Lust
Part two
Part two
I have a conspirator now, a partner in my crime. Nagi sorts out information that I have no care to, receipts and the like. I can tell you the name of every book he has bought in the last eight months, some of which are surprising. He likes American music, preferably with guitars, though never loud. I even bought one of the disks myself after hearing him sing along with it in the car. I imagine he will be mortified if he knew we recorded that. We have the shop, the car, and his apartment bugged. We have cameras in their communal areas, in his bedroom, the only place we have left him privacy is his bathroom, we have no interest in that, yet.
There are cameras in his ceiling, in his light fittings, microphones in everything we can plant them in. Not that he talks much. I told Nagi we needed them to learn about mission information. He has become my own private experiment, I record the business of his life nearly twenty fours a day. He sticks to his pattern almost slavishly. The deviations he cannot plan, those are arranged by Kritiker.
I have started to dream about him. Nagi has tapes of him swimming, his broad shoulders and thin waist cutting through the water carefully with practised strokes, his head twisting around to come up for air. There is even footage of him running, he is wearing an open sweat top and pants, he is even wearing headphones and a baseball cap as he tails his target through the park. Even when he runs he has the same stillness and grace. I think I might be becoming obsessed. He is a creature of habit, of constraint, but then I watch him on the webcam we have set up, and he is reading, his legs stuck up the wall and the book resting on his abdomen and he surprises me.
I have taken to wiring up the feed directly to the larger television I have bought for my room so I can watch him better. The picture quality is poor but that doesn’t quite matter, yet. He is sitting in the communal area of the Kitty in the House, legs hooked over the back of the sofa and he is reading poetry in English. The sound catches me unawares, and I rewind the feed, it is recorded even as I watch, he laughs again. It is just a snort, an unexplained exhalation of amusement, but his mouth quirks up and he smiles, then the smile grows a little bigger, and he closes the book around his finger and reads back the lines, clearly enunciating them as he stares at directly where the camera is hidden, as if he knows where it is. "As never fool for love, I starved for you; My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see. Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, And your remembered smell most agony."
I had to move, to get away from the screen, it was almost like he was playing with me, like he knew I was watching. I turn the screen off, then on again, then off, then I cross the room and try to pour myself some water, I only succeed in soaking my hand I’m shaking that badly, I turn the screen on again, its gone back to real-time, he’s got up and got himself a drink. I rewind back to the words and copy them out to a piece of paper.
He can’t know we’re filming him. He can’t. He wouldn’t tolerate it, he would destroy the clock that conceals the camera with a Shi-ne. He certainly wouldn’t read poetry to it, would he?
That question stops me at the door.
I recompose myself, no, he wouldn’t, especially not poetry like that. I go into the safe-house kitchen and pour myself coffee, its probably the last thing I need, but it seems to calm my nerves. Mastermind looks at me enquiringly as I knock back an entire mug of hot black coffee, then pull a face. It’s been sat for far too long. "Something bothering you, Brad-brad?" He asks.
"No," I tell him sharply, "just a conundrum, nothing you could help with."
"You’re wound as tight as a guitar string." He tells me, I can’t help but agree as I think of the amusement on Abyssinian’s face as he looks directly at the camera "and your remembered smell most agony."
"Is Nagi about?" I ask.
"No," Mastermind replies, "he’s gone to get some game for his console, it came out today, he said he’d be back later. What are the pair of you up to?"
"Surprise Christmas present." I tell him dryly.
"It would be a surprise," he says, "it’s only September." His hair is green this weak, a horrible washed out green that looks murky, but he likes it. It’s been this colour before, but not for a long time. "So really, what are you two up to?"
"I’m his shotakon," I answer, cutting off any more comments.
"And you never invited me to play." He’s mock hurt, the answer seems to have settled him and he’s gone back to watching the film he had on, something about a woman and nudity, it seems all his German films contain far too much nudity. She’s running. Mastermind is more intent on watching her breasts bounce under her blue grey vest than the plot.
"Schuldig, what do you know about poetry?" I ask surprising myself, sometimes people surprise you with what they know.
"It rhymes." He said, then thought about it, "it’s supposed to be the language of the soul." That sounded like he might know about it, "it’s poetry, why?"
"Would you recognise a quote?" I ask him, "or know where to find one?"
"Why?" The woman’s breasts are bouncing, and his pupils are bouncing with them, but he can talk to me.
"Something popped into my head and its not going to leave me alone until I know where from." I lie.
"I hate it when that happens, are you sure it’s not something from the radio? I find most of it is played on the alarm when you’re waking up." That sounds quite intelligent, as if he has given some thought to the matter.
"No, it’s from a poem, as never fool for love I starved for you."
"Why Bradley," he says looking at me with his hands cupped under his chin, "I never knew you cared."
It’s all I can do not to smash that smirk off his face with my fist, "if you’re not going to help." I say turning.
"Sorry," he says almost mockingly, "I don’t know it, never heard it, look it up on a search engine, you might get lucky." Then he turns back to his voluptuous fraulein with the bouncing bosoms, "ja, run, Lola, run."
His suggestion might be a good one, I type in an American search engine and then the English lyrics, just the first line, looking at the list I get, I try another search with the second line. Kami-sama, I mutter under my breath, there are some deviants on the Internet. I type in all four lines and hope, I don’t hold out much hope though when the search engine brings up fifty six pages about war poetry. I close the page.
I can see him lying with his back on the sofa seat with his legs hooked over the back, the book closed on his chest, "as never fool for love, I starved for you." He says, his voice throaty and deep. I physically groan and surprise myself, where did that come from? I look around to make sure no one saw, but I am alone in the computer room. Is there anyone who would know what the book was, if only I could see the cover I could find the book.
I go back to my room, hoping Mastermind is engrossed enough in Lola running that he doesn’t notice my confusion, or the fact it must show that I feel so hot. The first thing I do after I lock the door is take off my shirt and tie, my skin is cooking, and pull on a tee that I use at the gym. Even I own several battered sports tees. I thumb the remote to see what he’s doing, but he’s not in any of the kitty in the house rooms, I check his schedule, its too early for a late evening walk and he’s not working. He’s missing.
Then he walks out of the bathroom on the upper floor and my heart starts again. He has a tooth brush hanging out of his mouth, chewing on the bristles. I have never noticed that he did that. Suddenly my pants feel very tight indeed. He is wearing a black sleeveless polo neck and a pair of very tight black jeans, the top button of his button fly is undone. It really is very warm in here, I have to fan myself before I turn up the air con.
I turn on the communal room camera looking for the book, but he is too meticulous, whatever it was its tucked away on his shelf. He’s in his bedroom. He might be changing. Its another of those surprise thoughts that catch me unawares when I think of him. He is Abyssinian, he is an annoyance, more of an annoyance than I want him to be, but the look of smugness on his face as he repeated back those mocking lines of poetry.
He’s not changing, I don’t think I could really cope with that right now. Part of me wonders if surveillance has shifted, I no longer record what he does with dispassion, I record everything he does meticulously, as meticulous as he is, but not with dispassion now. I never remember my dreams of him, only that I dream of him.
He has put headphones on, and is dancing around the room, he is in a very good mood, I wish I knew why. It pains me that I don’t know why. That again surprises me. I need to understand this. The view of him is better if I angle the camera to catch his reflection. If I try to focus the camera on him I can see the top of his head, but his reflection in the mirror captures him from just above his head to about half way down his thighs. He is not vain, he hardly ever uses the mirror, its just part of the room’s decor, but it helps me.
I can’t hear the music that he has chosen, his face is a little flushed, perhaps he has been drinking, I could wind the tape back to check, but its still only afternoon. He is dancing in time to whatever he is listening to. The song is slow and patient and he moves his hips in time to them, his hands on his ear phones to crowd the music in further, he is humming along, and I groan again. His back is to the mirror so I can see his tight ass wiggling in his far too tight jeans. I don’t think I’ve ever been as aroused in my life, and I daren’t deny it in case I explode. There is a terrible tightness in my nose, I think I am going to have a nose bleed. He is all in black, the room is dark, and I can see the white flashes of his arms and the flicker of his blood red hair. Kami sama, I could make a fortune with this with those deviants on the Internet, what would they pay for this? What would I pay for this. Nagi’s tapes alone cost me nearly ten thousand yen.
He casts his head back and turns, baring the white skin on his throat, his eyes are closed, his mouth open and he sways side to side with his hips, his shoulders working in counterpoint, "I still feel your hair, black ribbons of coal. " I hear the line quite deliberately as what can only described as erotic shock hits me so hard I actually lose my balance. I sit in front of the TV, legs splayed to ease the pain of an erection I can’t explain and most of my weight on my hands behind me. "born again from the rhythm, screaming down from heaven, ageless, ageless and I’m there in your arms."
"Jesus almighty," I actually swear out loud, I’m close to turning the screen off again, but not quite close enough to do anything about it. The song is getting faster, as he’s turned, he’s yanked the plug from the socket as he’s moved, an accident, so although he wears headphones the music is playing. I don’t know the song, I don’t know the artist, but I have the suspicion I’m never going to get away from this song, this dancer. There is a minor crescendo and I gasp and my head falls back, and then jerks forward quickly in case I miss something.
His rhythm has slowed to the song again, his eyes are closed and his lips are sticky and wet. "The welts of your scorn, my love give me more, send whips of opinion down my back, give me more."
"Sweet god in heaven," I am able to gasp as I come powerfully against my will without even being touched, without even undoing my trousers. I fall back, satiated as he continues to sing along with the strange song by the artist I have never heard or heard of. That has never happened before.
As soon as I have the strength, which takes longer than I would like, I roll over and crawl to the bathroom where I do my best to shower. I’m wiped out. It’s like someone undid my power supply. I’m like a character in one of Nagi’s games, limping on with no real power. I haven’t turned the screen off and he’s still singing and dancing, just to another song, I am doing my best to ignore him, though I can hear him, but can’t see him in the bathroom.
I’m trying to find some calm, something that will make sense of what the hell happened. Actually what happened was pretty obvious, I’m trying to make sense of why the hell it happened. He is an annoyance, an utterly fuckable annoyance who moves as sleekly as a cat. I should drive down to the Kitty in the house, take my magnum and plant a lump of lead in his head. That would rid me of the annoyance once and for all.
I haven’t the strength to drive, and shaking the way I am I’d probably just shoot the mirror behind him. I am still physically shaking. I have to control him, that idea makes sense, because if I can control him, I can control myself again.
He has lain down on his bed, and dispensed with his headphones, his jeans are almost all the way open now. I can’t help but feel that he is toying with me, that he knows how intently I watch him. One arm is under his head and the other across his chest, his bedding is a pale grey and against it his skin is creamy. He is as lost in the music as I am in him. Part of me wants to check the manifest of his shopping to find out who the man who sings like an angel is, he sings in English and he has the most amazing range. The music is discordant now, clanging guitar noises, as if the musician has lost all control as well, then falls silent. "I love you," he says in time to the singer "but I’m afraid to love you." Oh god, I murmur, not again, "I love you," and deeply breathy, a whisper I wouldn’t hear if not for the microphone in his headboard, "but I’m afraid to love you."
I turn off the screen and do my best to catch my breath. A second erection is tenting up the front of my towel. I’m actually dizzy. I have to go back into the bathroom and attend to this before I can think, but I find myself imagining the hand moving on my cock is not mine, it’s his, Aya’s. His long white thin hands holding me like he holds his katana, his grip tight his wrist loose. I come in an agonised sputter gasping as I do.
I have decided, I am just going to shoot him.
I go for a walk, not turning the screen back on. I think the autumn air will calm me somewhat. Or maybe vodka, lots of vodka. I have a vision before I go into the ochaya where I had every intention of hiring a prostitute and drinking myself sick. Most visions serve a defined and definite purpose, they warn me of danger, of things to avoid. I saw myself surrounded by cats, not expensive cats, just cats, cats upon cats upon cats and I was content. I didn’t like the vision, I think I preferred the one where Aya cut me in two. God he was even in my visions now.
I went back to the safe house knowing that we were going to get a call from that ignorant prick that Mastermind had running the Shinjuku yakuza on his behalf, asking for more money, or manpower. I would just get Mastermind to eviscerate him to make an example of him. Or maybe even just mention calmly to a Kritiker employer that the man had a thing for little girls, the littler the better, even though he didn’t. Two birds with one stone involved there, I could see mission Aya as hard as stone with his katana in his hands and that yakuza cleft in two a splatter of blood on his face, as red as his hair. I ruled that idea out with a curse, even solutions to problems were infested with that annoying… I had to stop there.
When I got in I flopped down on the sofa to join Nagi watching a documentary, surely documentaries were safe viewing for the moment. A nice safe documentary on lizards. When the phone rang I told Mastermind it was for him, and I wanted the yakuza destroyed as he was irritating me.
Nagi looked at me quizzically, but said nothing. I decided to ask him about the poem. "Nagi, what do you know about poetry?"
"Enough," He answered, "are we talking haiku, sonnet, ballad, epic?"
"Not a clue, just have four rhyming lines stuck in my head." I told him, "and nothing short of murder is going to shift them if I can’t find out where they’re from."
"Shoot." He said, "if I recognise them, I’ll tell you."
"As never fool for love I starved for you, My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see. Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, And your remembered smell most agony."
He thought about it, "its in rhyming couplets, in an AB AB scheme, I’d say it was a sonnet, petrarchan probably, read them again." I did and he counted down on his fingers the rhythm, "its in iambic pentameter, that should make it a bit easier to find on the Internet."
"I wish I had an idea what you just said." Mastermind said from the phone, "its like you were talking another language."
"What do you know about poetry?" Nagi asked him.
"Ich habe genossen das irdische gluck." Mastermind answered in German.
Not one to be outdone, Nagi finished the quote. "Ich habe gelebt and geleibt. " His expression didn’t change, "Schiller, impressive. Except the most famous quote by Schiller, and in German, which would be impressive if you weren’t German."
"Shut it, Snaggletooth." Mastermind murmured.
Nagi ignored him. "I imagine when you looked it up you got sites like bigbreastedgirlsblowdonkeys.com." I nodded.
"It sounds old, but I’ve never heard it before, I’ll look it up on university sites for you, write it down for me. But at a guess I’d say it was a sonnet which narrows the field a bit."
"Where did you learn so much about poetry?" I asked him.
"From that hyper expensive tutor you got me." He replies blithely.
I turn back to the documentary, the lizards, called Jesus Lizards because they run on water, have managed to stick their stomachs together and are rolling around on the sand. "Now they’re mating," Nagi complains, "why is it there is nothing but sex on this television."
"Every six seconds," Berserker says quietly, he was sat so still and medicated I hadn’t even noticed him, not a good state of affairs with Berserker.
"Pardon?" Nagi asks him.
"The human male thinks of sex every six seconds." He repeats lucidly.
"He’s right," Mastermind says with his hand over the phone microphone as the Yakuza complains in his ear, "and it took six seconds from big breasted girls blowing donkeys to the lizards."
I almost laugh. "I’m going to my room." I say getting up. "Schuldig, kill that annoying little gangster, Nagi make sure you do your homework, and you, Farfarello," I try to think what to say to him, "just do what you’re doing."
"Are you all right?" Mastermind asks.
"I think I might be coming down with a fever." I reply tersely.
"Do you want some dinner?" Nagi asks.
"I don’t know." I reply and then lock the door to my room and switched on the television. I had to flick between cameras to find him in the communal room with the rest of Weiss, the little one, Bombay, was cooking, and they were chattering. The oldest one, Balinese, was teasing Siberian about some soccer team, and Aya was laughing as he was talking about the sport. Siberian was getting annoyed by what was practised mistakes about a sport he worshipped obsessively. He was laughing. Someone else was making him laugh. He wasn’t laughing for the cameras, he was laughing at them, with them, for them.
I was instantly aggressively possessive. He was mine.
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