by Ubukata, Tow
So the counsel continued. Should we really abandon Shell-Septinos to his unfortunate circumstances, this man who had gone through trouble upon trouble to reach his position, working hard, motivated by his healthy ambition? Rather, shouldn’t we be supporting such a man, who showed such kindness toward a girl such as Balot?
Right now, Shell-Septinos is worried—frightened that he might have committed murder. Because he can’t remember the details of the day in question, due to his memory disorder. Of course, the girl knows all about his condition, and she’s trying to take advantage of it.
This was how the defense counsel argued.
The DA hit back with all he had. He summoned to the witness stand the Hunters who were investigating the case and the Doctor as an independent PI. He explained exactly how the girl had become an innocent victim, a sacrifice to one man’s vaulting ambition.
After it had all finished, the DA said to Balot’s team, “That counsel overplayed his hand, I think. However you look at it, our girl here was calm and composed, and she was obviously hurt. That’s all going to make an excellent impression on the jury. Not a single one of these jurors is a university graduate. That’s in our favor too. Because Shell has manipulated his own status records, passing himself off as a member of the elite, a university graduate. I have to admit I was a little worried at first, though—our girl is beautiful and elegantly done up, after all. There are some jurors who refuse to believe that a defendant can be guilty unless they see a victim at death’s door, shredded to pieces.”
Ultimately, though, there was one word that emerged from the proceedings that interested Balot above anything else: ambition.
A regular man, motivated by his healthy ambition.
No: he was a pathetic man, who had found a way of climbing up society’s greasy pole—or stairway—and was prepared to discard everything else in order to achieve this, just so he could lord it over other men and women, as if he were some sort of a hero.
Balot could see this clearly now. I’ve been a fool, she thought, and at the very same moment she felt a burden—the cursed voice that told her that she was a bad girl—lift cleanly from her shoulders.
That was the one ray of sunshine that she’d gleaned from the whole experience—the silver lining to the gray clouds of humiliation.
If she quit now there was nothing left. This was now a matter of life or death.
She understood this clearly. That was why she could stay so calm.
Why me?—she imagined yet another answer to this question.
Beyond that answer lay Balot’s personal stairway, the one that she was destined to climb.
Balot left the courtroom with the Doctor.
The DA was in an excellent mood. He said that the next time they returned to the court it would definitely be in the form of an official trial—he was so enthusiastic that it wouldn’t have been surprising if he’d broken out into a cheerleading routine for Balot. The DA bid farewell to the pair for the time being, and Balot and the Doctor were just at the Broilerhouse entrance and about to leave when they noticed a man silently approaching them. A man so solidly built that even the shadow that he cast seemed enough to swallow them up.
“Boiled…” Taken aback, the Doctor spoke his name out loud without meaning to. The man who had sat at the table on the defendant’s side. The man who had threatened Balot. The Trustee supervising the case on Shell’s side—Dimsdale-Boiled.
For the first time Balot was within spitting distance of the man and faced him directly.
He seemed even more humorless, even more lacking in emotion, than ever. Violent, dusky eyes stared out from under his wide brow, gaze fixed on Balot. Or at the choker that Balot was wearing.
“The full details of the lawsuit will be made available to the defense from now on. It’ll mean that I get to start my operations in earnest.” Boiled, heartless as ever, clearly directed his words toward his former partner Oeufcoque. The former partner he had fallen out with spectacularly over some obscure incident.
Balot stared right back at him, head-on.
“I’ll find it. Withdraw your case.” Boiled was undoubtedly talking about their hideaway. His voice was light and indifferent, but it carried the impact of a thunderbolt.
Balot’s knees quivered. Acid rose in her stomach.
The man looked at Balot. As if he had noticed her existence for the first time.
“When you have the time, be sure to ask Oeufcoque about my MO for solving cases,” Boiled said, then turned his back. His footfalls made almost no sound at all as he glided away. In the distance they saw Shell-Septinos appear, and the two men climbed into a car.
Balot stood glaring at them from the entrance of the building. She watched where they were going. And the building, and all the people around her.
The fear inside her was being pushed aside by a feeling she had never experienced before: fury.
It was the first time this had ever happened. When she came to, she noticed that her knees were no longer shaking.
She breathed out quietly. It was like blue fire pouring from her lips.
It was live or die. And now her whole body was making its choice.
Still glaring at the world, she put her fingers on the crystal hanging down from her choker.
–Show me your way of doing battle.
03
“That was a weird scene we just witnessed. And I’m experiencing weird emotions too,” Shell muttered. His Chameleon Sunglasses gave off a dull glint the color of zinc. “I don’t have a single recollection of ever being nervous or frightened. All that vanishes whenever I have my Clapping, my memory preservation operation. But…it’s weird.”
At this point he looked at Boiled. “I’m frightened,” Shell said, shivering. He wore a forced smile.
Boiled gave no answer. He just nodded ever so slightly and drove on in silence.
“I can understand that I’m experiencing fear. I can even understand why this situation is making me afraid. What I don’t get is, why her?” Shell stretched his neck forward as if he were looking for an answer from the sky beyond the window. “We’re talking about a girl that I, in my current state, have never met—never even heard of her. A puny, powerless little girl. And yet I’m afraid of this. Just thinking about the fact that the girl is still alive makes me choke on my breath.”
He loosened his tie as if he were indeed having trouble breathing and took a flask from his pocket.
“Business is business. Sacrifices need to be made—things, people. And the most important sacrifices have the honor of shining on as precious jewels on my fingers. Nevertheless, this time I’m surprised. I’m afraid from the bottom of my heart. Because that girl isn’t on my finger yet. Why is that? Why?” he moaned as he opened the flask with trembling hands, taking a violent gulp of its contents.
“What on earth was it that made me want to kill that girl?” He was speaking to himself now, between gasps. Behind his sunglasses his eyes were bloodshot. Alongside the scotch he downed a large handful of the Heroic Pills that he’d bought cheaply at insider rates.
He stared pointedly at Boiled with his eyes that were now bright red and inflamed. “Tell me now, when exactly did you say this girl was going to disappear forever from the face of this earth?”
“Soon enough…” Boiled spoke quietly, and this was all he would say. He controlled the steering wheel without the slightest hint of wavering and directed the AirCar toward the foot of the high-class Senorita district in the east.
Shell’s lips suddenly twisted into a crooked smile, and he laughed an unsteady laugh. “That man who was at the trial today—he seemed very flaky for a former partner of yours.”
“That was the maintenance staff.”
“What?”
“In other words, that one’s a tricky enough customer all right, but he’s not the one we really need to worry about.”
“He’s not this Oeufcoque you keep talking about, then?” Shell’s lips were again distorted. He was frantically tr
ying to conquer his gnawing fear, turn it into hatred and murderous intent.
“No, Oeufcoque never shows himself in public. He’s always teamed up with someone else.” Boiled spoke in a low voice, cold and machinelike.
“But you’ve got his number, right? You know his MO, his special skills,” Shell insisted, staring unblinkingly at Boiled from behind his lead-colored sunglasses.
“And the same goes for him. He knows me well—my MO, and my special skills.”
“In short…” Shell started. Silence reigned, then eventually he found the words to continue. “He’s going to be a tough nut to crack.”
Boiled nodded.
“But who are you saying he’s partnered with? That lanky guy we saw today? What’s he hoping to achieve by standing behind someone like that?”
“Perhaps it’s not that man,” said Boiled.
“Then who?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out. That’s why I need to hire some people. Starting tonight—from a place that you don’t know about.”
“Well, feel free to use the hidden stash of money as you need. Do as you please. Just be thorough and show no mercy,” said Shell.
“As you say.”
“I’m…terrified. Even though I’ve never once been frightened gambling at a Show, even with hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake. No job is supposed to faze me. And yet…” Shell’s teeth had suddenly begun chattering, and his limbs were shaking.
The truth was that Shell was wavering. From a place so deep within himself that even he didn’t know what was happening right at that moment. Accordingly he was panicking about all sorts of things.
“Flashbacks!” Shell spat the word out under his breath. Then he shook his head stubbornly. “That’s absurd. There’s no way I could be having such things. How can my past be coming back to haunt me…”
He trailed off into a faint moan—this man who was always wiping his mind’s slate clean—and then he leaned over toward the driver’s seat.
“So, what are we talking about? What sort of people are you planning on using, for example?” Shell asked like a rabid dog, drooling and baring his teeth.
“The sort of person who works not just for the money but also for the satisfaction they get out of their target.” Boiled’s voice was low and calm. “I’m talking about the type who enjoy treating people like objects, slicing them to pieces and using their remains as ornaments.”
The meaning of these words gradually dawned on Shell.
Behind his sunglasses his eyes narrowed before gradually widening.
“That’s…fine,” he said with a smile. A gruesome smile that twisted across his face. “That’s excellent. And while you’re doing that, I’ll continue with my business. My deal, a huge deal, a deal for my benefit. That’s what I’m going to use to run farther up the stairway. The stairway to heaven—Mardock. I’ll run far enough, high enough, higher, higher still, that my past will never be able to reach me. Far enough that my past will vanish forever.”
Shell continued his feverish mutterings as if he were speaking in a nightmare.
Boiled dropped Shell off at his luxury apartment and sped off in another direction.
He headed toward the riverbank, stopping at a car park in a mall along the way.
There he switched cars. From the AirCar to a normal gasoline-powered car. A car that he had left there beforehand.
Before setting off again he opened the trunk of the new car. There were two attaché cases within.
He checked their contents, first one, then the other. Then he got into the car and headed straight for the harbor.
The evening sun was painting the sea a bright scarlet as he reached the gates that marked the checkpoint to the harbor.
Boiled handed over his ID card at the gatehouse.
The security guard, a young man, stuck the card into his machine to confirm that Boiled’s jurisdiction was active and asked with a whistle, “An incident at the harbor, eh?”
Boiled took the card as it was returned to him, shaking his head. “Not a big one.”
The young security guard was clearly thrilled as he opened the gate. “Call me if it looks like anything’s about to go down. I train every day at the shooting range, you know.”
“Guns won’t be needed.” Boiled cut him down instantly, but this only impressed the young security guard even more.
“Just as I thought—a true PI.” He nodded in agreement.
The car entered the harbor, where heavy machinery was lined up all around. He drove past a giant mechanical crane that looked like a mutant crab, which was unloading a multicolored convoy. He passed the part of the convoy that had been stripped of its load before turning around and returning, skeletal now, via the overland route from which it had come.
Boiled parked his car in the car park where the trailers were lined up, took the attaché cases from the trunk, and carried one in either hand as he walked toward the boats. He soon spotted the crane that he was looking for.
BANDERSNATCH: ANIMAL HUSBANDRY EXPORT AND IMPORT
The billboard was written in large letters above the crane house. Boiled looked up at the person in the cockpit. He slowly approached the workplace videophone and pressed the call button.
–Whassup?
A crude-sounding voice answered. Then an image. A man in fatigues.
He had a broad face partially hidden under a mass of dread-locks. His skin was brown like a scorpion.
“Where’s the company?”
–You gotta say which company you talkin’ about.
The man maneuvered his body uncomfortably in the tight cockpit so that his ear was on the earpiece.
“I’m bringing payment. For the company that’s said to be involved in animal husbandry import and export,” Boiled informed him, and in return received a shrill laugh from the video phone.
–What’s your name?
“Dimsdale-Boiled.”
–Heard aboutcha from the boss. That’s us. Import and export of livestock. Wait a sec, I’ll just get everythin’ sorted. Come on to the weir. Yeah, come inside the white line.
Boiled did as he was told. Before long a giant shipping container was lowered down from the sky. A rectangular box big enough to fit a whole house. It was an impressive sight to behold as it hit the ground with a thump.
The electronic lock on the door lifted, and the door slid open sideways. Boiled entered the container, and as he stepped in, the door closed behind his back automatically.
It was dark inside, but not for long. Pale fluorescent lights illuminated a number of workspaces divided by partitions as well as filing cabinets and sofas. There were even monitors on the desks. It was like being in an office somewhere.
An unexpectedly high-pitched giggle emerged from behind one of the partitions.
“Are you surprised at the contents of our trailer? Welcome to our offices.”
Judging by voice alone, it was a young girl who spoke. But when the speaker emerged from behind the partition he was clearly a man, probably in his late thirties. He had evidently had an operation of some sort on his vocal cords. He was very small—short—and had long hair. His hair was all one length, with parts of it blond, others streaked red, all of it random.
Boiled took one look at the little man, then continued to scour his surroundings.
“It seems we’re moving.”
There was a sensation of gradual elevation. The whole container was being lifted up again.
“Don’t you worry. Little Minty is a veteran crane operator.” “The man in the cockpit?”
“The very same. Mincemeat the Wink. Used to be a bomber helicopter pilot. A famous pilot in the Commonwealth Forces, he was a proper macho little angel of death, raining down his showers of fire on the Continent.”
“Where are you planning on taking me?” asked Boiled.
“We’re just taking you aboard our ship. That’s our home base, you see.”
Boiled didn’t ask any more questions. He made no
move to put down the attaché cases in his hands but just stood there in silence, facing the little man.
“You’re a real hunk, Mr. Boiled. Little Minty is quite the tough guy, but you’re not bad yourself.” The little man seemed fascinated by him. “I’m Rare the Hair, by the way. That’s my registered trademark within the company.”
He combed his hair upward with a flourish. His multicolored hair flowed like water through his fingers.
“Isn’t my hair lovely?” Rare asked, tilting his thirty-odd-year-old face toward Boiled. His skin was abnormally smooth. It was white and appeared slippery, and when you looked closely it seemed to be composed of various different types. You couldn’t quite see the patchwork, but there was no doubt that Rare was a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster, born of the latest technology.
Boiled looked at Rare’s eccentric person with an expression devoid of emotion.
“We’re almost there. While we’re waiting, I think I’m just going to go ahead and keep on gazing at your cute little poker face,” Rare said in the clear voice of a little girl. The giant box they were in was slowly being lowered. There was almost no swaying now, but Boiled could tell that they were now atop a much bigger object.
“Oopsie, here we are. What a shame! I could have stared at your face all day long.”
The door opened and another man entered. Blond hair, blue eyes, and gave the appearance of a successful businessman.
“I am sorry about this. Having to go through this rather elaborate charade. Do please take a seat, make yourself comfortable,” the blond-haired man said.
“Ooh! And I’ll sit next to him! That’s okay, isn’t it, Medi?” asked Rare.
The blond-haired man shooed Rare out of the way with a wave of his hand, as you would a dog.
Rare gave a cackle and leaped around the sofa in a circle like a little child at play.
“Welcome, Mr. Boiled. Given our respective professions, shall we dispense with the formalities of a handshake?”
The man went to sit on the sofa opposite Boiled, fluttering his hands as if to show them off. His fingers were unusually pristine. Each finger was prepared meticulously, nails well-manicured so that they were squeaky clean and sparkling, and then covered with a blue nail polish. But when you looked at them as a whole they seemed oddly mismatched.