Summertime of the Dead

by Gregory Hughes

  When she’d gone I thought about that terrible sky that had hovered over the park. We’d played so happily beneath it, but we were like the children of Hiroshima oblivious to the falling bomb. I’d often imagined them holding hands and singing on their way to school. Then they were screaming and on fire and death couldn’t come quick enough. Because as sure as that bomb brought hell to Hiroshima, the Tanakas had brought hell to us.

  I slept deeply and woke in a field. There were black clouds and a blood-red sun and Louise, who was dancing like a demon. ‘You! It was all your doing!’ I ran at her and struck her with a sword. But it turned into a snake and wriggling from my hands it crawled up around her neck. Louise looked at me and laughed out loud. Then I heard screaming, like the falling of a bomb, and there was Riko riding a pale horse. Behind her came a roaring army of yakuza, their bare bodies displaying their demonic tattoos. ‘Get him!’ she screamed.

  I saw a temple and running inside I barred the doors with a bolt. But then I turned to see Miko hanging by her neck. It was such a horrible sight. She tried to speak but her eyes bulged. I put my face in the corner so I couldn’t see her. ‘Please, no!’ Something touched my head.

  ‘You have a fever, Yukio.’

  I woke in the daylight to see Natsuko kneeling next to me. I went to get up but my head started pounding and I felt so hot. She put her hands on my shoulders. ‘Lie back.’ She poured some purple-coloured tea into a cup and brought it to my lips. ‘Drink this. It will help you get better.’ She held my head and I drank. We’d never been so close. If I hadn’t been so dazed I would have been embarrassed. She took the cup away and rinsing a cloth in a bowl of water she placed it over my forehead. It felt cool and soothing.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to be here,’ she said. ‘And so I went to stay with my sister in Kyoto. She’s a geisha – did I tell you? Probably not. I don’t really tell people. They judge, you see. They think I was the good daughter and she was the bad, but it’s not like that. My sister’s lovely and she gets such joy out of life. And when you’re with her the joy rubs off. I told her about the twins. She never said anything silly or offered any kind words, she just listened. She’s a good listener. But when she asked me why they did it, I didn’t know.’ She took the cloth from my head and rinsed it in the water. As she did her face filled with the pain. ‘And that’s when I knew I had to see you. To try to understand why they did it. Why they never came to me. I would have laid down my life for them if I had to!’ She stopped for a second, as though trying not to cry. Then she placed the cloth back on my forehead. ‘But when I saw you in such pain I knew that you were just as puzzled. I know you’re sad. But know this: they were beautiful people and they’ve gone to a better life. Sleep now, and when you’re better we’ll talk.’

  My eyes closed like I was hypnotized. When I opened them again it was dark and I was alone. I felt like my fever had broken and my head had stopped banging. But then I thought about the twins and that pain was worse. I remembered the man urinating outside their apartment and realized that it must have been that dog Kako marking his territory. But how could he have found them so fast? He must have followed us home. The anger got me to my feet, but I stood up too quick and my head spun. I held the wall to steady myself. All of a sudden I needed air.

  I got dressed and grabbing my keys I went out on the balcony. I put on my sneakers and slid down the drainpipe. I hadn’t done that since I was a boy, and why I was doing it now I don’t know, but I had to get out of there. Then I was in the dark. It was quiet and still and I stood there for a minute not knowing what I was doing. I opened the steel door and headed to the twins’ place. I crept up the steps, like a cat burglar, and looked through the living-room window. It was bare inside and there was a sign on the sill: ‘Apartment for Rent.’ I wasn’t surprised. I knew their grandad would never come back here. How could he?

  I opened the door with my spare key and went inside. My footsteps sounded loud as I headed to their room. And opening the door I saw that their bunk beds had gone, and so had their dresser. But there were still some remnants lying around. A shoe here, a T-shirt there. And there was the mic that Miko used to sing into when she was a kid. I picked up the tin box where Hiroshi kept his crayons. It was empty, but there was a Polaroid on the floor. It was of me and the twins on the Ferris wheel at Yokohama. We must have been about nine at the time. Me and Miko were laughing, but Hiroshi had his arms folded. He didn’t care for heights. He didn’t care for heights or contact sports, but he still stood in front of that train. And Miko, where had she …? I looked around and then I went in the bathroom. It was the only room without a window and so I had to switch on a light. There was a pipe running across the ceiling. Not a thick pipe, but Miko never weighed much. I could just see her standing on the tiny bathtub and tying the rope. I saw her hanging in my mind. And then I swear I saw her for real! I staggered backwards and went down the hall. I tried not to run as I left the apartment but I did, and I couldn’t stop. All I knew was that I wanted to get away. And I wanted the pain to end.

  I heard the beating gong and saw the barrier come down. I slipped under it and stood by the tracks. The train moved fast. It’d be here in seconds. ‘All you have to do is take one step forward and you’ll be with them.’ Once I said it, it was settled. I was just about to take that step when I heard Miko’s voice. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. And I could almost feel her pulling me back.

  There was a loud swish, and the wind from the train buffeted my face. Then it was gone. The gong stopped and the barrier came up. It was quiet then and I stood there for a second feeling strange. I crossed the road and headed up the ramp that led into Yoyogi Park. I made my way through the dark trees, passing the homeless people who were sleeping and snoring on the benches. And then I made my way out on to the common, which was floodlit by the full moon. I found myself at the place where we used to throw the frisbee. I’d never felt so alone. I was never going to see them again and it was my fault. I never warned them about the Tanakas and I turned my back on them when they needed me! I felt the pain rise up inside me. It ached my heart and hurt my chest. Then it became a real pain. I was in agony. I dropped to my knees and screamed like an animal. Then my face hit the dirt and I cried for my best friends, who I loved so much. My tears ran into the dirt and I breathed dirt into my mouth, but I couldn’t get up. The pain of their deaths, and the shame I felt at not helping, were weighing me down. ‘I’ll kill them all!’ I cried.

  As soon as I said it I saw it. The vision froze in my mind and dried my tears. I was calm then, and quiet. The samurai have a saying – ‘Fall into the pit of hell and find the true self within.’ Well, I was in that hell and I had found myself. And I saw the path I was going to take. It was caked with yakuza blood.

  I wiped my face and got to my feet. There were a dozen homeless people staring at me.

  They huddled in fear as if some strange creature had crept into the park.

  ‘I’m going to kill them all,’ I said.

  They cowered and stepped back. And as I walked through them they stepped aside. I went back to the house, where I rinsed my face and drank some tea. Then I drank some more tea and felt better. ‘I’m going to kill them all,’ I said. It was such a soothing thing to say.

  5

  It was early morning when I climbed up into the loft. I opened the large chest, that looks like it belongs at sea, and started to take out Grandfather’s things: his military uniforms, his medals and the stacks of letters wrapped in red ribbons. But I wasn’t interested in them. I was interested in the swords that lay at the bottom of the chest. Because they were what I was going to use to kill Kako and the Tanaka girls, and as many of those yakuza scumbags as I could.

  I removed the Rising Sun, and holding it up I saw it was torn and soiled, as if it had been bloodied on a battlefield. I folded it neatly and put it to one side, and then I saw my little black book. I hadn’t seen it for years and I had wondered where it had got to. My father made me copy out famous samurai s
ayings, and the ninety-nine precepts of the Takeda clan, who Grandmother reckons we’re descended from. The ink was still strong in the book, and opening the first page I saw my neat childhood handwriting: ‘Yukio Takeda’s Bushido Code’. ‘Bushido’ means ‘Way of the Warrior’ and the code evolved throughout Japan’s history. It involves seven virtues, which I’d written on the second page: ‘Justice, Courage, Benevolence, Politeness, Honesty, Truthfulness and Honour.’ But I was only concerned with justice. Justice for the twins. I read some of the sayings. ‘Never be a coward in battle … Caution is your castle and negligence is your enemy … While you rest your enemy practises.’ Then I saw Hiroshi’s favourite: ‘You do not have to outrun the bear. You only have to outrun your friend.’ I felt sad then, but it brought a smile to my face too. He was such a great kid. Then I saw the one I could never get out of my head: ‘The way of darkness always brings great power. The way of darkness always brings a great price.’ I never understood what the way of darkness was, but it used to scare me as a boy.

  The swords were wrapped in a red kimono, and pulling it out I took it to my room. After the war the Americans said that all samurai swords had to be handed over because they were lethal weapons. But Grandmother would sooner melt them down than give them to her enemy and so she hid them away. And there they would have stayed had the twins not died.

  I slid the long sword from its mounting. It was a typical machine-made katana, curved and slender with a single-edged blade. But it was shorter than its mounting by at least a couple of inches. You could tell when you put them together. The blade was blunt and the steel was dull, but when I took it in both hands I knew it could do damage. Then I took up the short sword. It was used by the samurai to commit ‘seppuku’, what the Westerners call ‘hara-kiri’. I held it in both hands like a dagger and imagined what it would be like to thrust it into my stomach. I have to admit I found it scary.

  I put the long sword in the black nylon bag that my father had used for his fishing rods. And I put the short sword in my sports bag. Then leaving the house I cut through the backstreets and headed up to the Sword Museum, which was only ten minutes from where I lived. I entered the main building, which looked like a big white apartment block, and running up a flight of steps I bought a ticket from a woman.

  ‘You have to leave your bags outside,’ said the old security guard, indicating some shelves.

  I put my bags on a shelf and took out the swords.

  He shook his head. ‘You can’t bring them in here.’

  ‘I can’t bring swords into the Sword Museum?’

  He had a think. ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you want to bring them in?’ asked the woman who took the money.

  ‘I want Mr Sato to look at them.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but he was a friend of my father’s.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked the security guard.

  ‘Yukio Takeda.’

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, and went into the museum. A minute later he came back. ‘Follow me.’

  I followed him into a large dimly lit room where we passed dozens of cabinets lit up by spotlights. The lower cabinets held only parts of swords that looked like they’d been dug up from the ground. But the wall cabinets contained full swords, some of which were hundreds of years old. Some belonged to famous samurai warriors. Others had been used to behead captives, defend castles and slaughter Mongols. I’ll bet there wasn’t a sword in the collection that hadn’t drawn blood.

  The guard opened a door at the back of the building and I was shown into a room where Mr Sato was working. ‘Yukio Takeda,’ said the security guard, and closing the door he left. But Mr Sato never even looked up. He was surveying a sword on a glass table, lit up by its own light, and he was lost in his own little world. He was a balding man in his eighties and he had liver spots on his hands and forehead, which smoothed out or wrinkled with the curves of the sword. But his eyes were still sharp and he was almost smiling as he went about his work. A minute passed and then another. I thought he was never going to speak, but then he did. ‘You know, when I see craftsmanship like this it makes my heart sing. People think that sword making is a thing of the past, but this sword was made at the Nittoho Forge just one month ago. It’s reminiscent of the Rai school and yet there is something of the old Shinto masterpiece about it. Would you like to hold it?’

  I put my swords on the table and held his in both hands. It was heavier than my sword and a lot longer. The double-handed grip was bound in leather cord and the circular guard had the design of a sea monster. And when I turned it to the light it gleamed like a laser.

  ‘Look at the mounting,’ said Mr Sato.

  I put down the sword and picked up the mounting. It was black lacquered wood, beautifully decorated with golden dragons.

  ‘They’re real gold, Yukio,’ said Mr Sato. ‘They brought a smith down from Sapporo to design them. He did an excellent job. You know, every year we have a competition for a newly made sword, and such is the level of the craftsmanship that this may not even be the winner.’ He slid the sword into its mounting and locked it in a steel cabinet. ‘Now, what have we here?’ He took the long sword from its mounting and scrutinized it without speaking. I was glad he was quiet then, because I knew my sword was getting the same intense treatment. He held it out, and putting it close to his face he looked along its back. He looked at the grip and the guard before concentrating on the blade. Then he laid it down. ‘Yes, well, it’s seen better days. It needs a good polish, the binding on the grip needs replacing and it’s rather blunt. But that said, the blade is still in good condition.’

  ‘I was hoping to get it sharpened. I’ll be willing to pay.’

  He sighed in a disappointed way. ‘We are a museum, Yukio, not a business. Besides, it will be a joy to work on such a piece. But if you ever decide to sell it, please remember us.’

  ‘But it’s machine-made.’

  ‘No,’ he said, giving it another look. ‘Lots of katanas were, around the time of the war, but this one is handmade …’

  I felt so uplifted then. I don’t know why.

  ‘… although it has suffered some damage. The end has been broken and the sword has been shortened to compensate. But even that was done by a craftsman. Some expert smith long dead no doubt.

  ‘How could it have happened?’

  He looked exasperated. ‘In battle, of course! How else does a sword get broken?’

  I was amazed. For some reason I’d never imagined that the sword had seen action.

  ‘Come back this evening and I’ll have them ready.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sato.’ I bowed deeply and headed to the door.

  ‘You look more like your father every time I see you. He was a good man, Yukio. Honour his name.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. And bowing again I left.

  I ran up the main road, and making my way into the massive Shinjuku station I weaved my way through the crowd. I took the escalator down to the packed platform and waited in line for the train. A handmade sword broken in battle! It filled me with such fire I couldn’t wait to get in the dojo. And then the train came and we crammed on board like cattle. There wasn’t enough room to raise a hand, but I didn’t care. I only cared about kendo. I could already see myself warming up and doing the katas. Then, when I changed trains at Ikebukuro, I watched myself block my opponent’s blows. And on the final leg of the journey I was striking my opponent’s head and throat. When I reached my stop I sprinted from the subway to the Kyumeikan dojo in a matter of minutes.

  I slipped off my shoes and bowed to the flag and the shrine. I bowed to the photograph of my father. And then to Sensei Kubo who I’d only just seen, and who was giving me a look that told me I was late. I scurried up the stairs and into the changing rooms, and looked for a place to change. I put my bag between the big-bellied American, who we call G.I. Joe, and Akeno, who was the star pupil of the dojo. He was slim and muscular and as cool as ice. He was the
opposite of the American, who was always sweating as if someone had poured a watering can over his head. But the Yank was no fool when it came to kendo. He might have looked like he ate all the burgers, and he must have been about forty, but he was highly skilled and he could move like lightening when he had to. He gave me a tough look and pushed past me. He was always kidding around, but I wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘You were not here for your birthday,’ said Akeno. ‘Many happy returns.’

  ‘Thank you, Akeno.’

  I was happy then, if only for a second. You see, Akeno was like my hero. Him and Dad used to train together, or rather my dad used to train him. And he always remembered my birthday and Dad’s death. And I felt like we were really good friends, even though we rarely spoke.

  I saw a ponytail pass by the changing rooms. It belonged to Anna. She was not only the best kendo girl in the dojo, but she was also the prettiest. But she’s leaving next month to learn English in London, and we’re all going to miss her. Especially Akeno, because from what I heard they’ve just started dating.