Hidden Nexus (26 page)

Monday 3rd January 10:00pm

Kenta Fujiwara had spent a lot of the day drunk, some of it high but most of it drunk – too drunk. He’d told himself it was medicinal, but his drinking had become too habitual for this pretence to adequately register, but non-the-less he'd attempted to persuade himself that the alcohol was medicine for his conflicted mind and the unending throbbing of his head which had been slow to relent, had not relented, despite the cocktail of pain-killers and alcohol attempting to do what it could to ease him through the days.

Thump… thump…thump…

It reminded him of something else - a similar noise that he couldn’t begin to smother.

Parallel to the physical pain he was experiencing there was an even deeper groove of dissatisfaction that was carved across his soul. It had caused him as much agony as his bodily wounds. He had thought, had hoped, that through action would come redemption, or if not that then hard work and diligence would be able to mask his feelings of
 
discontent, but he had soon come to realise that his futile attempts to shake some sense into his life were coming to nothing.

None of his plans had resulted in the breakthrough he needed.

Rumi too, had gone and this caused him as much pain as everything else put together.

He recognised that he had messed up his ‘relationship’ with her badly and recognised too, that a misplaced use of force had betrayed him. Force had always been his answer - force had been his only, repeated answer and rape had been his one and only mechanism. It was the only way he understood. He had convinced himself that it was the only way that
they
understood too, although no such debate had ever really taken place in his mind. There had been no discussion as to the rights and wrongs of his actions after all they were all prostitutes, high class, but prostitutes all the same. He would have been mad not to treat them roughly. He needed to keep them afraid and dependent otherwise the whole enterprise would crumble. How else would they comply? How else would they stay where they were?

But despite this force Rumi had gone – driven away by that which was designed to keep her put.

Initially he had viewed Rumi how he had viewed all the other girls. She was pretty and if he wanted her, he would take her. But as time had passed by he had wanted so much more. Suddenly she was the only one he had turned to – not that they'd really talked, not that he would have ever really confided in her. That had been out of the question.

But now she was gone and if passivity had been a feature of his life before she’d left it was certainly a feature now. The mere fact that he’d done so little to get her back emphasised the point that he was a broken man. Presently he was emotionally as well as physically crippled.

He briefly thought of the other women in his charge. There was no Rumi amongst them and perhaps, above all, this was what pained him most. None of the women he had taken were like Rumi. None could shine a light to her and even if they could it was Rumi that he really wanted.

But no-one had seen anything of her. He was quickly becoming a laughing stock. He couldn’t keep his women.

He then thought of that other woman. The woman he had intended to be Rumi’s substitute - Junko Iida, the scandal girl.

When he’d arrived at her flat the plan had been simple; offer her the work, take her to the Millennium Massage Salon, ply her with drink and alcohol, beat her about a bit and make her his own. He’d done it before and he would do it again. She was no Rumi, but he needed a girl.

He’d been drunk, he’d been angry and he had most probably been out of control and so consequently or perhaps inevitably the plan had gone wrong – hideously wrong.

Why was life no longer simple?

He was too thick-skinned to consider such concepts as remorse or guilt and anyway his actions had been driven within a vehicle of necessity but a nagging, questioning, prodding thought drilled continuously into his mind.

Why me?

Consequently he'd continued to spend a lot of his days drunk and high but most of all drunk – too drunk. Like the weekend that had preceded it the current day had been no different and as a result he had collapsed unconsciously in his office chair at around five.

It was together with the now unwelcome but perpetual companion of a hang-over that he emerged once more into the day, or more precisely the night, at just after ten. He’d been out cold for at least five hours.

He dragged himself into the bathroom and splashed some water over his face. It was refreshing but did little to alter his mood. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a haggard and hollow-looking man staring gloomily back. His eyes were red – his eyes were dead.

So many questions roamed across the plains of his mind. Who was this stranger? Where had the dreams gone? When had all the madness started?

In an attempt to grab onto something sane and every day, not for the first time in his life, he considered shaving off his moustache and perhaps even shaving off his hair, too. He looked ridiculous he now had to concede. With a vigour which he found surprising he picked out his electric hair razor that he’d barely used and with a degree of derring-do set about his image change. Fifteen minutes later he re-appraised himself. He wasn’t sure. He’d been so used to his permed locks. His face looked redder than he’d noticed before, his upper lip appeared naked and pale and the hesitancy written into his features wasn’t hard to miss. Perhaps the excessive drinking was beginning to get to him. He may have looked different but the negative thoughts that tumbled around his mind were still all too recognisable.

It was with a tinge of disappointment that he returned to the office.

He lay back on his chair and switched on the TV and then flicked through the channels but found nothing of interest. He was tired of chat shows and singing competitions. He switched it off and considered not for the first time that day about having a drink.

It was then that he looked at the calendar on the wall. It was then that his body shook with fear. He had missed the appointment – the
sokaiya
.

The thought about that drink turned quickly into action but the phone rang before he could make it to the bottle.

‘
Moshi Moshi’

‘Fujiwara?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Baka!
Where were you?’

‘I-’

‘
Baka!
Listen to my voice.’

Fujiwara did. It was cold and hard.

He placed the receiver down slowly. His mind was racing. Like trying to catch falling snow in a storm it was stumbling around disjointedly hoping that his futile actions would result in a way out!

There was none!

Monday 3rd January 11:00pm

Junsa
Saito didn’t know what to expect as she slipped off her shoes and stepped up from the
genkan
into Inspector Saito’s apartment. She turned to one side and neatly re-arranged her shoes compensating for Inspector Saito who’d kicked his off untidily as he’d entered his apartment. She felt he was allowed this one lapse in untidiness given his injuries, noting that he found it hard to bend, and anyway, it was his own apartment after all, so he could do what he liked. Her first impressions were of a cold, gloomy-looking hallway bereft of decoration, save for a vase of dried flowers which was sat on a sideboard within the
genkan
. She wondered if the dried flowers were intentionally dried or were just those that had slowly withered away. It crossed her mind as being an unfortunate symbol representing the Inspector, but she hoped it wasn’t. He beckoned her into the main room, apologising unnecessarily for its state – it was actually neat and tidy, and then he collapsed awkwardly onto the sofa.
Junsa
Saito approached tentatively and then sat on the floor a discreet distance away from him. It seemed appropriate to have him stationed above her.

Again she noticed the complete absence of decoration. It was something of an obvious truism but the place lacked the feminine touch. There was a small painting of a sailing dingy hanging above the sofa which used only three simple colours – a dull orange for the sail, brown for the hull and dark blue for the sea and sky. It was a pretty mournful canvass. She wondered whether he liked sailing or the sea, or both. The only other main feature of the room was a large plasma TV and again she wondered if under the usual course of events he would ever have time to watch it. He didn’t strike her as the sort of man who would waste his hours idly watching cooking programmes or chat shows.

Inspector Saito noticed her admiring the TV. ‘A recent acquisition,’ he admitted.

‘Very nice – 3D?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea – I’m not very technical I’m afraid, nor am I up-to-date with the must have specs. A TV is a TV as far as I’m concerned. The
hocka-hocka
carpet, switch is over there, by the way,’ he indicated to the corner of the room. ‘And help yourself to anything that’s in the kitchen.’

Junsa
Saito frowned. She’d been warned by Sergeant Mori that she’d be lucky to find as much as a carton of milk inside the Inspector’s fridge. It was well known by all, apparently, that he never cooked at home. She was starving and therefore it was more in hope than in expectation that she eased herself up and entered the Inspector’s kitchen and peaked inside his refrigerator. She stepped back in complete surprise. In front of her eyes were bottles of pickles, yoghurt, milk, jams, eggs, cold meats, chilled beer – in fact everything that you’d come to expect from a fully stocked larder.

‘Do you want anything to eat?’ she shouted happily back into the main room.

‘There’s some
sashimi
that needs finishing.’ Inspector Saito started to manoeuvre himself carefully off the sofa.

‘You stay put,’ ordered
Junsa
Saito. ‘I’ll see to it.’

Five minutes later she had gathered up enough things for a decent supper and arranged an array of dishes on the table using up what she could find in the fridge.

‘Are you able to sit alright?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ replied the Inspector gingerly easing himself onto the floor.

‘Your colleagues led me to believe you always ate out. The evidence suggests otherwise.’

Inspector Saito smiled. ‘A couple of months off can change a man. I had to find something to do and eating out alone is only pleasurable on so many occasions. I thought it was time I learnt to prepare a few things for myself.’

She felt saddened by his admission and speculated briefly on the absence of friends. ‘And how far have you got - with your cooking?’

‘I can do a fine curry, I think, and I’ve mastered the rice-cooker. I can even do
ton-katsu
and
ebi-furi.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘One never knows one’s latent skills until one is forced into it.’

‘I guess not. So you enjoy it then – cooking?’

‘Not really – but needs must!’ he smiled again, dipping his
sashimi
into the soy,
wasabi
sauce
.
‘So tell me, does your husband mind you being away?’

‘Husband?’ she laughed. ‘Actually, I live alone - in Chiba.’

‘Chiba! I never realised. I shouldn’t have dragged you all the way down here. I just assumed that as you helped out on the Takamura case that you must live a little closer.’

‘It’s no matter. I quite enjoy the occasional sabbatical.’

‘Are you from Chiba, then? Do you parents live there, too?’

A slight shadow passed across her face, ‘Well actually my father left home when I was eight and my mother died about a year ago.’

‘Oh – I’m sorry to hear that. So we are both alone!’

They shared a thoughtful silence. Saito thought about his missing wife and children.
Junsa
Saito thought about her missing father and late mother. How strange it was that fate had brought them together they both simultaneously thought. How strange it was that they were, as Inspector Saito said, both alone in the world.

‘And Sergeant Mori? Does he have any family?’

‘His parents live in Ofuna, I think, and he has a sister somewhere. He’s not married, if that’s what you are asking.’

Junsa
Saito allowed herself a short smile.

‘But he does have a live in girlfriend-’

‘Oh!’

She looked down at her hands feeling a little stupid and they sat again in another pool of silence. She picked at a piece of sashimi and she wondered if all the men she was destined to meet were married or paired up. Her lack of companionship wasn’t necessarily a cause for anxiety, it was just that she felt that she had so much to give in a relationship. She often noticed around her couples who no longer had anything to say to each other or worst still seemed to spend every waking moment bickering or finding fault. She believed quite strongly that she would never be like that. She’d never had the chance to prove it, though. She looked at the Inspector resting his back gently against the sofa and taking care whenever he moved. It was obvious he was still in some pain even though he was making a good job of trying to mask it.

‘I understand that you ‘lost’ your family,’ she ventured.

From anyone else Inspector Saito would have not welcomed this intrusion into his personal life – only perhaps from Kumiko the bar owner of his local drinking hole. He looked up at the young woman in front of him. Would his own daughter have turned out so?

‘I did!’ It was clear that both were unsure if they wanted to continue this particular conversation.

‘Forgive my intrusion. It was rude of me to ask.’

‘No, no.’ Inspector Saito waived away her apology. ‘It’s time I moved on from the whole tragedy, anyway. It’s just-’

‘You can’t help wondering… I feel the same – about my father, I mean.’

‘Didn’t your mother ever explain to you-?’

‘She would have if she’d known. But we never had an answer. One day he was with us and the next he was gone. There was no note, no reason, no body – nothing. My mother never really got over it and I, I, er…’

Inspector Saito touched her hand gently. ‘I know.’

'It's why I decided to join the police force. I felt it might help in some way.'

‘How strange it is that you and I have come together like this.’

Junsa
Saito said nothing but merely looked down into her glass, turning it in her hand.

‘Would you mind fetching some cold sake from the fridge – it’ll be in the door.’

She was happy to get up and help.

He poured himself a little of the clear liquid into his glass, sniffed its bouquet and then took a few sips. ‘Good stuff,’ he said placing the glass back on the table and topping it up. He leant back against the sofa and looked up to the ceiling as if deep in thought.

‘Have you ever seen a dead body
Junsa
?’

‘Only my mother.’

‘Yes, of course, how silly of me, but I really meant of the murdered variety.’

‘Well… not really. I saw plenty of photos during my degree if that counts.’

‘Degree?’

‘Human Biology.’

‘Right!’

‘But I’ve not actually seen a real murdered corpse. Since I’ve been in the service my duties have mainly been restricted to research and office duties.’

‘Menial work, you mean.’

She looked up at him with her large eyes but said nothing.

‘You never quite get used to it, you know. No matter how many you stumble across and sadly I’ve seen bodies of all ages and types.’

They fell into another thoughtful silence.

‘It does make you focus on our own impermanence, though. When I was your age I never once thought about death, let alone my own death. Recently I can’t seem to think of anything else.’

The massacre and the mystery

‘I
do
sometimes think of my own death,’ said
Junsa
Saito surprising the Inspector, ‘Ever since my mother died.' She paused slightly. 'I guess it does make you realise that it will happen one day - that we will die and be reborn again.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘What?'

'That you'll be reborn again.'

'Oh, I don’t know but I like the idea of the soul living on despite the body passing away. I like the idea that the soul can pass from an older body to a newer one.'

They fell into silence once more.

'Do you believe in reincarnation, Inspector?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. My beliefs are rather too bleak. I see no difference between us and the leaves on the tree. Once they fall they are gone, dissolving into nothingness, just part of nature’s cycle. There’s no joy to be had, I’m afraid.’

‘No, no, I suppose not.’ She looked up at him. He appeared quite sad – he appeared quite sad a lot of the time she thought. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘Assuming that you have some.’ She felt keen to change the subject before they both became too consumed by melancholy.