Ishii's story, Final Part

Ishii saw a woman standing beside Father. She took his arm and looked up. Ishii shrank back against the table, curled his arms over his head.

            `No, no, no!' he whispered fiercely. A blonde geijin with Father, kissing his cheek!

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, straight, pure arctic 1, blending with the perfection of verdant 0. When he opened his eyes again and peered down, she was still there.       

       What can I do? Who’ll help me?

He didn’t know anyone in London except Mrs Norris and Mr Takahashi. Mrs Norris didn’t like him, never spoke to him, unless she had an instruction from Father. Her words are like flour in the wind, he’d heard Father say. But Mr Takahashi was kind and wise. He’d explain everything and make it clear, just as he explained English grammar and fractions.

Ishii crawled out from under the table and stood up. He dodged past several people with trays of food. No one seemed to notice him. A suitcase knocked against his back, a trailing wheeler crushed his foot. He tripped over a walking stick.

         As he lay on the floor, he tried to remember where he was going. He raised his head and glanced at his scraped knees, blood still oozed thickly. He looked away,  conscious of movement just on the edge of his vision.
            A boy about his own age, also in shorts, an unpleasant, algal green, like the number eight, landed by his shoulder, both feet stomping together. The boy looked down and stuck out his tongue, more thoughtful than rude.
            `What are you doing?'
            `Running away from Fatty,' Ishii replied, pushing himself upright. He noted that he was about 5 cms taller. `Do you know where I can find a phone?'
            `I'll come with you,' the boy said. `I'm running away too.' He held out a hand with fantastically dirty nails and green fingertips. `That’s blood, from fighting the monster!’
         Ishii smiled. Were English boys all so brave? Just like Fred in The Beano.

         `Run!' he cried and they swooped and stumbled together across the floor, holding each other up as they skirted wheelers and indifferent adults.

            `Lift,' the little boy shouted and pointed to an alcove by the stairs. They stopped and giggled together, still holding hands. Ishii wished he still had The Beano to show his new friend.

            `Who are you running away from?'

            `Mum and Him.'

            `Who's Him?' Ishii asked, watching the boy frown. `The monster?’

            `Horrible. Worse than anything you can think of.'

            `Worse than Fatty? Does he smell too?'

           `Oh, yeah! Disgusting. Always drinking whisky and stuffing his face with mints, thinks then Mum won't notice.'

            `Christopher! Where the hell have you been? We've been searching all over. Just what do you think you're playing at, running off like that! Come back and finish your chips!'

            Christopher's hand tightened round Ishii's. Ishii looked up into the woman's sweaty face with its long, sharp nose. She jerked her head back, like a rooster, ready to peck at them.

            `I'm not coming back,' Christopher declared. `And you can’t make me! Ishii grinned in admiration. A stinging slap sent him reeling backwards, releasing Christopher's hand.

            `Leave my son alone, you little, slant-eyed bastard!' 

  Christopher's face crumpled, as if he, too, has been hit, but he said nothing more. `Come along! Daddy's waiting. He's going spare!' She clamped her hand over her son's neck and propelled him forwards; he struggled to turn towards Ishii.

`Not my dad,’ he muttered.

`You behave or else!'

Ishii watched white fingermarks appear on Christopher's thin leg as he moved away, hunching his shoulders. He didn't look back.

         Ishii covered his cheek with both hands to hide his shame. No one had ever slapped him in the face before. He pushed the button for the lift, which opened immediately. A man stepped in beside him and stabbed the button for the first floor.  When the doors opened again, Ishii could see three telephone booths in a cluster, like giant toadstools. He fingered the change in his pocket and approached the nearest booth.

          Unsure of the procedure, he stood on tiptoe and reread the instructions several times, mouthing the words to himself. He compared his coins with the ones in the picture. He stretched up to reach the receiver and realized he didn’t know Mr Takahashi's number. Panic rolled in, flattening his breath. He wanted to run again, but he had nowhere to go.

            An elderly man stepped away from the adjacent booth.

            `Do you need some help there, Sonny?'

            `Please, Sir, what should I do if I don't know the number?'

            `What's the name of the person you want to speak to?'

    Ishii told the man that his tutor was called Mr Takahashi and lived on Cranmore Road in Finchley. The man pressed a couple of his own coins into the slot, dialled a number, spoke into the receiver, then wrote in his notebook with a gold pen.  He tore out the sheet of paper and handed it to Ishii. 

            `Here you are, this is Mr Takahashi's number. Anything more I can do for you?'

            Ishii hesitated. The man had kind blue eyes that softened whenever he looked at him. They made Ishii feel as safe as the swimming pool, when he wore his water wings. Or was he pretending, like Okasan warned? Pretending to be a friend? He was a geijin. Even if he did tell him everything, he'd never believe it. He'd take him straight to Fatty, because Fatty was a geijin too.

            `No, no thank you, Sir, I'll be all right now.'

            `You're not on your own, are you?'

            `No, Sir, my father's upstairs, waiting for me.' Ishii didn’t dare to look at the man, in case he drowned in those kind blue eyes.

            `Goodbye, then. Have a good trip.'

            Ishii sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve. He pushed his coins into the phone, but his fingers slipped on the buttons.

            `Takahashi here.'

            `Takahashi-san.'

     A fresh flow of tears caught in his throat.

            `Where are you, Child? Where is your father?'

            `Help me, please, Sir, Fatty will find me.'

             `What’s this nonsense, Child, where are you?'

            `At the airport, Sir. Please, I'm scared.' His ears burned.

            `Where is your father?'

     He thinks I'm stupid.

            `Father is with them too. Please help me.'

            `Child, you must stop these wild fantasies. There's no reason to be afraid. Your father is only doing what's best. It's for your sake he's decided to move to New York. He wants you both to start a new life together, just the two of you. Go back and find him right now, he'll be worried about you. Hurry, Child, or you'll miss your flight.'    

Ishii took a deep, wobbly breath.

 `No, Sir, you don't understand. Fatty is bad. He's going to take me away.' Ishii was speaking faster and faster, afraid his money would run out. Mr Takahashi's tone was firm. The same tone he used, when Ishii made a mistake with his sums.

          `Stop this foolishness at once, Ishii, and do as I say. Your dear mother would have been ashamed.'
          Ishii clutched the receiver tighter and raised his voice.
          `But Okasan wants to come to New York too! I won't go without her. Please, I want to be with Okasan now!'
            `Child,' and now at last Mr Takahashi's voice was gentle. `Your mother can't come with you to New York- or anywhere. She's no longer with us.'
            `I don't understand. Why did she go away and leave me?'
            `She didn't want to go, Ishii. She loved you very much. She's in a good place now, a better place. When you're older, you'll understand. Just remember to be worthy of her, the trust she placed in you. Be brave for her sake. Now off you go, back to your father. And, please, send me a postcard from New York. Let me know you’ve arrived safely.'
            `Yes, Sir, I promise.'
            I will be brave. `A big, strong prince,' she said.  `When you're grown up and I'm not with you any more.' She will be proud of me. He closed his eyes and felt her beside him, her perfume kissed his neck.
            `Found you at last, you little blighter!’ Fatty leant over and took the receiver. `Your father's not a happy man. Don't want to upset his plans now, do we? Who were you talking to?’
            `A man,’ Ishii replied. `At, at…’ He stared at the telephone instructions. `Directory Enquiries. I asked if he knew my mother’s phone number. I’m looking for her. And my father, where is he? We're going to miss the plane.'
            `Had to postpone his flight, so… you’ll leave tomorrow. Gone to an important meeting- I’m to take you for the night. Bring you back first thing. He sent you a message: Okasan always trusted you to be a good boy and do like  you’re told.’

 

Part Three of Ishii

Here is the next instalment of Ishii's story:

Ishii opened his eyes. Just a bad dream, Father had said, although he never saw Okasan again. Mrs Norris said the same and ignored his screams in the night. He was awake now, though, and here she was, Okasan, at Heathrow, walking towards the footbridge. I knew she wouldn't leave without me. I never told anyone our secret.    

`Okasan!'

Bright spots splash in front of his eyes. His legs wouldn’t move, the concrete floor sprang up and hit him on the shoulder. When he lifted his head, she was gone.

         `Okasan!' he cried again and began to crawl towards the footbridge. A young couple walked towards him, struggling with their trolley. They were laughing, hugging one another and didn’t appear to see the small boy in grey shorts moving, crab-wise, in their direction.

          When Ishii reached the footbridge, his head had cleared enough for him to be able to stand up. He walked slowly, knees bleeding, positioned himself behind a woman with a baby. The baby stared at him over her shoulder, puckered up his face, turned puce in the silent, open-mouthed prelude to a scream. If I had Okasan to hold me, I'd never cry again, Ishii thought.

            A cluster of crew-cut giants in black tracksuits were coming up behind. Ishii reached forward hesitantly to touch the woman's skirt. Was Fatty hiding among them, ready to leap out? The woman turned towards Ishii and smiled, jiggling her baby, who stopped crying with a little sigh.

            Ishii gave her skirt a final reassuring tug and began to run again.

          Where will I find Okasan? He sucked in stabbing breaths, moved through the automatic doors. Did she go to check in?

He leapt down the stairs and scurried up and down between the counters, but  so many people swarmed around him and he was too short.  I'll never find her, he thought, and looked at his watch again. Seventy minutes to the flight. Elegant, fallen leaf 7, Okasan’s favourite colour for shoes, feathering into verdant 0. Maybe that’s a sign.

He saw a man in a dark blue uniform ahead. The man paused for a moment, pulled back his braided cuff to look at his watch. Concentrating on the man's black, polished shoes, Ishii moved as close as he dared, tilted his head to address him:

          `Please, Sir. Could you tell me which queue it is for the flight to New York?'

           `Do you know which airline, laddie?' the man asked, his voice as warm as golden three.

            `No, Sir, but the plane leaves in sixty-seven minutes.'

            `Right. Good. We'll just take a look at that screen over there and that should tell us. Are you lost, then, laddie? Are you looking for your mummy?'

    Will he help me find Okasan?

            `Yes, Sir.'

            `Now don't you worry, you poor, wee soul. Goodness, what have you done to your knees? You have been in the wars! If you come along with me, we'll get a nice lady to fix them up for you. And then we'll ask another nice lady to speak to everyone over the tannoy, so your mummy'll know exactly where you are.'

   And Fatty too. Instantly, his feet began to move again.

            He heard a shout behind him and ducked round the corner behind a trolley stacked with suitcases. When he stood up again, the man had disappeared. A red coat moving away from him up the stairs caught the edge of his vision: Okasan.    

   He pushed his way between the people blocking his path. A woman elbowed him in the face, a man swore at him, but he was right behind her now, just a few more steps.

            `Wait, wait!' he called in Japanese.

            `Okasan!' He lunged forward and caught the back of her coat. She turned round. A coarse geijin face with hard, blue eyes. A wicked witch with big teeth all ready to grind him up.                       

       `Leave me alone, I'm in a hurry!' She thrust away his hand. He staggered and fell, saw that her shoes were shiny black, like two giant beetles, like hump-bellied five.

When he tried to stand up, his legs felt like candyfloss. His knees were too sore to crawl any more, so he slid along the floor on his bottom. He found a corner by an abandoned trolley, out of everyone's way, and hunkered down, pressing his back against the wall.

I should find Father. If I ask his forgiveness for being unworthy maybe he’ll protect me from Fatty. 

Ishii crossed the hall and climbed the stairs. He saw a restaurant with cheery red and white umbrellas over the tables. When the waitress wasn't looking, Ishii slid under an empty table next to the glass balustrade. Now he could look straight down at the people on the floor below.

            Maybe Father is waiting for me outside the bookshop. 

          He looked at his watch. Only fifty minutes till the flight.

If I don't find Father, will he go without me?

Ishii noticed Fatty standing directly below, holding his bag with his teddy inside. He was talking to another geijin, a small man with greasy hair, a thin strip of butter-coloured beard down the middle of his chin, like a caterpillar. He had a big mark on his neck that looked like a tattoo. Ishii wanted to read the man’s neck. A dagger would make him dangerous or a skull, like pirates had. Maybe it’s a heart, he told himself, but could feel a little trickle of sweat under his nose.

Ishii noticed that his suitcase was at the man’s feet. Why has he got that?  Father said it had to be weighed. Was it too heavy?          He saw Father walking towards the men, waving his arms, his face red, like when he drank whisky, forehead crumpled. Ishii remembered the last time he’d seen Father with this terrible face. The image rose up like a ghost.

No! I must fix my mind on this present moment. He examined his father's hands and the way he stood, as he spoke to the men.

He will not listen to me. He will punish me, because I didn't wait for him. He will leave me with Fatty.

 

Part 2 of the Storyline with Ishii in my new Thriller

This piece originally formed part of an award winning short story, which I wrote many years ago and always wanted to turn into a longer work. I have grown very fond of Ishii!

 

 

Ishii frowned. Father had two mobiles. He spent a lot of time every day with them pressed to his ear. Maybe his mobiles won’t work in America, so he’s left them behind.

`He asked me to fetch you, take you back to my car to wait for him there.'

        `Father told me to stay here.'

Fatty was evil; the smell lurked under his leather jacket, like a ghoul. Ishii took a step backwards.

         `You do as you're told, mate. Your daddy might be a while. Got some nice sweets for you in the car.'

          `I don't like sweets.' Ishii blushed at the lie. Okasan only allowed him one a day and he always had to eat a piece of fruit first. He remembered her fingers delicately separating the Satsuma segments, fanning them out into a lotus flower on the special, blue-patterned plate.

           `Come along now.'

  Fatty took Ishii's bag and grasped the top of his arm. Ishii could still feel his father's grip and pressed his lips together. `This way.'

He makes a lot of noise, when he breathes. Ishii studied the short, hairy thumb pressed into his sleeve. Fred in The Beano never cares what grown-ups say, except for his mum.

            `I want to wait for Father here,' he dared.

            Ishii found himself propelled through automated doors and up a ramp. They crossed the road on a glassed-in footbridge. Ishii could see a British Airways plane taking off.

           They reached the car park. `Please Pay Here' said the sign. Fatty tipped a cigarette into his mouth, releasing Ishii for a moment to light a match. Ishii dropped his comic and ran towards a row of parked cars, arms pumping. `Fast like the breath of the stars,' Okasan laughed, when he sped towards her across the grass in Hyde Park.

            `Hey, come back here, you little bugger!'

   Ishii’s heart was leaping and throbbing, cotton wool plugged in his ears. He could feel something rising stubbornly in his throat, like the time the sink got blocked. As he stumbled round the corner, he heard Fatty's heavy steps close behind. He rolled under the nearest car, his cheek scraped the concrete.

            `Just wait till I find you, little sod!'

   He saw Fatty's dirty trainers pause in front of the Emergency Exit, then the door opened. He’s making a funny whistling sound.  The trainers disappeared. The door swung shut.

           He waited until the silence was complete, then pressed the button on his watch. Eighty-eight minutes till the flight, an algal green, slithery double snake of an 8. He wriggled out from under the car and started to run towards white metal railings and the lifts.

            Then he saw her.

  The air was suddenly thick as a pillow over his face. He felt Okasan’s soft mouth leaving a little lipstick kiss on his cheek:

 She opens the passenger door, crimson fingertips push the front seat forward. `Put the parcels in, nice and neatly, darling.'  She takes a step back. Then comes the swish of a car approaching fast on the wet road, very loud, louder and a scream, so close, it’s like it’s come from inside. The noise hurts his ears, a horrible smashing, tearing sound. He can't see. Something is crushing him. Something warm is running down his neck, a short clogged gasp stabs his ear. His legs are numb and beneath that he feels a freezing hurt. Stretched out like a piece of elastic, then black eats him up, starting with his arms.

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

Opening scene from my new thriller, Act of Faith

Ishii sat quietly beside Father in the taxi, picking the scab on his knee. Feeling Father's eyes upon him, he quickly flattened his hand. Then he slipped it down his leg to tug at the top of his socks.

          Father turned his head to stare out of the window. Ishii studied the familiar profile, willing him to speak. We've both got the same pointy ears, he thought, except Father's don't stick out like mine. And his hair has bits of white in it, like a drawing coloured in too quickly.

          Ishii returned to his scab, while Father reached inside his jacket for a cigarette. Ishii heard the click of the lighter and a little angry hiss. He liked to watch the dragon smoke spiralling from Father's nostrils, but waited till the new lighter had been put away. The day before, when he’d thought Father was asleep, he’d held it warm and smooth in his hand, catching his own golden reflection.

          But Father hadn’t been asleep. He’d told Ishii it was dangerous to play with fire. Made him to stand quite still and look directly ahead. Watching Father's long fingers tighten over the lighter, Ishii wanted to squeeze his eyes tight shut, feel the comfort of the wall against his back.

         His hair crackled and fizzed, the edge of his ear stung like the wasp that had crawled up his sleeve last summer. The burning smell made him cough.

`Understand?' Father had said.

`Oy! You can’t smoke in here!’ The taxi driver rapped angrily on the glass. Father took a final drag and opened the window.

          `We're nearly at the airport. Say goodbye to England now.' Father didn’t look at him. He was staring at the back of the taxi driver’s head.

          The waxen skin covering Father's jaw moved silently in and out, like the belly of a lizard breathing. Ishii pressed his nose against the cold glass. The sky was grey, the trees were scarecrows, all the houses looked the same. He thought of the pictures of Kyoto that Okasan- Mother- had showed him, the cherry blossoms of her home town, and then New York and the Empire State building, even bigger than King Kong.

          Why did Father say she wasn't coming back, ever ever? Ishii wondered.

`One day, Little Bird,' she’d whispered, creeping into his bedroom early in the morning on his last, his seventh birthday. `As soon as I’m stronger, when the time is right, we’ll fly away. In America we'll be free. This is our secret, Little Bird, just yours and mine. But never tell anyone else or something bad might happen.'

Did something bad happen, is that why she went away? Because of their secret? Or the blue piece of paper?

            He felt again her long hair sweeping over him as she bent to kiss him goodnight. Her perfume lingered in the room and stopped the shadows moving. When she went, Father told Mrs Norris to clear out the cupboards. Ishii asked if he could keep Okasan's scarf with the horseshoes on it, but Mrs Norris said Father wouldn't allow it. When Mrs Norris wasn't looking, Ishii found Okasan's perfume in one of the boxes, `Joy' written on the label. He poured some of it onto his teddy. Now, when he closed his eyes at night, he pretended to be tucked up beside her in New York.

            Father paid the taxi driver and carried the suitcases into the terminal. Ishii had to run to keep up with him and the bag with his teddy inside hurt his shoulder. Father crouched down and grasped him by both arms. Ishii could feel each separate finger pressing into his muscles. He stretched his eyes wide, so he wouldn’t cry.

            `Listen carefully, Ishii.'

            `Yes, Father.'

            `I have to check in over there, have our bags weighed. Go up those stairs, see, where it says Departures?’ He jerked his head. `Near the top of the stairs there's a shop. Choose yourself a comic. Wait for me outside the shop. I won't be long.'

           `Yes, Father,' Ishii replied, closing his fingers over the £2 coin. But he didn't want a comic. He wanted the pictures Okasan painted for him, where she was queen and conquered the blue-scaled dragon. There was a little throne for him too and a crown with blood-red, sparkling jewels. Father had found the pictures after Okasan went. He tore them up and put them in the kitchen bin. Ishii tried to take them out again, but Mrs Norris had emptied the teapot over them and the colours had run.

           Ishii climbed the stairs and found the shop. He examined the row of comics and magazines on the bottom shelf to use up time, but of course he would choose his favourite, The Beano, with Billy Whizz, Fred and The  Bash Street Kids.

           He put the change in his pocket and stood outside the bookshop, counted up to two hundred, colours blossoming distinctly inside his head: jolly, golden three and elegant fallen leaf seven are his favourites. Should he start reading the comic? No, he’d save it for the plane.

He decided to go downstairs again, walking really slowly, see whether he can surprise Father, save him a few minutes. Father was always complaining about wasting time.

        As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw the edge of Father's tartan jacket near the front of the third check-in queue. His head was turned towards a geijin with a red face and a shaved head, with a little bit of fuzz on top, like Fatty in the Beano.

         I'd better go back upstairs again, Ishii decided. Children must never interrupt adults. He looked at his digital watch. He wanted one like Father had now, very heavy with thick, curved glass.

           Five minutes passed. Ishii walked up and down, twenty steps each way. When I reach the bookstand again, Father will appear.

          `Hello there, mate. Waiting for Daddy?'

  Fatty was standing beside him. Ishii looked up and up. The man had eyes like red cherries sunk into icing. Ishii clutched the strap of his bag, the plastic dug into his palm.

           `Who are you?' he asked and his own voice seemed to come from some far-away, high place.

           `Friend of your Daddy's.'  Father doesn't have any geijin friends. `Something's come up, he's gone to make a call.'

More Tips on becoming a Better Writer with Neuroscience, Yellowlees Douglas

Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.” Stephen King

     On this basis, I am ploughing my way through `The Reader’s Brain’ by Yellowlees Douglas and will share the next few tips I’ve picked up:

·        Apparently we’re hard-wired to register cause and effect- it helped early hunter-gatherers survive. In the 1940’s researchers showed volunteers films of circles, squares and rectangles moving randomly around a screen. When questioned, the volunteers immediately turned these films into stories of chase, capture and competition. This innate tendency helps explain our attraction to stories (cause and effect) and the mini stories that each sentence tells. In particular, paragraphs full of active rather than passive verbs are more quickly digested.

·        Orwell counselled using Anglo-Saxon rather than Latinate words for clarity and more concrete language. Yellowlees Douglas criticizes Orwell for using the same abstract, Latinate language he told his readers to avoid. I smiled, when she then used the word `disambiguate’ two pages later!

·        To root out passive construction in your sentences, she advises inserting `by zombies’ after the verb, eg :The chocolate was eaten… by zombies. If the sentence makes sense, you are using a passive construction and should change it into an active one: The girl ate the chocolate.

·        English is a subject-verb-object language, which mirrors life- in general- so sentences should reflect this, if they are to be easily read and remembered. I lobbed the cookies at his head, rather than The cookies were lobbed at his head by me.

·        There is constructions come to us via the Norman Conquest and French and stand in place of the sentence’s subject. They should therefore be avoided at all costs. She suggests using the `Find’ command to track down all examples in your document and to then find a different way of expressing yourself, eg instead of There are three ways we can think of this, write: We can think of this dilemma in three ways.