End of the World Blues (8 page)

The corridor down to her mother’s castle quarters twisted more than was strictly necessary to accommodate the spiral nature of Schloss Omga. Sometimes it seemed that the castle wasted too much effort trying to match form, not so much to function as original inspiration.

“My Lady…”

Silence greeted her.

So Lady Neku waited enough time to be polite and then called again. The Katchatka were a very formal family. Dust covered the table and something sticky smeared the oiled paper screen dividing her mother’s study in two. Forbidden from touching or changing anything in Lady Katchatka’s room, the castle had chosen to assume this rule applied to cleaning it as well.

When it became clear that not even servants had visited her mother’s quarters for weeks, if not longer, Lady Neku turned to go, turned back, then went with her original choice, making herself walk away without another glance.

“Castle,” said Lady Neku, “prepare me a lift to High Strange.”

“Madame. The overworld is empty.”

Lady Neku wondered if she’d heard that correctly. “Patch me through,” she demanded. “Do it now.”

“Link made,” said the castle.

Having tried to contact her mother, Lady Neku tried each of her brothers in turn, starting with Nico, her favourite. “Where are they?” she asked. When Schloss Omga failed to reply, she asked again.

“I haven’t seen them,” the castle admitted. “Not since…”

“Since what?”

“Your wedding,” said the castle. And Lady Neku found herself kneeling on the tiles, vomiting again.
Polyglot, polygoyle…

Polyandrous?

There was so much Lady Neku needed to remember. So much she needed to forget.

A naked girl sifted hot rubble with her bare hands. She was watched by a cat. A sign on a fence behind them read,
Danger—Keep Out.
The girl clawed at the dirt so frantically that anyone observing would imagine she fought to save a life. But when she finally sat back on her haunches, darkness between her knees and in her eyes…

“Fever,” someone said, when Kit whispered Neku’s name. “Drug induced, we’re investigating.”

“Also,” another voice announced, “cuts, bruises, and minor burns.” If they were so minor, Kit wondered, why was he lying naked on a foam sheet being sprayed with electrolysed water, whatever that was.

After the voices came a darkness both cool and forgiving. When Kit woke he had a plaster cast on one arm, bandages around his ribs, and was wired to a monitor. A fat blood bag hung from a hook above his head, its tube feeding into his left wrist. Another tube, with a twist valve, seemed to be draining old blood.

Kit looked around for someone to plunge him back into the darkness but the room was empty.

Outside the window a blue sky hung above a small garden filled with plum and cherry trees. The fruit on the plum trees was green, and that was how Kit knew he’d been lost in darkness for days rather than weeks. The ion-rich skies of his dreams, the heat and the matrix of silver threads that hung static overhead were nowhere to be seen. An ugly gash across the palm of his right hand had been stitched shut.

Kit Nouveau,
read a tag on his arm. It was written in kanji.

He was in hospital, Kit realised, then wondered if he already knew this. He was in hospital because…

The Korean orderly who came running wore a green uniform that hid her hair under a square cap. She was on her knees and wiping up Kit’s vomit before the nurse behind her even made it through the door. The nurse had one of those upside down watches, which she flipped up to note the time, then wrote something on a board hooked to the end of his bed.

“Yoshi,” said Kit.

“Tell them he’s awake.”

Hesitating on the edge of wiping up the last of Kit’s mess, the orderly jumped to her feet at a barked order from the nurse. When she returned it was with a suited man and the floor cloth was still in her hand.

“They’re coming,” he said.

The first policeman had the glossy-peaked cap of a regular officer. As did the man behind, although he also had a shiny stripe down the outside of his trousers. The third officer wore a soft cap that proclaimed him a Detective. But it was the last man, the one in the suit, that Kit really noticed.

His hair was grey and worn cropped. Heavy glasses hid eyes that were flat and watchful, the eyes of an Ainu hunter from the northern islands. A man whose ancestors would have grown used to watching their boats sunk and houses ripped apart by storms, who knew what it was like to rebuild life from the ground up. It seemed strange that such a man could rise so high in the Tokyo police.

Now was when the newcomer should announce that he was with the Organised Crime Squad. He would tell Kit that Yoshi was dead and his bar destroyed—and ask about recent enemies, unpaid bills, or protection payments overdue. Although, perhaps, he would ask first about a dead tramp found against cemetery railings near the bar.

Kit tried to think of a suitable answer, but his head was empty and what could he say anyway? That a
cos-play-zoku
with a neat line in juggling knives had broken into his bar looking for the murder weapon, then cut open thin air to crawl inside…

As for Yoshi.

“Here,” said the man.

Reaching for the tissue, Kit snagged his wrist on a drip tube and three people started forward at once, only to hesitate. It was the nurse who replaced the drip, renewed the sticking plaster holding the needle in place, and wiped Kit’s eyes for him. At a nod from the man she opened a buff folder and extracted an MRI scan, clipping it to a light box on the wall.

“Show me,” he said.

Stepping aside, she pointed to a smudge of shadow. “Brodmann’s area 10, in the rostral prefrontal cortex.” She seemed to be reciting words from memory.

“Dangerous?”

The nurse shook her head. “Just unusual.”

“What is?” Kit demanded.

“Unexpected development within your prefrontal white matter,” said the man, then offered his hand. From the shock on the faces of the uniformed officers, this courtesy was a surprise. “I’m Mr. Oniji,” he added. “I believe you know my wife.”

Darkness felt welcome.

When Kit woke someone was sliding a needle from his arm. “His body’s coping with drug withdrawal,” said the someone. “He’ll probably go under again, so you might want to ask your questions now.”

“Right,” said Mr. Oniji. “About these lessons.”

“English lessons,” said Kit, working hard to pull himself together. “She’s good.” It seemed best not to mention the time Mrs. Oniji rendered the saying
Out of sight, out of mind,
as
invisible/insane
. “Hard working,” said Kit. “Extremely conscientious.”

“I’m sure she is,” said Mr. Oniji. “She’s good at many things…” He paused. “Did you know she was a marine biologist?”

“No,” said Kit, he could confidently say this had passed him by.

“Eleven kilometres down, the gap between biology, chemistry, and physics becomes immaterial.” Mr. Oniji smiled. “Or so she told me on our first date. She was working on foraminifera, which are billions of years old. Unless that’s just microbes in general…”

He hesitated, as if he’d forgotten what he intended to say. After a moment, he glanced at the officers, a fact that left them looking unhappy. All the same they went. The orderly, the nurse, and the suited administrator followed without having to be asked.

“May I sit?”

“Of course,” said Kit. “I’m sorry.” He nodded to a chair in the corner. It was steel, with raw leather and bead highlights. Dragging it across the floor, Mr. Oniji positioned himself close to Kit’s bed. When he sat it was formally, his back straight and his legs together, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his hands flat and angled slightly inwards where they rested on each knee.

“How good is your Japanese?”

“Good enough,” said Kit.

Mr. Oniji nodded. “There are things I need to say,” he said. “We can speak in English if that is better for you?”

Kit shook his head.

“Okay,” said Mr. Oniji. “The most important thing I have to say is this…You need to leave Tokyo.”

“Tokyo?”

“Japan,” Mr. Oniji said, amending his words. “I suggest you go soon. Visit Australia or Thailand. Take a holiday…”

“For how long?”

“A month, two months, maybe longer.” The Japanese man ran one hand through his salt and pepper hair, wiping his fingers on a tissue. He looked tired, but determined. “It is not safe for you to remain here.”

Was that a threat?
Kit wondered.

Straightening the jacket of his suit, Mr. Oniji brushed invisible dust from one knee of his trousers and shot the cuffs of his shirt, revealing simple gold cuff links. The
oyaban
was nervous, Kit realised. An idea that seemed absurd.

“My wife will have told you I am High
Yakuza
. Maybe she’s said I am rarely at home and have little to do with her family or my own. If she has not already told you then you have probably deduced we have no children…”

When Kit nodded, Mr. Oniji smiled.

“Only the last of those is true,” said Mr. Oniji. “We have no children.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “Have you ever done anything you really regret? No,” he said. “No need to reply. I can see the answer in your eyes.”

Mr. Oniji took a sip of water from a fresh glass on Kit’s bedside table.

“My regret,” he said, “is marrying my wife…” He must have decided he’d either said too much or too little, because after a slight hesitation, he added, “I knew from the beginning we were not suited.”

“So why marry?”

“You know how it is,” said Mr. Oniji. “She was young and pretty and I needed a wife.”

“But you didn’t love her?”

Whether Mr. Oniji looked sad for himself, his wife, or the world in general was hard to say. “This is difficult,” he said. “Women have never been of much interest to me. Unfortunately, a wife was necessary…I should have told her,” he added. “Explained things. That is my regret.”

“Why tell me?”

“The police will want to ask you questions,” said Mr. Oniji. “They will ask you, because they always ask, if you have any enemies…”

“I don’t,” said Kit.

Mr. Oniji’s smile was tight. “Everyone has enemies,” he said. “I would like to make clear that I am not one of them. Also, there is the possibility of arson. If that is true, I had nothing to do with it.”

Early next morning a Korean orderly carried a small book and a business card into Kit’s room and presented the card first, his fingertips barely touching its edges as he offered the object to Kit.

Hiroshi Sato, second assistant to Mr. Oniji, presented his compliments. Should Mr. Nouveau wish to send a message to Mr. Oniji, he could do so through the good offices of Mr. Sato. An e-mail and telephone number were both given on the card. Quite why Kit might need this went unsaid.

The book had been wrapped by a professional. A sheet of hand-laid paper, folded so every edge formed a perfect line, was wrapped into the covers and tied in place with a length of dried grass. The grass bisected the book twice, the angle between each length chosen with care.

On the front of the book was a wood-block illustration of a samurai in a wolf skin coat.
In the Shadow of Leaves
announced the title. The date was 1934, the language English. It had been printed by the Board of Tourist Industry, on behalf of Japanese Governmental Railways.

The essence of speaking is in not speaking at all. If you think you can accomplish a task without words then do so…When compelled to choose between death now or death later, choose now. It just is…

There were eighty-six pages of such aphorisms, with five more wood-block prints and a foldout map of feudal Japan. Mr. Oniji’s note was tucked between the cover and the title page.
Read this,
he said.

Some hours later, just as Kit was finishing
In the Shadow of Leaves
for the second time, a nurse arrived to change the staples in his face. Her name was Lucy, at least that was the name on her badge, and until she began tossing ant-like pincers of plastic into an enamel dish Kit hadn’t even known his face had staples.

When this was done, she fixed two metal splints to his right ankle, braced the splints with steel cross bars, and fed strips of foam over the braces and under the cross bars, hardening the padding with a UV light wand.

“Wednesday,” she said, when Kit asked what day it was. She shaved him very carefully, helped him to the lavatory, and waited, telling him to lean on her when he walked back to his room. “Now I’m going to give you a blanket bath,” Lucy announced when Kit was back in his bed.

“I can manage a shower.”

“No.” Lucy shook her head. “You’re much too weak. In fact, you can barely answer questions…”

“Questions?”

Unbuttoning his pajama top, Lucy extracted a sterile flannel from its foil wrapper and dunked the flannel into a basin that had appeared on the locker beside Kit’s bed. She wiped his face and neck, washed under his arms and across the top of his chest, taking care not to wet the bandages over his ribs.

“A cut,” she said, in answer to his question. “Metal shrapnel from the explosion. You were lucky…” Lucy must have caught the shock on Kit’s face, because she smiled. “It barely grazed your side,” she said. “And it was hot enough to sear the edges of the wound.”

After she’d washed his chest, she washed his back and undid his pajama bottoms. “You stink,” she said, when he tried to protest. She said this firmly, but with a smile. “A Major from the National Police is going to question you. His arrival is unexpected and he intends to catch you unaware. We will, as a hospital, make the strongest protest possible.”

“If it’s unexpected…”

“Then how do we know?”

Kit nodded.

“I believe the manager had a call from police HQ.”

When Kit looked puzzled, Lucy sighed. “Mr. Oniji owns this hospital,” she said. “He owns many things in Tokyo and his contacts are good.” Having washed Kit’s legs, genitals, and backside with casual competence, the nurse dried him with a different cloth and helped him into a fresh pair of pajama bottoms.