by Nick Tanner
He’d spent the early hours of the bitterly cold morning making his usual rounds. He’d never quite got used to the extreme quiet of the night shift and that particular morning the peace had been even more intense as if the falling snow acted as a dampener to snuff out all possibility of any sound echoing into the night.
It was a straight-forward trip home. He took the bus from just outside the factory gates and then the train to Byobugaura. Due to the time, his journey coincided with those starting work and so it involved squeezing into the gradually filling carriages, hoping that a seat would be available for him and attempting to read the morning paper encumbered by the backs and elbows of the passengers that accompanied him. He usually arrived home at just after seven.
He’d just about got used to the strangeness of this reverse life – with his evening being everyone else’s morning. He hadn’t always been a night watchman and had only taken the job after his wife had died. They’d had no kids and so it was just him rattling around on his own in an empty life. He’d needed something to do and despite retiring two years before, at the age of sixty four had opted to take up what had been termed ‘light duties’ with Nippon Denki.
One of the many annoying things he’d found, and now also grudgingly had to get used to, was that there was never anywhere to eat at this time in the morning – at least not of any great variety. The places that were open only catered for the morning appetite. He’d therefore got into the habit of buying things the evening before and re-heating them the next day. The other annoying thing was that there was also limited variety on the TV menu to-boot. All these little bothersome little things he had one by one had to get used to.
It was past eleven o’clock in the morning therefore before he finally got to bed and around quarter past before he finally dropped off into a restless slumber. He’d constantly tossed and turned and when he had ended flat on his back, open mouthed and snoring like a top class trombone player, he’d jerked himself rudely awake and found his mind had reverted back to notions concerning what he thought he had, or had not seen that night – it left a most unsettling feeling within him.
As he lay in bed, quite awake now, his mind attempted to recreate what he’d seen and tried to pull together the shadowy images that flitted temporarily onto the empty screens of his retina. It was all the more disturbing, precisely because he felt he had, he thought, seen something unusual. Yet, this ‘something’ continued to elude him, despite on several occasions, having it tantalisingly in his grasp before it fizzled away like light being caught within a black hole.
12 - In which a fallen politician plots the way back home
Friday 31st December 11:45am
For his part Hiro Watanabe had not wallowed in idle self-pity, wasteful introspection nor been tempted down the road of intoxicated release. He had been sharp to mobilise his team, what was left of it anyway, and had issued what he hoped was a well worded statement to every media outlet he could think of. He was unequivocal in his rebuttal of the allegations, declared that he had no knowledge of the kiss-and-tell woman in question – after all how could he? He had been with his wife during the time the woman had said they were having unbridled and passionate sex. The whole story was a pack of lies and he was considering taking legal advice to sue ‘Nikkan Gendai’ for making the tasteless assertions.
During the construction of this delicate barricade he did then wonder whether or not he had been too hasty in his sacking of Kinjo, after all the two of them had been together for longer than he could remember and without Kinjo’s ability at speech-writing and general organisation he might suffer in the long-run. Kinjo had been loyal when others had left the fold. Kinjo had been there during all the twists and turns in his political career. It felt wrong that he would be without him from now on in.
But then again Kinjo had been acting strangely recently – ever since the meeting with Hatoyama his mind had seemed elsewhere. It was undeniably that whole business that had caused the change in Kinjo’s behaviour, that and his possible double-dealing and courting of the Ryozo. On consideration it was entirely right that he had sacked Kinjo.
In terms of the woman though, he would have to take action. No-one crossed Hiro Watanabe and came out a winner. He would have to seek retribution, but that would be risky. If any harm came to her then suspicion would be bound to fall on him. No! Revenge, or at least some kind of action, would have to come, but how? How indeed!
Fifteen minutes later Hiro Watanabe, after taking some pretty rapid decisions, walked down Ginza High street with the intensity of a man on a mission - his haste only diluted by his inability to make speedy headway through the shop-keepers shovelling the snow from the sidewalk and the subsequent piles of snow and slush which they created. Both were obstructing the pavement. He passed by the usually shining, upmarket shops barely wasting a first glance, never mind a second, at the numerous high-priced items displayed within their window fronts. He shuddered as he walked, despite wearing a long, thick woollen over-coat and he was looking forward to getting back into the warmth. He wasn’t an outdoors person, never had been, preferring the smoke-filled cordiality of the bars and meeting houses of the political class.
He did however, pause momentarily outside a Japanese paper shop and feigned interest in the multitude of colours and types of paper on show. He caught a brief whiff of the paper’s particular vibrant smell snaking out from within the interior. It was a smell he didn’t particularly like – a cross between dust and perfume. As casually as he could he looked up and down the street. There was no-one following him – of that he was sure, and there was no-one that he recognised. He only hoped that no-one had recognised him. He was after all an eminent politician now infamous for his extra marital affair.
At a fairly innocuous entrance he ducked to the left, tapped his shoes on the first step to loosen the snow from his soles, went up a flight of stairs to the first floor and entered a coffee shop, selecting an out-of-the-way table towards the back and the corner of the room. He quickly looked around and satisfied himself that it was free from prying eyes. No-one had so much as twitched an eye-lid as he’d entered. He took his seat, ordered a coffee, placed the flimsy, leather briefcase that he’d been carrying on the seat beside him and then waited.
He was desirous that this particular meeting should be executed with the minimum of fuss and with the minimum of time expended. It was precisely on occasions like this that he valued Kinjo’s involvement – it was precisely this kind of escapade that Kinjo was expert at concluding. But Kinjo was no longer available and he felt utterly unable to trust anyone else with this particular ‘mission’. It was therefore with high levels of discomfort that he sat as inconspicuously as he could, knowing that he’d been forced into a position that was entirely laden with risk and was somewhat beyond his field of experience. He chewed at his lip. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to walk anywhere so used was he to being chauffeur driven and as for sitting alone in pokey little coffee shops - well, he couldn’t ever recall a time when he had. He was definitely out of his comfort zone.
Kinjo usually took care of all the dirty work.
He thought again about his former colleague and the many services that he had offered. He recalled, with only a residue of fondness now, the time when Kinjo had broken into the headquarters of a rival faction in order to delete an incriminating e-mail that a third party had sent or the occasion when Watanabe had been sleeping over at the Faction apartment with a young woman he’d picked up, only for his wife to burst unexpectedly upon the scene. Kinjo, who’d been in the room next door, had managed to substitute himself for Watanabe just in time, while Watanabe had hid in the futon cupboard. It was true that he had been indispensible over the years. Indispensible and trustworthy – until now! It made it all the more painful that he’d had to dispense with him and even more disagreeable to have to listen to his pitying whining as he’d finally exited the office, still asking for forgiveness.
None had been given.
Watanabe had been steadfast. Once the trust was gone you never got it back. Not with Watanabe.
His coffee arrived and he took a few tentative sips after which he poured in the cream. It was a peculiar ritual that he had adopted for a reason that he no longer knew. As he sat he examined the people around him but with no real intent. He was far too consumed in his own business and too obsessive about himself to be really, remotely interested in anybody else, particularly the average nobodies that frequented such a place as this. It was comfortably crowded and thankfully, he noted once again, none had eyes for him – at least so he thought. He glanced at his watch – it was five past twelve – past the designated time. He cursed to himself, wishing once again that Kinjo could have been on hand.
Eventually the person he’d been awaiting came in. They took great care not to recognise each other and the new arrival sat at a table that was in full view of Watanabe. As agreed they kept their back to him.
He took alternate sips of coffee and iced water and then after finishing about half his cup Watanabe stood up briskly and left the shop. The briefcase he had been carrying remained on the seat.
The other arrival, on seeing Watanabe leave, then changed seat to the table that Watanabe had just vacated, apologising to the waitress for any inconvenience. They then proceeded to drink their own coffee, accompanied by a hot pancake with whipped cream. Ten minutes later they too left the coffee shop with the leather briefcase securely tucked under their arm.
A transfer of money had just taken place or more succinctly put – a pay-off.
13 - In which a prostitute recalls her inner strength, considers her position and then acts with the precision of a samurai swordsman
Friday 31st December 12:15pm
A mere thirty minutes had passed since Fujiwara’s sadistic violation of Rumi Park and yet, as we know, he remained utterly unsatisfied. Everyday life, each new day, each simple half hour no longer bristled with opportunity and challenge but was now a hideous, tormenting trap. His emotions were the hardest to overcome. He’d never realised that he was capable of such tortuous feelings and in turn he had become drawn to their comforting allies - drugs, alcohol...
And an alarming, out-of-control, libido!
There seemed to be no escape from the chattering, thumping, insistent noises from within his head.
‘Rumi!’ Fujiwara yelled angrily.
No-one answered or came to his call.
‘Rumi!’ he yelled again easing himself out of his chair with some difficulty and discovering, not surprisingly, that he was extremely unsteady on his feet. He exited his office and swayed once again down the corridor maintaining his balance only by gratis of the side wall and barged ungainly into Rumi’s room.
‘Get the fuck out!’ he ordered to the man lying prostrate on the futon who, startled at the interruption to his personal and private service, thought for a second, and only a second, about challenging this unwelcome rescheduling. The look on Fujiwara’s face warned him against such a foolish course of action so he quickly jumped up mumbling unnecessary apologies, he’d done nothing wrong after all, picked up his shirt, and with rather too much grovelling and scraping gathered up the rest of his clothes which were scattered around the room and hurried quickly to the door.
‘Go to Yuki,’ advised Rumi whispering in his ear as she gently pushed him into the corridor and closed the door behind him. She then turned to face Fujiwara, biting her lip knowing full-well what was coming next.
Fujiwara pushed her back onto the futon and then ripped open her masseuse’s white dress revealing her pale yellow underclothes beneath. He then grabbed her roughly by the face, kissing her strongly on the lips and then forced his tongue into her mouth.
Rumi waited submissively for the next stage of the assault. She didn’t have long to wait as he pushed her legs apart and then moved between them. He grabbed her right breast with his left hand in what he mistakenly thought would be interpreted as passionate fondling. With his right hand he grasped her throat pushing her head back. She felt nothing but pain and experienced nothing but aggression. But then, just at the point where she expected him to reach down and tear off her knickers he rolled off her and slipped onto the floor in a fit of uncontrollable howling.
She lay on the futon not daring to move, listening only to her own heavy breathing and his endless, pitiless crying and wondered what had tipped him over the edge. What act had he committed that had reduced him to this?
There were relatively few times in Rumi Park’s life when she’d not had occasion to bitterly evaluate the way in which her life had unfolded. Given who she was, where she was and what she was this was not surprising. Suffice it to say that at an early age life had crept up on her and played a malicious trick. One minute her life had seemed fixed within a given (pleasant) trajectory and next it was hurtling off into (an evil) deep space. At the back of a dim, repressed memory she could recall shouts echoing in the dark – accusations and threats, her father pleading for her, begging that they take him and not his beloved Rumi.
For most of her adult life, since the age of thirteen, she’d been held as a virtual prisoner within the confines of Fujiwara’s regime – a regime enclosed by invisible walls but very visible threats. Initially an intimidating concoction of fear, ignorance, youth, drugs and a complete inability with the language had kept her where she was – a hostage to her father’s misfortune and the Yakuza’s metal-fisted reach. At that first, black fork in the road of her life she’d been too young to fully appreciate what was happening to her – save to recognise that her life was in danger and that, too, of her entire family if she did not do as she was told. She’d been too obedient and too scared to do anything else which admittedly was an appropriate and quite effortless thing to be when a knife was at your throat. The men who had taken her, silently, un-speaking and secretly in the dead of night had then shipped her over to Japan, like she was nothing more than a commodity consignment and ruthlessly tipped her into the curious hell that was Japan’s sex industry. There had been no explanation.
The early lesson was compliance - do what you were told and no serious harm would come to you. It hadn’t taken her long to understand, and had only taken a few beatings before she finally acted with the correct degree of submissiveness. The fear and the drugs had kept her ignorant. That and the useful exemplars of those girls who had gone astray – forced back into subservience through a mix of beatings, ritual humiliation and cold-turkey. Everything had been done to make it obvious that there were no alternatives. This was home and this was life. Get used to it!
It had taken her a long time to regain a resemblance of inner-confidence and even longer than that to secretly wean herself off the drugs.
The routine was monotonous. She lived in the apartment block with the other girls – three to a room, an apartment block that was a stone’s throw away from where she worked. The day began where the last one left off. All were alien to the concept of free time or weekends. The apartment block was nothing more than a place to eat and sleep.
Other than that they spent their days within their private rooms in the massage salon – yes, carrying out massages, yes, offering extra ‘services’ and yes, doing this shrouded in the haze of a drug induced euphoria where every day and every night blended into one long swirling high. Her room was quite unexceptional, being designed with one object in mind. It was taken as read that no-one would be there to admire the décor. It was a simple tatami room with a single futon. There was a tinted window - a locked tinted window and the Millennium Massage Salon was at least four stories up. At all times, if they ever needed reminding, the pimps were on guard. No-one ever escaped. Not for a minute.
Now at the age of twenty-two slowly and tentatively she had discovered an inner resilience which had allowed her to successfully re-evaluate her position. All she understood now was that she was in a place that she’d rather not be. Home was somewhere else – home was Korea and not Japan and certainly not within the Millennium Massage
Salon.
Her mind had gradually felt clear enough to rationally consider her position – to plan and organise and to trust to her innate sense of survival. The plan that had formed itself steadily over a period of months was quite simple, direct and grounded – she needed to escape, but she needed to escape at a time when it would be virtually guaranteed that no-one would come searching for her, least of all Fujiwara. Since that realisation she had bided her time and waited patiently for the opportune moment to come.
And that opportune moment was now!
One thing was certain. Fujiwara was not the man she thought she knew. He was not the man she had come to detest – and fear. Something within him had changed. Something within him had cracked. Recently he’d appeared overweight and unfit and almost permanently drunk. Rumi Park, by contrast, had always prided herself on her strength, agility and fitness - honed ironically through the sexual acts she had been forced to perform day-in, day-out. But she wasn’t sure if she’d have the ability and presence of mind to confront a man for whom aggression seemed more than just a pastime.
She would need to take him by surprise.
A previously taken itinerary of her room had revealed little by way of a suitable weapon. Aside from a collection of dildos there seemed nothing that was appropriate. It was then that she’d noticed the handcuffs, and the final pieces of the strategy had fallen into place.
