The Rhyme of a Nowhere Door

…We arrive…

We hover high in a starlit sky, below is a blackhole of diode light, for here lies a city shimmering bright, it splits the dark of an Earthly night.

And it’s a city vast, it sprawls far and wide, it’s a concrete tide, swamping with might, and it stifles the breath of Gaia’s life.

…We see the masses…  

We see the millions, we see the heave of the crowds that rove, it’s like a tempest, a raging storm, for we see the flood of labouring human souls.

…We listen…

We hear the sounds from those streets underneath, some clamour with yell, some shriek with grief…  

…For…

Police cars race, their sirens wail, they scream of crime, they tell of fate, for upon this night there are those who will never, again, know wake.  

…We observe…

Beacons swirl, they blind the sight, they startle the onlookers who wonder with fright.

…When…  

A piercing screech tears through our ears, brakes squeal, wheels lock, tyres skid, rubber burns, and the air is perfumed with acrid fumes.

…We watch...

A dart of police cars stab to a halt, they arrive at a tower, a karaoke tower, and it’s a tower taut with horror fraught.

Car doors swing wide, the police alight, they dash to that tower that soars high, they burst in through the sliding doors, and into reception that rush of officers pour.

…But there…

There they are met with a deathly hush, no one speaks, no smile is seen, for, concern only, here is deemed.

One is lost, one can’t be found, her name is Ka-Zay, and now the questioning starts.  

…But…

 Of Ka-Zay’s fate, no one knows, for nobody saw, so nothing is told.

…And hence…

It is theories, alone, that are, now, guessed at, proffered, and proposed.

…From the stars, we descend…

 
*****

 We land on the streets of a city that reels, we drift on the breeze like autumn leaves, and we pass like the air, whispering, ghostly, ethereal, unseen.

…We stop, we stand, we watch…  

A haste of crowds jostle on by, they race for beer, they thirst for wine, for now is the time to drown their strife and to sink those binds of office life.

…We observe this river of rush…

Shoulders barge and shoulders bash, they crash like rapids upon rocks dashed.

…Yet…

We hear no curse, we see no glares, no fists are raised, no challenges are dared, for here, ‘hush,’ is the way to make it through a peaceful day.

…And all the while…

Sweet moonlight shines, it kisses our cheeks, it soothes the mind, while a toll of bells gently chime ringing out their midnight rhyme.

…The clock strikes 12…

 
*****

 Now we see stumble, now we see fall as whiskey stirs and vision blurs, for now, all dignity has been lost, now, all etiquette is gone.

…And…

“It’s off to karaoke. It’s on to song!”

…But…  

Beware these hours of heady throng as senses lost can come at a deadly cost.

…For…

Sat nearby, on wooden crates, we see the ‘Two,’ as they place their bets, one is named ‘Life’ the other is ‘Death,’ the dice is thrown, the die rolls, we watch as the numbers topple and fall.

The dice stop, the totals show and the dice decides who will live and who will die in the passing of this night.   

And anon the dawn will yawn, yet for some their sleep is deep, it’s a sleep as never known before, it’s a sleep that finds the world no more.

…Office clerks pass us by…

…The men…

All are suited and neatly pressed, their ties are sharp and firmly fixed, they grip fast around their necks, top buttons aren’t shown, so all is in check.

…The women…

Their skirts cling tight, they restrict their stride, and their high heels clatter like gun shots fired, for office-wear is office pride.

…And…

 We hear the clamour of drunken banter as this mass of life hauls its way in a bid for solace to end their day.

…Yet…

That which we see is often forced, the gaiety and smiles are often without choice.

…For…

When the boss says, “we’re off to a bar,” then the team follows, no questions are asked, for, here the company is a god, and the manager’s voice is the voice of a lord.

…We wonder at the ways of this world, when…

 
*****

 We pass by an electronics shop, a TV displays, a documentary is screened, World War II is being portrayed, we pause, we stop, we watch.

Japan lays down its warring arms, Japan will fight no more and in the land of the rising sun an age of peace dawns.

…The scene changes. Mitsubishi corporation is screened…

 
*****

 Mitsubishi, once, a tool of war, in battle their planes had roared and soared, it was a sight of mighty brutal awe.

Their guns had blazed, their bombs had razed, and those below raced away, they took to flight, fleeing that ruthless military blight.

…But, Japan’s defeat finally came…

Their slaughtered cities ended their campaigns, their machines of war became outlawed, and hence, Mitsubishi warred no more.

…A new moon arose…

In the heavens the stars glowed, the world had turned and overnight, for Japan, the most dramatic of events had occurred. 

The sun had set on those battling days and Mitsubishi Corp. went through a rapid change, now, peacetime goods, alone, became the company’s sole legal trade.

…Hence…

‘Barracks,’ became ‘company homes,’ the ‘sergeants’ were now ‘managers,’ and ‘soldiers,’ were titled as, ‘employees,’ but the militia strictures didn’t cede.

A soldier is a soldier 24-hours-a-day, and for new recruits it’s much the same. when the manager says, “tonight, we drink!” then no one gives complaint, the team all bow, they all obey. 

The documentary ends, a song plays, “We’ll follow the old man wherever he wants to go, wherever he wants to go, wherever he wants to go…”

…We drift onto a midnight train…

 
*****

 Out of the city, it rocks its way, and for these commuters it’s the end of their day.

…We gaze…

We see those faces, furrowed and strained, and alcohol reeks, from breath it seeps, the smell repels, it’s thick, it’s stale and it makes us wince with every inhale.

…Observe…

The carriage is long, it stretches far, commuters are slumped and drained and drunk, we see the remains of a day of bane, this, a Tokyo commuter train.

…When…

 
*****

 A smartphone slips from a dozing hand, it strikes the floor, it clatters aloud, and those nearby, awake, their senses fire with ire. 

…And hence…

Eyes of wrath flare with scorn, for rest is broken by a downed phone, and the culprit, ashamed, he looks away, he retrieves his phone in an act of haste.  

He tucks it away into a safer place, quickly, he shuts his eyes, perhaps to sleep, perhaps hide.  

…Then there are those standing…

 
*****

 Bereft of a seat, they cling the grips that hang from metallic ceiling beams.

Some stand awake, some stand asleep as the train jolts, snaking, rocking, and throwing back-and-forth.

Here we see a carriage in slumber, here we see a comatose tomb, but it’s no more than brief respite from those hours of strictures of working blight.  

This is a forty-year plough, it’s a plough to dig, it’s a plough to sew, it’s a plough to pay for debts owed.

            …The clock strikes, it’s, 1am…

 
*****

 The bedraggled stagger, they reach their homes, they pitch, they roll, their balance is thrown, for alcohol swirls through their beer filled worlds.

They slump to their beds, their dreams are deep, for some it’s Heaven, for others it’s Hell and, alas, for some it’s the realm of the final resting knell.

But that flicker of rest is soon passed, for the lark doth cry as the morn doth rise and that time of sleep and peace doth die.

…Daytime strikes… 

 
*****

 Alarms chime, the weary stir, heads pain, neurons burn, for some it’s 4, for others it’s 5, and for some it’s the regret of waking life.

… Routine returns… 

 
*****

The masses. they rise, they shower, they bath, they soap, they dry, their hair is styled, make-up applied, then they groom, they spray, they gel, and, lastly, a mirror-inspection is held.

If a strand of hair is out of place, it’s pulled, it’s tightened, it’s ironed straight.

…For…

 ‘Immaculation,’ is a company rule, ‘Immaculation!’ the mark of a professional corporation!  

…It’s 6:30am, and we’re stood at a station…

 
*****

 This place is a labyrinth, it’s huge, it’s vast, and here commuters weave, scramble, and dart.

They swarm through tunnels, long and dark, they reach the platforms, narrow and stark, as here, the everyday crush starts.

The trains arrive, their doors spring wide and a deluge of bodies surge inside.

We see the desperate, they dash for a seat, for their need is to sit, to forget, and to sleep

‘One more hour of shut-eyed bliss,’ this is the daily commuters’ wish.

And the millions who take to these packed trains are induced into a system of daily stress and strain.

…And, we hear…

Announcements and adverts bellow and vie, they scream wild, they battle aloud, achieving a cacophony of garbled, incomprehensible, blasting sound.

…We move on… 

…We emerge in an office…

We see an eye-stretching floor, it houses a hundred workstations or more, and on every desk is a glowing screen, and at each screen there sits its slave who slowly wilts and gradually wanes.

And these hours pass in a deluge of key-tapping repetitive tasks, so, necks cripple, backs ache, and all yearn for the weekend’s break.

…When…

A message pops up upon the screen, it reads…

‘Tonight, we’ll head for a bar, for drink is how good friends are made, and that will help our work and our trade!’ …well… this is as the team-leader claims.

And another night of drunken torture, with raucous laughter being the rule, is, yet again, due.

…Therefore…

Those night-time smiles are often feigned, they’re just to please their managers, those, the vain.  

…And the result… 

Energy seeps, motivation drains, ambitions drown with life mundane and those once youthful goals and dreams, they come to shuddering cease.

“Last weekend, what did you do?”

“Oh, me? I just stayed in bed and slept. How about you?”

“Yeah, me too, I did much the same.” 

Such is the trauma under a state of following military-like orders.

…Midnight arrives…

*****

 We’re back on the boozy streets again, and all in all it’s much the same as it was on the night the we first came.

Voices roar, they scream with cheer, for their minds are filled with sake and beer, and their time for song grows nears.

…We enter into a karaoke tower…

 
*****

 The building is old, half a century or more and into the clouds this sparkle of light soars.

It’s open all night, it’s open all day, it sells cheap drink, it serves cheap food, and its packed with stacks of karaoke rooms.  

…We take the elevator...

 
*****

A button is pressed, the lift ascends, it creaks, it yawns, it rattles, it halts.

The doors swing wide, a party alights, students perhaps, all eager to get to their karaoke mics.

But now their hunt is on. Where is their chamber of song?

They walk along the lofty 6^th floor, it booms with sound and raucous throng, for, in every room, a rowdy rumble roars on.

…We follow….

Arrows direct, they aim the way, they point to the left and they point to the right, door numbers are read, they’re counted off until, at last, they find their cell.  

The students respond with yelps of glee, for this is their haven, their night’s sanctuary, all are high, all are ready, for now it’s time to party.

…We enter into the karaoke cell…

*****

 It’s dark, it’s hollow, it’s designed for scream, it’s designed for holler, it’s designed for pop, it’s designed for soul, it’s designed for rowdy rock ‘n roll.

On tablet PCs, song lists display, this is where song choices are made. The tablets are tapped, Bluetooth relays then, out from the speakers, come musical-waves.

Mics are switched on, the mics are held, the singers await, then, on a large screen, lyrics appear.

…But first…

On the wall there hangs a phone and to the reception one occupant calls, “drinks for all,” he says with cheer, sake, highball, and a pitcher of beer!”

Soon, a waiter arrives, he’s weighed down by the order’s size, he steadies his tray, he stoops low, then he doles out the gilded brew.

With care he sets the drinks down, he turns, he leaves, he deeply bows, the table is now a sea of gold with heady liquids ready to flow.

Glasses are raised, “cheers!” ring out, and song and music boom around, some voices are high while others are low, and some croon, excruciatingly, out of tune.

Here we see a ceaseless rave that won’t abate until morning’s first rays…

 
*****

 The hours pass, more drink is consumed, nature calls, and one-by-one we see the youths take their leave, their need, the restrooms.

The drunk step out into that maze, that maze of lefts and rights, it’s a maze where all looks much the same, so, upon their return, many lose their way.

‘Did I come from here? Did I come from there? Or perhaps it was by those emergency stairs? My room, my room, where is my room?

…The digital clock pulses. It’s 3am… 

 
*****

 Long hours of drink and dance have passed, and the howls of the singers’ wane at last, fatigue has taken its natural toll on bodies fatigued with alcohol.

One friend, Ka-Zay, leaves the cell, she goes on her way for a toilet break.

She passes, unsteady, through long corridors, she stumbles, drunk, past rows and rows of uniformed hallway doors.

And back in the room of fading song, the strength of her friends has almost gone, so one girl texts to Ka-Zay, for, she wonders why she is still away.

 
*****

Time goes by, the mood is now quiet and, from Ka-Zay, there is no reply, her friends begin to question, ‘why?’.  

…So…

One of the friends taps her phone, she dials and she dials, but, from Ka-Zay, there is still no reply, a sad-faced emoji, alone, shows.

…And hence…

Fears begin to rise, “let’s go and find Ka-Zay,” the three girls decide, then, they take to the aisles.

*****

…We follow, we watch, we listen…  

The three concerned step out of that room, they check their bearings in that catacomb, for, here is architecture designed to confuse.  

We hear the howls, we see the drunk, they reel and roam, they stagger and shout.

We see the slumped, those lying down, their senses having long passed out.

…And this place…

It speaks of the myths of ancient Greece, perhaps the Minotaur, himself, here, might prey on those beleaguered and wandering, astray.  

…The powder room… 

*****

 The powder room is reached by the three, “Ka-Zay? Ka-Zay?” the friends call out, but all is still, there is no sound, Ka-Zay isn’t found.  

They try the floor below, they go to the floor upstairs, but Ka-Zay isn’t there.

…In fear, they abandon their cell of song…

 
*****

They all make for the ground floor, there, they race to the front desk, their frets are told, and then, the police are called.

*****

…The police arrive…

They hear of Ka-Zay’s unknown fate, they give the order, “evacuate,” and a mass exodus starts to takes place.  

All twenty floors are thoroughly searched, inch-by-inch and with meticulous care, but of Ka-Zay, there is no trace.  

The police ask for witness accounts, but no one responds, so, bafflement grows and now the case begins to confound.

 
*****

 …The online headlines read…

‘Did Ka-Zay just up and go, and if so, why doesn’t she answer her phone?’

‘How was Ka-Zay smuggled out? Didn’t anyone hear her scream or shout?’ 

 ‘Why was Ka-Zay the kidnapper’s choice, and has a hefty ransom been sought?’

 ‘On GPS nothing is shown, so, what has happened to Ka-Zay’s phone?’

 ‘Why didn’t anyone see? Where is the answer to this baffling mystery?’

…It’s time to move on. But before we go we take a last glance at that place of Ka-Zay’s disappearance… 

 
*****

 
We float along that 6^th floor hall, we view that restroom and its corridor, it’s short, it’s sparse, it’s barren, it’s bare, it’s a passageway seemingly leads to nowhere.

On the right is a door, a single door, it’s the entrance to the ladies’ room, and we ask ourselves, ‘is this really the last route that Ka-Zay took?’

The left-hand wall is blank and plain, no entrance or exit, there, can be gained.

The wall at the end is much the same, except for a life-sized portrait frame.

Whose painting had once stood there, we ask, and why was it taken away?

Bemused, we look and stare, ‘how did Ka-Zay disappear from this cramped space without leaving an inkling of a trace?’

…We ghost into the Police Ops Room…

*****
 

Here, searches are made for killers and thieves by zooming in on CCTV.

…We watch. The karaoke tower is seen…

First the lifts are checked, then the stairwells and exits too, next, the reception area displays, but Ka-Zay isn’t there.

Then, the night time streets are viewed, the bus-stops, the station, and the taxi rank queues, all are monitored and closely screened, but, still, Ka-Zay isn’t seen.

…Next, we see Ka-Zay’s final scene…

 
*****

 
Minute-by-minute views are shown of party-goers coming and going, we see some stumble, we see some fall, treading unsteady, along those lengthy halls.

…Ka-Zay appears…

She walks along that stretching 6^th-floor, she turns into that short corridor, no cameras, there, are placed, it’s an, unseen, dead-end space.

…So…

It can only be presumed that Ka-Zay entered into that lady’s powder room.

…We watch…

The video continues to roll, a stream of clientele come and go, the minutes pass, but, still, Ka-Zay doesn’t show.

…So…

The evidence is, seemingly, clear, Ka-Zay must still be there, somewhere near that final recorded scene.

…We take to our wings…

 
*****

 
We follow a returning forensics’ team, we arrive back at that perplexing site, and that tower, once electric bright, is now dark and ghostly quiet.

The karaoke cells have been left uncleaned, the stale of beer reeks through the air and taskforce search with meticulous care.

Ceiling, panels are taken down, one officer clambers up and in, his torchlight flares from left-to-right, he follows the proton beams, but, of Ka-Zay, nothing is seen.

The sewers are rodded, the cupboards are cleared, the tables are shifted, the sofas are lifted, yet, no hint of a clue is found of an act of a murder of that most foul.

…Now an officer, alone, guards that room…

 
*****

 
He paces, he pauses, on that short corridor, his thoughts are clearly deep, then he takes to his knees, and there, for evidence, he seeks.

He scours the synthetic carpet tiles, he lifts each one, he checks the underneath, but nothing new is found.

He stands, he sighs, he looks around, he views the stark hallway walls.

A single door is on the right, the wall on the left is blank, a portrait frame hangs at the end, and of a crime, there isn’t the slightest sign.

 …The building’s manager arrives… 

 
*****

 
            “Can I assist you?” he asks.  

            “Err… yes, before, did anyone disappear from here?”

            “Well, visitors do get lost, they’re often drunk, their senses are gone, but eventually they find their way and return to their place of song.”

            “And… the wall at the end, what happened to that? Was that portrait stolen, or scrapped, perhaps?

            “A portrait, sir?”

            “Yes, that canvas’s space is bare. Do you know what happened there?”

“Oh, no, sir, no, that’s not a portrait frame.”

            “No?”

“No, that’s an old air-vent, sir.”

“An air-vent?” 

“Yes, there was a time when such vents were used to cool the humidity that can boil through these windowless rooms.”

            “Is the vent still used?”

“No sir, no, now, air-conditioners do the job, of course.”

“How did those air vents work?”

“Simple, they were opened wide.”

“Opened wide? At these heights?”

“Yes, and the lofty, cooler, breezes gave some respite against the heat that is, today, Tokyo’s crushing blight.”  

“But… were they safe?”

“Yes, of course, they had slide grills that made shields, but now, on all floors, all the vents have been permanently sealed.”  

…The officer walked towards the air-vent…

*****

  Gently, he palmed against the frame, the frame gave way, a shard of light ripped in followed by a slicing wind.

The vent was caught, it flew wide, it whacked against the wall outside, and a shear fall, of 20-metres or more, met the policeman’s eyes.

A spring-hinge released, the aperture sped back, it smacked into place, and all was all as it was again.

The officer stumbled, he rocked back and forth, for a moment his balance was almost lost.

He reeled away, he shook with fear, his face paled, his blood had drained, “My word!” the manager gasped.

“Water, please.”

And the manager hurried away.

 
*****

The officer breathed and paused, with time his composure restored, then he dared towards the vent again.

 He spread his feet, he placed them wide, and he pressed one palm, firm, against the solid wall inside.

With his other hand he gripped the frame, and then, with the greatest of care, he opened that vent again.  

Another a strike of wind struck, it slapped, it whipped, it tugged, and it sucked.

The officer wrestled against that force and clung onto that frenzied, windswept, door.  

Icy blasts stifled and knifed, but the officer risked to lean out, he craned his neck, he stretched beyond that precipice edge, and there, he dared to looked down.

In a narrow alleyway, upon the ground, he spied a heap of crumpled clothes and a hand peered out from under that bundle holding a shattered smartphone.

Ka-Zay had been found.

*****

 In the heights of a drunken night, Ka-Zay had taken a wrong turn, she stepped out through a nowhere door, and a door that led to a deadly fall.  

 
*****

 And, it is said, ‘beware the that door opens and greets, for another slams shut and revenge it seeks.’

THE END

Bio: David Baresch has published with; Aphelion, The Telegraph media, XR-Hub, New Humanist, and Austin McCauley Publishers… David Baresch also Produces and publishes music videos.

E-mail: David Baresch

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