by Nick Tanner
He took the elevator to the third floor office of his Oyabun as ever noting the affluence of his surroundings and as ever struggling to hide his growing and deep-seated resentment. He knocked on the door and entered the room and was surprised to find a number of men sitting within, chief of whom was Hatoyama himself – head of the whole organisation.
For a brief moment his heart experienced a pin-prick of joy. Was this promotion? But it was only a pin-prick of joy. Immediately he clocked the seriousness of each and every face.
His demotion came swiftly.
‘Baka!’ shouted his Oyabun spitting in his face, his fiery eyes piercing what cosy thoughts Fujiwara had momentarily possessed. Fujiwara’s own eyes widened in disbelief and then dulled to a picture of subservience.
‘I carried out the orders as they’d been given!’ he stammered.
‘Baka!’ his Oyabun stated again. ‘What have we said about unwarranted attention! The police will be all over us.’
‘I-’ he dropped to the floor prostrating himself in front of his superiors, ‘Gomenasai! Honto ni gomenasai.’
‘Yubitsume!’ ordered his Oyabun coldly laying down a small, clean cloth on the table.
Fujiwara looked firstly to the cloth and then back to the eyes of his Oyabun. He dared not look at the others, least of all Hatoyama. He drew in a deep breath and then laid his hand onto the cloth, face down. His Oyabun then pushed an extremely sharp-looking knife across the table. Once again Fujiwara looked at the cloth and then at the knife and once again back to his Oyabun. He knew he had to go through with it. To refuse would be unthinkable. He picked up the knife, tensed every muscle in his body and then cut off a portion of his left little finger from just above the top the knuckle. There was a sickening crunch as the knife cut through the bone. He then wrapped the severed portion in the cloth his hand had been resting on and submitted the ‘package’ graciously to his Oyabun.
The origin of the Yubitsume stemmed from the traditional way of holding a Japanese sword. The bottom three fingers of each hand were used to grip the sword tightly, with the thumb and index fingers slightly loose. The removal of digits starting with the little finger moving up the hand to the index finger progressively weakened a person's sword grip. The idea was that a person with a weak sword grip then had to rely more on the group for protection - reducing the freedom for individual action.
It was a very rapid and very public demonstration of demotion and apology.
49 - In which disturbing thoughts lead to a way out
Wednesday 5th January 3:30am
A short, stocky man sat outside shivering in the cold morning, nervously smoking cigarette after cigarette. The snow still lay in the street. It gave him no sense of child-like joy. His evaporating breath mingled with the cigarette smoke but he was beyond noticing such things. His heart was racing for no apparent reason, as it usually did nowadays, while his mind struggled to keep pace with a series of depressing, out-of-control thoughts.
Minutes earlier, he had been on the phone with his closest confident, who had now finally turned against him – cast him astray, just like the rest of the world seemed to have done. It was all too apparent that he was facing a painful and shameful future, cut loose from the organisation he had worked so tirelessly for over the years. He had let them down and now they were letting him down. Betrayed and betrayal! The future, finger bent and beckoning, only promised imprisonment in a cell of unbearable misery that he could no longer see a way out of.
Fujiwara was struggling to stay in one piece.
He had struggled to stay in one piece over the course of the past week.
He was trying not to recoil against the looming world which had suddenly appeared to be unrecognisable. Normality was something he associated with the past - something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
That inner sense that contented itself with the existence of a happy marriage, good kids, lovely home and a bearable job had become lost in a mist of fear and sadness. There was some point, some line, that he had crossed, which had transformed him into a person he no longer understood.
Images of his disturbing past flashed unpleasantly through his mind. Little things from his childhood - misplaced values, self-esteem issues, betrayals by trusted people, humiliations and events he had missed out on suddenly appeared to be uppermost in his mind. They twisted the reality.
He’d been cut loose then and he was being cut loose now.
All the contentment had drained away. All the commitment and resolution had drained away. All of a sudden he was angry, scared, confused and helpless all rolled into one. He saw himself a worthless person, a person who was no good, a person who attracted errors and misjudgements.
A person who made mistakes!
Sweat poured readily from his body despite the freezing air. His breathing became more rapid as his shaking hand pulled once more at the rapidly diminishing cigarette. Who would miss him? No-one! He was doing those few, who meant something to him, a favour. He was a burden. He was a piece of crap. He was unlovable. He didn't know if he had a soul or if it would ascend to a better place, but what he was sure of was that he had to leave his tortured mind that had so unexpectedly turned on him. The pain of living had overcome the will to live. Unless an idiot dies he won't be cured. There was no choice here, not really – there was only one way out of this unbearable situation.
50 - In which a fit middle-aged woman stumbles into a crisis
Wednesday 5th January 8:20am
Kazuko Abe eased herself nimbly onto her haunches and bounced quickly up onto her feet before jumping into the air. She repeated this fifteen times before completing an equal amount of press-ups. It was all part of the regular exercise regimen that she’d carried out every morning for the past twenty years. She was forty-seven but looked more like thirty-seven. She muttered to herself, as was her developing habit, complaining that her knees were not what they were and then gathered her breakfast things onto the small wooden tray and made her way into the kitchen. She made a mental note to take up swimming again. She’d read somewhere that it was good for developing the muscle around the knee joint and was much better than pounding the streets – something else which she had a habit of doing.
She placed the tray on the draining board and proceeded to wash up. She was pleased with the kitchen. It was new and although there wasn’t a great deal they could do with the space - all the fixtures and fittings were in exactly the same order in exactly the same places as the old one - she was nonetheless pleased with the chrome finish of the sink and the floor-to-ceiling fridge-freezer complete with automatic ice maker. It was just after eight in the morning and the last thing she needed right then was automatically made ice, however she allowed her eyes to sweep around the small room with a genuine feeling of pleasure and pride strengthening her bones.
As usual she was alone in the house, her husband had already left for the day and her one son, now nineteen, lived away, attending Kyoto university. Her husband usually liked to be on the go by six in order to catch the first train and to avoid the worst of the rush-hour crush on his commute into Tokyo and sometimes he didn’t even arrive home until gone eleven at night. The evening before she had heard him stumbling in at that very hour and she assumed he’d been drinking as he’d collapsed into bed without saying too much.
Compared to her husband she could afford to linger a little longer at home in the morning, taking the bus and train to her own place of employment. She worked in a love hotel in Hinodecho as a chamber maid and would be there at eight-thirty and be finished by ten. After that she would start her second job at a patisserie down the road and be finished there at three. It was a fairly undemanding routine for a woman who liked her life to be as straightforward and simple as possible.
She washed the chopsticks, bowls and dishes, stored the soy sauce back in the fridge along with the remaining pieces of tuna that were uneaten - she’d finish it off tomorrow, took a few sips of the green tea that had stood poured but un-drunk
for the last ten minutes and then prepared to leave.
She wrapped herself up warm – there seemed to no escaping the chill winds that were continually sweeping through the streets, and then stepped outside into the slushy snow, locking and securing the front door. She then checked the post box that was built into the gate at the foot of the small, exquisite front garden, but there was nothing in there of any interest. She closed the garden gate behind her and then started down the small back street towards the bus stop.
Thirty minutes later she approached the Millennium Amore Hotel. She punched a few numbers into the panel at the door which immediately flashed up the numbers that had been used the day before. There were ten rooms that needed seeing to, starting with number 214.
She collected her cleaning things from a small closet on the ground floor peeked cautiously inside number 214 hoping, as ever, that there was no mistake and that she wasn’t about to interrupt anyone ‘mid-act’ as it were. All seemed quiet, so she entered more fully and then quickly wished she hadn’t, for there gruesomely hanging from the ceiling, was a man – quite shockingly and definitely dead.
51 - In which Inspector Saito experiences love’s sharp arrow and Junsa Saito loses her virginity.
Wednesday 5th January 9:15am
Junsa Saito had woken quite early that morning finding it hard, yet again, to find a peaceful sleep. She’d then tip-toed through the Inspector’s apartment feeling childishly self-conscious and concerned that she would wake him as she tried to locate the bathroom. She took a bath but again felt out of place as she’d looked upon the limited selection of manly shampoos. She’d then realised that she didn’t have a towel and also that she’d left her change of underwear in her room.
Then, as she’d been drying herself with a small towel that she’d taken from the bathroom cupboard, barely large enough to cover one cheek of her bottom, she thought she’d heard a rustling beyond the frosted-glass panelled door and turned to see a shadowy figure moving off down the hall.
She’d stood stock still with the towel draped down her front and suddenly felt unpleasantly violated.
But she couldn’t believe that the Inspector would have done such a thing. Had he really been spying on her, galvanised by some hidden voyeuristic impulse or had he merely just been making his sleepy way innocently towards his own bathroom before realising his mistake and turning back?
Whatever the reason she’d quickly come over all uncomfortable and embarrassed and speedily changed back into her pyjamas. She’d never felt the eyes of a man upon her naked body before.
As they’d grabbed a light breakfast, whatever easy manner that had passed between them the evening before had taken its leave. The inspector had done his best not to look at her – or so she’d felt and he’d seemed sullen and withdrawn. She’d tried to shrug off her own awkward feelings and had felt an uncontrollable urge to split the silence but could think of nothing to say. Instead they’d sat locked into their own thoughts and listened to the weather forecast which despite its length told them absolutely nothing. It would be cold again – which is how she’d felt inside and out.
They’d remained in silence as they took their journey to HQ on bus and train and continued to have nothing to say to each other until Mori arrived.
The news of the breakthrough forensic discovery had not been slow to reach every nook and cranny within police HQ. Sakamoto had been triumphant. He had a confession in his hand, forensic evidence in his lap and a case securely and soundly all wrapped up. The smiles and modest euphoria were abundant to see. Only Inspector Saito and Sergeant Mori appeared to be reluctant to throw their weight behind the success story.
To all intents and purposes the case was closed and to all intents and purposes Junsa Saito’s secondment was complete. It was only the fact that Sergeant Mori had secured her for a week that required her to stay.
Sitting somewhat lamely in the office feeling not only superfluous but also a sense of extreme let-down she still couldn’t rid the thoughts of her unwelcome exposure that morning and the unveiling of Inspector Saito’s furtive voyeurism and that despite the fact that she had nothing to be ashamed of she felt exactly that - ashamed. She was actually rather quite proud of her figure, not that she made a big deal of it. It wasn’t so much the looking that upset her, but more that if it was true, it had irrevocably changed her opinion of Inspector Saito - except to say that she wasn’t sure that she’d been mistaken. This was an additional cause for her embarrassment - the possibility of her error and the possibility that she’d had all these new thoughts about the Inspector that were actually utterly groundless.
As his eyes now looked upon her she felt the hairs on her back stand up. It was as if he could see right inside her and she felt as if every look was slowly undressing her. For no reason she reddened quickly again, to the complete surprise of the two men.
She now wished above all that she could return to Chiba and her usual duties but she had two days to remain – two days that she now suspected would drag inexorably slowly.
*
‘A suicide! You’re putting me onto a suicide!’ exclaimed Inspector Saito looking once again, unbelievingly, into the eyes of the Chief Superintendant. ‘You can’t possibly be serious?’
The Chief Super stared impassively back. ‘That’s as maybe, but it’s your detail all the same.’ He picked up his pen as if to indicate that the conversation, short as it had been, was over.
‘What about Sakamoto? Why can’t he deal with it?’ insisted Saito.
‘He has his own work to be getting on with, finishing off the Yamada case – as well you know!’
‘But-’
‘Look Saito! I’ll thank you not to question me.’ The Chief Super slammed his hand angrily down on his desk, which was more his usual style, and which caused Inspector Saito to jump. ‘Your detail on the Yamada case was strictly extra-curricular until other work came in, which is precisely what this suicide is – other work and your work! Despite which the Yamada case is now very much closed. Now! Less of the back-chat and a little more respect.
*
A disgruntled Inspector Saito returned to his office and then set off with Junsa Saito to check out the suicide with the intention of dealing with it as quickly as he could. He left Sergeant Mori to type up the interview notes that they had, which to Mori was now an entirely redundant activity but nonetheless he acquiesced all the same.
Junsa Saito said nothing as she followed Inspector Saito out of the building. She was still experiencing her newfound discomfort whenever she was alone in the Inspector’s presence, as if they’d crossed some line that they were never meant to have crossed. Or at least someone had crossed a line – she just didn’t know who? She’d been wrestling with her conscience never mind her embarrassment. Was it real or imagined that he’d been peeking at her like a dirty old man in a peep show? And was she flattered or disgusted at this act?
Once sat in the car she glanced nervously across at him not knowing where to put her hands – folded protectively and closed across her chest or resting on her thighs? She noticed that as he drove Inspector Saito stared intently at the road, deep in thought, concentrating on the still tricky conditions. The traffic inched its way along the icy roads with drivers obviously fearful that even when driving at a modest five miles per hour they were still in danger of their lives, despite the fact that the roads were predominantly now clear of snow. Inspector Saito was no different. Was this the way he always drove? Once again he didn’t speak and neither did she. As soon as they were alone he hadn’t spoken and neither had she. Was this always the way? She didn’t know.
Due to these feelings and being more used to talking when she was told to she moved obediently into Inspector Saito’s slip stream but equally she felt that she wanted to say something. She just didn’t know what and she didn’t know how. They sat in silence for a good ten minutes – a cold ten minutes in every sense of the word.
‘Inspector?’ she said at last.
‘Yes?’
He remained staring at the road in front of him.
‘About this morning?’
‘Yes?’
‘In the bathroom.’
‘What about it?’
The Inspector betrayed little embarrassment or emotion.
She’d got it all wrong. He wasn’t remotely interested in her. He was old enough to be her father. She’d imagined the whole thing.
‘I borrowed a towel,’ she finally blurted out.
‘What? Is that why you’ve been acting strangely – you borrowed a towel!’ He laughed out loud and looked across at her. ‘You really are a strange little cookie, aren’t you?’
Junsa Saito had never been described as ‘a strange little cookie’ before and didn’t know what to think – aside from being deeply ashamed at her inflamed imagination. As if the Inspector was a peeping tom. It was an unforgivable assumption.