Something You Are

by Hanna Jameson

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you survived?’

  ‘I was out.’

  Another frown. He looked down at his desk, his only hint at a reaction, then back up at me with a smile. ‘Can you dance?’

  I was surprised he had changed the subject. He didn’t bring it up again until we were in bed, three weeks later.

  ‘Um, a bit,’ I replied. ‘I can dance but not like... dance. I’ve done Ninpo and some martial arts though so I can pick stuff up quickly.’

  He leant in. ‘Look, this isn’t the Royal Opera House. If you can put one leg in front of the other and smile at the same time most people here will be happy. Have you got any special talents?’

  ‘I can sing OK and I can paint. I’m not sure if I’m particularly special at either.’

  ‘Well, I can be the judge of that.’ He smiled at me again.

  I decided right then that I was going to have sex with him. At some point, whether it was next week or in a few months or whatever, it was definitely going to happen. It had never not happened when I’d decided on it.

  ‘You know how this place works?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a strip club, right?’

  ‘Yes... and no. Officially, we’re an erotic club. I manage it, with my partner Ron. Ronnie O’Connell.’ He spread his hands. ‘But I’m going to be upfront, cos you don’t seem naive. We do a lot here. We’re Members Only. People... certain people... come here to meet. We entertain them, give them free drinks, give them a song and dance, and depending on who they are we send the best girls to their homes for private performances. Are you OK with that? Potentially?’

  ‘With going to some guy’s house?’

  ‘They’re never just some random guy here. We vet all our members very thoroughly; you’d be safer working here than you would be on the tube. We can promise that.’ He became very serious suddenly. ‘We’ve never had a single incident, not with a member.’

  I mulled it over, but I wasn’t surprised. You’d have to be an amateur at life to go for a job interview at a club like this and not expect to be asked to partake in some mild prostitution.

  ‘Well... yeah, I’d be fine with that,’ I said, shrugging.

  ‘Great!’ He couldn’t quite repress the smile. ‘Um, before you do that you will need to provide a clear and very recent STD test. Only valid within the last month.’

  ‘OK. I think I’m starting to understand what this place is all about.’ I tapped the arms of my chair and looked around the office again. ‘I don’t think I’ve made a very good first impression on my co-workers though. I’m pretty sure old bitch-face who just left isn’t that big a fan.’

  He laughed and sat back in his chair, spinning around a bit. ‘Co-worker? You’re confident.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got this job, right?’

  ‘You’ve got it, yeah. Er... Seven.’ He rubbed at his stubble. ‘Old bitch-face doesn’t work here though.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  ‘She’s my wife actually. She works at PWC.’

  Fuck. There wasn’t anything I could say to rescue myself from that, so I reddened and said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s OK; she’s an accountant. She knows she’s a bitch.’ He grinned at me, but I wasn’t sure if he was joking. ‘But you’re probably right to say that she doesn’t like you. She doesn’t like anyone who works here. Sometimes I think she doesn’t even like me.’

  I looked for the wedding ring and there it was, where I should have seen it in the first place. I’d noticed that his office was eerily tidy, everything in line with something else, or perpendicular to something else, but I hadn’t noticed the wedding ring.

  ‘Can you stand up so I can check you over? I can call Daisy up if you want a girl in the room but it’s just a look. Nothing weird, don’t worry.’

  The barmaid had seemed nice, but I didn’t feel threatened. On the contrary, I wanted to us to be alone.

  I stood up, put my bag down beside me and pushed the chair away.

  ‘Everything?’ I asked.

  The air in the office was hot and the one window was shut.

  ‘Everything you feel comfortable with, but the top layer has to go. It’s so we can check for marks, tattoos and stuff. We don’t allow anyone to use drugs here so we look for any evidence of that as well, needle marks... weird bruises.’

  ‘OK.’

  I took off my leather jacket and put it down on the chair behind me, then my boots. As I unbuttoned my shirt I looked down at my fingers, and then met his eyes as I slipped it off my shoulders, folded it slowly and placed it with the jacket.

  His face was expressionless, but he was tapping the arm of his chair.

  I slid my skirt and tights down to my ankles and stepped out of them, suddenly more conscious than I liked of what he might think of my skinny and childlike body. I tried to remember in more detail what his wife had looked like. She’d also looked slight of frame, but more athletic than me, with broader shoulders.

  With a breath, I unhooked the straps of the black bra and let it slide down my arms.

  My body felt hot, inhabited by an exhilarated visceral sensation that squeezed my diaphragm and shortened my breath.

  I saw him wet his lips, eyes down, away from my face.

  ‘Can you, er... turn around?’

  I turned around in a circle. As my back was to him I was overcome by the fantasy of him approaching behind me, taking me by the arms, kissing his way down my back, pushing me down on to his desk with his hands all over me...

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine. Fine, I mean... nice. Good.’

  ‘Only good?’

  I picked up my clothes and started to dress myself, coy all of a sudden.

  He gave me an exasperated look. ‘Yeah. Great. Look, stop being a smart-arse and tell me when you can start. Tomorrow?’

  Pulling my jacket on, I beamed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Bring in some ID and bank account details tomorrow morning and I’ll give you a hundred or so to go out and get together some decent outfits, then you’ll be good to go. You can shadow one of the other girls for the night.’ He was writing something down. ‘If you run off with the hundred and think I won’t find you, I will, OK? So don’t.’

  It was the first time I’d felt vulnerable in front of him, but he said it so matter-of-factly that I was pressured to ignore the momentary fear and move on.

  I sat down to pull my tights back up. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. Um, one question though.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Awkwardly, he cupped one hand beside his mouth, as if someone might be listening.

  I leant in.

  ‘You won’t think it’s racist if we play up the Japanese thing, will you?’

  I whispered back sardonically, ‘No, you’re fine. I won’t sue.’

  ‘Awesome.’ He spun around in his chair again, appraising me. ‘Because the whole Japanese schoolgirl thing, the little white socks, the skirts and stuff. It’s a total no-brainer.’

  3

  Nausea hit me on the tube the following morning, and I held my forehead in my hands for most of the journey.

  In my mind there were images of bumping into my parents or sister. I couldn’t imagine what an alien environment my old estate would seem without them, but at the same time I was scared of walking towards my old flat and feeling too much as if I was going home.

  Would I have the guts to go inside? Was I going to start crying? Maybe I’d just go crazy and start screaming and hitting things. What if I ran into someone I’d known?

  It’s OK, I thought. No one had really known me there anyway.

  I stared at the shoes of the person sitting opposite me until my stop.

  My old block of flats wasn’t far from the tube station. In fact you could see it straight away, looming into the sky. They should have knocked it down, or burnt the fucking thing.

  The houses, the roads and the pavements surrounding it were drenched in familiarity, but felt too quiet for my memory of the place. It was like
walking on to a battlefield in the years after the fight, when there were no traces of blood any more and the grass had grown back, where the calm would always feel at odds with the knowledge of the violence that had taken place.

  I stopped walking, midway between my block of the flats and Jensen McNamara’s. There had been a broken skateboard in the bushes next to the pavement the last time I’d walked the same route, but it was now gone.

  It had been humid then. At least it had the grace to be cold now.

  I walked up to the nearest building and buzzed Jensen’s old flat, wondering what the hell I was doing here. I knew I was kidding myself that this was a pointless exercise. I knew what I was really doing. I was looking for an excuse, any excuse, to call Mark Chester. I was looking for something to help me overcome my paralysis.

  ‘Hello?’

  It sounded like him.

  I swallowed. ‘Jensen?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Um, this is Kiyomi. Kiyomi Ishida. I don’t know if you remember—’

  ‘Kiyomi? Fuck, er... Fuck. Hi?’

  ‘Can I come in for a moment?’

  He paused for a little too long to sound polite.

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah, OK, sure.’

  I was buzzed up and he met me in his doorway looking exactly the same as I remembered him. Not that Jensen’s was a face that had particularly lodged itself in my memory, but there was nothing new or exciting about his features.

  ‘Man, you look different,’ he said with a nervous smile.

  For a second, he hesitated, as if wondering whether to hug me or shake my hand, but then he just backed away from the doorway and let me come inside.

  ‘You look nice with shorter hair though. It’s cool. Do you want a drink or something?’

  ‘You know I don’t drink.’

  ‘Well, tea. It’s like midday, babes.’

  He was just as unkempt as I remembered. His flat smelt the same, so much so that I found it hard to speak.

  ‘Tea, yeah. Anything herbal.’

  I followed him to the other end of his flat, where a tiny stove and washing machine were wedged behind a sofa.

  ‘I’m sorry I never got to see you after...’ He shook his head as he moved about his space, keeping his back to me. ‘I’m sorry anyway. It was fucking horrible. I never expected to see you again, to be honest. Didn’t think you’d ever come back. Thought you’d just... go back to Japan or something.’

  ‘Too expensive for me.’ I sat on the back of the sofa. ‘I couldn’t even afford the flight.’

  ‘Did they ever find out... anything?’

  ‘No, nothing. It’s not like anyone saw anything so...’

  Jensen put the kettle on, pushed up the sleeves of his oversized shirt and turned to face me. ‘Ah, that’s a fucking shame, I’m sorry. I mean, you’d think they’d have found something. They spoke to everyone round here: me, the Williams kids—’

  ‘They spoke to you? Who spoke to you?’

  ‘Well, most people had uniforms come round to ask them questions. A couple of us had the guy in charge, a guy in plain clothes.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  An apologetic expression. ‘Uh... nothing. He did ask if I’d seen you that day and stuff so he must have known I was lying, but I just didn’t want to have to write up a statement or anything and... Sorry, I don’t think it would have affected their case. I just didn’t fancy telling this guy I’d seen you, that’s all. Sorry, I know you shouldn’t lie to the police and stuff, especially when it’s about important—’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  I knew straight away whom Jensen was referring to, and my stomach turned with unease.

  He frowned. ‘Black hair, really greasy, like. Old. I didn’t like him, but then who likes police, I suppose? All miserable bastards. All corrupt too, you know.’

  ‘A comb-over? Did he have a comb-over?’

  ‘Yeah, a really shit one.’

  Now I was on edge, as though someone might be listening to us.

  ‘I’m sorry I lied. It wasn’t cool,’ he said, raising his voice over the roar of boiling water.

  ‘No, I don’t mind.’ I indicated my head across the flat in the direction of my old home. ‘What about the Williams kids?’

  ‘Oh, they all wrote statements. Even the younger ones were asked questions. They’re still living there if you wanna go speak to them, except... Oh, shit, this is sad. You know Nate? The oldest? He died not long after.’

  ‘What?’ I wanted to drag Jensen away from pouring fucking tea. ‘How?’

  ‘Drive-by. Reckon he was mistaken for someone else. They got the kid that did it though; he’s in juvie. Fuck, it’s like your place is cursed!’

  Without saying a word, without saying goodbye, I turned away and walked out of the flat.

  ‘Um...’

  I heard him, dumb with confusion, as I slammed the door.

  ‘Um... nice to see... you.’

  There was one relative in the Relatives’ Room. One relative sitting in silence, picking my nails and chewing my lips. The other two people were police officers. Both had given up trying to speak to me a long time ago.

  The Relatives’ Room appeared more like a haphazard staffroom, with a cupboard and sink full of mugs, a small plastic kettle and boxes of tea left out on the side. A used teaspoon was hanging over the sink, dripping.

  I looked down at my hands again, now clean of blood, and observed the yellow foam showing though the frayed royal-blue fabric of my chair.

  Drip.

  I’d stopped panicking by then. My breathing had slowed and I held my hands still. My face was stiff and my emotions had stopped, rigid. I tore off a piece of nail from the side of my thumb and gnawed at it, obsessing over the tag of loose bleeding skin.

  My sister had called something to me as I’d left the flat.

  ‘Kiki, look!’

  I hadn’t stopped or looked, just said I’d be back soon and left to go to Jensen’s because I’d been so bored. All the time. So fucking bored. Crawling with boredom. Boredom that made me want to claw off my own face just for the entertainment.

  Kiki, look!

  One of the officers kept glancing sideways down my top.

  I hadn’t been allowed to see my family. Not again. I was already finding it hard to remember walking into my flat and seeing them.

  Drip.

  A nurse came in, smiled at us, and efficiently made some tea with the plastic kettle and used teaspoon by the sink. She stirred a West Bromwich Albion mug and returned the spoon to where it had come from.

  I kept forgetting in the midst of these micro-episodes, things existing and people going about their jobs and their lives, why I was here. Even my memories, erratic and infused with static like shit TV reception, didn’t seem like my own.

  Thinking back, I could see myself only as an observer. In my memories, I was watching myself enter the flat from behind.

  I saw myself stare, throw up, fall, and I followed myself out...

  I could see the broken bottle of Asahi, not far from my dad’s hand.

  The hand was split down the centre, fingers parting from each other in their attempted defence against the blades like this. His hands were in pieces around what was left of his wrists...

  I rocked forwards and I saw the officers recoil a little.

  ‘There’s a sink,’ one of them said.

  I remembered throwing up on one of them on the way here and the other one had started laughing and apologizing.

  Drip.

  The nurse left.

  The officers left.

  A man walked in.

  At first, I didn’t see anything strange in both the officers leaving.

  The man introduced himself by his intention rather than by his name, badge or rank. He introduced himself by his vile black comb-over and deep-set eyes that looked as though at any moment they could be swallowed up by his face.

  He pulled one of the bright blue chairs away from the wall and rotated
it until he was sitting adjacent to me.

  ‘Miss Ishida? Kiyomi.’

  I hadn’t fucking said that he could call me Kiyomi.

  ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right with you?’

  It was just the two of us. I wished that the other officers hadn’t left.

  At the time, I nodded.

  ‘You didn’t directly witness anything, I understand? You were out?’

  Yes.

  I said it first in my head, before I managed to take the breath needed to speak.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  There was still boiling water in the kettle. The teaspoon was still dripping.

  I saw the top of Jensen McNamara’s head, felt the flutter of words against my cunt...

  ‘The shops.’

  ‘Really?’

  He wasn’t asking. His tone was oiled with cynicism. He knew I was lying. I knew that he knew I was lying. What’s more, I could tell he’d expected me to lie.

  ‘You didn’t have anything with you when you returned,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I forgot my money.’

  I picked at the yellow foam instead of my lips, eyes down, tapping the leg of my chair seven times, seven times...

  ‘You were apparently shouting at some children in the stairwell of your building. A few eyewitnesses have mentioned them. Can you give me their names so I can take their statements?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t remember.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do they live nearby?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Kiyomi.’ He leant forwards, linking his fingers on his lap. ‘Anything you can remember, anything at all, could be crucial in finding out who did this. If anyone saw anything, we need to be able to speak to them. Do you understand?’

  I wanted to ask him if I could see his ID, but it seemed too aggressive. I felt as though, if I asked him that, he’d have licence to confront me with the lies I was telling.

  ‘I don’t remember who they were,’ I said, ripping out some of the yellow foam and dropping it on the floor. ‘I didn’t know them. They were just hanging around.’