Jason Rohan - The Sword of Kuromori

Kiyomi stood with her arms folded and watched, a smile playing on her lips. Poyo plopped to the ground and sprawled beside Kenny.

‘It’s also completely silent,’ Kenny said, finally working out what it was that had been bugging him ever since he had first set eyes on the bike and its mysterious rider. ‘What? How –?’

‘Ken -chan , I’d love to tell you, but I can’t since you’ll be leaving soon. Poyo, you stay here. And no going through the trash cans.’

Kiyomi pushed open the glass doors and went to the counter to order. Kenny caught up with her in the queue. ‘You know, you’re not fooling me with this whole I-don’t-need-anyone lone-wolf routine,’ she said. ‘You should trust us to help you.’

‘I can handle myself,’ Kenny said.

‘Really? So, Mr Independent, why don’t you order for us?’

‘ Irrashaimase! ’ said the girl behind the counter, looking expectantly at Kenny.

He stared at the illuminated photos of hamburgers above the counter with Japanese writing underneath, before flashing Kiyomi an embarrassed grin. ‘Um . . . could you do it, please?’

Kenny found a table by the window and watched his fellow diners. There were office workers on the way home, school pupils still in uniform, a couple of punk rockers, an old lady wrapped in a long raincoat. The place was much brighter and cleaner than fast-food restaurants at home.

‘Did you want a shake?’ Kiyomi asked, placing a tray on the table.

‘Sounds good,’ Kenny said, reaching for a fry. ‘Chocolate for me.’

‘Well, now it’s summer, so you can have melon, peach, banana or green tea.’

‘Oh . . . maybe later then.’

Kenny bit into his burger, savouring the taste. ‘I haven’t had one of these in years,’ he said, wiping a dribble of ketchup from his chin.

‘How come?’ Kiyomi dipped a fry into her peach shake.

‘It’s something . . . My mum would treat me, but . . . I stopped.’ Kenny put the burger down, blinking several times.

Kiyomi put her hand on Kenny’s. ‘It’s OK. I know about your mother.’

Kenny pulled his hand back and wiped a knuckle over his blurring eyes. ‘I don’t think about her much any more.’ He sniffed.

‘I lost my mother too,’ Kiyomi said, gazing into space. ‘But I was too little to remember her.’

‘I was six,’ Kenny said. ‘You?’

‘I was two.’

They ate the next few bites in silence.

‘Thank you,’ Kenny said.

‘Huh? For what?’

‘For not giving me the usual “I’m sorry” routine.’

Kiyomi laughed. ‘Oh God, I hate that. Everyone says it and I just want to say, “Don’t be sorry, it’s not like you’re responsible.”’

‘Exactly. I was so sick of all the pats on the head, people telling me how brave I was, saying she’s in a better place – like they know anything.’

Kiyomi shrugged. ‘They mean well. They just don’t know what else to say.’ She took a slurp of peach shake. ‘They can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up without a mum.’

‘You know what the worst thing was for me?’ Kenny looked away, his cheeks pink. ‘It’s kind of silly . . .’

‘Come on,’ Kiyomi said. ‘Who am I going to tell?’

Kenny stared down at his meal. ‘I miss the cuddles and the hugs. You know, with my mum, it didn’t really matter what I did. If I was upset, she would just give me a hug and it was all better. With my dad . . . let’s just say it’s different.’ He popped the last of his burger into his mouth and licked his fingers. ‘How about you? What was the hardest thing . . . growing up?’

Kiyomi’s smile vanished. ‘It would have been nice to get tips on what to wear and make-up. Stuff like that. My dad isn’t –’

‘Hey, at least your dad is there for you, every day. He didn’t dump you like a bag of dog poo first chance he got.’

Kiyomi reached for Kenny’s hand again. ‘Your father fell apart afterwards. Papa told me. He couldn’t cope. You know that. I think seeing you was too painful for him, reminded him too much of your mum.’

‘And that’s an excuse to shut me out, is it?’ Kenny drew his hand back. ‘Anyway, you seem to know a lot about me. How come?’

Kiyomi dunked her last chicken nugget into a small pot of sour-plum sauce. ‘Our families go way back,’ she said. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? My grandfather and yours were friends. They worked together after the war.’

‘They did? Doing what?’

‘Sorry, can’t tell you that. You’re leaving, remember?’ Kiyomi wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. ‘We should go.’

‘Allow me,’ Kenny said, gathering the empty containers. He wrestled the rubbish into an overflowing bin and stowed the tray. He wasn’t ready to leave just yet. For one thing, he had nowhere to go; Kiyomi’s father was right about that. And he had so many questions. How could his grandfather have kept all this from him? He straightened up, as if adjusting the weight of a burden, and caught Kiyomi staring at him.

‘Neodymium alloy magnets,’ Kiyomi said, when he returned to the table.

‘Huh?’

‘My bike. It’s a prototype. Lithium-ion batteries and super-magnets drive the motor. That’s why it makes no sound. It’s electric. My father borrowed it.’

‘Stole it you mean?’ Kenny regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

‘No. Borrowed it. From a business associate.’ Kiyomi stressed each word. ‘Do you really think I’d be riding around on a stolen bike?’

‘Well, your dad is, um, a gangster . . .’ The accusation was out of Kenny’s mouth before he could stop himself.

‘What?’

‘He’s a yakuza , right? Japanese mafia. I saw his missing little finger.’ Inside Kenny’s head, a small voice was screaming at him for messing up what was almost a pleasant meal.

Kiyomi grabbed her handbag and stood up. ‘Maybe it’s better you’re leaving us, Kuromori. I mean, you obviously know everything already. You don’t need us and we certainly don’t need you.’ She strode towards the door, watched by the old woman in the raincoat.

Kenny stood up. ‘No. I’m sorry. Look, that’s not what I meant. I, er . . .’

‘Get lost!’

Kenny watched numbly through the window as Kiyomi marched to her bike and swung a leather-clad leg over the seat. As she leaned forward to pull on her helmet, four dark shadows emerged from the gloom of the car park and swarmed at her. One of them swung something at Kiyomi, catching her around the head, and she fell from the bike, her helmet bouncing away over the tarmac.

Kenny was on his feet before he realised what he was doing.

By the time he was out of the glass doors, his mind had finished arguing with itself. One side was saying to keep out of it, that this was nothing to do with him, that it was dangerous and that he was leaving anyway; the other side said simply that someone was in trouble and he had to do something.

‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Kenny shouted. ‘Leave her alone!’ He made his voice as loud and as deep as he could while he fumbled for the whistle.

‘Hnh? Nandayo ?’ The four shapes moved back from the fallen girl and Kenny saw a jumble of black jumpsuits and leather jackets with Chinese writing on them, biker boots, long red sashes tied in an X-shape across the chest, headbands – and a baseball bat, a wooden sword, a metal pipe and a length of chain.

‘Uh-oh’ Kenny muttered, looking around for anything he could use in defence. Suddenly, this wasn’t such a great idea.