by Zoe Drake
It was the Area Manager.
The Manager's white-gloved hands held something ragged, and dripping, and still wearing a pair of splintered eyeglasses.
"I believe this is what you were looking for," the Area Manager said, holding up the offending item.
There were no apologies during the rush hour.
There was no point. It was impossible to say sorry if at every move of your body you found yourself pressing against the unwelcome intimacy of a fellow passenger. You just endured it as best you could. It was common knowledge that the best way of coping with the crush was to surrender your mind when they pushed you into the carriage, to surrender your mind to something higher and nobler. He could see it in the faces of the passengers as he and the other station assistants braced themselves, stretched forth their white-gloved hands and pushed against the wall of warm, yielding polyester, pushing hard to squeeze one more salaryman into the few centimeters of space left behind those sliding doors. It was common for a briefcase or a shoe to be left sticking out of the gap between the doors, jamming them open, and on those occasions Obata had to be quick with his wits, signaling where the obstruction was, urging the white-gloved hands to mold and press the obstruction past the closing doors.
The 7:45 pulled away on time, condensation forming slightly on the inside of the windows from the faces of the honorable customers pressed against the glass. The next wave of passengers continued to ooze onto the platform, impatiently clucking their tongues and flicking their newspapers as they prepared to wait for the statutory two minutes.
Obata and his staff navigated the station, gingerly picking their way along the outside of the platform, carefully treading their way between the rows of passengers and where the train was about to pull in. Just watch that yellow line, Obata told himself. Just keep watching it.
Up ahead, a flurry of movement caught Obata's eye. He looked ahead, narrowed his eyes. A passenger had unfurled his umbrella, and seemed to be on the verge of putting it over his head.
Obata frowned. It was a beautiful spring day on a covered platform. No need for an umbrella, surely. The man, middle-aged and wearing eyeglasses, seemed agitated, clearing his throat, wiping his face and neck with a handkerchief. He seemed to be checking his wrist watch every few seconds.
Obata continued in the direction of the man, increasing his pace.
The 7:47 approached from up the tracks, and the passenger was halfway between Obata and its approaching bulk. Obata saw it approaching, its box-like orange front easing around the bend and coming into view. He saw the driver behind the glass as he applied the brakes, pulling into the station at the required twenty kilometers an hour.
The passenger was even more agitated now and was rocking back and forth on the platform. Obata tried, as best as he could without losing his footing, to force himself to run.
To no avail.
The fabric of the day broke, a sudden spell of silence as the middle-aged man launched himself into the path of the train. The blaring of the train's horn drowned out any screams and shouts of alarm. Obata himself was shouting, but he could not register any sound.
And then the roar and rushing air of the train swooped in to fill the shock, filling it with the screams of tortured metal and shocked commuters as the driver braked hard.
One of the station assistants had already pressed the emergency stop button, for the alarm signals were flashing on all of the station pillars, but the train was already slipping and sliding to a halt. Tanaka, on the duty in the ticket office, was on the roster as the first one to call the emergency services. The first thing to do was to get the passengers off the platform. Through his wireless mike, Obata shouted himself hoarse, asking the people waiting to go back up the stairs, where their tickets would be refunded. They began fitfully to move, glancing moodily in the direction of the train-tracks, shouting into their mobile phones as they peered at the darkness beneath the wheels. As they left, Obata gave the signal for the train doors to be opened, letting the flood of shocked passengers onto the platform, to be shepherded gently but firmly up the escalators in the direction of the taxi ranks.
When this job had been completed, and as they waited for the paramedics to arrive, Obata picked two of the elder staff to go with him, to descend via the wooden stairs onto the tracks, to inspect the remains.
As Obata knew from experience, what they had to do was follow the bloodstains — and after several minutes, a shout from Tanaka alerted them to where the passenger had gone. Tanaka pointed to a darkened bulk in the shadows underneath a carriage near the front of the train. The figure, that looked like nothing so much as a large bundle of rags, had been dragged quite a few meters from where Obata had first seen him. Obata crouched down to peer into a darkness that smelt of axle grease and sand mixed with something sharp and nauseous.
The man's skull had been split neatly down the nose and sinus, not unlike a piece of wood splitting along the grain when struck with an axe. One lens of the man's eyeglasses lay embedded in what remained of the flesh of the head — although both eyes were now gazing blindly in totally opposite directions.
The man's jacket and shirt had been ripped away by the wheels and suspension links that had snagged them. Bright yellow fat glistened alongside bloodied muscle and crushed bone, the upper torso mashed into a shapeless polyester pulp. Obata noticed that the guts, thankfully, had not burst, and there was little blood from the legs because the tissues had been crushed by the wheels, effectively sealing the wounds as the feet had been amputated at the lower thigh.
It could have been a lot worse.
Obata and his colleagues retreated to the platform, to make sure none of the other passengers strayed past the roped-off areas. The paramedics arrived perhaps fifteen minutes later. Obata and four of his team had by then changed into overalls and hard hats, and accompanied the paramedics onto the tracks.
With forceps and clasps with elongated handles, the paramedics removed the passenger's torso and legs from where they had stuck. Once the larger remains had been packed away and sealed in the black body bags, the paramedics wheeled their dispersal device onto the platform; the squat, tubby machine that reminded Obata of an industrial-issue vacuum cleaner. They thrust the long, corrugated nozzle under the carriage, and Obata watched and listened as it sucked up the fragments of bone and tissue too small to be removed manually.
After that, it was simply a case of putting sawdust over the blood, and sweeping it up with a shovel and bucket.
The train would be taken out of service, awaiting detailed inspection by the police. The paramedics hauled their stretcher and its cargo of black bags up the stairs to the exit, and Obata bowed to them as they left carrying their burden. Once more in the station master's office, Obata prepared to contact Central Office personally. To speak to the Area Manager.
Before that, he looked at the clock, and rubbed his hands, his stained white gloved hands, together. Twenty-four minutes. Some of the assistants were already in the smoking area, lighting up.
It had been a good day's work. The trains had been delayed for twenty-four minutes, but they would not stop. Not on Obata's watch. Never stop.
The flow of business must never stop.
Yasuo Ogawa stepped out from the ugly concrete shack housing the stairwell, and the first thing he noticed was the wind, buffeting him, snatching at the fabric of his suit like the hands of persistent children.
Everything looked unfamiliar. Around him stood the skyscrapers of Nihonbashi, Tokyo's business district. He had never seen them from this vantage point before; eighteen stories above the ground, on the roof of Nishigaki Securities Co.
Forcing himself to move quickly, Ogawa walked to the railing around the edge of the building. He took off his shoes, and carefully lined them up, pointing them back towards the stairwell. There were large gaps between the struts, and he bent down to squeeze his fifty-four year-old body between the flaking metal poles.
He straightened himself on the other side, and then
froze, pressing himself against the railing. He caught a glimpse of the abyss opening up at his feet and a shock of nausea squirted up into his guts, his palms slick with a wrenching fear. His legs trembled violently, until he thought they might refuse to support his weight. The chill of the concrete spread through his thin woolen socks and numbed his feet.
It was not too late to go back. He could climb back over, rest in the stairwell, and mop away the stench of his mortality. He could return to his office, and think of other ways of coping with the hidden company losses that had just come to light. The billions of Yen parceled out in discreet tobaishi deals. He could endure the methodical humiliation from the media, the police, the government officials...
No, he could not.
The insurance policies that he had transferred into bonds would be already with his solicitor. His family would be well taken care of. The suicide letter was in the top drawer of his cleaned-out desk, where it would soon be located.
Ogawa pushed himself away from the railings. He realized suddenly, that under his breath, all this time, he had been humming an old folk song. He toppled quite slowly, and as his centre of gravity shifted he saw the parking lot beneath him, the small number of cars and limousines this early hour of the morning, the painted lines of official demarcation. Then he was past the point of no return. The emptiness took him by the hands and pulled him forward.
His head swung lower and lower until he began to somersault. The thought sprang into his mind that he would smash into the side of the building, but he had pushed himself away with his toes. He leveled out, and launched into free fall.
Eighteen stories. How long would it take? Five seconds? Less?
The feeling of losing control was terrifying, yet also exhilarating. Things were happening too fast for Ogawa to appreciate his own death. The towers of Nihonbashi leapt into space, bending and swaying as the world spun around him. The parking-lot suddenly unfolded itself like a bird opening its wings, the painted lines stretching into infinity. Ogawa had a piercingly sharp image of a drain cover directly beneath him.
He hit the ground -
And went THROUGH IT -
There was a millisecond's vision of blackness, a soft, spongy blackness like the scum on the surface of a river -
And Ogawa was through.
Around him, the dance of the skyscrapers continued unabated, the earth and the sky constantly changing partners. Nihonbashi spun like a roulette wheel. His eyes and his mind refused to accept, only his body could recognize the fact - he was still falling; but this time, falling upwards, hurtling back along the arc he had just traveled.
He was falling into the sky.
Ogawa had often wondered what to expect in the afterlife. Angels. Demons. Best of all, the numbness of oblivion. But he hadn't expected this. Where was the pain? Where was the impact, the bursting of bones and brains? Where was the end to it all?
Gravity tossed him higher, like a leaf helpless in the wind, until he felt a subtle change in his direction. Before him, he saw the agitated bulk of the Nishigaki Building. He was returning to the top.
While he was still trying to come to terms with this, he felt his body slowing before he reached the roof, and the square dullness of an office window filled his vision. Ogawa was deposited, as if by the meticulous hand of an unseen Kami, upon the ledge outside the fifteenth floor.
With the swiftness of instinct, his hands snapped out to clutch any form of support on the thin metal framing the window. Despite his fumbling, he preserved his balance, as if an invisible force was pressing him against the glass. He was stuck to the building. He was a cherry blossom that had returned to the branch.
Glancing around him, and over his shoulder, Ogawa tried to understand what had happened. If this was the Buddhist afterlife, it looked exactly like Tokyo on a blustery April day. He risked a look below, into the street. It still gave him a nauseous lurch of vertigo, but he could recognize the crawling shapes of distant pedestrians, although the wide streets were empty of cars. The car park had mysteriously disappeared; he seemed to be on the opposite side of the building.
Ogawa turned and pressed his face to the window, seeking to penetrate the darkness within. He raised his hand, wondering if he should bang on the window, shout, draw attention to himself, when he froze - peering through the glass at the figure that wavered amongst reflections and shadow.
Someone was inside the office. Watching him.
Ogawa stared harder, trying to make out the details. There was a figure sitting at a desk, who at once stood up, as if he had registered Ogawa's awareness of him. The figure was that of an elderly man; his clothes the dark cut of a senior salaryman, his body short and rotund, his face corpulent, bland, and topped with dyed slicked-back hair.
The figure left the desk and approached the window, his features gaining definition in the strange half-light. Ogawa tensed himself, but there was something in the stranger's manner that was kindly, almost paternal. Ogawa had the feeling he had seen this man before. As the figure stretched out its arms to open the window, Ogawa's memory clicked into place.
In recent years, he had seen this man's face every week, in departmental meetings. In the framed photograph on the office memorial shelf. His name was Tomotoda Fujisawa, he had been Chairman of the Board of Directors for twelve years ... and he had died in 2005.
The window slid open, and Ogawa saw his face reflected in the dead man's spectacles. He looked disheveled, wild; unseemly. Mr. Fujisawa smiled, and frowned with gentle curiosity.
"Good morning," said Mr. Fujisawa.
"Good morning," Ogawa replied, bowing with considerable difficulty.
Fujisawa's gaze shifted past Ogawa, into the distance. "The weather is quite beautiful today."
"Yes..." Ogawa struggled for words. "It really feels like spring now."
"Nippon Steel is up five points on the Nikkei Index, I heard."
"Really? That's...most impressive."
Mr. Fujisawa's gaze snapped back into focus. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Errm ... about two or three minutes."
"Was it an accident?"
"Erm..." Ogawa flushed with shame, but the older man shook his head and smiled. "There's no need to worry. It comes to us all, one way or the other. I ended my last day on the golf course, myself. A massive stroke. It was all quite amusing, really. I was winning at the time."
Mr Fujisawa gave a little shrug. "Oh, well. I can't stand here gossiping all day. I have some work to finish. I have enjoyed our little chat." The arms stretched out again, hands settling on the window clasp.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir," Ogawa blurted in panic, "but-but could you help me get inside?"
The ex-chairman's face clouded. "Have you made an appointment?""
"A ... a what?"
"An appointment. There are rules about this sort of thing, you know. Protocol that has to be maintained."
"Well ... I didn't really have time, you see, it was all a bit of a hurry..." Ogawa's voice trailed off and fell into empty space.
"I can't let anyone come in here when they feel like it, you know, or we'll have all sorts of strange types dropping in. After all, I used to be Chairman of the Board of Directors."
"Yes, sir, I know...I attended a few meetings when you were, erm, when you were there. You shook my hand when I was a freshman, sir."
"Did I really? I'm sorry I didn't recognize your face. How long did you work for us?"
"Thirty-four years." As the finality of the statement hit him, Ogawa felt his whole body sag, as if bullied by gravity.
"Don't feel too badly about it," Mr Fujisawa said. "The company was due for restructuring, anyway."
"I didn't give the statutory two months notice, I'm afraid..."
"That's all right. What do you think I am, some kind of demon?" Fujisawa jerked his head back and gave a short bark of a laugh. Ogawa stared, entranced, at teeth and a tongue that seemed eerily normal.
The ex-chairman swiveled on hi
s heel, turning his back on Ogawa and seating himself at the computer. "This is a replication of the latest software," he explained with a proud glint behind his spectacles. "I've found that being dead is no excuse to neglect my business skills. "
As Ogawa rested his weight against the window to try to make himself more comfortable, the ex-chairman tapped tentatively on the keyboard. Ogawa glanced downward. Despite the horror of the drop a few centimeters away from his scuffed loafers, he peered at the shapes of pedestrians beneath him. Although ordinary at first, there did seem to be something odd about them. Flickering lights played about their bodies. It was as if they were not people at all, but lamps, being switched on and off at a speed impossible to calculate.
The ex-chairman's voice brought Ogawa's mind sharply back into focus. "Let me see. Yasuo Ogawa ... I see your pension and insurance contributions have been cashed ... yes, a wise move." After a few fumbled taps, he turned around to beam at Ogawa. "You still have some leave owing to you!"
"I didn't have time to use it," Ogawa said miserably.
Fujisawa stood up and returned to the window. Arms folded, he coolly appraised the man standing on the ledge. "I have a proposition for you," he said thoughtfully.
"Does it involve letting me inside?"
"Don't make an issue out of that."
"I ... I apologize, Mr. Fujisawa."
"I have been fortunate enough to acquire a managerial position in the world that we now inhabit."
"Congratulations, Mr. Fujisawa."
"As such, my responsibilities include dealing with new arrivals. People such as yourself. People with, of course, quite valuable skills and experience."
"Th-thank you, sir." Ogawa's forehead struck the window as he bowed.
"With this in mind, what I propose is a form of ... rehiring. This is not like the world you have just left, Ogawa. Here, nothing is wasted. Nothing."