She seemed less interested in the priests than in the cherry blossom. In her broken English she waxed lyrical about the importance of the petals to the Japanese: the metaphor that demonstrated the transitory nature of beauty. Blah blah.
In fact Mayumi seemed much keener to tell them about the local Kabuki theatre, Kanamaru-za, which, she said, was the oldest in Japan. Helene had read enough in the guide book to work out that this didn’t necessarily mean very much. There were very few truly ancient buildings in Japan, war and earthquakes had seen to that, but at the same time the Japanese seemed to have a curious habit of rebuilding. Even some important shrines, which Helene would have thought were too holy to be touched, were rebuilt every 20 years in a traditional design. It was, it seemed, a way of making the buildings forever new, forever ancient, forever original. It was one of the many contradictions that Helene was learning about this most unknowable people.
The train moved sluggishly into Kotohira.
Helene’s guidebook said, ‘A place where you can enjoy a cultural historical atmosphere in a gateway town’.
Either the guidebook was out of date or the person who’d written it had never been to Kotohira, in Helene’s opinion. It looked like a one-horse town, where the horse had died. They disembarked from the train, Charlie shouldering a heavy rucksack, Helene carrying the small carry-on bag with the laptop.
Mayumi led them down through the town, pointing out the pertinent features. The town hall seemed as if it might have once housed a sixty’s washeteria and the police station was a block of concrete. The place reminded Helene of Slough.
And yet, and yet, there was beauty, too. A large pagoda-type wooden structure was, Mayumi proudly told them, the largest lantern in Japan and the new marine museum was a pretty sugar cube of crisp, white render, backlit by a pure blue sky.
They strolled along the river before stopping in front of a collection of low, wooden buildings surrounded by a lovely, informal garden. The river ran right through the grounds, willow trees leaning down to the water and a miniature avenue of maples.
“My uncle ryokan,” Mayumi announced, almost proudly.
“It’s beautiful,” said Helene. “And so peaceful.”
“Yes, I’m sure we’ll enjoy staying here,” said Charlie.
Helene wasn’t certain Mayumi had understood them but the girl bowed deeply.
“Arigato gozaimasu, Sterra-san. Arigato gozaimasu, David-san. Please to come in.”
Following her example, they removed their shoes, leaving them at the entrance and stepped up into the reception hall. The wooden floor was covered with a number of tatami mats and several couches were carefully placed around the room. A large bouquet of pink and white flowers was tastefully arranged in a vase as a centrepiece. Helene admired the skill: her own flower arranging consisted of trying to place a bunch in water whilst keeping the same organisation of stems as the florist.
Mayumi invited them to sit down and went off to find her uncle.
Charlie shrugged off the rucksack and flung his elongated body onto one of the low couches. He seemed too large in this careful, delicate place.
“I wonder if they have hot springs here,” said Helene hopefully. “I would just kill to have a good soak.”
“Would you?” said Charlie, raising his eyebrows.
“Well, no,” said Helene. “But I’d love to be able to soak in a natural hot spring and look and this beautiful scenery.
“You know you don’t wear clothes in a Japanese onsen,” said Charlie, his voice neutral.
“How do you know that?” said Helene.
“I know what’s important,” he replied. “Besides, I read your guidebook.” Then looking at her, “I wonder if they have mixed bathing here, because…”
Helene was relieved when Mayumi returned.
She smiled and indicated that they should leave their luggage.
“My uncle very happy to meet you. Follow, please.”
They shuffled after her, Helene embarrassed by the parlous state of her socks. She hoped Mayumi’s uncle wouldn’t notice. He probably would: people always notice things when you don’t want them to.
Mayumi ushered them into a room that looked like a modern office with a bank of computers and austere filing cabinets. It wasn’t at all what Helene had expected: it was so modern, so business like. It was in stark contrast to the rest of the ryokan.
Behind a large, rosewood desk sat a man approaching his twilight years but there was no avuncular sparkle in his eyes; in fact they were the coldest, deadest eyes Helene had ever seen. And unlike the rest of the Japanese people that she had met so far, he didn’t stand up and bow when he saw her. Her smile wilted, her footsteps faltered, and she looked at Charlie to see his reaction. His face was set and expressionless. A shiver ran through her.
Still puzzled, Helene turned round to look for Mayumi in case there was some mistake, some way in which they had already offended their host, but Mayumi had slipped away closing the sliding door behind her silently.
But the room wasn’t empty. Far from it. There were two men, heavies, one of whom looked like he’d just walked off the set of a samurai film; the other an ex-sumo wrestler, his vast flesh severely encased in a dark suit. And, wearing a triumphant expression, was Bill Bailey.
Helene gasped in shock and took a step away from him. Charlie put a protective arm around her and drew her towards him.
Bill smiled. It was a chilling sight.
Silence.
“Hello, April or is it Stella now?” Bill rasped. “Betcha didn’t expect to see me again, didja?”
There was no doubt. It was Bill from Hawaii: the uncle of Jenny’s boyfriend. The man Charlie had wanted to shoot. The man she hadn’t let him shoot – the loose end he had said was a mistake to leave loose.
Oh, this was bad.
Bill walked towards her and Helene couldn’t help but notice that he had a distinct limp, probably originating from an inability to comfortably wear trousers at present.
She cowered as he raised his hand towards her but the man behind the desk barked an order and the sumo-heavy placed himself between her and Bill.
“This bitch deserves it!” Bill snarled, turning to complain to the man behind the desk.
Helene felt momentarily relieved when Bill didn’t try to come any closer. But then she felt sick and dizzy and stupid, so stupid. Why had she insisted that Bill be saved? Why? She knew why: because she hadn’t wanted to see Charlie damage his own soul further with Bill’s execution. And she hadn’t wanted blood on her own hands.
Weak! she said to herself. You’re weak, that’s why!
Charlie had told her that once a merc loses focus it’s over for him. And now the compassion that Helene had insisted on was just about to cost them their lives. No good deed goes unpunished.
She thought she was going to be sick or pass out. Her knees gave way but Charlie supported her.
The man behind the desk barked another order and the samurai-heavy brought two chairs. Helene collapsed gratefully, sitting slumped against Charlie. She could hear his heart beating as she leaned against him: it was strong and steady, as always, and, like a child, she was soothed by it.
Bill stood and fumed in impotent anger, but the man behind the desk ignored him: a buzzing fly to be waved away. It gave Helene a flutter of hope.
Instead the man behind the desk stood up and offered the civilities that had been lacking so far. Helene felt an insane desire to giggle. Hysteria wasn’t far behind.
“Please accept his apologies,” the older man said in perfect English, indicating to Bill. “I regret the manners of this man: it is so hard to get good staff these days.”
Helene glanced at Charlie but his face was unreadable. Bill, by contrast was practically frothing at the mouth but wise enough not to go against the desk man who was clearly in charge.
“My name is Matsumoto Hiro. Welcome to my ryokan.”
“Er, thank you,” said Helene, weakly, struggling to sit up. “My
name is Stella…”
Mr Matsumoto interrupted her with a wave of his hand.
“Please do not insult the intelligence of either of us with this fiction. I have given you my name: you should now return the civility.”
The tone of his voice made Helene sit up straighter. A glance at Charlie told her that this was no time to play games. It was dawning on her that they might be in a lot more trouble than she’d thought, even from when she’d first spotted Bill. It was confusing: either things had got a lot worse or maybe, possibly, hopefully, they were just a shade better.
Helene was many things but she was not a fool. She now had a very strong suspicion that Mr Matsumoto was Yakuza and somehow Bill was tied up with him – an employee of uncertain job description. She remembered thinking at the time that the Hawaiian police had been unusually unobservant when it came to the large quantities of recreational drugs that had been available at Bill’s party.
She realised the man behind the desk was still waiting for an answer. She sat up straighter and gave herself a mental shake, trying to corral her scattered wits.
“My name is Helene La Borde and this is my… friend, Charles Paget.”
“Thank you, Miss La Borde, Mr Paget. This is a much better beginning.”
Helene was silent, wondering what was going to come next.
Mr Matsumoto stood up and went to stand by the window, gazing up at the mountain that loomed over the ryokan. His suit was of an immaculate cut in a luxurious light weight silk. His fingernails had been manicured and his steel-grey hair was smooth and sleek. Helene felt frayed and dirty: it suddenly crossed her mind that she might be about to die rather unpleasantly.
“This mountain,” said Mr Matsumoto, “is a very holy place. The shrine here has been under the protection of my family for a thousand years. I make sure that I know of everyone who comes here: worshippers, tourists… and others.”
He turned to look at them.
“You, I think, Miss La Borde, Mr Paget, come into the category of ‘others’.”
“I told ya what they did to me!” roared Bill, unable to hold himself in check any longer. “I deserve to get even. I want to kill that bastard and as for that bitch…” he licked his lips lasciviously and Helene tried to swallow the bile that rose in her throat.
Mr Matsumoto turned slowly to stare at Bill, the silence stretching uncomfortably until Bill dropped his gaze. Helene didn’t think it was wise to interrupt a man like Mr Matsumoto. And Bill had done that twice in two minutes.
“As I was saying,” said Mr Matsumoto, “you are not tourists.”
“No,” said Helene, “we’re not.”
“Then why are you here?”
She took a deep breath.
“We’re looking for someone,” she said.
“Who?” said Mr Matsumoto politely.
“I don’t know,” said Helene. “I know that sounds ridiculous,” she spoke hurriedly, “but… but we’re looking for a man who did a… er… job with Bill and Charlie three years ago.”
“And what sort of job was this?” said Mr Matsumoto flicking a glance at Bill who looked, if possible, even more shifty.
The question was clearly directed at Charlie, who up until this point had remained stoically silent.
He spoke calmly, his voice showing that he was in control of himself – unlike Bill, who looked like he was about to have a stroke.
“I was hired to fly a helicopter to and from a specific location in Carmel, California. Bill, here, and two other men were hired to find and transport someone I assumed to be a US citizen and take him to a secure location. It was supposed to be an anonymous job and it was just coincidence that I recognised Bill. And that was it. I never heard anything about the job again – until now. For some reason, after all this time, this job has become… of concern. Helene and I have been followed since we left Britain...”
Helene looked up when she heard this – it was certainly news to her.
“We need to find out why,” Charlie continued. “And Bill, rather reluctantly, gave us a clue as to how we might find one of the other members of the team: someone who might have information we can use. We believe him to be in Kotohira. That’s why we’re here. That’s the whole story.”
Mr Matsumoto nodded.
“Not quite the whole story, I think. What is your involvement, Miss La Borde?”
“I’m a reporter,” she said. “I got mixed up in this through a foolish and idle boast and now Mr Paget and I are working together to our mutual advantage.”
“She’s a goddam reporter!” shouted Bill. “How much more do you need to hear? She could blow everything!”
Bill really must be as dense as he looked to keep on interrupting Mr Matsumoto, trying to give him orders. Even though she felt herself to be neck deep in trouble, Helene couldn’t help thinking that Bill was skating on very thin ice.
Mr Matsumoto ignored the outburst, his bodyguards maintaining their flanking position.
“You wish me to believe, Miss La Borde, that you have no interest in my business?”
“No! I’m sorry but I’ve never even heard of you before. Bill… he never mentioned your name, I swear it. I don’t even know what it is you do – except that you have this beautiful ryokan. But,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his flat, black stare, “I believe I can now begin to guess who and what you are – if not what you do, exactly. But my primary concern – my only concern – is to solve this mystery… so I can go home again.”
Her answer seemed to please Mr Matsumoto because he smiled suddenly. It was like seeing a hungry wolf lick your hand instead of tearing out your throat.
“May I offer you some tea?” he said politely. “O-cha? Matcha? Or you prefer European black tea, perhaps?”
“Thank you,” said Helene, “I would like some Ocha, please: I find it very refreshing.”
Out of the corner of her eye Helene saw Charlie give her a tiny smile.
“And Mr Paget? Coffee, perhaps? I understand it is your beverage of choice.”
“Thank you, but Ocha is fine. Helene’s instincts are usually right on these things,” said Charlie.
Helene wasn’t quite sure what he meant by this but was in no position to ask him. It seemed like a vote of confidence.
Mr Matsumoto clapped his hands and shot out an order. Helene thought Bill was going to have a heart attack: this was not what he’d expected at all.
“I hope you have been enjoying my country,” said Mr Matsumoto conversationally while they waited for the tea to arrive.
“Oh yes!” said Helene with real warmth.
The words tumbled out of her mouth uncontrollably, a verbal torrent. She tended to talk when she was nervous. Now was definitely one of those times.
“We visited the most beautiful park yesterday: it must look magnificent when the cherry blossom is out. But I think the maple trees were my favourite part. It must be wonderful to see them in the Autumn.”
She stopped, remembering that this was very far from a normal conversation. Perhaps some atavistic part of her recognised that engaging with Mr Matsumoto might help save her. Might.
“Do you have a garden at home, perhaps?” said Mr Matsumoto. “The English are great gardeners, I believe, although I have not been fortunate enough to visit your country.”
Helene sighed.
“Sadly, I have no skill as a gardener although I do have a small garden. But my neighbour, an elderly man, seems to do magic with my dog roses.”
Strange, she thought. She felt utterly detached. The part of her body that recognised danger was screaming at her to run, but another part felt calm and matter-of-fact. It was surreal to be discussing horticulture with a man that she still thought was going to kill her. It was almost an out-of-body experience, watching herself chat to Mr Matsumoto.
Mayumi entered carrying a large tray, whilst Mr Matsumoto expressed his delight with Helene’s description of the scent of her dog roses on a summer evening.
“Ah!” he said, a
s the tea was served from a delicate blue tea-pot. “You have met my daughter Mayumi.”
Mayumi smiled and bowed.
“Yeah, dad. Just like you asked me to.”
Helene stared. It was Mayumi, but the sweet, hesitant school girl seemed to have been replaced by an older, harder woman, although still very beautiful. Now they were together, Helene could see the family resemblance – something about the eyes. But now Mayumi had no trace of an accent.
“Please forgive our little subterfuge,” said Mr Matsumoto, clearly following the direction of Helene’s thoughts. “I thought it would make things simpler; and Mayumi is so good at greeting people.”
Helene tried to smile. It was a rather wry attempt.
“She had us fooled; she’s a credit to you, Mr Matsumoto.”
He beamed and indicated that Helene should drink her tea. There were three cups: one for Mr Matsumoto, one for Helene and one for Charlie. Neither Bill nor the heavies were offered refreshment and Mayumi left after kissing her father on the cheek and bowing respectfully. She left without looking at Helene again, although she cast an appraising glance at Charlie.
Helene sipped the tea with trembling hands. She felt herself reviving slightly as the hot liquid eased its way down her parched throat. But increased awareness also made everything seem more terrifying.
The cup rattled as she tried to place it back on the tiny saucer.
“Now,” said Mr Matsumoto, his voice changing tempo again, “to business. I find myself with a dilemma. My employee,” he nodded towards Bill, “would like me to dispose of you. He has indicated that a number of painful methods might be used. In his own way he is quite inventive.”
Helene sloshed some tea over her hand, although it was some seconds before she realised it had scalded her.
“He seems to have some deep resentment to you, Miss La Borde. I wonder why that might be?”
Bill leered at her.
“I... I don’t know,” stuttered Helene, her eyes drawn to Bill like a rabbit in the headlights.
“Mr Paget, you are a professional, are you not?” said Mr Matsumoto, turning to Charlie. “It is most surprising to me that you left William unharmed during your… encounter in Hawaii.”
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