The doctor was preparing to leave. He zipped up his bag, and bowed deeply. “Please accept my apologies for being so rough with you,” he said, then added, “But you needed to be shown just how it feels to be murdered.”
“What the hell’re you on about?” The guy must be stark raving mad, thought Yashiro. Only someone in a dream could be as absurd as this. This guy shouldn’t be left to roam free in the world. He was dangerous. Get out of my sight, and make it quick! Yashiro prayed.
“How much do you want? Name your price.” What should have been a yell came out as a hoarse whisper. What wouldn’t he give for a glass of water!
“You want to buy your life back? No, my friend, you can have it for free. I’ll make sure Kita gives me back the two hundred thousand I fronted him, plus the two hundred fifty you still owe me. Right, I’m off.”
The doctor leaned close to Yashiro where he lay on the floor, gave a couple of derisive snorts through his nose, and left. Was the nightmare over at last? But if so, this was the worst waking Yashiro had ever had. It took him fifteen minutes to free himself from the rope, heaping curses all the while on this bumbling killer. Then he rushed to the refrigerator and gulped down a bottle of chilled Mt. Fuji spring water. Now he remembered why he was so thirsty. Last night’s meal. He’d dropped in to the Korean grilled meat joint next door and had salted tongue and grilled rib meat on the bone, plus two helpings of kimchi and a bottle of soju. But that alone couldn’t account for the thirst. Quite likely people’s throats went dry when faced with death. He’d been soundly beaten. How could he have let the guy sneak up and tie him up while he lay there asleep? And how could he have gone snoring on, believing it was a dream?
Yashiro couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to ring the yakuza boss who’d put him onto the doctor in the first place, and tell him the story.
“He’ll murder you in your sleep if you let him! Take my advice and rub him out ASAP, for your own safety.”
The boss was an early riser. “What’s this? He tried to kill you, eh?” His tone was mocking.
“The guy’s crazy. He was trying to throttle me!”
“Hmm. How’s your back? No pain there?”
Suddenly, Yashiro felt a sharp, pincer-like pain shoot from his side around to his back. Pain also stabbed his stomach. He’d been so focused on not getting himself killed that hadn’t been aware of the pain until this moment.
“I seem to have strained my back.”
“Really? Take a look at your back in the mirror. Check if there’s any sign of stitches there.
Still not comprehending, Yashiro put his hand to his left side. “Nope, just the usual flab there. What’s this about stitches?”
“Seems you’re lucky. That guy can steal your kidney while you’re asleep. But sounds like you’re OK.”
“Man, the guy’s got no scruples!”
“That’s a killer for you.”
After the phone call, Yashiro drank more water. His body felt so heavy he could barely stand, so he sank back onto the sofa again. His stomach churned, and his head swam. Surely the guy couldn’t have stolen a kidney while he slept? Surely the pain would have made him leap to his feet! But what if he’d put him under? Yashiro glanced at the time. Two o’clock. Was his watch mad as well? But the wall clock gave the same time. It’d been about four in the morning when he’d settled down for a doze. Surely he couldn’t have slept for ten hours.
With an effort he heaved himself from the sofa, and went and stood in front of the mirror. A grey-faced old man stared back at him with bloodshot eyes. That couldn’t be him! Had the killer poisoned him, or something? He rolled up his shirt and turned to check his back. There along his right side, the side he hadn’t checked before, he saw seven staples buried in the flesh.
“He got me!” he thought. Instantly the energy drained from his body and his head swam scarlet.
Yashiro had no memory of selling his own kidney. All he’d done was arrange for Kita to sell his organs. What kind of crazy mistake had this bastard made? It had to be just a continuation of the nightmare. He’d go back to sleep, he decided. When he woke up again, his usual plump red face would be restored, and he’d go off and have himself a breaded pork cutlet on rice for breakfast. There was just no way all this could be real.
Once back in Tokyo, Kita chose to return to the hotel where last Friday he had revelled in his first feast with Mitsuyo and Zombie, the place with the private pool and karaoke bar. It had an automatic check-in system and room service, the perfect set-up for a kidnapper and his victim to hide away in. Here he would spend his final hours with Shinobu. The moment he left this hotel would mark the end of the kidnapping escapade, and their final parting. They both knew it, and neither felt the need to speak of it. Tired out from the long drive with the killer at the wheel, they took a hot shower, then lay on the bed, and after necking a little, sank into a light sleep.
Kita dreamed that he was walking alone through an empty desert at dusk. There he came upon a little gourd-shaped mound of sand. In it was stuck a long, thin board reminiscent of a broken grave marker, with the name YOSHIO KITA written there in a child’s clumsy hand. So this is my grave, here of all places, thought Yoshio, clasping his hands before him. Then there was a cry of “Kitaaa!” and when he turned to look he saw in the distance Mizuho Nishi with a little boy. She was clad in a bikini, and smiling shyly. The child held her hand, while in his other hand he carried a little fish scoop. He ran up to Yoshio. “Papa!” he cried.
At this, Kita awoke. Perhaps he’d overindulged in the caviar or vodka, for his throat was terribly dry, and his breath rasped. He gulped down a can of Oolong tea. “Me too,” murmured Shinobu, holding out a naked arm. He propped her in his arms and fed the tea to her.
They turned on the television. Immediately, an image of Shinobu against a background shot of Niigata Port leapt from the screen. It seemed the police and the press had swarmed to Niigata on the evidence of an eyewitness there, and were busy scouring the place for them. They must have passed them going the other way on the expressway as they’d headed back to Tokyo. There was also a shot of the Russian ship where they’d hidden for a few hours the evening before. It felt like ages since they’d gone on board and negotiated with the captain. It was only three days ago that Shinobu had read the Bible to him, but the memory had receded like some distant event in the past. Everything was coming to an end.
“It’s twelve. I’ll leave here in another hour,” Kita said.
“And what will become of me I wonder?”
“You’ll have heaps to talk about, that’s for sure. Use your tongue as your shield. Don’t let things prey on your mind. Jesus is with you.”
“That’s true, but still…” Shinobu looked unhappy. She buried her face in the pillow. Kita took a handful of her hair to his nose, wanting to remember the scent of it. If this scent filled his nostrils at the moment of death, he’d die happy, he was sure of it.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Shinobu’s muffled voice emerged from the pillow.
“You have to. The show must go on, but it can’t unless you go out onto that stage, you know.”
“OK, I’ll retire then.”
“You don’t have to do a thing. Just go out into the crowd with your Bible in your hand.”
“What about you, Kita?”
“I’m leaving the crowd behind.”
Shinobu abruptly sat up and hugged him. Let me not forget the feel of these breasts either, thought Kita. He felt again that tingling he’d experienced as Shinobu held the pistol to his head while the killer drove. He longed to drown in the softness of her breasts and the scent of her hair.