watched, the tanks began to leak a red liquid onto the floor of the secret room. Soon the room was full and it began to spill over the lip onto the grass at Paterson’s feet. The body of one of the cats floated in the liquid.

  He sniffed suspiciously, then bent to test some of the fluid with his fingers. He recoiled at the smell. It was blood. Blood?! Paterson’s head reeled. The house was alive but the girl was a machine – was that it? Was this bizarre reversal Van Epps’ great secret? And what about the old man – was he just an old man? Or another of Van Epps’ ‘toys’?

  Paterson looked quickly at the other subterranean space now opened to the revealing daylight. In the back of his mind, he hoped Framehr had survived and that he’d be able to reveal everything Paterson needed to know.

  As soon as he looked down into what had been the machine pit, Paterson knew he wouldn’t be getting any answers.

  But there, in the midst of of the tangled flesh and torn machinery, an eye of deep green stared out at him from a perfect, pale face. It must have been the way the light from the setting sun caught it, or maybe he’d got a speck of rust in his own eye, because it couldn’t have winked at him.

  CHANGE HERE

  His legs refused to work as they should as he hammered his feet down onto the stone steps. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, a mantra of encouragement to his reluctant body.

  The guard was just about to close the doors and press the signal for off as Nick got to the top of the steps. He caught the man’s eye and got a look of impatience as he hobbled the last few yards.

  Why the hell did the last train have to go so early anyway? All he asked for was a few beers with an old friend once a month or so, but obviously that was far too inconvenient for the damn train company. 8.40! You’d swear I was 10 years old, he thought bitterly.

  God, he’d be glad to get home! What a day – one more deadline and his head would explode. And he was sure that last week’s announcement about re-structure meant he’d soon have a desk in the car park!

  He pulled out his newspaper and a small sheaf of ‘sticky’ notes fell onto the floor. Messages from home left on his desk by his witless colleague, Steve, who delighted in his being kept on a short leash by his wife.

  He flicked through them and sighed. Most of them concerned his daughter’s ‘operation’ tomorrow. As if he could forget what a mess the little idiot had got herself into!

  He glanced about him. The train was empty. He was the only passenger. Good, he thought. No noisy teenagers and idiots having loud phone conversations about nothing at all. He shook open his newspaper and began to read.

  The train pulled out, heading off into the night as darkness had begun to gather. He tried to concentrate on the words in front of him but his mind wouldn’t let him rest; debts, his co-workers sneering about his son’s supposed addiction problem, his wife’s recent coldness for no apparent reason, all jostled for attention.

  After about 20 minutes of chewing his nails, Nick had finally become absorbed in some story or other. Then he caught the guard’s announcement. “… Taff’s Well, Pontypridd, Abercynon West …”

  “What? There is no Abercynon West,” he thought. The voice continued “… Atlantis Central.”

  Either the guard was drunk, or some joker had fiddled the lock and commandeered the intercom. “Next stop Narnia,” he snorted to himself, returning to his paper.

  When next he looked up he was still alone. Nobody had even got on at Ponty, which was usually busy.

  Suddenly the carriage was plunged into darkness as they entered a tunnel. The lights flickered on, then off again, on, off. Nick gave up trying to read his paper in frustration. He didn’t remember a tunnel, certainly not one this long. Or this cold; the train was freezing. Perhaps this was a detour because of engineering works.

  But then he remembered it was a single-line track. And there were no tunnels on this stretch of line anyway.

  Pressing his nose to the cold window, he could see a blob of light was getting closer. He caught a glimpse of a sign with a bright, flickering light above it; below that was a tiny platform big enough only for one or two people to stand on. The sign had said ‘Abercynon West’. And hadn’t there been a figure standing in the darkness? With something … no! That must have been a trick of the light.

  And, despite the announcement, the train h
adn’t stopped at that station.

  There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the train plunged deeper into the surrounding darkness. Part of him desperately tried to rationalise the situation. He told himself that the tiny station was simply intended for maintenance crews and not passengers, hence its small size. That must be it, mustn’t it? And he must have just misheard the final destination …

  He stared into the cold darkness beyond the window, feeling like a child desperately clinging to a belief in impossible things – fairies, Santa Claus, happy endings – then, to his horror, finding that impossible things really did exist; other things, less kind.

  Suddenly the carriage was out of the darkness and the brakes began to screech as the train pulled to a halt, jerking Nick forward in his seat.

  A pale blue light flooded through the windows, showing up every grimy seat cover and dirty scuff mark on the floor. Nick looked out at a clean, wide station platform with not a soul on it. Carved into the shining blue stone at the back of the platform were the words ‘Atlantis Central’.

  Then came the announcement. “Atlantis Central. Last stop. Change here for services to Hy-Brasil, Cockaigne, Erewhon and Elysium.” Nick stared up at the ceiling speaker in disbelief.

  He got to his feet, wondering if this was some sort of marketing gimmick. It looked like a bloody expensive one if it was. He pressed the button and the doors hissed open, letting in a blast of cool, fresh-tasting air.

  Stepping out onto the spotless platform, he looked around, then followed the sign saying ‘out’. Through a window high up he could just see the top of an ornately-carved bell tower beneath a clear sky. From somewhere the sound of huge waves crashing against a sturdy sea wall reached him. He knew the route the train usually took was at least 20 miles from the sea.

  But even his tired mind was beginning to realise that nothing here was usual. Suddenly feeling self-conscious he checked to see that he wasn’t leaving dirty footprints on the pristine floor.

  At the platform end, the horse-headed guard with the golden horn sprouting from his forehead smiled at him as if to say ‘Good to be home, isn’t it?’

  Nick glanced back at the dirty, ugly machine sitting at the platform and knew he’d taken his last train ride.

  MUSE

  Toshio slides the door quietly to one side and peers into the hollow darkness. It drinks his gaze, giving him nothing in return, the silky blackness reminding him of the faded old kimono his mother wore towards the end of her life, despite his daily pleading.

  He knows the room is not empty. Treading carefully, not wanting to disturb her yet, he edges forward towards the futon. He always feels excited at being there while she is asleep, before the day’s work must begin. But today the muffled whimpers and rustling from beneath the sheets tell him she is already awake, aware of him.

  The dizziness comes out of the dark to grip him and he falls to his knees, reaching to switch on the bedside lamp. Toshio is startled that the girl is staring directly at him. Her tears stick her short hair to her face and the pillow is damp beneath her head.

  She moans incoherently through her cloth gag. She gives a gasp of relief when he reaches over and loosens it, then begins to sob. “Don’t be afraid. No, Ayame, everything’s alright,” he mutters. She refuses to be silenced by his assurances. Instead he tries to stroke her hair but she pulls away with an unhappy mewling sound.

  He pulls away the bedcovers. He is ashamed to see the bruises on her thighs and arms but tries to block out thoughts of his actions the previous night. Bound at wrists and ankles, the girl needs his help and he concentrates on that instead.

  Toshio reaches over to pick her up, carefully manoeuvring her, shifting her weight, so that they don’t topple over. “Let me go. Let me go,” she whimpers, close to his ear, like a lover’s endearment.

  For a moment Toshio struggles to remain upright, fighting his dizziness. Whenever he is this close to her, holding her, his mind boils, almost ready to burst. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, the fragile girl in his arms, Toshio quickly averts his gaze. He seems to have grown so much older since she’s been with him.

  He carries Ayame to the bathroom, sits her on the toilet, gently lowers her torn briefs, then leaves. He watches her slump forward, sobbing, as he slides the door closed. He walks into the kitchen and supports himself against the fridge, sweating, glad to be rid of the swirl of voices and images.

  The first time he’d seen her had been on the way to his publisher’s offices for what he knew would be a difficult meeting. Even though rush hour was already over, the Metro train was still crowded; dozens of people in that metal box, breathing the same stale air.

  She was behind a large man who stood in front of Toshio. He had seen her face, small and contemplative, bob from behind the man’s arm once or twice. When the man had got off the train at the next stop, he and Ayame had been pushed closer as even more people forced their way on.

  For a second, she had looked directly into his face. Toshio had felt almost dizzy; thinking it was the strength of her perfume, the heat and the crush, he had looked around for a seat. Everywhere was occupied, but he couldn’t stay upright any longer and slumped against the man behind him, who roughly pushed him upright again while muttering an insult.

  Ayame had stared at him, asked him something that he didn’t hear. Toshio saw her through a mist and staggered gratefully off the train at the next station. It was four stops away from his destination at Shinjuku.

  When he finally arrived at the meeting everyone was unimpressed with his excuses. His last novel had not sold at all well and it was clear his publisher wanted to release him from his contract. His agent, a smart, stiff middle-aged woman, was not arguing his case very well.

  Toshio still felt in a daze when he began to interject, talking about his new book, telling them how wonderful it would be, why everyone would want to read it because it was a story that would appeal to everyone, absolutely everyone.

  Even Toshio’s agent was astonished at his eloquence. It was something that had been lacking in his work for some years now. He left the meeting with a fresh commitment to his cause by his delighted publisher. His agent had been non-plussed by it all.

  Only when he was back at his tiny apartment did Toshio realise that the girl on the train must have had something to do with it.

  When Toshio woke next morning his head felt as if it had been filled with overcooked ramen. Struggling to shake the feeling off, he rose, dressed and waited to leave the house at the same time that he had the previous day. He had to see the girl again.

  After boarding the train, Toshio checked his watch. It was exactly the same time as yesterday’s meeting. He couldn’t see the girl. With determination and an uncomfortable degree of rudeness he pushed through the crush until he finally found her, huddled at the far end of the carriage, a romantic manga dangling, unread, between her fingers. His gamble that she was a creature of habit had paid off.

  She recognised him immediately. For a moment she seemed frightened but then she smiled and asked him if he was feeling better today. He simply smiled and nodded at her as his head swarmed with words and ideas, fighting against the dizziness.

  She got off at the throbbing hive of Shinjuku and was immediately lost in the rush.

  It was a cold February day, almost exactly one month after he’d first seen her, when Toshio set out to change his fortunes for good.

  He’d travelled on the same train at the same time every weekday since. Sometimes he approached the girl but often he simply followed her to the office building where she worked. On the few occasions when he’d actually spoken to her he made sure that she thought he was a fellow office worker, on his way to another humdrum job in another office.

  Toshio followed her to work, then idled the day away in bookshops and noodle bars before ensuring he was at the right place to follow her onto the homeward bound train. He couldn’t afford to be too far behind her in the intolerable crush or he would lose her. Desp
ite his best efforts he was almost elbowed off the train when it finally came.

  He was only two people away from her. Over the course of the next few stops he managed to get to a position next to her. He smiled and nodded to her, as if it was a happy coincidence and she responded cordially to his trivial chit-chat. All the time he fought the dizzy nausea he inevitably felt whenever he was close to her.

  After talking with her for a short while, Toshio checked his watch. The next station was only a few minutes away; it was his stop. She had to get off with him. As the train went around a bend he quickly jabbed the girl in the stomach. She gasped and doubled forward towards him. He quickly grabbed the back of her neck and applied pressure at the right spot, just at the base of her skull. After a few seconds, the girl slumped limply into his arms. Pressed against the door as they were, nobody had noticed what had happened.

  Toshio supported her for a few seconds before pulling her limp body forward towards the doors opposite as the train pulled into the station. He began to yell. “Please, my daughter is ill. My daughter is ill! Make room, please.”

  People muttered and moved as much as they could, some stepping off the train to let them through. This was the most dangerous part, Toshio knew.

  The guard came to their assistance but Toshio insisted the girl would be OK. He dragged her to a bench and sat her down. “She sometimes has these turns. Her medicine is at home. She’ll be fine once I get her home,” he told the concerned official. The guard stayed a few minutes but then had to attend to his duties.

  The train finally pulled out, along with all its nosy passengers. The girl hung limply in Toshio’s arms as they sat on the hard bench. A few concerned passers-by gave them a glance or two.

  Toshio was sweating heavily. He hoped she did not wake up before they reached his apartment. Standing in front of her to obscure her from view, he pulled a lighter wig from his coat pocket and pulled it over her head. Then he dragged his old overcoat from his bag and put that on over her street clothes. Finally he reached into his bag and took out a small flask of sake, which he sprinkled over their clothes.