Hidden Nexus (16 page)

The conversation soon turned to more mundane matters mainly concerning the doings of his sister and his nephew. He felt guilty that he’d not had much to say to her over the past few years. There was no real reason for this. He just hadn’t had the time. His parents usually kept him up to speed with whatever news there was.

They all soon sat back and watched the traditional New Year’s Eve national singing competition in silence. Mr Mori quickly fell asleep and then excused himself to go to bed early. He usually turned in around nine thirty. Mori and his mother chatted some more.

‘He doesn’t seem too bad,’ said Mori referring to his father.

‘He’s been steady.’

‘He didn’t mention the numbers – he usually does.’

‘It’s probably because they’ve been quite steady and staying low. The last round of chemo-therapy seemed to do the trick. The Parkinson’s is better as you will have noticed.’

‘Yes – but I did notice him shake a bit when he was pouring the sake.’

‘Let’s talk about something more interesting. What’s happening with you and Ren?’

Mori gave his mother a despairing look. She was as bad as his father.

‘There’s nothing more to say, really.’

‘Have you met her parents?’

‘No. No I haven’t.’

‘And do they know you are living together?’

‘I suspect not. And anyway we aren’t living together. I just stay over at her apartment sometimes. It’s convenient.’

‘Well, so long as you are happy, I’m pleased for you, but remember you don’t want her neighbours gossiping about you both. The sooner you make it formal the better. You know that don’t you.’

‘It’s not the seventies now mother. Things have moved on a bit.’

‘Well, don’t you be so sure. You should know better than me that it only takes a few malicious phone calls or two and all sorts of damage can be done.’

‘Yes, well…’ Mori finished off his tea and placed his cup back on the table.

They chatted some more about nothing in particular and then at twelve o’clock wished each other a happy new year. The television was showing clips of various temples, shrouded in snow, encircled by tall pines with snow gently falling and the deep, resonant sound of the temple bell ringing out one hundred and eight times. For Mori, hearing the sombre, slow ringing of the bells was a restful, peaceful scene.

For the present though he still had his cold to worry about and so he took some cold medicine, Chinese in origin that his mother swore by. Before he turned in she insisted on giving him a foot massage – a particularly painful one, deliberately so. ‘It’ll help with your cold,’ she’d explained. She wasn’t far wrong. The pain his mother inflicted on his foot completely outweighed any discomfort in his head and nose.

He eventually hit the pillow just after twelve fifteen.

Saturday 1st January 6:43am

As one of the most famous shrines in Kamakura, Tsurugaoka Hachimangu typically drew around two million people during the first three days of New Year and the Mori family were part of that two million as they executed their usual new year’s ritual. Of course this meant battling with the jam-packed Yokosuka Line and the slow stumble down the thronging streets that lead to the Shrine. It took Mori and his mother and father almost a full-hour to get to there after getting off the train. At any other time it would have taken them a brisk fifteen minute walk. Like almost everyone else he bought an arrow-like
Hamaya
(a good-luck amulet made of bamboo and feather) and also a red
Daruma -
a symbol of perseverance and good luck, which made them a popular purchase at this time of year. They bowed at the shrine and then meandered through the side stalls that sprung up to accompany the festivities. He had his fortune told, as he did every year, noting, as he always did that nothing was said concerning love, romance and marriage. He fancied buying a banana covered in chocolate and again, as per ritual, his mother had frowned at him and steered him away from the stall. She'd done the same for the past thirty years!

After returning back to his parent’s home exhausted from the crowds and also hungry they settled down to a traditional meal of
O-zoni
and
Setchi-ryori
washed down with special sake - with gold leaf floating within.

He thoroughly enjoyed the break.

Sunday 2nd January 8:50am

Watanabe had spent the night of new year's day, not unusually, in a favourite club before repairing to the Faction apartment at just after midnight. It would be too early to say that he’d been celebrating, despite the fact that he’d selected a particularly fine
Hakushika
Sake to accompany him - that would be premature in the extreme, but none-the-less he’d become more optimistic in his belief that events would transpire in a way in which he predicted and in a way in which he desired.

The club was a high-class pole-dancing and hostess club – that is to say if the juxtaposition of ‘high class’ and ‘pole-dancing’ wasn’t something of an oxymoron. It was a place he’d been introduced to by Kinjo, in fact, on reflection, Kinjo had introduced him to a great many places, usually places of questionable repute or of expensive tastes – Kinjo liked to operate at both ends of the spectrum in his seemingly constant search for a hedonist’s utopia. He wondered who he could rely on now to lead him to these secretive little hidey-holes as what was undeniable was that Kinjo had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the next best thing in entertainment or the next best place on the ‘
must be seen at
’ social circuit. Watanabe however, was more considered in his choice of after-hours venue, he had to be, but this particular club, despite its arousing ‘entertainment’ was one frequented by a great many of his colleagues.

The atmosphere as ever had been subdued save for a constant hum of under-toned chatter coming from the private booths that hugged its perimeter and which were universally occupied by serious looking men attempting to relax. On a raised platform up front a number of semi-naked women gyrated in semi-erotic poses around a series of vertical chrome poles to a low pulsating beat and for an extra cost would complete the act by gyrating around your lap and your own semi-perpendicular pole – as Kinjo had put it.

Watanabe had felt odd sitting alone without the companionship of his ‘old’ partner. It was almost as if he was naked or shorn of a limb. Many of the girls who had approached his table had asked after Kinjo finding it surprising that the two men were not together.

What did that say for the nature of their relationship?

He’d had no adequate reply for them. It also struck him that Kinjo was quite popular and it had made him feel quite jealous.

Watanabe had remained sitting alone. He’d been in no mood for company and although one of his favourite girls had joined him for half an hour or so, he had soon grown tired of her company and ushered her away having no wish to listen to facile chit-chat or indulgent flattery. He had no wish, either, to go home - again! He'd been forced to run the gamut of the intrusive media on New Year's Eve and had no wish to go through that again. He understood the media to be still encamped outside his home in Den-en-chofu and on this occasion he had looked instead to escape to a place away from their eyes and ears. He was nothing if not a coward and had discovered over the years that calculated withdrawal was always more prudent than gallantry. He had wondered, on the other hand, if on this particular occasion that it would have been more sensible to continue to show his marital loyalty, to stay at home with his wife and to demonstrate normality and solidarity. Already Kinjo was being missed. He was sure to have advised Watanabe to stay within the bosom of his family.

He had, though, had words with his wife. It went without saying that these had neither been tender-filled nor even those of grovelling apology but simple instructions demanding that she concur with his assertions that he’d been with her on the night in question, if asked. She had obediently acquiesced.

He loved her after a fashion – like a man who loves a favourite golf club. She was there when he needed her, trusty and reliable – good when recovery was needed. There had never been any passion in their relationship. He had been far too busy and she was far too traditional and prissy and as his extra-marital affairs had mounted, affairs which until now he had managed to keep secret – at least from the media, she had resigned herself to reap the benefits of an attachment to a well-heeled politician. From deep within she had found the character to turn a blind eye to his wayward one.

He rarely gave a single thought as to whether or not she was hurt by his philandering. He rarely gave thought to anyone other than himself, but on this occasion he had. He had thought of her alone in their house, with the press camped outside having to face a shame and embarrassment that was none of her making. But then again it was all her doing. If she’d paid him more sexual attention over the years then he wouldn’t have had the need to chase after the other women. Yes – she had brought in on herself – the sexless bitch.

He’d spent a restless night, not surprisingly, considering the multitude of thoughts that were romping through his mind. He’d found himself making a long list of all the people that suddenly seemed to be suffocating him; Kinjo, The Ryozo, the slut, his wife… The list seemed to be growing. At one point, in his kaleidoscopic dreams, he’d had the disturbing vision of his wife and the slut making passionate love in front of him, with Kinjo laughing hysterically in the background. He’d found this to be so profoundly disconcerting that it forced him to surface from his sleep. Then around three in the morning he was dreamily aware of the call from his bladder, a bladder that was not as resilient as it used to be and so had trouped off to the toilet to relieve himself. Once awake he considered the need for a shot of whiskey to send him back to sleep. And so he had raided the drinks cupboard, tore off the seal and poured a modest measure. He’d then slugged it back and returned to bed.

That morning the walk from the apartment to headquarters had taken a little over the usual five minutes, due to the snow and ice. He picked up a newspaper on the way in and was relieved to see that the slut had been true to her word and had duly retracted her story saying that it had been Kinjo with whom she’d had the affair, not Watanabe as she’d previously stated. It had all been a case of mistaken identity.

It was therefore with an element of renewed vigour that he strode across the foyer and into the elevator. It would be wrong to say that events had fallen entirely as he’d have wished but at least as far as the ‘story’ went, his sacking of Kinjo was now entirely consistent – after all it had been Kinjo, not Watanabe who had brought disgrace upon the faction.

He considered once again if the rapprochement with the Ryozo should be sought again and it was with such an idea in mind that he instructed his staff to act.

Monday 3rd January 7:00am

A mentally gruelling day had been followed by a mentally gruelling night - cat and mouse games of verbal jousting with Inspector Sakamoto followed by snatched, fitful sleep within the confines of a holding cell.

Hideki Yamada lay prone and exhausted in cell number four worryingly suspecting that it would become his permanent home for the rest of his life. It seemed a month since he had walked through the brightly painted cellblock for the first time, stumbling along as if in a dream, staring vacantly at each cell and at the dejected men lying on their futons within. Momentarily he’d experienced a strange sensation like he’d been caught in a movie, acting out a life that was not his own to an audience he could not see.

Already after just three days he was beginning to lose sight of reality.

After his signature and fingerprints had been dutifully logged on his official statement, a statement that had not shifted one iota since he’d first found himself staring eye-ball to eyeball with Mori and Sakamoto some seventy hours before, he’d been taken for further “processing” during which time the rules had been unemotionally explained to him.

He would no longer be addressed by his name and he would from that moment on be addressed as prisoner fourteen.

Again it sounded to him like he was in some alien movie set in the future. He was no longer Hideki Yamada, husband to Eri. He was a suspected murderer. He was number fourteen and to emphasise the point he’d been handed a pair of slippers with ‘14’ neatly stencilled on top. His world was now full of numbers - prisoner 14 in cell 4, 3 meters by 5 meters – big enough for 2 men and 1 murderer.

He’d eyed up his new ‘companions’ - a bulky-looking man to one side and a Chinaman to the other. On that first night without too much of a do Yamada had laid out his futon close to the door not wanting to intrude on the space of the other two men. He didn’t know how they’d react. The days and nights of anxiety had only just begun. Despite his exhaustion it had been some time until he had finally felt secure enough to relax and relieved enough to sink into some much-needed sleep. He had closed his eyes and drifted into a broken slumber, wanting desperately to hide away in his dreams.

That had been three days and two nights ago. Now on the Monday morning, January 3rd he felt not much better despite becoming more accustomed to his circumstances.

Dark, disturbing images remained his one companion. He saw himself bending over the body of a woman. He saw himself releasing a ligature from around her neck. He saw her collapse lifeless to the ground.

That morning he had woken sweating and panting, like he had on every morning, shivering and shaken and found that once awake he couldn’t get back to sleep. Not that sleep offered any release from the strain he was now suffering and there was nothing he could do to escape the blinking, bright luminous strip that lit the room twenty four hours a day. It was officially ‘dimmed’ in the evening and finally ‘turned out’ at nine but it really didn’t make that much difference. There were the toilet and hall lights still to contend with. His cellmates seemed to have no trouble.
 
They just turned over contentedly and continued snoring.

Time and again his dreams and thoughts returned to the repeating, probing questions. He was finding it hard to tell fact from fiction. He
had
been angry at the discovery of Eri’s affair. But had that been before or after he’d been arrested? There
was
a mysterious missing ten minutes in his statement. How had he filled that time?

In the pale translucent light he examined his hands. Had he really taken off his tie, tied a knot in it, wrapped it tightly around his hands and then looped the ligature around his wife’s throat until the life force had been squeezed out of her? Was he that consumed by jealousy and hatred?

He no longer knew. But the details seemed so real.

‘Cold again!’
The words swirled around his head along with three others that now added to his confused thoughts.

‘It was you!’

He found himself waking up at four a.m. to the sound of the guard’s squeaking boots patrolling up and down the hallway. The sound seeming to grow louder by the minute and playing to the tune of the snoring, the flicking strip light and the roar of the early morning cars taking to the streets – a symphony from hell. Once awake there was simply no going back to sleep.

Around six o’clock the hall lights came on and the sound of jingling keys could be heard. It was time to roll up the futons and fold up the drab, brown blankets and place them on top of the futon along with the small, hard pillow. After they returned their futons to the cupboard they filed out to the washbasins where eight taps above a long steel basin allowed eight men short-lived access to some refreshing cold water. At the same time a couple of vacuum cleaners and some cleaning products, a soapy spray and towel, were passed between cells for the inmates to clean the floor and the toilet.

He'd been instructed to buy a washing kit and at a cost of around ¥800 he got a polyester towel, a cheap toothbrush and a block of soap in a plastic case. The wash was just for their faces and teeth. Washing his feet or his now oily hair was strictly off limits. He soaped his face, neck and as much of his hair as he could without making it too obvious and also made an attempt to wipe the sweat and stink from his armpits, but it was futile. ‘
Dame da yo!
’ (Not allowed!) shouted the guard from behind him. He turned and saw an officious guard peering at him through thick circular glasses. The other guards stepped in and muttered under their breath to let Yamada get away with it, saying that he was only washing his face, which clearly he wasn’t.

As he waited for breakfast to be readied the duty warden walked along from cell 1 through to cell 6 and carried out a headcount. Every inmate’s number was called from a list and every inmate was expected to reply when their number was shouted. Only at the last minute did Yamada recall that he was number fourteen. Again he had the fleeting but very real feeling that he would have zero chance of ever leaving this cell. There was no way or reason for him to get out. He was trapped in this small space. It was claustrophobic and it stank.

Breakfast followed the count and a polystyrene tray with plastic bowls for a sachet of
miso
soup and hot water was passed through the hole. The rice was cold and stuck together making it particularly unappetizing but he had noticed that the other men put the cold rice into the hot
miso
soup and so he had followed suit. It resulted in a marginal improvement and was far more palatable than taking mouthfuls of the miserable cold
gohan
(rice) and trying to wash it down with the instant soup. Even after he’d finished he still felt hungry - and strangely dizzy.

After the breakfast, as usual, he was offered a cigarette which he declined and then took some exercise. Standing on the caged balcony with four other inmates and two guards, he took the chance to stretch while the guards quizzed him on who he was.

More questions.

He just wanted to be left alone. They asked a lot of questions but never breached the real reason of how he had got there.

When he returned to the block he found that the whole place was in turmoil. The Chinaman had suffered a heart attack of sorts. It was hard to tell if it was real or diversionary but eventually the guards fetched some medicine for him and fed him some pills as he rolled about on the floor. Yamada was temporarily transferred to another cell. The Chinaman was carried off to the hospital.

It turned out that there were at least six or seven Chinese in the cells and this added to his disorientation. He felt like he’d suddenly been transported to Hong Kong with all the chatter between the cells being in a foreign language.

Reality was being slowly twisted. He was tired, exhausted, confused and hungry. The only one thing he knew was that he had to get out.