Ring

by Kōji Suzuki

  "Mt Mihara?" muttered Asakawa. The two-page spread for Mt Mihara had two aerial shots and one photo taken from a nearby hilltop. Asakawa recalled the image on the video and tried to imagine it from various angles, comparing it to these photos. There was a definite similarity. From a perspective at the foot of the mountain, the peak seemed gently sloped. But from the air one could see a circular rim surrounding a caldera, in the centre of which was a mound which was the mouth of the volcano. The photo taken from a nearby hilltop especially resembled the scene in the video. The colour and contours of the mountainside were almost the same. But he needed to confirm it, instead of just relying on his memory. Asakawa made a copy of the photos of Mt Mihara, along with two or three other candidates.

  Asakawa spent the afternoon on the phone. He called people who had used cabin B-4 in the last six months. He would have been better off meeting them face to face and gauging their reactions, but he simply didn't have that kind of time. It was tough to spot a lie just from a voice on a telephone. Asakawa pricked up his ears, determined to catch the slightest crack. There were sixteen parties he needed to check out. The low number was due to the fact that the cabins hadn't been equipped with individual video decks when Villa Log Cabin opened in April. A major regional hotel was torn down over the summer, and it was decided to transfer the large number of VCRs it no longer needed to Villa Log Cabin. That was in mid-July. The decks had been installed and the tape library assembled by the end of that month, just in time for the summer vacation season. As a result the brochure didn't mention that each room had its own video equipment. Most guests had been surprised to see the VCR when they arrived, and thought of it as nothing more than a way to kill time on a rainy day; almost nobody had expressly brought a tape for the purpose of recording something. Of course, that was if he believed the voices on the phone. So who had brought the tape in question? Who had made it? Asakawa was desperate not to overlook anything. He chipped away at people's responses time and again, but not once did anybody seem like they were hiding something. Of the sixteen guests he called, three had come to play golf and hadn't even noticed the VCR. Seven had noticed it but hadn't touched it. Five had come to play tennis but had been rained out, and with nothing else to do had watched videos: classic films, mostly. Probably old favourites. The last group, a family of four named Kaneko, from Yokohama, had brought a tape so they could record something on another channel while watching a historical miniseries.

  Asakawa put down the receiver and cast an eye over the data he had collected concerning the sixteen groups of guests. Only one looked pertinent. Mr and Mrs Kaneko and their two grade-school-aged kids. They'd stayed in B-4 twice last summer. The first time had been the night of Friday, August 10th, and the second time they had stayed two nights, Saturday and Sunday, August 25th and 26th. The second time was three days before the four victims had been there. Nobody had stayed there on the Monday or Tuesday following the Kanekos' stay: the four teenagers were the very next people to use the cabin. Not only that, the Kanekos' sixth-grade son had brought a tape from home to record a show. The boy was a faithful fan of a certain comedy series broadcast every Sunday at eight, but his parents, of course, controlled the TV, and every Sunday at eight they made a habit of watching the annual historical miniseries on NHK, the public television network. There was only one television in the cabin, but knowing it had a VCR, the boy had brought a tape, thinking to record his show and watch it later. But while he was recording, a friend came over to tell him that the rain had let up. He and his younger sister ran off to play tennis. His parents finished their program and turned off the television, forgetting that the VCR was still recording. The children ran around on the courts until almost ten, then came home all tuckered out and went straight to bed. They, too, had completely forgotten about the tape. The next day, when they were almost home, the kid suddenly remembered he'd left the tape in the VCR and shouted to his father, who was driving, to go back. This turned into quite an argument, but eventually the boy gave up. He was still whimpering when they got home.

  Asakawa took out the videotape and stood it on his desk. Where the label would have been stuck the words Fujitex VHS T120 Super AV glinted in silver. Asakawa redialled the Kanekos' number.

  "Hi, sorry to keep calling you like this. It's Asakawa again, from the Daily News."

  There was a pause, then the same voice he had spoken to before said, "Yes?" It was Mrs Kaneko.

  "You mentioned that your son left behind a videotape. Do you happen to know what brand it was?"

  "Well, now, let me see," she replied, trying not to laugh. He heard noises in the background. "My son's just got home. I'll ask him."

  Asakawa waited. There was no way the kid'd remember.

  "He says he doesn't know. But we only use cheap brands, the kind you buy in packs of three."

  He wasn't surprised. Who really paid attention to what brand of tape they used every time they wanted to record something? Then Asakawa had an idea. Hold on, where's the case for this tape? Videotapes are always sold in cardboard cases. Nobody just throws them away. At least, Asakawa himself had never thrown away a tape case, neither for an audio cassette or a video tape.

  "Does your family store your videotapes in their cases?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Look, I'm very sorry, but could you please check to see if you have an empty case lying around?"

  "Huh?" she asked vacantly. Even if she understood his question, she couldn't guess what he was getting at, and it made her slow on the uptake.

  "Please. Someone's life may depend on it." Housewives were susceptible to the "matter of life and death" ploy. Whenever he needed to save time and get one moving, he found that the phrase had just the right impact. But this time, he wasn't lying.

  "Just a moment, please."

  Just as he'd expected, her tone changed. There was quite a long pause after she set down the receiver. If the case had been left at Villa Log Cabin along with the tape, then it must have been thrown away by the manager. But if not, then there was a good chance the Kanekos still had it. The voice returned.

  "An empty case, right?"

  "That's right."

  "I found two."

  "Alright. Now, the manufacturer's name and the type of tape should be printed on the case…"

  "Let's see. One says Panavision T120. The other is a… Fujitex VHS T120 Super AV."

  The exact same name as on the videotape he held in his hand. Since Fujitex had sold countless numbers of these tapes, this was hardly definitive proof, but at least he'd taken a step forward. That much was certain. This demon tape had originally been brought there by a sixth-grade boy, it was probably safe to conclude. Asakawa thanked the woman politely and hung up the phone.

  Starting at eight o'clock on the night of Sunday, August 26th, the video deck in cabin B-4 is left recording. The Kaneko family forgets the tape and goes home. Then come the four young people in question. It's rainy that day, too. Thinking to watch a movie, they go to use the video deck, only to find a tape already inside. Innocently they watch it. They see incomprehensible, eerie things. Then, the threat at the end. Cursing the evil weather, they think up a cruel bit of mischief. Erasing the section that tells how to escape certain death, they leave the video there to frighten the next guests. Of course, they hadn't believed what they'd seen. If they had, they wouldn't have been able to carry out their prank. He wondered if they remembered the tape at the moment of their deaths. Maybe there hadn't been any time for that before the angel of death carried them off. Asakawa shivered-it wasn't just them. Unless he could find a way to avoid dying in five days, he'd end up just like them. Then he'd know exactly how they felt when they died.

  But if the boy had been recording a TV show, then where had those images come from? All along Asakawa had thought that someone had shot them with a video camera and then brought the tape there. But the tape had been set to record from the television, meaning that somehow these incredible scenes had infiltrated the airwaves. He would n
ever have dreamed it.

  The airwaves had been hijacked.

  Asakawa recalled what had happened last year at election time, when, after NHK had signed off for the night, an illicit broadcast had appeared on the same channel, slandering one of the candidates.

  The airwaves had been hijacked. That was the only thing that fit. He was faced with the possibility that on the evening of August 26th, these images had been riding the airwaves in the South Hakone region, and that this tape had picked them up, purely by chance. If that was true, then there must be a record of it. Asakawa realized he needed to contact the local bureau and find out some facts.

  4

  It was ten when Asakawa got home. As soon as he entered the apartment, he softly opened the bedroom door and checked the sleeping faces of his wife and daughter. No matter how tired he was when he got home, he always did this.

  There was a note on the dining room table. Mr Takayama called. Asakawa had been trying to call Ryuji all day long, but he hadn't been able to catch him at home. He was probably out and about on his own investigations. Maybe he has something, thought Asakawa as he dialled. He let it ring ten times. No answer. Ryuji lived alone in his East Nakano apartment. He wasn't home yet.

  Asakawa took a quick shower, opened a beer, and tried calling again. Still not home. He switched to whiskey on the rocks. He'd never be able to get a good night's sleep without alcohol. Tall and slender, Asakawa had never in his life had an illness worth the name. To think that this was how he was sentenced to die. Part of him still felt it was a dream, that he'd reach ten o'clock on October 18th without having understood the video or figured out the charm, but in the end nothing would happen and the days would stretch out before him as they always had. Oguri would wear a mocking expression and expound on the foolishness of believing in superstitions, while Ryuji would laugh and say, "We just don't understand how the world works." And his wife and daughter would greet their daddy with these same sleeping faces. Even a passenger on an airplane falling from the sky can't shake the hope that he'll be the one to survive.

  He drained his third glass of whiskey and dialled Ryuji's number a third time. If he didn't answer this time, Asakawa was going to give up for the night. He heard seven rings, then a click as someone picked up the receiver.

  "What the hell have you been up to all this time?" he shouted, without even checking to see who he was talking to. Thinking he was addressing Ryuji, he allowed his anger full vent. Which only served to emphasize the strangeness of their relationship. Even with his friends, Asakawa always maintained a certain distance and carefully controlled his attitude. But he had no qualms about calling Ryuji every name in the book. And yet, he'd never once thought of Ryuji as a truly close friend.

  But surprisingly, the voice that answered wasn't Ryuji's.

  "Hello? Excuse me…"

  It was a woman, startled from having been yelled at out of nowhere.

  "Oh, sorry. Wrong number." Asakawa started to hang up.

  "Are you calling for Professor Takayama?"

  "Well, ah, yes, as a matter of fact I am."

  "He's not back yet."

  Asakawa couldn't help but wonder who this young, attractive voice belonged to. He figured it was a safe bet she wasn't a relative, since she'd called him "Professor". A lover? Couldn't be. What girl in her right mind would fall for Ryuji?

  "I see. My name is Asakawa."

  "When Professor Takayama returns, I'll have him call you. That's Mr Asakawa, right?"

  Even after he had replaced the receiver, the woman's soft voice continued to ring pleasantly in his ears.

  Futons were usually only used in Japanese-style rooms, with tatami-mat floors. Their bedroom was carpeted, and had originally had a Western-style bed in it, but when Yoko was born they took it out. They couldn't have a baby sleeping on a bed, but the room was too small for a crib and a bed. So they were forced to get rid of their double bed and switch to futons, rolling them up every morning and spreading them out again every night. They laid two futons side-by-side and the three of them slept together. Now Asakawa crawled into the open space on the futons. When the three of them went to bed at the same time, they always slept in the same positions. But Shizu and Yoko were restless sleepers, so when they went to bed before Asakawa, it was less than an hour before they had rolled around and sprawled all over. As a result, Asakawa ended up having to fit himself into whatever space was left. If he was gone, how long would it take for that space to be filled, Asakawa wondered. It wasn't that he was worried about Shizu remarrying, necessarily. It was just that some people were never able to fill the space left behind by the loss of a spouse. Three years? Three years would be about right. Shizu would move back home and let her parents take care of the baby while she went to work. Asakawa forced himself to imagine her face, shining with as much vitality as could be expected. He wanted her to be strong. He couldn't stand to imagine the kind of hell his wife and child would have to live through with him gone.

  Asakawa had met Shizu five years ago. He had just been transferred back to the main Tokyo office from the Chiba bureau; she was working in a travel agency connected with the Daily News conglomerate. She worked on the third floor, he worked on the seventh, and they sometimes saw each other on the elevator, but that was the extent of it until one day when he'd gone to the travel agency to pick up some tickets. He was travelling for a story, and as the person handling his arrangements wasn't in Shizu had taken care of him. She was just twenty-five and loved to travel, and her gaze told how much she envied Asakawa being able to go all over the country on assignments. In that gaze, he also saw a reflection of the first girl he'd ever loved. Now that they knew each other's names, they started to make small talk when they ran into each other on the elevator, and their relationship rapidly deepened. Two years later they married, after an easy courtship with no objections from either set of parents. About six months before their wedding they had bought the three-room condo in Kita Shinagawa-their parents had helped with the down payment. It wasn't that they'd anticipated the spike in land value and had therefore rushed to buy even before the wedding. It was simply that they wanted to get the mortgage paid off as quickly as possible. But if they hadn't bought when they did, they might never have been able to afford to live in the city like this.

  Within a year, their condo had tripled in value. And their monthly mortgage payments were less than half of what they would have been paying to rent. They were constantly complaining that the place was too small, but in truth it constituted quite an asset for the couple. Now Asakawa was glad he had something to leave them. If Shizu used his life insurance to pay off the mortgage, then the condo would belong to her and Yoko free and clear.

  I think my policy pays twenty million yen, but I'd better check, just to be sure.

  His mind was clouded, but he mentally divided up the money in different ways, telling himself that he must write down any financial advice that might occur to him. He wondered how they'd rule his death. Death by illness? Accident? Homicide?

  In any case, I'd better reread my insurance policy.

  Every night for the past three days he had gone to bed in a pessimistic mood. He pondered how to influence a world he would have disappeared from, and thought about leaving a sort of last testament.

  October 14-Sunday

  The next morning, Sunday, Asakawa dialled Ryuji's number as soon as he woke up.

  "Yeah?" answered Ryuji, sounding for all the world like he'd just woken up. Asakawa immediately remembered his frustration of the night before, and barked into the receiver. "Where were you last night?"

  "Huh? Oh. Asakawa?"

  "You were supposed to call, weren't you?"

  "Oh, yeah. I was drunk. College girls these days sure can drink. Sure can do other stuff, too, if you know what I mean. Whoo-whee. I'm exhausted."

  Asakawa was momentarily at a loss: it was like the past three days were just a dream. He felt foolish for having taken everything so seriously.

  "Well, I'm
on my way over. Wait for me," said Asakawa, hanging up the phone.

  To get to Ryuji's place Asakawa rode the train to East Nakano and then walked for ten minutes in the direction of Kami Ochiai. As he walked Asakawa reflected hopefully that even though Ryuji had been out drinking the night before, he was still Ryuji. Surely he'd found something. Maybe he'd even solved the riddle, and he'd gone out drinking and carousing to celebrate. The closer he drew to Ryuji's apartment the more upbeat he became, and he began to walk faster. Asakawa's emotions were wearing him out, bouncing back and forth between fear and hope, pessimism and optimism.

  Ryuji opened the door in his pajamas. Unkempt and unshaven, he'd obviously just got out of bed. Asakawa couldn't take his shoes off fast enough, he was still in the entryway when he asked, "Have you learned anything?"

  "No, not really. But come in," said Ryuji, scratching his head vigorously. His eyes were unfocused and Asakawa knew at a glance that his brain cells weren't awake yet.

  "Come on, wake up. Drink some coffee or something." Feeling like his hopes had been betrayed, Asakawa put the kettle on the stove with a loud clatter. Suddenly he was obsessed with the time.

  The two men sat cross-legged on the floor in the front room. Books were stacked all along one wall.

  "So tell me what you've turned up," said Ryuji, jiggling his knee. There was no time to waste. Asakawa collected everything he'd learned the day before and laid it out chronologically. First he informed Ryuji that the video had been recorded from the television in the cabin beginning at 8 p.m. on August 26th.