Last Stop Tokyo

by James Buckler

  ‘Do you sleep with them?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Of course we do,’ she said. ‘Why else would they buy us gifts?’

  ‘So what’s the difference between an occasional and an escort?’

  ‘There’s a big difference,’ she said, slightly indignantly. ‘Escorts take cash and have clients, but we have boyfriends and only accept gifts.’

  ‘That seems like a narrow distinction to me,’ Alex said.

  The table was littered with half-empty glasses and food no one was eating but the girls called on the intercom and ordered more. They excused themselves and left for the bathroom.

  Alex turned to Hiro. ‘I can’t believe you made a date with two hookers.’

  ‘Didn’t you listen, gaijin?’ Hiro said, and started to laugh. ‘She’s only an occasional hooker.’

  ‘You’re unbelievable.’

  ‘Stop worrying. They ordered everything expensive on the menu. Surely we deserve something in return?’

  ‘She’s a princess. They both are.’

  Hiro tapped a finger against his temple. ‘You’re letting all this trouble go to your head. Relax and enjoy yourself. I guarantee that, whoever this girl of yours is, she’s doing the same right now.’

  Alex knew he was right. Maybe it was time for Naoko to feel let down for a change. He looked around the crowded bar.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘This place is just a lot of smoke and noise and lights.’

  Hiro stood up and finished his drink. ‘Exactly like Tokyo, my friend.’

  They paid the bill and hailed a cab outside on the street. Hiro took the front seat and gave the driver directions to Shin-Okubo. He looked back at Alex and winked. The girls were sitting close and texting each other, singing along with the J-pop on the radio.

  The taxi pulled up outside the love hotel and Alex looked up at the pink neon heart flashing on top of the building. The girls still had their blank, seen-it-all expressions, even inside when they saw the black satin sheets and gold fixtures and the king-sized bed that crowded the room. A giant TV hung on one wall between a pair of ornate mirrors but there were no windows.

  ‘It’s like a bad Blaxploitation movie,’ Alex said.

  Hiro pulled Kyumi down on to the bed and rolled her up in the sheets, and she was giggling and play-fighting drunk. Yuko took Alex by the hand and led him into the bathroom and closed the door. She pushed him down on to the tiles surrounding the sunken bathtub, kissing and holding his face. He reached out and felt the smooth skin of her thighs beneath his palms and moved his hands higher and hitched up her short dress. She pushed her long pink nails through his hair and started to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Don’t move too quickly,’ she said. ‘Or they’ll break.’

  Alex closed his eyes and tried to lose himself. He breathed in the smell of her skin and buried his face into the cleft of her breasts. She took his hand and placed it inside her underwear and he caressed her warm, shaved flesh. She began to talk to herself in a low Japanese whisper.

  As she talked, Alex heard another voice, softer but more insistent, inside his head. He tried to shake it off but the distraction was overwhelming. Yuko was still speaking quietly to herself and Alex lifted a finger to her lips and she stopped and looked down in confusion.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing. It’s fine.’

  He kissed her stomach and ran his hands on to her backside. He searched for the feeling, but it had disappeared and he knew there was no way to get it back. The harder he tried, the further it slipped away. He opened his eyes and now he was sober, making out with a strange girl in a tacky love-hotel bathroom. He desperately wished he was somewhere else. Yuko felt the mood change and backed away.

  ‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, and began to button his shirt.

  ‘Don’t you like me?’

  ‘Of course. But I don’t really know you.’

  ‘Are you going to fuck me?’

  He looked into her pale, fake eyes. ‘No,’ he said.

  She paused for a moment, thinking, and then asked, ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He stood up and looked around for his jacket. ‘It means that it’s complicated.’

  ‘It’s always complicated,’ she said.

  ‘If I do this, I know I’ll regret it later.’

  She began to straighten her dress. ‘Do you love her?’

  Alex looked at her for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said finally.

  ‘Have you told her?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s never given me the chance.’

  ‘Is she jaja uma?’ Yuko asked.

  ‘What the hell is jaja uma? Why do I keep hearing this?’

  ‘It means a wild horse. A horse no man can tame.’

  ‘That certainly sounds like her,’ he said.

  Yuko looked like she was going to say something else, but then stopped. She opened the door and waited for him to leave. As the door closed behind him, he could hear her begin to cry softly to herself.

  He was waiting for the lift in the corridor when he heard Hiro coming down the hall. He was barefoot, wearing a yukata tied loosely at the waist, his hair messed up and lipstick on his neck and cheeks.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? She’s sobbing in there.’

  Alex pressed for the lift again. It was stuck on the basement floor. He avoided meeting Hiro’s eyes.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘Why not? I’ve got money, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘I’m not like you. That’s all.’

  ‘And what am I like?’

  ‘If I do this, it will all be over between us.’

  Hiro waved a hand between the two of them. ‘You mean us?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘No. Naoko and I.’

  There was silence for a time. Alex pressed for the lift again and he heard the mechanism kick into life and the cables begin to rise. He kept pressing the button to try to make it come faster.

  ‘So I was right,’ Hiro said. ‘You two have been lying to me. How long for?’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea, Hiro. I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘How long?’ he asked again.

  ‘A while now. About four months.’

  ‘Well, you’re not the only one who can keep a secret, Alex. I guessed there was something going on. Ever since the night you met. I knew I should never have introduced you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I didn’t want to do anything to make it real.’

  ‘It is real.’

  The lift arrived and the doors opened. Alex stepped inside and pressed for the ground floor. Hiro placed a hand against the frame, his face bright with anger.

  ‘No, it isn’t. And it never will be. That’s why I brought you here tonight.’

  Alex bristled at his friend’s words. ‘Was that the plan all along? You arranged all of this so I would fuck that girl and you could tell Naoko?’

  ‘It’s what’s best for both of you.’

  ‘Why did you tell her what happened to me in London?’

  ‘It’s my job to protect her.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘From everyone.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me first? I would have told you the truth.’

  Hiro jabbed a finger at him. ‘No, you wouldn’t, Alex. You’ve had months to tell me but you insist on keeping silent.’

  ‘I’ve never lied to you. The story you told Naoko was all lies.’

  ‘I know you were involved with drugs. Tell me that’s not the truth?’

  ‘It’s not the whole truth.’

  ‘You killed someone in a car accident, Alex. How can I let Naoko be with a person who would do that and then run away? That’s a
bout as low as you can get.’

  Alex shook his head gently. ‘Believe me, Hiro. It was much worse than that.’

  ‘You’ll never be good enough for her. Why don’t you just accept it?’

  Alex took his friend’s hand and pushed it from the metal frame, and the lift doors started to close.

  ‘The thing is, Hiro, you’re wrong.’

  ‘Wrong about what?’ Hiro asked.

  Alex watched him back away into the hall but didn’t answer. The doors sealed shut and the lift began to drop with a shudder. He heard Hiro shout the question again, his voice echoing through the lift shaft as he descended. Wrong about everything, Alex thought.

  8

  SNOW BLANKETED THE streets. Flakes of uneven white, crooked as teeth, were twirling slowly out of the bitter sky. Tracks of deep grey slush ran in parallel on each side of Denmark Hill. Alex drove carefully, two hands on the steering wheel, feeling the delicate traction of the car as he cornered on to Sunset Road and headed down towards the deserted park. London lay before him, veiled in cloud.

  Lights were strung tastefully in the front window of his parents’ house, framing the thick, dark green of the Christmas tree, sparsely hung with ornaments. It was a narrow Victorian terrace with a dark blue door and tall bay windows, the panes dotted with moisture where the warmth had melted the snow before it could take hold. He parked by the garden wall and took the bag of gifts from the boot of the Audi and walked up the garden path and let himself in. The same patterned carpet that had always greeted him still lay in the hall. The same worn bannister and frayed doormat.

  He heard his father call out to him heartily when he heard the door open.

  ‘Is that Dr Malloy?’

  Alex put his best front on. ‘No. It’s just me,’ he called back.

  His father came out into the hallway as Alex was hanging his coat on the stand. ‘Alexander,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas. How was the traffic?’

  He came forward, raising his arms as if for a hug, and then remembered himself. He reached out and shook his son’s hand politely.

  ‘Traffic? There wasn’t any,’ Alex said. ‘It’s the best day of the year to drive.’

  The hallway was bathed in pools of colour from the stained-glass fan light. His father smelt of Scotch and soda and musty woollens. His hands were like ice. He’d been outside, sneaking a taste of whisky in his shed again, Alex guessed. There was no way alcohol would be allowed in the house, not even on Christmas Day.

  ‘Did you bring Patrick with you?’ his father asked, looking back over Alex’s shoulder as if the door would open at any moment.

  ‘I thought he would already be here,’ Alex said.

  His father was still gripping his hand. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long. Come in and say hello to everyone.’

  The family were in the living room, waiting for lunch to be served, just as they were every year, gossiping and sharing tales of obscure relatives back home. Great-aunts and cousins were sitting on every available surface, while children ran from room to room. Festive tunes played softly on the radio. Alex greeted everyone in turn and set his gifts under the tree. One flock-papered wall was hung with thirty years of school photographs, massed ranks of boys arranged before the granite colonnade of Saint Dominic’s College. His father was on the front row of each, wearing the same corduroy jacket and flannel trousers. He looked like a stern, patrician version of Alex, although there was no way his father would ever admit to the resemblance. The mantelpiece was laden with Communion photos and cards illustrated with Nativity scenes. There was a framed picture of Patrick in his graduation gown, but nothing of Alex, not that it bothered him much. He’d long since ceased to care.

  His mother sat on a high-backed chair in front of the open fire, turning her ankles out towards the flames. She waited for him to bend down to kiss her on each cheek. She was wearing a thick apron over a tweed skirt and a grey cardigan, her skin translucent and tight across the bones of her face. Her lips were pinched beneath the violet lipstick she wore only on this day.

  ‘I looked out for you all through the service this morning,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I tried to make it.’

  ‘Oh, Alex. When was the last time you attended? You or your brother.’

  ‘If I want to spend time in a darkened room, there’s a perfectly good pub at the end of my road.’

  She pursed her mouth in distaste. ‘One day you’ll need the comfort of your faith. You mark my words. Especially after working in that godforsaken Square Mile. I noticed the car you’re driving looks very expensive. It must make a hole of its own in the ozone layer.’

  ‘It’s a company car,’ Alex said. ‘I didn’t get to choose it.’

  ‘Bought with the ill-gotten gains of some corporation or other, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m a junior tax lawyer, Mother. I don’t steal from collection plates.’

  At least his parents had always been consistent, he thought. Their lifelong belief had been that learning served a purpose only if put to the use of others. They had wanted him to be a barrister or human-rights lawyer, impoverished and noble, not squandering the education they had provided for the tawdry return of a decent salary. A convenient opinion, Alex had always thought, for a career teacher who’d married the headmaster’s daughter.

  Alex had realized young that he had come too late ever to win his parents’ approval. Patrick was almost ten years his senior and had exhausted whatever affection they may have had. It had been made clear to him that they hadn’t planned for a second son, especially with his mother nearing forty when he arrived, too set in her ways to indulge a child. But that had never really caused Alex concern. He had always understood that the adventure of life lay outside their horizons.

  They ate lunch at the table in the kitchen, sitting elbow to elbow, jammed in like beggars. His parents made no mention of the empty chair as they ate, despite their obvious disappointment. They had long ago learned to hold their emotions like Spartans.

  Finally, his mother said, ‘Perhaps he’s been called into the hospital on an emergency. That would be like Patrick. Thinking of others on a day like today.’

  At least they had their illusions to fall back on, Alex thought. It was wishful thinking, but it seemed to relieve the tension. By the time his father lit the pudding Patrick still hadn’t arrived. Alex excused himself as the table was being cleared and went out to the car. He knew the truth of his brother’s absence was far from selfless.

  Patrick’s flat was on the third floor of a terrace near Battersea Park. Fold-away buggies were propped in the hall and piles of unopened mail were sorted neatly on the stairs. Alex rang the buzzer and stood back from the porch to look up. The windows were dark. Clouds had formed into thick banks overhead. The snow was sheeting down now, coming in heavy gusts, almost sideways on the wind. Alex had to shield his eyes from the flurries of wet, stinging flakes. He rang again and again until he knew Patrick would have to acknowledge him. Finally, the lock clicked open and Alex pushed his way inside and climbed the flight of narrow stairs.

  The flat was almost bare. There were indentations in the carpet where the furniture had recently stood. The rosewood sideboard his parents had given as a wedding present was gone and bright patches of paintwork stood out on the walls where pictures had been removed. He called his brother’s name and his voice echoed back from the bare surfaces.

  There was no answer, so he went from room to empty room until he found Patrick in the kitchen, sitting alone on the only remaining chair.

  ‘Hi, Alex,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  He was wearing a dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his overcoat and scarf draped over his shoulders like a pensioner. His hand was trembling slightly as he ran it through his thinning hair.

  ‘Everyone missed you at lunch,’ Alex said.

  ‘I wanted to come. I really did. Every time I tried to leave the house I just couldn’t face it. What di
d you have?’

  ‘Goose. As always.’

  ‘Was it dry?’

  ‘As sawdust.’

  ‘At least some things don’t change.’

  Alex looked around at the empty room. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘I had to sell some things. I was short of money.’

  ‘What about Monica?’

  ‘She left. I came home last week and found her gone. She said she would give me until the New Year to sort myself out but she must have decided to bail early.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘I don’t know. She won’t answer my calls. But she left a note, which was nice.’

  He tried to laugh but lacked the energy. Sweat was beading on his forehead, despite the cold.

  ‘Jesus. You look terrible,’ Alex said. ‘Do you need to go to a hospital?’

  His brother shook his head weakly. ‘I’m a doctor, Alex. What are they going to tell me that I don’t know already?’

  ‘That you’re killing yourself.’

  ‘I don’t need a hospital. I need money.’

  Alex shook his head firmly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not helping you to get drugs.’

  Patrick looked up with wide, pleading eyes. His mind seemed to be working at a furious speed. ‘I’m not going to get high. I just need something to stop me feeling so sick. You can ration it out to me bit by bit. I haven’t got anywhere else to turn.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I’m asking for your help.’

  Alex hesitated. He could sense the danger in giving his brother what he wanted but it was sickening to see him in such a raw state.

  ‘Even if I say yes, where can you get anything on Christmas Day?’

  ‘I know someone who’ll deliver.’

  ‘And then what happens? You can’t carry on like this.’

  ‘Just help me now, Alex. Then I’ll go wherever you want. I promise you.’

  ‘How much money do you need?’

  Patrick’s face flushed with eagerness, as if he could already taste it. ‘How much have you got?’

  Alex thought it over. ‘I’m really not sure about this,’ he said.