by T. M. Parris
“Goodness. Yes, they might.”
“It wouldn’t take much to work out which are your primary contacts – Fiona, the house line, and so on. If they monitor who’s calling those numbers and you call them from an unidentified phone in Japan…”
“Heavens. You think they’ll do that? Track phone numbers back in the UK? But that means they know where we live as well!”
“Wait a minute, James. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But given what you’ve said, it may be a precaution not to contact anybody right now. Until we can find out more.”
He looked deflated.
“Good idea to get a burner phone, though,” she said. “Then give me the number so I can contact you. Don’t phone me directly. Call the British Embassy and leave a message there. Tim Gardner’s the name you need to use. He’ll pass it on and I’ll contact you.”
“Rose, are these people really dangerous, do you think?”
“No idea. We need to find out. I’ll ask around. What did Mirai say about herself? Anything we can use to identify her?”
“Well, hah! You could say that.”
“What does that mean?”
“It appears she dresses up as manga characters. Took me a while to realise. I thought she just liked to be flamboyant. But there’s a theme to it all, it turns out.”
“You’re hiding from someone who dresses up as characters out of a comic book?”
“It’s quite a big thing, Rose. Especially in these parts. She mentioned some park. What was it? Yogi, something like that. Bit of a shindig every weekend, she said. They all get their togs on and parade about.”
“Right. Any way I could pick her out of a crowd of similarly dressed manga nerds?”
He looked doubtful suddenly. “I say, you’re not going to – approach her, are you? Not sure about that as a tactic.”
“No, I just think it might be useful to find out more about her, that’s all. I might get a glimpse of who she hangs out with.” She could follow her, as well – was quite good at it, actually, though she couldn’t give too much away to her brother.
James described her three outfits, red, yellow and pink, in impressive and slightly disturbing detail. “Of course she may have a different costume for every week of the year,” he added.
“Well, I’ll take photos, see if we can find her. If you’re not going home you should probably stay here for now, out of harm’s way. Keep a low profile.” She cast an eye over his clothing. “Try and fit in.”
“Righty-ho.” He sounded like she’d just sent him down to the shop to buy a pint of milk.
“Which particular cupboard are you staying in? It’s one of these capsule hotels, is it?”
He told her where it was and they hugged, a little less awkwardly than before.
“Well, thanks and all that,” he said. “Appreciate it. Hope I haven’t put you to a lot of trouble.”
He seemed smaller suddenly. Scared. This was all way outside his comfort zone. More than that – having done nothing out of the ordinary, his life as he knew it seemed in danger of vanishing. Rose hoped she was reassuring enough. But this was outside her comfort zone as well. She needed to focus and get to grips with this place, fast. Her brother needed her.
Chapter 13
An unhappy Takao trailing behind, Fairchild climbed through a hedge, ran across four lanes of traffic (brakes were applied but no horns), scrambled over a wire fence and slid down a concrete embankment to arrive at the rear end of a row of roadside offices and restaurants that backed onto the river.
To say that the river wasn’t considered a feature was an understatement. A discoloured concrete wall curved round, lined with air conditioning units and the barred windows of basement rooms. Vents emitted the smell of frying fat. A diagonal railway bridge dived straight into the embankment underneath Ochanomizu station itself, its platform running parallel to the river. Boarded scaffolding and a thin row of green bushes shielded passengers waiting on the platform from any sight of the water. They wouldn’t even know there was a river there. A few planters on upper floor balconies did nothing to redeem this sorry scene. In front of him, immense iron girders jutted out of both riverbanks and joined in the middle. Beyond, a squat brick road bridge with thin iron railings, dwarfed by the surrounding infrastructure, may have had some elegance once.
Fairchild took all of this in, then brought up an image of one of his prints on a tablet. He held it up to compare the two scenes. In the print, thin rowboats followed the current of the swirling blue river, rocks rose vertically on either side topped with bushes and spindly trees, a modest wooden bridge traversed the gorge, and white mountains rose in the distance. On one side a wide dirt road curved around the top of the gorge, dotted with figures in kimonos or straw hats. Apart from something about the curve of the river, it was unrecognisable.
Takao finally caught up, shaking his head. “Fairchild, you’re a crazy man!” His hair was ruffled and he’d torn his shirt on something.
“This is what’s crazy,” said Fairchild. “A major river running through the heart of a city, and it looks like a sewer. I’m surprised someone didn’t think of filling it all in and building on top of it.”
“Maybe they will.” Takao pointed at some plant and rubble on the opposite side. “Building something there, yes?” Fairchild rolled his eyes. “Come, Fairchild! Not enough space in Tokyo, you know that! Every square metre is needed. You want us all to live in slums?”
“What happened to the Japanese love of nature?”
“Nature, of course! But we have to live.”
“Water for tea, this place is. You’d be suicidal to drink anything from down there.”
“Okay, okay.” Takao smoothed his hair down.
Fairchild showed him the screen. “That’s what we’re looking at. Yonemura told us where this was.”
“We know that already. Common subject for prints.”
“But he made a point of it. Gone, he said. All gone.” Fairchild looked again at the mass of buildings rising on either side. “He was certainly right about that. But what does it mean?”
He turned to Takao. This was why he needed the man. Understanding the words was one thing, making any sense of them quite another. But Takao was looking as blank as Fairchild felt.
“He was making some point about life in the past,” tried Fairchild. “Floating life, or fleeting life.”
“Floating life. All these scenes from the prints, the geishas and the courtesans, that’s what it’s called. Kind of like an unreal world.”
“But it could also be translated as fleeting, couldn’t it? Something that doesn’t last, is gone as soon as it starts.”
Takao shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Should we be looking for something?” Fairchild thought about the British Museum. Was there some connection he’d missed? They’d already been to Yoshiwara. The only thing retained from that era was the name; the streets could have been anywhere in Tokyo.
“I think,” said Takao gently, “I think I made a mistake taking you there. Yonemura is an old man. Memory not so good. A bit confused, maybe. Seemed very emotional.”
“What do you think upset him so much?”
Takao shook his head. “Maybe nothing. Just reminded him of something. I’m sorry, my friend.” He slapped Fairchild on the back. “I keep trying. Now we have two prints, I go back to all the people from before, show them both. We will get there, Fairchild! We don’t give up. Now! You want some beers? I meet a few friends. You’ll like them. Come join us. Just one beer, even?”
Fairchild didn’t want to. It was never just one beer with Takao. He decided to walk back to his flat to clear his head. But after an hour he gave up and ducked into the nearest subway. You could forget how sprawling Tokyo was.
The flat was a tiny one-bedroomed place that Takao had found for him once and which he often requested when he came here. He had long ago become bored of hotel rooms that all looked the same. This was upstairs in a wooden house with outside steps leading u
p to a separate entrance, tatami mats throughout and a balcony door you could throw open. The air conditioning was under par in the height of summer but it was warm enough in winter. Close enough to the subway to avoid a sweltering ten-minute walk in August, or getting soaked in June. It had what he needed and it was quiet. The people downstairs who owned it did well out of the arrangement.
He dumped his stuff and went straight out again to the baths across the street, another reason he liked staying here. It was a modest place, white tiles and functional pipework, but the water was always scalding hot and it was clean. The stares of the Japanese men no longer unnerved him. Some of them remembered him from previous visits and they exchanged a few words. He stripped and squatted by a shower attachment, sitting on a plastic stool to soap up and wash. He rinsed and scrubbed his body raw, as he’d seen others do. He entered the hottest pool and sat between two other men, losing himself in steam and enjoying the sensation of stinging, tingling skin becoming soft and pink.
He thought about Rose. What if he couldn’t solve this puzzle? She was relying on him and him alone. All the education he’d had, the oddball upbringing his parents had given him, it was for a purpose, he was sure of it, but even if he couldn’t fathom what it was he had another purpose now and that was Rose. What if it petered out because he didn’t get it, couldn’t make sense of Yonemura’s oracle-like pronouncements, in this country he’d always found confusing and difficult? He’d never forgive himself. Yet, for now, he remained defeated.
There was something else he could try, another contact, one of his own, not Takao’s. He didn’t want to, but right now he was out of other ideas.
Chapter 14
Sundays in Yoyogi Park seemed to get going around late morning. December in Tokyo appealed to Rose a lot more than December in London. Not warm, but dry, crisp and bright. Glad to escape a cramped hotel room, Rose came up the subway steps at Harajuku hoping to enjoy some open space. But the problem with any open space in Tokyo was that thousands of other people wanted to enjoy it too. Train-loads of Tokyo citizens arrived every five minutes and even in this large space the bottlenecks filled up. Where did the Japanese go to get away from everybody? They didn’t, was the impression she got. The cultural norm was to do what everyone else was doing. Which was clearly going to lead to crowd control issues sometimes.
Joining the flow of people, she drifted over to a wide central boulevard. Various groups were positioned along it, with sound systems and big black speakers. Now she could see how much of a big thing dressing up was. A handful of break dancers were doing their thing in baseball caps and fat trainers. Next, a huge group of rockabillies strutted around in leather trousers and black jackets with hair styled like sharks’ fins. Further along a band was playing lively pop music and a vocalist in a frilly white dress and wedge heels was dancing enthusiastically. There was plenty to look at in the passers-by as well: two girls dressed identically in burgundy velvet dresses with matching white cloth hats and tiny leather backpacks – sisters, or just friends? Grunge dressers showed off baggy t-shirts and ripped jeans, but they were never dirty – torn and ragged but always laundered.
She got a glimpse of red. A scarlet, flaming red and streaks of it in long hair as well – part of James’ description of how Mirai dressed for the conference. Wow, she must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Not here, though. Here it was perfectly normal. Rose followed. The woman was on her own, squeezing her way through the growing crowds, not looking around at the bands or the dancers, intent on something but not moving fast. From a distance between meandering pedestrians Rose made out an old-fashioned style dress with long lacy sleeves yet very short on the leg, lace stockings and pointed boots, all the same shade of red, and long hair with scarlet braids. All exactly as James had described. It didn’t mean it was her, though; someone else could share Mirai’s cosplay preferences. It must take a lot of time to get these costumes right. The woman made for a grassy patch the other side of some trees where groups were sitting to enjoy what would be fresh air if it weren’t for all the smokers. It was noticeable how many there were here compared to Europe, and the smoke hung over the ground.
Rose kept to the trees and watched as the woman sat down next to two young men, the three of them forming a circle. Their muted greeting suggested they knew each other well and that this was a regular meet point. Rose worked her way closer. The woman was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, a little-girl pose. The men were both young and skinny. One of them wore a jacket that looked like part of an eighteenth century military uniform, with rows of brass buttons tapering to a thin waist and an ornately embroidered raised collar. The other had hair that was gelled into a 1980’s style quiff, and could have been wearing eyeliner. He had enormous boots and tie-dyed baggy trousers. Kind of a New Romantic. Was that a thing? Rose hoped not; it was bad enough first time around.
The three of them had little to say to each other. They looked decidedly glum, in fact, all staring into space or down at the ground. If they came to Yoyogi Park to get into the vibe, it wasn’t working for them today. They weren’t interacting with their surroundings at all.
Rose passed them from a number of different directions and got photos of all three by pretending to take wide landscape shots of the park. She sat on the grass and sent the photos to James on his new phone. She was now using a burner phone as well. In reply to the photo of the woman: Yep, that’s the girl. The others he didn’t recognise. Then Rose settled down to wait. It didn’t take long. Even though visitors were still arriving and things were yet to warm up, the three of them seemed to have very little to say and after no more than half an hour they got up and went their separate ways, giving each other a muted nod as a goodbye. Which of them would she follow? The scarlet, of course.
Mirai plodded back to Harajuku station and got on the platform for the Yamanote Line going south. The platform was tolerably busy. Rose kept a comfortable distance. The train drew up and they got into the same carriage by different doors. It was standing room only. Rose grabbed an overhead strap and gazed at the garish adverts as the train slid off smoothly. She let her eye move down the advertising strip towards Mirai, and her breath caught in her throat. Mirai was staring straight at her.
Had she been spotted? Surely not. She’d stayed well back and Mirai had no reason to pick her out. She was by no means the only westerner in the park, or in the station. She got her phone out and started fiddling with it, as most other people were already doing. When she glanced up again for a second, Mirai was still staring. Her eyes were wide. It was a look of recognition – and not in a good way.
Then she realised. The woman wasn’t staring at Rose at all. She was looking beyond Rose, further into the carriage. Rose turned away as if repositioning herself to get more comfortable. She played with her phone again, and when she looked up, could see everyone behind her in the carriage. It was clear who had caught Mirai’s attention. The man wasn’t trying to hide his interest. Brown skin, long hollowed-out face, a worn leather jacket: this wasn’t one of the players from the park. This was the real thing, a piece of street muscle with a hard look on his face. There was some message in the stare he was giving Mirai, and it wasn’t a friendly one. A jolt of the train gave Rose an opportunity to shift and observe more of him. His jeans pockets were bulky. He could even be armed. Violent crime was extremely rare in Japan, but this guy had seen his share, by the look of him.
The train slowed. They were coming into Shibuya station. People shuffled towards the doors. Rose made to get ready, trying to place herself where she could see both of them at once. Neither was moving – but they were both much closer to a door than she was.
They came to a stop. A girly recorded voice announced they were at Shibuya. The doors opened. People streamed off. More people streamed on. Mirai stared out of the door. The guy stared at Mirai. The carriage was more packed than before. Then, somehow, Mirai ducked and squeezed between passengers and was on the platform hurrying away.
The
man lost no time. He shoved people aside and jumped off. The manhandled passengers frowned and grimaced but weren’t going to confront the guy. Rose made for the door Mirai used. The warning bell sounded. She squeezed through as best she could but some pushing was necessary. A middle-aged woman clicked her tongue and shook her head. It couldn’t be helped.
The doors started to close. Rose leaped towards them and stuck out her elbow. The doors closed in on it from both sides. People around her gasped. She got her feet into the gap, grabbed both doors and forced them open. They pushed against her and she almost lost her grip. She fought them apart, squeezed through and stepped onto the platform. The doors slammed shut, trapping a strap of her backpack. She pulled but it wouldn’t give. The train started to move. Eyes inside the carriage widened. Someone on the platform was shouting. She gave the strap a mighty pull and it came free, sending her staggering backwards. A man in uniform was running up to her, wagging his finger. She had no time for that. She turned to follow Mirai.
Right at the end of the platform was a set of stairs. She got the briefest glimpse of scarlet at the top and a leather back moving up two steps at a time, as people stepped sideways to get out of his way. She broke into a run, dodging passengers on the platform. She got to the steps five seconds after they’d both disappeared and took them two at a time. Somehow she had to gain on them.
The steps led into a hall with a bank of escalators. People were clustered into a crush at the bottom of them. Up in front, Rose saw scarlet again; whoever Mirai was, she clearly wasn’t a member of the clandestine fraternity. Dressed like that she was fully committed, visible to anyone, no get-out. She was on the escalator but there was no pushing her way up; the stairway was completely rammed right to the top. As Mirai ascended, the leather jacket also became visible. Mirai was almost half way up before he got on, and it was several agonising seconds before Rose could set foot on it. As they went up, Mirai turned and stared down at the man. Rose could only see the back of the man’s head, but Mirai’s face was pale and clenched.