Kusanagi

by Clem Chambers

  He returned to his car and drove home in the lowest of spirits. When he arrived, he turned off the engine and sat for a few moments, thinking of his son. How would he explain what must have happened to Akira’s mother? Reluctantly, he climbed out of the car, locked it and began to walk up the path to his house. As he neared the front door, it opened. His wife stood there, smiling. His heart jumped.

  ‘Our son is back,’ she whispered.

  He went straight to Akira’s bedroom and slid open the door. ‘Are you awake, son?’ he asked.

  Akira sat up. ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I went to swim across the moat.’

  He knelt by the bedroll. ‘And how was it?’

  ‘I could not climb far enough down the wall.’

  ‘What did your adventure teach you?’

  ‘Not to be a little prick.’

  Where had his son picked up that word and such coarse pronunciation? He stood up and looked down at his child. ‘I’m very glad you came back,’ was all he said.

  Akira trudged towards home, his satchel on his back. His face was grazed and his blazer dirty down the right side. The bullies had roughed him up yet again as he left for home. It was a daily humiliation. His eyes widened. A black Harley stood at the end of the street and James Dean sat astride it, smoking. He ran towards him.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ said James Dean. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

  ‘Great,’ said Akira. ‘Anything. What is it?’

  ‘I need you to take a package to someone. Now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It will be dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  James Dean reached into one of the saddle bags and pulled out a small brown-paper parcel. ‘Take it to this address.’ He pulled out a piece of paper. Akira put the parcel in his satchel and examined the directions. Getting there would be an adventure.

  Then James Dean took out five thousand yen notes from his pocket and gave them to him. ‘This is for you. I’ll run you close, then you make the drop and find your own way home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hey, kid, don’t say “yes”,’ he waved his cigarette, ‘say “sure”.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Akira.

  Akira waited nervously at the wooden door. It slid open and a pretty woman in a dressing-gown was looking down at him. ‘Are you Miss Mai?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘I have something for you.’ He swung his satchel off his shoulder and took out the package.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She ruffled his hair, went inside and closed the door.

  He put his satchel on again and ran down the steps to the street.

  Akira took his favourite manga from its position at the end of the bookshelf and put the four thousand yen notes between the pages. The change from the taxi ride was in his pockets and he would think about spending some of it tomorrow on his way home. He might buy his mother some flowers, perhaps some candies for his sisters. He wondered whether he would see James Dean again. Surely he had not repaid his debt so easily. He hoped not.

  ‘Are you John Wayne?’ he asked the tall, fat American who stood on the corner of the street.

  The man practically jumped into the air. ‘I am,’ he said, flushing red.

  ‘Do you have something for James Dean?’ read Akira, awkwardly, from the note he had been given.

  John Wayne looked around. ‘Yes.’

  Akira took a heavy package from his satchel and handed it to him. The American pulled a fat envelope from his back pocket and gave it to Akira. ‘You’re a bit young for this kind of caper, aren’t you?’ he said uneasily, looking at the kid’s deformed arm. While Akira didn’t understand a word of English, he understood the look. It expressed horror. He was used to it.

  As he put the envelope into his satchel and bowed, the American was walking away.

  James Dean was on his Harley at the end of the road. He gave Akira a ten thousand yen note on receipt of his envelope.

  ‘Why so much?’ asked Akira, putting the money into his pocket.

  ‘It was a heavy package,’ said James Dean. He pulled out a piece of paper and gave it to Akira. ‘Come round my place tomorrow. I need to talk with you about some stuff.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Akira.

  5

  His mother was waiting in the hallway. ‘Why are you coming home so late these days,’ she asked gently, ‘and always so scratched and battered?’

  ‘I fall over a lot.’

  She knelt in front of him and examined the scuffed arm of his blazer. It had a new tear. She peered at the fresh cuts on his knees. ‘You need to be more careful.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  She looked at him sternly, then vigorously brushed the dust off his arm.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ said James Dean, ‘come in.’ Akira walked into the small flat. The curtains were pulled and the den was in deep shadow. ‘Into the kitchen,’ said James Dean.

  Akira sat down by a low breakfast table as James Dean got a beer from the fridge. ‘Want one?’ he asked, a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Akira replied.

  James Dean sat down at the table, the chair back to front. ‘You know, Akira, what you’ve been doing for me is kind of illegal.’

  ‘How can delivering a package be illegal?’ said Akira.

  ‘Well,’ said James Dean, ‘it depends what’s in the package.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

  ‘Can I have one?’ asked Akira.

  James Dean studied his cigarette.

  Akira waited.

  James Dean tipped one out of the packet and offered it to him. Akira took it and James Dean lit it for him. Akira sucked the smoke into his mouth and puffed it out in a long jet. ‘Well, I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I want to work for you.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said James Dean, ‘but I want you to know you can stop any time you like.’

  ‘You’re my only friend.’ said Akira.

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Yes.’ Akira sampled the smoke again. ‘Every day, after school, three little pricks trip me up and roll me on the ground and every day nobody does anything.’ He held the smoking cigarette in his armless hand and turned his head to drag on it. ‘If I had friends at school they would help me.’

  ‘Wait a second.’ James Dean got up and went out of the room.

  Akira tried to flick ash like an experienced smoker. He failed.

  James Dean returned. He set his chair the right way around and put a roll of coins on the table. ‘Hold these coins in your fist.’

  Akira stubbed out his first cigarette and took the bar-like object. It was a stack of hundred yen coins held together by nut and bolt. The bar poked out at either side of his fist. It felt heavy.

  ‘If you’re going to work for me, you’ve got to be able to handle yourself.’

  Akira looked at the bar in his fist, then at James Dean.

  James Dean held up his palm. ‘See my hand? Imagine it’s the face of your worst enemy. You need to punch that face straight on the nose.’

  Akira pushed his fist out slowly to James Dean’s palm and touched it where the imaginary nose would be.

  ‘Next time you see one of those arseholes, just walk up to him and punch his nose, then walk away. Never walk with your knees when you can talk with your fists.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Akira.

  Akira walked through the gate into the playground. His three torturers stood near the front door, talking. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he looked at them. Then he remembered standing naked against the wall, high above the black moat water, shivering in the warm summer air. In time his legs would have given out and he would have fallen down the wall into the water below. Only the miracle appearance of James Dean Yamamoto had saved him from a horrid death. Yet he hadn’t been scared of that and he was proud to know it. If he could brave death, he could brave attacking his enemies.
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  He gripped the coins tightly in his sweating hand and walked up to the boys. Yasuda, the chief bully, watched him approach. ‘What do you want, Flapper?’

  Akira waved his shoulder hand by way of decoy and struck Yasuda with a blow he aimed, as instructed, at his nose. Yasuda bent double, blood suddenly pouring out of him in long red drips. Akira turned and walked away, the sound of his breath and his pounding heart drowning the cries of the injured boy.

  A bell rang, the school door opened and the children walked towards it obediently, surprised and shocked to see Yasuda bent and bleeding on the threshold.

  Akira filed past as a teacher ran to Yasuda’s aid.

  Yasuda wasn’t in class that morning, or in the afternoon, and the usual reception committee was not there to greet Akira after school. His hand hurt, but it was a good pain.

  The next morning he arrived just as the school door was unlocked. Across the playground the three bullies stood together, Yasuda with plasters over his nose. Should he go over and punch him again?

  That seemed too much. He stood on the other side of the playground and waited, his face blank. They were throwing evil looks in his direction but they were not coming his way. The bell went and they filed in.

  All day long he could sense the venomous cloud emanating from his three enemies. As the day drew on their menacing stares became more regular.

  Then classes were over. Akira made straight for the door. He could tell they were after him – he could feel their presence looming behind him, as he had so many times before. Blows would soon follow. They would catch him by the school gate, or soon thereafter, rough him up and roll him in the dirt. They would surely hurt him badly.

  As he saw the playground gate and the road beyond, he imagined James Dean on his Harley by the kerb, challenging him to act. He pulled the coin bar from his pocket and turned. They were only a few feet behind him. Akira punched Yasuda’s nose, and almost laughed.

  Yasuda folded in half and let out a howl of pain. Akira turned to his right to punch Umebayashi, but the boy jumped back, his hands protecting his face. Akira walked to the gate.

  There was the roar of a loud engine and James Dean pulled up. ‘Jump on kid,’ he said, surveying the scene. The other children looked on with awe as Akira straddled the back of the Yakuza man’s motorbike before it grunted away.

  James Dean noticed Akira’s bloody knuckles as the boy gripped his shoulder for balance.

  Akira’s father sat down at the low dinner table. His mother and sisters got up and left the room. His father took a mouthful of tea. ‘Show me your hand.’

  Akira held out his arm across the table. His father examined his hand. It was bruised and swollen, the knuckles heavily grazed. He moved the fingers. ‘Nothing broken,’ he said, letting go. ‘The school has complained that you struck someone. Is this how you injured your hand?’

  Akira remembered James Dean’s words. ‘I was tired of falling on my knees, so I spoke with my fist,’ he replied.

  His father stiffened. He gave Akira a long look. Then he smiled. ‘Let me see that hand again.’

  Akira held it out. His father examined the swollen knuckles. ‘No wonder the child is not returning to your school.’ He called to his wife and the family returned to the table.

  Akira wondered whether the huge fat guy in his dressing-gown was a Sumo wrestler. The man gave him a thick envelope in exchange for the package he had handed over and slammed the door in his face.

  That didn’t seem right. When he met people at their addresses they were normally happy to see him and treated him kindly. He looked carefully about the street as he made his way along it. There were a couple of men across the road in the sort of raincoats his father wore. His stomach lurched and his heart began to pound. He walked quickly along the pavement, trying to keep his eye on the men. He could feel them coming after him just as he had felt the bullies behind him at school.

  He went down into the subway and began to run as soon as he thought he was out of sight. He followed the signs for the platforms and picked up another route to another exit. He emerged on the other side of the road, and, as he did so, another man in a raincoat fifty yards away stared at him. Akira ducked into a department store a few paces ahead.

  He ran through the rows of merchandise and came out on the cross street. He raced in front of a cab, waving frantically. As soon as it stopped he jumped in. He gave the driver James Dean’s address and slumped in the back seat as low as he could. The cab pulled away.

  He couldn’t see out of the window for fear of being spotted. He counted the seconds as they moved slowly with the traffic. He would sit up once he had counted to three hundred.

  ‘Policemen, huh?’ said James Dean. ‘Well done for giving them the slip.’ He slapped a ten thousand yen note onto the kitchen table. ‘That’s for you. For surviving your first chase.’

  Akira flicked the ash from the cigarette in his short hand into the ashtray a foot away. He took the note and pushed it into the top pocket of his blazer. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said James Dean. ‘Time for you to lie low, maybe.’

  Akira’s heart dropped. ‘How long?’

  James Dean took a swig of beer. ‘We have to be careful. You’re too good to waste on a stupid deal.’

  Akira smiled. ‘OK.’

  6

  Akira sat by the concrete flyover pillar and looked down into the green canal water. It had become a daily ritual to go there on his way home, sit down and smoke two cigarettes. It was a lonesome private place to linger and think. His empty days without a mission passed slowly. He longed for James Dean to be parked at the end of the road, waiting for him, engine running. Yet the days had rolled into weeks and he felt that the gates to his magical world of excitement and adventure had slammed shut.

  He heard someone approaching and looked up. It was a grey-brown raincoat-clad figure. His father.

  Akira stood up smartly.

  ‘Quiet smoke?’ his father enquired.

  Akira relaxed a little: his father was not furious with him, it seemed.

  His father took his own pack out. A moment later Akira had pulled out his Zippo and was offering to light his father’s cigarette.

  ‘I thought I should seek you out,’ said his father, after the first puff. ‘Your mother is worried about you.’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She didn’t worry when I came home every day beaten.’

  ‘Certain hardships she expects. She wonders why you often come home so late.’

  Akira swapped his cigarette into his short hand, took a drag and said nothing.

  ‘So this is where you come?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What of your friends?’

  ‘I do not have friends. Other kids think they will catch something.’

  ‘That is their loss.’

  Akira flicked his cigarette into the canal. ‘Shall we go home?’

  ‘Yes. Your mother is waiting.’

  As the bell rang, Akira glanced out of the classroom window and across the playground. James Dean was parked on the road beyond. He jumped up from his desk.

  The other children were heading for the next class, but he ran through the empty hallways down to the floor below and outside. He sprinted into the street and stepped in front of a tree that covered him from view. As he did so, James Dean rolled his bike to him. His face was cut and bruised. ‘Jump on kid.’

  Akira leapt onto the back of the Harley. James Dean revved the engine and sped off, in a cloud of blue smoke. Soon they had reached one of Akira’s favourite haunts. He loved the little coffee shop. The owner welcomed him and James Dean like brothers and didn’t blanch at the sight of a crippled child in school uniform. He ordered coffee like an adult and was served as one. They sat in the wooden shack like the real outlaws of his comic books.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Trouble,’ said James Dean.

  ‘No
kidding,’ said Akira, using one of James Dean’s favourite American expressions.

  ‘I need to ask you a big favour.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I need you to go to my place and get some things for me.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’ll be dangerous.’

  ‘OK.’

  James Dean gripped Akira’s right hand and squeezed it. ‘Very dangerous.’

  No one ever touched his short hand. No one dared to. He squeezed James Dean’s as hard as he could. ‘OK. What do you need?’

  ‘My gun. My money. A black book.’ He showed the latter’s size with a forefinger and thumb. ‘In the kitchen in the top drawer by the sink.’

  ‘You in big trouble?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t fix with my money, my gun and my little black book.’

  ‘Easy,’ said Akira.

  ‘But people might be waiting for me outside my home. They can’t get the book.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll drop you two streets away. Go in, get the stuff. Come straight out and back to me.’

  ‘OK.’

  The street outside the rundown apartment building was empty. Akira’s heart began to race, as it always did when he was with James Dean. He entered and went up the stairs to James Dean’s flat on the second floor. Nothing stirred. He put the key into the lock and turned it slowly, then pushed the door open. He looked into the den. The light was out and, through the gloom, he could see that the room was empty. He went in and closed the door.

  He felt safer now that he was inside and his heart slowed. He moved across the blacked-out den to the kitchen. It, too, was empty. The air smelt stale. The table was covered with beer bottles and the ashtray was full. It looked as though James Dean had been entertaining friends.

  Akira moved to the sink and opened the drawer immediately to the right. There was a pile of dishcloths but he saw no gun or money. He lifted the folded linen and saw a lot of money. He pulled out the dishcloths. As James Dean had described, there were bundles of cash on the right side of the drawer and a pistol on the left. There was also a black book, held closed with an elastic band.