I retched violently. It broke the spell that had me bound to the floor and rocked me into the wall behind. I swallowed back the sick that rose up. I retched again and jumped for the front door. I couldn’t lean over Tomoe to throw up in the toilet.
Mine was the last apartment on the corridor with only the caretaker’s utility room beyond. I burst into that, grabbed a bucket and emptied my guts. Or at least I thought I did. After a pause I threw up again. And then once more. I fell back from my crouch, my head bumping closed the press lock in the centre of the door handle as I did.
I couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be Tomoe. She had too much life for her to be dead. I closed my eyes. I must have been mistaken. There couldn’t be a dead body in my bathroom. And even if there was it couldn’t be Tomoe’s.
But I knew there could and it was. The sweetest, most beautiful girl I’d ever met was lying cold on my bathroom floor. Never again to brighten my soul with the sparkle in her eyes, never again to melt my heart with the tender warmth of her love.
I knew I had to go back into my apartment, to face her, to see her one final time. I had to go back to make sure she was treated with the respect she deserved before she physically departed the world.
The door rattled behind me and I jumped.
‘It’s locked. We can check in with the caretaker when he gets here.’
That wouldn’t be for another week – he was on leave.
‘No sign of the suspect,’ said another voice from the direction of my apartment. ‘The body’s here though.’
The police? How could they have known there was a body in my flat? I’d only found out a few minutes before. And what would they know about a suspect?
No answers came, but before long more people arrived. Radios crackled and official voices spoke in their own languages and codes – policemen, forensics and doctors. I was stuck in a small, dark, windowless room with the acrid smell of my sick; unable to move, unable to leave, able only to think about the dead body of my girlfriend on the other side of the wall.
‘OK, if it’s all taped up you might as well come down and keep an eye on the building from downstairs.’
The radio clicked off and I heard the policeman make his way down the corridor to the stairs. I looked at my watch. It was nearly six. I had no idea what had happened in the last few hours – it was like my mind had shut itself down. Now it had started up again I needed to pull myself together and work out what I was going to do.
It was easier said than done – my mind was pinballing in every direction. I closed my eyes and went to the most crucial question first.
Who would have done this?
It had to be the Ginzo-kai, with Onishi orchestrating. It made sense – they’d got themselves rid of a snooper and were having her shadow take the fall. I wouldn’t be free to do any meddling for decades, and that was only if I escaped being put to death.
But something didn’t feel right. How had they found me so quickly and reacted so fast? How could they have known where I was and when I’d be there?
‘Throw your stuff in a bag – I’ll be back in half an hour.’
The words came back to me. But you hadn’t needed to return, had you, Sumida? Whoever it was – probably Kurotaki – was already here. They’d been playing me all along. The coldness, the callousness. Sumida had just been joking with me. Takata had endlessly sung Tomoe’s praises. How can you go from one thing to another with such little regard?
I stood up quickly to prevent my mind returning to the ‘if onlys’ that might have saved Tomoe’s life or the images of what I’d seen a few hours before. I needed to focus.
I had two tasks. The first was to get the out of the building and find somewhere the country’s two largest yakuza and its police force couldn’t track me down. It wouldn’t be easy but it was probably the simpler of the two. Because something had changed when I saw Tomoe’s body. I had no idea how I was going to do it and the chances were it would be beyond me anyhow. But I couldn’t hope for survival as the best outcome any more. It was no longer enough. I had to find out who killed Tomoe. Then I’d either get revenge or I’d go to hell trying.
*
I opened the door of the caretaker’s utility room the tiniest crack and peered down the corridor. It was empty. I opened it wider, put my head out and took a lungful of untainted air. All was quiet. I stepped out and tiptoed to my apartment next door. I looked at it and then regarded my feet.
My front door was taped up thoroughly. It might have been possible to open but it would have been a noisy and time-consuming task. I was wanted for murder. I needed to get out of there quickly and quietly and minimise any risks. The only reason I was contemplating one was because of my feet. They were bare but for a pair of broad-striped socks that were acceptable from a sartorial perspective but not suitable for outdoor escapes.
I broke from my hesitation and walked quickly on – it was better to be free in socks than imprisoned in shoes. I made my way past the stairwell, turned left at the end of the corridor and descended the other set of stairs. These led to the front door via an identical corridor to the one on my floor. I imagined the police had scoped the place and were aware of that. What I was hoping they didn’t know was if you climbed over the small side-wall at the foot of the stairs, you could edge between my block of flats and the next building to reach a road on the other side. At least I hoped you could. I’d seen the gap before but it was extremely narrow and not part of a normal route.
I burst out the other side gasping for breath and quickly dusted myself down. When I felt I looked relatively normal again I made my way back to the bridge, all the while keeping an eye out for the police. There weren’t any. It made sense. If I’d escaped the building as they must have believed, the chances weren’t high I’d come back.
I made my way to Sakae Dōri. It was bustling now but I cut straight off it on the other side, weaving through alleys to the main road. I knew there was a chemist with bathroom flip flops on display outside.
I’d have preferred a pair of trainers, but once I’d darted into the lanes on the other side of the road I felt better for having something on my feet. I was out of the immediate danger zone. But if the beating of my heart was anything to go by, I had a way to go before I was safe.
I wanted to get out of Tokyo but I thought the police would be watching nearby train stations so it made sense to give them a wide berth. A taxi would have been a welcome alternative, but if there was a bulletin out on me, my blood, bumps and bruises meant I wouldn’t be difficult to spot.
If I couldn’t travel I needed to get out of sight and it would have to be somewhere close. The question was where?
I swiped the card key and opened the door. It was as seedy and trashy as I remembered, just ten years more rundown, its air thick with the memories of past occupants’ smoke.
I’d stayed after a night out soon after I first came to Japan. I was living in Chiba then, around to the east and down from Tokyo Bay. Once you’d missed the last train, the only thing to do was drink through it and not think about the hangover that would hit you when you woke with a start, having overshot your station on the first morning train.
Or you could pull and go to a love hotel. Which is exactly what I’d done. We’d been at a drum ‘n’ bass night at The Liquid Rooms in Kabukichō. Once we’d fumbled our way out and into a taxi, she’d told the driver to head to Shin Ōkubo before we locked in an alcohol-fuelled embrace. Quite why we’d gone there I didn’t know – I later found out the whole of north Kabukichō was wall-to-wall with love hotels – but for some reason she’d wanted this place. The passion hadn’t outlasted our sore heads in the morning. But it had been a memorable enough night for me to have retained something of it in my mind.
It was the kind of love hotel that had little to do with romance. Some cater to couples having a special night out, others to youngsters enjoying the bells and whistles of themed establishments.. This was aimed at the illicit. There was no receptionist or any visible staff – everything was done at a vending machine once you’d gone down the steps and behind the screen discreetly covering the front. It was ideal for a man cheating on his wife. It was equally well suited to someone wanted for murder by the police and wanted for murder by Tokyo’s gangs.
I took off my no-longer-best clothes and went into the bathroom, hoping to clean off some of the events of the day. Afterwards I towelled myself dry, numbly revelling in my cleanness and the welcome change the smell of soap and shampoo made to sick. I hugged a bathrobe around me and climbed onto the bed.
I longed for sleep so I could escape the horrors that confronted me when awake. But my mind was a mess. While I’d been in danger, it had focused on escape. Now I’d found safety, it forced images of Tomoe at me, images I wished I’d never seen, ones I wished I could banish forever from my brain. As though without them I’d have forgotten the events of the day and my failure to keep my beautiful girlfriend alive.
*
There was a thudding sound, then silence. Then thudding again. I opened my eyes but it was just as dark as when they were closed. I flailed around me, wondering if I was caught up in a new kind of dream. But then the thudding started again and I smelled the smoke and felt the pain in my head and the pain of my loss and I remembered where I was.
‘Open the fucking door!’
I knew that voice. But I didn’t know how it knew where I was. I groped around the top of the bed, found a light switch and scrambled to the door. I looked through the spyhole. Kurotaki looked even uglier for the distortion of the fish-eye lens, Sumida slightly bored. How had they found out I was here?
Kurotaki leaned forward to pound on the door again, looming in the spyhole. I jumped back.
‘Open the door. We know you’re in there. We’re here to help.’
‘Like you helped Tomoe, you motherfucker?’ I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Face-to-face I wouldn’t stand a chance against one of them, let alone both. Now wasn’t the time. I hurried into my clothes and slipped on the flip flops which were even less suitable for what I knew had to come next.
I ripped apart the curtains, pulled open the window and looked down. I was only on the first floor but it still looked formidably high. I heard voices again and someone started fiddling at the door. I decided I was more afraid of them than I was of the height. I gathered myself and stepped onto the ledge.
I landed in a tiny walled alley. My first thought was that I hadn’t broken any bones. My second, straight after, was that there was no obvious way out. I looked up and down at the walls on each side, wondering if I was ever going to get any luck. Deciding I’d have to make my own, I scrambled up the back wall then tottered along another that abutted its end. I jumped down when I could go no further and realised, to my relief, that I was on the road on the other side of the hotel.
I glanced over my shoulder just long enough to see Kurotaki appear at the window. The sight gave me the boost of energy I needed. I turned and ran.
I wasn’t sure exactly where I was but I knew I needed to get away from where I’d been. I ran blindly, taking a left, then a right before cutting through a playground. I came out into a packed alley and realised I was now somewhere I knew – Ikemen Dōri. If Shin Ōkubo was Tokyo’s Little Korea, Ikemen Dōri was its Seoul Street. Its shops and restaurants buzzed with energy, drawing crowds attracted by Korea’s recent cachet of cool. I was more interested in the thick cover of people provided by the narrow pedestrian lane.
I weaved through the crush, working through my options as I went. I hadn’t been thinking clearly. The hotel might have squeezed within Shin Ōkubo’s borders, but it was right on the edge of Kabukichō – deepest Takata-gumi land. They’d probably put out word for hotel owners to watch their CCTV for a bedraggled gaijin stupid enough to turn up.
I came to Ōkubo Dōri. I needed to make some decisions quickly and I had to be sure I made no more mistakes. The next one could see me killed.
I had a head start – I doubted either Kurotaki or Sumida would have jumped out the window, but they wouldn’t be far behind. I tried to think of the most logical thing to do, the thing I’d bet on if I were chasing me. North was the scene of the murder, south was Takata-gumi Central. The sensible move would be to head west towards Nakano, or east to Iidabashi. I ruled out both. I’d counter-intuit an escape. I didn’t have the guts to go the whole hog and head to Kabukichō so I decided to keep going north. Back to Takadanobaba. Back towards the scene of the crime.
I crossed Ōkubo Dōri and cut down a narrow lane beside a pachinko parlour so smoky the fumes seemed to seep through its glass. My brisk pace and the crisp night air helped clear my head. I knew exactly where I’d go.
I was told it was in the nineties, just after the bubble burst, that the change came to Tokyo’s public spaces and parks. Waves of blue tarpaulins suddenly appeared, undulating across open spaces like a modern-day mutation of an ukiyo-e sea. Unlike the homeless of England, their occupants weren’t predominantly escapees from abuse who found solace then incarceration in drink and drugs. For many it was sheer poverty – the downturn in construction at the end of the bubble hitting labourers particularly hard. But for others it was the pressures of society and their own notions of honour that exiled them from their homes and imprisoned them outside. Their trigger was the end of lifetime employment. On losing their jobs, their response to the shame had been to leave their homes and families and take refuge in the streets – or parks.
It wasn’t only in the cause of their plight that they differed. The way they went about their homelessness was dissimilar as well. They commandeered Tokyo’s public spaces and constructed sturdy blue tarpaulin tents that they tended with pride; cooking pots hung outside entrances, shoes neatly lined up in front.
But there had been a crackdown while I’d been away and the city had reclaimed much of its land. I wasn’t sure where the majority ended up, but I knew one had made his home under the bridge where Koshu Kaido Road separates Shinjuku Station and the Southern Terrace. With rain cover taken care of he’d focused on comfort and warmth. I’d admired his cardboard cocoon whenever I walked past.
I grabbed a load of boxes as I passed a convenience store clearing out at the end of the day. Then I continued on to Toyama Koen Park. It was dominated by the concrete mass of Shinjuku Sports Center and the hard-surface sports pitch in front. But surrounding them were the trees and stretches of grass more typical of a park. And at the edges some doughty tarpaulin men remained.
They operated on a guerrilla basis now, deconstructing their mobile homes during the day then lurking in the perimeters before they set up again at dusk. No one would think anything of it if there were an extra person bedded down. I was extremely doubtful even Takata’s network extended that far with its spies.
The choicest spots had already gone, but I found a decent opening on a piece of grass between a bridge, a playground and the edge of a path. I set one box as a base, kicked out the bottoms from the others and concertinaed them into a cocoon. When they were as long as me I took off my flip-flops, put them to the side and slid in. I pulled the last box over my head.