I was at a new dead end, but this time it felt like the way back had been blocked off as well. Now I wasn’t inches from being obliterated I seethed with injustice again. I’d done what was asked of me and I’d weaselled what I could from those who were in the right. But if the yakuza – the ones supposedly on my side – weren’t putting up their end of the deal, I couldn’t see what else I could do.
And that worried me. If I was a bone of contention in a simmering gang feud, I needed to have value to the Takata-gumi for me to be worth their protection. If I was useless in the area they’d identified me as useful, the logical response would be to hand me to their rivals at an appropriate time.
I didn’t like the idea of being useless. I needed to come up with something quick.
There was no point doing further research. I was on the right trail – looking for another would have been a waste of time. The problem was my path had been blocked, and tempting as it was to accept that, doing so wasn’t an option that boded well. But for the life of me I couldn’t see what else I could do.
Unless …
My unconscious threw a thought at me that was as welcome as the others it had recently bowled. I tried to evade it but as soon as I put my mind to something else it would skulk its way in there as well. To make matters worse, it had a twisted logic, a line of argument that was difficult to resist. It may have been nearsuicidal but it appeared to be the only way to escape a more likely death.
I took a stroll in Shinjuku Gyoen Park to help clear my head. Around me, people clustered by maple and ginkgo trees took pictures of the yellows, purples and reds of the autumn leaves. As I kicked through fallen piles I remembered walking through the park with Tomoe during hanami – the time the cherry blossoms bloom. It seemed apt. At the time I’d been enjoying a fresh start, my life full of opportunities bursting into flower. Now they’d withered and would soon be falling away.
Tomoe had been particularly affected by the arrival of spring, and was as bouncy as a kitten in the wind. She’d insisted on walking every corner of the park in order to savour its rebirth.
‘Come on, Ray-kun, we need to plan some trips, fun stuff, things to look forward to.’
‘Sounds good – what have you got in mind?’
‘I don’t know, maybe we could go somewhere in August when it gets too hot. Then do something in the winter to break up the cold.’
She grabbed my arm and skipped around me, her energy as intoxicating as the alcohol consumed at a cherry blossom picnic. As always, I’d been the more cautious of us.
‘All right, let’s do it! But maybe we should just book something for summer now. Winter’s ages away – who knows what we’ll be up to by then.’
She stopped and tilted her head to the side. Her eyes seemed to seek something in mine.
‘You think too much,’ she said with a hint of sadness. ‘Then you worry, then you wait to see how things pan out. Live like that, and before you know it life’s dictating to you. You need to follow your instincts more, Ray-kun. Set your own path.’
She tiptoed up, gave me a kiss and squeezed my bum in a most public and un-Japanese way. She’d then sauntered off with a smile and a saucy look back.
I was now left with a particularly expensive trip to Thailand that looked unlikely to be fulfilled. Despite this, I remained sold on the philosophy of setting my own path. If I was to live up to it, I would need to make some hard decisions in the coming days. Decisions that would force me to confront my instincts and fears.
A quiet time in Kabukichō is a contradiction in terms. Even if there's a lull in the noise, the flow of people never stops. But if you get there on a weeknight, around 3 or 4 a.m., the human traffic is lighter and those enjoying the action have, for the most part, dispersed. The ones able to return home will have done so. Those whose journey requires a bank-breaking taxi will be contaminating a capsule hotel pod with burps, sweats and farts. The remainder sober up and battle hangovers, hunched over bowls of ramen in painfully bright stores.
On this particular night, I was at the row of buildings where the Takata-gumi Kabukichō branch was. I was looking for a way to get to the back.
I don’t know why, but Japanese buildings have a gap between them instead of being buttressed against one another as they are in the UK. These range from cracks measuring inches up to a few feet. The one between the Takata-gumi and its neighbour was of the inches variety. But there was a gap of about a foot after an udon noodle shop a store down.
For a cat burglar that would have left inches to spare. I darted in during a split second’s pause in the swaying human traffic and immediately realised that for me it wasn’t nearly enough. I forced myself forwards anyway, trying not to think of what was crunching under my feet. But when I got halfway down the real battle started – a fight against claustrophobia that had me certain I was trapped.
I clawed and scraped my way down the narrowing gap, bursting from it into an alley just as I thought I was going to pass out. I gulped gratefully at the rancid air. I would have loved to take a break to recover. But I couldn’t afford to. I needed to get this over with as quickly as I could.
I made my way between the two rows of buildings, dodging pipes and air-con units while looking up in hope. And for the first time in as long as I could remember, that hope was rewarded. The front door may have been locked shut but the toilet window on the first floor was wide open, as it had been when I’d visited during the day. Why wouldn’t it be? Who in their right mind would even think of breaking in?
After an ungraceful ascent aided by a drainpipe on one side and a building an outstretched leg away on the other, I heaved myself partway through the window. An old-style squat toilet sat unhelpfully below, offering no steps down or even a place I could easily land. Thankfully when I launched from my awkward take-off I cleared the bowl. Unfortunately, this came at the expense of my face, which halted my momentum on the door with a crunch.
I pressed my ear against it, too scared even to take a breath. It was highly unlikely anyone had remained locked inside the building but even the thought of being found was enough to make me feel sick. There were no tell-tale signs of movement and my muscles let up slightly from their rigid embrace. I opened the door, just a crack at first, then gradually wider until I was confident enough to edge out. The next challenge to my courage was the kitchenette. It was only when it revealed itself as empty and the main office did the same that my breathing finally eased.
Certain I was alone, I couldn’t help but pause at the severed fingers. But despite their morbid allure I knew it wasn’t the time to hang around. I turned towards my target: Takata’s room.
It was a desperate move but I’d arrived at it rationally. The nuclear issue was clearly of great importance to Takata. He knew more than he was letting on and wanted to use what he had at the AGM. With that just over a week away, I assumed he’d want whatever he had at hand.
The idea of breaking in so I could bring him his own information was clearly ridiculous. But for all he had in his possession it appeared he was missing something, the thing he’d sent me to seek out. And if I could use what he had here to get to that, I’d prove myself invaluable. And that had to be worth the risk. Because the alternative was turning up with nothing and facing the consequences.
So, as dire as it may have been, I felt sure I was doing the right thing. I just had to hope Takata kept whatever he had in Kabukichō. That it provided me with a lead. And that I didn’t get caught.
His room seemed bigger and emptier without his presence, although that could just have been the murky light. I started to search for the thing I hoped to recognise when I found it, a plan that had seemed as good as any when I considered it in advance. In practice, it turned out to be less satisfactory. Takata kept the room spotless, the shelves tidily stacked, the desk ordered and neat.
I scanned the shelves first. I even took out a couple of books to check that they weren’t false fronts. Finding no joy, I rounded the desk, my heart thumping against my ribs. I pulled at two drawers, more in hope than anything else. Both were locked. I took this as a good sign. He wouldn’t have bothered if there was nothing to hide.
There was another positive – the desk was an antique with old-style locks rather than Yales. At secondary school, a few of us had fancied ourselves master burglars in the making. We hadn’t progressed beyond using paper clips on small padlocks but we’d become quite adept at this. I grabbed one from the desk-tidy and sat on the floor to re-hone my skills.
It took a few attempts before I got a feel for it again but by this point I was completely absorbed. I’m not sure how long it was before I found the right balance of shape and rigidity, but when I did, I got the satisfying click of the false key slotting into place.
I leaned forward and jiggled it twice to ensure it was solid and wouldn’t get warped out of shape. It felt perfect.
Knowing there was no stopping me I started to turn.
I never found out if it would have worked.
I tried opening my eyes but swiftly shut them against the glare of a blinding light. I wondered if I’d reached the end of the long, dark tunnel.
‘He’s coming round.’
My lids snapped open at the sound of the voice. If it was the tunnel, I’d come out the wrong end. I was slumped on the sofa in the Takata-gumi office, my head rolled against the wall above the backrest, my face tilted towards the overhead light.
‘What the hell?’
I put my hand to the back of my head and pulled it away sharply when my fingers came to a swollen lump. I held them in front of me and saw they were smeared with blood.
‘Right, motherfucker, you’ve got some explaining to do. Like telling us what the fuck you think you were doing.’
It could only be Kurotaki. Sure enough, he entered the periphery of my vision just after I heard his voice.
I felt nauseous. I hadn’t worked out what was going on yet, so it was likely the result of whatever had happened to my head rather than fear.
‘What happened?’ I groaned.
Kurotaki nodded to his left and my eyes followed his gesture just in time to see a fist block out the light and crash into my face. My neck snapped back, propelling my head into the wall which made a perfect contact with the bloody egg. I think I passed out briefly, as the next thing I knew a hand was lifting me off my side and sitting me back up.
‘I’m asking the questions,’ said Kurotaki. ‘You’re welcome to ask your own and you can go off on any tangent you like, but you should know Sumida here’s going to hit you every time you do.’
‘I’m going to be sick.’
If Sumida’s deft footwork to the cupboard was anything to go by, this tangent was an exception. I threw up in the bucket he pulled out.
Kurotaki wasn’t impressed. ‘Arrgh, that stinks. You dirty gaijin fuck.’
Whether that was an observation or an indication that Japanese vomit was sweeter smelling was rendered irrelevant by Sumida dumping the bucket in the toilet and slamming the door. I took a lungful of air. My stomach felt relatively normal again and while my head was in agony, the maelstrom of confusion had passed. The problem with that was my memory had returned and I realised how much trouble I was in.
‘Are you done?’
I nodded and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Sumida put a glass of water in front of me. I took a couple of gulps to wash away the taste but also to play for time.
‘So what were you doing?’ Kurotaki asked again.
I tried to think of something good to say, but my brain was still rattling around my skull and I couldn’t come up with anything but the truth.
‘I wanted to find out about the power station. I couldn’t think of any other way.’
There wasn’t much more to add.
‘And you thought you would break into our office? Go through Kumichō’s own stuff?’
I nodded, bringing a flash of blinding pain.
‘You stupid fuck.’
It was pithy summary and a fairly accurate one too.
He turned to Sumida. ‘Get a chopping board.’
That brought me to my senses. If we’d had the summary, this was the time for sentencing and a chopping board didn’t seem a good way to start. Sumida went without a word to the kitchen. In panic, I looked up at Kurotaki as I heard Sumida rummage through drawers.
‘You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?’ he sneered. ‘What, you don’t have anything to say? You don’t want to shoot your mouth off again and tell me what I can do to you?’
I didn’t. I was too busy fighting hysteria. I tried to look at Kurotaki but it was hard to keep my eyes focused on one spot.
‘Well, you don’t have to worry about me this time,’ he went on. ‘You’re going to take care of this all by yourself.’
At this point Sumida came back and dropped a wooden chopping board on the coffee table along with a ball of thin string. He kicked the table towards me so it came to a stop against my legs.
‘Wrap the string around the little finger of your left hand,’ Kurotaki said.
‘What do you mean?’
He raised his eyes in exasperation and turned to Sumida who honed in.
‘OK, OK,’ I said, grabbing the ball of string.
I unravelled a length and started wrapping it around my finger.
‘What the fuck good’s that?’ demanded Kurotaki. ‘You’ve got to wrap it tighter than that. You’ll know it’s right when it hurts.’
‘But that’ll cut off the blood to my finger.’
He smirked. My stomach sank as any doubts about what was to come next were dispelled.
When I was eighteen, I took a shortcut with a friend through a park. It was after hours so we had to scale the fence at either end. But that didn’t concern us – it was something we always did to save the extra five minutes’ walk to the pub. On this occasion, I felt something strange as I jumped down. I looked around from my squat and realised it was my arm. It was raised high up behind me, held by the ring caught on the ridges of wire that poked from the frame of the gate.
I only needed one look at the bone gleaming through the ripped mess of my finger to realise I needed to get to hospital, and that it would be best if I didn’t look at it again. It hadn’t really hurt though. Perhaps it had been so unexpected I was anaesthetised with shock.
Thanks to the NHS and its plastic surgeons, I was not only stitched up but had the feeling in my nerves saved as well. I was told I’d been lucky not to tear off my finger. It was the closest to going a digit down I’d ever wanted to get.
‘That’s right,’ said Kurotaki.
The bottom half of my little finger was cocooned in a tightly bound weave of pink thread. The tip was starting to turn blue.
‘You can snip it off there.’
I looked at him, astonished even he could be so blasé until I realised he meant the ball of string.
‘I don’t have any scissors.’
‘That’s all right. You can use this.’
I didn’t see what ‘this’ was. I only heard a faint swoosh followed by a whack as something hit the chopping board. The ball of string, now severed from the cocoon on my finger, rolled to the edge of the table. My eyes returned to the chopping board in the middle of which a huge knife was now wedged.
‘That’s a Kunimitsu tantō,’ said Kurotaki with obvious pride.
I looked at him blankly, too terrified to show whatever reaction he was hoping to see.
‘Kunimitsu was one of Japan’s greatest swordsmiths,’ he said, sounding irritated. ‘He made swords in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. They’re almost all in museums and collections. That’s the closest you’ll ever get.’
Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck about Kunimitsu and the last thing I wanted was to be as close to the knife/short sword/whatever it was as I now was.
‘I was only trying to do what Kumichō said. He told me to be proactive. That’s all I was trying to do. I just wanted to help out for the AGM.’
I was blindsided with a whack to the head by Sumida but it was open-handed, more sympathetic than a punch but also more offensive. Not that I had any pride left to offend. I was on the verge of tears and probably only one slap away from losing all self-control.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ ordered Kurotaki. ‘The time for talking’s over. You’ve done what you’ve done. Pull yourself together and take the consequences like a man.’
I took some deep breaths and tried to steady myself. It took a minute before I felt I could speak again without breaking down.
‘What do I do?’ I asked in a marginally stronger voice.
‘Put your hand on the edge of the table by you and leave your finger lying across the board.’
Kurotaki took on a businesslike tone and I was thankful. It made it seem slightly less of an affront to nature and part of a process instead – follow the instructions, get to the end, and move on.
‘Take the knife by the handle and stick the tip in the board, a little above the joint of your finger. Then bring it down hard.’
I took another deep breath. It didn’t work.
‘Do I really—’
‘Don’t let yourself down.’
I reached towards the knife.
‘Don’t touch the blade!’
‘OK, OK.’
‘You don’t touch a sword by its blade – the oils from your skin tarnish it.’
‘I won’t touch it,’ I said. ‘But it’s going to have to make contact with my skin when I …’
I couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘That will be OK.’
I looked at the knife and my mind started to run away from it. What if I wanted to take up the piano again? I wouldn’t be able to reach the octave plus chords – perhaps I could do my ring finger instead? And what about medical insurance? I wasn’t sure what my status was now that I’d left my job. Even if I still had cover, would it extend to yakuza rituals? Surely they wouldn’t pay for someone stupid enough to cut their own finger off?
I tried again to gather myself for what I had to do.
‘How badly is it going to hurt?’
‘I’ve never had to find out,’ said Kurotaki.
I looked at Sumida who held up the full complement on his hands. He finally spoke.
‘Apparently it’s not too bad,’ he lied.
‘The knife,’ I said. ‘It’s—’
‘So sharp you could put it on its edge and it would cut through the board and into the table,’ said Kurotaki. ‘Don’t worry about the tantō. Get yourself together, take it in your hands and do what you have to do. It will be all right.’
His tone was more respectful than it ever had been before, perhaps an acknowledgement of what I was about to do, an act finally worthy of a yakuza. Despite that, I couldn’t see any outcome to cutting off my own finger that could be summarised as ‘all right’.
I picked up the knife by its handle and stared at it, captured by a morbid curiosity for the instrument about to do me such harm. All I could see was the blade. Its hilt was thick, but tapered in a keen line to a razor-sharp edge an inch or so below. It bore no decoration and had no frills or unnecessary curves. Yet despite being designed solely for malice it managed to be strangely beautiful at the same time. But it was a brutal beauty, a beauty that hadn’t come from an affectation to please the eye. The crisp lines epitomised form after function. They’d been forged from its thirst for blood.
In this case, the blood was to be mine.
I stabbed the end into the board, closed my eyes and took another deep breath. I opened them and pulled down sharply with all of my might.
The knife sliced through my skin like it was nothing and made light of the cartilage between the bones. Then it stopped. And it was when it stopped I realised the moment’s delay of pain had only been that. The muscles in my body went rigid as the first wave hit. Sweat started to pour from my face. I fought to keep my breath within me as I feared it would come out as a scream.
I looked up at Kurotaki, my eyes wide.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘It happens. The joint can be sticky. Take a moment and then give it another go. Get on your knees if you think you can get a better angle from there.’
I slipped off the edge of the sofa onto my knees. I braced myself and then put all of my weight onto my right hand to force the knife down. It sank in slightly further and seemed to separate something within the joint. But it still didn’t go through.
The intensity of pain multiplied and my breath now came out somewhere between a guttural groan and a roar.
‘That’s it,’ said Kurotaki, enthusiastically. ‘You’re almost there. You’re right in the joint. Give it a wiggle and a final thrust – you’ll be straight through.’
My breath was coming in starts and I knew my strength wouldn’t hold up to much more. I wiggled the knife and felt it break slightly from the grip of the bones. Pain surged through my body, as though there was too much to be contained in just a small joint.
I slammed down one last time with everything I had. The knife sliced through the mutilated remains of my finger and came to a stop in the board. I let go and looked at the amputated tip, horrified yet fascinated by the sight. I lifted my hand as if it were someone else’s and stared at the other end. White bone poked through oozing blood and severed arteries. I retched once but nothing came out.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ advised Kurotaki. ‘It won’t help. Just put the tip on this piece of cloth and fold it over like that – that’s right – and that. Good. Now have a drink of this.’
He handed me a bottle of whisky. I took three large gulps.
‘We’ll take care of your finger. It’ll go to Kumichō with apologies for what you did. Now wrap your hand in this,’ he gave me a drying up towel, ‘and go with Sumida. He’ll take you to the hospital so you can get fixed up.’
Beyond capacity for thought, I numbly obeyed.