TIMOTHY DAVIS WANTS TO KILL THE WORLD

Neill R Bell-Shaw

Timothy Davis Wants to Kill the World

Neill R Bell-Shaw

SAMPLE CHAPTERS, March 2016

Copyright 2012 by Neill Robert Bell-Shaw
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This is currently a work in progress.

About the Author

Neill lives in Tokyo with his girlfriend and his dog Kafka. He
graduated with distinction from Falmouth Universitys MA in
Professional Writing. He spends most of his time trying to improve
his writing and riding trains. He is currently finishing his first novel
and writing a radio play set in Tokyo. He also does a good rendition of
My Way at Karaoke.
For more information and contact details please access his
website.
www.scuwiffy.com
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Within every moment there is a perfect formula. This essence is not only there for
capturing with paint and brush but can also be quantified mathematically.
Dr. N Wagner The Perfect Essence: A New Way to View the World

One would need a shovel to quantify what Dr Wagner is full of.

Dr. D Wachowski
Dr Wagner: Genius or Deluded? Revisiting The Perfect Essence. (R, Freadway)

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Timothy - U.S.A., North Carolina

Although it was the same doorbell Timothy knew for the whole seventeen years
of his life, in that moment, it sounded more like a plague bellman beckoning for the
dead because there was death here within the walls of his home and the idea of someone
calling for it sent Timothy's skin to goose flesh. They might go away. His mouth was
clammy. If he ignored whoever it was, he could just continue looking for his shoes. His
index finger twitched. The bell sounded again and the prwnnng pronnng tightened his
chest. A hand flipped the letterbox up.
"Hello?" The voice was female and dripping with the American drawl that
Timothy spent most of his life cringing at. "Susan? James?"
It was Margery. What a name, a banal name that doomed its bearer to a life of
ordinariness. No great novels were about characters called Margery or Marge expect
The Book of Margery Kempe, which was only interesting because the woman imagined
she spoke to an imaginary figure from one of the few books Timothy hated. His
breathing was already increasing and he tried to slow it down but the more he focused
on it, the more a cough began smoking up through his chest. He stared at the front door,
willing the neighbour to leave. If he opened it, he would have to use that old voice of
his, the one that sounded like hers and made him feel sick whenever it slithered out of
his mouth.
Again, the bell rang.
He covered his mouth as a tiny kuukugg forced its way out. He focused on his
books: mounds of them sprawled across his shelves upstairs. He knew the exact order,
despite owning more than three hundred. He had arranged them autobiographically,
starting from the shelf next to his bed and working their way in a spiral left around the

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room, finishing close to the ceiling just over his bed. He muttered the names of the
authors in order: E. B. White, Roald Dahl, J.R.R Tolkien, J D Salinger, Lewis Carroll.
The tightness in his chest eased. Outside the house, high-heel shoes tottered back down
the path. She was leaving, but he suspected she would be back. It must be the car - he
should have moved the car and now time was tightening around him like a noose.
The mild panic-fit was numbing and all that persisted now, in his family home,
was the memory of judgemental stares that lingered there like tobacco stains ground
into pile carpet and flowered wallpaper. Timothy squeezed his hands into fists to stop
the jittering of his fingers. The world was his now, people just did not know it yet. But a
coughing fit was still coming; scraping at the back of his throat. Since the age of seven,
doctors had described him as unique: a Petri dish of syndromes and aliments. It was a
shame this uniqueness never made his parents love him. For the last ten years, they
looked at Timothy and he saw only veiled confusion salted with anger. They pretended
to love him, even to each other, but he knew they were acting. Now, he had removed the
pretence.
The first strong hack still surprised him, shaking his diaphragm and forcing him
to kneel over towards the living room floor. The fit lasted a minute, shaking his vision
of the living room and leaving filaments of white dots across his vision. He had
removed one set of problems with an overdose of medicine, but his internal ones
persisted. Though he was ready for the external battles that were now his, though he
revelled in the potential tests of his character, the weakness of his body would always
hindered him.
His vision refocused as he stared towards the curtained window. The August sun
seeped through the red velvet but did nothing to heat the frigidity. The family looked

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out from silver picture frames. Clichd poses with smiles that lacked meaning: his birth,
the seaside in North Carolina, his parents wedding, and a road trip to the Virginia
Safari Park. All were before. In those seven years when he had been normal, when the
sun did not burn his skin, when noises were quieter, when he ran and played. Now,
wherever Timothy searched in the room, the eyes of the facsimiles avoided him, even
the ones belonging to that happy boy.
But his mother had played one last trick with her obsessive cleaning: she had
moved his shoes. Brow clammy, chest wheezing, he continued looking. The morning
light glowing through the curtains did little to help. He could draw them back and allow
in the reality of the summer, but that would be stupid. He needed isolation, he needed
privacy, he needed his shoes - the dog basket.
Quixote died six months ago but, through some morbid fixation or laziness,
Timothys parents left his bed to haunt the far corner of the living room. A pink blanket
lay crumpled inside, white dog hairs still clinging to the wool. Timothy reached out and
nudged the brown plastic with his sock-covered foot - no shoes.
The coughing took hold. Air: there was so much of it around but he could not
draw it in. His fingers tingled and white dots descended across his vision. The coughing
stopped but still his lungs failed to draw in the oxygen. Everyone forgets things and, at
that moment, he forgot how to breathe.
And then he remembered.
Wiping the drool from his mouth, he stepped over his mothers iPhone cable and
stumbled towards the kitchen. His parents knocked the wall through five years ago and
the dining-room table was still too big. He had to walk sideways, behind the chairs, and

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suck in his large distended stomach. His attention locked on the floor, Timothy
misjudged his squeeze and brushed his fathers arm.
He glanced at the kitchen clock and his hands began shaking again. Mickey
Mouse smiled back telling him tick hurry tock hurry tick hurry tock hurry.
Dropping to his knees, he crawled along the eggshell-coloured floor, the shaking
from his hands reverberating up through his forearms. His breathing grew shallower.
His mother cleaned every morning and the smell of bleach still made him itch. He
looked towards the door. A sigh escaped from his mouth as relief replaced stress. In the
corner, beside the mop bucket, were his shoes. He pushed himself up and slipped his
feet into the immaculate Hush Puppies. Now, it was time.
He took his place in front of the kitchen table, facing his parents. He opened his
mouth to start his speech but stopped, adjusted his footing, shuffled to the right, looked
up, and then moved left a step. When satisfied with his starting point, he began.
Mother, Father, you know there comes a time in every young mans life, when
he must leave the family home and go his own way, he paced the floor as he spoke in
his real voice, a Shakespearean actor reciting lines, each pause notated with a hesitant
wheeze. When he must take up his own quest and go forth towards his destiny. When
he must follow in the footsteps of the great heroes of literature and history. When he
must stop reading others tales and start writing his own.
In short, I am leaving. I have decided to venture out across the seas and lay
claim to the historic events that await me, he said. I understand you may have some
reservations about this and, expecting such, I have chosen to take some precautions.
At the end of a rasp followed by a cough, Timothy pushed his black rimmed
spectacles up his nose. His parents sat facing each other at the table, in front of them the

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half-eaten bowls of Honey Bunches. They failed to answer as he paused for effect. He
had robbed them of their right to interrupt his soliloquy.
I am sure you would have understood the situation. The only response was his
fathers head falling into the bowl of cereal.
Timothy shrugged, or maybe not.
He turned, picked up his immunosuppressant-filled rucksack and removed an
old Sony Walkman. With his back to the bodies at the kitchen table, he put on the thick,
round headphones and pressed play. Dusty Springfield began singing The Windmills of
My Mind. Timothy smiled and left.

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2. Shaun - U.K, London

Shaun knew it was his sister knocking on the door by the offbeat rhythm she had used
since they were children. Despite how serious she had become about business, success
and money, she never lost that playful tap. But here, in his barren flat adorned only with
the ghosts of sold furniture, the echo of her knock sounded mocking and sinister. With
each ta-tadtat-ta-ta, Shaun cringed at the prospect of facing his baby sister.
He shuffled his way past the large bay windows overlooking the Thames and
across the beechwood floor strewn with dirty clothes and dirtier dishes. The knock came
again and he stopped for a moment. He could refuse to let her in. Pretend he was out,
like he had when the gasman came. But this was his sister: she was the giver of money
not the taker.
Shaun, come on, I need to talk to you. I dont care how messy the place is, she
shouted from behind the door.
Shaun inhaled, his breath shuddering at the peak of his intake. Emily had been
like this since turning fourteen. One day she woke up and was not his Teddy bear-eyed
sister but a young woman with a stare like a raven and a will to match. In the following
fifteen years, he never figured out how to handle her.
Im coming, Jesus, give me a minute, he yelled back.
He opened the door and Emily somehow managed to shrug, tut and push past
him at the same time.
Were you having a what the fuck? Emily said.
I was just putting on some pants.

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Emily ignored Shaun and walked into the living room, looking around at his
lack of furniture.
Never mind that, wheres all your stuff?
Nice to see you too, sis.
No, seriously, where the fuck is everything? She asked again.
Kind of sold.
Kind of? How the hell can you kind of sell something? You either sell it or you
dont sell it. Its sold or unsold. You cannot kind of sell something.
Well, I pawned some of it at Cash Collectors, Shaun said trying to sound
positive.
So what, you plan on buying it back?
He dropped his head.
Emily waved her arms around the living room like a magician revealing a
vanishing trick. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her shoulders fell and
her gaze followed. She stood there for a moment taking deep breaths in through the
nose and out between pursed, crimson lips.
Em, Im sorry, Shaun said.
Emily bit her lip and then shook her head. This reactivated her, as though her
mind had finished computing some difficult problem. She looked up again and brought
her hands together to make a thick echo of a clap fill the silence in the room.
Fine. I was just surprised, you should have told me, her voice was now even
and non-judgemental.
I know.

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She nodded and then looked around for a place to sit. Deciding to put her back
against the window, she kicked away the clothes and slid down to sit on the floor. Her
legs were at right angles because of her concrete-grey skirt but she still managed to look
comfortable. Shaun sat opposite, all legs and arms and little comfort.
Ive been trying to call, she said.
Ive been disconnected.
I figured that. What happened to your dole?
Shaun looked out of the window at the Thames. He had grown used to the flat
being empty and messy, but now with his sister sitting in front of him, he had the urge
to start cleaning. He heard next door leaving her apartment. She always managed to
slam her door as she left, causing his door to rattle as it banged against the frame.
I turned down too many jobs.
Whyd you turn them down if you kne
Call centres and one in a warehouse doing admin. I couldnt do it, he cut her
off.
But you can do this?
Shaun closed his eyes.
Even the local papers wont take you? Emily asked.
They all say they love my writing, and appreciate what I achieved, but after the
court case it might make them look bad hiring me.
Its been over a year.
I know.
Its time to move on to something else.

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You make giving up everything I know, everything Im good at, sound so

easy.
Im looking around here and it looks like you already have given up.
Upstairs someone was running a bath: the sound of the hot-water pipes rumbling
and whining. The noises of life everywhere except in his apartment. Here, the only
sound was the squirming of his sister as Shaun looked around embarrassed at his empty
apartment and vacant existence.
Youre better than this, Emily spoke first, always uncomfortable with silence.
In their youth, car journeys with their father were a nightmare. Shaun just wanted to
read, but she could never last more than five minutes silent. Their fathers funeral was
the quietest time the three of them ever spent together.
Youre talented. You can rebuild your life; you know that right. You need to
build from the beginning again. You need to find your self-esteem for a start, Emily
pointed towards his unshaven face and unstyled hair.
I was going for the struggling artist look - emphasis on the struggling.
Emily stood up and began pacing around the large open-plan living room. After
kicking a few clothes into a pile, she picked them up but looked lost finding a place to
put them. Shaun got to his feet, took them away from her and laid them on top of the
large polished-metal window ledge. Emily moved on to the dishes. Collecting them up
into a pile and taking them to the kitchen. She winced at one cup that had gathered a
thin layer of furry mould. Once she gathered all of them into the sink, she turned on the
tap. Nothing happened.
Its off, Shaun said.
Emilys posture dropped and she looked at Shaun.

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I didnt just come here to see how you were. But fuck, I should have done
sooner.
Emily began pacing again, rubbing the side of her face as she walked around the
empty room.
Theres been a lot of shit happening, she said. Rick, I mean Rick and were
separated, she stopped walking. Separated, fuck! What decade am I in? Fuck! How
should I say it? Weve split up, were on a break. God no, thats worse.
Shaun stared at her.
Are you okay? he asked.
I feel I should be sad saying it, but Im not.
Did he cheat?
Emily shrugged.
Twat. I knew it. You cant trust anyone called Rick.
It was both of us, she said, we both knew and just pretended, but after a while
whats the point?
Shaun stopped and looked at Emily. Rick had been her one attempt at being a
fool. It was obvious to everyone that they were incompatible, but they both embraced
their own stupidity all the way down the aisle.
Ill be fine. Ive found a new flat. Its exciting really. Its just, Ill help as much
as I can, but I cant keep paying your rent. Im sorry, I wish I could. Maybe I can help if
more if theres a divorce or when I get my next bonus. I just, you know, everything is in
flux andIm sorry.
Youve helped more than I had any right to expect. Maybe I could write about
being homeless in London.

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Again, the silence filled the places where Shaun once kept designer furniture and
top of the line electronics. He fought for this apartment, saved and struggled just to get
the deposit, and now it would be gone. He should have downsized long ago but he clung
onto it as the last remnant of his success and his career.
Come on, Ill buy you a pub lunch while we figure out what you want to do
next, Emily said.

The Frog and Parrot was quiet during lunch because the food was expensive and
the place had too much of an old man feel to pull in any of the executive class. Shaun
suspected that this was the owners plan, as it gave the place an aura of belonging to
those who came. It was a rare secret in a world dominated by review websites and social
networking.
Seriously, she was like nineteen and he was just walking about the shopping
centre holding hands, Emily continued. I mean I was playing away a lot as well but
youve got to have some fucking tact.
Your marriage was a real mess, Shaun said.
They had been there more than an hour and most of the conversation was Emily
telling the details of how damaged her relationship with Rick had become. She had
come to tell Shaun he was homeless, but they avoided the subject now. This was the
way in their family: hide from the difficult truths with humour and irony until the pain
subsided.
Emily knocked back the last of her third beer. Despite her small, piano-finger
hands, the thick pint glass never looked out of place. Instead, she held it and moved it
around like a twenty-pack-a-day smoker controlling a cigarette.

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Another? Emily asked.

If youre paying, just keep them coming.
If Im paying, youre going to the bar.
Shaun stood up and held out his hand. He stared at the twenty-pound note Emily
gave him. He had lived on this much money for the last nine days. Through two-for-one
deals and cheap beans, he had dragged out the value of every penny from the note.
Now, he was about to spend the best part of it on two pints of larger.
Are you okay? Emily looked up, worried.
Fine, just not used to drinking any more.
The bartender was chatting up a skinny art-student blond girl over the other side
of the bar and either did not notice Shaun or had decided he lacked importance. Shaun
stared towards him, leaning over the bar with the note in his hand, trying his best to get
any reaction. He focused on the bartender so much that he jumped when someone
touched his shoulder.
Sorry mate, didnt mean to make you jump, eh, said a short, heavyset man
with a thick Canadian accent, its Shaun Roberts, isnt it?
Shaun struggled to place the person in front of him into any of his memories. He
knew him, he was sure, but, without any context, he had no name. It was like
recognising a middle-aged C-list actor in a movie when you only knew him as a child
star.
Its Jim. From ELN in Japan. Remember? We sang Beastie Boys at karaoke in
Ebisu.
Shauns two years in Japan were just one long night of karaoke booths, but the
song hit a note in him.

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Jim, bloody hell mate, you always been this toned? Shaun asked slapping his
shoulders.
I was fat back then, eh, but hit thirty and you need to start taking care. But if I
keep coming here for that pie you told me about Ill be getting that weight back in no
time. Six visits to London and six times here.
Glad you like it. Im surprised we havent bumped into each other sooner
then.
I thought the same thing. Anyway, youre looking thinner too.
Poverty will do that to you, Shaun meant it as a joke but the truth of it
lacerated the friendly atmosphere.
Shit man, I heard about that stuff with the newspaper and it sounds like a
pretty shitty deal, eh.
Thems the cards I was dealt, Shaun cringed inside as the folksy Americanism
slipped out.
Jim carried himself with an ease and confidence that made others feel
comfortable. His manner reminded Shaun of deeply religious people. Not Body
Snatcher religious, but those people who had found some meaning that completed them.
But, as the silence congealed between them, he noticed that Jim looked flustered, like a
man who had woke up two hours later than he planned.
Are you okay? Shaun asked.
Do I look that bad?
I didnt mean whats happened?
Behind Shaun, the bartender and the blond strained their voices like a couple
struggling to avoid an argument in public.

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Im such an idiot, eh. I left a briefcase in the taxi on the way here. I called the
lost and found and itll be a few days before I can get it. Im pretty fucked: I get on a
flight back to Narita this afternoon.
Shit, black cab?
The blond gave up the struggle and began shouting female pronouns at the
bartender: a barrage of she and her intersected with the more derogatory nouns bitch
and slut.
Yeah, from Kings Cross to here, about an hour ago, Jim replied over the
increasing noise.
Shaun reached into his empty pocket for a phone he had pawned four months
ago. Is that a laptop? he asked, pointing to the graphite-coloured bag slung over Jims
shoulder.
Yes, why?
If you let me use it, I might be able to get your case back quicker.
Here take it; any help you can give me would be great, Jim pushed the bag
towards Shaun like he was being mugged. Shaun walked back to his table while Jim
waited to get the beers. By the time Shaun sat down, the bartender was choking out
threats to the blond.
Whos that? Hes cute, Emily asked.
A friend from Japan. He needs help finding a bag he left in a taxi.
So you still have that bug then?
Shaun looked away from the booting laptop and towards his sister.
What bug?
The need to help, the need to find lost things?

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Is this about that doll again? It wasnt my fault, Shaun presented his open
hands to Emily in a show of innocence.
Milly was never the same again.
It wasnt m Shaun cut himself short as Jim arrived with three beers clutched
in a triangle between his thick fingers.
That barman is awful, eh, Jim said, placing the beers on the table.
Shaun was focused on the screen now and waved his hand about without looking
up. Richard, Emily, Emily, Richard.
Nice to meet you.
Charmed, Emily offered Jim her hand like an 18th century lady at court.
Behind the computer screen, Shaun shook his head.
The couple arguing at the bar were growing in volume and intensity. The blond
gave up shouting after one last accusation, or because she ran out of obscenities, and
instead began trying to swing her small pink hand bag at the bartender who ducked the
blows with a skill implying practice.
Id loved to stay and chat, Jim, but I just remembered I have to go to the bank
before it closes. Watch him do this, Emily pointed towards Shaun, his record is fifteen
minutes and that was a pair of high heels on New Years Eve. Anyway, later.
Youve done this before? Jim asked as Emily left.
A couple of times, but it doesnt always work. Just give me a minute.
Jim watched as Shaun logged into the bars free, slow Wi-Fi and began working.
He opened three different pages: london.crowdcam.org, socialposter.com and
maps.google.co.uk. At the bar, the blond resorted to throwing beer mats like shuriken
towards the barman. She punctuated each toss of cardboard with swearwords she

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decided were good enough to reuse. Trying to ignore the increasing drama, Shaun began
working on the maps page. He worked out the route the taxi took from Kings Cross to
the pub and Jim agreed. Once he had an idea of what streets Jim had passed and at what
time, he moved on to the camera streaming website.
The Wi-Fi dropped. Shaun banged the table.
Everything okay? Jim asked.
Shaun responded with a nod and a raised hand.
He clicked open the available hotspots and began highlighting each to check the
encryption. Near the bottom of the list he found one marked CG-Guest with nothing but
WEP blocking access.
The blond screamed so loudly that Shaun tilted on his chair in shock. With one
final swing of her bag, which again the bartender ducked, she turned and bounced out of
the bar. The scene over, Shaun tried to reconnect to the bars Wi-Fi. It reconnected and
he quickly logged into his old Cloud Drive. Scrolling to the bottom he found a file
named Free_Dom 1.2.4.exe and downloaded it to Jims drive. A second after the file
completed the Wi-Fi dropped again.
He ran Free_Dom 1.2.4.exe. A small visual basic window opened showing the
same list of hotspots from earlier and a button with a key decorated with a skull. Shaun
scrolled to the bottom of the list, highlighted CG-Guest and then pressed the skeletonkey button. A terminal screen popped open and a string of pre-set commands began
running. After 37 seconds, the window closed and a dialog box opened showing he was
connected to CG-Guest. Next to him, Jim shook his head and smiled.
The camera website refreshed five times faster than it had on the bars
connection. Before the riots, London had only a handful of crowd-sourced webcams

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pointing towards the streets, but since then the number increased to almost outnumber
the governments. London had always been the city with the most CCTV cameras and
now its residents were doing the job themselves.
Shaun opened four streams at a time, each in a separate tab. As he right-clicked
the fourth link, the first tab finished loading. He closed the feeds that pointed at
unconnected roads or had the wrong angle and moved on to the next before opening
four new tabs. It took seven tries before he found a camera that was both looking at the
road and had the facility to watch previous footage. He scanned through the recording,
grateful for high-speed Wi-Fi, and found the taxi after sliding past it twice.
Bloody hell, thats it, Jim said pointing at the screen. Whats the licence
plate? Ill call the company.
It wont help. Theyll force you to go through all the procedures and itll take a
while. We need to get in touch with the driver directly.
The doors to the bar were thick oak with hinges a centimetre thick steel, but the
force they swung open with made both the metal and wood sound close to breaking.
The man entering looked like a punk version of an American wrestler. Before his
shoulders finished arriving in the room his stare had already found the bartender. Shaun
looked towards the bar. The cocky bearing of the bartender was now a picture of a man
ready to puke in his mouth with fear. After a rabbit-like moment, he found his flight
response and spun towards the door leading to the back room. The punk pounded after
him.
This place is really going downhill, eh, Jim said.
No shit.

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Shaun pressed PrtScn and took a screenshot of the taxi with the plates showing
and uploaded it to his Google account. Now he moved onto socialposter.com. Logging
into twenty social networks at once, all under old pseudonyms from his reporting days,
he typed a short message asking for help to find the taxi and the case with a link to the
screen shot. Four-minutes and twenty seconds from when he clicked on the first tab his
requests for help were scurrying through the social networks.
What happens now? Jim asked.
Now we drink beer.
That was amazing to see Shaun. I knew you were good but I remember that
front page you had about whats-his-name?
Sanders, Shaun replied.
Yeah that bastard, now I can begin to see why you were the one to find him.
Im glad you remember; nobody else does, Shaun clicked open a new email,
but it was just from an old contact happy to see one of his accounts back online. What
you been doing anyway, still in Japan?
Screaming echoed from the back of the bar. Shaun guessed it was a mans
scream, but the high-pitch it reached made him squirm in his seat. Jim made to go back
there, but Shaun stopped him, if you want to make your flight, best not to get
involved.
With a conflicted frown Jim relaxed onto his stool.
You know George has his own school, eh? Jim said, cringing at another squeal
from the back.
George? Kids teacher George?

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Yeah that guy, Jim replied. Hes got a pretty big one in Tachikawa and a
small kids school near Nakano. Hes got lots of stuff going on: got funding from some
foundation or something. Im at the kids school, but Im in London helping him do
some recruiting.
Free travel, sounds like a good gig, Shauns voice was louder now in an effort
to drown out the crashes and pleas to stop from the other room. A couple stood and left
the bar leaving a half-eaten lunch. From behind them, the kitchen door opened and a
middle-aged chef came out clutching a medium-sized knife. Shaun checked another
email response, but it was just from someone who had seen the taxi thirty minutes ago.
The chef looked into the back room, took a step back before turning and heading back
to the kitchen. The smashing and screaming continued.
Anyway, listen, youre good at this stuff, Jim said trying not to look towards
the bar.
What stuff?
Computers, finding things, finding people, again Jim glanced towards the door
behind the bar as pottery smashed.
Shaun opened his hands and raised his shoulders in a modest shrug.
Well, Jim said, George might have some work for you.
Teaching? Im not sure I could do that again.
No, something else, to do with this foundation that he got funding off.
The chef came back out of the kitchen, this time clutching a phone. He walked
over to the door to the back room and began shouting that he was speaking to the police
and they were on their way.

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You should leave before the police come or youll spend the rest of the day
giving witness reports, Shaun said.
Jim nodded, but I need that bag.
Shaun rechecked for replies, but nothing important had arrived. By the rear door,
the punk came storming back out knocking into the chef. With reflexes belaying his
years the chef reached out and grabbed the bar just-in time to stop himself slamming to
the floor. Banging across the pub, blood dripping from his knuckles, the punk left.
The computer beeped as another email came through. Shaun clicked it open. It
was from the taxi-drivers sister who said her brother had the briefcase.
Weve found it. Do you have a mobile with you? Shaun asked
Yes, give me second. Shaun, thank you.
Shaun sent a reply with the number and minutes later the driver called to arrange
to meet Jim with the briefcase.
Its lucky I gave him such a good tip eh, Jim said after hanging up the phone,
listen Im going to have to get going. Here, get the next round on me. If theres anyone
to serve you.
Thanks, Shaun took the twenty from Jim having lost the vanity to refuse free
beer.
And this: my card. I dont know the details, but after what I just saw you have
my recommendation. If youre interested, send me an email or call me.
Thanks Jim, but, Shaun turned the card over in his hands, thanks.
Anyway, good luck mate, Jim glanced at his watch, less than fifteen minutes.
A new record, eh, he said shaking Shauns hand with the enthusiasm of a fan meeting
an idol.

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Most of the other customers left as Shaun started on Emilys beer. There was no
sign of the police and Shaun guessed the chef lied. With the business card twirling
between his fingers, Shaun stared at a large copy of Moulin de la Galette by Van Gogh
hanging above the door. The mixed browns of the people milling around the classical
windmill were offset by the cerulean sky. It was a striking contrast that sucked him
towards the blanketed blue. The skys cracked texture hinted at storms coming or gone.
But despite the 19th century setting of the painting, Shaun saw the neon lights of Tokyo
in the gaps between the pigments. He needed a new start, but Japan offered only the
nostalgia of an old one. In his twenties, his time there helped define his future, but it
was naive to imagine it could do the same again. And yet, as he finished Emilys beer,
the regrets of the past were more like refuge than a venture in an unknown direction.
Shaun turned over Jims business card and looked at the email address.

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Neill R Bell-Shaw

3. Timothy - Japan, Tokyo

Behind the soothing melody of Dusty singing like a tunnel that you follow, to a tunnel
of its own the synthesised cackles and beeps of the Akihabara district of Tokyo raged
like the electronic moans of dying machines. Timothy tried to breath. Like a door that
keeps revolving, in a half forgotten dream. Neon flashed, blinked and pulsed beyond
the lenses of his glasses making it difficult to see. He coughed and wheezed as he
walked with his eyes averting the intense crowds of the streets. He knew this was a test:
a hurdle like those faced by the heroes of Greek plays.
Or the ripples from a pebble, someone tosses in a stream. A girl dressed in
frills and lace tried handing him a flier. Timothy put his head down to avoid her. The
back streets were intermittent cast-offs shops, with computer-junk boxes outside,
nestled between model boutiques containing garish statues in lewd poses. Negative
words like junk, used or sale were written in English burrowed between cute
Japanese print on coloured cards. Timothy pushed or dodged past middle-aged men in
cheap clothes clutching bags of expensive, animation-related tat or chatting to girls in
felt-tip-pen-coloured, cotton dresses that revealed underage skin. Every few shops, a
meat counter or curry shop served quick, 400-yen meals for busy shoppers, making the
place reek of sizzling kebabs, sweat and desperation.
Two streets from the station, the crowds surged around a shop selling limited
edition statues. Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head. Grown
men were pushing one another to get to the front as a member of staff yelled in
Japanese. The monotone yell downed out the next line of the song. Timothys bones
itched. Sweat oozed down his forehead. An overweight man carrying a shoulder bag

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knocked him towards the crowd. He was almost in there, among the mass of bodies and
stench, but he knocked another man out of the way and ran towards a side street.
Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand? He focused on
the words. His legs were like another persons, his understanding of vertical and
horizontal were disjointed causing him to sway in diagonal movements and his veins
pulsed like the blood wanted to escape. He closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in
her voice. Half remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong?
The side street was almost empty. The disk: he focused on it as well as the
voice. He could see it lit up in the blackness behind his eyelids. You were suddenly
aware. His legs returned. That the autumn leaves were turning to the colour of his
hair.
He opened his eyes.
In front of him was a small tool shop, the place he had been looking for. There
was a hiss of silence on the tape as the song cut off and then faded in from the
beginning again. Round: like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel. Timothy
took a long slow breath and walked into the tiny shop.

The plastic bag containing the tools swung from Timothys hand. To avoid mingling
with the worst of the crowds, he took the long way to the next shop. Sweat matted his
hair and he was wheezing again. Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the
minutes of its face. He passed the test. That was always how it was in the stories: a
collection of hurdles for the protagonist to overcome. But he knew the next one would
be tougher than the last.

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He arrived at the building and gazed up at five floors of obscenities and

immorality slipped between video arcades, mobile-phone shops and maid cafes. Outside
a rail proffered short Chinese-style dresses and feather boas. The first floor continued
the theme with hangers dangling fetishized Asian clothing.
Like the circles that you find, in the windmills of your mind.
He squeezed his hands into fists and stepped forwards. All manner of
perversions adorned the shelves of the next three floors: sexual aids, costumes, gels and
objects Timothy neither understood nor contemplated. Like a tunnel that you follow, to
a tunnel of its own. It took him ten minutes to find the handcuffs, but every minute was
an agonizing incursion on his soul.
Just as he paid for two pairs of the pink fluff-covered handcuffs - they had no
other style - a teenage, Japanese girl entered. Like a door that keeps revolving, in a half
forgotten dream. She looked around the same age as Timothy, but short and petite.
Black thigh-length socks finished just before tiny denim shorts, leaving two inches of
skin exposed. A tight white T-shirt, with a cute anime character, revealed the contours
of her breasts. Her dyed-brown hair was short and she walked with subtle, introverted
steps that made the whole look more alluring.
Timothy stared at that gap between her knee socks and her shorts: pale skin with
the texture of mixed oil paints. Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in
your head. It started in his feet: a spasm that ran through the bones in his legs. Why
did summer go so quickly? His crotch began to throb. Was it something that you
said? Her lips were full and red as she smiled towards him.
Nausea jumped to his throat.

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Timothy pushed passed the girl and the contact hastened the onset of vomit.
Lovers walk along a shore. He choked it back until he got to the street. Outside he
coughed up sick and bile on to the pavement. And leave their footprints in the sand.
People moved around him trying to look anywhere but at Timothy. He heaved again and
his throat began to sting as stomach acids singed the membrane protecting it. Is the
sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand? No food remained, but still
his chest and stomach pushed bile and acid to the surface.
Clutching his plastic bag in his right hand, he kept himself standing by pushing
his left against the side of the shop. He stumbled around the corner. Half-remembered
names and faces, but to whom do they belong? The movement occupied his mind,
stemming the waves of nausea, and he took slow, deep breaths. Again, he thought of the
disk. Again, he focused on the emails and their encouragement. When you knew that it
was over. White specks hung in front of his vision and his hands felt weak. He took
more deep breaths, more slow steps. The white specks began to dissipate, but his hands
felt numb and unfamiliar in scale. That the autumn leaves were turning. His stomach
was still delicate, but the urge to vomit subsided. To the colour of her hair. After five
minutes, he bought a bottle of water from one of the vending machines. He was shaken,
but no longer dizzy. After thirty minutes, he was well enough to get on to the train back
to his hotel.
As the Yamanote bobbed towards Shinagawa, he watched Tokyo pass by
through the windows. Never ending or beginning, on an ever spinning reel. Millions
of lights representing the lives of people shuttled by and blurred into insignificance as
he passed them. Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon. He reached
out his hand and waved it across the sky to extinguish the lights. They remained but that

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would change soon enough. Kenji was out there, amongst the neon, waiting. Timothy
reached into his plastic bag and stroked the box containing his fifteen-inch Korin knife.

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