Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat Read online

  The geisha across from me looked like a statue. They started piping music in—the slow, distant sounds of a koto, overlaid with a chorus of cicadas. Strange music to play, I’d say. All strategically chosen, I’d wager, but still just the same kind of crap that used to be endlessly piped into Tokyo elevators.

  I shouted myself to another cuppa while I passed the time—it really was remarkable how authentic it tasted, though by now it was a bit on the lukewarm side. Man, they even feigned that.

  Finally, she flickered to life—her eyes rolled back so I could see only the whites, and her head began to twitch. It was kind’a disconcerting, like watching a human-sized Japanese Iwatsuki doll that was starting to have a seizure. She blinked, and now she was looking at me. I immediately noticed that her irises were no longer brown, but green.

  What the—?

  The geisha lunged at me, the folds of her silk kimono cascading around her as the table crashed beneath the charge. Her elbow collided with my left temple and I fell, stunned and confused. I didn’t have time to haul together my thoughts and suss out what the fuck had happened before she started hammering my skull with her fists and the pain blinded me. I heard a sickening crunch as the ball of one of her hands struck the bridge of my nose.

  Theoretically, I was trained for situations like this. Somehow I managed to manoeuvre my hands under her jaw and shoved, then, while she tottered off-balance, I threw myself in the other direction. Everything was jingle-brained. I felt like I might black out. As she edged towards the open doorway, she burned into me with those new eyes. My mind screamed that this was all wrong—I wasn’t sure what I should be doing or how to go about it. My head pounded, my nose throbbed, and I was scared witless.

  They’d never flipped a Test in the middle like this before—normally an interview type Test started and ended as just that, an interview. I hadn’t expected her to cut the chatter and attack me. Which, I suppose, was the point, now that I think about it. I knew this geisha scenario had been inserted into my headspace by techs, just like I knew my body was actually safe and sound pinioned inside their machinery. It didn’t matter though—if I died here, I died there. Or, at least, my brain would be wrung out and hung up to dry.

  Besides, I wasn’t ready for this. It was too soon. I flashed back to images from the dream I told you about, the one involving Activities with another girl in another place—snapshot memories of her splayed body covered in blood. Her face, the rain—

  Shut up. Have to focus. Focus.

  “What the fuck’re you doing—?” I was talking to both the dame and to the arsehole programmers who helmed this whole fucked-up exercise. Her lacquered wig was disheveled and lop-sided and I could see a few strands of blonde—blonde?—peeping out from beneath. Her kimono, with all its folds and mesmerizing colours, made it difficult to gauge the shape of her body and predict what she might be about to do next. And then it got worse. The geisha slid a hand beneath her kaleidoscopic robe and produced a kitchen knife, dashing any hope of kissing and making up.

  “Ah. Fucking hell.”

  This time there was no shooter for me to fall back on—a cold, hard fact I discovered when I instinctively reached for it. This was something new, too. They’d never shipwrecked me here without a weapon before.

  The woman blocked the only exit. I could try the other shoji doors or just pummel my way through them, but there was no guarantee they actually led anywhere—and I’d probably end up stuck by the shiv from behind, with about as much flair as a cocktail olive impaled by a toothpick.

  “Drop the knife.” I was full of counterfeit bravado, but instead of relenting, the bogus geisha stabbed at me. What the hell did I expect? I knew the words they wanted me to recite. If I didn’t, it would go badly for me.

  “Put the weapon down—now. You’re under arrest in accordance with the Bill of Deviations. Do you understand me? Drop it. Do it now.”

  What a sham. She wouldn’t comply, of course. They never did in the Test. At least some things were consistent. Devs here, in this warped, twisted version of reality, were usually uncompromising crazies divorced from any vestiges of humanity. They were mindless, hysterical animals that practically wanted to get themselves topped off by the Seeker. They never spoke—more often Devs were limited to grunts and shrieks. Surrender was never an option in the Test. I’d thus far managed to avoid killing anybody in one, though I’d been forced to maim my fair share of digital Deviants.

  “C’mon, don’t do this. This is so fucking pointless. Don’t do this.”

  If she heard anything I said, she didn’t let me know it. Then I began to worry that the shrinks might get hinky about my lack of physical action and start scrawling notes about my state of mind. How long had we faced off, attack and counter gambit, without either party actually making a decisive move?

  I guess I dropped my guard a fraction. Either that, or the programmers got yawn-inspired and decided to add some spice by affecting the coup de grâce themselves. With just the flick of a switch, the woman went from caution to attack, from My Geisha to Sister Street Fighter. She was way quicker than I’d anticipated—she dived under my defenses and got the drop on me, no doubt about it.

  The shiv was almost at my throat before I even began to twist aside, but I was able to grab hold of her wrists and use the weight of my body to swing her round, then rammed her back against the shoji doors—which shook like mad under the impact, but held firm.

  Yet even in that triumph, I’d fucked up. I was holding one empty kimono sleeve bunched up in my fist. The wrist that was supposed to be there now held the blade right up against my jugular.

  Goddamn. I didn’t picture that it would end like this. Not this way, with me the patsy. And the fact that it was all so sudden and, moreso, pathetic, meant absolutely zero.

  The woman’s face was unreadable beyond the fury—her white foundation and red lips smudged beyond repair. Was she toying with me? I tensed up for the clean sweep across my jugular, but instead I felt the woman’s hold on me let up. My training kicked into gear—with one quick twist I’d yanked her arm down then up, forcing her to plunge the blade into her own ribcage.

  The rage immediately left the woman’s face and as her body sagged I reflexively clutched her in my arms to stop her fall. Her hand, the one that had clasped the shiv, dropped to her side and she peered up into my face with an expression so tender and so poignant that it kills me to think of it.

  I knew then.

  V.

  Oh, fucking god.

  So real.

  Veronica.

  So fucking real.

  I could even smell her sweet, familiar breath as she wheezed, so softly. I could feel the throb of her heartbeat and the rhythm of her breathing. And then she was gone. She’d been ripped out of my life. Again.

  Those fucking bastards had made me kill my own wife.

  “Floyd? It’s over, Floyd.” Like it mattered and I cared. My face was buried in the nape of her neck. So close. So far. I hadn’t held V like that for an eternity. I stroked the hair away from her eyes and cleared off some of that caked makeup. Gaunter, thinner than I remembered. But so beautiful. The geisha wig fell to the ground with a dull thud. “How do you feel?”

  The little old Japanese lady, in her plain kimono, was back—now speaking perfect English. She was standing in the doorway with a tray tucked under her arm. I wanted to pluck out my own eyes, I wanted to take the knife from Veronica’s chest and tear into the old hag.

  “Fucked.” It was all I could say. I didn’t care what they’d make of the revelation. It didn’t matter anymore.

  “We do completely understand—sessions can take their toll.” The woman came closer to place a hand upon my shoulder. The gesture was meant to be a sympathetic one, I think. I still wanted to stick her with the shiv.

  “Why?”

  “It could happen. You could encounter someone you know, someone you care about, while on Activities. It’s happened to others in the field and the outcome has often b
een less than satisfactory. You need to be prepared for such a possibility. Now, what else is on your mind?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try to tell us.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can be honest, Floyd.”

  Fuck off, fuck off—fuck off!

  “I could do with a cigarette.”

  “I see. Floyd, you know that’s not permitted on government premises.”

  “What, even here, where it’s not—real?” I choked on the word.

  “Even here. We don’t want to be responsible for encouraging your addiction. But you know all this. More importantly, you did just fine today. This In House session was not a win/lose scenario.” Her hand continued to stroke my shoulder.

  “I see,” though I didn’t. A black cloud had blotted out everything except for that awful voice.

  “Floyd, you’ve been with Seeker Branch a long time and we fully appreciate the kinds of stress that can develop. We want you to feel free to discuss anything at all—your hopes, your fears, any unresolved issues you might have. We trust that you see this as an open forum.”

  “A cure for insomnia would be good,” I suggested, without feeling, as I took in V one final time.

  “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  dizzy with a dame

  “They used V,” I came clean. I was barely able to hold back the waterworks. “They set me up, Laurel.”

  “No, Floyd. That wasn’t her, and you know that. The Test is the Test, and that’s all it is. You’ll get over it.”

  “Don’t you see I don’t want to? I don’t ever want to. V was—is—the love of my life.” As soon as the words spilled out I wanted to snatch them back, but the damage was already done. Laurel recoiled as if I’d hit her. “I mean, crap, of course you’re amazing too—”

  “Whatever. Floyd, it’s okay. Let’s get out of here.”

  “No, seriously, I mean it—you’re a sweetheart. I don’t know that I’d have made it this far without you.”

  “That sounds like something from a dime store novel.”

  “My life’s a dime store novel.”

  “Let’s just scarper, okay?”

  The memories are there, lodged somewhere deep down in the recesses of what passes for my noggin, but only haphazard fragments break free, dust themselves down, and make themselves known: the interior of her car, stifling and humid, an endless drive with my hand on her crotch while the radio blares bland pop tunes. Then there’s a staircase that spirals wildly, like a shot from a dream-sequence in a David Lynch romp. She hauls me along, and then is kissing me—on the forehead, the cheeks, my mouth.

  There’s the tang of gin and cigarette smoke that permeates the entire experience, the sight of a lemon rind tossed on the floor, another of an ashtray overflowing with butts. A calm sensation, bliss in itself, and Laurel’s husky laughter, her body on top of mine, writhing. Darkness. I’m feeling way too hot and claustrophobic. Then I’m going to pieces and throwing up in the bathroom, faint supportive words in the background.

  The gears begin to shift, most of them in the wrong direction. For starters, I’m face down on a foreign bed. My breath reeks like an ashtray and there’s a pool of saliva collected on my pillowcase. I roll over to find Laurel’s face is close to mine. She’s asleep. She looks the antithesis of how I feel. Her black hair is splashed across her face, and her mouth—slightly ajar—is more Bacall than ever. She looks peaceful. Like she doesn’t have any of the dreams I do, nor the guilt.

  I pretty much fall out of bed, discover myself naked apart from one sock, and have a brief visit from my old friend nausea. Then I stagger to the bathroom, scraping past the door frame, harbouring a headache that only strong painkillers could dent.

  I catch a glimpse of my mug in the mirror. Illuminated in the harsh light, I look like I’ve been through the wringer. Not shocking—that’s the way I actually feel these days. Where the hell are those painkillers?

  “You want a drink, babe?”

  I catch Laurel’s face reflected in the mirror, as drop-dead gorgeous as ever, with that slight pout of hers that’s never actually intentional. I turn around and notice that she’s naked apart from those gloved hands of hers, in which she carries two tumblers, filled to the brim.

  “You’re an angel, know that? A sweet goddamned angel.”

  “So you say.” She glances away as I alleviate her of a drink. “You know, I didn’t mean to cry last night.”

  “Don’t fret it.” What was she crying about? Why? Something I said or did? I don’t have the heart to ask. Sometimes it’s better just to sham.

  “Actually, I was planning on being gone by the time you woke up. To be a bit more enigmatic, and all that.”

  “But you changed your mind, I see.”

  “Not at all. It was a plan—never a decision.”

  “Well, cheers, babe. For looking after me last night.” I clink her glass with mine. It’s supposed to be a debonair, Bogart kind of salute, but comes out awkward and contrived instead. Even Elliott Gould’s Philip Marlowe would’ve been embarrassed. If she noticed, she’s gracious enough to ignore the fiasco.

  “Anytime.” She touches my cheek with one hand and the gesture seems like a self-conscious one. “I’m curious—you’ve never asked me why I don’t remove my gloves. Why is that?”

  “If you wanted to, you’d fill in the gaps. Otherwise it’s not my concern. And when you’re naked, they’re sexy.”

  “Really?” Her smile rides roughshod over my carefully constructed defenses. It’s enough to cut my heart out.

  “You always act so damned cool, sunshine.”

  “You too.”

  “I guess.”

  “I know.”

  “We do have our moments—now, where’re your goddamned painkillers?”

  apartment 1001

  I slunk home sometime around noon—though my watch was not to be trusted given that it was an archaic Japanese wind-up toy with a life expectancy intended to break kids’ hearts. It felt like diabolical bugs were crawling around in my noodle, debasing everything they set their sticky feelers on—bringing home images of Peter Weller’s typewriter in Naked Lunch.

  After alighting from the elevator, I stepped up to my front door and tried to ignore Dante’s advice about abandoning all hope, renouncing optimism, and so on that I’d long ago inscribed above the frame. Instead, I straightened the plastic ‘1001’—it tended to fall off whenever I closed the door too hard, then unbolted the locks and went inside.

  I shuffled into the gloomy depths of my apartment and lobbed my sodden coat onto the couch. I passed through the cluttered lounge room, yanked off my tie, and flipped on the television. I then stepped into the kitchen and dried my hair with a wad of paper towels, which I deposited in the overflowing pile of refuse surrounding the rubbish bin. It was all beginning to smell like a dead cat—the mystery ingredients in the rain mixed with the trash to create one hell of a concoction—but I couldn’t be hassled to haul it all outside right now.

  Tomorrow. Ashita. Mañana. In all three cases, it meant ignoring today’s responsibilities. It was my plan to someday learn the word in every language.

  There was a crumpled-up deck of smokes in my emergency stash on the top shelf next to the fridge, so I took two of the remainders out. I lit one up, sticking the other behind my ear. I put on a kettle, found a cup, and spooned in a double dose of instant coffee. Then I noticed the payless brandy sitting on top of the microwave. I poured a healthy-sized slug of it into a greasy glass and downed it in one swift go. There wasn’t much left so I finished it off—this time straight from the bottle. I could hear the sounds of the TV in the next room and thought I made out the suave voice of Cary Grant, so I dispensed the water before it’d reached a boil and speedily made my way back into the lounge.

  Grant was cavorting with Audrey Hepburn. Charade. I threw aside some dampish, grubby-looking clothes and slumped into one of the armchairs, with m
y legs up on its partner, and became increasingly entranced by Cary Grant’s Adam’s apple. The movie ended too soon for my liking, but before I could get too riled up by the ads to flip the channel, the screen went black-and-white—my two favourite colours when it comes to film. I took the chance to jump up and run to the bathroom, but when I returned I’d missed the opening credits and didn’t recognize the film. I did, however, peg Fred Astaire right off. And then, double-score: Ginger Rogers. They were dancing together to the soundtrack of a huge orchestra. I lit my second gasper, following through with a gulp of my now cold coffee as a makeshift chaser.

  Soon, the pair were guzzling lip-smacking martinis, and it pained me I couldn’t join them. Not only that, but my cigarette packet in the kitchen was in a precarious state—only three sticks left—and the home drug store was closed for repairs without so much as a Sasso-Superplus or Zamperin to calm me down. There wasn’t even any liquor left in the place, apart from some godforsaken Siamese vodka.

  I’d owned two bottles of Siamese vodka in my life, drunkenly bought one night from the back room of a seedy bar I used to regular. The first bottle left me without a voice for a week, like the Devil himself pissed down my throat. The other has gathered dust for years—even at my drunkest I knew better than to touch the stuff.

  After the flick ended, I flipped stations around the circuit but there was no respite from the commercials. I fired up another cigarette and puffed away on it, trying to keep my head steady. There was too much in there, I knew, to keep it user-friendly forever. I thought about sticking my head in the oven, then straight after considered sticking in a disc and watching The Big Sleep for the umpteenth time, but Bogart got the girl in that one so maybe Casablanca or The Maltese Falcon.

  The Girl.

  Images from the dreams and the Test were always lurking, greedy and hovering just on the edge of my consciousness, ducking every which way and tailgating my resolve, ready to reassert and twist the knife that much more. My gaze fell upon a framed snapshot perched on a sideboard near the front door. In it, V’s green, gently arching almond-shaped eyes were complimented by her straight blonde hair. The photo captured a look she sometimes had after we’d kissed, peering at me with such vulnerability and love that I’d be overcome and instantly clichéd as all I wanted was to hug her and hold onto her and protect her forever.