New Hokkaido

by James McNaughton

  A white-haired Japanese man in a black suit stands on the path fifty metres away, staring. It’s Master Ichiro. He has aged greatly in the passage of the dozen years since Chris last saw him. Chris waves and smiles and makes his way eagerly towards him. As he draws near he apologises, bows, and introduces himself, and a funny thing happens: age falls away from the master. His colour returns and his back straightens.

  ‘Little Ipswitch. You came too late. I needed you at sixteen. I believe you promised me that.’

  ‘Forgive me, Master. I was wiser at eight than I am now.’

  ‘We all unlearn the wisdom of childhood. Some faster than others.’

  Chris takes this as a criticism of Patrick and is unsure how to respond other than by agreeing.

  ‘I always thought you’d be a better wrestler than your brother.’

  Chris checks for a twinkle in the old master’s eye. To his great surprise, there isn’t one.

  ‘Your brother sent you.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘I thought you were him: sixteen again and starting out. I thought he had come to say goodbye to Cherry Orchard and maybe to me.’

  ‘A ghost? Is … has my elder brother … died?’

  ‘Apparently not.’ The colour has returned to the master’s face.

  ‘I spoke to him today, Master, on the phone.’

  ‘Good! We’ll drink tea.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much for your time.’

  Master Ichiro leads him to the tourist canteen rather than his private rooms, and Chris is disappointed. They take a seat in the corner and a small pot of tea is placed before them. Only enough for one cup each. He fills the cups and waits for the master to speak.

  ‘Your brother made Grand Champion at the youngest age ever. Now he finds himself alone.’

  ‘Yes, Master, and unsure of his crime.’

  ‘Well … ’

  ‘My brother lost many friends in this country when he had a child. Many in Japan resented him for becoming Grand Champion. Of all the friendships he lost, it is yours he regrets most, Master.’

  The master sips his tea. ‘What is his message?’

  ‘I don’t understand it, Master. He said to tell you that he only ever hit with an open hand.’

  ‘I wanted you, younger Ipswitch, but your mother wouldn’t give both her sons to me to fatten up. I hoped for a third brother, to free you for sumo, but he never came.’

  ‘I … uh … me?’

  ‘Your brother is innocent?’

  ‘Foolishly,’ Chris says, ‘he married for love. He didn’t think his child with Chiyo was a crime. Just unusual.’

  ‘Just unusual. Well.’

  ‘My niece was a lovely little girl, Master. Yet I’ve heard even the Emperor disapproved of her. And the New Zealand public disapproved of her. I think they never saw her smile. And Chiyo as well.’

  ‘Your older brother thinks it’s political?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, it’s personal.’

  A chill runs down Chris’s spine.

  ‘Who of the top tier have come to his aid?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master. I only met Noble Dawn. He mentioned—’

  ‘Yes, Noble Dawn. You need look no further. Your brother made him very … angry.’

  Chris pictures the gentle giant sipping tea with Chiyo at his brother’s house. He had her killed as well? Or did it himself? It doesn’t make sense. ‘Noble Dawn is behind this?’

  ‘Believe me. Now, his mana and power are great in Japan, but somewhat less here, somewhat less. I suggest you talk to him in a public place before going to the police, or at least threatening him with the police.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes, the police here will not be quite so easy to buy out and are probably completely unaware of his role in these murders. This threat of yours may well be enough. The processes in motion against your older brother can be halted by Noble Dawn, I believe, without him having to confess.’

  ‘Thank you, Master. I will talk to him. But why has he done this?’

  The Master nods and stands. ‘Noble Dawn will be judging at the sumo tournament in Auckland beginning on Monday. Approach him there and suggest he’s had revenge enough. And of course you haven’t spoken to me. This last point is important.’

  ‘Of course I will not mention you, Master. You have my word.’

  ‘I’ve said enough. Goodbye, young man, and good luck.’

  The conversation is over. Chris stands, bows deeply, thanks the Master and maintains his deep bow until he has left the dining room. His mind whirls. He doesn’t see anything as he heads for the exit. The most pressing thing, he decides, is whether to continue on to Auckland immediately or return home first. Lost in agitated thought he takes three wrong turns while returning to his car.

  Chapter 19: Mutiny:

  Brian has a celebratory

  The Typhoons meet in the lounge they successfully defended against two attacks, the second being a samurai sword charge. They don’t notice the blood-soaked carpet and walls as they relive the defence: the doorway piling with bodies from the loosies’ crossfire, the grenades, thrown by the enemy, that very fortunately exploded in front of the barricade of tables, and then the hand-to-hand combat on the decks after the ammunition ran out and the hunt for the last terrified soldiers in the bowels of the ship. The arrival of the jets is celebrated again and the New Zealand flag rising skyward, step by step, to the top of the highest mast; and then the mighty haka during the burial ceremony is remembered.

  Brian’s arrival breaks a prolonged silence. Everyone remembers they’ve made it. Their enthusiastic greeting dislodges a rare smile from the man. Before long, though, he’s nodding distractedly in reply to questions. He seems smaller and older to Marty, and less present, as if the other dimension he sees has grown more engaging. Marty guesses that the gun slung over his shoulder is empty. Unconsciously, still absent, he begins working his comb through his hair, and like a spell, it brings him back into focus. ‘Is your hand okay, son?’ he asks Tunny.

  ‘Shithouse,’ Tunny replies cheerfully, ‘but I’m not complaining. I’ve stopped puking.’

  ‘Show me. Look, come with me, I might have something for that. Marty, you too.’

  Brian leads them away from the team. They are chosen ones. For a moment Marty allows himself to feel proud.

  ‘Have you got some anaesthetic for it, Brian?’ Tunny’s voice is hopeful as they descend into the ship and make their way to the tourist cabin area.

  ‘Something like that,’ Brian replies, without looking around.

  As they pad down the carpeted corridor, Marty worries that Brian is taking them to the captive female tourists for a ‘treat’, a reward for being the gunmen. When Brian stops at a cupboard, unlocks it and pulls out a bottle of Johnny Walker Red, a strong sense of relief mixes with gratitude.

  ‘You legend,’ whispers Tunny, awestruck.

  It’s a top-shelf whisky, one which Marty’s never tried.

  ‘I felt like a quiet drink now it looks like we’ll make it, but didn’t want to drink alone,’ Brian says. ‘It’s been many years,’ he adds.

  ‘Too many, Brian. Thanks for thinking of us.’

  ‘Well, you boys deserve it. You did a wonderful job.’

  ‘You’ve even got glasses,’ Tunny says.

  ‘Three will have to do. I would have preferred five. It’s a damn shame Jimmy and Plate can’t be with us.’

  ‘Our first toast should be to them,’ Marty says. He wants Jimmy and Plate and the other lost Typhoons to be remembered properly. That’s what he wants from the bottle. Not sentimentality but focus.

  Brian unlocks a tourist cabin. It’s small but sleek and plush, and hints at the larger luxuries enjoyed by the Japanese in New Zealand. ‘All right for some,’ Brian says as he places the bottle and glasses on the little table between the two single beds. The sheets have not been stripped for shrouds. Marty and Tunny sit on the bed opposite him.

 
; ‘A standard cabin,’ Brian says bitterly.

  Tunny has eyes only for the whisky. ‘Great timing, Brian. I just stopped puking this morning.’

  ‘So you said,’ Brian replies. He fills the tall glasses to the brim, as if the whisky were beer.

  ‘No mercy,’ Marty says.

  ‘It’s been a while since you’ve had a drink?’ Tunny asks.

  ‘It has.’

  Tunny discreetly elbows Marty in the ribs. The nudge is not nearly discreet enough, in Marty’s opinion. Brian is in a strange, deliberate mood.

  ‘To freedom?’ With a flourish, Brian attempts to down the entire glass, but almost immediately he splutters and coughs.

  To save Brian’s honour, Marty and Tunny drink until they gag. Seeing Brian’s weepy eyes and red face they exaggerate their coughing and suffering. Embarrassingly, Brian’s eyes may not be watering, but weeping. It’s not yet the time to cry; they’re not drunk.

  ‘Here’s to Jimmy,’ Brian says, with unambiguous feeling. This time, astonishingly, he finishes the tall glass. Tears are rolling down his cheeks as Marty and Tunny slam theirs down. He immediately pours another round.

  ‘Hang on,’ Marty says. ‘I need a minute.’

  ‘To the dead,’ Tunny says, despite his very empty stomach.

  Marty drinks even though he knows it will not stay down. Brian stops mid-glass and chucks on the bunk right next to where he sits. Once, twice, three times. It’s brown liquid. The whisky’s come straight back up.

  ‘Another,’ he says, ‘to rinse my mouth out.’

  ‘Hard-fucking-core, mate,’ Tunny says. He finishes his second glass and abruptly stands. Thankfully, he makes it to the en suite.

  This is ludicrous, Marty thinks. ‘Look, we should slow down a bit.’

  ‘To the dead!’ Tunny cries into the toilet bowl.

  Marty stands and drinks and swings into the en suite, where he is obliged to vomit into the basin because Tunny’s still retching over the toilet. When they return to the table Brian is sitting solemnly by his puddle of vomit. He pours another round.

  ‘Mayhem,’ Marty says.

  Brian begins silently and stoically weeping. Tunny places a hand on the older man’s shoulder as Brian drinks again, only a sip this time. They gratefully follow his lead. Lacing his fingers on the table, Brian takes a deep breath. Having had a drink, he is ready to speak. ‘There’s nothing for me in Australia.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Don’t say that, Brian,’ Marty cries. ‘Jesus, you’ll finally be free!’

  ‘You young fellows are starting out. You’ll quickly put down roots, start families of your own. I can’t do that anymore.’

  ‘You’re still young, Brian. Everyone thinks that.’ In fact Brian looks much older than he ever has and has the pallor of someone badly wounded.

  ‘My roots are in New Zealand.’

  ‘There are other old fellas on board,’ Tunny says. He’s slurring now, the drunkest of the three.

  ‘What will we do?’

  ‘Fuck, I dunno. What do old fellas do? Gardening and tinkering. Home brew. Excuse me.’

  The cabin reeks of vomit. Tunny’s new bout of noisy retching makes Marty want to laugh but he can’t offend Brian. He must not laugh while this warrior opens his heart to them. Not only is it disrespectful, but it may be fatal. He suspects Brian may lash out uncontrollably if offended. But the vomit, Tunny’s comical high-pitched retching, the abruptly three-quarters-empty bottle … he coughs to disguise a giggle.

  ‘You’re laughing at me,’ Brian says. His expression is chilling.

  ‘No,’ Marty says emphatically. ‘I’m laughing at the mayhem.’ And he’s aware of the space between him and Brian, and that he’s within knife range.

  ‘Mayhem,’ Brian repeats with the trace of a sneer.

  The brown puddle of vomit next to Brian is now very unfunny. It is the man’s pain. It is their pain.

  ‘I’m what they use to call “a mean drunk” in the old days, Marty. I came here with you two because I respect you and felt I could trust myself. But now I find you don’t respect me.’

  ‘Hang on. That’s not true Brian. We do—’

  ‘Flash Harrys,’ Brian says, clenching his jaw. Marty feels a terrible judgement has been passed, one which will cost him and Tunny dearly. He feels weak.

  ‘You’re a fuckin’ legend, Brian,’ Tunny announces from the bathroom door, ‘but this is a pretty unusual way of tackling a bottle of whisky, I have to fuckin’ say. Don’t you think?’

  Brian’s red eyes close. He appears to be counting to himself, and Marty finds the strength to stand and take a step towards the toilet. ‘Well, yes,’ Brian finally replies, looking up to where he and Tunny stand in the doorway, ready to shut the door on him if necessary. He seems unsurprised, as if they’ve taken a perfectly sensible precaution. ‘It’s been thirty years, lads. I don’t go to bars for a reason. That whisky … surprised me.’

  ‘Thirty years since you’ve had a drink?’

  ‘You have to understand … I’ve killed a lot of men. I don’t remember how many. I need to pay attention.’

  ‘We’ve killed men too, Brian.’

  He nods. His thick hair is still neatly styled but his colour is very bad. The shot-off earlobe has been replaced by a clotted red clump of toilet paper. To Marty he looks both noble and evil, a transitional being who could emerge black or white. He narrows his eyes and says thickly, ‘I’m going to miss being at war.’

  A gallant admission, Marty thinks; a good sign. ‘You can fight for New Zealand in Australia, Brian.’

  ‘Diplomacy.’ The word clearly disgusts him. Marty sees the man that licks the blood of corpses. He knows he must avoid platitudes because Brian is like a mad snake ready to strike at anything, no matter how innocuous. There is the ridiculous possibility that he might die in this vomit-filled cabin, when so close to freedom. He shuts his mouth and stares at the table top. The sound of a jet engine filters into the cabin, approaching from the direction of the bow, from the north. It gives Marty an excuse to put some distance between himself and Brian. He shuffles along the bed to the cabin window and tries to catch a glimpse of a red kangaroo insignia, but the jet passes out of sight. Unwilling to face Brian, he keeps looking out the window at the breaking clouds.

  ‘The weather’s definitely clearing,’ he says.

  ‘The weather. Hot weather. Dry weather. Fucking Australia.’

  Brian never swears. Ever. Marty is now certain that things will end badly. He wants Tunny back, who is trying the bathroom tap for at least the third time. The ship’s been dry for hours yet each time a tap doesn’t work he is freshly annoyed, as if the lack of water is a considered denial, a personal insult. The top of the cistern comes off with a clatter, and Marty quells an urge to laugh at the sounds of the big drunk man in a small bathroom. Tunny cheers for the jet as he yanks on a roll of toilet paper.

  ‘Woohoo,’ Brian echoes sourly, as if Tunny’s expression of joy was not manly. He blinks slowly and grits his teeth.

  Feeling that Brian is about to move, Marty takes the bottle as if to top up the glasses. Brian is up and out. His sudden exit is a great relief, like a gust of fresh air.

  ‘Phew … ’

  ‘Jesus, where’d he go?’ Tunny asks, head around the bathroom door, more alert than Marty would have thought possible.

  ‘Gone to cause trouble.’

  ‘Mate, I thought he was going to have a go. I was ready for it. Was gonna use the top of the dunny as a shield.’

  ‘I think he’s going for the tourists.’

  ‘Mate … ’

  They stumble out of the vomit-smelling cabin. The corridors are empty. Everyone is on deck in the brightening weather watching the Aussie jets. They don’t know where to look, and even if they should find Brian, Marty knows it could cost them their lives to try stopping him now. He’s just about convinced himself to go up on the top deck when a woman’s muffled scream comes from nearby. Only one locked and windowless
cabin is the possible source. They wait, frozen. They hear a whimper, and a woman say, ‘No.’

  Tunny pulls ineffectually at Marty’s arm. ‘I’m wasted,’ he says. ‘I can’t take Brian on. He’s a fuckin’ killer. We get help or leave him to it.’

  ‘No,’ says Marty, standing solid despite the sensation of his strength leaving him. ‘We can appeal to him, through the door.’

  ‘Appeal? It’s not cricket. And I don’t know if I care,’ says Tunny. ‘No Japanese chick ever stuck up for me when I was being beaten up.’ He attempts to shepherd Marty away.

  Marty shakes him off and knocks loudly on the door. ‘Brian. It’s Marty.’

  A Japanese woman’s accented English: ‘Help us!’

  Another: ‘Help!’

  ‘Oh!’

  With a sinking, hopeless feeling, Marty knocks louder. ‘Brian? Let us in. Me and Tunny want a go!’

  Tunny shakes his head and joins Marty at the door. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ he hisses. Marty sees his own fear reflected in his friend’s eyes. Yet something makes him knock again.

  Through the door comes Brian’s voice; it sounds as if he has something in his mouth. ‘You young buggers stay away.’

  The women’s voices rise in terror. Children begin wailing. Marty can’t make out what they’re saying in the sudden clamour. Panicked, he changes tack. ‘We all have a future, Brian. You and those mothers and children too.’ His words sound hollow, useless. A full-blooded scream turns him away. He can’t listen. He walks away, leaving Tunny at the door, and climbs out of the carpeted tourist area, up to the top deck and the sun. He leans on a rail, squinting, and feels drunk and heavy. The engine roars through a nearby vent. The ship seems to slide over the waves. The air’s different; it’s warmer. Australia will be sunny. Tunny’s absence is awful. No, I can’t do it. I can’t leave him, can’t leave defenceless people to be knifed and slaughtered. He returns below deck on rubbery legs, into the dim, carpet-muffled, blood-stained corridors. Tunny’s on his knees on the floor; his broad back bent over Brian’s bloody corpse. The dead man’s tear-filled eyes stare at nothing, truly nothing this time. There will be no coming back. His knotty hands grip Tunny’s hands.