Number9dream

by David Mitchell

  “War is war.”

  “I mean, Father, we will be wasting their retinas.”

  “Oh. I beg your pardon. Yes, I understand your concern, Mother, I really do. But my conscience won’t let me stop a dead man seeing his destiny coming.”

  “Morino!” shouts Centerhead, hoarsely. “I know you’re there!”

  Morino raises his megaphone to his lips. His amplified voice is a dust storm. “Congratulations on a fine opening day, Mr. Nabe.” Echoes slap away and back. “There seemed to be a minor ruckus in the pachinko parlor, but I’m sure everything is sorted out now.”

  “Release us! This instant! Jun Nagasaki owns this city!”

  “Wrong, Nabe. Jun Nagasaki thinks he owns it. But I know I own it.”

  “You are stark fucking insane!”

  “And you,” Lizard shouts back, “you are stark fucking dead!”

  The megaphone crackles. “You, Nabe, were always a walking lobotomy. Your death suits you perfectly. But you, Gunzo—I thought you had the sense to grab your turd money and run for the tropics.”

  Lefthead speaks. “We’re more useful to you alive, Morino.”

  “Maybe. But you are more pleasing to me dead.”

  “I can show you how to strangle Nagasaki’s supply lines.”

  Morino hands the megaphone to Leatherjacket, who deposits his chewing gum in a tissue. “Good afternoon, Gunzo.”

  “You?”

  “I favor customers who pay on time.” He has a dusky foreign accent.

  “I don’t fucking believe it!”

  “Your inability to believe is the cause of your present dilemma.”

  Centerhead shouts, “You’re dead, you slimy Mongolian traitor!”

  The slimy Mongolian traitor hands the megaphone back to Morino, smiles, and puts in a new stick of gum.

  Lefthead cries, “I can be your messenger to Nagasaki, Morino!”

  “Ya ain’t our messenger,” shouts back Lizard, “yer our fucking message!”

  “Most succinct, son,” comments Morino approvingly. “Most concise. You can throw first.” Lizard bows graciously and selects the heaviest bowling ball. I tell myself this is just a bluff. I should not be here. Lizard steps onto the concourse, and lines up a shot. “Shoot us, Morino!” shouts Centerhead. “Let us die honorably!” Frankenstein shouts back, “What do you know about honor, Nabe? You sold your hole to Nagasaki before he could say ‘Bend over’!” Lizard steps one, two, and—wham! A fast, uncurving line, my gut knots, I try to wake myself up, or just look away, but when Centerhead screams I look, idiot that I am—and see the worst sight of my life, bar none. Righthead—Kakizaki, I guess— is no longer recognizable. I want to vomit but nothing comes. Kakizaki is a staved-in cavity of bone and blood. The horn players burst into wild applause. Lefthead is shut down with shock. Centerhead gasps, drowning, spattered with red specks. Lizard bows again and comes back to the console seat. “Superb technique,” praises Frankenstein. “Watch it on the replay, shall we?” I turn around and keel, putting my head between my knees. I jump up when the megaphone combusts “Miyaaaaaakeeeeeeeee!” down in my ear. Lizard gestures at the bowling alley. “Yer on.”

  “No.”

  The horn players mime confusion and surprise.

  Morino stage-whispers: “Yes! We signed a contract.”

  “You said nothing about being an accessory to murder.”

  “Your vow says you will do what the Father tells you to,” says Frankenstein.

  “But—”

  “And Father is telling you to bowl.”

  “I—”

  “A moral conundrum for a responsible young man,” considers Morino. “To throw or not to throw. Throw, and you risk doing that double-dealing abomination down there some damage. Not throw, and you cause a fire in Shooting Star and inflict a miscarriage upon your landlord’s wife. Which would weigh heavier on your conscience? Think about it.” He wants to lock me into this violence, to ensure I will never talk. The locks click shut. “Thought about it?” I get up, hoping for an unseen plot twist to get me out of here. I pick up a ball, the lightest. It weighs a lot. No. I cannot do this. This act is not in me. I hear laughter, and look back. Lizard lies on his back with his legs apart, his jacket partly wrapped around a balloon. Nipples, a navel, and a triangle of pubic hair are scribbled on the balloon with a black marker. Frankenstein kneels over him, lowering a long knife. “No,” Lizard cries in falsetto, “please don’t hurt me, mister, I got a baby in my growbag.” “Sorry, Mrs. Buntaro,” sighs Frankenstein, “but this is what you get for letting rooms to tenants who break vows with powerful men . . .” Lizard screams at the top of his lungs, “Please! My baby, my baby! Mercy!” The knife tip presses down on Mrs. Buntaro’s rubbery belly, Frankenstein bunches his other fist into a sledgehammer, and Bang! Popsicle lolls and rolls a tickled laugh. Mama-san knits, Morino claps. A huddle of faces hanging in blackness, glowing from the monitor and console lights. In a single motion they turn and stare at me. I cannot tell which floating face gives the final order. “Bowl.” I must miss, but not obviously. I should not be here. I want to apologize to the heads, but how can I? I march onto the concourse, and try to breathe—one, I aim for the gutter, a meter down from Rightdeadhead. Two, my gut coils up and—the ball flies away too early, my fingers made the holes sweaty. I crouch there, too sick to watch, too sick not to. The ball veers toward the gutter, and rolls along its edge for the middle third of the alley. But then spin swings the ball back—straight toward Centerhead. His face seems to refract, his howl grows louder as the ball rumbles down the alley, and the horn players behind me cheer in unison. And I close my eyes. Groans of disappointment from behind. “You shaved his stubble,” consoles Morino. I’m trembling and I can’t stop. “Wanna watch the rerun?” leers Lizard. I ignore him, wobble back, and collapse on the end seat. I close my eyes. The gleaming, clotting blood.

  “Clear the decks!” Frankenstein halloos. “My specialty, this—the windmill express!” I hear much grunting, his run-up, and the thunder of a rocketing bowl. Three seconds later, rapturous applause. “Eggshelled!” shouts Lizard. “Bravo!” says Morino. Centerhead shrieks over and over, but Lefthead is ominously quiet. On the insides of my eyelids I can see the end of the alley. I scrunch my eyes up even tighter, but I still have this Technicolor view. I probably will until I die. I should not be here in this twisted psychotic afternoon. My body refuses to stop trembling. I retch once, and twice, but nothing comes up. Noxious glued-okonomiyaki fumes. When did I last eat? Weeks ago. If I could, I would walk away. Never mind the document wallet. But I know they won’t let me. A hand slides into my crotch. “Got any candy?” Popsicle. “What?” Champagne bombs? “Got any candy?” Her breath is rotting yogurt. Lizard grabs her hair and pulls her off. “You cheap little fucking slut!” Slap, slap, lash. Morino picks up his megaphone. The survivor is still shrieking. “Cut you a deal, Nabe?” The shrieks are blocked by desperate, breathless sobs. “If you shut your racket up for the next bowl, you are a free man. Not a squeak, mind you!” Nabe breathes in hoarse throat-rips. Morino lowers the megaphone and looks at Mama-san. “Will you?”

  “My bowling days are behind me.” The knitting needles click.

  “Father,” says Leatherjacket, “I think I have the basics of this game.”

  Morino gestures at the balls. “You are one of us, now. Please.”

  “I’ll tidy up Gunzo. Gunzo I always disliked.”

  A steady roll, a quaver of fear from Nabe, and a blat. Applause.

  “Oh dear, Nabe,” bellows Frankenstein, “I distinctly heard a squeak.”

  “No!” comes the broken voice.

  Morino gets to his feet. “Try to see the funny side! Humor is the soul of the soul.” I should not be here. Morino takes his time choosing a bowling ball. “Yuck. This one has been used already.” He wipes his hand on a handkerchief. Nabe is sobbing, softly, as if he lost a teddy bear and nobody cares. Morino paces—one, two—rumble, the ball flies. One short, sawtoothed howl. A chopstick
snapping. Two heavy objects thump into the pit.

  Three Cadillacs glide down the fast lane. A nowhere land, not city, not country. Access roads, service stations, warehouses. Afternoon drains away the day into a hole of evening. I am still branded with what I saw in the bowling alley, and always will be. I do not know how it is I can think at all. I guess the burn will not hurt until the shock wears off and my nerves come back to life. I think about the places I could be if I never reentered Valhalla. I could be chatting with Ai Imajo in a coffee shop. I could be feeding Cat and smoking with Buntaro. I could be bombing around the coast road on Yakushima on Uncle Tarmac’s motorbike. The moon rises over forest slopes. Where is this? The something peninsula. Frankenstein is driving, Leatherjacket is in the passenger seat. Morino and I sit in the middle seat. He blows wreathes of cigar smoke, and makes several phone calls about “operations.” He makes a chain of calls mostly no longer than “Where the fuck is Miriam?” Popsicle is giving Lizard a blow job in the backseat. We enter a tunnel. The roof lights bar-code-scan across the windshield. Mighty ventilators hang from the tunnel roof. I should not be in this nightmare. “I wish you would stop saying that,” says Morino, apparently to me. “It’s getting on my nerves. We all get the nightmare we deserve. No more, no less.” I am still trying to understand this when Frankenstein speaks. “My nightmares always wind up in tunnels. I’m having this ordinary dream, nothing spooky or nothing, then I see the mouth of a tunnel and I think, ‘Oh yeah, here comes the nightmare.’ I drive into the tunnel and it starts. People hang from the ceiling. Some guy I offed ten years ago comes back and my shooter jams. The tunnel presses in closer and tighter ’til you can’t breathe no more.” Popsicle slurps. Lizard groans slightly and speaks. “Nightmares are yer law-of-the-jungle stuff. All yer modern gizmos stripped away. Yer just left there, alone, dinner for something bigger and badder and eviller. Watch yer teeth!” He slaps Popsicle, who whimpers. Morino taps ash into the tray. “Interesting stuff, boys. My view is, a nightmare is comedy without a release valve. They tickle, but you can’t laugh. And the pressure builds up and up. Got anything to add, Miyake?” I look at this torturer, wondering if this is just another day for him. “No.” Morino no longer seems to need to move his lips to speak. “Cheer up, Miyake. People die all the time. Millions every day. Those three killed themselves the moment they double-crossed me. You just helped deliver the sentence. You’ll have forgotten all about them in a week. Forgetfulness is the greatest healer.” Lizard comes with a contented smack of the lips. Popsicle sits up, wiping her mouth. “Candy!” Lizard mutters and unzips something. “Yer arm’s a fucking pincushion. Show me yer thigh. I’ll shoot you up there. Don’t drool any or it’ll be soap powder next time. Clean yerself up.” Leatherjacket speaks. “In my homeland, it is said nightmares are our wilder ancestors returning to reclaim land. Land tamed and grazed by our softer, fatter, modern, waking selves.” Frankenstein produces a steel comb and pulls it across his hair, keeping his other hand on the wheel. “Sent by who, then?” Leatherjacket folds in a new stick of gum. “Nightmares are messengers, sent by who, or what, we really are, underneath. ‘Don’t forget where you come from,’ the nightmare tells us. ‘Don’t forget your true self.’ ”

  A neon poodle prances across its sign for all eternity. It wears a little doggie bow tie. Our Cadillac joins that of the horn players. Mama-san has taken the third away on business of her own. The men prime their guns and Frankenstein opens my door. “Would you prefer to stay in the nice safe car with a doped-up sex nymphet tart?” Before I work out what to say Lizard swipes at my baseball cap. “Pity. Ya can’t.” We get out and walk toward the door of the poodle warehouse. An insect electrocutor bristles every few seconds. From inside the warehouse I can hear a roaring, swelling and sinking. Two bouncers appear from the shadows of the entrance and approach the horn players. “Evening, gentlemen. First, I gotta ask for any weapons—house rules, I lock ’em up safe. Second, your cars are not on the list. Who are you with?”

  The horn players part and Morino walks through. “Me.”

  The bouncers blanch.

  Morino stares. “I heard a rumor about a dog show tonight.”

  The more colossal bouncer pulls himself together first. “Mr. Morino—”

  “The old Mr. Morino ended the day Mr. Tsuru died. My name is Father now.”

  “Yes, uh, Father.” He flips open his cell phone. “Just you give me a moment and I’ll make sure the best, uh, ringside seat is cleared for you and your party—” Morino nods at Frankenstein, who knifes him about where his heart is. Right down to the hilt. A horn player jerks the bouncer’s head back and probably breaks his neck. It all happens too fast to register, and too fast for the victim to make a sound. The other two horn players fell the second bouncer. Lizard volleys the gun out of his hand and kisses the tumbled man. No, he doesn’t. He bites the bouncer’s nose—and spits out specks of dark. At this point I look away. I am fused and burned out by what I have seen today. Thuds, grunts. “Dump the fuckrats behind those crates,” orders Morino. The kicked-away cell phone rings. Frankenstein crunches its shell with a single stomp. “Cheap Taiwanese shit. Nothing is made in Japan anymore.” Lizard opens the warehouse door. Inside is mulchy and meaty. Row after dim row of pallets stacked with tins of dog food. This place is enormous. Cheers and yells slosh from the distance. The horn players lead the way. I falter, and get a whack from Frankenstein in my coccyx. “No stalling, Miyake, you’re one of us until the clock strikes midnight.” I obey. I have to. All I can do to calm my survival instinct is to lower my baseball cap. Nobody in the shouting, hundred-plus-strong crowd notices our approach. The horn players plow through the outer walls—yakuza shirts and tattoos to a man. They whirl around angrily, catch sight of Morino, gape, and fall away. We reach the edge of a spotlit pit. A gray mastiff and a black Doberman are straining at their leashes, globs of saliva flying off their fangs. On the far side of the pit a man stands on a crate. He scribbles down the bets the crowd shouts at him. Hairy fat diamonds bulge through his mesh undershirt. I am sandwiched between Frankenstein behind and Morino in front—as safe as it gets—so I have a decent view as Morino pulls a gun from his jacket and shoots the mastiff through the head.

  Silence.

  A stain eats up the pit floor around the dead dog’s head. The Doberman whimpers behind its trainer. The horn players already have their weapons trained on the crowd. They fall back. I should not be here. The mastiff trainer regains his power of speech. “You shot Mr. Nagasaki’s best dog!”

  Morino acts confused. “Whose best dog?”

  “Jun Nagasaki, you, you, you—”

  “Oh, him.”

  The trainer is apoplectic. “Jun Nagasaki! Jun Nagasaki.”

  “I heard that name too much today. Don’t mention it again.”

  “Jun Nagasaki’ll peel your skin off, you, you, you—”

  Morino points his gunBang! The trainer buckles over and lands on his mastiff. Their blood pools. Morino turns to Frankenstein. “I warned him. Uncle? I warned him, yes?” Frankenstein nods. “You gave a fair warning, Father. Nobody says you never.” The crowd is still anchored in the concrete floor. Morino clears his throat and spits on the trainer. “Guns, and fairy godmothers. Your wildest wish comes true. Right. Every last pig-fucking one of you will leave. Except Yamada here—” He levels the gun at the bookie on the table. “I want a word in your ear, Yamada. Go!” The horn players fire off a round each, and the crowd drains away down the aisles and rows, ushered by the pistol-toting horn players—vampires before dawn don’t melt away so fast. The bookie keeps his hands raised. Lizard jumps into the pit and tips the trainer’s head over with his foot. Between his eyes is a bloodied joke-shop scab. “Nice shot, Father.” From outside I hear cars screech away.

  The bookie swallows hard. “If you’re going to kill me, Morino—”

  “Poor Yamada-kun. You backed the wrong dog again. I am going to kill you, no doubt, but not today. I need you to take a message to your owner. Tell Naga
saki I wish to discuss war reparations he owes me. Tell him I’ll be waiting at midnight sharp. The terminal bridge for the new airport. Out beyond Xanadu on the reclaimed land. You think you can remember all that?”