GhostCityGirl Page 2

  I hate nil-by-mouths. I always seem to run into them and whenever I do, they always manage to freak me out.

  Now, that's quite an achievement in a city this weird.

  I will go to hell?

  I have news for you: I’m already there.

  We all are.

  Thirty minutes later, I arrive at my destination.

  I press the doorbell of apt 86524 and wait, stamping my feet to try to regain some warmth. The intercom emits a shriek of feedback that makes me jump for the second time today.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Kichi.”

  The door silently slides open, allowing me to enter Mr. Tanaka’s apartment.

  “Come through to the living room,” he shouts. “I have just made a fresh pot of tea.”

  The door closes behind me and I count slowly down from five. At zero, I mimic Mr. Tanaka as he shouts for me to take off my shoes and put on a pair of slippers.

  “No problem, Mr. Tanaka,” I shout back as I undo my bootlaces.

  “I should hope not. Now get a move on before the tea gets cold.”

  I take off my boots, slide my feet into a pair of thermo-slippers and shuffle into the living room.

  “Ah, there you are,” says Mr. Tanaka. “I was wondering where you had got to.”

  I am sure Mr. Tanaka is shrinking. He seems to grow a little smaller with every visit. The only things that seem to increase in size are his eyebrows and hair, both of which are thick, white and totally out of control.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” he says. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

  As usual, there are piles of magazines, newspapers, old books and photograph albums on the sofa. I clear enough space so I can sit while Mr. Tanaka pours two cups of steaming hot tea. The second I sit down, a cup is offered to me. I accept it with pleasure. Settling back into the sofa, I take a sip and congratulate him on another excellent brew.

  “Of course it is,” he says with a wry smile. “I have been making tea for almost a hundred years now. It should be nothing less than perfect.”

  I take another sip as the old man drains his cup and refills it.

  “You’re late,” he says, scowling at me from a face full of wrinkles. “What kept you?”

  “It’s snowing,” I say. “I stopped to admire the view from P7. Then I got held up by a couple of nil-by-mouths on a recruitment drive.”

  Mr. Tanaka starts to laugh.

  “It’s not funny!” I protest with a smile. “They told me I was gonna go to Hell!”

  “Did you tell them you were already there?”

  “Didn't have the chance.” I huff. “They walked off after they said that. I thought it, though.”

  “You should have shouted it after them. That’s what I would’ve done!”

  I laugh and tell him I am not so brave.

  “Rubbish!” he says, topping up my cup. “You are one of the bravest people I know. You just need to open your eyes and take a good look at yourself, my girl.”

  I strongly disagree with him on this point. I am not brave at all. Overly curious and a little sarcastic at times, but definitely a coward of the highest order.

  Cut me open and I bleed yellow.

  We sit in silence, content to just drink tea and relax.

  After a while, Mr. Tanaka lets out a melodramatic sigh and asks if I want cake.

  I nod.

  The old man pulls the remote control for the TV from out of his trouser pocket and points it towards the blank wall-mounted screen.

  The screen flickers for a moment and then dies.

  Should anyone be watching or listening to us, the next few hours will now consist of me and Mr. Tanaka talking about mundane, non-sensitive news matters as we enjoy tea and cake.

  The TV may be dead, but the scrambler is working perfectly.

  We now have total privacy.

  “So,” says Mr. Tanaka, his eyes full of mischief. “Same topic as usual?”

  I nod and grin like an idiot. It’s either that or I start clapping.

  “Please,” I say. “Tell me more about what happened to Tokyo. Tell me about the ghosts.”

  THREE

  I first met Mr. Tanaka around a year ago.

  My father had just walked out on us, due to my mother’s addiction to rTV. Not wanting to spend all my time locked in my room, I had taken to wandering around the platforms and walkways all day, only returning home when I absolutely needed to.

  It was not a happy time. My father’s departure hit me hard, much harder than I could have ever imagined. I would often stand on P7 and wish for a power failure so the energy barriers would deactivate and I would be free to jump to my death.

  Better splattered across the streets of level one than constantly asking myself that one question:

  ‘Why didn’t my father take me with him?’

  Well, one day, I got my opportunity.

  The ‘We Remember Tokyo’ group detonated a bomb close to the government towers, knocking out the power to more than half of the city for just under two minutes.

  This was more than enough time.

  I remember watching as citizens ran to the edge of P7 and leapt without a second thought.

  I will never forget the looks on their faces.

  There was no sadness or fear.

  There was only joy.

  It was as I started to run that someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Seconds later, there was a crackling sound and a flash of light as the barrier was reactivated. The air was filled with the sounds of sobbing and horrified screams, police sirens and security announcements. Over all this noise, I heard four words that were spoken so softly they were almost a whisper.

  “Are you all right?”

  The person holding me relaxed his grip a little and repeated his question.

  “Are you all right?”

  I spun around angrily to see who had saved my life. I was met with the face of an old man . He was smiling at me. It had been a long, long time since anyone had shown me anything remotely resembling affection.

  “You didn’t really want to do that,” he stated. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  I remained completely silent. It was as if I had forgotten how to speak.

  “I’m sure your life isn’t that bad,” he continued. “You are so young. You have so much to live for. I know it.”

  He reached out with his hand to wipe away tears I didn't know I was crying.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking my hand. “I think you need a cup of tea.”

  Later that day, the news reported close to seven hundred people had taken their own lives during the two-minute power failure.

  Government officials claimed the WRT had released several canisters of a psychotropic gas into the air before detonating their bomb. They said the gas had the ability to induce and magnify suicidal tendencies within five percent of people breathing it in. Other people said it was a disturbing revelation of the mindset of modern Osaka citizens.

  These views were soon silenced, of course.

  Several days later, the whole Osaka Sector was put on white alert by the DPA after paranormal activity increased by one thousand percent.

  I spent the next four days locked inside my apartment, praying that whatever was happening out on the streets would not find its way to my bedroom.

  The first thing I did after the curfew was lifted, was go back to drink tea with Mr. Tanaka.

  It was on that visit that he first told me about Tokyo and the ghosts.

  I’ve been visiting him on my days off ever since.

  Some people may say having a best friend who is old enough to be my great-grandfather is a little weird.

  Personally, I couldn’t care less about them. Mr. Tanaka is the coolest person ever.

  He knows about Tokyo and the ghosts, secrets the DPA have kept hidden from the public for decades.

  And now, thanks to him, I know too.

  I have always loved ghost stories. Partly beca
use of the thrill of talking about topics that are forbidden, but mostly because I love being scared. Before meeting Mr. Tanaka, I had only heard a few tales about ghosts. Compared to the stories I know now, these were pretty tame. But still, each story always ended with a line that made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end and covered my arms with goosebumps.

  I absolutely adore this feeling.

  Like the subzero temperatures of the city, it reminds me I am alive.

  I leave Mr. Tanaka’s apartment just after five. I would have been more than happy to have stayed a few hours longer, but the old man had insisted that we call it a day.

  “And besides,” he had growled. “I need a nap!”

  I slowly amble my way towards the lifts of apartment block 8C. The corridors here smell different compared to where I live. My nose tells me that most of the residents here must spend ninety-percent of their day cooking spicy food. By the time I reach the lifts, all I can think of is diving into a huge bowl of inferno noodles. I shake this thought from my head and focus instead on Mr. Tanaka’s stories.

  Yurei.

  Onryo.

  These words are now playing on a loop in my head. I close my eyes and focus. My imagination slowly turns those two words into vivid images of terrifying beauty.

  I snap my eyes open and quickly turn my thoughts back to filling my grumbling stomach.

  I will go back to those images later.

  Tonight, it is my mission to scare myself stupid.

  Today must be my lucky day.

  The moment I step out onto level one hundred, I spy an empty hover cab about to take off. I run as fast as my heavy boots will allow in its direction, praying that no one beats me to it. I make it to the cab without competition and slam my right palm against the passenger door panel. The door slides open and I dive inside, quite literally. Sadly, I manage to completely miss the seats and land with a heavy thud on the cab’s floor. Not the most graceful of entries, but at least the ride is mine.

  “Thank you for choosing Osaka Cabs,” says the auto-pilot as the door closes. “Please state your destination.”

  “Bar Street, North P5,” I reply from the carpet.

  “Destination recognized. Thank you. Flight path set. The total cost of this journey will be three thousand Nihon credits. Do you wish to continue?”

  Three thousand creds?

  Has the world gone insane?

  I reach up from my horizontal position and lazily slap my right hand against the pay screen.

  “Thank you, citizen. Please wait.”

  I close my eyes and wait while my palm is scanned and my bank account accessed.

  “Thank you, Ms. Honda,” says the cab. “Payment accepted. Please be seated.”

  I drag myself up from out of the foot well and take a seat.

  “Thank you. Please fasten your seatbelt.”

  This auto-pilot has some serious attitude. I feel more like a naughty child than a paying customer. With a huff of displeasure, I strap myself in as told.

  “Thank you, Ms. Honda,” says the auto-pilot. “Have a safe and pleasant journey.”

  Without any further demands, the cab slowly rises and starts to make its way towards P5.

  I sit back and gaze out of the window. It’s not yet six, but night is slouching its way towards the city, dragging behind it a purple-black sky. The towering buildings below welcome the oncoming darkness with displays of red and gold neon.

  And all the while, the snow continues to fall.

  I press my face against the cold glass of the window and stare down at the city I call home.

  It looks so beautiful.

  It is such a shame it’s so screwed up.

  The cab lands at a u-shaped area specifically made for hover cabs to either drop off or collect passengers. Looking out of the side window, I see that as soon as each cab lands and its passengers have got out, they are immediately filled and on their way again. I take a few moments to watch this never-ending cycle of activity before taking my part in the process. As soon as my cab door opens, a fat guy in a green and black striped suit tries to clamber inside, oblivious to the fact that I am trying to get out. I manage to squeeze past him without too much body contact and stumble out onto the street. After straightening my parka, I turn to see the man glaring angrily at me through the cab’s window. What I have done to deserve such a death stare is beyond me. I twist my face into a cheesy grin and give him a cheery wave.

  His face turns the same shade of red as my underwear.

  My grin turns genuine as I turn and disappear down the bar street.

  Apparently, there are at least seventy bar streets in Osaka Sector. Personally, I’m not interested in looking for any of the others, as everyone says P5’s is the best. That, and the fact it is super close to my apartment.

  Situated at level ninety-nine and canopied by the platform above, P5’s bar street offers some respite from the freezing cold weather. Although still early, the circular street is already starting to come alive. Most people have come here straight out of work in search of food. It won’t be until about ten that the bars, clubs and love hotels will find their customers. I will be long gone from here by then.

  I start to wind my way through the crowds, keeping a careful eye out for nil-by-mouths. Tonight, the street is at its busiest. It feels like the whole of Osaka has chosen to eat out and have descended on this place like a herd of flesh-eating zombies. I push my way past the hungry mobs of people peering at menus displayed in windows of sushi joints or haggling with street food vendors, ignoring the shouted invitations to dine at all-you-can-eat noodle bars and the discount flyers which are thrust in my face as I make towards my restaurant of choice.

  The further down the street I go, the more chaotic it becomes. Businessmen in sharp black suits brush shoulders with Nu-Harajuku girls being pursued by giggling fanboys, spiky-haired emo-punks push their way past pretty office girls while tourists from other cities point their cameras at anything that moves.

  This sea of people just gets deeper and deeper.

  Thankfully, the bright green door of WasabiDogs is within sight. I take a deep breath, put my head down and make a break for it. A few minor collisions later, and I arrive at the doorway to culinary heaven.

  Just as I’m about to push the door open, I hear screaming.

  FOUR

  The street is crawling with police.

  Buddha only knows how they arrived on the scene so fast. We, being myself and Hiro, the owner of WasabiDogs, watch as they swarm down bar street like an army of angry radiation ants.

  Rad ants with protective glyph armour and pulse guns, that is.

  Hiro’s twenty other customers sit away from the window, preferring instead to watch the ‘action’ unfold live on the TV at the back of the restaurant, nibbling nervously at their wasabi-loaded dinners.

  Outside, those citizens not lucky enough to have found shelter before the security protocols had kicked in are bustled down the street at gunpoint. It may look exciting on TV, but the looks of terror on the evacuees’ faces show otherwise.

  “That could have been you,” says Hiro, as if reading my mind. “You owe me one.”

  It had been Hiro who had pulled me into the safety of his restaurant. Like an idiot, I had turned around to see where the screaming had come from, much like everyone else on the street. Hiro spotted me standing at the door, threw it open, and dragged me inside by my hood. Although he half-choked me in the process, any complaints I had vanished the second WasabiDogs’ spirit barriers activated. Talking about ghosts and vengeful spirits with Mister Tanaka may be one thing, but the possibility of meeting one of them in real life is an entirely different matter.

  With this in mind, I thank Hiro for being my hero.

  “No problems,” he says. “Have you eaten?”

  “Nope,” I reply. “Haven’t had time.”

  “You want the usual?”

  I nod my head with hungry enthusiasm.

  Hiro pats me on the
back and leaves me to stare out of the window.

  The evacuation of P5’s bar street is almost complete. The remaining citizens who are left are like me, safely held captive behind spirit barriers.

  I am sure I am not alone in hoping a ghost alarm doesn’t sound.

  If it does, we are all in trouble.

  The reporter on TV is a young woman who has obviously been told to keep a cheerful disposition, in order to reduce panic. The smile on her face is so wide, it looks painful to maintain. It is hard to believe that anyone could be taken in by her fakeness, with the exception of Mother, perhaps.

  ‘As you can see, the evacuation is well under way and, so far, without any fatalities…’

  Hiro places a box containing a king-size wasabi dog in front of me. Dinner is finally served.

  “Bon appétit,” he says.

  ‘…whether the incident is of a supernatural nature has yet to be confirmed…’

  I open the box and have to blow my scalded fingers immediately afterwards.

  “Be careful,” he laughs. “It’s hot.”

  “No kidding,” I say, wafting away the thick cloud of steam that rises from the open container.

  ‘…one eye witness stated that there is a body involved.’

  The camera cuts to a young woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. She’s wearing a bright yellow puffer jacket that is zipped up to her chin and a pink fluffy hat. Just looking at her makes me feel cold.

  ‘I heard someone found a body…’

  The grin she wears is not as big as that of the reporter, but it has an unnerving quality that draws my attention.

  ‘I heard it was cut up really bad…’

  When she says ‘really’, her eyes seem to flash with excitement.

  ‘… the face was all messed up…’

  I can’t take my eyes off this girl.

  There is something about her…

  Something familiar.