‘Really?’ Jen draws in still closer, taking hold of the arm and perusing it at her leisure. ‘A snake you say? Lemme just … Oh … yeah … yeah! Look at that! I can see all the scales now. The detailing’s incredible!’
Noel says nothing.
‘So what kind of a snake?’ Jen persists. ‘Is it indigenous or tropical?’
Noel ignores her. He’s focusing in on the golfer again.
‘An asp?’ Jen suggests.
Still nothing.
‘A viper?’
‘It’s a fucking adder.’
On ‘adder’ Noel pushes the bottle even harder into his throat.
‘Oh God, yes,’ Jen exclaims, ‘of course it is. An adder. I can see that now. If you look really closely you can make out the intricate diamond design on the …’
Behind them – and over the continuing commotion from beyond the window – another conversation suddenly becomes audible.
‘Ricker,’ a woman is saying, ‘Mr Ricker.’
‘Did you enquire at the front desk?’
(Gene’s voice, getting louder.)
‘I went to desk,’ the woman replies, in halting English, ‘but there is nobody …’
‘Did you ring the bell?’
‘She say he will meet in bar. Mr Ricker.’
‘Well, the bar’s almost shut now. It’s very late …’
(They enter the bar.)
‘I know. Yes. My flight also late. My plane also late.’
‘It’s been pretty much empty since …’
Gene slams to a halt as he apprehends the scene.
‘What on earth’s happened to the window?’ he demands, indignant.
‘If you don’t mind’ – Jen raises a peremptory hand – ‘we’re actually just in the middle of something here …’
Gene focuses in on Noel, who currently has his back to them (and Ransom, who’s all but obscured by Noel). He starts to look a little wary.
‘Mr Ricker?’
The Japanese woman steps forward. Noel half turns his head.
‘Is everything all right?’ Gene asks.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Jen says, nodding emphatically.
‘No problem,’ Ransom echoes, shifting into view and smiling, jovially.
Noel slowly lowers the bottle from his throat.
‘What’s happened to your cheek?’ Gene wonders.
(There is blood on Ransom’s cheek where a tiny splinter of glass from the beer bottle has lightly nicked his skin.) Ransom lifts a hand to the cheek and pats at it, cautiously. ‘It’s fine.’ He winces. ‘It’s nothing.’
As Ransom speaks, Noel gently places the broken bottle on to the bar and then casually lifts his shirt to show Jen his chest. His chest is painfully emaciated but exquisitely decorated. The tail of the adder curls over his shoulder and finishes – in a neat twirl – around his nipple. All the remaining skin on his belly, waist and diaphragm has been intricately inked into a crazily lifelike, rough, wicker corset.
‘Oh God!’ Jen gasps, suddenly remembering. ‘Wickers!’
Noel grins.
‘But of course – my dad coached you in five-a-side for years …’
She squints at the tattoo work, amazed, as bright trickles of blood drip down on to the design.
‘Mr Ricker?’ The Japanese woman takes another cautious step forward.
Noel half turns, dropping the T-shirt. ‘Mrs Kawamura?’
Mrs Kawamura bows her head as Noel tramps his way, carelessly, through shards of glass and goes over to formally introduce himself. They shake hands, then Noel politely indicates the way and they leave the foyer together. Gene gazes after Noel, bemused.
‘His mum was Head of Housekeeping,’ Jen says, matter-of-factly. ‘Mrs Wickers. D’you remember her?’
‘Uh … no.’ Gene shakes his head.
Jen squats down and starts picking up the larger pieces of glass. Ransom is still sitting on his stool, looking pale and disorientated.
‘Should I fetch the first aid box?’ Gene wonders.
‘Hang on a second …’ Ransom lifts a hand. ‘You didn’t …’ He blinks a couple of times then frowns. ‘That story you were telling earlier. About the Jap kid. The one who was kidnapped by the North Koreans …’
‘Sorry?’
It takes Gene a few moments to make the connection. ‘You mean Megumi? The girl who –’
‘Did they ever find her?’ Ransom interrupts.
‘Find her?’ Gene echoes, frowning. ‘Uh, no. No. I don’t believe they did.’
‘Oh. Great.’ Ransom looks depressed.
‘Although, in the final reckoning, Megumi’s disappearance was actually just the start of something way bigger – something almost revolutionary –’
‘How d’you mean?’ Ransom interrupts again, somewhat irascibly.
‘Well, her case ended up having all these really widespread social and political repercussions throughout pretty much all of Japanese culture,’ Gene continues (somewhat haltingly to begin with). ‘I mean it’s fairly complicated’ – he shrugs – ‘but what basically happened was that quite a few years after Megumi first disappeared her parents were approached – out of the blue – by this North Korean spy who claimed to have been involved in the initial kidnap plot. He was seeking asylum in Japan and told them exactly what had happened to their daughter and why …’
‘They believed him?’ Ransom’s sceptical.
‘It seems he was fairly convincing’ – Gene nods – ‘so they promptly informed the Japanese authorities of what they knew, but the Japanese government refused to do anything about it.’
‘Why not?’ Jen looks up, outraged, from her position on the floor.
‘Because they didn’t want to risk antagonizing the North Koreans,’ Gene explains. ‘Relations between the two countries were especially volatile during that period …’
‘How many people are we talking about, here?’ Jen wonders. ‘Kidnap victims, I mean. In total?’
‘I don’t actually remember,’ Gene confesses. ‘Quite a number. Definitely in double figures. Fifteen? Nineteen?’
Jen receives this information without further comment.
‘Anyhow, instead of just putting up and shutting up – like the government wanted – Megumi’s parents decided to take matters into their own hands. They virtually bankrupted themselves spearheading this massive, public campaign, transforming Megumi and her plight into a huge, cause célèbre.’
He clears his throat. ‘It’s important to bear in mind that what they did – how they behaved – was considered completely shocking and outrageous in the Japan of that era. In general people weren’t encouraged to make a public fuss about personal dramas. It flew in the face of Japanese etiquette which prefers, as you’ll probably know from your own extensive experience,’ Gene addresses Ransom, respectfully, ‘to do things quietly, surreptitiously, behind the scenes, so that people in positions of authority don’t ever risk feeling compromised.’
The golfer takes out his phone and starts checking his texts, so Gene focuses his attention back on Jen again.
‘But Megumi’s parents flew in the face of all that, marching, picketing, leafleting, protesting for year after year after year. Megumi became a household name throughout all of Japan – a celebrity. And in the end the Japanese government were pressurized into making some kind of a deal with the North Koreans whose rice crop had just failed so they were desperate for Japanese aid. This was ten or more years later – even longer – maybe fifteen …’
Ransom finally puts his phone away.
‘Up until then the North Koreans had always hotly denied any knowledge of Megumi and the other kidnap victims,’ Gene continues. ‘They were obliged to perform a complete about-turn – it was deeply humiliating for them – and quite a few of the victims were eventually returned to Japan, to this huge, public fanfare.’
‘But not her.’ Ransom’s poignant.
‘Nope. Megumi never made it back. They claimed she was dead. They said she’
d hung herself during a short stay in a mental hospital when she was around twenty-six or twenty-seven, although there was scant formal evidence to back this up. What they did admit, though – and I suppose this is one of the few, really positive aspects to the story – was that she’d given birth to a child during her captivity, this beautiful little –’
‘Christ. I gotta get out of here!’
Ransom turns and dry retches on to the bar top.
‘Oh great,’ Jen murmurs. ‘Oh bloody wonderful.’
Chapter 2
Ransom rolls on to his back, yawns, stretches out his legs and farts, luxuriously. He feels good. No. No. Scratch that. He feels great. And he smells coffee. The golfer flares his nostrils and inhales deeply. Coffee! He loves coffee! He wiggles his toes, excitedly, then frowns. His feet appear to be protruding – Alice in Wonderland-style – from the end of his bed. He puts a hand above his head (thinking he might’ve inadvertently slipped down) and his hand smacks into a wooden headboard.
Ow!
He opens a furtive eye and gazes up at the ceiling. He double-blinks. He is in a tiny room. It is a pink room, and it is a smaller room than any room he can ever remember inhabiting previously. A broom cupboard with a window. Yes. And it is pink. And the bed is very small. He is covered with a duvet, a pink duvet, and the duvet has – his sleep-addled eyes struggle to focus – pink ponies on it! Little pink ponies, dancing around! The duvet is tiny – ludicrously small, like a joke. A laughably tiny duvet. A trick duvet. A miniature duvet. He tries to adjust it but he feels like he’s adjusting some kind of baby throw. A dog blanket. When he moves it one way, a different part of his body protrudes on the other side. His body (he is forced to observe) is not looking at its best. His body looks very big. His body looks coarse and capacious in this tiny, dainty, girly, pink room. His body looks hairy. It feels voluminous.
He shuts his eyes again. He suddenly has a headache. He thinks about the coffee. He can definitely smell coffee. He needs a coffee. He opens his eyes, turns his head and peers off to his right. (Might there be a door to this room so that he can eventually get –)
WHAH!
Ransom yelps, startled, snatching at the duvet. Two women – complete strangers! – are standing by the bed and staring down at him, inquisitively. Not two women. No. Not …
A woman and a girl. Yes. But the woman isn’t a woman, she is a priest (in her black shirt and dog collar), and the girl isn’t a girl, she’s … What is she? He inspects the girl, horrified. She’s half a girl. The lower section of her face is … It’s missing. A catastrophe. It’s gone walkabout. Or if not quite missing, exactly, then … uh … a work in progress. A mess of wire and scar and scaffolding.
The girl registers his disquiet and quickly covers her jaw with her hand. Ransom immediately switches his gaze back to the priest again, embarrassed.
‘Thank goodness he’s finally awake,’ the priest murmurs, relieved.
The half-faced girl nods, emphatically. She is wearing a school uniform. Her hair is in two, neat plaits.
‘I don’t recognize him,’ she whispers, from behind her hand. ‘Dad said he was really famous, but I don’t recognize him at all.’
It takes a while for Ransom to fully decipher her jumbled speech, and when he finally succeeds he feels an odd combination of satisfaction and disgruntlement.
‘Ssshh!’ the priest cautions her.
‘Where am I?’ Ransom croaks, trying to lift his head.
‘You’re in my bedroom,’ the girl promptly answers.
‘I left you to lie in for as long as I could,’ the priest tells him (rather brusquely, Ransom feels). ‘Gene left for work several hours ago. But Mallory needs to go to school and I’m scheduled to meet the bishop in Northampton at ten …’ She checks the time. ‘I don’t have the slightest clue where Stan is right now, so …’
She shrugs.
‘Oh.’
Ransom feels overwhelmed by an excess of information.
‘I like your feet.’ The girl chuckles, pointing.
After a short period of deciphering, Ransom peers down at his feet. He can see nothing particularly remarkable or amusing about them.
‘Thanks,’ he says, just the same, and then slips a hand under the duvet to check he’s still decent (he is – just about).
‘Your clothes are folded up on the stool,’ the priest says, pointing to a pile of clothes folded up on a pink stool.
‘I folded them,’ the girl says.
Ransom lightly touches his head. He suddenly feels a little dizzy. And he feels huge. It’s a strange feeling. Because it’s not just his actual, physical size, it’s also his … it’s … it’s …
‘I suddenly feel a bit …’
‘Nauseous?’ the priest fills in, anxiously. ‘There’s a bucket next to the bed if you’re …’
‘If he’s sick in my bed I’ll just die!’ the girl exclaims.
‘… big,’ Ransom finally concludes. ‘I suddenly feel very … very big. Very large.’
He pauses. ‘And conspicuous,’ he adds, ‘and vulnerable.’ He shudders (impressing himself inordinately with how frank and brave and articulate he’s being).
Nobody says anything. They just stare down at him again, silently.
‘I’ve brought you some coffee,’ the woman eventually mutters. She proffers him a cup.
‘If he’s sick in my bed I’ll just die!’ the girl repeats, still more emphatically.
‘I feel like I’m trapped inside this weird, fish-eye lens,’ Ransom continues, holding out his hands in front of his face and wiggling his fingers, ‘like I’m –’
‘There should be a little water left in the boiler,’ the priest interrupts him, ‘enough for a quick shower. You can use the pink towel. It’s clean. And you can help yourself to some cereal, but I’m afraid we’re all out of –’
‘Not the pink towel, Mum!’ Mallory whispers, imploringly. ‘Not my towel!’
‘It’s the only clean towel we’ve got,’ the priest explains. ‘I haven’t had time to do the –’
‘But it’s –’
‘Enough, Mallory!’ the priest reprimands her, pushing the coffee cup into Ransom’s outstretched hands. ‘You’re already late for school. Did you pack up your lunch yet?’
The girl slowly shakes her head.
‘Well hadn’t you better go and do it, then?’
They turn for the door.
‘I won’t use the pink towel,’ Ransom pipes up.
The priest glances over her shoulder at him, irritably.
‘I won’t have a shower,’ Ransom says, intimidated (she is intimidating). ‘I can always have one when I get back to the hotel.’
‘Fine.’ She shrugs. ‘But if you do decide to …’
‘I won’t,’ he insists. ‘So don’t fret,’ he yells after the girl. ‘Your towel is safe.’
He carefully props himself up on to his elbow and takes a quick sip of his coffee, then winces (it’s instant – bad instant).
‘Where am I, exactly?’ he asks, but nobody’s listening. They’ve already left him.
‘Where am I, exactly?’ he asks again, more ruminatively this time, pretending – as a matter of pride – that he was only ever really posing this question – and in a purely metaphysical sense, of course – to himself.
* * *
Gene knocks on the door and then waits. After a few seconds he inspects his watch, grimaces, knocks again, then stares, blankly, at the decorative panes of stained glass inside the door’s three, main panels. In his hands he holds the essential tools of his trade: a small mirror (hidden within a slightly dented metal powder compact, long denuded of its powder), a miniature torch (bottle green in colour, the type a film critic might use) and a clipboard (with his plastic, identification badge pinned on to the front of it).
No answer.
He studies his watch again, frowning. He knocks at the door for a third time, slightly harder, and realizes, as he does so, that the door isn’t actually shut, just loos
ely pulled to.
He scowls, cocks his head and listens. He thinks he can hear the buzz of an electric razor emerging from inside. He pushes the door ajar and pops his head through the gap.
‘Hello?’ he calls.
No answer. Still the hum of the razor.
‘HELLO?’ Gene repeats, even louder. ‘Is anybody home?’
The razor is turned off for a moment.
‘Upstairs!’ a voice yells back (a female voice, an emphatic voice). ‘In the bathroom!’
Gene frowns. He pushes the door wider. The razor starts up again.
‘HELLO?’
The razor is turned off again (with a sharp tut).
‘The bathroom!’ the voice repeats, even more emphatically. ‘Upstairs!’
The razor is turned on again.
Gene gingerly steps into the hallway. He closes the door behind him. The hallway is long and thin with the original – heavily cracked – blue and brown ceramic tiles on the floor. There are two doors leading off from it (one directly to his left and one at the far end of the corridor, beyond the stairway. Both are currently closed, although the buzz of the razor appears to be emerging from the door that’s further off).
The stairs lie directly ahead of him. Gene hesitates for a moment and then moves towards them. At the foot of the stairs is a small cupboard. He has already visited seven similar properties on this particular road and he knows for a fact that in all seven of the aforementioned properties the electricity meter is comfortably stored inside this neat, custom-made aperture. Gene pauses, stares at the cupboard, then reaches out a tentative hand towards it.
His fingers are just about to grip the handle when –
‘UPSTAIRS!’
The woman yells.
Gene quickly withdraws his hand. He sighs. He shakes his head. He gazes up the stairs, with a measure of foreboding.
‘THE BATHROOM!’ the voice re-emphasizes, quite urgently. ‘QUICK!’
Gene starts climbing the stairs. Sitting on the landing at the top of the stairs is a large, long-haired tabby cat which coolly appraises his grudging ascent. When he reaches the landing it turns and darts off, ears pricked, tail high, jinking a sharp left into an adjacent room which – from the particular quality of the light flowing from it – Gene takes to be the bathroom. Gene follows the cat into this room and then draws to a sharp halt.
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