Roman had hired a car after a brief dinner of yakitori, but as he was making to leave he had found himself offering to help the two of them to make their way to pastures new, his reasoning being that he was already up to his neck in trouble, so he may as well drown in it. Besides, despite the trouble that their situation had caused him he found that he enjoyed their company.
After they had driven out of danger and onto the Tomei express way, losing themselves among the crowded but fast moving traffic, the Yakuza had finally introduced himself as Jun. As his gruff public façade had come down Roman had found that the Yakuza was a far more mild mannered and well-spoken than Roman would have imagined from his appearance. He had also wondered how he must have appeared to Jun with his new cheap jacket and usually slicked hair hanging in strange crescents about his face.
Now that they were close to Techosaka, the conversation began to flow. Kuri seemed mostly amused at watching them talk, evidently seeing the macho posturing for what it was as they had tentatively traded stories about near misses, narrow escapes and nefarious dealings.
Jun's experiences were clearly more violent in nature, with the scar apparently being caused by Ozawa himself when Jun had first visited the house and asked for permission to marry Kuri. The old man had apparently been bowing out of faux respect but at the last minute he had pulled a tanto from his robes and swung it upwards across Jun's face. It was only due to the Yakuza's quick reactions that his eye hadn't been damaged.
“The relationship only deteriorated from there,” Jun said, grinning widely. The scar stretched with each shift of his features.
“My father is a good man,” Kuri replied. Her eyes narrowed as she looked across at Jun from her vantage point on the seat facing them. Roman could tell from this minor exchange that whilst their relationship was certainly strong, it was also fiery.
“No, no. Neither of us is,” Jun said, scratching at the stubble at his jawline. “Both mine and Ozawa Yosuke's worlds are tinged with violence, degradation and the pursuit of riches. I simply choose to pursue in a more direct manner. I never wanted him to think I was a saint, I simply wanted him to believe and respect my desire to be your husband.”
Kuri slid across the seat and moved up next to Jun, planting a kiss on the Yakuza's cheek and pulling his head into an embrace against her neck. Roman smiled as he glanced at them in the rear view mirror, touched by the affection they displayed. Such is the new generation of Japan.
When they finally arrived in Techosaka, the two lovers decided to get out at the edge of the commercial district, in a relatively quiet area before the snarl of traffic truly began. They had spotted a small but relatively well maintained hotel where they could spend the rest of the night, before moving on in the morning. As they stepped out, Roman looked out at them, the fallen rock idol and the tattooed gangster, arm in arm like two teenagers.
“Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” he asked, curiously envious at their lack of direction or ties.
“We'll lie low. I'll get a makeover and in a few weeks I'll be forgotten about,” said Kuri, peering out from under her hood. She had looked so different to her J-Rock image in the kimono that Roman could believe it. Throwaway icons. A curse and a gift, depending on what you wanted.
“What about your career though?”
“It was never mine to begin with,” she said, her mouth pressed flat. “My father bought it for me, the record deal, the band, the hype... everything. I want something of my own.”
“And I'll get back into being a mechanic, or maybe security. Fuck, I'll sell ice cream if I have to,” said Jun. “I can’t keep tempting death now that I have something to live for, so I'm getting out of the game. Whether we can outrun the Yakuza as easily as Ozawa I don’t know, but we’ll have to try.”
He reached out a hand and shook Roman's, slipping a small piece of paper into his palm before stepping back and bowing low for good measure, speaking aggressively as the words were thrown out of his mouth in one of the customary bursts of feeling that punctuated life in Japan.
“This is my number should you need my help. I am forever in your debt. Arigatou gozaimasu!”
Roman smiled and drew away from the pavement. They disappeared into the haze of smog, two figures lost, alone and – he hoped – finally happy.
Roman stood outside Crash/Burn as a light rain started to descend upon the sprawling city, spattering his coat and giving the rubbish strewn pavement a gloss in the street light. He flicked open his phone, scrolled through the numbers and his thumb hovered for an age over the call button. This will not be easy.
Three minutes later Luis charged out of the club, pushing Kenji aside as he came, which was a feat in itself. As Roman held his hands out in supplication, Luis grabbed his coat and pushed him backwards fiercely, slamming him against a dumpster overflowing with glass bottles. They shattered around them in a burst of green and white.
Roman waited for the questions but for a while there was nothing, as Luis simply forced him bodily against the metal before pulling him away and throwing him back, again and again. Roman knew better than to fight back. He’d made that mistake before and he had ended up needing to have his jaw wired up for a month.
Eventually Luis started to calm down, the fire in his eyes dying as his breathing became laboured from the effort. He finally let go of Roman, leaving him to slump in a heap onto the concrete, his head reeling. Roman looked up at the creased features and wondered how he had ever got embroiled in such a strange quasi-abusive relationship. If they were a couple, Luis would be in jail by now for abuse.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing? Eh?” Luis started to pace back and forth in front of Roman. Behind the man’s legs Roman could see one or two people staring wide eyed from the entrance of the club but they were smart enough not to come over. Luis cared little for collateral damage when he was having one of his moments.
“I know I’ve screwed you over-” started Roman.
“Right, you’re right, that’s exactly what you did. You just waltzed out after I’d sorted the booth and used about three grams of Cupid. Two months we’ve been working on her. We’ll run out in the next ten weeks at this rate. You didn’t even answer my calls. I'd even got you two a suite.”
“I don’t sleep with those I’ve dosed,” said Roman firmly. Luis was always angling for that, insisting that it would create a far longer bond, as some of his acted ‘relationships’ tended to crumble early on due to a lack of sex, all except for Sandrine’s.
“Yeah, of course, the mighty chemist and his code of honour. You’re a saint,” said Luis, his mouth curled into a sneer.
Roman pulled himself to his feet, his body aching from the impact of Luis' admonishment. He could feel the water from the rain sticking his clothes to his body. He shivered, though whether it was from cold or from a sudden realisation, he couldn’t tell.
Was this the way it would always be, dispensing his services whilst working alongside a man who would kick his own father to death if it meant a big score? The sight of Jun and Kuri heading off together had burned itself into his mind's eye, two figures getting lost together in the web of Techosaka, answering to no-one. He had thought he was a spider in the city but reputation or not, he was simply a fly, another junkie hooked on keeping his standard of living high, whilst ignoring the fact that he wasn’t really living.
Such a revelation did little for him when faced with the might of a killer such as Luis.
“At the very least, did you complete the job that Medea gave you? I spoke with him after you'd gone. The money from that should see us through for a little while at the very least.”
“No,” said Roman, gritting his teeth as anger started to burn in his belly. “Couldn't have gone worse. I've probably got ParCorp and the Yakuza after me now.” Roman still had some fire left in him, some child-like sense of spirit that was foolishly goading him into pushing Luis' buttons.
Roman saw the tendons tensing in the man's bullish neck.
“One simple job...”
“Get off my back Luis,” said Roman, turning to walk away. He could have explained the circumstances but there was no guarantee that Luis would even try to see it from his point of view. He knew that he had done the right thing, even if there was a distinct chance it would get him killed.
He could hear Luis' feet approaching behind him even over the incessant droning bass emerging from Crash/Burn, and the anger that had risen in his bruised body in the last few seconds took over. He took a quick glance back and saw the man's scarred fist, a hammer of meat and bone, flying towards him. He managed to roll to his side so that the blow glanced off his shoulder blades, before turning to face Luis.
Whatever the man's background, he had clearly seen combat all over the world as his style seemed to switch as he rained blow after blow towards Roman. Luckily Roman had a few tricks of his own. He twisted with each punch that Luis aimed towards him so the impacts only grazed off his body. He hoped Luis' anger would make him careless, so he taunted him with smiles, dancing away from Luis' reach again and again, before finally the man overextended and lost his balance. Roman brought the heel of his hand forwards as hard as he could and rammed it into the side of Luis' nose, hearing the crack as he broke the cartilage.
Luis reeled back, blood running down his puzzled face. He brought his hands up to his nose and touched it gingerly.
“You...” he yelled, but Roman finished his sentence for him as he turned away, sprinting into the darkness.
“... I'm out. For good.”
The Black Cat slipped into the night.
Roman walked the streets of Techosaka for hours, drifting from bar, to club, to dive, spending money he felt he had no right to have and trying to take stock of his situation.
He had robbed banks, committed investment fraud, taken valuable, irreplaceable artworks and sold them on the Marketplace, but somehow it all paled in comparison to what he had done with his formula, the smallest part of which could change the world. If he looked back, really looked at the faces of those that had asked for his services... had they also shown signs of being coerced, or worse, forced? Was he simply seeing signs in his mind's eye now that he had doubts? No, there must have been more... Kuri cannot have been the only one. How many had he dealt with in the past, four, five, even six hundred? Was it close to a thousand? A glance here, a facial twitch there, the nervous movement of a hand moving to a wrist... it could mean so much. Far from being an angel he may have been a demon for all those years, placing men and women in a bondage of their own feelings, slaves to passions that he had formulated on a white board.
The red lights of a sign in neon kanji flashed across his vision and pulled him inside, gravity pulling detritus into the dark.
He found himself in a small Korean style restaurant, little more than a counter lined with seats and two tables currently occupied with a couple of raucous groups of post work colleagues drinking away the misery of the day. He slipped onto a barstool and ordered a sake, then another, then another. The night wore on as his gaze ran over the dented metal bar, taking in every little detail in an effort to keep his mind occupied with something other than his situation. On a sudden whim he tapped the compartment on his shoe and pulled out the small vial of cupid that he still had left over, holding it up to the light.
The vial itself was the same as always... small, clear unbreakable plastic in a heart shape, with a snap off top so that it couldn't be contaminated. A heart shape... a pathetic affectation which he had used since day one in an effort to make himself feel less of a villain. Cupid indeed. The liquid inside – given a faint pinkish hue and flecked with gold leaf – looked like some sort of cheap perfume.
“Fuck this,” he said fiercely, surprising a couple who had been engaged in a hissed argument at the other end of the bar. He went to throw the vial against the wall but his hand for some reason couldn't release it. This was all that he had built his identity on. As soon as he had been to the surgeon and reconstructed his features the old Roman had died. The young man who had studied chemical engineering at ParCorp had drifted into obscurity, leaving only this drunk, sodden angel of love.
He slipped the vial back into his shoe and looked around, looking for something else to occupy his attention apart from his own failings. The barman was approaching, all gut and sweat, his apron tight at his sides as if he were a strung up sausage.
“Something the matter?” asked Roman in Japanese, his lip curling in what he had hoped was a friendly gesture but could feel was coming off as a leer due to the alcohol in his system.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” said the barman. He must have only been in his early thirties but his hair was starting to thin to such an extent that he had shaved it off, leaving a crescent of dark stubble around his head. He leaned forwards on his large arms and started wiping down the bar. Roman became transfixed with the movement of the cloth, watching it sweep back and forth, infinity on steel.
“I'm a paper man...” whispered Roman, still staring downwards. “There's no weight to me. Nothing substantial. No marks left on the world.”
The barman started to laugh, a guttural sound that reminded Roman of rocks slamming against the sides of a tin can.
“You might want to tone that down a little, you're no Basho.” said the large man, his eyes twinkling. He switched effortlessly into English, though his accent was still thick, containing the staccato precision of Japanese. “Boil that down to a haiku and you might get an audience.”
Roman sighed, rubbing his palms against his temples. “I just don't know how I got here.”
“You headed in from down-town, so you probably went across the bridge.” said the barman.
“You know what I mean,” said Roman as he finished the last of his sake. The barman lifted the bottle behind the bar and Roman nodded. Liquid splashed into the glass.
“Of course I do, I get this every shift. I should move premises. I get all the sad cases heading out of town after a disappointing night,” said the barman, raising an eyebrow at the couple at the other end of the bar. They were both drinking with their shoulders hunched, casting annoyed glances at each other every so often. The barman looked back at Roman, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, go on, let's hear what you've got. If I feel you've been particularly victimised I'll give you that last drink on the house.”
Roman waved at the barman in irritation. The man's words were like bullets into his subconscious. The whole room was a loud colourful mess, as if he had been dropped onto an artist's palette and left to flounder.
“I was in love, once...”
The words came out without him formulating them in his mind. He had no idea if they were even true. No, I know they are true, he thought to himself as he took another sip of sake. As much as I try to move on, and as much as I have loved and love others, it all begins with her. Tavisi.
The barman nodded to himself, though whether this was because he'd heard it all before or because he truly sympathised was up for debate. It doesn't really matter either way.
“I worked... somewhere,” continued Roman, still having the wherewithal to retain some of his necessary anonymity. “The location isn't important. The work, that was important, more important than anything else or anyone else around me. One woman, working on the same project, before I left... she was... she had...”
Roman slapped himself on the face once, the sound ringing sharp across the bar and drawing stares. The barman's eyes widened in surprise but he didn't interrupt.
“... I don't even remember her face. Can you believe that? I loved her, I still do. Her face...”
He sighed, trying to calm himself a little.
“Her laugh, that's what I remember, like...”
He looked towards the barman, who had one eyebrow raised, no doubt waiting for a cliché to hit him square in the face. Roman wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He didn't want to hide his feelings behind hyperbole.
“... like the best fucking laugh you eve
r heard. It was beautiful. Three years we worked together, sharing the science and everything else. She was reserved, measured, composed, kind. She was everything I'm not.”
“So your self-loathing...” said the barman, waving a prompting hand.
“...made me love her. Maybe. I don't know, I just felt it, feel it. I can't think it through that deeply. When I left... I got greedy. Now I'll never see her again.”
The barman nodded to himself. “Well, it's pretty standard fare I'm afraid.”
Roman couldn't help himself, laughing at his own wallowing.
“The essence of the sun, man. That's what she was...”
The barman started giving a little slow clap. “Wonderful. That'll do. You're one sorry ass-hole.”
“You're right there,” muttered Roman to himself, leaning his head in his hands. The world swam about him, over, under, warm, dark, and perfumed.
The purple lights flared and died, again and again, dots punctuating the light tube that ran across the wall. The warmth was cloying. Sweat clung to his body, hot and heavy. It was suffocating in here. The pressure was folding in on him.
The Real Thing Page 5