Масахико Симада - Death by Choice

When the brother and sister left the office, bowing constantly as they retreated, Zombie, who had been silently watching the proceedings, said excitedly, “Kita, you’ve gone and sold your life away! A total of fifty one million, one hundred and twenty thousand yen – wow!”

“Yeah I guess so,” said Kita, rubbing his upper lip to cover for his embarrassed pleasure. He suddenly felt like tasting the delights of the nouveau riche. In fact, the amount at his disposal totalled one million six hundred sixty thousand, adding in what was left in his own account. If the blood test and X-ray came up clean, the money would be paid into his bank tomorrow afternoon. He wondered what the real price on the organ market was like. One million one hundred twenty thousand was surely too cheap. If he considered that he wouldn’t have earned a single yen without registering, he’d definitely come out ahead in the deal, but on the other hand someone eager for the organs would quite likely add another zero to that sum.

Yashiro, who’d acted as his guarantor, assured him the price was probably pretty normal. He’d taken on joint liability for the handover of Kita’s organs. Kita felt he had to clarify just what Yashiro stood to gain and what risks were involved for him in this.

“So I mustn’t commit suicide, eh?”

“I wouldn’t advise it if you want the money to be paid, no. We need to come up with a plan. Firstly, it has to be an accident. Don’t you dare write a will of any sort, now, will you? Next, you can’t die from drink driving or a fight. The insurance payout gets lowered. Next, don’t try a traffic accident or falling to your death or burning to death. They wouldn’t be able to use your organs. I’m requesting this as your guarantor.”

“What if my internal organs are damaged?”

“I’d have to shoulder your debts.”

“I see. Sorry about that.”

“No, it just means you can’t damage your organs. And you have to die in what appears to be an accident.”

This was a tall order. He’d handicapped himself considerably in that moment he sold over his life, now he came to think of it. He had a few complaints about what Yashiro had let him in for that he needed to air.

“Oh and another thing, don’t go anywhere too far away. Everything hangs on an organ’s freshness. Do your best to breathe your last in a hospital, please. They need to be flown to the recipient right away for the transplant.”

Kita felt his anger rising. Zombie, the suicide specialist, muttered “Life’s tough, eh, even when you’re trying to get rid of it.” She suppressed a smile.

Kita turned to her for advice. “What’s the best way to do it?” he asked.

“I should think the best plan would be to be killed by someone,” she replied lightly without a moment’s thought. “You’ve got lots of dough, so why don’t you hire a killer? I should think Yashiro could introduce you to someone good.”

“Sure, sure. It’ll cost you five hundred grand with commission included,” muttered Yashiro.

Kita was lost for words. This guy might really come up with a killer, it seemed. He decided to have no more to do with him, and set about preparing to leave. Observing him, Yashiro cut in, his voice suddenly cold and quite unlike his previous tone.

“Go to the Moon Palace Hotel bar at nine. Shinobu Yoimachi will meet you there.”

“A date with your favourite star, Kita! Go for it, boy! Tomorrow’s the assault on Mizuho, right? I’ve uncovered the address of that Finance Ministry couple. Seems like your Mizuho is enjoying the high life of an upper class suburban lady. She spends her days at home busy with her hobbies. Drop in and disturb her for a while.”

Zombie passed Kita a piece of paper containing an address and telephone number.

“Good luck! This really is the last time we’ll meet. Let’s have sex if we meet in the next world, eh?”

Yashiro stood beside her as she waved Kita goodbye. “Wait a minute,” Yashiro broke in, handing Kita a cell phone. “Let me give you this. Keep in touch. I’ll give you a call as well, to keep an eye on things.”

Kita took the phone without a word and then, preparing to face his difficult sentence of Death by Choice once more, he stepped, a little pigeon-toed, out through the door. That business about the killer was a joke, wasn’t it? Unable to dispel a touch of uneasiness, he hurried off down the slope with a sense that he was being followed.

“Those guys sell whatever they can lay hands on. They even put a price on what they can’t sell. From one day to the next you’re sold off like a cow – sirloin here, fillet there,” murmured Shinobu with unconcealed distain. She made a blatant gesture with her chin towards the two men in dark suits perched at the counter of the Moon Palace Hotel bar, glancing in her direction from time to time.

Kita had just come from his meeting with the Koikawa siblings, in which he’d sold his life to the sister, and an organ set of corneas, liver, and kidneys to the brother. He was feeling just like a cow at a meat market himself, and her words made him feel suddenly close to her.

“I paid one hundred thousand yen to those guys to have tea with you, you know,” he whispered in her ear.

“Eh?” she exclaimed, loud enough to make the other customers turn and look, then quickly brought her hand to her mouth when she realized how loudly she’d spoken.

“Payment in advance.”

“Oh God,” moaned Shinobu, like a little calf, and then glared from a distance at the two sitting at the counter. “They do a ruthless trade all right. I was just told to go have tea with the son of the programme schedule head.”

“It’s a million to spend the night with you apparently.”

Shinobu sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said, bowing her head. When he asked why she felt the need to apologize, she said, “Those guys are…” and made a slicing action with her forefinger down one cheek. Kita looked more closely at the men’s profiles, to see if there really were scars there. The faces of both were oddly smooth.

“They must be hard up for money,” he remarked sympathetically. Shinobu leaned her head back and laughed.

“Money’s all they think about.”

Well if you decided to die, you could make forty or fifty million without lifting a finger, thought Kita. Though mind you, there was no guaranteeing whether you could use the money while you were still alive. But here was Shinobu, who could simply lay down her body on some bed for a night, or drink eleven rounds of tea, without selling her cornea and liver and kidneys, and she made someone the same money as Kita just had for his cornea and internal organs. So how much money would change hands if she actually sold her life? Those yakuza businessmen over there were keeping a vigilant eye on this prize piece of goods. They were playing the same role as the armed guards of some van transporting gold bullion.

The real Shinobu Yoimachi struck Kita as a rather faded version of the star who had seared herself into his brain four or five years ago. This girl, who he’d only ever seen on television or in photos till this moment, was sitting so close he could pinch or rub her, and talking to him in her real voice. But then why was it that she somehow didn’t feel alive? Maybe it was because he’d spent so many years worshipping her surface appearance that he couldn’t quite believe she was alive in the same way he was. This voice was indeed the same one that had sung ‘Italian George’ and ‘One Rainy Day,’ but he felt as if he was hearing something pre-recorded when she spoke. Her smiling face was just the same as in all those images, but now that she was here in three-dimensional reality, with expressions playing on her face, she looked in fact like some exquisite doll.