by Chris Ward
Jun stood up. He felt like he was lifting the world on his thin, wasted thighs.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.
The orderly led Jun out of the room he had called home for more than five years, down a clinically white corridor and through a set of alarmed doors into a reception area. There Jun signed a release form and collected a sealed box of personal items. He could no longer remember what might be inside, but it didn’t feel very heavy when he lifted it and gave it a little shake.
The orderly led him to a door and wished him good luck. ‘Here’s an address for a halfway house in Kanazawa,’ he said. ‘They’re expecting you. The taxi will take you to Wajima and from there you need to get a bus. Here’s your ticket.’
Jun looked down at the slip of paper thrust into his hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘Everything’s been taken care of. You’re no longer a ward of the state, but you’re still part of the rehabilitation program. But you know all this, right?’
Jun nodded. ‘I took the seminars.’
‘Good.’ The orderly patted him on the shoulder and gave a little grin. ‘Well, good luck, Matsumoto. It’s been a pleasure being your … jailor, I guess.’
Jun gave a half smile. ‘Thanks.’
The orderly opened the door and waved as Jun gingerly took his first steps back out into the world. He was halfway down the staircase to the parking lot where a taxi waited when he heard the heavy door slam shut. He didn’t look back. The taxi driver got out and opened the back door.
‘You don’t have anything else?’
‘No. Just this case and this box of … stuff.’
The driver put Jun’s things into the car and they set off, leaving the institution behind them, as they followed the road along the rugged coastline of Noto Hanto. It was perfect driving scenery, all jutting headlands and rugged bays, surf crashing on to rocky beaches watched by clusters of fishermen’s houses.
Jun had been on a handful of day trips as part of his rehabilitation. He had sat by the shoreline with a fishing rod in hand while overzealous orderlies had walked among the patients, urging them on as they cast their lines into the surf. Several times they had gone on organized trips, once to the little island a few miles out from Wajima, other times to the salt farm along the coast, or the lighthouse at the peak of Noto Hanto near to the unassuming little monument that marked the longitudinal centre of Japan.
It was all very quaint and safe, but as the patients shuffled along among the orderlies like a chain gang, Jun had seen the same withdrawal in all of them that he felt in himself. They didn’t want this. They wanted to be locked away, out of the world, left to contemplate whatever disasters their lives had suffered, alone and in peace.
At Wajima, a sleepy little fishing town on the northern curve of the peninsula, the taxi driver bade him a cheery goodbye and left him standing outside the bus terminal. There was only one bus waiting, bound for Kanazawa a hundred miles to the southwest, so Jun duly boarded it and took a seat near the back, the case containing his few clothes beside him and the box of personal effects on his lap.
He hadn’t opened it yet. He didn’t want to know what was inside.
As the bus pulled off, Jun leaned his head against the window and contemplated the gross injustices of the world.
#
‘Yeah, it’s me. He’s just gone. Here’s the address of the halfway house we’ve sent him to. You’ve sent the money, yeah? Let me check the post office address a minute. Yeah, that’s the one. Thanks. A pleasure doing business with you, sir.’
The orderly ended the call and quickly erased the phone number from his phone. He gave a wry smile and thought about the hundred thousand yen sitting in an envelope at his anonymous post box in Wajima. It wasn’t life changing, but it would buy him a couple of great nights out next time he could get down to Tokyo or Osaka.
‘Thanks, Matsumoto,’ he muttered, looking out of the window towards the rolling sea in the bay across the road from the institution. ‘I’m sure going to miss you.’
#
At the bus station in Kanazawa Jun found the taxi rank and handed a driver the piece of paper inscribed with the address of the halfway house. Fifteen minutes later they were driving through a quiet neighbourhood of politely sized apartment blocks and older family houses. It reminded Jun a little of his home in Saitama.
‘Nearly there,’ the driver said. ‘This is a nice part of town. Very peaceful—oh.’
The driver pulled up, halfway through making a turn into a side street. Jun winced as cameras flashed in his eyes and dozens of microphones cracked against the taxi windows like a sudden hailstorm.
‘How does it feel to be free, Mr. Matsumoto?’
‘We’ll pay for a short interview, Jun.’
‘Can you tell us what really happened back in Heigel?’
‘Do you think Nozomi Okamoto is dead?’
Jun put his hands over his ears and ducked his head. The taxi reversed out of the road and made a turn as several car engines started up behind them.
‘What are you, a celebrity?’ the taxi driver asked, a hint of alarm in his voice. ‘I should be charging double.’
‘Used to be in a band,’ Jun said. ‘Fell on hard times. You know how it goes.’
‘I see.’
Jun pointed. ‘Just drop me over there, next to that park. I’ll walk from there. Give me a receipt and I’ll make sure payment is sent.’
The taxi driver smiled. ‘On the house,’ he said. ‘Since we encountered a little roadblock.’
Jun smiled. The muscles of his cheeks felt tight as if he hadn’t smiled in a long time. ‘Appreciate it,’ he said. ‘Thanks again.’
The taxi pulled in to the side of the road and Jun climbed out, the case in one hand and the box under his other arm. As the car pulled away, he jumped over a low hedge into a park, as the sound of cars pulling to a stop came from behind him.
It had been years since he had run anywhere, but the park was all winding trails and thickets of shrubbery, so it was easy to lose a group of journalists and news reporters carrying their heavy equipment. On the far side of the park, he ducked into the nearest apartment building and climbed up to the third floor landing. Past a line of doors he found a cleaning closet at the far end. Squeezing inside, he sat down on an upturned bucket and pulled the door shut, shutting the rest of the world outside.
And in the dark, all he was left with were his memories.
He was out. He was free after five years. Free from the walls of the mental hospital where he’d spent his days undergoing psychiatric treatment and sitting through endless talks and lectures with psychologists designed to draw him out of his shell and bring him back into the world.
What none of them understood was that he didn’t want to come back. The dark that had once terrorised him had become a friend, the only thing to bring him comfort when everything else brought him pain. In the dark he could close his eyes and forget.
He had found her again, too. Akane. In the dark, in his thoughts, in his dreams, she was back with him, at times a presence so strong that he could believe she was still alive and waiting for him, just out of sight.
At some point he must have fallen asleep. When he lifted his head and pushed open the door the world had gone dark. He climbed out and leaned on the edge of the balcony, looking out from the third floor at the lights of Kanazawa stretching away into the distance.
Night.
He could get used to it.
Picking up his case and box, he headed back down on to the street. There was no point going to the halfway house because, assuming he had nowhere else to go, there would still be some eager journalists and TV reporters staking it out.
He had only two options left: death, or forwards. Death was easy, he could do that at any time. It was his safety net if life got too tough.
Forwards won by default.
The run through the park had left him exhausted. It had been so long since he had done any proper exercise that his body had ti
ghtened up. It felt good, to know he still had blood running through him, and muscles that could be used. Taking that first forward step hadn’t been so hard, so Jun decided to take another.
He didn’t know where forwards would lead, only that it would lead somewhere. And wherever that was, it was better than going back.
2
Peter investigates an intruder
Peter Salvadore sighed and gave a great flap of his big, hairy hands in the direction of the computer screen. The union’s web forum was alive with bitterness tonight, and as website owner and head moderator it was his duty to trawl through it and weed out all the hate, figure out what was actual fact amongst all the speculation and fear-mongering, and then get to work organizing petitions.
It was tedious work, and the people who used the site didn’t click nearly enough ads to make the revenue worth it. Still, he had set himself up as the Don among the European street performer community with the intention of fighting for the rights of public performers everywhere, so he had no choice. Coffee on, flex calloused fingers, get to work.
A lot of tonight’s discussion centred on Lisbon’s decision to reduce six-monthly plot contracts to three months. Of course, three months was standard in many European cities already, so those working Lisbon’s historic centre had long had an easy ride. In some parts of Europe the street performers were more of an attraction than the historical sites, and while some performers—the guy who had a dog which could bark in different animal noises currently working in Montmartre, or the old woman who could play Nessun Dorma by blowing through holes in an old wheelbarrow down in Madrid—were a draw in themselves, in all honesty most of them were interchangeable.
Of course, they never saw it like that. Peter had never known such an egotistical profession in his life.
Bills had to be paid, and the costumes weren’t cheap. Most people didn’t understand, but if you spent long days dressed as a fairytale princess human statue those white robes would get discoloured by the sun, and might not last six months.
Here in Barcelona, on Las Ramblas, the main tourist thoroughfare, spots were decided on a rotating basis. Newcomers had to submit an application, but once you were in the system you would cycle through each allocated position on a four-weekly schedule, and outside general grounds for dismissal, you were allowed three months’ notice of a contract termination. Peter, an old man of the community, had been a fixture on the scene for almost six years, although he had changed his act a few times to keep things fresh. These days he was known for the Gorilla Dance. Wearing the kind of suit that garnered respect among the other Las Ramblas regulars—particularly during hot summers—for the right donation he would break from his regular crouch to do an Eighties-style breakdance which included a backwards somersault and a five second spin balanced only on his shaggy head.
For any donation less than ten Euros though, the customer just got a quick King Kong pose. You shouldn’t sell yourself short.
His landline rang, making him start. He had only installed the thing because it had come free with his internet package, but the only people who ever called him were those too poor to own mobile phones, something which in this day and age was a sign of true poverty.
‘Yes? Peter here.’
‘Peter? That you? It’s me.’
Peter sighed. ‘Thanks for that nugget of information. You are?’
‘Merlin.’
Peter felt a sudden urge to put the phone down. Merlin “the Wolf” Valentino was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.
‘What’s up?’
‘Something’s going down over here. Can you come over?’
‘Look, I just got home—’
‘There’s a new guy causing trouble.’
‘Details?’
‘On Sevilla Street, at the top of Ramblas. He’s not supposed to be in there and he’s freaking people out.’
‘Did the police get involved?’
‘You know they don’t care. This is an internal thing.’
Peter sighed. ‘All right. I’ll be right over there.’
It took him twenty minutes to get down to Las Ramblas from his little apartment in Trinitat Vella. Merlin was waiting for him outside the south exit from the Placa de Catalunya subway station. Peter groaned inwardly when he saw that Merlin was still in costume, his long white beard hanging down over a grey cloak, a wooden staff held in his hands. It looked like today he was Gandalf, judging by the colour of the cloak. Other days he wore red and was Dumbledore, or white for Saruman. Merlin was actually his real name, but he was so often mistaken for a wizard more prominent in current pop culture that he had long since given up portraying the wizard of Arthurian legend.
‘Follow me,’ he said by way of greeting, then spun on his heels and marched off, staff clacking on the cobblestones. Peter felt like an oversized hobbit as he hurried in pursuit.
‘He showed up just this evening,’ Merlin said, pointing his staff towards a thin alley leading off Las Ramblas. The street performers were supposed to stick to the main thoroughfare or risk losing their contracts. Every so often a moonlighter came along and starting bending the rules, hiding out in the warren of streets leading off Las Ramblas to the east that meandered down towards the port and the seafront area of Barceloneta beyond it, hoping to corner the tourists and goad them into opening their wallets. It was bad for the overall reputation of the street performers, but as Merlin said, the police generally didn’t care. Las Ramblas was already a hive of pickpockets and potential muggers so they had plenty to keep them busy. And in Barcelona, like in many larger European cities, the street performers liked to sort out their problems in-house.
Usually a stern word from an authoritative figure was all that was needed, but there were times when a bit of a slap down a back alley had been necessary to remind someone of the need for a little decorum.
‘Hans first pointed him out,’ Merlin was saying. ‘Said he went for a falafel down the Sudanese quarter and the guy was there hassling a group of foreign school kids.’
It was almost nine p.m. and the sun had dipped beneath the city skyline to the east, leaving Las Ramblas under a haze of twilight sprinkled with the gold dust of streetlights. For Peter, who had come to Barcelona as a teenager from a little Andalusian village called Santa Marbella, the arc of Barcelona’s most famous street as it gently inclined down towards the harbour front was an inspiring sight. He never got tired of it, even when it was the first thing he saw at the start of what would be a long, hot summer’s day of standing on a podium wearing a gorilla suit.
‘What’s his costume?’
‘A spider, something like that.’
‘Nice.’
Merlin led the way as they headed off Las Ramblas into the backstreets of Ciutat Vella, which were both a delight and a nuisance to tourists, depending on whether you were buying some interesting snack or gift from one of the dozens of tiny shops and restaurants or having your wallet lifted by some sneaky pickpocket. They passed groups of shady-looking guys standing in huddles on the corners who Peter knew not to look at too closely, and smelt the dry pungency of marijuana wafting out of café doorways, before being blinded by the lights in a candle shop standing beside a dirty kebab stall. It was a fascinating place, but the tight turns made it impossible to imagine a street performer squeezed in here, unless making people angry was the primary intent.
‘Where is he?’
‘Just up here, Hans told me. Near the patisserie.’
They rounded another corner and Merlin stopped, his staff clacking on the ground in frustration. ‘Well, that’s annoying,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s gone.’
Peter felt a ball of anger forming in his stomach. Merlin wasn’t known as The Wolf for nothing. Almost from the day he first showed up in Barcelona three years ago he’d been making a nuisance of himself, pestering Peter with complaints about his fellow street performers, running with every rumour and piece of gossip, dragging Peter into feuds that didn’t exist, and generally bein
g a royal pain in Peter’s furry gorilla ass. Tonight’s issue had been a new one, otherwise Peter might have called his bluff.
‘Jesus Christ, Merlin, how many times?’
The wizard looked aghast. ‘Hans said he was right here.’
‘But you never checked it out yourself before dragging me down here?’ Peter shook his head. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Why don’t you ask someone? One of the shop owners over there?’
Around the little crossroads that Merlin was indicating there were five premises. Four of them were now closed, and the fifth—a shady bar with a black curtain hanging down over the door—wasn’t the kind of place he wanted to go asking for information, particularly not with a man dressed as Gandalf standing at his side. Barcelona might be a big, bright, tourist-friendly city, but it had an underbelly too, and if you knew you were close to a tickling spot it was a good idea to put your feather duster away.
‘Look, this has been a waste of time. If he shows up again while I’m working give me a shout, otherwise take a picture or something.’
‘Hans already did.’
Peter looked up. ‘Then show me.’
Merlin stuck a hand into a fold in his robe and pulled out an ancient mobile phone. Holding it in one hand and his staff in the other, he looked more bizarre than ever.
‘He sent it to me,’ Merlin said, tilting it out towards Peter. ‘I couldn’t ask him for details. I’ve been meaning to get some more credit, you know how it is….’
Peter tried not to show his frustration as he snatched the phone out of Merlin’s hand. The picture on the tiny screen was definitely of the same spot. Two of the shops—the patisserie and a shop selling Chinese-made tourist junk—were open, with the shady bar between them. Among these streets though, many of which were covered by awnings to hold off the rain or by upper floor bridges and walkways, shadows were prevalent at any time of the day, and it was difficult to pick anything out of the grainy picture besides the lights of the shops.