Kanehari tugs like a man possessed at the straps holding him to the operating table. The veins in his neck swell and he shakes his head back and forth.
“That’s not the reaction I was hoping for,” says Rokurobei.
A broad bony hand with fingers like drumsticks draws the scalpel across Dr Kanehari’s throat. The doctor gags, gasps for air. Rokurobei examines the depth of his incision and calculates how long it will take for death to claim him victim. Kanehari deserves an hour, he muses, before he chokes in his own blood.
39
The dreams I’ve had since I moved in to this old warehouse seem more real than the life I’m trying to remember. The ground beneath my feet is kicked away and I’m carried off on a tide of memories the colour of mud, flashes of the past that confuse me. I’ve a feeling that the other members of the Suicide Club don’t trust me. I dissect their every snigger as if my life depends on it. Behind all the light-hearted badgering and the group ethic they’ve developed – perhaps without even realising it – there’s a whirlpool of sexual tension, hidden jealousies and power games. It makes me turn in on myself all the more. There’s little come and go between myself and the other young people here, except with Yori. But even then there’s something contradictory about her. Yori is affected and unpredictable, but she can also be incredibly kind and sensitive. She apparently spent the night somewhere else, as did Reizo. I haven’t a clue where they are. I dozed off for a moment during the night and dreamt that Yori kissed me. It wasn’t the kiss that woke me with a start, but the tongue that the dream-Yori traced across my cheek and propped into my throat. It turned out to be forked and pale, like the tongue of a lizard I surprised under a stone as a child on Hashima Island.
Now I’m exactly the same as that lizard: I’m sitting under my stone, hiding, not daring to come out. The members of the Suicide Club have dispersed once again, chattering like sparrows, to steal, cheat, manipulate, live off the street for the rest of the day. I stay behind on my own, scared to go out.
My existence doesn’t seem to parallel the reality that’s now trying to take hold of me with brute force. I just had a look at Yomiuri Shimbun and saw pictures of the people who died during the spectacular bank raid in Hiroshima. The headlines read: crisis makes bank robbers merciless.
One of the victim’s lifeless faces was a Yuzonsha. His name was Tomio Shiga, the ceo of one of the biggest banks in Japan.
Shiga. Isn’t that Reizo’s surname?
Coincidence?
40
“The only place in the city you can get a decent margarita.” Police Dr Adachi takes a satisfied sip from his glass. The dreary, poorly lit café is reminiscent of a classical 1950s hotel bar, with wood panelling and dark red carpets, a huge bar in the form of a horseshoe and barmen squeezed into immaculate suits rumbaing as they shake their cocktails.
Adachi is crazy about kitsch. Takeda is staring absent-mindedly at a bunch of noisy tourists who waggle into the place one after the other like geese. He prefers the working-class districts to downtown Hiroshima where the hip and trendy have their fun, but he forgives Adachi this minor peculiarity, which he apparently needs to make him feel eccentric.
“I need another one after what you told me,” Adachi continues, winking at the barman. He peers at Takeda through the fringe of lank hair hanging over his eyes. He thinks his haircut makes him look younger. Takeda has spotted that Adachi fancies one of the barmen, young, porcelain features, self-assured smile. “It was stupid of me to go back and confront the boss,” he says. “Takamatsu’s young and didn’t get where he is now by accident. The man’s a shark and he’s got a serious appetite.”
“And a big mouth with teeth made of steel,” Adachi adds. His expression turns serious: “You’ve heard them clanging together often enough, Akio. So what happened to your self-control? Tut, tut.”
The men only use each other’s first names when they’re alone together.
“I couldn’t control myself. He had no reason to humiliate me like that.”
“Pig-head half-caste Dutchman.” The police doctor laughs thinly. “But you’re right: there’s something weird going on. The bank raid is too big a case for the local boys, yet the National Guard doesn’t seem to be interested. The same kind of thing happened ten years ago… a political murder if memory serves. After a couple of months it went off the radar.”
“A cover up? You’re kidding me.”
“Akio, the people are running about like headless chickens, afraid for their jobs, their homes, their wages. They’ve a lot more to worry about than a bank raid, no matter how spectacular.” The doctor pulls a goody-goody face. “Maybe they’re jealous of the booty.”
“That’s what makes it so strange: the amount that was stolen hasn’t been made public. The National Guard are keeping it to themselves.”
“In line with worthy tradition, the Keisatsu-chô have appointed a local officer to coordinate the investigation. And guess who they picked?” Adachi grimaces. “One more reason to handle Takamatsu with kid gloves: Ki o tsukero yo, be careful.” The police doctor takes a look at his half-empty glass, picks it up, then returns it to the bar. “Crime figures are on the rise, more than 100% this year, and the public think we’re a bunch of lazy power-mad bastards. Let me give you a piece of advice. We’re all being screwed over by the monster they call the Economic Crisis. A friend of mine who works at Tokyo University under professor Toshihiro Ihori, the big economics brain, told me that the government’s spending more money than ever before. They’re pumping billions into public works, but it’s not helping us out of the economical dip.” Adachi sips at his glass. “Now we’ve got bridges but no cars to drive across them and airports without planes to land on them.”
“And the country is crawling with politicians and underworld gangsters cashing in on the show,” Takeda grunts.
“Fat and horny for power.” Adachi narrows his eyes. “At moments like this it’s safer for small fish like us to stay out of harm’s way.”
“You don’t know your own people,” says the inspector. “The Japanese always pretend to be yes men, that they don’t like to rock the boat, but at heart they’re a bunch of anarchists.”
“Exactly!” The doctor lifts his glass as if to say cheers and empties it in a single gulp. “But only if we think it’s worth it, on the quiet, in the dark. The hidden face of Japan, Akio. You still don’t get it, do you? How long have you lived here?” Adachi turns serious again, but there’s still a hint of cunning is his eyes. “Just like we don’t know the hidden face of Akio. Am I right?”