‘You like the yellow cabs?’ the technician sneered.
Alex had no idea what he meant. The guard looked on, leaning, bored, against the wall.
‘Some Japanese girls are like yellow cabs,’ the technician said. ‘Any foreigner can ride in them.’
Alex knew better than to react. He stood and faced forward as the flash popped, holding the name board close to his chest.
Through door after door, waiting at every stop to be buzzed in, he was led down into the cell block, a murmur of low voices filling the corridors. A line of men, gnarled and ugly, stood waiting to be processed, and they watched him suspiciously as he passed. He saw some Korean and Filipino faces mixed in with the Japanese but no westerners. He could smell the stench of fear mixed with sweat and mould and rotting food, all masked behind a layer of cheap disinfectant. The officer stopped at a cell at the end of the block and unlocked it and showed Alex inside. Six Chinese men were squeezed into a room barely big enough for four, each dressed identically in blue uniforms with numbers stencilled on the legs, cramped together on the cement floor with their backs against the wall.
The cell had no beds or chairs, just a steel toilet bowl in the corner and a bright strip light in the ceiling, protected by a wire cage. Every surface was chipped and gouged and scrawled with graffiti. The door closed behind him and the lock clicked into place. Alex found a space on the floor and settled himself down with his knees raised, his chin resting on his arm. A layer of dust, fine as ash, swirled around him as he moved.
One of the men, tall and stringy, with a birthmark that filled one eye, stared across the cell. He had a ragged haircut and sunken cheeks where his teeth were missing. The men spoke to each other in rapid Cantonese, arguing as if trying to concoct an alibi or apportion blame. They lowered their voices to a whisper each time a guard passed by in the corridor outside.
The hours drifted past. The cell became rank from bodies perspiring in the hot, windowless room. Everyone seemed dazed, on the verge of falling into unconsciousness from the heat and the tedium. Only the discomfort of sitting unsupported on the cement floor kept Alex awake. As the day ebbed away, his thoughts kept returning to the party at the gallery and the argument at Naoko’s apartment. Nothing that happened justified him being arrested. Alex knew that. He thought he should feel reassured by the knowledge that he was innocent, the balance of natural order being in his favour. But there was an unmistakable doubt that this would end up working against him.
In the late evening the door finally clicked open and the guard called for the people in each cell to gather in the corridor. The Chinese men all stood as one and stumbled out, dazed and numb. Alex followed them. The hallway was full of uniformed prisoners standing closely together, stretching and massaging the circulation back into wasted limbs. He took his place and waited. When the guard had checked that all the cells were empty he called the line forward, each man walking six inches from the one in front. They filed along the corridor, calling their numbers to the guard as they passed, and made a left turn into a long, narrow washroom with banks of metal water troughs at the centre.
Alex copied the others. He stripped off his uniform shirt and rinsed his face and neck, tossing handfuls of water over himself to wash the sweat away. He drenched himself thoroughly and rinsed out his mouth, then dried himself and made way for the next man. In the locker room, he was handed a thin futon mattress and a rough blanket and followed the line back to the cells. The Chinese spread their bedding out on the floor, jostling one another for the best sleeping positions. Alex took the place that was left beside the toilet bowl and arranged his futon and blanket.
Before locking them in for the night, the guard placed a tray in the middle of the cell and issued instructions Alex couldn’t understand. The Chinese nodded and bowed to the guard as if this routine was familiar. The door was locked and then the overhead light flickered off behind the wire cage and a green safety light blinked on. Seven plastic containers and seven bottles of water were stacked roughly on the tray, each containing a portion of rice and fish with a serving of pickled vegetables. The meal looked stale and cold but Alex was starving. He reached out a hand to take a box from the tray and immediately sensed the atmosphere change.
A hand jabbed forward and snatched his wrist and for a moment he was caught unguarded. He turned and looked into fierce eyes behind the deep-crimson birthmark. The hand gripped him tightly and Alex froze as the others gathered up the food and began to tear open the packaging. He shook his arm free but the man moved to block his way, his hands clenched into fists. He stared from behind the plum stain around his eye, breathing heavily through flared nostrils, poised, ready to fight. The others were huddled together, looking over blankly. One of the men took a water bottle and tossed it on to Alex’s futon. He called out to his friends in Cantonese and they laughed and continued eating. Alex felt the sweat-slicked uniform cling to his body and his stomach turn over with hunger and fear. He took a step forward.
A fist struck him on the cheekbone where the cut was still fresh. There was a burning sensation as the stitches tore against the wound. He felt arms clench around his chest and grip him from behind. He ripped himself free and tried to turn but stumbled. A blanket was thrown over his head and pulled tightly around him and he was forced to the floor, the cement winding him as he landed hard. He was struggling to breathe and unable to push himself up, one arm locked beneath his body, the other pinned to his flank. He tried to kick out but his legs were trapped, his voice muffled by the rough material over his mouth.
As the blows from fists and feet rained down, Alex tried to squirm free, but there were too many hands forcing him back. He felt a rib crack beneath sharp knuckles and a stamp on his stomach doubled him over like a branch snapping in a storm. He could hear rasping voices and muted laughter. He wasn’t sure when he finally blacked out.
14
THE CURTAIN WAS pulled around the hospital bed. Beyond It, nurses were talking quietly and a buckled wheel squealed as a trolley rolled along the ward. His lips were dry and cracked, one sealed against the other. Pain was evident in every part of him, muffled by the warm, nauseating glow of medication. The sheets felt creased and damp beneath his body, a cannula impaled in his left hand like a parasitic insect gradually feeding in morphine. Outside, the sky was a brilliant blue. The snow on the window ledge was patterned with delicate tracks where resting birds had landed.
He could see the feet of the man in the next bed through a narrow crack in the curtain. They were pale and still, the skin waxy and lifeless. He stared at them for a long time, willing them to move, listening to the sound of the ventilator as it bellowed softly. He had no idea who they belonged to.
The curtain parted. His father looked surprised to find him awake, and hesitated, shifting back then forwards on his heels, unsure of himself. Finally, he called for a nurse. He was still wearing the stiff collar and striped tie he had chosen for Christmas lunch.
‘You’re awake,’ he said, standing at the side of the bed. ‘We can thank the Lord for that. It was a hell of an accident you were in. We didn’t know if you were going to make it.’
Alex slowly opened his mouth to speak. His tongue was swollen, his teeth aching in his jaw. ‘How long have I been here?’ he asked.
‘Two days,’ his father said.
‘What happened?’
‘You got hit by a breakdown truck. It was towing a car and the driver lost control in the snow. It hit you at full speed, right in the driver’s side door.’
‘They won’t tell me how badly I’m hurt. The nurses keep telling me to worry about that later.’
‘Well, maybe you should listen to them.’
‘Tell me, Dad.’
He touched a hand to Alex’s shoulder. ‘You’re going to be fine. It’ll take some time to get completely better, though. You’ve got a broken leg, a ruptured spleen, two chipped vertebrae. And there were severe burns on your back and arms.’
‘The truck driver?’
<
br /> ‘He’s fine. He had a concussion but it’s not serious.’
‘Patrick?’ Alex asked hesitantly. He realized he’d been avoiding speaking his brother’s name.
His father blinked rapidly. Tears began to moisten his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ he said.
‘You sound like one of the nurses.’
‘They’re right. Some things are best left until later.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone, Alex.’
‘Gone?’
‘He’s dead.’
Alex looked away. Above him, the heating pipes rattled. Somewhere, a telephone was ringing. The pain in his back and shoulders was immense.
‘In the crash?’
‘No. They pulled him from the wreckage with just cuts and bruises. He collapsed in the examination room before we got here. They said it was a brain haemorrhage. He was asking for details of your condition before you went into surgery. He was only alone for a few minutes and when the nurse returned she found him unconscious. He didn’t feel any pain at all.’
‘How is Mum taking it?’ Alex asked.
His father shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not well.’
‘Is she here?’
‘She won’t come.’
‘Why not?’
He checked back over his shoulder. ‘Where’s that nurse? It’s been five minutes since I called her.’
‘Why won’t she come, Dad?’
‘She’s at Mass.’
‘She blames me?’
His father leaned closer to the bed and lowered his voice. He sounded practical and forthright, just as he had in his days as a teacher.
‘The police … Well, they said Patrick had heroin in his bloodstream when he died … and they had checked your clothing at the scene and found some strange things. A hypodermic and some other unusual items. They say there was heroin in your possession. They want to interview you as soon as you’re well enough. As you can imagine, your mother’s very upset. She seems to think that you got Patrick mixed up in something. I keep trying to talk to her but she won’t listen. In fact, she’s unhappy that I’m here now.’
Alex turned his face away and looked out through the window. The world had somehow changed now, in just the few moments since he had last laid eyes on it. The buildings and the streets were the same, the traffic stopping and starting and the people walking in busy crowds on the wide pavements. But what had appeared familiar now seemed hostile and forbidding. The weight of the situation seemed overpowering, as if there were some great force dragging on his feet, pulling him down unstoppably. He had no desire to fight. None at all. All he felt was an overwhelming desire to sleep.
15
THE PRISON YARD was a void at the foot of Ushigome police station. It was a concrete pit dug out of the earth ten metres below ground level and covered with ribbons of razor wire. The officers working in the building towering above stared down from their windows at the men caged there.
Most of the yard was in shade. The sun slanted high over the roof and shone on a section at the far corner. Alex was aching and battered, moving with the humility of the defeated. He wanted to feel the sun on his face but he could see he wasn’t welcome. A group of Japanese prisoners were sitting on the benches, smoking and talking casually, the guards standing easily around them. The corner of the yard where the sunlight fell was theirs exclusively.
The Koreans were grouped together in the shadows by the water fountain. The Chinese were huddled together tightly so they couldn’t be heard. They all dragged hungrily on the ration of two cheap cigarettes handed out at the start of morning exercise. Alex stood with his back to the chain-link fence and watched a crow fly far above the razor wire, beating its wings against the head wind coursing between the buildings.
‘Hey! Russia-jin!’ a voice called out to him.
Alex looked over warily. A Japanese prisoner was approaching, stepping cautiously around the shallow pools of rainwater that lay in the yard. He listed to one side as he walked, one leg refusing to straighten beneath him. Alex turned away, trying hard to ignore him.
‘Hey! Russia-jin!’ he called out again.
‘I’m not Russian,’ Alex said, without looking round.
‘You look Russian.’
‘I’m English.’
‘Suit yourself, Russia-jin. Do you want a cigarette?’
Alex shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Then can I have those?’ He pointed to the pair of filter tips poking from Alex’s breast pocket.
He had a flat face and no brow, his skin pitted with old acne scars. He was about twenty-five, Alex guessed, short-limbed and scrawny, grinning to himself at springing the simplest of traps. He seemed thoroughly at ease, as if he were perfectly at home in his present surroundings. His face was the first Alex had seen that wasn’t dangerous or unfriendly.
‘Take them,’ he said, and handed the cigarettes over. ‘I don’t have the energy to bargain.’
‘I’m Jun,’ the man said as he lit one. He spat a loose strand of tobacco from his lips. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want to get into any more trouble.’
Jun took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. ‘You’re already in jail, Russia-jin. What more trouble is there?’
Nothing good had happened since he’d arrived at Ushigome and he could see no reason why that was about to change. Alex turned away and waited for him to leave.
‘Why did they arrest you?’ Jun said to his back. ‘What does a westerner have to do to end up here?’
Alex thought for a moment. ‘A speeding ticket,’ he said.
Jun gave a snorting laugh. ‘A speeding ticket. Very good. At least you’re not in his place.’
Alex turned around. ‘Whose place?’
‘The old guy over there.’
An old man was alone by the latrine, his arms gathered tightly across his chest, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.
‘Who’s he?’ Alex asked.
‘He’s hentai.’ Jun made a hand gesture like he was milking a cow. ‘He was caught groping a schoolgirl on the train. It’s his weakness. Now he’ll be lucky to get out in one piece.’
‘How come you know all this?’
‘It’s my business to know,’ Jun said with a shrug. He lit the second cigarette from the end of the first. ‘Like I know about the Chinese in your cell.’
Alex looked up and waited for him to continue. Jun took his interest as an invitation to move closer.
‘They’re Triad. Not the serious guys, but they’re nasty enough. They’ve just finished sentences at Fuchu and now they’re waiting for their deportation orders to come through.’
‘Well, I really hope it happens soon.’
‘Why? They’re giving you some trouble?’
‘Let’s just say they don’t like to share at mealtimes.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Alex looked over at the Chinese standing together. Not one of them had strayed from the pack since they had come outside to the yard.
‘I’ll just have to keep winning them over with my charm,’ he said.
‘How’s that working out so far?’
‘Not good.’
‘You don’t want to talk to them?’ Jun nodded over to the guards.
‘No. That’ll just make my problems worse. One thing I can say for my cellmates is they’re smart. They only hit where the bruises don’t show.’ He lifted his uniform shirt a little to show his tender flank. It was blotted with lurid yellow and purple bruises.
‘Maybe I can help you?’ Jun said.
‘In return for what?’
‘Your cigarettes.’
‘You’ve already got them.’
Jun smiled and took a drag. ‘Then we already have a deal.’
He turned and limped away across the yard, weaving between the different groups of men, to
wards the table of Japanese prisoners basking in the sunlight. He stopped and bowed to an older man drinking coffee from a plastic cup. Alex couldn’t hear their conversation but he could see the man listen intently as Jun bent close to him. He nodded from time to time to show his understanding but didn’t speak, just stared ahead in concentration. When Jun had finished speaking he sipped his coffee and looked up at the sky, deep in thought. Alex observed from across the exercise yard with growing anxiety. He had no idea what was happening.
The older man finally turned and beckoned to a tough-looking prisoner standing at the fence line. He pointed out the Chinese from Alex’s cell and the prisoner bowed and strode towards them. They stood as a group when he approached, gathering together for safety like a herd. He came in close and they listened to him in silence as the message was relayed. It took just a few seconds.
Then the bell sounded to end the break period and the guards began to usher the men back inside. They gathered themselves wearily and shuffled back towards the entrance to the cell block. Alex took one last look at the sky before he returned to the windowless room. The crow was still flying overhead, beating its wings against the wind eddying above, a dark silhouette in the bright morning sky. It had made no further progress towards its destination.
The prisoners swept out the cells and returned their bedding to the storage lockers. The guard counted every man back inside and they took their places on the floor and prepared for another day in confinement. Alex watched as the breakfast tray was placed in the middle of the room and the guard walked out to the corridor and shut the heavy door. He remained seated, waiting for the Chinese to make the first move.
They remained motionless, their backs against the wall, watching him in return.
There were seven packages, steam misting the clear plastic lids of the containers. Alex pushed himself up from the floor and adjusted his uniform. The Chinese sat fixed in their positions as he stepped forward and crossed to the centre of the room. He reached down and took a box from the tray and lifted it gently, as if in expectation of some sudden movement or attack. He removed the cover and looked inside. There was a plain omelette and a bread roll with a serving of instant miso in a paper cup. The smell of the warm food drifted invitingly into the cell.
Last Stop Tokyo Page 11