Past Karaka Bay, on the north side of the peninsula, it is much calmer. He parks in a nook of stone at Shelly Bay, gets out of the car and lights a cigarette. Out in the open harbour, spray is lifting off the white caps, but in the bay itself, close to shore, the black water over the fish farms is merely ruffled. Lights from the large houses on the hill break and shimmer. It’s an affluent neighbourhood, mainly Maori, and supported by these fish farms and other cooperative fishing ventures. He likes the neighbourhood and keeps an eye on real-estate prices. Anywhere from here around to Maupuia in an elevated north-facing house would be great if he could afford it. It strikes him as infinitely preferable to the colony at Breaker Bay and a concrete demonstration of the advantages of working constructively with the occupation forces. He thinks of Marty and his teammates and the options they have chosen: escape, or death. Either way they’re gone. They’ve left him. There’s a disagreeable hiss in the pines; five minutes is long enough to get cold. He gets back in the car.
People are dying and disappearing on him. He wishes he had someone to hold on to. Hitomi Kurosawa is definitely someone. It’s nearly 11 pm when he pulls into the small car park in front of the zoo. The trees surrounding it flex and bluster in the wind. He turns off the engine and headlights and unlocks the back doors. Maybe police or soldiers will wrench it open, he thinks. The dark thrashing trees, the feeling of confinement in the small enclosed car park, make it seem almost inevitable. I’m being set up for public humiliation, he thinks. It’s a morality lesson for the public, the fall of the Night Train and his family, orchestrated by the Imperial Japanese Army. It’s a trap. He reaches for the ignition just as the back door opens.
Chapter 13: Mutiny:
Brian takes it to the bridge
Marty is grateful for the carpet that muffles their footsteps as they trot down the corridor of the tourist section. They’ve all been briefed on how crucial the advantage of surprise is. Some wooden doors are open, revealing empty cabins, tidy and luxurious. They look unused. Then there’s a cabin strewn with sheets and blankets and littered with rice crackers. Brian yells, ‘Out of the way!’ and ahead Marty sees a crowd of yellow-and-black-clad players huddled inside a doorway. It takes a moment to sink in that he is not actually in the vanguard. Jimmy is impassive. If Plate and Tunny are surprised they give nothing away. Brian pushes through the crowd and wrenches open the door at the end of the corridor.
‘Wait!’ someone yells. When Jimmy charges after him, Marty follows with Tunny and Plate, and they find themselves at the bottom of a steep flight of steps leading up to the bridge. The steel door at the top is shut. The vibration of the ship’s engine becomes apparent. At the foot of the steps two older men crouch over plastic explosives and a detonator; on each wall stand two players with machine pistols and grenades, evidently taken from Japanese guards. They are bracing themselves against the ship’s movement. Marty sees the plan: to blow the door open.
Brian yells in his high-pitched voice: ‘Have you tried the door?’
The men with the explosives look up and, seeming to recognise him, shake their heads wordlessly. It’s very quiet.
‘Give me that!’ Brian takes a couple of grenades from a player, and before anyone can say anything he springs up the stairs, opens the door a fraction, pulls the pin from a grenade, tosses it inside and shuts the door. Whump. He’s inside and there’s a long burst of gunfire. Jimmy, suddenly at the head of the steps, leaps through the smoky doorway. There’s another burst. Standing with the others around the bottom of the steps, Marty is temporarily frozen. Acrid smoke blows down in a rush of cold air. A single shot rings out. Then another. Jimmy appears in the doorway.
‘The bridge is ours!’
Another shot.
The bridge is dark and cold. There are four dead sailors. Half the glass has been blown out, along with most of the lights, and rain rides the torrent of cold air coming in. Brian lifts a head by the hair and cuts its throat—the captain’s, judging by his ornate uniform. Still the engine runs and the bow pitches into the waves. Brian wipes clean his blade and steps smartly to avoid the growing puddle of blood.
‘Victory!’ Marty yells hoarsely at Brian.
Plate drops a long and powerful arm across Marty’s chest, the same arm of restraint he feels when he’s being niggled inside their own twenty-two during a close match. Players race up the stairs and pile in behind them, shouting triumphantly.
‘Out, out,’ Jimmy shouts into the commotion.
A shot brings silence. The wind howls and the ocean explodes over the bow. Brian has fired into the air this time, out into the night.
‘We have to turn the ship around,’ Jimmy says. ‘Everybody out except the bridge crew. Go and get something to board up these windows. A couple of tables might do the trick. See if you can dig up a rivet gun. And take these bodies with you. Chuck ’em over the side.’
Being among the last of the players left on the bridge, they have to lug a bloody corpse away. Jimmy wraps a jacket around the captain’s cut throat but his head hinges back when lifted by the arms and legs, and he leaks an alarming amount of blood. Brian has disappeared.
‘Turn him over,’ Jimmy tells them.
‘Nice work, Brian,’ Marty mutters.
‘You three,’ Jimmy says. ‘After you’ve dumped this joker, follow Brian down to the Security Centre. We’re keen to capture hostages if possible.’
‘Got you,’ Plate says.
The other major phase of the operation is the capture of the ship’s Security Centre. That’s Plan A. Plan B is to contain and isolate the fifty or so well-armed soldiers who man it, and prevent them leaving it to recapture the bridge. Heavy guns smuggled in on the trucks are being used for this part of the operation.
As soon as the loosies have dumped the dead captain overboard, a player yells out, ‘Russkies!’ It’s fortunate he’s unarmed.
‘We’re not fuckin’ Russians, you dumb-arse!’ Plate shouts.
The three of them immediately remove their green jackets and throw them away.
‘I’m cold.’
‘We’ve gotta get warm.’
They head for the toilet where their clothes are stashed. Marty remembers the question he asked himself as he stuffed his clothes away under the sink: whether he’d be back for them. A surge of pure excitement and optimism goes through him as he puts his foot into his jeans. The ship lurches, and he goes flying. Plate and Tunny also go over but not as spectacularly.
‘Shit. You okay, bro?’
The ship’s turning, a thrilling sensation, but also terrifying as it broadsides the oncoming weather. They stay on the toilet floor as the rolling and pitching intensifies. The door flies open and curses go up in the nearby lounge area. The engine announces itself by cutting out. Cold fear clutches Marty’s heart. The ship slams down and rolls appallingly, and after a few very long seconds, the engine resumes. A couple more gasp-inducing rolls and the storm is behind them, driving them on.
‘Woohoo!’
‘Australia, here we come!’
‘You fuckin’ beauty!’
‘A quick drink before we catch up with Brian, lads? Quick being the key word.’
‘Hang on,’ says Plate.
‘We’ve earned it,’ says Tunny.
‘A very quick drink,’ says Plate. ‘Down the hatch and off.’
But the bar they cleared and have a right to is surrounded and packed full. They manage to push through the crowd but there is no chance of squeezing inside. Body heat and the smell of vomit emanate from the cabin, and the loud babble of voices is punctuated by shouts and war cries. The happy faces they glimpse are flushed.
‘Into the vodka, lucky bastards.’
‘Hey,’ comes a cry from behind, ‘it’s the Russians.’
Tunny accepts a half-full bottle of vodka and takes a swig.
‘Fair play to youse fullas.’
Marty’s shoulder is slapped. The eyes of the strangers upon him, triumphant and bleary with drink, are also strange
ly shy. Aware of the pistol on his hip, he takes a shot of vodka. They want him to say something.
‘We’re on our way, boys. This time tomorrow night we’ll be free.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Plate, taking a mighty gulp from the bottle.
The vodka is welcome, but standing outside on the rolling deck with strangers is not what Marty had imagined. And the toast feels hollow: they will be out of New Zealand’s 300-kilometre economic zone by mid-morning but it will take another forty-eight hours to get even halfway to Australia, and the Japanese navy is large and quick and aircraft carriers are based in Auckland. He feels they should get back to work, but Jimmy’s request to rein Brian in seems impossible, and it’s Plate’s call anyway, being captain. The man might half listen to Jimmy during his blood-frenzy, but really … Marty doesn’t want to put himself in the way of that unstoppable force, that bloodlust. The bottle comes around and he takes another hit.
‘Brian’s a hard case,’ he offers.
They hear the question in his voice and listen. The ship is heading northwest to Australia because of him.
‘Fuckin’ legend.’
‘Fearsome soldier.’
The tourists on board flash into his mind, the defenceless women and children huddled somewhere. He says to Plate and Tunny, ‘The rest of the boys must be taking the Security Centre. We should get down there.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Being armed and everything.’
‘Let’s go,’ says Plate.
Chapter 14:
Alone with Miss Kurosawa
It’s Miss Kurosawa at the car door, not a platoon of soldiers. ‘I think I heard an escaped tiger!’ she says as she climbs in.
His heart is still pounding. To convey a sense of relaxation he leans against his door and places one foot on the passenger seat and the other in the foot-well below. His left hand rests on the back of the passenger’s seat, close to her. ‘You’re safe now, Miss Kurosawa,’ he says.
Her face flashes in its signature way, but this time the smile lingers. ‘Call me Hitomi,’ she says, ‘and thank you for coming.’
‘I wanted to see you.’
She nods. ‘Did you bring a blanket?’
‘I did. On the floor there.’
‘Oh good.’
He looks out the passenger window, continuing his project of looking relaxed while she covers herself with the blanket. She’s rummaging. If she takes her clothes off, he thinks, I’m leaving. It’s a set-up.
She’s waiting for him when he turns back, transformed by a blond wig and blue-tinted sunglasses. The wig has a low straight fringe and falls to her shoulders. Her full lips curve into a smile. Her skin is creamy and flawless, tight over her cheekbones. He looks again and notices the large jersey with a loose collar and the lumberjack shirt beneath it, done up to the top button: her idea of Kiwi women’s fashion. It’s weird under the expensive glossy wig.
‘How do I look?’ she asks.
He undoes her top button, undoes the second and third, exposing the fine bones of her clavicle traced by the run of a fine gold chain. He looks again at the transforming blond hair, her lips, and the glimpse of décolletage. ‘Perfect,’ he says.
‘I’m your Kiwi girlfriend, eh?’ she says in English.
She looks so exotic, otherworldly even, that the thought of her being a convincing Kiwi makes him laugh. ‘From a distance.’
‘Shall we go?’
‘This is as good a spot as any. It’s dark, I mean. Not visible from the road.’
‘Let’s look at the storm.’
He didn’t expect this. An odd request from this picture of poised android perfection.
‘Yes,’ he says in Japanese. He turns around and starts the car.
She claps. ‘Exciting.’
‘I wonder if you should get in the front? That’s what Kiwi girlfriends do.’
‘Yes,’ she says in Japanese. When she’s next to him in the front seat, the old jersey is revealed in its full shapeless glory. She looks strange. But whatever she looks like, it’s not Japanese. He turns on the lights. As he puts the car in gear he sees that she has presented her face to him for a kiss, a ‘hello, dear’ type kiss, and he realises she is terribly needy and obsessive. ‘Mmmm?’ She raises her eyebrows. She wants a kiss, all right, and he can’t ignore her now. Her beseeching android head is almost comical in its desperation. ‘Kiss please, honey,’ she says, and now he gets it. She is being comical, playing the old and familiar girlfriend. He plants a dutiful kiss and heads up over the hill for the south coast, savouring the finish of the kiss on his lips. He’s happy, glad he picked her up now. They click. She’s genuine, and looks hot in the wig. ‘Let’s look at the storm’ is not what the IJA would want her to say if catching them having sex was their object. He has a lot to ask her but doesn’t know where to begin. The ferry, he decides, as they crest the hill and feel the force of the wind. A squall sets in as they descend to Lyall Bay. The wipers are on maximum and he slows to a crawl. Her face is illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming car. He stops to let the car pass and the light tracks slowly over her, dimmed and dappled by the rain on the windscreen. She was visible to the other driver. It’s exciting. He wonders if she feels it too. At Lyall Bay he turns right and within seconds the lights are behind them and they are burrowing into darkness with the car’s headlights. Ghostly surf rears up and spray lashes the window. ‘Oh,’ she says. He turns off the road, seemingly into the sea, and she cries out again. They are in a pitch black car park below the road, where stoners and couples come, right on the rocky shore. He turns the lights off and she claps. ‘Good spot.’ Rain drums on the roof and the windscreen.
‘I can’t run the heater in case the battery goes flat. Let’s get under the blanket in the back seat.’
‘Yes.’
They get out and she cries, ‘Oh, my wig!’ A brief struggle with the gale ensues and she manages to hold on to it. The air is raw. He catches a glimpse of white boiling surf rushing over jagged rocks before he ducks into the back seat, wet from only a second or two in the rain. Hitomi struggles to pull the door open. He pushes it out and she climbs in with a burst of rain. ‘Oh!’ The wig is lopsided and they laugh.
‘Quick, get under the blanket.’
She comes close and he puts his arm around her. Easy, he thinks. She wriggles a bit closer, a clear signal. He moves to kiss her and she responds. She’s into it, he thinks. Great.
‘I bought these jeans at a kids’ shop,’ she tells him in English as she pulls them back on. ‘And they’re still a bit loose. A size ten is way too big. Ha.’
‘Did you know that I’m the brother of Patrick Ipswitch, the Night Train, the sumo champion?’
‘No!’
‘Yes. He’s ten years older than me.’
‘Oh!’ Her smile flashes. ‘I used to watch the Night Train all the time in Japan. He was my favourite favourite. I wanted a poster of him, a really big one from the sports shop. I had it picked out and everything, but my father said no.’
‘Because the Night Train was a Kiwi?’
‘No, because I was a young lady.’ She laughs for the first time since he’s known her, a warm, full-bodied sound, quite unlike the fashionable high-pitched giggle of female Japanese teachers and students, and she makes no attempt to hide her mouth with her hand.
‘What did you do in Japan?’
‘Same as here. Remember?’
He remembers her introduction in class, which he regarded as fiction at the time. ‘Sell car parts?’
‘Yes, very good.’ She claps. ‘I make sure the Datsun franchises have all the parts they need. I travel a lot by car and mainly alone. That’s unusual, right? Drive around Wellington and the Hutt Valley, as far as Palmerston North. I’m the only travelling rep in the company who’s not a man.’
‘Not a man?’ He laughs. He slides his hand down her flat stomach. The jeans are loose at the top, the belt untied, and his hand has easy passage further down.
‘Hu
h.’ She leans back and slides her bum forward. He undoes the buttons and feels how wet she is through her underwear. ‘You talk to in-house mechanics and people like that?’
‘Yeah, their bosses. The head mechanic sometimes. Ha ha. Important guy.’
‘Why me?’ he asks, probing deeper.
‘Ha.’
‘Tell me.’
In reply she pulls her jeans and underwear down to her ankles to give him better access. She’s very wet. He starts to finger-fuck her.
‘Why me?’ he repeats.
‘Uh.’ She bites her lip.
He slows down. The clitoris is something of a mystery to him but he knows where hers is at least. He tries circling it with his thumb while continuing to finger-fuck her. Her hands stray up under her shirt and she squeezes her own nipples. Got it, he thinks. He can’t fucking believe how hot she is. She pauses to tug her jeans off. His own pants are still off. He lifts her onto his lap and slides the tip of his cock around teasingly, delaying the condom. ‘Do I need one?’ he asks her.
‘What?’
‘A condom.’
‘No.’
She straddles him and they are kissing, grinding slowly, when a light flares above on the road.
‘Stop.’
In an instant she’s off and sitting next to him. They pull up the blanket. The car turns and for a moment the backs of their heads are illuminated: his black buzzcut and her straight blond hair. They see each other in the dazzling slipping light. She’s his beautiful exotic partner in crime. The car keeps going. She gets back on top, the best position in the confined space.
‘Why me?’ he asks.
‘You’re a man.’
‘I have a pulse, you mean?’
‘In Japanese?’
‘My heart beats so I’m good enough?’
‘Huh, I mean, like a man should be, I think. Not a little angry man.’
‘I think you’re incredible.’
They don’t speak for a while.
‘Why did you come to New Zealand?’
‘To miss the winter.’
New Hokkaido Page 10
