Last Stop Tokyo

by James Buckler

  About the Book

  Alex thought running away would make everything better. Six thousand miles from the mistakes he’s made and the people he’s hurt, Tokyo seems like the perfect escape. A new life, a new Alex.

  The bright lights and dark corners of this alien and fascinating city intoxicate him, and he finds himself transfixed by this country, which feels like a puzzle that no one can quite explain. But when Alex meets the enigmatic and alluring Naoko, the peace he sought slips ever further from his grasp.

  After all, trust is just betrayal waiting to happen, and Alex is about to find out that there’s no such thing as rock bottom. There’s always the chance things will get worse …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  LAST STOP TOKYO

  James Buckler

  For Isabel

  Prologue

  ALEX TWISTED IN the window seat, his breath forming circles on the glass. Some kind of storm would be appropriate, he thought. Lightning flashes and rolling thunder. Instead, all was calm. Night was falling, the darkness seeping towards Tokyo from the east, the clustered buildings vanishing into shadow. He could see a haze of smog lit up by the sodium glare from billboards in Shibuya and Shinjuku. The traffic moving in veins, headlights shimmering like stars reflected in a stream. The flight attendants passed along the centre aisle making final safety checks, their smiles fixed, the hydraulics of the undercarriage shuddering beneath their feet. Alex felt the stiffness in his limbs and tried to will away the creeping sense of fear. He knew there was no going back.

  The plane banked left and started to descend, the ground rising up steadily to meet them. Alex tried to find his apartment building in the vast plain of grey and black structures passing shapelessly below. He knew his neighbourhood was to the north but there were no landmarks to orient himself, just the mass of rooftops and narrow streets. He looked further south for the school where he taught or the gallery where Naoko worked. The city was still unfamiliar. The rolling landscape skewed out of alignment the more he searched.

  They touched down smoothly on the runway at Narita and taxied into an empty bay at the north terminal, everyone remaining obediently in their places until the seatbelt light was extinguished. Then the passengers rose together and began the scramble to retrieve baggage from the overhead lockers and jostle for position in the aisle. Alex remained seated. He was in no hurry.

  When the aisle was almost empty, he stood and pulled the small leather holdall from the overhead bin and made his way to the open door. He thanked the attendant and stepped out on to the elevated exit ramp. The wind rattled against the thin metal walls. He’d been unsure in Bangkok whether to check his bag or carry it on board. He’d changed his mind back and forth during the taxi ride to the airport. Finally, he’d thought it would look suspicious to check in such a small bag so he’d kept it with him as he boarded.

  He followed the passengers into the main terminal and along the starkly lit corridor towards the baggage reclaim. He’d decided in advance that it would be best to linger there, to stand alongside the carousel and appear as if he was waiting with all the others. To be first up at passport control was to invite attention. He needed the safety of the crowd. The businessmen returning from debauched weekends in Patpong, the western backpackers and gap-year students, the young Thai women heading for work in the hostess bars of Roppongi. He noticed an Indonesian family, the women all wearing neat black hijabs. It was best to avoid walking too close to them, he thought.

  The luggage began to slide out on to the carousel, slowly at first and then in a flurry of suitcases and garment bags. As their owners retrieved them and stacked the baggage on to trolleys, Alex fell in among the crowd and followed the signs for the exit. He stepped on to the moving walkway feeding the passengers down a long corridor and waited. His eyes were focused on the middle distance, his expression neutral and unconcerned. The walkway was monitored by hidden cameras with unseen airport officials trying to pick out any signs of anxiety or unusual body language that might betray malign intent. Alex knew how to set his face so the Japanese were unable to read him. In the seven months he had lived in Tokyo he had faced enough situations where it had been critical to learn.

  He looked clean and neat, wearing jeans with a pair of Converse and a button-down plaid shirt, freshly laundered at the hotel in Thailand. His short blond hair was combed back from a youthful, lightly tanned face. Deep inside, he felt much older and wearier than would appear from his complexion. Compared to the other westerners around him, he looked conservative. Many of them were rough and ragged, as if they had come straight from the beach bars of Pattaya or Phuket, still in bright shorts and sandals, some in bare feet. The groups of Japanese businessmen stood together in the stale humidity, bound up in their dark suits and ties, whispering guiltily to one another about their exploits. Alex knew how to contain his nerves. He gave the impression he intended to give: comfortable and relaxed. Just another young English teacher returning home from a break at an island resort.

  The walkway reached the end of the concourse where an escalator descended into the arrivals hall. The overhead signs directed the passengers to separate passport desks, left for Japanese citizens or right for all others. Alex turned right and joined the snaking line as it shuffled forward. He felt a lightness, a sense of inevitability, as if disembodied. He gripped the rolled leather handles of the holdall tightly in his fist and waited.

  When he reached the head of the queue, he stood with his toes on the red line, poised like a diver on a high platform. He gazed steadily ahead and approached the uniformed official as soon as he was called. He set the bag at his feet and handed over his passport. The officer scanned the biometric circuit and flicked through the pages until he found the embassy visa fixed near the back. The tip of his tongue darted out and wet his lips as he read.

  ‘Your visa will expire soon,’ he said.

  Alex thought quickly. ‘I know. I’ve already applied for an extension.’

  ‘This is a problem. It’s not permitted to leave Japan on a visa with less than six weeks remaining.’

  The officer paused for a moment, weighing up the situation, then turned and called to his supervisor. Alex began to feel the blood pound behind his ears.

  ‘Your name?’ the supervisor asked, checking the identity page of the passport.

  ‘Alex Malloy.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘You live in Tokyo?’

  ‘Yes. In Koenji.’

  ‘Your address?�
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  ‘3-1-3 Fujimicho, Room nine.’

  ‘Where do you work, Mr Malloy?’

  ‘At the Excelsior School on Shinjuku Dori.’

  ‘Why did you return alone today?’

  Alex hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he said.

  The supervisor pointed down at the computer in front of him, the screen hidden from view.

  ‘You purchased two seats on the flight today. One in your name and one in the name of Naoko Yamamoto. Why didn’t she accompany you?’

  ‘We … we had an argument. She decided to come back on her own.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  Alex considered his answer for a moment. ‘The weather,’ he said.

  The supervisor looked up over Alex’s shoulder at the long queue building towards the back of the hall. Another flight had arrived and passengers were spilling off the escalator at the far side of the building. He closed the passport and handed it over the counter.

  ‘Next time, get the re-entry stamp before you depart.’

  Alex forced his relief not to show. He nodded his understanding and slipped the passport into his back pocket and picked up the holdall. He began to walk towards the customs desks that separated the passengers from the outside world. He could see through the glass exit doors to the barrier where families were waiting expectantly, bored taxi drivers lined up beside them patiently holding up handwritten name boards.

  He looked along the rows of customs desks to select the one with the shortest queue and chose the desk at the far end. There were four customs officers searching through a suitcase on the inspection counter, an Australian couple watching awkwardly as their clothes and underwear were examined. The officers were waving the new passengers on as they joined the line, not wanting to snarl up the crowd as it funnelled towards the exit. Alex slipped in with them and walked past the desk.

  He was ten metres from the door, the cool air breezing against his skin, when the dog handler passed behind him. From the corner of his eye he saw the German shepherd take a curious look in his direction and sniff the air inquisitively, its wet nose twitching at the end of a long muzzle. He kept moving. Beyond the doors, people were hugging their loved ones and walking down the concourse towards the express train platform that would take them back into the city. Alex was striding towards them, the holdall in his right hand, his head up, eyes fixed on the outside world. The handler paid out the leash and allowed the dog to move closer to the scent, following its instinct. Alex heard it give a soft whine as it moved towards him and then stood up on its hind legs with bared teeth and bristling fur, straining against the tether.

  The handler stopped and leaned his body back to rein in the snarling dog. Alex stood frozen in place, watching with horror as it began to bark, low and husky at first, then loud enough to bring down the building.

  1

  ‘COME ON,’ HIRO said. ‘I’ll show you the other Japan.’ They left the bar and walked along the overhead rail tracks and past Shinjuku station. It was nearly 1 a.m. on Friday night, and the rainy season had broken. The clouds that had threatened the city for days were pouring down and water was steaming up from the pavements. Alex tugged the collar of his raincoat tightly around him and held his briefcase over his head for protection as they crossed the junction and headed deeper into Kabukicho. The streets were full of plastic umbrellas, all heading down into the inevitable red-light district with its arcades and concealed entrances. There were strange faces and strange sounds in a kind of whirl that tricked the eye.

  Wolf-eyed hustlers lingered on the corners like comic-book thugs, waiting to prey on the groups of young girls who shoaled around them. They reached out and took the girls’ arms if they strayed too close, making offers and enticements Alex couldn’t understand. The girls all wore the practised look that said they had seen it all and were bored and the world held nothing new for them.

  They all watched Hiro Ozawa as he passed by, imperious beneath the protection of his black umbrella. He was wearing a dark suit and French collars under a cashmere overcoat, handmade shoes that were polished to mirrors in the lights of the arcades. He was sharp and neat, with an air of superiority, as if he knew life had no choice but to surrender everything he wanted. It was the same with the other brokers and traders he worked with, a satisfaction which to strangers could be mistaken for arrogance. Alex had wondered lately just how mistaken they were.

  They walked on, under the giant video screens that hung outside the department stores and down into the maze of side streets where Nigerian gangs paid backhanders to control the doors. Hiro stopped at a bar with dancing girls and looked up at the sign.

  ‘This is the place,’ he said.

  Alex peered past the pink and yellow lanterns hanging over the window. The place was full of sleazy-looking older men watching girls dance under bright spotlights.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Alex said. ‘This is everything I try to avoid.’

  Hiro put an arm around his shoulder to urge him on. ‘If you don’t like this place, I know another close by. You can pay to watch two girls fuck in a mirrored room. What’s wrong with you, gaijin?’

  Alex watched the furtive touts peer from the doorways. They glared at him with the dark scowls they reserved for all foreigners – the gaijin they treated with undisguised contempt. Alex expected it from the low-life inhabitants of Kabukicho, but it was difficult to accept from an old friend. He shook Hiro’s arm from around his neck; he could smell the alcohol thick on his breath.

  ‘If you want to do that, you’re on your own,’ he said.

  Hiro pretended to look hurt. ‘How often do I get to see you these days, Alex? Why are you always so stubborn? At least I’m being honest with you. If I took you to one of those other places you wouldn’t know until you were already inside.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alex said. ‘I can smell them from fifty paces.’

  There were crowds of salarymen milling around, promising themselves one last drink before the trains stopped running for the night. Alex could tell his friend wasn’t going to let up, and he couldn’t leave him drunk and alone. He looked at Hiro with a straight face.

  ‘Call Naoko,’ he said.

  ‘Naoko?’ Hiro pronounced her name as if saying it for the first time. ‘Why do you want me to call her? She would kill me for coming to a place like this.’

  It was the reaction Alex was hoping for. Either they could go somewhere less sleazy, or he would get to see Naoko after all.

  ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ he said. ‘We go back to Golden Gai and drink there, or you call Naoko and tell her to come down. Then we can go in and I’ll buy you all the drinks you want.’

  Hiro’s expression didn’t change, but Alex could see his mind working. ‘There’s no way she’ll come here. Not a chance. Anyway, she’s out of your league.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘And she’s jaja uma.’

  Alex frowned. ‘What’s jaja uma?’

  Hiro smiled knowingly. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to find out.’

  Alex stepped forward. ‘Go on, Hiro. Call her and tell her I’m here. Then see if she comes down.’

  The challenge hung between them for a moment. Hiro opened his mouth to argue but then thought better of it. He held his hand up as if it was an easy win and took the phone from his pocket.

  ‘Whatever you want, gaijin,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want.’

  They shook the rain from their coats and took a table at a booth near the stage. A line of girls gyrated out of time above them, the spotlights colouring their faces. Curls of smoke hung in thick layers overhead. Hiro called the waitress and ordered whisky sours. She was wearing string underwear and heels she couldn’t control. Alex reclined against the worn velvet upholstery and looked around. The place must have once seemed edgy and decadent, but now everything was just shabby and sad. When the waitress brought their drinks and set them on the table, Hiro held out a ten-thousand-yen note for a four-thousand-yen round. She leaned in to take the
money and he placed a hand on her thigh and ran it up to her backside. He was whispering something in her ear that Alex couldn’t hear over the music. The waitress brushed his hand off and backed away. She looked like she wanted to slap him, but Hiro made an innocent face as if it was an accident. When she leaned in again he slid his hand up her leg once more and held it there. Eventually, she just grabbed the bill and walked off, her expression one of weary resignation. Hiro’s eyes followed her all the way back to the bar.

  ‘Why the fuck did you do that?’ Alex shouted.

  Hiro laughed. ‘I just told her I wanted a feel in return for a tip. She’s happy enough.’

  ‘I never knew you were such a fiend. Not until I came here and saw it for myself.’

  ‘What did you think? That I spent my time writing haiku and making the tea ceremony?’

  Alex stirred his drink with a plastic straw. ‘That sounds more fun. I’m sure the waitress would agree with me.’

  ‘You used to love nights out like this when we were students.’

  ‘That was a long time ago. You can’t treat people like that just because you’re drunk. Not everything you see is for sale.’

  Hiro laughed and tossed his head back haughtily. ‘Why would I take moral lessons from you?’ he said. ‘Your track record is hardly blemish-free. You’re the only lawyer I know who’s been struck off.’

  Alex tried to smile at the insult, even though the accusation was true. ‘That’s why I had to come all the way to Japan,’ he said. ‘I needed the distance to escape that particular claim to fame. I’m not a failed lawyer here. Now, I’m an education specialist.’

  Hiro took a moment to savour his friend’s torment. ‘I still don’t know how it happened. I mean, how does a graduate from one of the best law schools in London lose his job and end up teaching English in Tokyo?’

  Alex sipped his cocktail and winced. Hiro had ordered them strong.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m just lucky, I suppose.’

  ‘It must have been serious. They don’t strike lawyers off for nothing.’