by Lisa Gordon
Mr Wakoto’s face suddenly displayed more interest and he answered without a pause, “Yes. Was Sony system, very good indeed. Will save last six destinations.”
“Any chance of me seeing that car?”
“You come with me.”
Mr Wakoto had assured Robbie that his nephew Satoro did not live very far away, but the ride down the narrow and stickily congested Tokyo streets made the journey seem very long indeed. Robbie was anxious to see the car and examine the sat nav in order to find out whether his theory would bear fruit. Despite Mr Wakoto’s insistence that his nephew was unlikely to have used the sat nav and that the system would have stored up to six previous destinations, Robbie knew that there was a vast gulf between theory and practice, especially when technology and humans were involved at the same time. Mr Wakoto talked little. He turned the radio on to a jazz station and tapped away at the steering wheel while negotiating the traffic with admirable patience. Satoro lived in the west of Tokyo, close to the Ajinomoto Stadium, home of FC Tokyo. His modern apartment block was well on the road to rack and ruin: the walls and window frames needed serious attention from a paintbrush and the foyer was dingy and dusty. Mr Wakoto walked over to a keypad on the wall near the lift and tapped in what must have been Satoro’s flat number. It was a fair few minutes before a “Ya” crackled from the intercom. Mr Wakoto barked some Japanese into the microphone then walked away shaking his head. “Just out of bed.”
Within minutes, the lift doors opened and Satoro appeared. He was dressed in a washed-out green T-shirt and crumpled grey tracksuit pants. His hair, thick with the previous day’s gel, stood stiffly, pointing in every direction, there were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale. His uncle regarded him with disdain and greeted him with a thin-lipped grimace. Satoro looked at the floor as he spoke to his uncle, barely noticing Robbie. Mr Wakoto uttered only a handful of words before Satoro slipped his hand into the pocket of his floppy grey joggers and produced the car keys. Satoro pointed towards a swing door alongside the lifts and motioned for his uncle to follow him. “We go see car now,” announced Mr Wakoto with relief.
The three men briskly descended the stairs to the basement and made their way along the rows of cars in the musty-smelling concrete and cement cave that was the underground car park. Robbie recognised the moonstone Honda Civic as described by Sayoko immediately and his spirits surged — a car may be an assembly of metal alloy, rubber and plastic but in Robbie’s psyche, cars had personas and each car had something to say about its owner. Robbie suddenly felt sure that the Honda was about to reveal something about its previous owner.
Mr Wakoto and Satoro had been conversing softly in Japanese. Satoro handed his uncle the car keys and Mr Wakoto opened the driver’s door while looking towards Robbie. “You get in passenger side.” Robbie needed no further prompting and, jumping into the passenger seat, immediately looked at the sat nav. The Sony sat nav system was a built-in version, which predated the more up-to-the-minute portable models. Mr Wakoto ignored his nephew who stood one hand on roof, one hand in pocket looking to see what was about to happen. He fingered the touch-operated screen, which flashed from menu to menu and, less than a minute later, the screen revealed a list. Robbie’s pulse quickened as he focused on two entries:
October 19, 2005: Tokyo, Shibuya to Akime, Kyushu, and
October 22, 2005: Akime, Kyushu to Tokyo, Minato.
Mr Wakoto continued to finger the screen. “Akime. Not heard of it before. See it is near Kagoshima in far south of Japan.”
Robbie could not help a huge smile developing on his face. “Result!”
Mr Wakoto drove Robbie back uptown and dropped him off at Shimbashi Station. Robbie had already conveyed his gratitude by handing Satoro ¥5,000, which he felt certain the skint student would put to some use, if not a good one. He offered Mr Wakoto a further¥5,000, which the man initially refused with some embarrassment. “No need, please. Very pleased I could help; perhaps it was Kami — God or fate as you say in England.” Robbie insisted that Mr Wakoto hold on to the money, at the very least as a token of goodwill.
Robbie packed his belongings. It was his last night in Tokyo. He was taking Sayoko out for dinner at a raved-about restaurant called Hayashi, although it was not the purportedly sublime tempura in which he was interested: he had yet to isolate a positive sighting of Clinton with Shelleigh. According to Gaby, Clinton was a connoisseur of fine things and was likely to have frequented Tokyo’s best restaurants, perhaps with Shelleigh. It was optimistic, akin to using a wood on a par-four to get on the green in one, but there was nothing to lose. Before leaving for dinner, Robbie sent Meagan a text message:
Breakthru. R.
Sayoko’s long hair was swept into a chignon and she was wearing a burgundy satin halter-neck dress. It had been a productive day and Robbie felt able to enjoy both the food and the company, even though thoughts of the¥15,000 bill chilled him. Sayoko had been briefed about the secondary agenda for the evening and she was ready to pounce on an opportunity to question a likely candidate about Clinton and Shelleigh. Sayoko regretted that she would not be able to make the trip to Akime with Robbie; she had warned him that English was not widely spoken in those parts and had offered to be on hand via her mobile phone to conduct quick translations. At eleven, Hayashi had become far quieter and, suddenly, Sayoko and Robbie were surrounded by empty tables with fresh linen tablecloths. Their ever-attentive waitress circled their table, offering to refill their glasses of mineral water. Sayoko struck up a conversation with the waitress by complimenting her on the food and service. It happened that Yukiko had worked at Hayashi for several years and was the assistant manager. Sensing her opportunity, Sayoko produced the photographs casually and asked Yukiko, “You remember this couple by any chance?”
Caught off guard by the question, she answered immediately, “Yes.”
Sayoko continued chatting with aplomb, “So they had dinner here, you think? You may have seen the girl on the television news; she went missing back in ’04 — really sad story, was here on a trip of a lifetime. You sure it was here you saw her ... with the guy?” Yukiko would perhaps have been cagier in the usual course of events, but bombarded by Sayoko’s rather un-Japanese blend of flattery and chit chat, she became very forthcoming.
“Yeah. They dined here ... together ... for sure. Not sure was so long ago, could be two year past maybe?” She went on to explain that her personal memory of the pair had been sharpened by the fact that Clinton had left a generous tip, something virtually unheard of in Japan. She also remembered that Shelleigh had displayed great interest in and knowledge about Japanese cuisine. “Never see missing person story on news; very busy with manage restaurant, also have two children and husband very strict. Not see much TV.”
Clinton’s generosity and Shelleigh’s love of tempura: two personal idiosyncrasies which had emblazoned them on this waitress’s memory. Robbie marvelled at his good fortune.
After dinner, Robbie and Sayoko strolled through the Minato-Ku district, strangely silent, yet relaxed and in their own bubble. A series of differing emotions took centre stage within Robbie’s consciousness: he was elated that the hard work and feelings of disappointment of his previous trip to Japan had been put to rest by the day’s dramatic developments; he was surprised and dismayed not to have heard from Meagan, with whom he was eager to share his progress; and he felt ambivalent towards Sayoko — was she simply meant to be an extra in his unfolding life story or did she have the potential to play a main part? He linked arms with her casually and it felt good. Robbie loved breasts and bums as much as any man, but he had always believed that intelligence bestowed a sexiness which was far less ephemeral. Sayoko certainly had the latter. In any event, he was a firm believer in cultivating friendships; one never knew where any particular person would be in five years’ time, and anyone could well prove to be a valuable informant. The weary, inebriated and blatantly motherless spilled out of the bars and on to the street. Robbie had discovered t
hat whisky was a very popular drink, especially with the youth, and that Japan was one of the only countries in the world where whisky consumption was on the increase. Even at the tail end of a Monday night the streets were filled with people. Robbie had been astonished to discover on his previous trip to Japan that on a typical weekday night, one would find numerous smartly dressed businessmen drunk or even passing out on the streets. Hostess bars were part of the fabric of working life and of many ‘salarymen’, who would typically get paid with cash in an envelope and would hit the red light areas after work, offering their wives the excuses familiar to any man. Although some would call it quits after spending heaps at the hostess bars, others would continue and go from sex bar to blow-job bar; some would frequent a regular girl, while others would look for a sleazy hand-job massage. Many of the Salarymen who could not afford the high-class stuff would settle for bars; often getting too drunk, they would wander looking for free sex, cheap sex or sometimes just a good time out. It was common to see Japanese Salarymen sleeping slap in the middle of the pavement, sometimes on a step by a station and sometimes on a morning train on the floor of the carriage. Infidelity and alcoholism seemed high on the national agenda.
He walked Sayoko to her apartment, expecting to be invited in for coffee and he was. Respite from another lonely night in a strange city far from home, but no respite from the hollowness that lingered inside. Not yet at least.
Clinton lifted up the vibrating mobile phone whose screen was aglow, advertising the message which had been received. He flicked it open, adeptly navigated to messages and pressed ‘Read’. With cold, hard eyes he read the message and made a note of the number it had come from.
Chapter Thirteen
Robbie boarded the Shinkansen or bullet train on the Tokaido line, which would take him from Tokyo south to Osaka. The train departed on time, surprising no one in a country where the annual schedule deviation was a mere thirty-six seconds. Robbie purchased himself a beer from the drinks car to consume with the ekiben packed lunch he had bought at Tokyo Station. After eating he sat back, allowing his mind to wander. All his belongings were packed and securely stowed in the luggage-hold area and so there was no opportunity to continue working — not that he had any desire for concentration or analysis. There was a relaxed holiday atmosphere on the train, reflecting the Japanese ethos that to a large extent, train travel was a life experience where the journey itself took precedence over the destination. On his way to the drinks car, Robbie had observed that some carriages had the feel of social clubs: people together enjoying one another’s company on the way to nowhere in particular. Back in his seat and content with his own company, he took delight in observing his fellow passengers and idly second-guessing their life stories as if in a mental game of ‘Truth or Dare’. He thought philosophically about the train journey and his life, wondering if a fixation about the destination could impair the taste of life itself. At Osaka, he changed on to the Nozomi train bound for Fukuoka, looking forward to hurtling through the Japanese countryside at 185 mph on the fastest regularly scheduled train on the planet. Waiting on the platform, he chuckled as his attention was captured by a suited Japanese man practising his golf swing, his umbrella doubling as a nine-iron. Golf was as popular in Japan as anywhere, yet the topography of the country made it difficult to build enough golf courses to keep up with demand.
He regarded the more rustic scenery of Chugoko’s countryside with some pleasure and looked forward to the more mellow and laid-back atmosphere of southern Japan as described by Sayoko. At Fukuoka, he made his final change for Kagoshima, the city in the far south of Kyushu, Japan’s southernmost island. Sayoko had informed him that his guidebook Japanese might not suffice in Kyushu, which was characterised by its thick, rapid-fire dialect — often almost incomprehensible to other Japanese — and long tradition of fierce independence. Robbie had not been deterred, however. He had a two-up-three-to-play feeling and the only blur on his scorecard was the fact that he had still not heard from Meagan.
Kagoshima was famous not only for being Japan’s most polluted city, but by virtue of its precarious position within six miles of Sakura-jima, a volcano which had erupted more than five thousand times since the fifties. Robbie intended to spend a night in Kagoshima while he reviewed his plan of action, and he had decided the best thing to do was to get to Akime. It was extremely humid and the mercury had soared above thirty-five degrees, both factors exacerbating the poor air quality. He made his way wearily towards the Nakazono Ryokan, where his tour book assured him the owner was English-speaking and would provide information on tap. The volcano, also known as Cherry Island, towered majestically across the bay, quietly demanding respect and awe and imbuing the city with an exotic feel.
Robbie dumped his bags in his new accommodation, but was reluctant to linger there as the heat and humidity were oppressive in the small-windowed, box-like room. As he headed out of the room, he reached into his pocket and checked his mobile, noting with surprise that the envelope icon was flashing. It read ‘New message from Meagan Harvey’. Robbie was immediately buoyed; he flicked through to the message not even aware of the big smile that had developed on his face.
Tell me more.
He immediately began to tap in a message, eagerly thinking through the highlights of the past few days and trying to format them into a concise text message as he made his way out of the Ryokan.
“Mr Baggio,” called a voice behind him. Robbie’s head shot around to see a tall, thin man in white trousers and a tropical-looking Hawaiian shirt. “I Sachiro, owner. How you like room?”
Robbie immediately stopped, turned and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. “Hi there, Sir. Very happy with the room, thanks.“ Robbie resisted addressing Sachiro by his first name even though he had introduced himself with it — something which was highly unusual in Japan especially among people over thirty.
Sachiro beamed, exhibiting long straight teeth. “You look for food? You try Satsuma or Gonbe-e. Very good food. Satsuma little more cheaper,” he explained.
“Thank you, I’ll give them a try. You don’t perhaps know how best I can get to a place called Akime do you?”
“Mmmm,” he became thoughtful. “What day you go?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Akime small fishing village west of Kagoshima on peninsula. I have brother-in-law who go that way tomorrow. He drop you, you get bus from there. Can book you into guest house if you want stay in Akime overnight?” Robbie nodded with enthusiasm and offered to finalise the details when he returned that evening.
Feeling resolute about his next step, Robbie stepped back on to the baking pavement and made his way to Satsuma. He whisked his phone out of his pocket, planning to finish what had become a very involved text message; however, the screen had gone blank, his incomplete message lost. “Shit!” he cursed to himself. “First thing I do when I get back to England is trade this bloody thing in.” He decided to indulge in a cigarette before compiling a new message.
Sitting at Satsuma with an ice-cold beer, he reached for the mobile in order to begin a new message, but he was tired after the day of travelling cross-country and the impetus had evaporated; words escaped him and all he could think of to write was:
Long day. Knackered. Lots positive to tell. Tx u tomorrow. R.
As Robbie signed off with his initial, he was suddenly struck by the fact that it was unusual that Meagan had not ended her text with a ‘M’ as she had done before. It felt wrong, but then again, he was tired and hot and perhaps he was over-thinking things. He hit the ‘Send’ button and looked up at the waiter who was about to deliver his tonkotsu, the speciality of noodles in broth with sliced pork and vegetables.
As Robbie headed back towards the hotel while enjoying a cigarette, he reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out his mobile. He noted with irritation that the text message had failed. He immediately hit the ‘Send’ button again, only then realising that the signal was too poor. He would have to w
ait until his location afforded a better signal before he could text.
West London
Clinton walked with determination into the Carphone Warehouse, presenting himself at the desk with an award-winning smile.
“Alright, Mate?” he greeted colloquially. “Wonder if you can help me out. I’ve lost the charger for this mobile. Was hoping you may have a compatible charger for me to buy. I’m bloody desperate to pick up my messages.” Clinton placed Meagan’s dead phone on the counter for the sales assistant to inspect as he looked on anxiously.
The salesman examined the phone while humming tunelessly to himself and using his free hand to finger his lip piercing. “Sorry, Mate. Not seen this model before, must be an old one. Did you buy it here?”
Clinton shook his head. “It was a present, actually,” quickly adding, “from an ex.”
“Well, what you can do,” offered the assistant while leaning lazily over the desk, “is take the chip out and put it into another phone which is charged. That way you can get all your texts and messages. Otherwise, get a new phone then ring your network and ask them to transfer your old number to the new phone. What network are you with anyway?”
“Outstanding idea, thanks,” congratulated Clinton. He impatiently reclaimed the phone and exited the shop. Once outside in the High Street, he cursed to himself. He had already placed Meagan’s chip into several phones and it had not been compatible; undoubtedly, she was on a Kenyan network and this was the reason. Why had Gaby not received any messages from the mystery ‘R’ and what was this “breakthrough” the texter had written about? He climbed into his dark navy Kompressor and accelerated down the street, planning his next move.
