Some time passes, I don’t know how long. A large man in a mask brushes past me. He is wearing a grey-green pinstripe suit and carries a walking stick like it’s a fashion accessory. He has bright pink socks, and dyed red hair, but he stares at me. I’m the one who doesn’t belong. I run, turn right up the hill, away from the Shibuya station, go left past a shop selling lace-up boots painted with Union Jacks, then past the museum of salt and tobacco before I slow down to catch my breath. The joke I’d shared with Steve, the ridiculousness of a museum dedicated to salt and tobacco, doesn’t seem funny any more. A waitress is wiping the table outside a café where me and Steve would sit watching the world. I nod to her like an old friend. She had served us every Sunday for the last six months that we’d been going out, but today she doesn’t even notice me.
I look down at my leather boots. Without Steve, who else can I turn to? I know the answer, but I don’t want to admit it.
I walk on, further away from the centre of Shibuya, north towards Yoyogi Park, letting my feet take me wherever. Past the impossibly expensive clothes boutiques, through back roads that end suddenly in a jumble of apartment buildings, Black Cat delivery depots and abandoned shopping bicycles chained to poles. When I’m in Shibuya with Steve, every street is unique, bustling with life and colour, funny half-English signs or half-crazy businesses, but now, alone, one street looks much like another.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking or where I am, except it’s nowhere I’ve been with Steve. I walk too close to the shops. The great automatic glass doors slide open and my ears are blasted by assistants screaming their welcomes at me. I retrace my steps as best I can until I hit a main road and head up the hill. The streets are crowded even as I walk further away from Shibuya Station. But I like it better this way, with people around. I keep my eyes down, but scour the pavements. If I move and stay out of other people’s line of sight, maybe I’ll be OK. I’m at the top of the hill and near the police station again.
The crowd begins to thin out. I see a sign in English for Yoyogi Park and follow it along a two-lane road thick with traffic. An old man is walking backwards down the hill. I have to get out of his way, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. I watch him continue down the street. How will he cross the road? I follow his movements down the hill. In every case a pedestrian darts out of his way. A woman with a chihuahua in a pushchair walks out onto the street. A girl looking at a smartphone sidesteps him without a moment’s hesitation. And further down the hill in the distance I spot a big man wearing a mask and carrying a walking stick. And he has pink socks.
CHAPTER FIVE
I turn down the first side street and slip through the backstreets. Can’t be sure if he knows I saw him, I don’t want to stare or tip him off that I have. There’s no mistaking his stick and his mask. A pair of pink socks could be a coincidence. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but given the pink socks, the mask and the stick, this seems unlikely.
Now I’m close to Yoyogi Park. In front of me is a building that looks like an old cinema in the centre of a car park. I run over the asphalt and go in the first entrance. I don’t think the masked man has seen me, but there is no way to be sure. I dart into the first door. An ugly squiggle and the letters NHK. This must be where they film all the boring stuff that goes on the TV.
Maybe a few hundred old people are standing in the lobby, two old men are sitting on bar stools on a stage, chatting on microphones. They are on a stage all lit up. The crowd stand in their coats to watch the conversation. The celebrities on stools keep talking to themselves and don’t seem to notice that there are hundreds of old people standing around watching them. They could just as well have missed their last train home and been sitting on bar stools in a hole-in-the-wall salaryman bar in Shimbashi killing time before the morning trains start up again, but for the stage make-up and bright lights. One of them must be 80 years old. His eyes blink in the glare of a spotlight.
A bronzed old man is talking loudly to the blinking one. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him on TV telling celebrities that they were the Queen of Sheba or Napoleon Bonaparte in a previous life. It’s amazing how many celebrities on his show were famous people in their past lives, though they never seem to be that surprised by it. I wonder how the Queen of Sheba feels about being a daytime soap-opera star now, or what it must be like for Napoleon to be reborn as a Japanese TV talent who spends his days marvelling at how delicious bowls of ramen are. There’s no understanding the gods, Aunt Tanaka says.
I push my way through the crowd. Half of them are wearing masks. Can’t see what colour their socks are. I walk past a TV screen that displays my face. I try to work out where the camera must be. When I stare at the screen it shows my profile. My hair is matted, my face is dirty and I look old, like I’m 25. I don’t want to be on TV. I hate TV. What the hell was I thinking coming in here? I turn and walk back toward the entrance, but a hand comes out and a smiling girl shakes her hand at me. The entrance is not an exit.
I turn back and storm through the route laid out for visitors. A black-and-white volleyball match with girls in bob haircuts is on a screen. Is this what mum grew up watching? Did she look like this when she was my age? A black-and-white man is being mauled by puppets. A placard below the screen says 1959. I see a TV camera from 1969. It has English writing on it printed in white on little black plastic strips. There is a typical Japanese living room of the time. Six tatami mats, a square coffee table on wooden coasters, and flowery cushions that look too thin to stop the criss-cross pattern of the floor mats from marking your thighs. It looks just like Uncle Kentaro’s place does now, except he has a giant plasma TV, not a black-and-white machine. Also, he doesn’t have any cushions to speak of or any kind of table. Just a Mini hubcap that he uses as an ashtray.
Then I find myself in a room with TV screens filling the whole of one wall. All the TVs are linked like a mosaic that shows the story of one massive picture of Tokyo Skytree rising from nothing to be the biggest, baddest tower in all the world. Or Japan at least. Children play in a street, and in the distance Skytree towers over them. I feel dizzy.
I hurry on into the bowels of the building, walking along white corridors. On the right are white walls, on the left, four studios with glass sound-proof windows. The doors are locked but inside each studio is an audience on foldout chairs with their backs to the windows all watching the star of the show — a woman I’d never seen before, shiny with make-up and in a pink kimono with a green belt.
She starts singing. But out here in the corridor it’s soundless. She moves her mouth and I think of carp gasping for breath and bread crumbs. I can see the bald patches of the men watching her. No one is paying any attention to us folk who have wandered in from the street.
The passageway turns into a spiral and goes into the depths of the building. Kids run everywhere. They are touching TVs on the wall. I guess it’s exciting if you have never seen a smartphone before. Their parents look bored. Finally there is a way out, via the coffee and gift shop. I see no one with pink socks or round masks.
The exit’s on a different side of the block. I’m completely turned around, but what must be Yoyogi Park is across a four-lane road. But a hundred metres away on this side is a convenience store. I run in. I slide off an elastic band from one of the sexy magazines by the toilet and use it to tie my hair in a bun. Then I skip into the toilets to wash my face and hands. I’m ready to meet Uncle Kentaro. Almost. I buy a can of beer for him and a hot can of royal milk tea and a salmon rice ball for me. The guy behind the counter smiles at me. He says something in Japanese, I smile back, but I don’t catch what he’s saying. He’s about my age, maybe a year older. He doesn’t look me in the eye, like he’s afraid of what I might do. But he’s not scared to speak to me. I have the wrapping off and rice ball in my mouth before I’m out the door. But I have made a terrible mistake. It’s not salmon, but natto, fermented soybeans, in the rice ball. The smell, like unwashed trainers in the summer, burns the back of my throat and I break int
o a run out of the shop. I spit my mouthful into the burnable bin and toss the plastic wrapping in the third bin along outside the store for unburnable rubbish. I down the can of sweet tea and throw it in the second bin along for aluminium.
I go back in to the convenience store and when the clerk has his back to me, I pocket a salmon rice ball. I walk back out and the clerk’s eyes catch mine. If he saw me take the rice ball he doesn’t say anything, but my cheeks flush scarlet. I just did something to save money that I might desperately need, but it feels wrong. I toss the salmon rice ball uneaten into the burnable bin and keep walking.
I walk along the main road, expecting the clerk to run after me, but he doesn’t. I don’t feel like eating anything now. Across the road in the entrance to the park, a man and two women are dancing to rock ’n’ roll guitar music that blares out above the drone of the traffic.
I need to get across the road but there’s no break in the traffic. A pastel green metal pedestrian bridge that is more rust brown than anything else offers the only way over.
I curse my luck, but I have to get to the other side to see Uncle Kentaro, and the longer I hang around in the open, the sooner the masked man might show up. I force myself up the first two steps. My legs lose all power and my hands start to sweat. I’m holding on for dear life and I’m only three steps off the ground. I know what’s coming. A single walkway in a steel cage suspended above four lanes of Tokyo traffic. I close my eyes. I have to do this. I push on up another four steps. If I don’t look I can do it, one step at a time. I concentrate on breathing. And then my foot doesn’t hit any more steps and I know that I’m at the top. I’m on the bridge. I just have to push myself forward and not look down. Both hands are on the rusting rails that run along the side of the bridge. I can’t breathe. The taxis and trucks speed beneath my feet. I know in my head that I’m supported by a steel cage, that there really isn’t any danger of falling to my death, but my heart doesn’t know that.
I stop.
All I can do is pant. Then the bridge starts to rattle and sway. Someone is coming up the steps behind me. Jumping up two steps at a time. The vibrations of the steps ripple through the bridge. How strong is it really? It probably hasn’t been checked for earthquake safety since it was built. When was that? 1950? The ripples spread to my legs like how an earthquake starts as just a little wobble but then ends in death. Someone is right behind me, if it’s the masked man, I have nothing to stop him. This is it. A hand reaches out and touches my fingers. I scream.
I hear a girl’s voice, speaking Japanese. It’s not the masked man. It’s a girl. Concern in her voice. She tugs at my hand gently and pulls me along the bridge. I still daren’t open my eyes but my breathing is under control. She’s a little girl going to the park. I tell myself, I’m a little girl just going to the park too. She pulls and my body follows. Then she holds out a hand, and I stop. She says something then I hear the tinny sound of metal as her shoes hit the steps. We have made it to the other side. I let go of her and grasp the railing on the steps with both hands. She skips ahead and when I know I’m on solid ground, when I feel concrete beneath my feet, I know I can open my eyes. I want to thank her. When I do open my eyes, the girl is gone. But I’m on the other side of the bridge.
A woman in 1950s dress, a black-and-white polka-dot dress and flowing red petticoat, is spinning around to rock ’n’ roll music. She has black gloves on and red high heels. Another woman, wearing a leopard-skin dress and a blue petticoat, is clapping along, while the guy with slick black hair, red jacket and blue jeans is strutting about. They must be in their fifties. It’s a grey day, but he’s wearing sunglasses. A small crowd of teenagers is watching. A boy gets out his phone to take a picture, laughing and shouting “O-jisan, cheezu!”
The rocker turns to him with a sneer, wags his finger “no”. The boy fires off a shot on his phone anyway. The flash flickers in the gloom. The last picture his phone takes is of the rocker’s hand as it comes down in a karate chop. The phone flies out of his hands and smashes into three pieces on the ground.
The boy’s mouth opens and there is a moment when he must make a decision. But he says nothing, the look in the rocker’s eye is enough to convince him that he can do nothing.
The woman in red keeps spinning and the leopard-skin lady claps along to the music as if no one is watching.
The boy scoops the pieces of the phone off the ground as his friends laugh. They jostle past me onto the bridge. The boy is whining, but the others are careful to keep their voices out of range of the rocker.
The music finishes. The rocker turns to the amplifier. I step up and shout out: “O-jisan, cheezu!”
He spins on his heel and puts his weight on his back foot, his hand flies forward, ready to land a punch, but it just ruffles my hair.
“Hana.”
“Uncle Kentaro, I thought you were too old for cosplay?”
“We play roles throughout our life. Better to choose one yourself than have it thrust upon you.”
I smile, but I don’t really feel any joy. “I don’t know what you mean. I need your help. I have a big problem.”
He looks at me, but I can’t read his face. We stand staring at each other not saying anything, then he nods to the two women. He grunts a few words and the leopard-skin woman turns the music off. He walks away into the park. The women stare at me. I’m lost. But the only person who can help is walking away from me.
I run after him.
“Please. I brought you something.”
“Great. What is it, a letter you want me to translate? A rental agreement you want me to sign for you? A character reference? It’s all a bit late for that, isn’t it, Hana?”
I look down at my feet. There is nothing I can say. So I hand him the bag from the convenience store. The can is stuck to the inside of the bag and you can see the words “Premium” and “Malts.”
Uncle Kentaro peels back the plastic bag, and sighs. “A peace offering? You’ve made it clear what you think of Aunt Tanaka and I and living in Japan. Good luck in England, but we’ve already said our goodbyes. Don’t prolong the pain.”
I clear my throat. “Something has happened that I don’t understand. It’s important. Please listen to me.”
Uncle Kentaro’s shoulders sag. He looks more like 90 than 50 or 60.
“There’s a bench over there. Let’s sit. You can talk while I drink,” he says.
When we are sitting next to each other, he peels the beer out of the plastic bag wet with condensation and pops the tab. He takes a big gulp. “Well? Start talking.”
This isn’t going well. I remember now that you are supposed to start with small talk. But I don’t have anything small to say.
Two more gulps and he’ll be finished with his beer and my time will be up. “Your wig suits you.”
He smiles at least. He removes the quiff and underneath is the shaven head of the Shinto priest. He rotates the wig in one hand and sips from the can in the other.
“Is this about you and that Englishman you’re running off with?”
“Yes. I mean no, I’m not running off with anyone, but yes, it’s about him.”
“Let me guess. He’s disappeared?”
I look at my feet.
“I knew it, Hana. I knew it. He’s not good for you, he’s not reliable. You should come back and live with us again, forget these silly plans to run off to London. If you’d only listened to your Aunt Tanaka…”
“She’s not my real aunt.”
“And I’m not your real uncle. Tell me something new.”
He sips his beer.
I tell Uncle Kentaro about Detective Watanabe. I tell him about Steve’s body being found on the Omiya Express Line. I tell him about all his stuff being thrown out. Through it all, I can’t tell if Uncle Kentaro is paying attention. He swills the beer around in the can. He looks bored. Then he takes the last gulp and looks at me, shrugs his shoulders like there is nothing more to be done or said.
“What game are
you trying to play, Hana? What are you up to now?”
“Nothing. I’m just trying to find out what is going on.”
I write A .O. I. A. O. I. on the back of the beer receipt.
“Do you know what that means?”
He studies it.
“It means you bought a natto rice ball and a can of beer…”
“The other side.”
Uncle Kentaro turns the receipt over and looks at the letters. He sucks air through his teeth.
He crushes the empty can under his foot.
“And the detective asked me about the same letters, so I don’t know where to start. What?”
Uncle Kentaro is not moving. He’s stopped blinking. “What trouble have you got yourself into now?” He fumbles around in his pockets. He brings out a hand cloth, wipes it around his face and hands and puts it away.
“No.”
“No? What do you mean, Uncle Kentaro?”
“I mean no. No, you don’t start anything. You don’t get involved. It’s not too late to move in with me again. I can help you get back on your feet. We can work on your Japanese, and get you speaking fluently, the way you used to. I can teach you my guaranteed winning kendo move and you can carry on with your life, without these dreams of going to England.”
“But what about Steve?”
Uncle Kentaro sighs a heavy sigh. “What about Steve? He either got drunk and fell in front of a train. End of story. Or the cops got the wrong man and in fact he faked it so he could run away with another girl. Who knows why? Either way, you are better off without him. Stop this fantasy of moving to London and face reality.”
If this was a film, Uncle Kentaro would hug me and tell me everything would be all right, just believe in yourself and anything is…
Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2) Page 3
