Number 9 dream Page 0,98

of forfeited their rights to advise me on . . .’ Daimon plays with his lighter. ‘. . . relationship matters.’

‘Shouldn’t you be with, uh, Min-san?’

‘Yes. I need to be leaving to pick up our air tickets. But before I go, will you show me the photograph of your father?’ I unfold it from my wallet. He studies it closely, but shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I never saw the guy. But listen, I’ll ask my dad if he can’t find out the contact details of the detective Morino was in the habit of using. Yakuza usually use the same one or two trusted people. I can’t promise – the police department at City Hall is in pandemonium, nobody knows who’s in bed with whom, and Tsuru is apparently back from Singapore, minus chunks of his memories and sanity, but maybe useful as a figurehead. But I can promise to try. After that you’ll be on your own, but at least you may have a lead to a Plan B.’

‘Plan G. Any lead is better than no lead.’

We go to the entrance hall. Daimon puts on his sandals. ‘Well, then.’

‘Well, then. Enjoy your honeymoon.’

‘That is what I like about you, Miyake.’

‘What is?’

He climbs into his Porsche, and gives me a quarter-wave.

‘Truss her!’ howled one section of the mob. ‘Baste her!’ howled another. ‘Roast her with spuds!’ How Mrs Comb wished Pithecanthropus would come running across the wrecked square and carry her away to safety. She wouldn’t have complained, even if she found a flea in his hair. ‘Chicken nuggets!’ screamed a line of toddlers. ‘Potato fries!’ A ladder appeared, and with a fresh seizure of fear Mrs Comb realized they were going to climb up the statue of the beloved commander and cart her off to the ovens. How could Goatwriter possibly cope without her? He would starve. That was when Mrs Comb remembered the book he had given her. ‘Hold your horses!’ she squawked. ‘And you’ll dine on something tastier than stringy old chicken!’

The mob waited.

Mrs Comb waved the holy book. ‘Stories!’

A hoochy-koochy hooker honked. ‘Stories never filled my belly!’

The ladder moved nearer. Mrs Comb gulped. ‘Maybe you never heard the right stories, then!’

‘Prove it!’ yelled a wolfman in ash and sackcloth. ‘Tell us a story, and see if they fill us up!’ Mrs Comb turned to page one, wishing Goatwriter’s handwriting wasn’t so spidery. ‘“Once upon a time a high-wire artist visited the waterfalls at Saturn to perform the greatest tightrope spectacle that was ever seen or, surely, ever will be seen. The long-awaited night arrived, and the artist set forth on his death-defying balancing act. Every ounce of concentration the artist possessed would be needed. Above his head spun many moons. Below his feet, the unending cataract of Saturn fell, fell, fell to the limitless ocean, too deep for sound. Halfway across this majestic silence, the high-wire artist was amazed to see a girl strolling across the wire towards him. Why describe this girl of his dreams? You already know what she looks like. ‘Why are you here?’ asked the artist. ‘I came to ask if you believe in ghosts.’ The artist frowned. ‘Ghosts? Why, do you believe in ghosts?’ The girl of his dreams smiled, and replied, ‘But of course I do.’ And she skipped off the wire. Horror-struck, the artist followed her slow fall, but long before she hit the water she had dissolved into the moonlight—”’ A cobblestone missed Mrs Comb by an inch. ‘I’m still hungry!’ yelled the wolfman in ash and sackcloth. The ladder was propped up against the body of the beloved supreme commander. Tooth and nail, the mob fought to climb up. ‘Wait, wait, you’ll crack up laughing when you hear this one.’ Mrs Comb flapped, lost her place, turned to page nine. ‘“Father! Father! Why hast thou forsaken me?”’

The noon sun browned, greyed, chilled and marooned.

The mob fell silent – then nervous – and then hysterical.

‘Phantoms!’ screamed the crowd as one. ‘Run for the bomb shelters!’ The men, women and children drained away into cracks, crannies and culverts, until Mrs Comb was left alone with the beloved commander and the body of a black marketeer whose skull had been staved in by the hurled cobblestone. ‘Goodness gracious,’ said Mrs Comb.

‘Great balls of fire!’ said God, hovering up on his surfboard. ‘Ma’am.’

‘God?’

‘I believe you called?’

‘I did?’

‘This neighbourhood ain’t what is used to be, ma’am. What say I give you a lift someplace else?’

Mrs Comb clucked with relief. ‘Oh, God! You arrived