‘Tell them I’m with a guest and I’ll call them right back,’ said Pierre, smiling weakly as Wesker ushered him through the doorway.
‘But sir, it concerns the inspector, Ms. Rundleford…’
‘All the more reason why it can wait,’ said Viola, glaring. It was just the two of them left in the corridor. ‘Now run along and keep them busy until we get back, will you, dear?’
Viola had the sort of smile to which it was difficult to say no. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you were scared she might use it to bite your face off if you did.
‘Yes, Miss Kadwell,’ squeaked Ashley, looking at her shoes.
Viola spun around and followed Pierre and Wesker through the open door, slamming it shut behind her. Ashley was left all alone in the hall. She waited ten seconds, then twenty. When they still hadn’t returned after a full minute she gave up, and began the long walk back down to reception, pausing only to wonder where all the lamps in the hall had gone.
And that is when things started to get really weird.
Chapter Five
It was the beginning of a dark storm under which a thousand umbrellas unfolded. Wet strips of stark neon glared through the downpour and tween music videos screamed out from billboards upon the dozens of storeys above. Steam rose up from the grates beneath people’s feet. The air was full with the sweet smell of candy floss.
Not that Pierre, Viola or Wesker had noticed any of this yet.
As Pierre had alluded to when opening the door to Japan a second time, travelling with a golden key is not an exact science. It can be done with pinpoint accuracy, if one is a.) experienced enough and b.) extremely familiar with wherever it is he or she wants to end up. Pierre rarely ever had trouble getting back to Le Petit Monde, for example (though he did once find himself on the wrong side of one of the kitchen’s freezers). But arriving in the exact right time and place is like trying to BASE jump into the passenger seat of a speeding convertible… with its roof up.
Which is why instead of emerging through another door in the same warehouse, the trio found themselves stumbling out into a particularly cramped storage closet.
‘Wow, I can’t imagine how you’d go about squeezing half a dozen gangsters in here,’ Viola said with a deadpan face, coming to an abrupt stop behind Pierre. ‘Must have been very cosy.’
‘Very funny,’ Pierre winced through gritted teeth. He was hunched over, clutching at his stomach. The whiskey was threatening to travel to a whole new dimension of its own. ‘I got us halfway around the planet, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, but which way?’ asked Wesker. He was sandwiched between a broom and a battered filing cabinet, and looked about as stiff as both.
‘It wouldn’t matter which way you went, if you stopped halfway round,’ grumbled Pierre, standing up straight. He looked around at the small room in which they found themselves. Everything was labelled in Japanese, which was promising if a little confusing. Cardboard boxes were piled up into walls to either side of them; plastic bags full of sweets like rainbow marbles spilled out from their open tops. An old and empty postcard rack lay dormant in the corner. A poster for a Shinto shrine somewhere in the city was taped onto the back of the door behind them.
‘Come on,’ he said, squeezing past Viola and stepping over a box that had toppled over in the wake of their arrival. ‘Let’s find out which ward we’re in.’
He cracked the door open as quietly as he could. All three of their heads peeked through the gap.
It was a shop. A convenience store, to be precise. Uncomfortable white light buzzed out from strips in the ceiling whilst darkness leaked through the wet windows from the street outside. Saccharine J-pop tinkled quietly from somewhere towards the checkout. A refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottles of water hummed. On the shelves nearest to them were an assortment of little tuna rice triangles in green wrappers and a mountain of matcha Baumkuchen, all priced in Yen.
‘I think we’re safe to go,’ whispered Viola. They stepped back so Pierre could pull the door open further, then all three of them walked into the store with as much casual nonchalance as they could muster.
An elderly Japanese man looked up at them from behind the counter. He glanced over to the front door of his shop. It was closed; the bell hadn’t rung. He looked back at the three strange, foreign individuals walking down the aisle between the shelves. They looked lost. They certainly hadn’t entered his store before leaving, like most customers did. His mind debated becoming seriously confused but decided it wasn’t worth the headache, so he welcomed them with a smiling nod instead.
‘Konnichiwa,’ said Pierre, exhausting his grasp of the local language. The three of them stood aside whilst a woman and her five-year-old son came plodding through the door, then filed out quickly.
The sound of the rain almost drowned out the honking of the traffic and the rumble of a thousand shoes hammering upon the pavement. At least the air was warm.
They lingered under the shop’s awning. Pierre waited for Viola and Wesker to get everything out of their respective systems.
‘You told me we were going to another country,’ said Viola, staring up at the garish neon logos flashing on top of the building across the street from them. ‘You didn’t tell me we were going to another time.’
‘Well, technically we’re about twenty minutes in the past,’ replied Pierre.
A troupe of teenage boys were dancing and singing on a giant screen a little ways down the street, but their song could be heard as clearly as if it were playing out of the shop’s stereo. Each kid had been exploded up to the size of a double-decker bus.
Pierre did not like the song. Viola was tapping her foot along to its beat.
‘It’s very… busy,’ grumbled Wesker.
‘Very astute,’ replied Pierre. ‘Any other observations?’
‘It’s very loud.’
He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just the heavy rain or the foot traffic or even the band playing on the giant television screen - everything seemed to scream with a luminous enthusiasm. There were other billboards with voiceovers that advertised department stores and deodorants. Jingly arcade soundtracks drifted out from some buildings; jangly anime themes blasted out from others. A young woman in a frilly pink maid’s uniform was handing out leaflets to passers-by, shouting out the same Japanese slogan time and time again.
‘Wait, why is it so dark?’ asked Viola, her eyes devouring every inch of the world in front of her.
‘Because Japan’s eight or nine hours ahead,’ said Pierre, absent-mindedly. He was looking up and down the street for any sign of a warehouse, and not having much luck. ‘It’s dinner-time here.’
‘But I didn’t even get a chance to eat breakfast,’ sighed Viola. ‘Look, there’s a place selling chocolate fish right over there.’
‘We don’t have any money,’ snapped Pierre. Viola stopped pointing. ‘Nor do we have the time! We need to find out where that damn warehouse is before the Yakuza gun that poor Ms. Rundleford down. Or did you forget why we came here?’
‘Watch your tongue before I cut it out, boy,’ snapped Viola, folding her arms. ‘Just thought we could have some fun in the meantime. Besides, rescuing is hard on an empty stomach.’
‘Well the good news,’ replied Pierre, choosing to ignore her, ‘is that it looks to me like we’re in Akihabara. That’s where we wanted to end up,’ he added, catching Wesker’s furrowed brow. ‘It’s one of Tokyo’s city districts. Now we just need to work out where to go from here.’
He stood there, under the sound of rain hammering against the plastic awning, thinking.
‘I know somewhere where we might find some help,’ he said, eventually. ‘And maybe even some food, too. It’s close. Follow me.’
‘We don’t have umbrellas,’ said Wesker.
‘I suppose that means we’ll get wet,’ laughed Viola, following Pierre out into the rain.
‘What, in God’s holy name, is that?’
It hadn’t taken long
for the questions to start.
‘That, Viola,’ sighed Pierre, stopping outside yet another shop window, ‘is a poster of a cartoon girl.’
‘She isn’t wearing many clothes.’
‘No, she isn’t.’
‘And she doesn’t seem to be very happy about it.’
‘I can’t imagine she is.’
One of the shop’s assistants had come out to the front and was excitedly beckoning them all inside. Wesker was tapping at his watch. At least someone had a sense of urgency.
‘Come on, Viola,’ said Pierre, taking her hand and pulling her away from the window. ‘There’s a lot here that’s going to confuse you if you think too hard about it. Just over there is a tombola full of fruit-themed hats for cats. They’ve got robots that can walk up stairs. And that man there’s got a stall full of battered squid on sticks.’
‘Squid on a stick?’ Viola’s eyes lit up. ‘Reminds me of jellied eels. Damn, I miss home sometimes.’
‘It’s not far to where we’re headed,’ said Pierre, leading her towards Wesker, whose moustache was being laughed at by a bunch of passing school children. ‘We’ll find you something to eat that isn’t still wriggling.’
‘Are you sure we’re not lost?’ asked Wesker. The rain had plastered his hair to his forehead and his shirt clung to him like film. ‘It’s just I could have sworn we passed the exact same giant, flashy video game advert a couple of minutes back.’
‘Nope, not lost,’ reiterated Pierre. ‘I’ve just taken us the long way around, that’s all. The direct route would have meant going straight through the market, and there’s no way we would have managed that without either getting separated or coming out at the completely wrong end of town. It’s enough of a maze in the daytime as it is.’
They came to a four-way crossing. Crowds were building up on each side, waiting for the lights to change.
‘This way,’ said Pierre, taking them away from the canopy of umbrellas and down a quieter street to the right. ‘A minute more, tops.’
‘Don’t see why we couldn’t have just used another door,’ grumbled Wesker. ‘Would have saved us from getting so goddamn wet.’
‘And risk me accidentally taking us somewhere even further from where we’re trying to go? No thanks. Better to be safe than sorry.’
‘Pfft.’ Viola blew a raspberry. ‘I’ve always found living dangerously with no regrets to be a far more, let us say… profitable approach.’
This new street was far more subdued than the last. The buildings were shorter, and built more from brick than steel and glass. Skinny bicycles with baskets in front of their handlebars were chained to railings and street lamps. A young couple stood outside a hole in the wall, chatting and eating steaming bowls of noodles. Something was sizzling in a pan. The smell was strong enough to make Pierre’s stomach grumble.
It was a modest street. One building stood out, however.
It was taller than the rest - eight storeys - and it stretched as far in width as it did in height. One had to assume it ran even deeper back from the street than first appeared to the eye; being but homes and garages and small businesses, the neighbouring houses were much smaller. The walls were made up of hundreds of rectangular tiles. Glass windows ran along its front like a visor. Above its automatic front doors was a concrete overhang, onto which were bolted the polished, golden words:
Chiisana Sekai.
‘It’s a hotel,’ beamed Pierre. ‘One of our hotels.’
‘Do they have a particularly awful warehouse for a basement?’ asked Viola, her eyebrows drawing closer together. ‘Or a strong connection to the Yakuza?’
‘No, but their concierge should have a pretty good grasp of the local area,’ Pierre replied, throwing her a look. ‘An excellent grasp, one would hope. It’s part of the job. With any luck, he or she will know what we’re looking for.’
‘Why couldn’t you have just brought us here in the first place?’ said Wesker, turning around slowly, looking as if somebody had dumped a bucket of water over his head.
‘I didn’t think about it, alright? It’s not like I’ve ever been here before. I only remembered it was in the area when we were back at the shop, wondering where to look.’
‘How do you even know about this place?’ asked Viola, looking up at the hotel through the rain. ‘It’s not exactly a piece of prime real estate.’
‘When Mahieu first joined Le Petit Monde he went on a tour of all the different branches. He loved the Mexico City hotel. Didn’t last so long at this one.’
‘Uh oh. What happened?’
‘He saw them preparing calamari. Said it was a crime against hu… well, not humanity, but against whatever his species is.’
Pierre looked around.
‘Where’s Wesker?’ he asked.
They caught sight of him standing half-inside the front door of the hotel, waving to them.
‘If we’re going to stand around chatting instead of getting on with the job at hand, do you care to do it inside?’ he shouted. ‘I’m starting to feel fairly aquatic myself.’
Chapter Six
Classical music tinkled down from the high ceiling like the first snowflakes of winter, melting under the fresh, warm air that billowed over them like a soft blanket the second they crossed the threshold of the front door. The latter carried the faintest hint of jasmine. The lights were bright enough so that the golds and bronzes of the lobby shined, but low and soft enough to appear appropriately romantic.
A thin, helix staircase rose up from the centre of the hall, for what seemed to be no reason beyond a sense of class. Nobody seemed to be using it, in any case. Arranged around it was a restaurant’s worth of tables, at which six dozen guests from all around the world sat and dined. And loved, and laughed. Waiters and waitresses fluttered from table to table with all the welcome intrusiveness of butterflies at a picnic. There when they were needed, blending into the background as soon as they weren’t.
There was an enormous buffet in the far corner of the hall, beyond all the tables. Half a dozen chefs worked the counters, frying eggs into omelettes and roasting meats. There were deep, spherical, metal bowls of fish and chicken and pork, the kind you have to lift a lid to get at. In square trays could be found sausages and potatoes and mixed, steamed vegetables, along with more familiar Japanese cuisines such as salmon nigiri and shrimps. There was a whole self-serve station dedicated just to tonkatsu, another for juices, teas and wines, and yet another for desserts.
To the right of the entrance was a wide, ramped corridor that promised various in-hotel shops and stores to anyone who wandered down it. To the left were a couple of bell-boys looking after an avalanche of suitcases and other luggage, all left in their care by guests who were already checked out but dead-set on making the most of their dwindling time left in the city.
The reception desk was long, sleek and situated towards the back of the hall, on the opposite side of the restaurant tables to the buffet. The counter matched the floor - it was made of black and polished stone. Its top had a golden, reflective finish.
Viola whistled once all three of them were inside, rainwater pouring off them like sweat off a marathon runner. Pierre felt a firework of jealousy go off inside his stomach. Then he just felt stupid, mostly; it was a building, for crying out loud. Viola was hardly likely to run off with it.
‘Not a bad setup they’ve got going on here,’ said Wesker, one soggy step away from wringing out his moustache. ‘Reckon we should push for a refurb of our own?’
‘Fat chance of that happening. Every branch of the chain is furnished according to local culture and taste. Besides, I’m sure if anyone from Chiisana Sekai came to Le Petit Monde they’d be just as impressed with our hotel as we are with theirs.’
‘You keep telling yourself that.’
The bell-boys smiled and bowed as Pierre, Viola and Wesker walked out from under the over-door heater.
‘Seems a bit much,’ Pierre grumbled under his breath. ‘Wouldn’t catch Simon
doing that.’
They crossed the lobby, unashamedly dripping a line of water in their wake. More administrators and desk clerks and bell-boys with baggage carts rushed past them, each nodding and smiling at the dishevelled trio. A stern-looking Asian couple in sleek, ankle-length dresses stepped out from one of the hall’s three elevators and swanned towards a black limousine that had pulled up out front.
There were three receptionists on the front desk, all female. Their uniforms were immaculate and as black as onyx. They wore cravats as white and crisp as morning snow. Two businessmen wielding umbrellas and briefcases stood ahead of Pierre in the queue. Viola and Wesker loitered beside an eight-foot potted plant.
One of the businessmen glanced around at Pierre. He tutted audibly at Pierre’s sodden state, and then turned back around to face the desk.
Pierre grumbled some more.
A minute of Pierre tapping his foot passed before he reached the front of the line. One of the receptionists invited him to come up to the desk.
‘Good evening, sir,’ she said in perfect English. ‘How may I help you today?’
‘Oh, er, hello,’ said Pierre, his grumpiness falling apart like a castle built out of dry sand. ‘I’d like to speak to your manager, please. The Head Concierge, I imagine. Please.’
‘Do you wish to make a complaint, sir?’ Her face fell. ‘Have you checked in already - is something the matter with your room?’
‘No, listen, I’m not a guest,’ sighed Pierre, leaning forward on the desk. ‘I’m a fellow concierge, from the London branch. You know…’
He held up his keyring, the golden key hanging down at the front.
‘…one of those kinds of colleagues.’
The receptionist looked over Pierre’s shoulder to where Wesker and Viola were standing with their arms crossed and two overwhelmed expressions plastered across their faces.
‘Oh!’ said the receptionist, breaking out into a smile. She gave Pierre a conspiratorial wink. ‘I see. Welcome to Chiisana Sekai, Mr…?’
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