End of the World Blues

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “We have reached our decision.”

  “Hai.”

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

  Accept that you are dead already. Kit shook his head. “Would my knowing change it?”

  He wrote the words Osamu Nakamura dictated, signing away all rights he might have in the building site in Roppongi, then wrote a shorter note to No Neck, putting the bozozoku’s real name on the front and adding, By Hand. Someone would deliver it to the 47 Ronin in the morning.

  “Now stand over there.”

  The orange rope with which they tied his hands was nylon, meant for a use other than this, and burned as it dragged across his wrists. Tsusama tied the knots clumsily, refusing to look at Kit. His younger brother held the gun. This was their first real job, Kit could see that in their eyes.

  “It’s all right,” said Kit.

  Opening his mouth, Tsusama promptly shut it again. Although he nodded to show that he’d heard and understood what Kit said.

  “You know what must be done?” Mr. Nakamura asked.

  Tamagusuku-san nodded.

  “Rip him open first.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Tamagusuku sounded irritated.

  “We don’t want…”

  “I know,” said Mr. Tamagusuku. “We don’t want some idiot fisherman netting his bloated body.” This was not how one talked to a high oyaban, but the world was changing, this world as much as all others.

  “See to it,” Nakamura-san said.

  On Kit’s way out of the ryokan he was stopped by Mr. Oniji, who stepped in front of him and just stood there, scowling. Behind Kit, Mr. Tamagusuku sighed.

  “You’ve been an idiot,” Mr. Oniji said.

  Kit nodded. He didn’t doubt it. There were a hundred things he would do differently given his life over again. A mere handful he’d keep the same. It was the handful which let him look Mr. Oniji in the face.

  “I imagine,” said Mr. Oniji, “you know what this is for.”

  Sucker-punching Kit in the gut, Mr. Oniji chopped him across the neck and dropped him to the floor. And then, kneeling on his victim’s chest he slammed a final punch into Kit’s kidneys. While Kit did his best not to vomit, and fought the fingers reaching for his testicles, Mr. Oniji used his other hand to flip open Kit’s jacket and tuck something into his trouser pocket.

  It felt like a knife.

  CHAPTER 64 — Saturday, 14 July

  He was being drowned by slow degrees. Kit had a vague memory of pissing himself about an hour earlier, the urine warm as sea water and infinitely more welcome, proof that he remained alive.

  Sometimes it was getting hard to tell.

  He lived in the snatches between worlds, this one and others far stranger. Occasionally he’d refocus and the wind direction would have shifted or the waves risen higher. If Tamagusuku really wanted to drown him the man should have used longer rope, because the one tied to the rail of Suijin-sama was just about short enough to keep Kit’s head clear of the waves.

  Unless, of course, Tamagusuku didn’t really want to drown Kit at all. Maybe the little shit just wanted to torture him.

  Yes, that would be it. Obvious really. Having killed Yoshi, bombed Pirate Mary’s, and shopped No Neck to the police as the most likely suspect, Yuko’s husband was now busy…

  Oh for fuck’s sake, said a voice. Are you just going to whine?

  Kit opened his eyes.

  Well, are you?

  Spray whipped his face as Kit glanced round, cursing the rope and the waves that stopped him from holding his head steady. Darkness was all he saw. Not even a light from the boat, which had run blind from Tokyo Bay. Certainly Kit saw no one close enough to speak. Assuming any voice could be heard above the howling wind and rain.

  Tsusama and his brother, their father, and most of the others had been left behind. Though the boys had protested for form’s sake, it was not very hard, and when Yuko’s husband flatly refused to have them aboard, something very close to relief appeared in their eyes. They’d had trouble enough looking Tamagusuku in the face since bombs had been mentioned in the ryokan.

  Let the grown-ups negotiate what came next.

  The only surprise was the sudden appearance of Yuko, who arrived on the rickety jetty just as the boys were turning to go. Smiling at Tsusama, she patted him on his arm and indicated the path. “Hurry up,” Yuko said. “Baba’s about to serve supper.”

  She waited as two silhouettes turned on the path to see if she was still there. A quick wave from both and they were gone. Yuko smiled, though the smile barely reached her eyes.

  “Why are you here?” Tamagusuku asked.

  Yuko stared at him. “Why do you think?” she said, stepping around both Kit and her husband.

  “Wait,” he demanded.

  “No,” said Yuko, turning to glare. “My sister is dead,” she said. “I’m going to see this through to its end.”

  “Ask your husband how Yoshi died,” said Kit.

  She slapped him.

  Yuko and Tamagusuku left Kit bound on deck. Of course, since his hands were already tied with orange cord, all Tamagusuku had to do was secure Kit’s ankles to the railings, while Yuko held a gun to his head.

  “I’ll be back later,” Tamagusuku promised.

  Later turned out to be five minutes. Which was exactly how long it took Yuko’s husband to put the propellers into reverse, back his yacht from the jetty, and turn it to the open sea. This time round, the Suijin-sama made no pretence of running under sail.

  “You’ve got an hour,” he told Kit, lashing one end of a tow rope to the railings and threading the other through Kit’s bound wrists. Having knotted that end, Tamagusuku knelt to unbind Kit’s ankle.

  “An hour to do what?” asked Kit.

  “Whatever.”

  “Personally,” said Yuko, “I’d recommend prayer.”

  And so he trolled like fish bait behind the Suijin-sama. Dragged into rising waves for the time it took to turn himself, which lasted only as long as it took for the water to turn him back again. The sea was warm. Almost as warm as the springs in which he and Yoshi had bathed in the first year they were together. In the days when either of them cared about stuff like that.

  It might have been better if the sea was cold. Cold water leached body heat until the brain shut down, a more attractive option than being dragged from the ocean like some thrashing tuna and gutted alive.

  “I couldn’t save her,” Kit told the waves. “I couldn’t…”

  Except he could.

  All he ever needed to do was get home in time. The bar would still be burned, Kit would be dead, but Yoshi would undoubtedly be alive. So simple. She would have been at her sister’s, admiring the new baby.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, said the voice. Enough…

  Kit reopened his eyes.

  Tears and snot and tiredness closed his throat. Every muscle in his body ached from fighting the rope and the waves. He found it hard to believe that he was still alive and part of him wondered if being alive was even true.

  “Where are you?” Kit demanded.

  The voice sighed.

  “Okay,” he said, spitting water. “Who are you?”

  Who the fuck do you think I am?

  “Don’t know.”

  “I am a cat,” said the voice. “As yet I have no name.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Who do you think it is?

  “Neku?” said Kit.

  CHAPTER 65 — Saturday, 14 July

  One shoe was gone, water filled his pockets, and his jacket had bunched at the shoulders to make a chute that yanked him back as the yacht dragged him forward. Climbing the tow rope was technically impossible, Kit was pretty sure of that. At least it was while his wrists remained lashed together with cord and friction spun his body in the water like bait for some monster beneath the waves.

  Work on it, said the voice.

  “I’m trying,” Kit said, but he was talking to himself.

  By twisting his hands he could stress the orange c
ord binding them. Nylon stretched when wet and lost some strength. Sisal, on the other hand, just got tougher. He had Yoshi to thank for that piece of information.

  The flesh on his wrists was blood raw, but Kit twisted his hands anyway, and having twisted them once did it again and again, until he could feel skin rip and the rope’s sodden nylon fibers begin to loosen. It didn’t matter if he cried, because there was no one to see and besides the waves washed away his tears. Anyway, it was just pain, nothing serious.

  “And again,” Kit told himself.

  And again.

  If he pretended his wrists belonged to someone else, then twisting them until the sky red-shifted and blood drummed in his ears became almost bearable. He just pretended not to feel what he felt. And when that became impossible, he let himself taste the red-shift and kept twisting anyway.

  Yoshi had found purity in the middle of such behaviour. All Kit could find was pain, except not even that was true, because he found something else, something Kit should never have let himself lose.

  He found himself.

  Twisting his wrists until the bones locked and almost cracked, he forced the cord to stretch. “Harder,” said a voice, and it was his. The skies shifted a final time and Kit wrenched a hand free, only just grabbing the tow line in time to stop a wave from tearing him loose. When Kit twisted this time it was to wrap the line safely around one wrist, so he could hold himself in place.

  “Climb now,” Kit told himself.

  And he did, not giving himself time to wonder how it should be done. He felt, rather than saw, the sea change texture as he approached the propellers. Holding the tow line with one hand, Kit took a deep breath and reached as high as he could with his other hand, yanking himself up and over the wash.

  “See,” he said.

  It took Kit five minutes just to stop shaking. Five minutes in which he lay on the darkened deck gasping, as rain lashed his face and the sky rocked from side to side. And then Kit rolled onto his side and forced himself to his knees, digging into his trouser pocket.

  The knife’s sheath was sodden but its blade was razor sharp and slick with grease. So sharp in fact that Kit sliced skin while sliding it under the orange rope to free his bound wrist. Tossing the scrap of nylon cord after the tow line, he set his shoulders against the wind and raised a hand to keep the spray from his eyes.

  All he needed to do was cross the ten or fifteen paces from the stern to the door of Tamagusuku’s cabin without falling, slipping, or dropping the knife. That had to be possible…Each step was made hard by exhaustion, and harder still by the shifting deck. As Kit got closer, the height of the cabin began to protect him from the spray, though the deck still shifted and a curling wind tried to drag him from his feet.

  What now? he wondered.

  Knock?

  Well, why not…

  Hammering on the door, Kit waited. When no one answered, he knocked again, much harder.

  “Who?”

  Kit laughed. Who the fuck did Tamagusuku think it was?

  He stabbed his knife into the door frame for safe keeping, hammered one final time on the door, and spun sideways, a split second ahead of Tamagusuku’s first shot, slivers of cypress scything through the space where he had been standing.

  One bullet down.

  Instinct alone had saved Kit. Leaning forward, he smacked the door, dropped flat, and rolled away, flailing for a grip to stop himself from sliding over the side.

  Two, three.

  Another couple of stars stood next to the first in the once-perfect door. Much more of this and Kit would be able to see what he was doing.

  “Tamagusuku,” yelled Kit, dragging himself back to the cabin. “Are you there?”

  Four, five, six…

  With the sixth shot a cross brace in the door itself gave up the battle and a top panel dropped free, whipped away by winds and tossed over the side. So much light was released that Kit had to shut his eyes.

  “Yuko,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Another shot, seven.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Tamagusuku shouted.

  “It’s not you I want to talk to. Don’t you think it’s time Yuko knew the truth?”

  A shot splintered frame near Kit’s hip. Eight shots in total…“I’ll take that as a no,” he said.

  “What truth?” Yuko demanded.

  A quick burst of Japanese, low and intense, came from within the cabin, almost swallowed by the wind.

  “Tell me,” Yuko yelled. “What truth?”

  “About Yoshi…”

  Tamagusuku’s protests were harsh now. His voice loud enough to compete with the exploding spray and the whistle of metal hawsers leading to high empty spars.

  “I have the right to know,” yelled Yuko.

  “Your husband,” Kit shouted, and felt the world twist sideways and the stars flare. Grabbing for the knife that was still stuck in the door frame, Kit held himself up for as long as it took to pull the blade free.

  The ninth shot had written itself across the inside of Kit’s eyes.

  Empty fingers told Kit he’d lost his knife, which was sliding like him across a slippery deck. This was shock, he realised. Black sky where the cabin should be, rain in his face, and a jagged spike of wood jutting from his ribs.

  The bullet had missed, the door frame it demolished had not.

  Glancing beyond the spike, Kit found himself staring at rapidly approaching railings and felt his body change direction as one foot hit an upright and his whole body spun towards the waves beyond. His slide was broken by a wire he grabbed without even realising.

  As the Suijin-sama crested a wave, the deck rolled and it was movement enough to tip Kit back under the wire. He slid wetly, breaking his slide just before he crashed into the side of the cabin.

  Tamagusuku was five paces away, staring towards the stern. Yuko stood behind him, holding a whisky bottle. All either had to do to see Kit was turn round.

  “You’ve killed him.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “But, I wanted to hear…”

  “I told you,” Tamagusuku said fiercely. “Whatever he said would be lies.” His gaze swept across the door-lit gloom of the stern. “We’ll tell Nakamura-san I sliced the man open and threw him overboard.”

  Kit took that as his cue to crawl backwards into shadow. Only moving again after Yuko and her husband entered the cabin. The wind had lessened, the waves were less extreme, the rain however fell as hard as it ever had, washing blood down his shirt as Kit moved slowly towards the door.

  “But what if the body…”

  “It won’t,” said Tamagusuku. “The waves will sweep it out to sea. Besides, Mr. Nakamura won’t remain a problem for much longer.” He paused, almost willing Yuko’s question.

  “Why?” she asked finally.

  “Because I’m taking over.”

  “This is agreed?”

  “Not yet,” said Tamagusuku. “But it will be. I’ll give Kabukicho to Mr. Oniji. Mr. Nureki can have the fish market and the container port.”

  From the safety of his new hiding place, Kit considered this before gripping the jagged spike jutting from his ribs: He could remove it or not. One of those would be the right decision. Unable to decide which, he let it be.

  He breathed deeply while Tamagusuku tacked a square of cloth across the broken door. He breathed deeply and considered his options. There was, Kit had to admit, a sense of relief in discovering that he didn’t have any. All that remained was to go on.

  Dragging himself all the way round the outside of the cabin, so he could approach its door from the other side, Kit took up his position. Only this time when he hammered it was with an outstretched arm, using the heel of his one remaining shoe.

  Silence.

  Kit gave it five seconds, then hammered again. Inside the cabin Tamagusuku swore.

  “Yuko,” Kit said, voice raw. “Your husband killed Yoshi.” He sounded like a ghost, even to himself, but then he felt lik
e one too. “An accident,” said Kit. “But it still happened.”

  “How, an accident?”

  “He meant to kill me,” shouted Kit, clinging to the side of the cabin. “But I was late getting home. So Yoshi stayed. You were right,” he added. “It was my fault, but your husband planted the bomb.”

  Inside the cabin, someone killed the lights and when the door banged open Tamagusuku’s silhouette held a gun. A. 38 calibre, to judge from the slightness of the damage to the door.

  “I did not plant a bomb.”

  “Oh no,” said Kit, “that’s right, you didn’t. You had your bodyguard do it.” He watched Tamagusuku turn to find the source of Kit’s voice. Watched as the man raised his pistol.

  “Do it then,” Kit said, stepping away from the cabin. “But you’re too late. Yuko knows now.”

  “Enough.”

  “It’s the truth,” said Kit, watching Yuko appear in the broken doorway behind her husband, still clutching the Suntory bottle.

  “Yuko, if I could change it all I would.”

  “It’s a lie,” Tamagusuku shouted.

  “Ask him where he was.”

  “She knows where I was. In London. I brought her presents.”

  “From Mitsukoshi,” said Kit. “He’s lying. If he was in London how come he was seen watching my bar?”

  “When?” she demanded.

  “About eight hours before Yoshi died.”

  “Who saw—”

  “Yuko, enough.” Tamagusuku was furious, too furious. “He’s a liar. I’m not having this discussion.”

  “You already are,” Kit said. “So tell me one final thing. Why send a hit man if you’d already decided on a bomb?”

  “I didn’t…”

  “The homeless man,” Kit said. “With the shabby suit and the expensive knife, a gun and a Taser. All that hardware can’t have come cheap.”

  “I know nothing about this,” said Tamagusuku, and the weird thing was Kit believed him. He’d bombed the bar all right, but the thug who came after Kit that night was the lid to a whole other can of worms.

  “What man?” said Yuko.

  Both Tamagusuku and Kit ignored her.

  “Look at you,” said Tamagusuku, “you’re dying. All I have to do is wait, then tip you over the side.”