The beast stares at Hotaka with the eyes of a killer. It is covered in scales, large armour plates over its chest and torso, sharp spiky ones down the back and along the tail, knobbly scales on its powerful arms and legs. The creature pulses and glows, as though smouldering with an eerie energy. Crouching low, it growls and opens its mouth, baring a tangle of jagged teeth. Then, in one rapid move that catches Hotaka by surprise, it springs forward and lashes at him with razor-like talons. He shrieks and stumbles backwards.

Then he bursts out laughing.

‘Fantastic,’ he shouts, clapping. ‘The audience will love it.’

‘Thank you, wakaino, young man,’ two voices reply in unison from behind the creature.

The beast is in fact a large puppet of the bunraku kind, over a metre tall. It roars fiercely for a moment, thrashing its tail, then slumps, lifeless. Mr and Mrs Suda step forward, dressed entirely in black, balaclavas on their heads. Their darkened faces are just visible against the black backdrop – round, smiling faces. They bow together and step off the stage, handing the creature to Hotaka.

‘It’s amazing,’ he says. ‘And so real.’

‘Yes, we’re quite pleased with this one, aren’t we, my dear?’ Mr Suda nods to his wife and she nods back. ‘Very Godzilla-like, but then he’s meant to be. Think nuclear disaster, Fukushima and all the nightmares unleashed there by the tsunami. He’s the main villain in our little tale.’

‘Wonderful,’ Hotaka says. ‘It’s perfect!’

‘Naturally there’s a princess,’ Mrs Suda adds. She holds up a beautiful dark-eyed puppet wearing an elegant courtier’s kimono. ‘She represents Japan, ravaged by the nuclear beast.’

Mr Suda continues, ‘The beast is abetted by a nasty mob of politicians, electricity executives and yakuza gangsters.’ He opens a box of glove puppets and holds up a few. ‘This one bears an uncanny resemblance to Mayor Nakano, don’t you think?’ The old couple giggle together. ‘We’ll need some students to help make these come to life. What a deliciously bad bunch. Poor Princess Japan.’

‘But fear not, wakaino,’ Mrs Suda shouts theatrically. ‘The princess is rescued from evil by our hero. Ta da!’ She presents a dashing samurai-like figure in black and red lacquered armour, with an ornate golden helmet.

‘He represents the people of Japan,’ Mr Suda explains. ‘Ordinary folk rising up to fix the nation’s woes.’ He turns to Hotaka with raised eyebrows. ‘Yes, I know: over-symbolic and very political. But such things need to be said. We’ve allowed ourselves to be bullied by politicians, businessmen and crooks for far too long in this country. I just hope it won’t ruffle too many feathers at the school. We’d hate to cause you any trouble. Then again, if anyone should be radical in these troubled times, it’s young folk like yourself. After all, you have the most to lose. So what do you say?’

‘I love it,’ Hotaka replies with a laugh. And he knows that Sakura will love it, too. Just the sort of stuff she’s passionate about.

Mr and Mrs Suda beam with delight. ‘We knew you’d understand,’ they reply as one.

Hotaka beams, too; that’s the effect these people have on him. In their company it’s impossible not to feel that life is good. And yet they suffered as much as any in the tsunami. They lost everything that day, a lifetime of work and creation. The Wave took it all – workshop, theatre, musical instruments, sculptures, puppets, the lot – tore their home and business from the foundations and shredded it all. It nearly took their lives too, both swept away like over-sized puppets. She woke on the floor of a makeshift hospital. He was found down by the harbour, wandering in the dark, coated in mud. How they’ve managed to keep such high spirits is beyond him.

Hotaka hands the puppet back to Mr Suda. ‘Everyone will love the play. I cannot thank you enough.’

‘Be warned,’ Mr Suda says, ‘it will be our first public performance since the tsunami. We’ll be rusty.’

‘Be as rusty as you wish, Suda-san. What you call rust is gold dust to us.’

‘Very good, wakaino. What a poetic compliment.’

Hotaka could stay all day with the old couple; they make him feel whole. But he suddenly sees the time and realises he’ll have to ride fast to catch the second period. He must not be late. It’s Maths! The subject’s not the worry, the teacher is. Mr Tamura is old and cranky and, like Principal Hashimoto, lives by the rules. He demands that every student be at their desk when he walks into the room, books ready. Latecomers pay dearly unless they have a watertight excuse.

He apologises profusely to Mr and Mrs Suda, and leaps onto his bike.