them through, and hopefully knock the guy backwards. Jump down, land on him – if he has a gun I’m in trouble – bust his ribs and run for it. I wait. And wait. Concentrate. I wait. Am I sure I heard the bang? I left the back window open an inch – suppose it was just the wind? Concentrate! I wait. Nobody. My arms are aching. I cannot stand this. ‘Hello?’
The flurry of violence never comes.
Scared by a story I told myself. I am in a bad way.
Later in the afternoon, I go back down. In the spare bedroom closet I find some sheets and towels, and arrange them on the step-shelves behind the slatted door, so hopefully the intruder will think it is just a linen cupboard. I gather up any sign of me, and stuff it into a plastic bag under the sink. I must clean up any traces of myself, as I make them. I should be hungry – when did I last eat? – but my stomach seems to be missing. I need a cigarette, but no way am I venturing outside. Coffee would be fine, but I can only find green tea, so I make a pot. I blow my nose – my hearing comes back, but snots up again – open the bay window, and drink my tea on the step. In the pond carp appear and disappear. Whirligigs bend but never puncture the liquid sky. A ruby-throated bird listens for earthworms. I watch ants. Cicadas muzzzmezzzmezzzmezzzmezzzmuzzzzzzzzz. Nowhere in the house is a single clock, or even a calendar. There is a sundial in the garden but the day is too hazy for a clear shadow. It feels three o’clock-ish. The breeze shuffles and flicks through the bamboo leaves. A column of midges hovers above the pond. I sip my tea. My tongue cannot taste a thing. Look at me. Four weeks ago I was on the morning ferry to Kagoshima, with a lunch box from Aunt Orange. I was sure I would find my father before the week was up. Look at who – what – I found instead. What a disaster, what an aftermath. The summer is lost, and other things too. The fax machine beeps. I jump and spill my tea. A message from Buntaro, telling me he’ll be over around six, if the traffic lets up. When is six o’clock relative to now? Hours need other hours to make any sense at all. Hanging on the wall above the fax machine is a shell-framed photograph of an old man and woman, maybe in their fifties. I guess they own this house. They are sitting at a café table in the shade on a bright day. He is about to break into laughter at whatever she has just said. She is reading my reaction to see if I genuinely enjoyed her story, or if I am just being polite. Weird. Her face is familiar. Familiar, and impossible to lie to. ‘True,’ she says, ‘we met before.’ We look at each other for a while, then I go back to her garden for a bit where the dragonflies live out their whole lives.
‘Are you quite sure, m-my dear fellow,’ prompted Goatwriter, ‘that the tracks stop in this mound of mired mulch?’ Pithecanthropus grunted a yes, waded in a yard and picked something up. ‘Kipper bones!’ squawked Mrs Comb. ‘Then I must conclude,’ said Goatwriter, ‘we have hunted our quarry to its lair.’
‘Nowt but an eyesore,’ said Mrs Comb, ‘and right whiffy to boot.’ Upon closer inspection the dwelling proved carefully constructed – bricks of cans, pans and mottled bottles, and mortar of spud skins, burnt rice crusts and ‘Vote for Me’ leaflets. A bicycle mudguard ascended ramp-wise, to a hole as black as a Hackensack mac. Goatwriter squinted inside. ‘So the burglar dwells in this hovel of stiltonic stench.’
‘Hovel?’ An irate rant shot back. ‘Give me my hovel and stuff ya geriatric rust-bucket bus, any day of da month!’
‘Aha! So you are in residence, thief! Unhand my manuscript forthwith!’
‘Take a
Number 9 dream
ing hike, ya JoeSchmoe!’
‘Soap and water!’ gasped Mrs Comb.
Goatwriter lowered his horns. ‘Fiend, there are ladies present!’
A tiny hand appeared in the whole and flashed the finger. ‘If that scrawny bird is a “lady” I am Frank Sinatra’s
Number 9 dream
I’m warnin’ ya, if ya ain’t skedaddled by da time I count to five I’ll slap harassment suits on ya so quick ya won’t know your X!X£s from Tuesday!’