“You’re wanted,” said Tsusama.
Kit blinked.
“Take your time,” he suggested.
Nodding his thanks, Kit straightened himself and led the way back to the ryokan, hearing the boys whisper behind him. He entered the room first, with his head up and his expression firm. Kit had his own thoughts about what was coming. And any hope he might have was killed by the expression of regret on Mr. Oniji’s face.
“We have reached our decision.”
“Hai.”
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
Accept that you are dead already. Kit shook his head. “Would my knowing change it?”
He wrote the words Osamu Nakamura dictated, signing away all rights he might have in the building site in Roppongi, then wrote a shorter note to No Neck, putting the bozozoku’s real name on the front and adding, By Hand. Someone would deliver it to the 47 Ronin in the morning.
“Now stand over there.”
The orange rope with which they tied his hands was nylon, meant for a use other than this, and burned as it dragged across his wrists. Tsusama tied the knots clumsily, refusing to look at Kit. His younger brother held the gun. This was their first real job, Kit could see that in their eyes.
“It’s all right,” said Kit.
Opening his mouth, Tsusama promptly shut it again. Although he nodded to show that he’d heard and understood what Kit said.
“You know what must be done?” Mr. Nakamura asked.
Tamagusuku-san nodded.
“Rip him open first.”
“Of course.” Mr. Tamagusuku sounded irritated.
“We don’t want…”
“I know,” said Mr. Tamagusuku. “We don’t want some idiot fisherman netting his bloated body.” This was not how one talked to a high oyaban, but the world was changing, this world as much as all others.
“See to it,” Nakamura-san said.
On Kit’s way out of the ryokan he was stopped by Mr. Oniji, who stepped in front of him and just stood there, scowling. Behind Kit, Mr. Tamagusuku sighed.
“You’ve been an idiot,” Mr. Oniji said.
Kit nodded. He didn’t doubt it. There were a hundred things he would do differently given his life over again. A mere handful he’d keep the same. It was the handful which let him look Mr. Oniji in the face.
“I imagine,” said Mr. Oniji, “you know what this is for.”
Sucker-punching Kit in the gut, Mr. Oniji chopped him across the neck and dropped him to the floor. And then, kneeling on his victim’s chest he slammed a final punch into Kit’s kidneys. While Kit did his best not to vomit, and fought the fingers reaching for his testicles, Mr. Oniji used his other hand to flip open Kit’s jacket and tuck something into his trouser pocket.
It felt like a knife.
CHAPTER 64 — Saturday, 14 July
He was being drowned by slow degrees. Kit had a vague memory of pissing himself about an hour earlier, the urine warm as sea water and infinitely more welcome, proof that he remained alive.
Sometimes it was getting hard to tell.
He lived in the snatches between worlds, this one and others far stranger. Occasionally he’d refocus and the wind direction would have shifted or the waves risen higher. If Tamagusuku really wanted to drown him the man should have used longer rope, because the one tied to the rail of Suijin-sama was just about short enough to keep Kit’s head clear of the waves.
Unless, of course, Tamagusuku didn’t really want to drown Kit at all. Maybe the little shit just wanted to torture him.
Yes, that would be it. Obvious really. Having killed Yoshi, bombed Pirate Mary’s, and shopped No Neck to the police as the most likely suspect, Yuko’s husband was now busy…
Oh for fuck’s sake, said a voice. Are you just going to whine?
Kit opened his eyes.
Well, are you?
Spray whipped his face as Kit glanced round, cursing the rope and the waves that stopped him from holding his head steady. Darkness was all he saw. Not even a light from the boat, which had run blind from Tokyo Bay. Certainly Kit saw no one close enough to speak. Assuming any voice could be heard above the howling wind and rain.
Tsusama and his brother, their father, and most of the others had been left behind. Though the boys had protested for form’s sake, it was not very hard, and when Yuko’s husband flatly refused to have them aboard, something very close to relief appeared in their eyes. They’d had trouble enough looking Tamagusuku in the face since bombs had been mentioned in the ryokan.
Let the grown-ups negotiate what came next.
The only surprise was the sudden appearance of Yuko, who arrived on the rickety jetty just as the boys were turning to go. Smiling at Tsusama, she patted him on his arm and indicated the path. “Hurry up,” Yuko said. “Baba’s about to serve supper.”
She waited as two silhouettes turned on the path to see if she was still there. A quick wave from both and they were gone. Yuko smiled, though the smile barely reached her eyes.
“Why are you here?” Tamagusuku asked.
Yuko stared at him. “Why do you think?” she said, stepping around both Kit and her husband.
“Wait,” he demanded.
“No,” said Yuko, turning to glare. “My sister is dead,” she said. “I’m going to see this through to its end.”
“Ask your husband how Yoshi died,” said Kit.
She slapped him.
Yuko and Tamagusuku left Kit bound on deck. Of course, since his hands were already tied with orange cord, all Tamagusuku had to do was secure Kit’s ankles to the railings, while Yuko held a gun to his head.
“I’ll be back later,” Tamagusuku promised.
Later turned out to be five minutes. Which was exactly how long it took Yuko’s husband to put the propellers into reverse, back his yacht from the jetty, and turn it to the open sea. This time round, the Suijin-sama made no pretence of running under sail.
“You’ve got an hour,” he told Kit, lashing one end of a tow rope to the railings and threading the other through Kit’s bound wrists. Having knotted that end, Tamagusuku knelt to unbind Kit’s ankle.
“An hour to do what?” asked Kit.
“Whatever.”
“Personally,” said Yuko, “I’d recommend prayer.”
And so he trolled like fish bait behind the Suijin-sama. Dragged into rising waves for the time it took to turn himself, which lasted only as long as it took for the water to turn him back again. The sea was warm. Almost as warm as the springs in which he and Yoshi had bathed in the first year they were together. In the days when either of them cared about stuff like that.
It might have been better if the sea was cold. Cold water leached body heat until the brain shut down, a more attractive option than being dragged from the ocean like some thrashing tuna and gutted alive.
“I couldn’t save her,” Kit told the waves. “I couldn’t…”
Except he could.
All he ever needed to do was get home in time. The bar would still be burned, Kit would be dead, but Yoshi would undoubtedly be alive. So simple. She would have been at her sister’s, admiring the new baby.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, said the voice. Enough…
Kit reopened his eyes.
Tears and snot and tiredness closed his throat. Every muscle in his body ached from fighting the rope and the waves. He found it hard to believe that he was still alive and part of him wondered if being alive was even true.
“Where are you?” Kit demanded.
The voice sighed.
“Okay,” he said, spitting water. “Who are you?”
Who the fuck do you think I am?
“Don’t know.”
“I am a cat,” said the voice. “As yet I have no name.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Who do you think it is?