The Real Thing

by Jacob Prytherch

  Noon... no sleep then. He sighed and slipped the tablet back onto the table before getting to work. At least he'd be out of town for a day so he could put off having to meet with Luis and explain himself.

  He could synthesise Cupid within ten minutes when he was feeling fresh, but with the stink of the city on him and two days’ worth of memories yet to lock away into his dreams he found that it took him close to half an hour to sort the tiny vial needed, which he then secreted in a shock absorbent cavity in the side of the sole of his shoe. He also took a couple of pieces of contact paper – just in case it would prove to be the best method of dispensing the drug – before getting ready to leave. As an afterthought he balanced the tablet against a packet of gold leaf (which he used as a catalyst, whilst also admiring its aesthetic qualities as it hung glittering in the red Cupid solution) and set the camera to record any movement. It wasn't as good as a bug, but it would probably do for now. He'd have to invest in something better when he got back.

  He checked the small camera that gave him a view of the flat before slipping out. As the panel slid back into place behind him he heard the front door open and the slightly unsteady footsteps of his wife. He sighed. She had been out all the time.

  He glanced into the hallway to see her leaning awkwardly against a wall. She was struggling to remove her shoes, obviously suffering the effects of a huge amount of alcohol. She looked up and gave a swooning double take before her face broke into a wide smile.

  “Honey, you're home... I thought you'd be with one of your girls...” she said, sauntering over to him in what he supposed was in her mind an alluring fashion but was actually so ungainly as to be comical. She threw her arms around his shoulders and planted a kiss that tasted of daiquiris on his lips. Her bronze hair was in a tangle and her yellow eyes (usually chestnut, but she had a penchant for contacts) looked up at him hazily. He noticed the pupils of the lenses were shaped like a cat's, a slit cut down the centre that gave her the appearance of a drunk werewolf on the cusp of change. Her skin smelt of perfume laced with the sweat of dancing. Her UV booth tanned skin was warm and damp. Her body had always been curvy, and wonderfully so... he had no love for the boyish physique that was still the vogue. He smiled and ran his arms behind her, lifting her into the air.

  “Change of plan, she didn't have nearly enough clearance with her company for what I needed,” he said, returning her kiss. Despite what he had felt with Aarati, there was no turning off his feelings for Idalia either.

  “Really?” said Idalia, her perfect brow creasing a little. She pursed her lips. “Poor you, after all that work.”

  Roman shrugged. “It happens. I've got a job in Yokohama at noon though, so I need to be off.”

  Idalia slipped out of his arms and gave him a mischievous smile. “You have ten minutes, surely...”

  “Ten? I...”

  “Twenty then...” she said, pulling his hand and starting to guide him towards the bedroom.

  “Wait... what? I don't have more time, that's not how haggling works...”

  “Thirty then, final offer.”

  Roman sighed, looking into her eyes. How could he have cheated on her with Aarati?

  He blinked. Cheating? Where had such a concept come from? Nothing had happened with Aarati, nothing physical, not even a kiss. Despite his profession as a breaker of hearts, he never actually cheated on his wife. He simply spouted cheap nothings made powerful by the drug. Aarati had been different though. The feelings are real, that's the difference. Idalia doesn't mind my play acting but if she thought it was real...

  Guilt ran through him again, unfamiliar and dark, slowing his limbs as she still pulled him insistently.

  “I can't, I...” he said quietly, trying to gently pull away.

  “Forty five. Done,” she said, moving forwards and kissing him again, melting his thoughts and feelings away in a heartbeat with the firm pressure of her lips on his.

  Chapter 2

  Roman sprinted from the Metro towards Shinkansen platform eight, adjusting his tie and trying to pull his jacket on at the same time. Annoyance flashed through him as he saw the train pull. He knew that they wouldn't wait for tardy passengers. An hour and a half, and that was before his journey to the station. He shouldn't have let her... well, he had made his choice, and he couldn't really blame her. It takes two to tango he thought to himself, smiling a little despite his current stress.

  Despite the delay, he just managed to slip onto the train before the doors closed. He looked back to see two salarymen pulling up short behind him, their briefcases swinging wildly as they looked up at the holographic timetable to see when the next train was. Roman sighed and adjusted his shirt collar in the window’s partial reflection, before turning around and looking for an empty seat.

  He finally found one next to a greying businessman engrossed in stock prices on his small palm sized tablet. Roman gave him a fleeting smile before leaning back in an effort to get his body to relax after the longer than expected run. He hated appearing out of control. He closed his eyes, relaxed his muscles and forced himself to slow his breathing. After a few minutes he began to feel his pulse rate to return to normal. When he opened his eyes again, he spotted the back of a man who had entered the carriage and taken a seat at the far end. There was something about the mannerisms and the tied up long hair that instantly drew his eye, and a glance backwards from the man brought recognition. Roman never forgot a face. In a flash he recognised the barman from Crash/Burn.

  The 'coincidence' instantly set him on edge. There are no coincidences, but sometimes you can't immediately see the connections. Keep your eyes out for the threads... he thought to himself, remembering the words of a particularly vicious thug who had nicknamed himself Razor. That was the one and only time Roman had been forced to kill. It had been him or me. He had repeated that to himself many times after that night. He shook his head. It had been a long time since he had thought about Razor and he had no wish to dredge that memory up.

  He needed to stay stoic. Luckily he was adept at hiding his nerves, a skill he had learned from years of experience of dealing with people who would take a sign of jumpiness as a sign of danger, potentially terminating deals. He closed his eyes again and laid his head back, stifling a yawn. If he was being followed, there was nowhere he could go on the train that the other man couldn't find him, so he'd have to wait until Yokohama. It would be easy enough to lose the man there, especially if the barman still thought he had gone unnoticed. Roman idly wondered who he was and who he was working for, though every shred of the man screamed Yakuza, especially the tightly buttoned shirt he still wore. Luis must have been right on the money. I've made some enemies. It wasn't the first time. He would have to call Luis soon... but not yet.

  The waiting game. It was easy enough, especially when he was so tired. Any remaining agitation fell away as the gentle whispers of passengers and the soft buzz of the efficient semi-magnetic engine rocked him into a deep sleep.

  The chirpy but business-like approximation of a woman's voice announced Yokohama as the next station, stirring Roman from his slumber. His mouth curling around a yawn as his mind tried to register his surroundings. The process took barely a second before he sat up straight, blinking in the light as the metal and grey pillars of the station moved past the window, and the train began to slide to a halt.

  The businessman in the window seat mumbled a word of apology to indicate he wished to leave, so Roman stood up, using the opportunity to cast his eyes around the carriage. There was no sign of the barman, but that didn't surprise him. He would no doubt be at one of the extreme ends of the train, probably ducking his head out when the passengers disembarked to see which door Roman left from before resuming his surveillance.

  The businessman bowed a little in thanks and busied himself around the baggage, pulling out a suitcase as Roman stood by the door. He checked the time on his watch, a discreet silver affair with a traditional twelve point clock face. Eleven. Depending on how long it took
to get to the Ozawa residence, he had the potential to be late. That wouldn't do. He'd have to shake the barman, and fast.

  As soon as the doors opened he stepped out and walked briskly towards the ticket barriers, passing his travel-card over the sensor and moving out into the large area beyond. It was filled with the daytime rush of commuters and tourists, just as he was hoping. After a quick glance to get his bearings he made for the small shopping area near to the station entrance. He slipped inside a small news stand staffed by a flickering hologram stood behind the counter (a more and more common sight as the technology lowered in cost) and picked up a small trashy music magazine. He flicked through the pages, casting virtually unnoticeable glances to his left and right as he moved his eyes over the continuously moving images of the vid-paper. Sure enough, he saw the barman at another news stand further up towards the exit, buying an energy drink and doing a good job of dutifully looking the other direction.

  As he was flicking through, Roman's eyes stopped momentarily on one of the pages. There she was, Ozawa Kuri, the mark. She was holding a glitter encrusted guitar and moving from pose to pose as unseen cameras flashed. Her eyes displayed that strange mix of innocent and alluring that seemed so popular nowadays. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but why was she so popular? The magazine seemed filled with carbon copies of her, products of a perpetually stale music industry that seemed hell bent on making the next big thing out of overly familiar elements of the last big thing.

  He pulled out his wallet and selected his okanecard, waving first the magazine and then his card in front of the hologram, which automatically scanned both before bowing rigidly and thanking him for his custom in a faraway voice. Once – a few months back at a similar stand – he had forgotten to scan the item first before leaving the store. The sirens had been deafening, as he was stopped gently but firmly by the centre security and escorted back to pay. Holographic staff were a very useful cost cutting measure as, though he doubted that the rising ranks of the homeless would agree it was a good idea.

  He left the news stand just as a group of tourists moved past, slipping amongst them and moving alongside until they travelled past the customer toilets. As they moved off, he quickly vaulted the pay barrier and ducked inside. The toilets inside were large and busy, but he didn't have time for subterfuge and a few curious glances were the price he was going to have to pay. He soon spotted what he needed: a small window in the far wall, high up and covered in frosted glass. He quickly made his way over, jumped and hauled himself up by his fingertips before splaying his legs out and balancing his feet on both the sink and the handle of an engaged cubicle. He quickly slipped the catch of the window and forced it open, cracking the paint either side that was intended to keep it shut. The opening was small, but he had got through smaller, and luckily for him he hadn't eaten today. With a jump and a quick wriggle he was through. He tumbled out into an alleyway beyond, though the ground came to meet him earlier than he had expected and he hit his shoulder hard as he tried to roll with the impact. He swore under his breath and pulled himself to his feet, before sprinting towards the end of the alleyway and scrambling over a chain link fence, entering the mass crowds of Yokohama.

  He dusted himself down whilst moving through the press of bodies, making sure to keep his eyes on the periphery. After a few minutes he started to relax and become confident of his escape, until he saw the familiar long hair and steely eyes darting through the mass of milling shoppers behind him. The barman knew he had been seen and was closing, ready to carry out whatever task he had been given. Perhaps Roman could defend himself against the man or perhaps not, but he didn't have time to find out. He had a deadline to keep.

  The roar of the traffic to his right brought Roman's attention to a large bus that was pulling in to a stop. One last chance. He darted ahead of the line and swiped his card on the pay pedestal next to the surprised driver before tumbling into a seat halfway along the bus and waiting patiently whilst trying to slow his racing heart. He needed all the energy he could get to time this perfectly, and he had to hope the barman didn't have enough time to notice a detail about the bus that Roman had spotted...

  As the last of the passengers got on – the barman amongst them, staring directly at Roman with fire in his eyes – Roman swung out of his seat and sprinted to the back of the bus, almost falling out of the closing set of second doors. He felt them nip on his heel as he staggered out into the pedestrians, knocking into an aged woman and almost sending her flying. As he helped her regain her balance, apologising and bowing profusely, he glanced back to the bus that was pulling out into the traffic and spotted the barman, his palms against the back window of the bus, mouthing obscenities at him. Roman smiled and snapped his hand into a crisp military salute before turning and weaving away.

  After a longer than expected taxi ride, Roman found himself outside the confines of the city and deep into the suburban sprawl that covered ninety nine percent of the non-mountainous land of Honshu. After a long drive along a gritted road that ran between some small and carefully tended rice fields (Japanese rice was so rare nowadays that it had become a luxury item amongst traditionalists), the taxi stopped at the gates of a large property, black brick walled and sealed with a large ornate gate.

  As he stepped out of the taxi the driver leaned over the passenger seat to address him. “You want me to wait?” he asked in a bored, gravelly voice. He was in his early sixties with slicked back greying hair and intensely tired eyes.

  “Yes.” said Roman, looking up at the cameras that were dotted along the wall and even now were turning towards him. He leaned his head into the car. “Not here though. At the end of the driveway, out of sight.”

  Suspicion slipped across the driver's features but Roman pulled out a roll of banknotes and peeled a few off and into the man's hands. The driver nodded in agreement.

  “More of that later,” said Roman as he adjusted his tie. He had done his best to clean himself up but still had grime on his shoulder from tumbling into the alleyway. Damn Yakuza, no respect for clothes. He reached down and slid the small compartment in his shoe open with the guise of adjusting his sock, before pulling the small dose of Cupid free and slipping it up onto his wrist – ready for use – in a well-practised manoeuvre.

  He walked up to the intercom, before pausing for a moment to enjoy the relative silence of this secluded spot. If he listened carefully he could even hear a bird sing somewhere ahead, most likely in an aviary. A breeze ran through his coat and for a moment he remembered a vision from his childhood, standing in the vast winter forests of Ukraine and being told of the advance of the factory mines that would soon be swallowing the 'unused' land. The memory was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but he was glad he had felt it, as the sense of peace it carried still ran throughout him, calming his nerves as he reached his hand to the intercom. The gates started to silently swing open before he'd even touched the button, and Roman spotted two heavily armed guards moving down the driveway towards him.

  “You the Black Cat?” one of them asked, a man whose neck was wider than his head. Tattoos of intertwining snakes ran up from his shoulders and were splayed across his face.

  Roman nodded. “Nice place.”

  “Come with us,” continued the guard brusquely. He was obviously not being paid to socialise. “Surrender any weapons you have now, or you won't come back out. Ozawa-san is waiting.”

  They escorted him in silence to the sprawling house at the end of the driveway. As Roman drew closer he saw that it was a largely traditional Japanese affair, an extremely rare sight nowadays with the technical revolution holding sway across the world. The building had three storeys flanked by curling roofs and balustrades that were punctuated by effigies of shisa, stylised dogs intended to ward off evil spirits if open mouthed, and keep in good spirits if close mouthed. Roman wondered if man people knew their significance nowadays, or if they even cared... though he himself couldn't even remember where he had learned the fact. T
he last moments of a culture, withering in plain sight, he thought to himself, with the mourners too busy on their phones to notice the death throes.

  He was led up the stairs to the entrance hall before being directed past a large lacquered screen and into a reception area, where the aged but poised form of Ozawa Yosuke was sat wearing a traditional man's kimono in a subtly patterned dark blue, his hands firmly planted on his knees with his legs folded under him in a respectful stance. His hair was white, thinning but still thick enough to style, and his eyes radiated the wisdom and knowledge of his years. Behind and to the sides of him there were various implements of ages old Japanese warfare, including two sword racks and three sets of beautifully ornate and clearly authentic armour, with several notches showing in their interlocking plates from the bite of razor sharp steel.

  Ozawa bowed to Roman as he entered and Roman had enough wherewithal to know what to do, sitting on the floor and bowing low, his hands pointing towards each other in front of him as he placed his forehead on the tatami mat.

  “Hajime-mashte,” said Roman, pulling himself up to a sitting position. Ozawa was obviously a highly respected man, judging from the way the guards reversed out of the chamber behind him, both bowing low. “Ozawa-san, I apologise for my lateness.”

  “That's quite all right,” said Ozawa, smiling slightly as he spoke in perfect English. “Please, call me Yosuke. I appreciate your respect of our customs but I take no offence at westernisation. We cannot help our differences.”

  The man's tone was gentle, low and non-threatening but something told Roman that this was a test, one that he intended to pass for his own well-being.