Yoshiwara

Windows of the Soul

"I got a job for you."

I recognised the rasping quality of the voice on the phone. It had haunted me for years. "Alright, sheriff." I took a deep breath. "Where is it?"

"The barn."

My stomach gave a nervous shiver and my voice trembled in sympathy. "It's not - ."

"Don't take too long." There was a nasty chuckle from the far end of the line. "And I hope you haven't eaten yet."

Bastard. I put down my sandwich and tried not to look at the strips of meat and half-eaten salad dangling from the bread. "Nossir."

"Good."

The line went dead.

I drove my truck down the track that led to the barn. It was out in the middle of nowhere, about a half-hour drive out of town. Old-growth trees surrounded the barn, and anyone passing by wouldn't see anything until they were right in front of it. Even then, the sun-bleached wood of the walls was the same colour as the ground, as the bark on the trees, sometimes even the sky above. It was a place that did not want to be found and had tried to hide itself from the world.

The sheriff's car was parked just in front of the barn door. I pulled up next to it and got out.

"At last. What kept you?" The sheriff was standing in the shade of a nearby tree.

"Sorry," I said.

The sheriff looked me up and down. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses - aviator-style frames with large, silvered lenses that stood out against his pale skin and dust-coloured uniform. "Alright," he said at last. "C'mon."

I followed him into the barn. The dry air was tainted with a hint of copper, the reek of ammonia and the sweet stench of corruption. Hanging from a rope slung over a beam was the body of a young man. His body turned gently on the rope. I looked away quickly, trying not to see his face. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old.

"Goddammit sheriff!"

The sheriff put a hand on my shoulder. "Thought you'd a-been used to it by now. You know, become inured."

I shook my head. "Like hell! I've still got a soul."

"We can fix that anytime," the sheriff chuckled. "Won't take long. Then you won't care."

I pulled away from the clawed hand hand and turned to face the sheriff. I could see my face reflected in his glasses: it was full of fear, disgust and ... . I closed my eyes. "Sheriff," I said.

"What?"

"I don't want to do this no more. I can't. It - it's wrong."

"What's wrong?"

I turned to look at the corpse swinging on its rope, with its torn clothing, exposed flesh and - . No. I couldn't look at the face, at what I knew had been done to it. I turned back to the sheriff. "That," I said. "Nobody deserves that."

"Deserves what?" The sheriff walked past me and grabbed the body, stopping its motion. "This was a suicide, see?" he said in a gentle voice.

"No it was not! I know it wasn't! And so do you!" I tried to control my temper, tried to stop myself from shouting. My face was reflected in the mirrored lenses gain. This time, it was contorted in fury.

"Son." The sheriff reached up, taking his sunglasses off slowly and deliberately. I looked away, frightened at what wasn't there. "Who you going to believe? Me, or your lyin' eyes?"