by Nick Hurst
THREE
We sat without speaking. Kurotaki stared blankly ahead as he drove with characteristic aggression through the morning traffic. I sat mute, cowed in the presence of one of Tokyo’s most-feared men.
‘Good album,’ I tried.
‘Ellington,’ he responded.
‘So, you like jazz as well?’
It was a two-hour drive – I thought any conversation would be better than silence.
‘Of course I do – I like all good music.’
He gave a quick glance sideways to gauge if it was worth going on.
‘He was the master. Everyone thinks of his orchestra, the catchy tunes and legendary musicians. But he could turn his hand to anything. His best stuff came at the end of his career, when he had a less quintessential big-band sound.’
He was the strangest man I’d ever met. I wondered again whether the gruff exterior might be a cover for a more reflective soul. Delicate types probably didn’t get far in the business but perhaps a hidden sensitivity had allowed him to rise to his position. Maybe it was the weapon he kept concealed and pulled out only when really required. I started to wonder if we might even form an oddball partnership in the end; a good yakuza, bad yakuza team.
‘So, it’s a terrible thing this whole Kamigawa incident, isn’t it? When I was speaking to that mother yesterday, I found it hard to imagine what they’ve been through, the stress and pain they must have suffered. To have the strength to keep going – you’ve got to admire them for that.’
I saw his jaw clench and the muscles twitch as he turned his gaze from the road. He swerved suddenly to the side and slammed on the brakes.
‘Listen, you limp-dick motherfucker,’ he roared, grabbing the front of my shirt – I decided it wasn’t the time to point out the inherent contradiction. ‘You’re a yakuza now. You’re Takata-gumi. I know I’m meant to protect you, but if you ever speak like that again I’ll beat you until you wish you were dead.’
I sat bolt upright, muscles rigid. I was too afraid even to flinch.
‘We’re yakuza, we risk getting punched, shot or stabbed. Boxers get head-butted. They get hit below the belt. You live by a nuclear power station, you risk getting fucked up. Those are the fucking breaks. Even if they weren’t, that’s nothing to do with us. What happens to them is their business. Mine’s to help you. Yours is to get information. So go and do it and stop whimpering like a little bitch.’
He slapped me around the head. It was like being hit with a padded anvil.
‘Get a hold of yourself. Man the fuck up.’
Despite the litany of evils apparently behind him, it was a relief to see a different face after two hours’ stony silence, silence that was somehow amplified by Duke Ellington’s (late-period) soulful jazz. We’d been shown into the chairman’s office after going through endless security clearances and having our IDs checked numerous times. It turned out he’d returned in the new position some months after resigning as president. I wondered whether he’d changed offices.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said with a smile, reaching forward to shake my hand. ‘As a fellow advocate of fossil-free energy I’m sure we’ll have plenty in common and much to discuss.’
My introduction, courtesy of the Takata-gumi, clearly had him less wary than he’d have been with other NGOs. Released from the tension of the car I was able to return his smile and shake his hand.
‘Now, how can I be of service?’ he asked. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but the speed with which the appointment was arranged means I’m light on the details and don’t have anything prepared.’
He was certainly smooth. At a glance, it would have been easy to mistake him for a traditional Japanese head of business: stern, self-assured and used to his every word being taken as law. But the mannerisms of a man who had worked internationally were also visible through a layer of schmooze applied to the stereotypical Japanese boss. He also had a compelling ear I was trying hard not to look at. Or rather, the part of the ear that was no longer there – a missing lobe that looked like it had been very smoothly cut.
‘Well, our study involves a holistic review of all fossil-fuel alternatives,’ I spieled, the marketer’s preferred language of bullshit quickly coming back. ‘We’re doing this as groundwork for a cohesive recommendation on how to advance a post-fossil-fuel environment in a financially viable way. We’re strictly energy source neutral, of course, but I don’t think it would be giving away any secrets to say I envisage nuclear forming a large part of the mix.’
I shot him a conspiratorial look.
‘However, in addition to looking at best cases we need to work with those who have overcome challenges they couldn’t have foreseen. I want to learn from people like you, people with experience of tackling the impossible, who can help us envisage the most unlikely of scenarios and prevent them in advance.’
I wondered if I had laid it on too thick but his manner suggested he wasn’t a stranger to sycophants.
‘I’d be delighted to assist you, but perhaps you could be a bit more specific about the ways in which you think I could help.’
‘Well, you’ve clearly done magnificent work in turning the plant around since its difficulties,’ I began. ‘But I think when doing a review of this sort one really needs to look at everything from the bottom up. Ideally, we’d have complete and transparent exposure to events and decisions from day one. This would enable us to get the full benefit of hindsight and see things that couldn’t have been spotted at the time.’
‘Certainly,’ he replied, with the ease of someone used to deflecting far better interrogators. ‘We have the surveys, the topographical reports, the plant blueprints and so on, all in the final files. Much of it is a matter of public record but I can certainly arrange access for you to see the rest.’
‘Thank you, but I’ve been through most of them already,’ I lied, deciding to take a punt. ‘However, in my experience, I’ve found the drafts often reveal even more than the final versions. You know how it is – sometimes contributory information gets filed away or details are lost to the polish of the final report.’
And there it was – the tiniest glimmer of a lowered guard. He gave an almost imperceptible glance at Kurotaki, who I turned to see give the slightest shake of his head.
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me there, Clarence-san,’ he said. ‘Of course there were drafts, and of course the final one is the most refined. But detail isn’t lost or hidden in the process – the presentational techniques make everything more clear, not less. I should point out though that while we keep almost all of the data and drafts, twenty years down the line we may not have every document that contributed to the final report.’
But I’d stopped paying attention. I was looking at Kurotaki, who was pretending he hadn’t noticed I was.
‘I saw that look,’ I said to the side of his head. ‘I was told I would be given all the help I need, but there’s clearly information I’m not being told or documents I’m not going to be shown. Kumichō told me I would get whatever I need, but you’re letting him lie to my face.’
The chairman was wrong-footed by the change in tone. He tried to regain control.
‘I resent the implication. You’re being told nothing but the truth. I’m even offering you the chance to access all of our data – out of goodwill, not any compulsion, I should add. Don’t lose the opportunity to bad manners.’
I ignored him.
‘This is bullshit. There’s hardly any time and you’re going to let a day be wasted by him fucking me around.’
Kurotaki’s head snapped to face me.
‘Watch your mouth,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself. Get a grip, apologise, and hope the good chairman is still willing to help.’
I stood up. ‘I’m done. I’ve got no more questions.’
Kurotaki tried to eye me back down.
‘Thank you very much for your time, Mr Chairman,’ I said, turning to offer blandishments. ‘As Kurotaki
-san said, I hope you’ll accept my apology – I’m extremely passionate about the energy industry and sometimes my enthusiasm can overflow. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve caused any offence.’
I don’t know if my apology would have been accepted – I’d already started walking towards the door. Kurotaki had no option but to offer his own hurried apologies and follow me out.
We stalked back to the car, both fuming at the injustices we perceived we’d been done. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Kurotaki was the one to act upon his. He waited until we were out of sight of security. Then he lifted me by the throat and slammed me against the side of the car.
‘You cunt bitch motherfucker,’ he roared in my face, spittle spraying, eyes bulging, his skin flushed red. ‘You ever fuck me over like that again and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.’
But something had snapped in me too, triggered by the realisation that the only thing that could keep me alive was being held back by the people who’d told me to seek it out.
‘So go on then. Beat me until I wish I was dead,’ I spat his earlier words back at him. ‘This is bullshit. It’s a waste of fucking time. If you’re not going to let me do what I need to, you might as well get rid of me now.’
I regretted it instantly. My anger was released with the outburst and the void filled with all-consuming fear.
Kurotaki’s face contorted further and he drew back his sledgehammer of a fist. I closed my eyes as it whistled towards me, opening them only when I heard glass smash instead of my nose. He held me by the throat a second longer and then threw me against the car. He glared, and I could see in his eyes the things he wanted to do. But instead of acting on them, he picked a shard of glass from his knuckle and stomped to the driver’s door.
‘Get in the fucking car.’
It was the last thing he said, and the atmosphere on the drive back was as chilly as the air that blew in at my face.
FOUR
I was at a new dead end, but this time it felt like the way back had been blocked off as well. Now I wasn’t inches from being obliterated I seethed with injustice again. I’d done what was asked of me and I’d weaselled what I could from those who were in the right. But if the yakuza – the ones supposedly on my side – weren’t putting up their end of the deal, I couldn’t see what else I could do.
And that worried me. If I was a bone of contention in a simmering gang feud, I needed to have value to the Takata-gumi for me to be worth their protection. If I was useless in the area they’d identified me as useful, the logical response would be to hand me to their rivals at an appropriate time.
I didn’t like the idea of being useless. I needed to come up with something quick.
There was no point doing further research. I was on the right trail – looking for another would have been a waste of time. The problem was my path had been blocked, and tempting as it was to accept that, doing so wasn’t an option that boded well. But for the life of me I couldn’t see what else I could do.
Unless …
My unconscious threw a thought at me that was as welcome as the others it had recently bowled. I tried to evade it but as soon as I put my mind to something else it would skulk its way in there as well. To make matters worse, it had a twisted logic, a line of argument that was difficult to resist. It may have been nearsuicidal but it appeared to be the only way to escape a more likely death.
I took a stroll in Shinjuku Gyoen Park to help clear my head. Around me, people clustered by maple and ginkgo trees took pictures of the yellows, purples and reds of the autumn leaves. As I kicked through fallen piles I remembered walking through the park with Tomoe during hanami – the time the cherry blossoms bloom. It seemed apt. At the time I’d been enjoying a fresh start, my life full of opportunities bursting into flower. Now they’d withered and would soon be falling away.
Tomoe had been particularly affected by the arrival of spring, and was as bouncy as a kitten in the wind. She’d insisted on walking every corner of the park in order to savour its rebirth.
‘Come on, Ray-kun, we need to plan some trips, fun stuff, things to look forward to.’
‘Sounds good – what have you got in mind?’
‘I don’t know, maybe we could go somewhere in August when it gets too hot. Then do something in the winter to break up the cold.’
She grabbed my arm and skipped around me, her energy as intoxicating as the alcohol consumed at a cherry blossom picnic. As always, I’d been the more cautious of us.
‘All right, let’s do it! But maybe we should just book something for summer now. Winter’s ages away – who knows what we’ll be up to by then.’
She stopped and tilted her head to the side. Her eyes seemed to seek something in mine.
‘You think too much,’ she said with a hint of sadness. ‘Then you worry, then you wait to see how things pan out. Live like that, and before you know it life’s dictating to you. You need to follow your instincts more, Ray-kun. Set your own path.’
She tiptoed up, gave me a kiss and squeezed my bum in a most public and un-Japanese way. She’d then sauntered off with a smile and a saucy look back.
I was now left with a particularly expensive trip to Thailand that looked unlikely to be fulfilled. Despite this, I remained sold on the philosophy of setting my own path. If I was to live up to it, I would need to make some hard decisions in the coming days. Decisions that would force me to confront my instincts and fears.
A quiet time in Kabukichō is a contradiction in terms. Even if there's a lull in the noise, the flow of people never stops. But if you get there on a weeknight, around 3 or 4 a.m., the human traffic is lighter and those enjoying the action have, for the most part, dispersed. The ones able to return home will have done so. Those whose journey requires a bank-breaking taxi will be contaminating a capsule hotel pod with burps, sweats and farts. The remainder sober up and battle hangovers, hunched over bowls of ramen in painfully bright stores.
On this particular night, I was at the row of buildings where the Takata-gumi Kabukichō branch was. I was looking for a way to get to the back.
I don’t know why, but Japanese buildings have a gap between them instead of being buttressed against one another as they are in the UK. These range from cracks measuring inches up to a few feet. The one between the Takata-gumi and its neighbour was of the inches variety. But there was a gap of about a foot after an udon noodle shop a store down.
For a cat burglar that would have left inches to spare. I darted in during a split second’s pause in the swaying human traffic and immediately realised that for me it wasn’t nearly enough. I forced myself forwards anyway, trying not to think of what was crunching under my feet. But when I got halfway down the real battle started – a fight against claustrophobia that had me certain I was trapped.
I clawed and scraped my way down the narrowing gap, bursting from it into an alley just as I thought I was going to pass out. I gulped gratefully at the rancid air. I would have loved to take a break to recover. But I couldn’t afford to. I needed to get this over with as quickly as I could.
I made my way between the two rows of buildings, dodging pipes and air-con units while looking up in hope. And for the first time in as long as I could remember, that hope was rewarded. The front door may have been locked shut but the toilet window on the first floor was wide open, as it had been when I’d visited during the day. Why wouldn’t it be? Who in their right mind would even think of breaking in?
After an ungraceful ascent aided by a drainpipe on one side and a building an outstretched leg away on the other, I heaved myself partway through the window. An old-style squat toilet sat unhelpfully below, offering no steps down or even a place I could easily land. Thankfully when I launched from my awkward take-off I cleared the bowl. Unfortunately, this came at the expense of my face, which halted my momentum on the door with a crunch.
I pressed my ear against it, too scared even to take a breath. It was highly unlikely anyone had remained locked inside the building
but even the thought of being found was enough to make me feel sick. There were no tell-tale signs of movement and my muscles let up slightly from their rigid embrace. I opened the door, just a crack at first, then gradually wider until I was confident enough to edge out. The next challenge to my courage was the kitchenette. It was only when it revealed itself as empty and the main office did the same that my breathing finally eased.
Certain I was alone, I couldn’t help but pause at the severed fingers. But despite their morbid allure I knew it wasn’t the time to hang around. I turned towards my target: Takata’s room.
It was a desperate move but I’d arrived at it rationally. The nuclear issue was clearly of great importance to Takata. He knew more than he was letting on and wanted to use what he had at the AGM. With that just over a week away, I assumed he’d want whatever he had at hand.
The idea of breaking in so I could bring him his own information was clearly ridiculous. But for all he had in his possession it appeared he was missing something, the thing he’d sent me to seek out. And if I could use what he had here to get to that, I’d prove myself invaluable. And that had to be worth the risk. Because the alternative was turning up with nothing and facing the consequences.
So, as dire as it may have been, I felt sure I was doing the right thing. I just had to hope Takata kept whatever he had in Kabukichō. That it provided me with a lead. And that I didn’t get caught.
His room seemed bigger and emptier without his presence, although that could just have been the murky light. I started to search for the thing I hoped to recognise when I found it, a plan that had seemed as good as any when I considered it in advance. In practice, it turned out to be less satisfactory. Takata kept the room spotless, the shelves tidily stacked, the desk ordered and neat.
I scanned the shelves first. I even took out a couple of books to check that they weren’t false fronts. Finding no joy, I rounded the desk, my heart thumping against my ribs. I pulled at two drawers, more in hope than anything else. Both were locked. I took this as a good sign. He wouldn’t have bothered if there was nothing to hide.