"Ah, so you're going to the old geisha house?'
'Geisha house?" Jeannie and Patrick shouted.
The ancient taxi driver swerved into the middle of the road. The two siblings clung to their seats for dear life.
"Hey! Don't scare me like that," the old man snapped, "I have a weak heart."
"Sorry," Jeannie said, "But...err...it's not still a geisha house, is it?"
"No, no, no," he wheezed, "Shut down years ago once the woman who owned it died."
"Twenty years ago by any chance?" Patrick asked.
The old man nodded and shot him a questioning look from the rear-view mirror.
"Looks like Granny was a pimp," Patrick laughed.
"Actually, geisha aren't prostitutes," she corrected him, "But aren't they supposed to live in districts? Why would there be a single house in the middle of the city?"
Jeannie turned to the old man for an answer. He laughed nervously.
"Well, actually, when you say they weren't prostitutes, these particular women were. The place itself just happened to be called 'The Geisha House'."
Jeannie's face turned as red as the highlights in her hair.
"I've inherited a brothel," she groaned, "Nice to know Granny had high expectations of me."
Turning away from her hysterical brother, she looked out at the city. It was like all the others she had been to. An endless river of people flowed through the concrete grid of streets and back alleys. Hooded youths scrawled graffiti over boarded up shops while street vendors pawned their wares. As the taxi trundled onwards, dilapidated buildings transformed into skyscrapers, white clouds reflecting off their great glass panes.
Jeannie felt a serious case of de ja vu coming on. Her heart sank in her chest. She remembered the promise she had made to her parents when she revealed that she wasn't going to sell the inherited building.
I swear this will be my last move, the words echoed in her head.
However, in a year, maybe less, she would most likely be back in her old bedroom looking at a paper white sky and realising how empty her life was. Then, another opportunity would come up in another city and she would uproot herself again.
Dark buildings loomed over them as they approached their destination. The sky darkened and began to drizzle.
"Well, there you have it," the old man turned and gave them a gummy smile.
Jeannie and Patrick leant squinted out the grimy window of the cab. The old wooden house looked out of place squeezed between two small concrete apartment blocks. It leaned slightly to the right and Jeannie bet if a strong wind blew she might well end up in Oz. She paid the old man while Patrick retrieved her suitcases.
The taxi disappeared around the corner. Patrick came to stand beside her on the curb, lighting up a cigarette.
"What a dump," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, "Thank god I'm going back home in a couple of days."
Jeannie ran her fingers through her hair and placed the mop back into the bucket, surveying her work. The moonlight pooled through the window and on to the spotless floorboards. It had taken them all day to make the house liveable but they had got there eventually. Patrick appeared at the doorway.
"The kitchen's all finished," he said, "How about some tea?"
"Sounds great," Jeannie smiled.
"Cool, I'm going out for a walk. Call me when it's ready."
Jeannie frowned and glared daggers at her brother's back. After she heard the front door close she sighed in defeat and dragged her sore feet to the kitchen.
Patrick moved through the technicoloured crowd. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open, surprised to see that the sender was Jeannie.
Don't buy anything.
He decided to ignore the message and reached into his jacket for his wallet. Nothing. He patted himself down, frantically searching every pocket.
"Fucking bitch," he spat.
A nearby woman gasped and hurried away.
"Sorry, I didn't mean-" Patrick turned round to call after her.
All of a sudden, he bumped into something and found himself lying on the gum peppered pavement.
"What the-?"
He looked up to see a man wearing a fur-lined parka. Maybe it was the lights coming from the various arcades and nightclubs or the choking smog or perhaps the man was just a bit of a freak but Patrick could have sworn his eyes were red. Beginning to get uncomfortable with those eyes drilling into him, Patrick stumbled to his feet.
Somewhere in the distance, a horse neighed. The crowd froze and turned.
A horse in the middle of Tokyo? Patrick thought, Impossible.
A black motorcycle emerged from the night air. Patrick heard murmurs of 'the black rider'.
"What's a black rider?"
"It's an urban legend. They say that it has no head."
It was the man with the red eyes who had answered. His voice was smooth and he had a smirk on his face that sent shivers up Patrick's spine.
"We have a legend like that back in Ireland. Except we call it a Dulahan."
Izaya started at the last word that rolled off the boy's tongue.
Interesting, he mused.