Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Mr Ricker?’

The Japanese woman steps forward. Noel half turns his head.

‘Is everything all right?’ Gene asks.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Jen says, nodding emphatically.

‘No problem,’ Ransom echoes, shifting into view and smiling, jovially.

Noel slowly lowers the bottle from his throat.

‘What’s happened to your cheek?’ Gene wonders.

(There is blood on Ransom’s cheek where a tiny splinter of glass from the beer bottle has lightly nicked his skin.) Ransom lifts a hand to the cheek and pats at it, cautiously. ‘It’s fine.’ He winces. ‘It’s nothing.’

As Ransom speaks, Noel gently places the broken bottle on to the bar and then casually lifts his shirt to show Jen his chest. His chest is painfully emaciated but exquisitely decorated. The tail of the adder curls over his shoulder and finishes — in a neat twirl — around his nipple. All the remaining skin on his belly, waist and diaphragm has been intricately inked into a crazily lifelike, rough, wicker corset.

‘Oh God!’ Jen gasps, suddenly remembering. ‘Wickers!’

Noel grins.

‘But of course — my dad coached you in five-a-side for years …’

She squints at the tattoo work, amazed, as bright trickles of blood drip down on to the design.

‘Mr Ricker?’ The Japanese woman takes another cautious step forward.

Noel half turns, dropping the T-shirt. ‘Mrs Kawamura?’

Mrs Kawamura bows her head as Noel tramps his way, carelessly, through shards of glass and goes over to formally introduce himself. They shake hands, then Noel politely indicates the way and they leave the foyer together. Gene gazes after Noel, bemused.

‘His mum was Head of Housekeeping,’ Jen says, matter-of-factly. ‘Mrs Wickers. D’you remember her?’

‘Uh … no.’ Gene shakes his head.

Jen squats down and starts picking up the larger pieces of glass. Ransom is still sitting on his stool, looking pale and disorientated.

‘Should I fetch the first aid box?’ Gene wonders.

‘Hang on a second …’ Ransom lifts a hand. ‘You didn’t …’ He blinks a couple of times then frowns. ‘That story you were telling earlier. About the Jap kid. The one who was kidnapped by the North Koreans …’

‘Sorry?’

It takes Gene a few moments to make the connection. ‘You mean Megumi? The girl who —’

‘Did they ever find her?’ Ransom interrupts.

‘Find her?’ Gene echoes, frowning. ‘Uh, no. No. I don’t believe they did.’

‘Oh. Great.’ Ransom looks depressed.

‘Although, in the final reckoning, Megumi’s disappearance was actually just the start of something way bigger — something almost revolutionary —’

‘How d’you mean?’ Ransom interrupts again, somewhat irascibly.

‘Well, her case ended up having all these really widespread social and political repercussions throughout pretty much all of Japanese culture,’ Gene continues (somewhat haltingly to begin with). ‘I mean it’s fairly complicated’ — he shrugs — ‘but what basically happened was that quite a few years after Megumi first disappeared her parents were approached — out of the blue — by this North Korean spy who claimed to have been involved in the initial kidnap plot. He was seeking asylum in Japan and told them exactly what had happened to their daughter and why …’

‘They believed him?’ Ransom’s sceptical.

‘It seems he was fairly convincing’ — Gene nods — ‘so they promptly informed the Japanese authorities of what they knew, but the Japanese government refused to do anything about it.’

‘Why not?’ Jen looks up, outraged, from her position on the floor.

‘Because they didn’t want to risk antagonizing the North Koreans,’ Gene explains. ‘Relations between the two countries were especially volatile during that period …’

‘How many people are we talking about, here?’ Jen wonders. ‘Kidnap victims, I mean. In total?’

‘I don’t actually remember,’ Gene confesses. ‘Quite a number. Definitely in double figures. Fifteen? Nineteen?’

Jen receives this information without further comment.

‘Anyhow, instead of just putting up and shutting up — like the government wanted — Megumi’s parents decided to take matters into their own hands. They virtually bankrupted themselves spearheading this massive, public campaign, transforming Megumi and her plight into a huge, cause célèbre. ’

He clears his throat. ‘It’s important to bear in mind that what they did — how they behaved — was considered completely shocking and outrageous in the Japan of that era. In general people weren’t encouraged to make a public fuss about personal dramas. It flew in the face of Japanese etiquette which prefers, as you’ll probably know from your own extensive experience,’ Gene addresses Ransom, respectfully, ‘to do things quietly, surreptitiously, behind the scenes, so that people in positions of authority don’t ever risk feeling compromised.’

The golfer takes out his phone and starts checking his texts, so Gene focuses his attention back on Jen again.

‘But Megumi’s parents flew in the face of all that, marching, picketing, leafleting, protesting for year after year after year. Megumi became a household name throughout all of Japan — a celebrity. And in the end the Japanese government were pressurized into making some kind of a deal with the North Koreans whose rice crop had just failed so they were desperate for Japanese aid. This was ten or more years later — even longer — maybe fifteen …’

Ransom finally puts his phone away.

‘Up until then the North Koreans had always hotly denied any knowledge of Megumi and the other kidnap victims,’ Gene continues. ‘They were obliged to perform a complete about-turn — it was deeply humiliating for them — and quite a few of the victims were eventually returned to Japan, to this huge, public fanfare.’

‘But not her.’ Ransom’s poignant.

‘Nope. Megumi never made it back. They claimed she was dead. They said she’d hung herself during a short stay in a mental hospital when she was around twenty-six or twenty-seven, although there was scant formal evidence to back this up. What they did admit, though — and I suppose this is one of the few, really positive aspects to the story — was that she’d given birth to a child during her captivity, this beautiful little —’

‘ Christ . I gotta get out of here!’

Ransom turns and dry retches on to the bar top.

‘Oh great,’ Jen murmurs. ‘Oh bloody wonderful.’

Ransom rolls on to his back, yawns, stretches out his legs and farts, luxuriously. He feels good. No. No . Scratch that. He feels great . And he smells coffee. The golfer flares his nostrils and inhales deeply. Coffee! He loves coffee! He wiggles his toes, excitedly, then frowns. His feet appear to be protruding — Alice in Wonderland-style — from the end of his bed. He puts a hand above his head (thinking he might’ve inadvertently slipped down) and his hand smacks into a wooden headboard.

Ow!

He opens a furtive eye and gazes up at the ceiling. He double-blinks. He is in a tiny room. It is a pink room, and it is a smaller room than any room he can ever remember inhabiting previously. A broom cupboard with a window. Yes. And it is pink. And the bed is very small. He is covered with a duvet, a pink duvet, and the duvet has — his sleep-addled eyes struggle to focus — pink ponies on it! Little pink ponies, dancing around! The duvet is tiny — ludicrously small, like a joke. A laughably tiny duvet. A trick duvet. A miniature duvet. He tries to adjust it but he feels like he’s adjusting some kind of baby throw. A dog blanket. When he moves it one way, a different part of his body protrudes on the other side. His body (he is forced to observe) is not looking at its best. His body looks very big. His body looks coarse and capacious in this tiny, dainty, girly, pink room. His body looks hairy. It feels voluminous.