by Sarah Lotz
DANIEL: What?
I didn’t tell Daniel about Ace’s transcript. It might be my way into speaking to Kenji Yanagida, it might not.
I know what you’re thinking: that I didn’t tell Daniel about it because it was my exclusive and I wanted to use it for my own ends–maybe shove it in another book. But again, I’m done with all that, Sam, I swear.
I didn’t do anything for the next few weeks. The world was holding its breath after that group of renegade End Timers tried to set fire to the al-Aqsa Mosque at the Temple Mount in another effort to step up the race to the Rapture. Not even I was stupid enough to fly to Asia on what could be the cusp of World War III.
And the news we were getting in from the States was just as depressing. I may have been sticking my head in the sand, but the reports of escalating attacks on gay teenagers; the mass closure of reproductive health clinics; the Internet blackouts; the GLAAD and Rationalist League leaders being apprehended under so-called state security laws, filtered through. There were anti-US protests in the UK, too. The UK was cutting its ties with Reynard’s regime, and MigrantWatch were campaigning to stem the tide of US émigrés. And I don’t want you to think I wasn’t worried about you. That’s all I thought about over the holiday season (I’m not going to whine about spending Thanksgiving alone in my freezing flat eating take-out jalfrezi). Thought of you when those UK celebs joined the US A-listers in their ‘Save Our Bill of Rights’ campaign–it would have brought out your cynical side. All the YouTube clips and supergroup iTunes songs in the world weren’t going to change the convictions of people who honestly believe that by wiping out ‘immorality’, they’ll be saving others from burning in hell for all eternity.
But I couldn’t let it go.
Remembering what Ace said about not dragging my feet, I called Daniel in early December and told him I needed help getting into Tokyo. He thought I was crazy, of course–his contract had just been cancelled (he said it was happening to Westerners all over Japan, ‘their way of saying we’re no longer welcome’). Even with my British passport, thanks to new regulations, I’d need a visa, a valid reason for travel and a Japanese citizen willing to stand as my sponsor and representative. He reluctantly said he’d ask one of his friends to help.
I tracked down Pascal de la Croix–Kenji’s old buddy–and begged him to ask Kenji to see me. I told him the truth–that I had new information regarding the Sun Air crash that Kenji needed to know. I told him I was flying into Tokyo especially to see him. Pascal was reluctant of course, but he finally agreed to email Kenji for me on the proviso that if I did get to see him, I wouldn’t publish anything about our meeting.
I reckon I checked my inbox about fifty times a day after that–filtering through the hate mail and spam–for a response.
It came through on the same day as my visa. An address, nothing more.
Sam, I’ll be honest. Before I left I took a long, hard look at myself. What the hell did I think I was doing? Didn’t following this up make me as crazy as the End Timers and the conspiracy freaks? And let’s say my batshit insane Kenji Yanagida wild-goose chase did lead me to Hiro. Say he was still alive and I managed to talk to him. And he told me that The Three were all possessed by the horsemen out of Revelation, or were all psycho aliens, or were three of the Four fucking Tops, what then? Did I have a duty to ‘let the truth be known’? And if I did, would it make any difference? Look what happened with the Kenneth Oduah scandal. Solid proof that his DNA results were faked, but still millions bought into Dr Lund’s bullshit that ‘it is God’s will that the fourth horseman may never be found’.
The flight was a nightmare. I got the total Pamela May Donald heebies before we even took off. Kept imagining how she must have felt in the minutes before her plane went down. I even found myself composing an isho in my head just in case. (I won’t embarrass you with it.) It didn’t help that half-an-hour into the flight, 90% of the other passengers (all Westerners, mostly Brits and Scandinavians) were already drunk. The guy next to me, some kind of IT specialist who was heading to Tokyo to help disband IBM’s Roppongi branch, filled me in on what to expect when we arrived. ‘See, it’s not that they’re openly hostile or anything like that, but it’s best to stay in the “Westerners’ section”–Roppongi and Roppongi hills. It’s not bad, lot of pubs.’ He downed his double JD and breathed bourbon fumes over me. ‘And who wants to hang out with the Japs anyway? I can show you around if you like.’ I declined, and thankfully he passed out shortly afterwards.
When we landed at Narita, we were funnelled to a special holding area where our passports and visas were scrutinised with forensic precision. Next, we were herded onto coaches. At first, I couldn’t see any signs that Japan was heading, like the rest of the world, towards economic collapse. It was only as we cruised over the bridge that led into the heart of the city, that I realised the trademark billboards, signage, and even the Tokyo Tower were only half-illuminated.
Daniel met me at the hotel the next day, and painstakingly wrote down step-by-step directions describing how to get to Kenji’s address in Kanda. As it’s in the old part of the city and outside the Westerners’ Approved areas he suggested that I hide my hair, wear glasses and cover my face with a surgical flu mask. It seemed a bit over-the-top, but while he assured me that he doubted I’d run into trouble, he said it was best not to draw too much attention to myself.
Sam, I’m exhausted, and I have a big day ahead of me. It’s getting light now, but I have one last scene to relate. I haven’t had time to transcribe my conversation with Kenji Yanagida–I only saw him yesterday–so you’re getting it in Proper Writing.
Without Daniel’s detailed directions, I would have been lost within seconds. Kanda–a labyrinth of criss-crossing streets lined with tiny restaurants, minuscule book stores and smoke-filled coffee shops packed with black-suited salarymen–was bewildering after Roppongi’s comparatively soulless Western-style architecture. I followed the directions to a narrow alley teeming with overcoated people, their faces hidden behind scarves or flu masks. I paused outside a door set between a tiny shop selling plastic baskets of dried fish and one displaying several framed paintings of children’s hands, and checked the kanji on the sign outside it against the lettering Daniel had written out for me. Heart in my mouth, I pressed the intercom button.
‘Hai?’ a man’s voice barked.
‘Kenji Yanagida?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Elspeth Martins. Pascal de la Croix put me in touch with you.’
After a beat, the door clicked open.
I stepped into a corridor that stank of mildew, and with no other option, started down a short stairway. It ended at an anonymous, half-open door. I pushed through it and into a large cluttered workshop. A small group of people were hanging around in the centre of the room. Then my brain hitched (Sam–I can’t think of another way to put it) and it hit me that these weren’t people after all, but surrabots.
I counted six of them–three women, two men and (horribly) a child, propped up on stands, the halogen lights bouncing off their waxy skin and too-shiny eyes. There were several more sitting on plastic chairs and frayed armchairs in a gloomy corner–one even had its legs crossed in an obscenely human pose.
Kenji stepped out from behind a worktop covered in wires, computer screens and soldering equipment. He looked a decade older and twenty kilos lighter than on his YouTube clips–the skin around his eyes was creased; his high cheekbones looked as prominent as a skull’s.
Without greeting me, he said: ‘What information do you have for me?’
I told him about Ace’s confession and handed him a copy of the transcript. He scanned it without any change in expression, then folded it and slid it into his pocket. ‘Why did you bring this to me?’
‘I thought you had a right to know the truth. Your wife and son were on that plane.’
‘Thank you.’
He stared at me for several seconds, and I got the impression he could see straight throu
gh me.
I gestured at the surrabots. ‘What are you doing here? Are these for the Cult of Hiro?’
He grimaced. ‘No. I am making replicas for people. Mostly Koreans. Replicas of the loved ones they have lost.’ His eyes strayed to a pile of wax masks lying on the bench. Death masks.
‘Like the one you made of Hiro?’ He flinched (who can blame him? It was hardly a sensitive thing to say). ‘Yanagida-san… your son, Hiro… when he was killed, was it you who identified him?’
I steeled myself for a barrage of invective. But instead he said: ‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to ask this… it’s just there are rumours that maybe he isn’t… maybe he…’
‘My son is dead. I saw his body. Is that what you wanted to know?’
‘And Chiyoko?’
‘Is this why you came? To ask me about Hiro and Chiyoko?’
‘Yes. But the transcript–that’s the truth. You have my word on that.’
‘Why do you want to know about Chiyoko?’
I decided to tell him the truth. I suspected he would see straight through bullshit. ‘I’m following a series of leads regarding The Three. They led me to you.’
‘I cannot help you. Please leave.’
‘Yanagida-san, I have come a long way—’
‘Why can you not leave this be?’
I could see the grief in his eyes. I’d pushed him too far, and to be honest, I was disgusted with myself. I turned to leave, but as I did, I spied a surrabot in a darkened corner, half-hidden behind the facsimile of a corpulent man. She sat in her own private area, a serene figure dressed in a white kimono. She was the only one who appeared to be breathing. ‘Yanagida-san… is that the copy of your wife? Hiromi?’
A long pause, then: ‘Yes.’
‘She was beautiful.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yanagida-san, did she… did she leave a message? An isho, like some of the other passengers?’ I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to know.
‘Jukei. She’s there.’
For a second I thought he meant his wife. Then it clicked. ‘She? You mean Chiyoko?’
‘Hai.’
‘The forest? Aokigahara?’
A minuscule nod.
‘Where in the forest?’
‘I don’t know.’
I wasn’t going to press my luck any further. ‘Thank you, Yanagida-san.’
As I made my way back to the staircase, he said: ‘Wait.’ I turned to face him. His expression remained as unreadable as the surrabot next to him. Then he said: ‘Hiromi. In her message, she said, “Hiro is gone.” ’
So that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. I have no idea why Kenji told me the content of his wife’s isho. Maybe he really was grateful for the transcript; maybe, like Ace, he thinks that there’s no point keeping it to himself any more.
Maybe he was lying.
I’d better send this now. The wifi here is crap–got to go down to the lobby to do it. The forest is going to be cold–it’s starting to snow.
Sam–I’m aware that the chances you’ve actually read this are slim, but just so you know, I’ve decided I’m coming back home after this. Back to NYC–if the governor isn’t bullshitting about holding a referendum for secession, I want to be there. I’m not going to run away any more. I hope you’ll be there, Sam.
I love you,
Ellie
HOW IT ENDS
Elspeth’s disguise of sunglasses and the now slightly soggy flu mask is just as effective in the suburbs as it was in the city–so far, none of her fellow passengers have spared her a second glance. But as she alights at Otsuki–a rickety station that looks like it’s stuck in the 1950s–a uniformed man barks something at her. She feels a momentary panic, then realises he’s only asking for her ticket. Stupid. She bobs her head, hands it over and he waves her towards an elderly locomotive waiting at an adjacent platform. A whistle blows and she scrambles on board, relieved that the carriage is empty. She sinks onto the bench seat and tries to relax. As the train jolts, shudders, then finds its stride, she looks through grimed windows onto snow-dusted fields, slope-roofed wooden houses and a series of small frozen allotments, barren but for a crop of ice-rotten cabbages. Icy air seeps through cracks in the train’s sides; a light drift of snow brushes against the windows. She reminds herself that there are fourteen stops to Kawaguchiko–the end of the line.
She concentrates on the clack of the wheels; tries not to think too deeply about where she’s headed. At the third stop, a man with a face as rumpled as his clothes climbs into her carriage, and she stiffens as he chooses the seat opposite hers. She prays that he won’t try to engage her in conversation. He grunts, digs in a large shopping bag, and hauls out a packet of what look to be giant nori rolls. He stuffs one in his mouth, then offers her the bag. Deciding that it would be rude to refuse, she murmurs ‘Arigato,’ and takes one. Instead of rice encased in seaweed, she bites into some sort of light crispy candy that tastes of Splenda. She takes her time eating it in case he offers her another (she’s already nauseous) then drops her head as if she’s taking a nap. It’s only partly an act; she’s exhausted after a sleepless night.
When she next looks up, she’s stunned to see a giant roller-coaster filling the window, its rusting frame shaggy with icicle teeth. It must be attached to one of the now-defunct Mount Fuji resorts Daniel told her about; an incongruous dinosaur stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Last stop.
Giving her an enormous smile that makes her feel guilty for pretending to sleep, the old man departs. She hangs back, then follows him across the tracks and into the deserted station, a wooden structure clad in shiny pine that looks as if it would be more at home in an Alpine ski resort. Hurdy-gurdy music plays from somewhere, loud enough to follow her when she exits into the station forecourt. The tourist booth to her right has the aura of a mausoleum, but she spies a single taxi parked next to a bus stop, smoke pouring out of its exhaust.
She digs out the scrap of paper on which Daniel had (reluctantly) written her destination, folds it around a ten thousand yen note and approaches the car. She hands it to the driver, who shows no emotion as he glances at it. He nods, tucks the money into his jacket and stares straight ahead. The taxi’s interior reeks of stale cigarette smoke and despair. How many people has this man ferried to the forest, knowing that more than likely they wouldn’t be returning? The driver guns the engine before she’s even managed to secure her seat belt, and whips through the deserted village. Most of the stores are boarded up; the gas station pumps are padlocked. They pass a single vehicle–an empty school bus.
Within minutes they’re skirting a wide glassy lake, and Elspeth has to cling to the door handle as the driver throws the car around the narrow road’s curves; clearly he’s as keen to be done with the journey as she is. She takes in the sagging skeleton of a large shrine, a forest of neglected grave markers in front of it; a row of rotting kayaks and the burned limbs of several holiday shacks peeking gamely through the snow. Mount Fuji looms in the background, mist cloaking its top.
They leave the lake behind, and the driver swings onto a deserted highway before turning sharply and speeding down a narrower road, lumped with snow and slick with ice. The forest creeps up around them. She knows it has to be Aokigahara–she recognises the bulbous roots that sit above the forest floor’s volcanic base. They pass several snow-shrouded cars abandoned by the side of the road. In one, she’s almost certain she can discern the shape of a slumped figure behind the wheel.
The taxi driver spins the car into a parking lot and jerks to a stop next to a low shuttered building that screams neglect. He points to a wooden sign strung across a pathway that leads into the forest.
There are several vehicle-shaped humps here, too.
How in the hell is she going to get back to the station? There’s a bus stop on the other side of the road, but who knows if they’re even running?
The driver taps the steering-wheel impatiently.
Elspeth has no
choice but to try to communicate with him. ‘Um… do you know where I might find Chiyoko Kamamoto? She lives around here.’
He shakes his head. Points at the forest again.
What now? What the fuck did she expect to find? Chiyoko waiting for her in a limousine? She should have listened to Daniel. This was a mistake. But she’s here now–what would be the point of going back to Tokyo without exploring all her options? She knows there are villages around here. She’ll have to make her way to one of them if the buses aren’t running. She murmurs, ‘Arigato,’ but the driver doesn’t respond. He accelerates away the second she closes the back door.
She stands still for several seconds, letting the silence settle around her. Glances at the pathway’s dark mouth. Shouldn’t the hungry spirits who lurk in the forest be attempting to lure her into the trees by now? After all, she thinks, they target the vulnerable and damaged, don’t they? And what is she if not vulnerable and damaged?
Ridiculous.
Trying not to look too closely at the abandoned vehicles, she picks her way through several deep drifts, and heads towards the snow-covered mounds, which are arranged in a circle in front of the building. She’s read that there are several memorials to the crash victims in the area, and she brushes ice crystals from the top of one of them, revealing a wooden marker. Behind it, partially hidden behind another drift, she spots the shape of a Western-style cross. Elspeth wipes away the snow, the melting ice starting to seep through her gloves, and reads the words, ‘Pamela May Donald. Never Forget.’ She wonders if Captain Seto has a marker here; she’s heard that despite the evidence, some of the passengers’ families still blamed him for what happened. Perhaps that really would have been a story worth pursuing. Untold Stories from Black Thursday. Sam was right: she is so full of shit.
A voice behind her makes her jump. She whirls, sees a stooped figure in a bright red windbreaker trudging towards her from behind the building. He snarls something at her.
There’s no point hiding. She whips off her sunglasses, the light making her blink.
