The Three (37 page)

When we landed at Narita, we were funnelled to a special holding area where our passports and visas were scrutinised with forensic precision. Next, we were herded onto coaches. At first, I couldn’t see any signs that Japan was heading, like the rest of the world, towards economic collapse. It was only as we cruised over the bridge that led into the heart of the city, that I realised the trademark billboards, signage, and even the Tokyo Tower were only half-illuminated.

Daniel met me at the hotel the next day, and painstakingly wrote down step-by-step directions describing how to get to Kenji’s address in Kanda. As it’s in the old part of the city and outside the Westerners’ Approved areas he suggested that I hide my hair, wear glasses and cover my face with a surgical flu mask. It seemed a bit over-the-top, but while he assured me that he doubted I’d run into trouble, he said it was best not to draw too much attention to myself.

Sam, I’m exhausted, and I have a big day ahead of me. It’s getting light now, but I have one last scene to relate. I haven’t had time to transcribe my conversation with Kenji Yanagida–I only saw him yesterday–so you’re getting it in Proper Writing.

Without Daniel’s detailed directions, I would have been lost within seconds. Kanda–a labyrinth of criss-crossing streets lined with tiny restaurants, minuscule book stores and smoke-filled coffee shops packed with black-suited salarymen–was bewildering after Roppongi’s comparatively soulless Western-style architecture. I followed the directions to a narrow alley teeming with overcoated people, their faces hidden behind scarves or flu masks. I paused outside a door set between a tiny shop selling plastic baskets of dried fish and one displaying several framed paintings of children’s hands, and checked the kanji on the sign outside it against the lettering Daniel had written out for me. Heart in my mouth, I pressed the intercom button.

‘
Hai
?’ a man’s voice barked.

‘Kenji Yanagida?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Elspeth Martins. Pascal de la Croix put me in touch with you.’

After a beat, the door clicked open.

I stepped into a corridor that stank of mildew, and with no other option, started down a short stairway. It ended at an anonymous, half-open door. I pushed through it and into a large cluttered workshop. A small group of people were hanging around in the centre of the room. Then my brain hitched (Sam–I can’t think of another way to put it) and it hit me that these weren’t people after all, but surrabots.

I counted six of them–three women, two men and (horribly) a child, propped up on stands, the halogen lights bouncing off their waxy skin and too-shiny eyes. There were several more sitting on plastic chairs and frayed armchairs in a gloomy corner–one even had its legs crossed in an obscenely human pose.

Kenji stepped out from behind a worktop covered in wires, computer screens and soldering equipment. He looked a decade
older and twenty kilos lighter than on his YouTube clips–the skin around his eyes was creased; his high cheekbones looked as prominent as a skull’s.

Without greeting me, he said: ‘What information do you have for me?’

I told him about Ace’s confession and handed him a copy of the transcript. He scanned it without any change in expression, then folded it and slid it into his pocket. ‘Why did you bring this to me?’

‘I thought you had a right to know the truth. Your wife and son were on that plane.’

‘Thank you.’

He stared at me for several seconds, and I got the impression he could see straight through me.

I gestured at the surrabots. ‘What are you doing here? Are these for the Cult of Hiro?’

He grimaced. ‘No. I am making replicas for people. Mostly Koreans. Replicas of the loved ones they have lost.’ His eyes strayed to a pile of wax masks lying on the bench. Death masks.

‘Like the one you made of Hiro?’ He flinched (who can blame him? It was hardly a sensitive thing to say). ‘Yanagida-san… your son, Hiro… when he was killed, was it you who identified him?’

I steeled myself for a barrage of invective. But instead he said: ‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to ask this… it’s just there are rumours that maybe he isn’t… maybe he…’

‘My son is dead. I saw his body. Is that what you wanted to know?’

‘And Chiyoko?’

‘Is this why you came? To ask me about Hiro and Chiyoko?’

‘Yes. But the transcript–that’s the truth. You have my word on that.’

‘Why do you want to know about Chiyoko?’

I decided to tell him the truth. I suspected he would see straight through bullshit. ‘I’m following a series of leads regarding The Three. They led me to you.’

‘I cannot help you. Please leave.’

‘Yanagida-san, I have come a long way—’

‘Why can you not leave this be?’

I could see the grief in his eyes. I’d pushed him too far, and to be honest, I was disgusted with myself. I turned to leave, but as I did, I spied a surrabot in a darkened corner, half-hidden behind the facsimile of a corpulent man. She sat in her own private area, a serene figure dressed in a white kimono. She was the only one who appeared to be breathing. ‘Yanagida-san… is that the copy of your wife? Hiromi?’

A long pause, then: ‘Yes.’

‘She was beautiful.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yanagida-san, did she… did she leave a message? An
isho
, like some of the other passengers?’ I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to know.

‘Jukei. She’s there.’

For a second I thought he meant his wife. Then it clicked. ‘She? You mean Chiyoko?’

‘
Hai
.’

‘The forest? Aokigahara?’

A minuscule nod.

‘Where in the forest?’

‘I don’t know.’

I wasn’t going to press my luck any further. ‘Thank you, Yanagida-san.’

As I made my way back to the staircase, he said: ‘Wait.’ I turned to face him. His expression remained as unreadable as the surrabot next to him. Then he said: ‘Hiromi. In her message, she said, “Hiro is gone.” ’

So that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. I have no idea why Kenji told me the content of his wife’s
isho
. Maybe he really was grateful for the transcript; maybe, like Ace, he thinks that there’s no point keeping it to himself any more.

Maybe he was lying.

I’d better send this now. The wifi here is crap–got to go down
to the lobby to do it. The forest is going to be cold–it’s starting to snow.

Sam–I’m aware that the chances you’ve actually read this are slim, but just so you know, I’ve decided I’m coming back home after this. Back to NYC–if the governor isn’t bullshitting about holding a referendum for secession, I want to be there. I’m not going to run away any more. I hope you’ll be there, Sam.

I love you,

Ellie

Elspeth’s disguise of sunglasses and the now slightly soggy flu mask is just as effective in the suburbs as it was in the city–so far, none of her fellow passengers have spared her a second glance. But as she alights at Otsuki–a rickety station that looks like it’s stuck in the 1950s–a uniformed man barks something at her. She feels a momentary panic, then realises he’s only asking for her ticket. Stupid. She bobs her head, hands it over and he waves her towards an elderly locomotive waiting at an adjacent platform. A whistle blows and she scrambles on board, relieved that the carriage is empty. She sinks onto the bench seat and tries to relax. As the train jolts, shudders, then finds its stride, she looks through grimed windows onto snow-dusted fields, slope-roofed wooden houses and a series of small frozen allotments, barren but for a crop of ice-rotten cabbages. Icy air seeps through cracks in the train’s sides; a light drift of snow brushes against the windows. She reminds herself that there are fourteen stops to Kawaguchiko–the end of the line.

She concentrates on the clack of the wheels; tries not to think too deeply about where she’s headed. At the third stop, a man with a face as rumpled as his clothes climbs into her carriage, and she stiffens as he chooses the seat opposite hers. She prays that he won’t try to engage her in conversation. He grunts, digs in a large shopping bag, and hauls out a packet of what look to be giant nori rolls. He stuffs one in his mouth, then offers her the bag. Deciding that it would be rude to refuse, she murmurs ‘
Arigato
,’ and takes one. Instead of rice encased in seaweed, she bites into some sort of light crispy candy that tastes of Splenda. She takes her time eating it in case he offers her another (she’s already nauseous)
then drops her head as if she’s taking a nap. It’s only partly an act; she’s exhausted after a sleepless night.

When she next looks up, she’s stunned to see a giant roller-coaster filling the window, its rusting frame shaggy with icicle teeth. It must be attached to one of the now-defunct Mount Fuji resorts Daniel told her about; an incongruous dinosaur stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Last stop.

Giving her an enormous smile that makes her feel guilty for pretending to sleep, the old man departs. She hangs back, then follows him across the tracks and into the deserted station, a wooden structure clad in shiny pine that looks as if it would be more at home in an Alpine ski resort. Hurdy-gurdy music plays from somewhere, loud enough to follow her when she exits into the station forecourt. The tourist booth to her right has the aura of a mausoleum, but she spies a single taxi parked next to a bus stop, smoke pouring out of its exhaust.

She digs out the scrap of paper on which Daniel had (reluctantly) written her destination, folds it around a ten thousand yen note and approaches the car. She hands it to the driver, who shows no emotion as he glances at it. He nods, tucks the money into his jacket and stares straight ahead. The taxi’s interior reeks of stale cigarette smoke and despair. How many people has this man ferried to the forest, knowing that more than likely they wouldn’t be returning? The driver guns the engine before she’s even managed to secure her seat belt, and whips through the deserted village. Most of the stores are boarded up; the gas station pumps are padlocked. They pass a single vehicle–an empty school bus.

Within minutes they’re skirting a wide glassy lake, and Elspeth has to cling to the door handle as the driver throws the car around the narrow road’s curves; clearly he’s as keen to be done with the journey as she is. She takes in the sagging skeleton of a large shrine, a forest of neglected grave markers in front of it; a row of rotting kayaks and the burned limbs of several holiday shacks peeking gamely through the snow. Mount Fuji looms in the background, mist cloaking its top.

They leave the lake behind, and the driver swings onto a deserted highway before turning sharply and speeding down a narrower road, lumped with snow and slick with ice. The forest creeps up around them. She knows it has to be Aokigahara–she recognises the bulbous roots that sit above the forest floor’s volcanic base. They pass several snow-shrouded cars abandoned by the side of the road. In one, she’s almost certain she can discern the shape of a slumped figure behind the wheel.

The taxi driver spins the car into a parking lot and jerks to a stop next to a low shuttered building that screams neglect. He points to a wooden sign strung across a pathway that leads into the forest.

There are several vehicle-shaped humps here, too.

How in the hell is she going to get back to the station? There’s a bus stop on the other side of the road, but who knows if they’re even running?

The driver taps the steering-wheel impatiently.

Elspeth has no choice but to try to communicate with him. ‘Um… do you know where I might find Chiyoko Kamamoto? She lives around here.’

He shakes his head. Points at the forest again.

What now? What the fuck did she expect to find? Chiyoko waiting for her in a limousine? She should have listened to Daniel. This was a mistake. But she’s here now–what would be the point of going back to Tokyo without exploring all her options? She knows there are villages around here. She’ll have to make her way to one of them if the buses aren’t running. She murmurs, ‘
Arigato
,’ but the driver doesn’t respond. He accelerates away the second she closes the back door.

She stands still for several seconds, letting the silence settle around her. Glances at the pathway’s dark mouth. Shouldn’t the hungry spirits who lurk in the forest be attempting to lure her into the trees by now? After all, she thinks, they target the vulnerable and damaged, don’t they? And what is she if not vulnerable and damaged?

Ridiculous.

Trying not to look too closely at the abandoned vehicles, she picks her way through several deep drifts, and heads towards the snow-covered mounds, which are arranged in a circle in front of the building. She’s read that there are several memorials to the crash victims in the area, and she brushes ice crystals from the top of one of them, revealing a wooden marker. Behind it, partially hidden behind another drift, she spots the shape of a Western-style cross. Elspeth wipes away the snow, the melting ice starting to seep through her gloves, and reads the words, ‘Pamela May Donald. Never Forget.’ She wonders if Captain Seto has a marker here; she’s heard that despite the evidence, some of the passengers’ families still blamed him for what happened. Perhaps that really would have been a story worth pursuing.
Untold Stories from Black Thursday
. Sam was right: she is
so
full of shit.

A voice behind her makes her jump. She whirls, sees a stooped figure in a bright red windbreaker trudging towards her from behind the building. He snarls something at her.

There’s no point hiding. She whips off her sunglasses, the light making her blink.

He hesitates. ‘What are you doing here?’ His English is tinged with a slight Californian accent.

‘I came to see the memorial,’ she finds herself lying–she’s not sure why.

‘Why?’

‘I was curious.’

‘We do not get Westerners coming here any more.’

‘I’m sure. Um… your English is very good.’

He smiles suddenly and fiercely. His teeth are ill-fitting and there’s a gap between them and his gums. He sucks them back into his mouth. ‘I learned it many years ago. From the radio.’

‘Are you the custodian?’

He frowns. ‘I do not understand.’

She gestures at the dilapidated building. ‘Do you live here? Take care of the place?’

‘Ah!’ Another teeth-snapping smile. ‘Yes, I live here.’ She
wonders if he could possibly be Yomijuri Miyajima, the suicide monitor who rescued Hiro and came across the remains of Ryu. But that would be too serendipitous, wouldn’t it? ‘I go into the forest to collect the things that people leave behind. I can trade them.’

Elspeth shivers violently as the cold bites into her cheeks, making her eyes water. She stamps her feet. It doesn’t help. ‘You get a lot of people coming here?’ She nods at the cars.

‘Yes. You want to go in?’

‘To the forest?’

‘It is a long walk to the site where the plane crashed. But I can take you there. You have money?’

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand.’

She digs in her pocket, hands him a note. Does she really want to do this? She finds that she does. But this isn’t why she’s here. What she
should
be doing is asking him if he knows the whereabouts of Chiyoko, but… she’s come this far, why not go into the forest?

The man turns and strides towards the pathway and Elspeth scrambles to catch up. His legs are bowed and he’s at least three decades her senior, but he appears to have the vigour of a twenty-year-old.

He unclicks a chain strung across the pathway and skirts a wooden sign, the writing on it peeling and faded. The trees shower her with snow blossoms, the flakes finding their way into her neck where her scarf has slipped. She can hear her own breath, ragged in her ears. The old man cuts across the main path, heading into the depths of the forest. Elspeth hesitates. No one, except for Daniel, knows she’s here (Sam might not even read the email she sent her this morning) and he’ll be leaving Japan in a few days. If she runs into trouble, she’s screwed. She checks her phone. No signal. Of course. She tries to take note of her surroundings, searching for landmarks that might help her find her way back to the parking lot, but within minutes the trees swallow her whole. She’s surprised when she doesn’t feel the sense of foreboding she
was expecting. It’s actually, she thinks, quite beautiful. There are brown pockets of earth where the forest’s canopy blocks out the sky, and there’s something charming about the trees’ knobby roots. Samuel Hockemeier–the marine who’d been on the scene a couple of days after the crash–had said they were otherworldly and forbidding.

Still, as she crumps her way through the snow, following in the old man’s footsteps, she can’t forget that this is where it all started. A sequence of events that was kicked off, not by three children surviving plane crashes, but by a seemingly innocuous message left by a Texan housewife as she died.

The man stops suddenly, then veers off to the right. Elspeth hangs back, not quite sure what to do. He doesn’t go far. She steals forward cautiously, stopping dead when she sees a flash of dark blue in the snow. There’s a figure curled in a foetal position at the foot of a tree. The remains of a rope snakes into the branches above the body, its frayed end crisp with ice crystals.

The man sinks to his haunches next to it, and starts rooting through the pockets of its dark blue windbreaker. Its head is bowed, so she can’t tell if it’s male or female. The backpack next to it is half-unzipped, revealing a cellphone and what looks to be some kind of diary. Its hands are blue and furled, the nails white. The sweet roll the old man on the train gave her lumps in her gut.

Elspeth stares at the body with a kind of morbid fascination, her brain unable to process what she’s seeing. With no warning, a hot rush of bile floods into her mouth and she turns away, gripping a tree trunk as she dry heaves. She drags air into her lungs, wipes her eyes.

‘You see?’ the man says matter-of-factly. ‘This man died two days ago, I think. Last week I found five. Two couples. We get many who choose to die together.’

Elspeth realises she’s shaking. ‘What will you do with the body?’

He shrugs. ‘They will only come to collect it when the weather is warmer.’

‘What about his family? They might be looking for him.’

‘It is possible.’

He pockets the cellphone and straightens. Then he turns and walks on.

Elspeth has seen all she wants to see of this place. How could she have found it beautiful?

‘Wait.’ She calls after him. ‘I’m looking for someone. A young woman who lives around here. Chiyoko Kamamoto.’ The man stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around. ‘Do you know where she lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you take me to her? I can pay you.’

‘How much?’

‘How much will it take?’

His shoulders slump. ‘Come.’

She steps back to allow him to pass, then follows him towards the parking lot.

She doesn’t look back at the corpse.

Jogging to catch up to him, she flails as she hits a patch of ice, managing to catch her balance at the last moment.

He hauls open a pair of double doors at the side of the building, disappears inside and seconds later Elspeth hears the stutter of an engine trying to start.

A car backs out, its engine chugging asthmatically.

‘Get in,’ he snaps through the window. It’s clear that she’s offended him in some way–because she didn’t want to go up to the crash site, or because she mentioned Chiyoko?

She climbs in before he can change his mind. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road, as heedless of the snow and ice on the road as the taxi driver. He appears to be keeping to the edges of the forest, and as they round a bend, she makes out the snow-dusted roofs of several wooden houses.

The old man slows the car to a crawl, and they creep past a series of draughty-looking single-storey residences. She notes a rusting vending machine, a child’s tricycle half-hidden in the snow next to the side of the road, a pile of icicled wood slumped against the side of one of the houses. As they reach the outskirts of the
village, he doubles back towards the forest’s edge. The road here is hidden beneath untouched snow–not a footstep or animal print marring it.

‘Does anyone live here?’

The man ignores her, revs the accelerator and the car lurches awkwardly up a slight incline, and stops a hundred yards from a small structure constructed out of peeling boards that lurks in its own gloomy pocket adjacent to the forest. If not for the sagging veranda huddled around it and the shuttered windows, it would resemble a shed. ‘This is the place you want.’

‘Chiyoko lives here?’

The old man sucks his teeth, stares straight ahead. Elspeth pulls off a sodden glove and scrabbles in her pocket for the money. ‘
Arigato
,’ she says, handing it over. ‘If I need a ride back can I—’