CHAPTER 27: NEXT WORLD MAKES UP FOR THIS ONE
KOSUKE WAKES UP, COLD. KEI’S bed is empty. They have not spoken since the lake. Kosuke wants to speak with him, but the right words are fish he has no line for. He knows he should go back to sleep but he doesn’t. He gets up, led by a curious fear that he had forgotten about years ago. He opens the old door and pads down the icy corridor. He passes the dormitory for the younger boys, but hears nothing. At the end of the corridor, he passes Sister Mary Josephine’s room. She has a keen ear so Kosuke takes extra care as he passes.
The atrium is a freezing, moonless cavern. The wood is so cold, he can no longer feel his feet. He makes his way up the creaking stairs and turns left, toward the infirmary. Double doors give out to a glass skyway, overlooking the forest and mountains on one side and the courtyard on the other. The courtyard has a broken fountain in its center, which is surrounded by plants.
Kosuke hears muffled voices and ducks down.
“No, you know the rules. Now give me what you owe.”
He peeks down and sees that it is Kei. He’s facing away from Uesugi, who is naked, his clothes in a heap on the ground. Uesugi is sweating, his hair drenched, his breath visible on the cold. His penis is jutting up and he is trembling.
“Come on, boy—” He places a hand on Kei’s shoulder but it’s slapped away.
“Not until next month. Now give me my fucking money.”
Uesugi slumps back onto the fountain’s rim and takes out an envelope from his jacket. Kei snatches it out of his hand and stuffs it in his back pocket. The older man reluctantly puts on his trousers, completely defeated. He watches Kei buttoning his shirt unselfconsciously and a wave of anger scrunches up his face now.
“Such a rush to get away.”
“It’s cold.”
“You used to like talking afterward.”
Kei smiles politely, as though he has just been told a bad joke. Outraged, Uesugi grips Kei by the arm, but the boy is expecting it. He knees Uesugi hard in the stomach, and the director crumples to the floor, wheezing. Kei carries on dressing as Uesugi begins to cry.
“You know I love you, boy. You know that, don’t you?”
“No, Uesugi. You love nothing.”
“I cared for you more than anyone.”
“Yes, I’m such a special boy.”
“You don’t treat me like a human being.”
Kei laughs a disdainful laugh, one that Kosuke knows well.
“That’s because you’re less than that.” He pats Uesugi’s balding head. “This was the last time. Next time, I want my money for zero. Hold out on me and I’ll go to the papers. Do you understand, old man?”
Kei slips away, into the amorphous blue of the shadows and the plants.
Kosuke feels like he has been kicked in the stomach. He feels a deep revulsion and loss. He looks down at Uesugi, who is alone, his face desolate.
Uesugi looks up at the skylight, his eyes glimmering like cold waterfronts. He speaks quietly.
“I am as one who is left alone at the banquet, the lights dead, the flowers faded.”
* * *
Iwata woke wrapped in soaked sheets. He was in a drab studio apartment. Sakai was curled up in the window seat, smoking, looking out at the drizzle. The dawn was duck-egg blue. She wore an old gray cardigan and socks. Her legs were bare.
“Bad dream?” she asked without looking over her shoulder.
Iwata sat up and raised his hand to the back of his head, wincing as he realized how much pain he was in.
“Don’t touch the bandage. He got you pretty bad.”
He groaned, seeing his heavily strapped right hand. It felt like it had been run over by a train.
“Where am I?”
“Not dead.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost five.”
“What are you doing here, Sakai?”
“This is my place, asshole.”
“So what am I doing here?”
“Bleeding everywhere. Oh, and talking to yourself in your sleep. You say more to your dreams than you do to the living.”
“What?”
She laughed.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t say anything incriminating. Just kept talking about lighthouses.”
Iwata looked around. It could have been anybody’s room. Messy. Unloved. Built for solitude.
The fan stirred warm air around the dark studio apartment. What furniture there was, was mismatched. She had one foldable table, which held insurance reminders, tapes, a dictaphone, and junk mail. She had no pictures or trinkets on display. Her bedside table was a mound of case files and interview transcripts. The clothes hanging in her wardrobe seemed expensive, yet her underwear, mostly strewn on the floor, was a collection of cheap, supermarket brands.
“Nice place.”
“Home sweet home.” She puffed out smoke.
They regarded each other for a moment and Iwata tried to grasp what he felt for her. He hadn’t been sure of that from the start. He imagined the same was probably true for her.
Without her eyeliner, she looked much younger. He tried to imagine her growing up but he couldn’t picture it. It was impossible to think of her as a little girl. Iwata’s thoughts drifted into a stark, bright room and then to Hana Kaneshiro, alone on the stainless steel. Looming above her, the skull of the Black Sun Killer.
“Iwata?”
“Huh?”
“I’m talking to you. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I’m just in pain. But that’s not important. What’s important is that I found him.”
“Right. What I want to know is how.”
Sakai stubbed out her cigarette and went over to her disordered kitchenette. She poured two glasses of whiskey and dropped headache tablets into both. She set about popping out ice cubes.
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“The Black Sun Killer posed as a TMPD informant named Ikuo Uno in Hong Kong. He was there to kill Mina’s sister, Jennifer. He bought LSD from a local dealer, and through him I was able to track down Coco La Croix. It was pure chance that the guy we’re after was there last night.”
“Fuck me, your first lucky break.”
“Lucky. Sure. That’s how I feel.”
“Well, he got away clean.” Sakai shrugged. “You were the only one who saw him and you gave no descriptions when you called it in. They surrounded the place anyway but nothing turned up. No useful CCTV and nobody saw anything. Fujimura is spitting blood.”
She handed Iwata his glass and put the whiskey bottle on the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from him.
“What about the hostage?” Iwata asked.
“Needs reconstructive surgery. She never managed to get a proper look at him but she thinks he was wearing a mask anyway.”
“He was. It was like a fucking nightmare. He could have killed me. He should have.”
“Killing cops draws heat. Maybe he figured he has enough as it is.”
“Well, it bothers me, Sakai.”
“Only you could be pissed off that you weren’t murdered on a roof.”
“We know he’s not scared of us and we know he doesn’t hesitate to kill. He killed La Croix, why not me? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Well. Despite your best efforts, you’re still alive.” She smiled. “Kampai.”
They drank in silence. Iwata’s whole body hurt, his lips swollen, his head throbbing. Focusing on different limbs uncovered new pain, as if only just occurring to his body.
“So.” Sakai downed her whiskey and bared her teeth. “What now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Iwata, the whole of Division One is in a cloud. In the space of a few hours, you managed to un-solve one case, discredit another, and shut down half the city. The press have their knives out and the justice minister has a hard-on the size of Tokyo Tower. You have a week left before they fire you, maybe even prosecute.”
“But I found him, Sakai. I found the Black Sun Killer.”
“I know. So let me ask you again. What now, Iwata?”
He stuck out his bottom lip.
“Yumi Tachibana’s house is under police protection, but I doubt that will last after my disciplinary hearing. I think that’s where the killer will strike next. But as for what now? I don’t know.”
He rattled his empty glass, and Sakai clambered up the bed to refill it. As she leaned forward, he tried not to look at her buttocks.
“Well, I’ll give you some credit,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you would be able to do it. Find him, I mean.”
Iwata nodded.
“I know.”
They sat next to each other, thoughts apart, watching the rain snake down the window. A long time passed until Sakai spoke again.
“They’ve asked me to speak against you. At your hearing.”
Iwata looked up at her, then out of the window again. He sucked on an ice cube in thought.
“Well?” She looked at him.
“You should do it. It will be good for your career.”
“I’ve already agreed. I suppose that won’t surprise you. You never did trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone, Noriko.”
She stared at him, taken aback by the use of her first name. Iwata finished his drink and laid his head on the pillow. He could feel her looking at him, her eyes on the back of his head. He heard soft sirens far below. The windows were washed a gentle pink and blue.
“Iwata, tell me something.”
“Mm.”
“You ever wonder why they gave you this job?”
He had no reply. He was already asleep.
* * *
Hirofumi Taba taps his feet irritably and looks up at the calendar: 2009 is almost over. He is too big for most chairs, but this one is particularly uncomfortable. The man sits to one side of him, wearing a chunky-knit jumper and a gentle smile. Though his words are kind and hushed, it is an odd angle at which to address someone. Taba presumes he is trying to be an unobtrusive voice so that his “client” may instead consider the painting of the beautiful mountain landscape. Taba juts his chin toward it.
“That supposed to relax me?”
“It’s just a painting that I like,” the man responds with a delicate smile.
The landscape doesn’t look Japanese, probably American or European. The room is small and intimate, lined with books and flourishing plants. But it is far too warm.
“Mr. Taba, when relationships end, it’s perfectly natural for there to be traumatic feelings … confusion … many contradictory emotions.” The counselor looks out of the window in thought as if this were the first time he’d had to grapple with these concepts. “But what I want you to take away from today’s session is that all of these responses you’re having are perfectly in line with your situation. Perfectly normal.”
Taba stands.
“Do you mind?”
“Pardon?”
“If I open the window.”
“I tend to keep it shut so that clients don’t have to hear the outside world and feel—”
“Well, this client doesn’t mind the sound of car horns. So. Do you?”
“Please go ahead.”
Taba breathes in chilly air and looks down at the street. He wonders if his mini-tantrum has been noted and interpreted. Below, he sees a busy crossroads, the lights commanding thinning traffic. Across the street, a small huddle of protestors stand outside a government building, their placards bouncing against, or in favor of, something or other. The trees along the street are bare. It is a brisk morning.
“Mr. Taba, I know this might be an unpleasant experience for you.” The counselor has regained his gentle smile. “But what I would like to do is to try and normalize your experiences during this life stage that you’re going through. I want you to know that all of what you’re feeling is perfectly typical. Whether you’re feeling relief, distance, resentment, guilt—”
Taba drops back into his seat.
“Why would I feel guilty?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you should be feeling anything in particular. I’m just trying to convey that the breaking-up process, while it naturally does have crucial triggers or points of disagreement, is rarely the result of one moment or incident. It is rarely caused by one party. These situations often extend over many years and it’s important to know that, ultimately, it’s a perfectly natural thing for people to be at different stages in their lives.”
“Different stages? Was it natural for my wife to be at the fucking-my-partner stage, then?”
The counselor chews his lips for a moment. Taba knows nothing about his world but he can tell a rookie when he sees one.
“Mr. Taba, I’m only trying to underpin the point that none of this is your fault—”
“I just fucking told you, I know that.”
The counselor forces a smile and clicks his pen a few times.
“Do you resent having to be here?”
“My division chief specifically ordered me to attend.”
Taba takes out a cigarette. He offers one across, but doesn’t give the counselor a chance to explain that smoking is not permitted here.
“How do you like that? My partner fucks my wife, I get upset and now I’m the one sitting in front of a shrink. You can’t say life doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
The counselor pushes across an empty glass for the ash. Taba spends a long time staring at the burning tip, occasionally shaking his head. The counselor waits in silence.
“So,” Taba finally asks. “How long will this take?”
“Sessions are one hour.”
“I meant in total.”
“I know what you meant. Healing takes time.”
As the man begins to speak about creating distance and the folly of faultfinding, Taba zones out. His thoughts again rest on his daughter. He is already reading a book on the effects of divorce on children. He knows the probable outcome—he remembers words such as denial, abandonment, anger, acting out, triangulation, projection. Most of them mean little to him, but he realizes separation from Hoshiko will crush the girl. Taba wishes he could spare her from all this, but there is no getting away from what has happened. What Hoshiko and Iwata have done.
Iwata.
The name triggers a taste in his mouth now. Had Iwata ever stopped to wonder how this would affect his child? And that was to mention nothing of Cleo and Nina. Taba had always thought their family so beautiful and perfect. Why had Iwata destroyed all that? How could a woman such as Cleo not be enough for him? She was a sight to behold. Once, during a dinner party, he had asked himself if he loved her. But the idea of propositioning Cleo, let alone touching her, well, that was something preposterously alien. How could that even be considered?
Taba wipes his brow with a shaky hand. Even though cold air seeps into the room, he is sweating. The counselor is still talking, nodding to punctuate points as per his expensive training.
What a fucking situation to be in.
Taba stubs out his cigarette. He is wallowing, he knows it—overthinking, pointlessly retracing. Iwata would never do that. Was that something Hoshiko liked about him? Taba cannot stop asking himself questions for which there can be no answers. He cannot stop thinking about Iwata. It is as if Iwata has been reborn overnight, no longer made of wiry muscle, hair, and blood, but now a man built from carnival mirrors—reflecting every flaw in Taba.
Every character trait and physical detail belonging to Iwata is a strength he holds over Taba. Every quirk is a precious commodity that Taba can never hope to provide. He has seen Iwata many times in the changing room at Chōshi PD, but never given him a second thought as a male form.
He was just police—the same as the blue binders on the shelves, the logging of evidence, the taste of the bad coffee from the dispenser. But Hoshiko’s actions have forced him to think of Iwata as a man. Iwata is smaller, lissome, with a quick, determin
ed step. He is more intelligent. Elegant even. Taba is a tall man, particularly burly for a Japanese, and there have always been family jokes about secreted Mongolian heritage. What had Hoshiko seen in Iwata that he lacked? Perhaps Taba was too oafish, too rough. Perhaps he was not warm enough. Perhaps he gave his wife too little affection.
Taba knows, if he chooses to face facts, that it is simply the case that his wife no longer loves him. More than that, he knows she probably has hatred for him. As an act of sabotage, he can almost understand why Hoshiko would do this. But his partner?
He supposes that Iwata has not been himself for a long time. Now that he thinks of it, Iwata has been withdrawn, angry, and distant ever since his paternity leave. Almost a year now. He never answers the routine questions colleagues ask about home life, the baby, the future. He never shares jokes about nagging wives anymore. But despite this, Taba has never stopped to question what Iwata was to him—his partner. It was a given. True, they had never shared secrets or dodged bullets together. They were not what either would call friends. But they shared more than social engagements and secret complaints. Iwata had covered for him. Iwata had punched faces for him. Iwata had cracked jokes with him when faced with some perfunctory horror. Though they disagreed about everything, the two men shared a deep intimacy—their daily routine. The car, the desks, the interrogation room. Every contour of their world expected them together, like batteries in a toy.
Until this. Almost instantly, Iwata had ceased to be his partner.
Taba thinks about his wife.
He does not know if he is still in love with Hoshiko; he has stopped pondering this a long time ago. But he cannot imagine that Iwata loves her either—after all, he married a beautiful American woman with blue eyes. What could he have seen in a skinny, sullen woman from a backwater?
Yet Taba is surprised, he feels little jealousy. No, the thing that really nauseates him is that Iwata has destroyed his day-to-day life. The jocular dialogue of the office. The occasional thrill of interrogation. The sense of satisfaction when a case was closed. The rhythms in which he existed.
Now one of them will have to be reassigned, clearly. As the better detective, it is unlikely to be Iwata. Not to mention, Taba’s confronting him in the office and causing a scene. He even threw a punch, though it contained no real conviction.
Blue Light Yokohama Page 25