Fuminori Nakamura - Evil and the Mask

“Can we meet here at the same time next week? This is big business. I’d like you to move slowly on Kaori.”

“I get it. I’m a pro.”

“Here’s a token of my appreciation.”

Under the counter I handed him a crumpled cigarette packet. A small plastic bag filled with white powder rustled inside.

“This is top quality stuff, completely different from what you get around here. It’s really pure.”

“You’re pretty smooth, aren’t you?”

Yajima opened the packet a crack, keeping it out of sight. After checking the contents, he put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“That’s really wicked shit,” I said, “so to start with you should only take about half a normal dose. It’s bloody dangerous if you get it wrong. It’ll be hard to get the job done if you’re dead.”

I laughed and so did he.

“Yeah, it’s that good? Could you get me some more?”

“I will next week,” I said as I got up to leave.

Drug Addiction Spreading

Man Found Dead on Shinjuku Street

Late last night the body of a man was discovered by a police patrol in a parked car on a street in Shinjuku.

The victim appeared to be in his mid-thirties, and based on the fact that syringes were found in his vehicle, the cause of death is believed to be a drug overdose. The police are trying to learn the man’s identity and who supplied him with the narcotics. Since the beginning of this month there have been more than thirty drug-related deaths in the city, and the police are strengthening their countermeasures.

Drug Overdose Turns Into Murder Inquiry

Traces of cyanide have been detected in the powder believed to have been used by the man found dead in a car on the third of this month. Based on syringes found in the vehicle and scars on the victim’s arms, the cause of death initially appeared to be a drug overdose, but police are now treating it as a possible murder or suicide.

They have reported that the man’s identity is still unknown. Even the acquaintance from whom he borrowed the car claims not to have known his real name.

It was a minor incident, and articles appeared once or twice in a few newspapers, buried on the inside pages, but after that the information dried up. I thought that was the mark of a true con artist — even in death they couldn’t figure out who he was. In front of me the detective was drinking his coffee. For some reason the surroundings seemed to stand out sharply, as if the air was crystal clear. I contemplated that unusual sight for a while.

“This man is definitely Takayuki Yajima,” said the detective, “but I don’t know yet if it was suicide or murder.”

It was like he was reading from a script, and I grinned slightly. He continued.

“We can assume that it will be impossible for the police to track down the culprit. They don’t know Yajima’s true identity, and the best they’ll be able to do is look for people who had a grudge against him. Then they’ll try to find out his normal suppliers, and that will be as far as they can go.”

“I think so too. But please keep watching Kaori.”

My eyesight was still unnaturally sharp. I could clearly see the dust on the table, the seams of the sofa he was sitting on.

“This man’s death is extremely fortunate for Ms. Kaori,” he said, looking at me.

“It is, isn’t it? Extremely fortunate.”

I wondered why it was so quiet and glanced at the clock. It was already after two in the afternoon. The movements of the second hand were crisp and precise.

“Here are some photos and video of Ms. Kaori from last week, in a bar she went to with Azusa Konishi. She’s managed to make friends with her quite quickly.”

“Great. I’m really glad I hired you. The next thing that’s bothering me is this firm that’s been investigating her.”

The detective bowed slightly and left the hotel room where we always met. After he left the room was still.

I TOOK TWO taxis and got out part-way, in a residential area. The plastic surgeon had an unwritten rule that I couldn’t go straight there by car, because cars were conspicuous and people would notice that he had lots of visitors. Although it was a clinic, from the outside it looked like an ordinary house.

When I pressed the buzzer and gave my name, the door opened silently. A woman of about forty with no make-up ushered me in with a smile. She was the doctor’s assistant, but wasn’t wearing the usual white nurse’s uniform, just an apron over her clothes.

The doctor stood up from a white sofa as I entered the room, giving me a neutral smile. Several plants were arranged in white pots and sunlight seeped through the blinds. The walls were stark white, not a speck or stain on their antiseptic surface. My room had been upstairs, and the operating theater was farther to the back.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Not too bad.”

The doctor pushed an ashtray towards me and I lit a cigarette. The clear glass of the ashtray reflected the light. It looked white, as if it was trying to hide something.

“I want you to keep taking the anti-inflammatories for a little while longer. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Okay.”

In his sweater and cotton trousers, he didn’t look like a doctor. For some reason the stickiness of my rubber slippers was bothering me.

“It fits nicely. Your face. Though whether it’s your face that’s adjusting to you or you that’s adjusting to your face, I don’t know.”

“It feels like there isn’t any ‘me’ any more. Like there’s no such thing as me.”

“Are you still getting those flashbacks?”

“I’ve already ceased to exist.”

He passed me some tea. The room was warm, and the clink of cup on saucer rang out in the quietness. The tea was as strong as ever.

“My wife found a dead baby.”

“A baby?”

“Yes. In the toilets in a department store. A corpse.”

He sipped his tea.

“Floating in the bowl with the umbilical cord still attached. Isn’t that cruel?”

“Yeah.”

“They called an ambulance and apparently there was a huge uproar.”

He stared at the gray blinds.

“That baby should have enjoyed life. That’s what my wife said. She said she wanted to wrap him in a towel. Babies come into the world screaming from the pain of being forced out of the womb and the fear of being outside. Being squeezed through that narrow channel. And after all that, to be dumped in a toilet, in cold water so he couldn’t breathe, isn’t that just dreadful? For that baby the world was nothing but an oppressive place.”

The ceiling fan was spinning indecisively.

“Normally when they come out they’re hurting, and their mother or a nurse wraps them in a towel, right? A soft, clean white towel. Of course the baby keeps crying out of fear, but it can feel that it’s wrapped in something soft, can’t it? Then eventually it gazes at things in wonder, someone makes it smile. But this baby, as soon as it was born, its suffering increased. Shuddering at the touch of the cold porcelain, the cold water, unable even to breathe. And then it died. At the last second he must have looked up at the ceiling. That’s what I can’t stop imagining, the look on his face at that moment. What did his life mean? He grew into flesh and blood in his mother’s womb just to experience pain. For him this world existed only to hurt him. And he didn’t know anything. My wife said that even if that baby was going to die almost immediately, she still wanted to cuddle him, to wrap him in a soft blanket for that brief time. She wanted to make him feel that the world contained soft, warm things, things that cared about him and held him gently.”