The Gate of Sorrows

by Miyuki Miyabe

  Kotaro had seen blood gushing from Makoto’s laptop—the blood of more than one victim.

  The door on the second floor opened. A man in jeans and a white T-shirt, a denim apron and long rubber boots, started down the stairs. His hair was cropped close to the skull, much shorter than in the photo on the website.

  Nakasono was dangling a key holder between the fingers of his right hand. Kotaro thought he might be heading for the van, but he walked past it and around to the front of the shop, where he unlocked the shutters and started rolling them up.

  Without hesitation, Kotaro closed his right eye.

  The hardworking florist was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Kotaro saw that the interior of the shop was filled with a red-black vapor. The vapor looked moist and solid, like a rain cloud, almost solid enough to grab.

  Engulfed in these clouds billowing out of the shop was a humanoid figure with two heads planted on a grotesquely wide shoulder girdle. The creature was bringing out planters and buckets and putting them on the sidewalk.

  Each head had mere dimples where the eyes would be, and a projecting bump of a nose. Kotaro was astonished to see that the right head seemed to notice him, while the left was facing the opposite direction. The creature’s translucent skin was redder than the vapor, and its heads and body contained scores of black whorls that coiled and uncoiled restlessly, becoming more distinct as they moved closer to the surface of the skin and disappearing as they sank deeper inside. The whorls merged and separated, waxing thicker and thinner, distending the skin as they moved.

  The creature had arms and legs, but instead of fingers, each hand had a dozen or more slender appendages like tentacles that busily extended, contracted and intertwined. The legs seemed to function like those of a human, but as the creature moved about, they sometimes changed grotesquely, with the knee flexing in the wrong direction, like the rear legs of a goat. Whenever they did, the feet morphed momentarily into hooves.

  The creature also had a tail that dangled awkwardly almost to the ground, but the way it swung as the creature moved about was not quite like a tail. Kotaro peered at it, baffled, before realizing suddenly that he had the appendage on the wrong side.

  It was a penis.

  The creature was Kosuke Nakasono’s word body, the repository of his experiences and memories. His true form. Kotaro closed his eyes and turned away. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to vomit.

  The effigy outside the restroom in Totsuka and the tarlike slime stuck to the door of Blossom School came from the same source. The creature he was looking at had excreted them. It was just as Galla had said.

  There was no time to lose. He had to stop this man before he committed another atrocity.

  Kotaro turned and strode resolutely across the street. Nakasono was lining up planters and buckets of flowers in front of the shop. Water flowed over the pavement at his feet.

  He turned just as Kotaro was almost on top of him. Their eyes met from a pace or two away. He took a step back, almost bending backward.

  “Whoa, sorry …”

  His tanned face was flushed with vitality. He had a firm, deep voice. The friendly, cheerful flower specialist. Katsura Florist, Your Good Neighbor.

  Kotaro’s voice wouldn’t come. Nakasono looked at him with wide-eyed surprise.

  “Um, is there something I can do for you?”

  Someone watching them would’ve thought Kotaro was the strange one. He’d been loitering outside the shop since long before it opened, shivering in the summer heat. Now his face was pale as he fought the urge to vomit. Nakasono eyed him with concern.

  “Are you feeling all right, sir? You don’t look well.”

  Nakasono was a professional. He treated everyone as a customer, even “sir”-ing this young college kid.

  What did you say to Saeko Komiya? What words did you use to lure her into your van? “I’m the gardener at Blossom School. Are you picking up your child? I’m on the way there myself. I’d be happy to take you.”

  And what did he say to her just before he killed her?

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  Kotaro struggled to answer. It cost him a tremendous effort of will to find his voice, as though he had to draw it up a pipe drilled deep into the bed of an undersea trench.

  “Are you Kosuke Nakasono?”

  The man’s eyes flickered in bewilderment. The whites of his eyes were pure. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You’re the gardener for Blossom School. I saw it on their website.”

  Nakasono’s expression relaxed instantly. It reminded Kotaro of the red-haired guy at the gas station. The corners of his eyes crinkled in friendly welcome.

  “Thanks for your patronage! Yes, Katsura Florist is the designated garden expert for Blossom School. Let’s see, you don’t have a child there, do you sir? You’re a little too young.”

  “My … sister. Her kid goes there.”

  “Is that so? It’s a very nice school, isn’t it? Your sister must feel safe with her child in their care.”

  Kotaro had worked out a script for this encounter. He had an older sister. Her son went to Blossom School. She was impressed by the well-tended planters in the yard. She’d mentioned them to Kotaro. Now he needed flowers to mark an important occasion, and wanted Katsura Florist to handle it. He needed them delivered at nine tonight to a certain location—

  But the carefully prepared script had flown right out of his head. All he could think of was how to make this man squirm. He wanted to wipe that phony smile off his face.

  “I know what you did.”

  “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

  Kotaro came closer and lowered his voice. “I know all about you, Kosuke Nakasono.”

  The smile hardened into a mask.

  “You killed Saeko Komiya. I know you did. I’ve got proof.”

  Nakasono’s eyes twitched deep in the smiling mask. His pupils flashed for just an instant.

  “Wha … what are you talking about?”

  “You wouldn’t want your wife and kid to find out.” Kotaro lowered his voice to a whisper and rolled his eyes toward the second floor. “We’d better discuss this somewhere in private. Of course, if you refuse, it’s fine by me. I’ll just show the police what I’ve got.”

  Nakasono’s nostrils started to tremble. The mask was beginning to crack.

  “I’m not … I don’t know … what …”

  “Before I see the police, I’m going to upload proof of what you did to the web. Even if the cops don’t believe me, the rest of the world will come after you.”

  Nakasono laughed. The sound was like air escaping from a balloon. “Hey, k-kid, kid. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You deny it? Suit yourself. I was just trying to give you a chance.”

  “A chance? To do what?”

  “To run.”

  The two men stood facing each other. Looking at Nakasono’s healthy, tanned mask, Kotaro couldn’t help wondering which head was looking at him now. Did it have some kind of expression? Were the black whorls moving faster?

  Nakasono lowered his voice. “Why should I run away?”

  “You killed someone. When they arrest you, you’re not going to talk your way out of it. You know that.”

  Nakasono’s jaw moved as though he was chewing something. Maybe he was biting back words he’d thought better of.

  “You don’t want to lose your wife and child, do you?”

  More chewing motions, and the trembling nostrils.

  “You’ve got a nice situation here. Nice house, nice business. If they send you to prison, you lose everything. You’ll get life at least. By the time they parole you, you’ll be so old you can barely walk. Or maybe they’ll just hang you.” Kotaro snorted dismissively. “You’ve been busy for
a while, haven’t you? Japan has jury trials now. Kill more than once and you could get death, especially when the crimes are cruel and perverted. You sure fit the profile.”

  Nakasono wiped his face with a thick hand, the hand of a working man. His fingers were long. He was starting to sweat. His left hand came down over his mouth and paused there. He was wearing a wedding band.

  “I am …”

  The mask crumbled. Kotaro almost thought he could hear it cracking. Good and evil, reality and obsession in equal measure, sealed tight behind the mask of a friendly, fortyish man. Now the mask was bursting open.

  This is what hides the two-headed monster. That’s the real Kosuke Nakasono. But they’re not just behind that face, they’re mixed up in his head. This guy is deeply disturbed. He’s got two people inside him.

  The other head turned to face Kotaro. It gripped the mast from inside and tore it away.

  “Whatcha got? Mmm? Come on, punk. Whatcha got?”

  Somewhere behind the threatening tone was a peal of derision, like a sound of a triangle ringing faintly amid a clamoring orchestra.

  “You think I’m going to stand around here and tell you?” Kotaro stood his ground and chuckled, returning the derision. “Let’s meet tonight. We’ll discuss this. Take our time.”

  “Is this about money? Is that what you want?”

  “Sure, money is good. But what I really want is a full confession, straight from your mouth.”

  Nakasono’s lips contorted in a scowl. Kotaro was struck by how genuine it looked. The smiling face of Your Good Neighbor was definitely a mask. It was probably the only thing his wife had ever seen. It was such a good mask that it could hardly be distinguished from the real thing, but it was bogus.

  “My confession? What the hell good would that do you?”

  “It goes straight to the net. I’m gonna scoop the world.”

  Nakasono didn’t seem to know much about the Internet. He rolled his eyes, baffled. “You’ll get yourself arrested if you do that.”

  “What makes you think people will know it’s me?”

  They faced each other silently. Kotaro’s smile was fixed. It was his turn to wear the mask. Standing here looking at Nakasono’s real face, he was afraid to show him what his own looked like.

  “Tonight. At nine.” Kotaro jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the parking lot, around the corner to the right.” He had already scoped it out. It was open to the street, with a high fence on three sides. “Wait for me under the sign on the east side.”

  “Why should I do what you say?”

  “Oh, you will. You don’t have a choice. We both know that.”

  We’re done here. Tonight Galla will take you to the place of judgment.

  Sometimes Kotaro woke with a start after nodding off on the train, or in one of the armchairs in the cafeteria. He’d feel as if he’d been asleep for a long time, but when he looked at his watch, only a few minutes would’ve passed.

  He felt that way now. He’d lost consciousness momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, he was on the rooftop of the tea caddy building.

  Someone had been here. The roof had been tidied up; the fragments of the gargoyle statue were gone. Oddly, the hatch leading to the fourth floor was gone. The expanse of concrete was unbroken.

  He looked around. The lights of West Shinjuku seemed to press down on him, close enough to reach out and touch. Yet the lights from the skyscrapers on the far side of the district seemed oddly far away, like a distant star cluster.

  He heard a thump and turned to see Nakasono sprawled on the roof. A moment later, Galla touched down alongside him.

  Kotaro spoke first. “You sure didn’t waste any time showing up.”

  He had intended to lure Nakasono into the shadows, as he had with Keiko Tashiro, but Galla was upon them as soon as Nakasono arrived at the appointed spot.

  “Next time give me some warning, okay? My head’s spinning.”

  Galla gazed at him. The blade of her scythe shone dully. “You have not left your house.”

  “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It is of no importance. What will you do with this one?”

  Nakasono coughed painfully and sat up, holding his head. He gazed around in a daze, as though he’d just woken up. When he finally noticed Kotaro, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “It’s you!”

  “Good evening.”

  Kotaro walked up to him and squatted down so he could look straight into his eyes. The man slid hurriedly away from him on the concrete, as if he was afraid Kotaro might infect him with something deadly. He was wearing the same jeans and white T-shirt. The apron and the rubber boots were gone. He had changed into sneakers.

  Kotaro showed him a big grin. “Got anything with you, like a knife? Some kind of weapon? I figure you wouldn’t meet me in the dark without bringing a little protection.”

  If Nakasono had believed Kotaro’s story, killing him would’ve been an option he would have considered, along with trying to befriend him, or feed him some kind of story.

  Nakasono shook his head and glowered at Kotaro with indignation. “Where is this? What did you do to me?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. You didn’t bring any money with you? Don’t you want to buy my silence?”

  Something happened then, something that had never happened before. He saw the monster with both eyes open. Whorls of black tar eddied and pulsed beneath its skin. In a moment it was gone, replaced by its owner.

  “What do you want from me? Who are you?” Nakasono’s jaw was trembling so hard that his words sounded slurred.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you. Who are you? Are you the Serial Amputator?”

  Again for a split second, he saw the monster. The head facing him had an expression this time. The two black knotholes that served it for eyes, and the larger hole below and between them, were round and dilated. It looked like a wailing ghost in a spirit photo.

  “I’m not a criminal,” Nakasono said doggedly. His human version was shaking so violently with panic and indecision—Should he threaten Kotaro? Try to get him on his side?—that he was about to lose control of his bladder. This made him furious, and he looked it.

  “Liar. You murdered Saeko Komiya. I’ve got proof.”

  “No way. You’ve got nothing.”

  “So you think. People like you assume they’re clever. But everything they do is screwed up.”

  Instead of reacting with more anger, Nakasono’s face drained of color. His thoughts were easy to read. Maybe he really had left some clues behind. Where? Had he made a mistake? Fear fought the instinct to deny everything, and fear won out completely.

  “It was … her fault,” he said haltingly. “She got in the car. She should’ve said no. She made the decision. He took her away. I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Kotaro had to know if he was conscious of what he had done. “You said she got in the car. You invited her to get in, didn’t you? ‘Are you going to the nursery? I can give you a lift.’ That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah. But—” Nakasono put a hand to his throat. His eyes jerked back and forth in their sockets. “I wasn’t doing the talking.”

  Kotaro’s left eye saw it again. He stepped back quickly. The face with the knothole eyes and mouth swiveled away and the other head turned to face him. It was blank and featureless, like the effigy at the gas station. Just below the surface of its skin, snakelike forms coiled and uncoiled ceaselessly.

  “He … he likes that kind of thing. He’s always made my life miserable. First it was animals, then he had to start in on people. He likes women. Women with beautiful legs. And if they look a little vulnerable, like they need a little help, so much the better.”

  Kotaro watched, fascinated, as Nakasono transformed into the monster and back
again several times a second, like the animation in a flipbook. Man, monster. Fake, real. Outer, inner.

  “I try to keep him from coming out. I’m a respectable citizen. He’s not. Everything bad is his doing. I’m a good person.”

  It was like a scene from a bad psychodrama, complete with bizarre special effects. Nakasono couldn’t stop his diarrhea of the mouth. He just kept repeating the mantra: He’s evil, I’m good. Kotaro broke in cuttingly.

  “This monster inside you—does he have a name?”

  Nakasono’s mouth snapped shut. Suddenly everything was quiet.

  Kotaro wondered what Galla thought of all this. He could sense her somewhere behind him. She must be invisible to Nakasono, or maybe he was too preoccupied to notice her. He sat slumped over with his mouth half-open, looking slightly idiotic.

  “I call him the Beast.”

  The monster with hooves.

  “He says he’s me. He says we’re the same.”

  “I see. It must be hard.”

  Kotaro was shocked by his own words. Why should I feel sorry for this piece of shit? He won’t admit that everything is his responsibility. He just keeps crapping on about his split personality.

  Nakasono’s face was wet. Kotaro thought it was perspiration before he realized it was tears. The man was crying.

  Kotaro stood up and patted his pockets, searching for his mini camcorder. He hadn’t brought it. He realized he was dressed as he would be at home. He’d even forgotten to bring his jacket.

  After leaving Katsura Florist that morning, he’d returned to the gas station in Totsuka. The good-natured attendant wasn’t there; the pumps were manned by Tomita, the ten-year part-timer he’d mentioned. As always, there were no customers. Tomita didn’t have much to do, but he quickly recognized the pictures of the van that Kotaro showed him on his camera.

  “Ah, right. The florist from Kawasaki. He comes by every couple months, maybe. He said he has a regular customer near here.”

  “I went to the gas station where you dumped the body,” Kotaro said to Nakasono. “The attendant remembered you.”

  Nakasono looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”