by Nick Hurst
The next year’s AGM was different. This time fewer protestors got in – the meeting was already near full, despite their having been at the gates before it began. Once inside they realised why. A collection of hard-faced men, not dissimilar to those who had been harassing them, were already there. The infamous sōkaiya.
The sōkaiya were a side-shoot of the yakuza who specialised in industry shakedowns. They demanded money of Japanese corporations against the threat their AGMs would be disrupted or embarrassing information leaked. Conversely, they could be used by companies to have dissenting voices drowned out. There was hardly a major company not caught in their web.
This sōkaiya was linked to the Takata-gumi.
I stopped reading. Takata would have known I would come across this. I wondered why he’d direct me to a scandal that led back to him. It didn’t make sense, and from what little I knew of him that was out of character. Puzzled, I went back to the reports.
At the next AGM, the protestors were immediately drowned out in a torrent of threats and abuse. The meeting was suspended when a protestor responded to a sōkaiya who promptly broke his nose with a punch. Other sōkaiya waded in, security intervened and the board ended the meeting ‘regrettably early’. They issued a bland statement that looked forward to a more successful one the following year.
How they qualified success wasn’t made clear. But the next year the sōkaiya didn’t even wait for the protestors to speak. The meeting ended after just three minutes, an AGM record in Japan. That brought things to the present day.
I sat back. This had to be what I was looking for but I could see no connection to Tomoe and even less to myself.
What, who and why? That’s what Takata had said.
The ‘what’ appeared clear to a point, barring any further twists. Something crooked had happened at the Kamigawa Plant and Takata had got involved, either right at the beginning or when the escalating troubles alerted him to an opportunity.
The ‘who’ didn’t seem much more challenging – there was Takata and then the KanEnCo board and the Kamigawa Plant president, whose actions suggested guilt. But I didn’t think Takata would set such a clear line of breadcrumbs to a destination so easy to find. That meant it was unlikely things ended with them. I’d need to find who was lurking in the background. Once I had their names the ‘why’ would hopefully become clear.
I recapped the players. A gangster – Takata – and a corporate man – I decided to go with the KanEnCo president as the Kamigawa Plant boss reported to him. They were major figures. If anyone was orchestrating events behind them he would have to wield considerable clout. Who could complete the unholy trinity – a gangster, a businessman and … ?
I googled ‘politician’ and ‘KanEnCo’ and he came up top of the list. The energy minister. He’d recently assumed the post after a year’s enforced break from cabinet for accepting bribes – it wasn’t entirely untypical for a political career in Japan.
I considered it. He was clearly capable of involvement and he was certainly in the right job. But it didn’t sit right. This had all begun before he was in office and he’d shown no signs of any manoeuvring to date – the plant inspections may have been a whitewash but the painters appeared to come from within the regulatory body itself. The only thing that might have fingered him was if he had a financial interest in the affair.
My problem was I had no way to find out. The resources of the internet might be almost without limit but my technical ability didn’t match up. And without hacking into the minister’s bank account I couldn’t think of a way of discovering his possible stake. Unless …
‘He’s not in,’ said a gruff voice.
‘Do you know when he’s going to be back? Should I try the Ginza office?’
‘No. I’ll make sure he knows you called. If he wants to talk to you he’ll call back.’
The phone went dead.
Rather than have me spend hours ferreting for old information, it would have made more sense for Takata to tell me what he already knew. I could then search for what was still to be found out. As this logical course of action was so clearly out of the question, I decided to be proactive instead. I doubted the politician would be keen to grant an interview, but I was sure others would be happy to have an international voice take an interest.
‘We’ve been incredibly lucky – Eriko has been in remission a year. It’s been far harder for some of the others. There’ve been two funerals just this month.’
I cringed. I couldn’t be certain which side I’d land on in this affair but the initial signs weren’t good. Lying to someone so harshly affected made me feel like I’d reached a new low.
I was in a small town far removed from the bright lights and bustle of Tokyo. Eriko’s parents clearly took pride in their home but an apartment that compact inevitably felt cluttered, even with only household necessities and a few children’s toys.
‘I’m so sorry. The whole thing’s horrific. I hope you get the justice you deserve.’
‘That’s kind of you to say,’ she said and touched my arm. ‘I hope the details haven’t upset you too much.’
I needed to move the conversation along before my self-loathing became too much to bear.
‘Can you tell me what you think’s behind it? I mean, was it a catalogue of errors and botched cover-ups, or do you think there’s a bigger conspiracy at play?’
I’d been welcomed to ask questions like this because, as I explained to the local journalist who put me in touch, I worked for Energy Without Affect, consultants for a fossil-free future. We were reviewing the best and worst alternatives throughout the world. The parents’ group could put forward a case for why nuclear should be included in the latter.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that – it’s a question we’re still asking,’ she said. ‘It could be that it was just another KanEnCo incident, and for the most part these have been down to incompetence rather than anything else.
‘They assumed there wouldn’t be an earthquake here and scrimped instead of spending money preparing for the worst. When it went wrong they panicked. They didn’t want to be blamed. They thought if they kept the plant running and made repairs when the attention was off them, everything would turn out all right. But events spiralled beyond their control. They’re getting nasty because they’re scared. They don’t know what else to do.’
It was a very balanced account from someone who had been going through hell.
‘But …’
I looked at her. ‘You’re not convinced?’
‘Something feels strange,’ she said. ‘It feels like there’s something else, something still to be found out. But I just don’t know what it is.’
Although she must have become practised at masking her emotions I could see it was a thought that had been consuming her for years.
‘Is there anything in particular that’s made you suspicious?’
‘A million things. There are so many rumours, so many possibilities. It’s enough to drive you mad.’
She broke off. I desperately hoped I’d end up on her side.
‘One of them goes back to when they were planning the plant, in the early nineties, before my husband and I moved here. As you’d expect, there were all sorts of studies and surveys to make sure the area was right. There are stories they found something then, that there was something funny about the process, something wrong with the project from the very start.’
She gripped the handle of her cup so tightly her knuckles went white.
‘But that’s it – a rumour. And one that doesn’t have details let alone proof. It’s not exactly the breakthrough we need.’
It wasn’t. But it was something, and if Takata was true to his word, I’d be able to find out what it was.
TWO
‘Dickhead. What do you think you’re doing playing detective without keeping us informed?’
I’d only got a few stops into the journey home before my phone rang. Kurotaki.
‘Kumi
chō told me to look into things, to be proactive. That’s what I’m doing. If you don’t like it you need to take it up with him.’
My irritation at being denied the promised support was mixed with guilt at my snooping and made me more strident than was probably wise.
‘You motherfucker! You’re bold over the phone, aren’t you? I’ll—’
‘I was just doing what I was told,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I tried to speak to Kumichō but he didn’t take my call.’
‘You little bitch! What did I tell you about Kumichō? You don’t deserve to have him know you’re alive. You don’t call him up like a schoolgirl when you’re in the mood for a chat.’
‘OK, I’m sorry.’
‘You need something on this, you get in touch with me. If you can’t reach me, call Sumida.’
‘OK, OK, I will,’ I said, my annoyance surfacing again.
‘Don’t give me attitude, you stupid fuck. You still don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just to help you. There are people who want to kill you and I’ve been told to keep you alive.’
I smartened up with the reminder.
‘I’m sorry. Really, I will. But in this case I’m not sure it would have been a great idea to have you along.’
Kurotaki acknowledged the point with a grunt. ‘We still could have accompanied you down, kept eyes on you there.’
‘It seems like you had plenty doing that already.’
‘You know what I mean. Next time you want to do something get in touch first.’
I decided to put his word to the test.
‘OK, the next time’s now. I need to see the ex-president of the Kamigawa plant.’
I reasoned that if there was a conspiracy it could be revealed either by something he could tell me or information hidden in the documentation of the site.
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can. There isn’t much time until the AGM.’
‘OK – he’ll see you tomorrow. Be at our office at eight.’
‘Don’t you need to check with him first?’
‘Don’t question me. Get to the office first thing.’
He hung up. I settled back in my seat and started to doze. My phone rang again, drawing more dirty looks.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ demanded Sumida.
I was starting to yearn for the days before mobiles.
‘I’m on a train.’
‘What are you doing on a train? You’re meant to be at Horitoku’s.’
‘What’s Horitokus?’
‘He’s a person. A horishi.’
He sounded exasperated. I didn’t feel much different.
‘What’s a horishi?’
‘A tattoo master,’ he said impatiently. ‘Where are you? I’ll pick you up.’
‘Wait a minute. Why am I going to a tattoo master?’
‘You’re getting a tattoo.’
‘Hold on, if I want a tattoo, I’ll get a tattoo. If someone else wants me to get one they can discuss its merits with me first. You don’t just arrange it and not even tell me until after the time it’s meant to start. It’s—’ I was lost for words. ‘It’s just not what you do.’
‘Are you finished?’ he asked, having paid no attention.
‘What?’
‘Good. Now shut up and tell me where you are.’
I glanced at Sumida while he drove, the first time I’d paid him proper attention. This was significant in itself – despite being distinctive he somehow went under the radar. He wasn’t huge like Kurotaki but at over six foot and broad he was still large for a Japanese man. He carried his bulk athletically, with lithe movements like those of a cat. He didn’t have the yakuza crew cut either; his hair was long and bundled on top of his head. Not that this was in any way effeminate – he looked like a Chinese outlaw from centuries past.
I realised my mind was wandering. There were more important matters at hand.
‘Why am I getting a tattoo?’
‘The boss wants you to.’
‘Yes, but why does he want me to?’
‘He likes tattoos. You’re a yakuza. Yakuza get tattoos.’
Sumida wasn’t hugely communicative; perhaps his voice required an output of energy that couldn’t be wasted on chit-chat. He was, however, the most intriguing yakuza I’d met. While the others were loud bravado and crudity he kept his counsel, the Michael Corleone to all the Sonnys running around.
‘I have to get one?’
‘Yeah.’
Perhaps taking pity on me he offered a tit-bit.
‘Keep the receipts.’
‘What?’
‘Make sure you get a receipt.’
‘A receipt?’
‘Yes,’ he said patiently. ‘They’re tax-deductible as a business expense.’
‘Wait a minute – I have to pay? I don’t even want one.’
‘Whatever. Just remember, they’re expensive and it’s worth claiming back the tax.’
Curiosity got the better of my outrage.
‘How do I do that? Put down I’m the first, unwilling, English yakuza and I’m being forced to pay for a tattoo I don’t want as an essential part of my work?’
‘I wouldn’t phrase it exactly like that in your returns, but essentially yes.’
I was flabbergasted. I tried to think of an analogy.
‘It’s like a burglar claiming for a ladder after he’s robbed a house.’
He took his eyes from the road.
‘It’s not like that at all. Things have gotten trickier recently but we’re still a legal entity. It’s perfectly reasonable to claim expenses on the legitimate things we do. I’ve heard some mizu shōbai clubs have even tried to claim on protection money.’
‘And they got it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I can’t think their chances were great, but apparently they gave it a go. Anyway, make sure you keep the receipts.’
Asakusa had retained the buzz it had had the last time I lived in Tokyo. Even streets that had seemed rundown and tired now thronged. Small stores grilled senbei, rice crackers, out front while their neighbours hawked ceramics, knives, kimonos and other traditional goods. Kabuki stars peered down from lamp-post placards, suggesting here at least they had retained their allure. Altogether it felt as though Asakusa had left the rest of Tokyo to look to the future. Its eyes remained on its Edo-period halcyon days when it had been the entertainment centre of Japan.
Sumida parked the car and we walked through the narrow, bustling streets, the covered ones in particular creating the mood of a bazaar. After making our way from the centre into quieter roads, we stopped in front of a residential block. It was typical of Tokyo’s more functional kind, the type that makes one question whether an architect was ever involved.
Its lift battled our weight to the seventh floor.
‘Konnichiwa.’
A man in his early twenties was waiting for us. He bowed politely. Sumida barely lowered his head in return.
‘Please, follow me.’
As he took us down the hall I wondered again at the transformational effect of Tokyo doorways, the worlds they let you into so often at odds with the utilitarian visions outside.
The walls of the apartment’s front room were crowded with photos. I leaned forward to look more closely at one of a sepia-tinted old man who I presumed was Horitoku’s master. He was stripped to a fundoshi, loincloth, his body an intricate swirl of tattoos.
Impressive as he was, he paled beside the colour pictures around him. There were dragons writhing on skin, more realistic than the legends on which they were based; samurai and outlaws poised to attack, bursting with life after centuries in slumber; phoenixes prepared for fiery comebacks; deities as menacing as their hosts; and courtesans so beautiful they almost compensated for these men.
Displays of virtuosity that were more like special effects than tattoos.
They also seemed very big.
‘I don’t have to cover my whole body, do I?’ I whispered to Sumida.
&n
bsp; ‘Shut up.’
The young man, presumably an apprentice to the master, had just returned with Horitoku.
‘Sensei, konnichiwa.’
Now Sumida bowed, and bowed deeply. I followed suit. We received a greeting that was polite but less formal.
‘Please excuse us for being late,’ said Sumida. ‘We will of course pay for the time.’
I stiffened.
‘But could I request we extend the appointment? My oyabun is keen for Ray to make good progress with his tattoo.’
Horitoku agreed and they indulged in some pleasantries, Sumida continuing to speak formally, Horitoku replying with the relaxed Japanese a superior is allowed. They briefly discussed the tattoo Sumida was apparently receiving.
‘So, did you have something in mind?’
Horitoku had turned to me. He was quite short but had a reassuring solidity and a dapper pencil moustache. His civility and self-assurance made me feel more comfortable than I probably should have.
‘I’m not quite sure yet,’ I replied – I didn’t see any benefit in revealing how I had been coerced at the last minute into being there. ‘Would it be possible to look at your work first?’
Horitoku’s apprentice was already scuttling for photo albums and folders of illustrations. I looked through them in awe. They were even more magnificent than the ones on the wall. As the designs danced on the flat of the page, I could only begin to imagine how they looked on a moving figure.
A dragon wriggled towards me. It wasn’t clear what he was meant to represent. He might have been leering as there was certainly something sinister about him. But it was impossible to be sure of his intentions, as though layers of complexity lay behind the dangerous facade. It seemed appropriate.
‘I like this one.’
I turned a couple of pages to see a geisha, or perhaps it was a courtesan. I looked closer and did a double take. It had to be a courtesan, whatever their differences in dress. I knew this because it was Tomoe. Her grace, her charm, somehow even her sparkle had been captured on this illustration prepared for an unknowing recipient’s skin.
