Kitsune
His online name was Kitsune. I remember asking him what it meant, when we first started chatting. "It's Japanese for fox," he said, and I remember thinking Oh God, not another animé geek. You know the type - goes around calling people baka or -chan, and has an obsession with their favourite large-boobed cartoon character. I don't get the fascination, and whenever someone starts talking in pigeon-Japanese, I just switch off. 'Kitsune' kept on talking though. "They're mythological creatures in Japan," he said, which almost made it worse. Animé freaks who pretend to know about the culture are the worst kind.
I learned later that his real name was Tom, plain and boring as it is. The only reason I kept talking to him in the first place though, was because he started to talk about a Neil Gaiman story involving kitsune. I suffer from the idea that if someone reads Neil Gaiman, then they can't be that bad.
We realised we both lived in the same city, not far from each other. He, however, had the misfortune of going to an all-boys school. That's what he said, at least, and when I think back, I realise I had no idea whether or not that was the truth. Like they always say - anyone who claims to be teenaged over the internet are really 70 year old paedophiles. My friend Susie once told me that that's wrong - they're not really paedophiles. Paedophiles prey on prepubescents, she said. Old guys who get off on teenage girls are ebelophiles. Susie knows that sort of useless information.
Susie was the one who warned me against meeting Tom the first time. I had a crush on him then, the way you do. We'd exchanged photos, and Susie agreed he was cute. Then she spoiled my mooning by informing me he probably didn't look anything like that.
So, anyway, the first time we agreed to meet up, I didn't show. I later claimed spontaneous grounding, for breaking into my Dad's gin. I did no such thing, of course - I've always hated the taste of alcohol - but Tom didn't know that. "Another time?" he said, and asked how long I was grounded for.
"Long time," I said, "My parents can be very unreasonable." He accepted that so nicely it just made me more infatuated. He was my perfect guy, you know? Charming, well-read, absolutely gorgeous. I used to fantasise about marrying him, but got stuck when I realised I didn't know his last name. I always insisted I'd take my husband's surname - Susie calls me old-fashioned. But that's hard to imagine when you don't know your dream-husband's last name.
A few months later, he suggested meeting up again. My crush was so huge by then that I ignored Susie's good advice, and said yes. We arranged to meet outside Wellington Central, after school on a Wednesday. I didn't tell Susie I was going, or she would've insisted on coming with me.
So I ended up waiting alone outside the public library with my copy of The Dream Hunters tucked under my arm. It was beginning to rain, and I was cold. I thought he wasn't going to show, when I noticed another copy of The Dream Hunters lying on the ground, beside a pillar and getting wet.
When I opened it, I saw someone had drawn a map on the inside front cover, very neat in black ink, and underneath it was written, "Be bold." I know better now, but I thought then it was exciting, like something out of Amelie, and followed the map.
I figured out the path he'd drawn on was just a complicated way of getting to what I call the Ship Bridge. It has another name, undoubtedly, but I've called it that since I was little. I made my way there quickly, following my own route. It was raining harder, and I put the books in my bag so they wouldn't get wet.
I was a bit stuck when I got to the bridge - I'd expected he'd be waiting there, but it was empty. The rain was raining harder still, but I looked around, and I found the next book in one of the little cubbies that lines the bridge. It was a book on English fairy tales, and there was another map in the cover. I can't think how long it must've taken him to draw those maps - they were so detailed. And underneath the map, he'd written, "Be bold, be bold." So, in my best bold fashion, I followed the map along to Te Papa. There was a little arrow on the map that said fourth floor, so I ran up the stairs. I knew there was an exhibition going on then on Japanese fashion, and I thought maybe he was going to take me. It was ridiculously naive. But the whole thing was ridiculously naive.
I looked around for him when I got there, but I couldn't see him. Or at least, I couldn't see anyone who matched the photos he'd sent me.
But there was another Neil Gaiman book, and another map. This one pointed to Chaffer's Park, and read underneath, "Be bold, be bold, but not too bold." If I'd read the book, perhaps I wouldn't have been so stupid as to keep being bold. But I hadn't, and so I went along to Chaffer's Park. The weather was really miserable by then, but I slumped along anyway. If there was another book, I thought, it would be soaked through.
When I got there, the first thing I noticed was the number of policemen. I tried to sidle past, but one stopped me. "Crime scene," he said, and I nodded and backed off. I admit I was starting to get scared. What sort of a message was, "Be bold, be bold, but not too bold"? I didn't know, but I didn't like it. I began to think I should've listened to Susie. I decided it would be best if I just went home, caught the bus, and blocked Tom from my chat program. This was getting too creepy.
Then I saw the poster plastered upon a lamppost, with another map, and went over sighing. This one read, "Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, or else your life's blood shall run cold." I really freaked then. I must've screamed, because one of the policemen came over. I pointed to the poster, and showed him the books. "I was supposed to be meeting a friend," I said, or I think I said - I was gabbling. The policeman nodded. He took me seriously, and one of the officers drove me to the police station on Victoria Street. Someone was going to check it out, he said. I got a hot chocolate, and a lecture on the dangers of meeting people over the internet.
Whoever'd followed the map rang not long after. They'd found another body. I started to really freak then - I started to cry, and the officer dithering over me just made it worse. I hyperventilated. I'd hyperventilated before, but never so badly as I did that day. I really thought I was going to pass out. I could feel all the nerves in my fingers and arms - that's what it felt like, at least. I tried to hold my breath, to calm myself down, but whenever I let myself start breathing again, I'd just breathe too fast. Someone got me a glass of water, and that helped. They got me to stand up, but I fell back on the seat and spilt the water.
There was another map, the policeman had said, and they'd find the person, they were sure of it. "Tom," I said, "His name is Tom." And then I got worse thinking I didn't even know if that was his real name. Hyperventilating like that... it's not nice. They got me to calm down, eventually, and told me my parents were coming down. But that just started me up again. The officer was really getting exasperated then - but I couldn't help it. I just couldn't stop, try as I might. I couldn't just stop breathing either, though I felt I wanted to.
Mum arrived then, and hugged me. I'd thought seeing her might stop me hyperventilating, but I didn't, and I really did faint. When I came 'round, they said they'd found him waiting. They said his name really was Tom. Tom Fox. I laughed when they said that, horrid as it was. He'd killed himself, they said, when he saw them. That shut me up. He'd had a knife, and he had a gun, and when he saw them, he just shot himself.
I thought I'd hyperventilate again. I didn't. I started crying again though, properly. I felt so weak, I shouldn't have thought such a thing was possible. But it was, and I cried for so long. I thought I'd been in love with Tom, see. Maybe I really had been. But he was dead. I went to his funeral, and didn't tell his parents, pale-faced and crying, who I was. I didn't even tell my parents that I'd gone. They really did ground me then.
There's some sort of inquiry, and I'm supposed to give evidence. I don't want to. I'm writing this instead, because I really don't want to. How'm I supposed to give evidence against Tom? I thought I was in love with him.
But then, I thought too that I'd known him. I know now that I was wrong.
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A/N: This story was originally published in Re-Draft 3, ed. Alan Bunn and James Norcliffe, in 2003.