Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

He pretends he didn’t hear me. There’s something unresolved about him, an inner conflict. “But you have to realise, Mitsuko, that modern Japanese people like us aren’t much into that old gods and ghosts routine. We might invoke a kami here or a kami there, but it’s just habit. All we really want, as we stumble along and lean on society’s Zimmer for support, all we want is to fill our cup, right here right now, and forget who we really are. All those stories about a demon called Rokurobei are hopelessly – how should I put it? – out of date.”

“If only you could write as you talk,” I say.

Reizo turns his head lightly, stiffly, like a swallow, and points the pistol at my abdomen. My stomach muscles tense automatically. Will the bullet burn like fire or be cold as a mountain stream?

Tenchou-san, owner of the Sawa No Tsuru restaurant is so proud of his new high-tech toilets that he’s reintroduced the old custom of requiring customers to take off their outdoor shoes before using them. Inspector Takeda exchanges his shiny shoes for a pair of rubber slippers and goes inside. He’s confused. The man in him who fears and respects the rules is irate: why did he agree to the German photographer’s suggestion that they both have dinner with the suspect to hear her account of things before taking her to the station? The man he became after commissioner Takamatsu’s reprimand senses a degree of freedom to make his own decisions and not fret too much about the consequences. The old Takeda would never have agreed to Becht’s proposal. The new Takeda is fiercely enjoying the anxiety he’s putting himself through. Surely it can’t be mere coincidence that the young man Yori claims was responsible for the attempted murder of the Belgian with a poison jellyfish is in fact a nephew of the dead ceo of the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank? If the girl was telling the truth, Reizo Shiga doesn’t get on with his parents, who don’t approve of his drug abuse and excessive lifestyle. How can he use this information to his advantage? When is the right moment to go over commissioner Takamatsu’s head and share his theory about the bank raid with a more senior police official? Takeda is so deep in thought that he doesn’t pay much attention to the refurbished toilets, the subdued lighting, the background music – just loud enough to mask embarrassing noises. All he notices is that the urinals are higher than before, in line with western norms.

He also doesn’t pay any attention to the two men who came in behind him.

Reizo grins and relaxes his trigger finger. He’s seen my fear, he’s enjoying it.

“How did you know who I am?” I repeat.

“Fate is this world’s only true god. This morning, at a meeting of the Brotherhood, an organization I belong to, we were given orders to look for you. This afternoon, after our little altercation in the storeroom and the pleasant conversation that followed, in which I tried in vain to worm more information out of you, I paid a visit to the undersecretary of the organization. He knows a lot of things, and that looser Reizo Shiga, poor bastard, a mere novice in the Brotherhood, hasn’t a clue half the time. But alas, our pathetic undersecretary is also a secret junky like me. Like me he has to keep it from the others, but birds of a feather and all that. And junkies will do anything for a fix, even tell tales out of school. As soon as I knew exactly who you were, it dawned on me that my first impressions of you weren’t far off the mark: you’re a godsend for my book.”

So he already knew that they were looking for me. That explains all the questions. I still don’t know what he’s up to. Why the cat and mouse? Does he plan to turn me in to my father? He’s had every opportunity and I’m sure my father has offered a substantial reward.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” says Reizo, still grinning. “And look who found you!”

“Who is ‘we’?”

He narrows his eyes. “You don’t know the Brotherhood?”

“Let me guess: under the leadership of a guru they call The Blessed One?”

He grimaces. “Do you know what foreigners think is so crazy about us? That our language has thirty different ways to say ‘no’.”

He’s still playing games. I try to push my anxiety out of the way. He called me “the daughter of a sort of god” just then. He was clearly jeering at me, but he wasn’t being sarcastic. I don’t know how much time I have before he makes a move, but if I let him think he’s in charge he might make a mistake.

“Deny it as much as you like. I saw that guru of yours on Hashima. He’s one of my father’s Yuzonsha.” My words appear to cheer him even more. His body language tells me he doesn’t know as much as he’d have me believe. He probably thinks that he’ll come closer to realising his goals – whatever they might be – if he has more information.

“My father won’t like it if he finds out you’ve been writing about me.” I point to the computer. “He likes to keep himself to himself.”

Reizo takes the bait. “Who is your father?”

“Would you write about him if you knew?” My question clearly hit the wrong button. He sticks out his tummy and pouts like an angry child.

“You think you can mock me because you’re the daughter of some big mafia cheese. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I have talent in abundance, but the drugs hold me back. If I gave up the dope I’d be able to write a masterpiece that would astonish the world.”

“That’s what you want to believe. You’ll do anything to accomplish that goal. But that means you’re still not sure of yourself.”

The transformation is astounding. He suddenly seems older, withdrawn. I sense Reizo has made a decision. For him there’s no way back.

“No,” he says. “ You’ll do anything.” He lurches towards me and I toss the heavy folder I’m holding in his direction. It takes him by surprise and he tries to avoid it. The corner of the cardboard cover hits the bridge of his nose. I push him aside and slip between the filing cabinets. I hear a shot. The bullet ricochets against metal, a deafening bang followed by a whistling sound. I run, keep running, and it’s only when I realise I’m running along a dark tunnel that I realise I made a mistake.

I didn’t head for the stairs.

I’m in the cellars under the building.

I’m scared of basements. Always have been.

Since that time on Hashima.

He hears leather soles squeaking on the polished wooden floor. They haven’t changed into the rubber slippers by the toilet door. Inspector Takeda registers the information automatically. Kids these days have no manners, he thinks. He sees their vague reflection in the stainless steel strip above the urinal. One of them is waving something in the air and they’re heading towards him. Takeda turns, hoists his elbows to face level in a split second and lunges forward. A club whistles past his right shoulder and lands with a thud against the stainless steel wall. Takeda rams his right elbow into the voice box of the closest attacker. The man staggers backwards gasping for air. The second attacker pushes him aside and collides with Takeda as the inspector hurtles towards him. He’s small and stinks of garlic. He tries a head butt. Takeda blocks it with his forearm and forces the man into reverse. He spots the first attacker slip through the door. The second pulls a knife but doesn’t attack. His eyes dart back and forth. The man tries to divert him, stabs at Takeda’s throat. In spite of his weight, the inspector is still light on his feet. He swerves out of the way and just misses grabbing his attacker’s arm. The man turns and hares towards the toilet door. Takeda runs after him into the corridor.