Dark Water

Dark Water Koji Suzuki A selection of deliciously spooky short stories from the Japanese master of suspense, the acclaimed author of RING. The film DARK WATER is based on the first story in the collection.Suzuki demonstrates the power of his psychological insight into the mechanics of fear in this highly atmospheric collection of stories unified by the theme of water.Following her divorce, Yoshimi Matsubara lives with her five-year-old daughter Ikuko in a depressing and damp apartment block on reclaimed land in Tokyo Bay. But when a child’s red bag keeps turning up in unexpected places, Yoshino’s sanity seems to be threatened, and she soon begins to fear that her daughter’s life is at risk.Kensuke Suehiro jumps at the chance to visit a restricted island in Tokyo Bay, about which he once heard a rather strange story. But when he arrives, he finds far more than he bargained for.Fisherman Hiroyuki is embittered and unhappy in his marriage. But getting rid of his wife turns out to be anything but easy, especially when his own boat seems to be against him.Family man Sugiyama finds himself trapped in an underwater cave. Can he find a way to communicate with his beloved son one last time?Just four examples from this beautifully crafted collection of stories filled with suspense, tension and drama. A perfect introduction to one of Japan’s top literary stars. Dark Water KOJI SUZUKI PROLOGUE (#ulink_bef82dfd-7a8b-5ee3-a4b2-b38f2a28c858) Whenever her son and his family came down from Tokyo to spend time with her, Kayo would take her little granddaughter Yuko out on early morning walks. They always made their way to Cape Kannon, the easternmost tip of the Miura Peninsula. It was just the right distance for a stroll, the walk around the cape and back to the house measuring less than two miles. On the spacious observation platform provided for a panoramic view from the cape, Yuko would point far out to sea at whatever had aroused her curiosity, excitedly tug on her grandmother’s hand, and buffet her with a flurry of questions. Kayo answered each of them patiently. Yuko had arrived the day before—she was on summer vacation—and was to stay for another week. The prospect of spending time with her granddaughter was, for Kayo, simply exhilarating. The view of the furthermost recesses of Tokyo Bay beyond the Tokyo-Yokohama industrial area remained hazy. You rarely got a clear view all the way across, for Tokyo Bay was larger than people thought. In contrast, the mountains of the Boso Peninsula seemed to rise up immediately across the Uraga Waterway, and a high and distinct ridge snaked from Mt Nokogiri to Mt Kano. Yuko let go of the railing and stretched her arms out as if trying to grasp something. Cape Futtsu, whose long, slender sandbar lay on the opposite side of the bay, appeared to be almost within reach. The imaginary line that connected Cape Futtsu and Cape Kannon was the threshold of Tokyo Bay, and a stream of cargo vessels proceeded in and out in two neat columns through a corridor of water. Yuko waved to the lines of freighters, which looked like rows of toy boats from where she and her grandmother stood. The tide flowed rapidly in the shipping lane, and striped patterns sometimes appeared on the water. High tide flooded the bay with water from the open sea, and the low tide emptied the bay. Perhaps for this reason, all the debris in Tokyo Bay was said to wash up at Cape Kannon and Cape Futtsu. If Tokyo Bay was a huge heart, the capes jutting out on each side functioned like valves filtering out waste from the seawater that circulated by the gentle pulse of the tide. But it was not just the circulation of the sea. The rivers Edo, Ara, Sumida, and Tama all supplied fresh blood to Tokyo Bay like so many thick arteries. The variety of trash washing ashore ranged from old tires, shoes and chil-dren’s toys to the remains of wrecked fishing boats and wooden doorplates bearing addresses from as far away as Hachioji. Some of the things made you wonder how they ever ended up in the sea: bowling pins, wheelchairs, drumsticks, and lingerie… Yuko’s attention turned to the pieces of driftage bobbing amid the waves. Driftage can spark the beachcomer’s imagination. The sight of a motorcycle’s side cover can conjure up the image of a biker skidding off a pier into the sea, while a plastic bag stuffed with used syringes has a whiff of crime. Each item of debris has its own tale to tell. Any particularly intriguing thing you may come across on the beach is best left untouched—because it begins to tell its tale to you, as soon as you pick it up. Fine if the story is heartwarming, but if it curdles your blood, things will never be the same. Especially if you love the sea, you ought to be mindful. You pick up what looks like a rubber glove and find out it’s really a severed hand. That sort of thing could keep you off the beaches forever. The feeling of picking up a hand is probably not too easy to shake off. Kayo would say such things matter-of-factly to frighten her granddaughter. Every time Yuko begged for a scary story, Kayo responded by weaving a tale around a piece of driftage. The young girl would probably ask for scary stories on every morning walk in the coming week, but Kayo had plenty of stories to tell and then some. Ever since she’d picked up that thing by the sea, one morning twenty years ago, when she’d just started taking her walks, her imagination had only been growing more active. Now, she could freely draw forth from articles of driftage the bizarre tales that littered the water’s edge. ‘No treasures?’ Yuko wanted to know if nicer things ever washed up, perhaps from some faraway land, instead of just the scary stuff. All kinds of vessels, from tiny boats to giant ships, busily plied the narrow sea-lanes down there in the bay. Why shouldn’t a chest of gems plop from a ship’s cabin into the water now and then? So reasoned Yuko. ‘I wouldn’t say I’ve never found any,’ Kayo replied ambiguously. ‘May I have it?’ Though Yuko didn’t know exactly what this treasure was, her desire for it was spontaneous. ‘I could give it to you,’ said Kayo, hinting that the offer was conditional. ‘If what?’ ‘If you’ll keep me company for the whole week, on my walks.’ ‘Of course I will!’ ‘Then you shall have your treasure on the morning of the day you go back to Tokyo.’ ‘Promise?’ To seal the bargain, they performed a pledge that was popular among children. Perhaps Yuko wouldn’t like the treasure—or even agree it was a treasure. To make sure the girl wouldn’t feel cheated, Kayo needed to keep weaving more tales, so that the setting from which the words had sprung would be vivid in Yuko’s mind. For Kayo, one thing was certain. In the long life that Yuko had ahead of her, the moment was bound to arrive when the treasure would reveal its worth. Table of Contents Cover Page (#ua6d76da0-3803-5467-b1b0-47baa4d64b3c) Full Title Page (#u889e0783-7cd1-5a02-a919-9484f1986dee) Prologue (#ua1ab112f-5d36-5c0c-84e9-b8f8c984e7cc) Floating Water (#ub4ba1820-4fac-5db0-9b70-7d7e8f3d8d6d) Chapter 1 Solitary Isle (#u4b3f45a6-aef3-5b01-9ed2-62a52753284a) Chapter 1 (#u3dedb732-dfb9-56cf-9630-5b35bf681f10) Chapter 2 (#u94975425-a55e-503b-b19f-335b5e483f6b) Chapter 3 (#u346357b6-6285-5adc-a940-083d732684d8) Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) The Hold (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo) Dream Cruise (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 Adrift (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo) Watercolors (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo) Forest Under The Sea (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) FLOATING WATER (#ulink_ef6fd0ef-9ac3-5c93-a9a5-6c2c7b662d3a) Chapter 1 (#ulink_d3c210b1-4236-5f8e-802e-6810679a1d13) Thinking again about drinking the tap water, Yoshimi Matsubara held the glass up to the fluorescent light in the kitchen. Rotating it just above eye level, she saw tiny bubbles floating in it. Tangled up with them, or so it seemed, were countless particles of dirt that could have come in the water or been a deposit at the bottom of the glass. She thought better of taking a second gulp and with a grimace poured the water down the sink. It just didn’t taste the same. It was already three months since they’d moved from their rented house in Musashino to this seven-story apartment building that stood on a landfill, but she still couldn’t get used to the tap water. She’d take a gulp out of habit, but the strange odor, which wasn’t even like chloramine, attacked her nostrils and almost always kept her from finishing the glass. ‘Mommy? Can we do fireworks?’ It was her daughter Ikuko, now almost six years old, calling from the sofa in the living room. She hugged a bundle of miniature fireworks that a friend at nursery school had been kind enough to share with her. Barely registering her daughter’s pleas, still clutching the empty glass, Yoshimi was picturing the path their water had to take from the Tone River. As she tried to trace the route in her mind, wondering how it differed from the flow of water back in Musashino, an image of tar-black sludge came to her. She did not know exactly when the apartment’s site had been filled, nor in what way the water pipes wound from island to island. But she did know, from a map charting the history of Tokyo Bay, that the land they lived on didn’t exist in the late ‘20s. The thought that the uncertain ground beneath her feet had as its foundation the dregs of several generations enfeebled her grip on the glass. ‘Mommy!’ It was dusk on a Sunday in late August. Urged on by the deepening dark, Ikuko pleaded with her mother. The water still hadn’t been turned off when Yoshimi turned to face the living room. ‘There’s nowhere to set them off…’ The park by the canal in front of their building was closed for construction work, and since there was absolutely nowhere else in the neighborhood that was suitable, Yoshimi was about to tell her daughter no. Then she realized they’d never been up to the roof of their apartment building. Mother and daughter proceeded to the fourth-floor elevator hall with a box of matches, a candle, and a plastic bag containing the fireworks. They pressed the up button and waited for the elevator, which arrived with a painful groan. When they got in, Ikuko said, imitating an elevator attendant: ‘Welcome, madam. Which floor do you require?’ ‘Take me up to the seventh, please,’ Yoshimi played along. ‘Very well, madam.’ With a slight bow of the head, Ikuko turned to press the button for the seventh floor, only to find that she couldn’t reach it. Yoshimi giggled at her daughter’s plight; on tiptoe and with her arm outstretched as far as it would go, the best she could manage with her straining index finger was the fourth floor. By this time, the elevator doors were starting to close automatically. ‘Too bad,’ Yoshimi said, and hit the button for the seventh floor. ‘Huh!’ Ikuko sulked. The grainy feel of the elevator button lingered with Yoshimi, and she unconsciously wiped her forefinger against her linen skirt. Every time she used the elevator, the black, blistered surfaces of the floor buttons made her feel gloomy. Someone had used a cigarette to scorch the buttons for the first through the seventh floors. Although the NO SMOKING sign right next to them remained unscathed, none of the originally white buttons had escaped. Whenever Yoshimi wondered what could motivate such behavior, she felt chilly. It probably had something to do with repressed anger against society—and who could be sure the frustration wouldn’t be vented on people someday? What terrified her most was that this man (she’d somehow decided it was a man) used the elevator of the very apartment building they lived in. As a single mother, worried about the worst, she couldn’t shake off her anxiety. Still, she’d had enough of men and didn’t ever want to live with one again. During the two years she’d lived with her husband, she’d never once felt protected. When they separated four and a half years ago, and when a year later the divorce became official, she felt relieved, frankly. She just couldn’t adapt herself to living with a man. Perhaps it was a Matsubara family tradition. Both her grandmother and her mother had followed the same path, and for the third generation now, theirs was a two-person family of just mother and daughter. Ikuko, who held Yoshimi’s hand now, would in the years ahead likely get married and become a mother, but Yoshimi somehow knew the marriage wouldn’t last. As the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, Tokyo Bay spread out in front of them. They stepped out into the corridor and saw four apartments to the left and four to the right of the elevator, but none of them showed any sign of occupancy. The fourteen-year-old apartment building suffered from the after-effects of the burst economic bubble. A few years earlier, when, out of the blue, a project to construct a high-rise complex in this area had come up, this apartment building and other mixed-occupancy buildings in the neighborhood had been subjected to a bout of land speculation. But the neighbors resisted being chased out, and while the coordinators fumbled, the bubble burst and the construction project disappeared into thin air. About half of the forty-eight apartment units in the building had been purchased, but could not easily be resold; twenty were eventually put up for rent at considerably less than market value. Yoshimi, who caught wind of this from a friend in the real estate business, had always dreamed of having a view of the sea, so she grabbed the opportunity, leaving the rented house in Musashino she’d lived in for so long, and transplanting herself onto the completely different environment of reclaimed land. She simply couldn’t abide staying in a house that still reeked of her husband, and also, now that her mother was dead, childcare-friendly Minato Ward seemed more convenient for a single mother and her daughter. The publishing company Yoshimi worked for was in nearby Shimbashi, and the best thing about it all was that she’d be able to devote time saved on the commute to her daughter. Upon moving in, however, she found that a lot of the owners had purchased their units as an investment. They had never moved in, and by now most of the units had been transformed into offices. Inevitably, the building almost emptied out at night. Some five or six single people lived there as tenants, while the only family in the entire building lived on the fourth floor—in Yoshimi’s unit, number 405. The super had told Yoshimi that a family with a daughter the same age as Ikuko used to live on the second floor, but had moved away the year before due to some tragedy. From then on, the apartment building had seen no children until Yoshimi and Ikuko moved in three months ago. Yoshimi surveyed the deserted seventh floor for a stairway leading to the rooftop. There it was, immediately to the right of the elevator; the roof would be only a floor above. Holding her daughter’s hand, Yoshimi climbed up the steep concrete stairs. Next to the elevator engine room, there stood a heavy-looking iron door. It didn’t appear to be locked, and when Yoshimi tried turning the knob and giving it a push, it opened with surprising ease. It wasn’t spacious enough to be called a rooftop. It was a cramped place measuring no larger than forty square feet, fenced in with a waist-high handrail, with concrete pillars rising up from the four corners. Yoshimi would have to keep her eyes on her daughter if she approached the edge—the weight of your own head seemed enough to pull you over if you dared peer down. In the gentle breezeless dusk, on this pier into the air, Yoshimi and Ikuko lit their fireworks. The red jets stood out in the deepening darkness. Below them to the right, the dark waters of the canal flickered with light reflected from the streetlamps, and opposite was the nearly completed Rainbow Bridge to link Shibaura with Daiba. The top of the suspension bridge, outlined with red signal lights, sparkled like real fireworks. Yoshimi took in the view from on high, and Ikuko held aloft her little sparklers and cried with delight. It was when the score of sparklers had all turned into charred cinders, and the two prepared to go back down, that they discovered it, both at the very same moment. They had had their backs against the wall of the penthouse, which housed the stairwell and atop which sat the building’s water tank; but in the small drain that ran at the bottom of this wall was what looked like a handbag. It didn’t look like it’d been dropped, but rather, placed there on purpose. After all, who’d come to a place like this and lose her bag? It was Ikuko who picked it up. No sooner had she let out a faint cry of surprise than she’d dashed over to it and grabbed it. ‘It’s Kitty,’ she noted. It was hard to see in the dark, but against the glow of the street lamps from down below, the Kitty motif was indeed visible on the cheap vinyl bag. The bright red vinyl surface squished and changed shape in her hands. ‘Give it to me,’ scolded Yoshimi. She reached for Ikuko, who was trying to unzip the bag to see what was inside, and succeeded in taking the bag away from her. Yoshimi’s mother, when she was still healthy, used to take Ikuko on walks in the hills around Musashino, often to come home with some discarded item. It was only natural for a woman of Yoshimi’s mother’s generation to feel that modern folks threw things out too soon. That was that. What Yoshimi couldn’t stand was the thought of her own daughter scavenging through garbage, and she had frequently gotten into arguments with her mother about it. In bringing up Ikuko, Yoshimi never tired of hammering into her a simple rule about picking things up. Whatever it was, you didn’t take it if it didn’t belong to you. Every time Yoshimi said this with a solemn look, her mother would react with a grimace: ‘Now don’t be such a stiff…’ Having taken the bag away from her daughter, Yoshimi didn’t know what to do with it. Through the surface came a lumpy feel of its contents. Yoshimi, something of a hygiene freak, decided without even opening the bag that the best course of action was to go talk to the superintendent about this. She was going to his ground-floor office right away. The superintendent, Kamiya, was a long-time widower who’d been the building’s live-in super for ten years, ever since he’d retired from a hauling company. Although the job didn’t pay well, the accommodations were free, and it was an ideal arrangement for an old man living on his own. No sooner had Yoshimi handed him the bag than Mr Kamiya unzipped it and emptied the contents on top of the office counter. A bright-red plastic cup bearing the same Kitty motif as the bag. A plastic wind-up frog whose legs were designed to flap. A little bear with a beach ring. It was clearly a three-in-one bath-time toy kit. Ikuko cried out and started to reach for the toys, but yanked her hand back when her mother glared at her. ‘How very odd,’ the superintendent mused. What puzzled him was not that someone had left a bag on the rooftop, but that a toy set that obviously belonged to some child was found on the premises of this building. ‘You could display a notice and try to find the owner,’ Yoshimi suggested. Perhaps the owner would see the bag and claim it. ‘But the only child in the building is little Ikuko—right, Ikuko?’ the old man sought the girl’s assent. She was gazing intently at the Kitty bag and red cup from where she stood beside her mother. It was only too obvious from her expression what outcome Ikuko desired. She wanted it: the bag, the toys. Annoyed by her wistful look, Yoshimi grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to step back from the counter. ‘You did mention that a family used to live on the second floor…’ ventured Yoshimi. Kamiya looked up in surprise and said: ‘Ah, yes.’ ‘Didn’t you say they had a little girl of five or six?’ ‘Indeed. Yes. But it’s been two years.’ ‘Two years? I thought you said they moved out last year.’ The super hunched his back and began to scratch his ankle audibly. ‘Well, yes. They didn’t move out until last summer.’ Yoshimi remembered being told by the super, when she moved in three months ago, that the family who’d been living on the second floor had moved out of the building the previous year because they’d experienced some misfortune. Yoshimi was guessing that it was they who’d somehow left the bag up on the roof. Yet, neither the bag nor its plastic contents looked like they’d been exposed to the elements for a whole year up on the roof. The Kitty bag—which was without a speck of dust or grime, as brand-new as if it had just been purchased from the store—refuted the idea that it could’ve been abandoned for so long. ‘All right then. I’ll try displaying it on the counter for a while to see if we can find the owner.’ In this way, the super sought to end the conversation. After all, it was only some cheap bag, and he couldn’t care less if they found the owner or not. Yoshimi, however, did not move from where she stood in front of the counter. Instead, she fingered her curly chestnut hair, debating whether to come right out with what she had on her mind. ‘If the owner doesn’t turn up, Ikuko, then you could have the bag, couldn’t you?’ Mr Kamiya offered and smiled at Ikuko. ‘No, that wouldn’t be right. If the owner doesn’t turn up, please dispose of the bag.’ Yoshimi turned down the offer with a resolute shake of her head. She then left the super’s office, pushing Ikuko from behind as if to get her away from some contagious object. Yet something troubled Yoshimi as they rode up in the elevator. She had avoided the subject of the so-called tragedy that was supposed to have befallen the family. After all, she did not want to appear the kind of person who entertained herself by talking about other people’s misfortunes. But the question needled her and she longed to know the exact nature of that family’s misfortune. The next day was a Monday. Yoshimi spent longer than usual combing her hair that morning. From the living room she could hear the theme song of a children’s television program. This melody served as a time signal, indicating on this particular morning that she still had plenty of minutes to spare before setting off for work. She would take Ikuko to the nursery school by nine o’clock, then catch a bus from the school for a twenty-minute ride to her office in Shimbashi. The time and energy required to get to work here was truly nothing compared to what her commuting hassle used to be. It really made the move here worthwhile. Had they stayed in Musashino, she wouldn’t have been able to put Ikuko into nursery school, and certainly couldn’t have worked. She could always find another job, but it was unlikely that she’d ever find anything as good as her present position in the proofreading department of a publishing company. The job not only allowed her to devote herself to the world of the printed word, which was one of her passions, but there was no overtime and little need to associate with other people. On top of this, the pay was quite adequate. Ikuko came into the room with a pink ribbon and asked her mother to tie back her hair with it. The knot she had just tied had come loose and Ikuko’s hair draped down, almost covering her shoulders. As she touched her daughter’s hair, she found herself surprised at how unmistakably the child had inherited her genes. It was strange that such an obvious fact should not have occurred to her until now. Their two faces looked identical in the three-sided mirror before them: the same chestnut-colored curly hair, the same white skin, and the same freckles under both eyes. One face belonged to a woman in her mid-thirties and the other was that of a little girl turning six. ‘Noodles…’ She remembered a boy once looking at her in high school and announcing that her hair looked as if someone had dumped a bowl of noodles on top of her head. She hated everything about herself in those days, her natural curls, her face, her freckles, and her skinny body. How many boys told her how passionately they felt about her in high school? It never occurred to her to count. She had no idea what they saw in her, and had to conclude that her criteria as to what constituted beauty were totally at odds with those of others. Everyone remarked on the beauty of her cute little face, freckles and all, and her natural brown hair, a rarity among Japanese. She simply didn’t understand. When the boys caught on to her indifference, they began to make fun of her auburn hair behind her back. There were a lot of girls who knew how to handle things better, saying what they liked without the slightest risk of backbiting. Hiromi, a classmate in junior high school, was a typical example of that type. With her hair now tied up, Ikuko said a quick ‘thank you’ to her own reflection in the mirror rather than to her mother, and dashed back into the living room to watch television. Yoshimi could detect no trace of her former husband’s physique or manner in Ikuko’s figure. That at least was a blessing. She had never once found anything enjoyable about the physical union of man and woman. Her only word for it was ‘agonizing’. Yet there is never any shortage of talk about sex in the world. She simply couldn’t understand it. Perhaps some insurmountable barrier separated her from other people. They differed on everything from what constituted beauty and ugliness to definitions of pain and pleasure. The world as she perceived it was largely at odds with the world as others saw it. When her husband learned of his wife’s unwillingness to accommodate his needs, he would often resort to solitary measures, casually tossing the tissue paper under the sofa. She once got some of the fluid on her fingertips when she’d inadvertently picked up a ball of tissue the following morning. The image of his idiotic expression of bliss came to her mind, leaving no room for the desire to understand. At such times, her entire body would shudder with extreme loathing and scorn. The familiar voice of a female television announcer from the living room reminded Yoshimi that it was time to set out. Ikuko thrust the door open and ran towards the elevator to press the down button before her mother. Once out of the elevator, they could only leave the building by the main front entrance, passing by the super’s office. The red bag was on the counter. Yoshimi and Ikuko caught sight of it simultaneously. The Kitty bag that they’d found on the rooftop the evening before lay on the counter with its zipper closed, and with a notice on top. It read: Wanted: any information as to owner. Kamiya, superintendent Though the super seemed to have acted on her suggestion, Yoshimi somehow thought it very unlikely that the owner would turn up. Far from bringing a respite from the intense summer heat, the onset of September saw temperatures soar to record levels. During three days of abnormally intense heat, the bright red bag sporting the Kitty character was still visible on the black counter in the super’s office. When Yoshimi saw the bag as she passed by every morning and evening, she found herself the victim of an inexplicable obsession. The bright-red bag seemed to symbolize flames. Then, as if to prove her notion true, the moment the bag was removed from the counter, the sweltering heat of late summer suddenly showed signs of receding. Had the owner turned up to claim the bag? Had the super simply disposed of it of his own accord? It no longer mattered either way. The bag no longer had anything to do with her. Another source of anxiety had arisen to take its place, however. She was suffering from work-related depression. After an interval of six years, she had once again to proofread the new novel of a writer of violent fiction she remembered only too well. Her boss had handed her the proofs as soon as she had arrived for work that morning. The job involved finding errors in the manuscript. To do this, Yoshimi had to read meticulously through the work over and over again. Six years ago, she had been completely unprepared for a manuscript by the same author that ended up traumatizing her. So great was the shock that she’d been pushed to the brink of a nervous breakdown. The brutal scenes depicted in the work etched themselves into her consciousness and even tormented her in the form of nightmares. She was on the verge of seeking psychiatric counseling in an attempt to rid herself of the adverse affects of working on the novel. She suffered waves of debilitating nausea on several occasions, lost her appetite, and shed eight pounds. She was also frequently unable to distinguish between illusion and reality. She complained to the editor in charge of the project, demanding to know why the company handled work from such an author. With a haughty attitude, the editor, a young man still in his mid-twenties, explained that they were in no position to complain. The author’s work sold well and that’s all there was to it. The remark only reminded Yoshimi once again just how high the barrier was that separated her from other people. She found it incredible that people were prepared to pay good money to read such a disgusting novel. The crowd that swarmed on the other side of the barrier had minds that functioned based on completely different principles than hers. As if that weren’t enough, she was shocked the following year to come across the same book, though one issued in paperback by a different publisher, on her husband’s shelves at home. The moment she set eyes on it, she was overcome with a sensation akin to terror, followed by the image of her husband enjoying gory fantasies aroused by the book. It deepened her resolve to divorce him. Yoshimi caught sight of the red Kitty bag again the next Saturday morning. This time, she unexpectedly found it in the garbage facility provided for the apartment tenants. She had gone to put out some non-burnable waste and had lifted off the lid of the large polyethylene garbage bin. The red bag had been wedged between two black plastic bags. Although she did momentarily stop and stare at the bag, it was far from difficult to conclude how it had got there. The super had thrown it away in the belief that there was no likelihood of the owner ever turning up. As if nothing had happened, Yoshimi dumped her own sack crammed full of sorted waste on top of the red bag and covered the garbage bin with the lid. That should have been the end. The bag was to be carted off in a garbage truck with the rest of the incombustible waste destined to form new groundwork for a landfill. On the first Sunday in September, Yoshimi and Ikuko had gone to buy a few things at the neighborhood convenience store. They found that fireworks had been significantly discounted now that the summer season was nearly over. In fact, the price was so low that Yoshimi could not reasonably refuse Ikuko’s pleas on grounds that fireworks were too expensive. The disappearance of the remaining fireworks from the store shelves would signal that the lingering embers of summer had finally gone out. Fond as she was of summer, even Yoshimi could not resist the allure of these last goods on the shelf, for there was something poignant about their impending disappearance. So Yoshimi found it perfectly natural when Ikuko said that she wanted to play with fireworks again that evening. The two of them made their way up to the rooftop at exactly the same time in the evening as they had the week before. The instant she touched the knob to open the door of the penthouse, she was beset with an awful sense of foreboding. She felt an image in red flicker somewhere in her consciousness. As she pushed the door open, she found herself instinctively looking towards the right. Her line of vision locked onto its target in an instant, as if she had known all along that it would be there. An object of livid red highlighted the dark gray of the waterproofed surface of the rooftop. Despite the same poor visibility as the week before, the blazing red sped to the eye through the gloom. ‘Oh…’ Yoshimi stood with her mouth open and her entire frame rigid. She shrank back without a word, groping wildly with her hands behind her for her daughter. Ikuko, however, ducked in a flash, evading her mother’s arms, and rushed over to the Kitty bag, which was placed exactly where it had been the week before. ‘Stop!’ Her voice trembled as she called her daughter back. There was no explaining the dread she felt. Just as her daughter was about to pick the bag up, Yoshimi caught up with her, and swept the bag from her reach. The Kitty character on the side squished out of shape as the bag rolled over several times on the concrete. No question, it was the same one. The bag with the Kitty motif that they had discovered on the rooftop one week ago, the bag that had sat for three full days on the counter in the super’s office before being thrown out unclaimed in the polyethylene garbage bin along with other garbage, that bag was here in front of them now. Undeterred, Ikuko reached out once again to where the bag had rolled. Yoshimi hit her hard. ‘I said NO and I mean it!’ Her heart pounded violently in fear. She did not want her daughter to touch it. It was her instinctive loathing of strange objects. Ikuko stared wistfully at the bag and then looked up at her mother’s face. Turning back to the bag, her face puckered and she burst into tears. So much for fireworks. Yoshimi stroked her daughter’s shoulders with a circular motion to comfort her as they went back into the penthouse and closed the door behind them. Nothing on earth would have induced her to lay a finger on that bag. She didn’t want to bring it back to the super, and she never wanted to come up to the rooftop again. More than anything else, she wanted to know how such a thing could possibly happen. The bag had been in the polyethylene garbage bin, so how on earth could it have made its way back up to the roof? Her temples ached. ‘Made its way back’ had been an unconscious choice of expression—as if the bag had a life of its own. As soon as they returned to the apartment, Yoshimi tried to put the chain on the door, but found that she had no control over her hands. Her legs also trembled. As she tried to remove her sandals, one flew awry and knocked down a pair of Ikuko’s boots. Ikuko’s expression was reproachful as she set the sandals and boots straight; her face clearly betrayed a hankering for that Kitty bag. Yoshimi emerged from the bath first and began drying herself with a bath towel. She could hear her daughter’s muffled voice coming from inside the bathroom. Her daughter would not leave the tub until she had put away the toys she played with in the water. She had also been brought up to always remove the plug after a bath. With a bath towel wrapped around her chest, Yoshimi took a carton of milk from the refrigerator in the dining area and poured herself a glass. She made it a rule to drink a glass of milk before going to bed. It kept her bowels regular. Ikuko still showed no signs of getting out of the bath when Yoshimi had finished drinking her glass of milk. She bent down near the door and was about to tell Ikuko to get out of the bath when she heard her daughter talking to herself. She could only catch snatches. ‘That’s ‘cos I’m playing all by myself…but…bear…no fair…It isn’t yours…mi…’ The ‘Mi…’ caught Yoshimi’s attention as probably being the name of Ikuko’s friend. But, as far as Yoshimi knew, none of Ikuko’s friends at the nursery school or in the neighborhood where they used to live in Musashino had names beginning with ‘Mi’. Who on earth was Ikuko having her imaginary conversation with, then? Ikuko did have a classmate called Mikihiko, but she always called him by his surname instead. Yoshimi opened the bathroom door. The ‘unit’ bathroom was one of those comprising a bath and westernstyle toilet. A plastic washbasin floated on the water in the cream-colored bathtub. In the center of this basin was a small drenched towel that rose up in the form of a column. It somehow resembled a wayside jizo statue, but one with its head tilted to one side. Having soaked the towel and wrung it into this shape, Ikuko now seemed to be talking to the towel as if it were a playmate. A trickle of water dripped from the tap into the bath, linking the opening of the tap and the surface of the bathwater with a slender column. As the little washbasin floating in the bath came into contact with this column of water, it tilted a little and started spinning. ‘Ikuko, what are you doing in there? Come out at once.’ Immersed in the bathwater, Ikuko had her back to the door when she answered her mother. ‘My friend loves taking a bath all by herself. She never, ever gets out.’ Yoshimi asked herself again who on earth her ‘friend’ might be. ‘Never mind. Just get out,’ she told her daughter. Ikuko put the washbasin in the sink and stood up with a swoosh. Yoshimi wrapped Ikuko in a bath towel and held her. Despite having been immersed in the tub for so long, Ikuko’s shoulders were strangely cold to the touch. Ikuko fell asleep on her futon, with the picture book she had been reading open in front of her. Yoshimi debated whether to stay up for a while and read, but finally decided to turn the light off and go to sleep. She fell asleep as soon as she pulled the light summer sheet over her chest. She had been asleep for about two hours when her consciousness began to edge its way back up from slumber to wakefulness; her casually extended hand could no longer detect that familiar warm presence at her side. Yoshimi’s body rolled frantically to and fro. Sliding her hand along her side, she could feel nothing. She was wide awake in an instant. Half sitting up, she groped the surface of the futon where Ikuko had been sleeping, and began calling her daughter’s name. The tiny nightlight at the foot of the futon was enough to reveal the emptiness of the small room: Ikuko wasn’t there. ‘Ikuko! Ikuko!’ Yoshimi tried shouting louder. This kind of thing had never happened before. Ikuko was a deep sleeper. Once she had snuggled down to sleep, she always slept soundly through to the next morning without ever waking up during the night. She would rarely get up to go to the toilet. After checking the living room and dining area, Yoshimi was about to check the toilet, but the bathroom light was out so Ikuko obviously wasn’t there. Just then, she heard the sound of tiny footsteps in the passage outside. Yoshimi dashed to the door, where she noticed that the door chain was not fastened. Did she forget to fasten the chain when they returned from the rooftop, or did Ikuko unchain the door? Unconcerned about being clad in nothing more than her negligee, she rushed out into the corridor outside. She could hear the sound of the elevator moving. The elevator hall was halfway down the corridor. She stood there and watched the floor numbers light up in succession. The fifth-floor lamp went out and the sixth-floor lamp came on. Then the sixth-floor lamp went out, the seventh-floor lamp blinked on, and it stopped. The elevator had gone to the top floor, where no one lived. Someone had just gotten off on the seventh floor. In that instant she suspected that that someone was Ikuko. That suspicion was being confirmed in her mind. Ikuko could not bear the thought of the red Kitty bag being left out there on the apartment rooftop, Yoshimi concluded. She must have been desperate for that bag. At the same time, though, Ikuko knew better than to believe that her mother would allow her to pick up something that someone else had thrown away. That’s why she had waited until her mother was asleep before heading for the apartment rooftop. Although Yoshimi doubted that Ikuko had the courage to overcome her fear of the dark, she pressed the elevator button to call the cage back down from the seventh floor. The elevator stirred, made its way down to the fourth floor, and flung its doors open. Yoshimi pulled the sides of her negligee close together over her chest as she entered the elevator. She pushed the button for the seventh floor, only to feel the elevator plunge softly downward, contrary to her expectations. Yoshimi took several steps away from the door, until her back was against the wall of the elevator. She brought her clenched elbows together to cover her chest more closely. ‘Oh dear, someone’s getting on.’ That someone, thought Yoshimi, must have called the elevator from one of the floors below before she pushed the button at her end. Whoever it was had to be on the ground floor, actually. No doubt it was one of those men living alone on the fifth or sixth floor coming home drunk. It was already past one o’clock in the morning. Her horror of being harassed by a drunk made her resent the cramped elevator itself, which offered her no means of escape. As the elevator began its descent, the scorched buttons began to light in succession. The elevator came to a sudden halt. She looked up at the row of numbers indicating the floor. It had stopped at two. …Why the second floor? She braced herself. She’d never get used to riding elevators late at night; it was a nerve-wracking experience. The doors opened, but no one was waiting for the elevator. Yoshimi gasped, made her way slowly forward, then peered outside, scanning both sides twice. The dark deserted passage seemed to stretch on to infinity. Obviously, there was no one there. Who on earth then, had summoned the elevator? The doors started to slide shut automatically. Yoshimi stepped back reflexively. Yet, the second before the door had shut completely, she was quite certain that she sensed a presence steal swiftly into the elevator. Maybe it was just her imagination, but the temperature in the confined space of the elevator seemed to have dropped suddenly. She was not alone in the elevator; there was something else with her. She felt someone’s breath on her abdomen, the kind that turns white on a cold winter’s day. The elevator made its ascent, then stopped at the seventh floor. When she reached the landing of the staircase leading to the rooftop from the seventh floor, Yoshimi turned on the lights of the penthouse. Two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling flickered to life. Encouraged by the light, Yoshimi bounded up the staircase to the rooftop. She pushed the door wide open and left it there so that the fluorescent lighting would spill out to the roof. ‘Ikuko!’ she called. No matter how much she strained her eyes, she couldn’t locate the small figure she sought. She looked down from the western edge of the rooftop, but the light of the streetlamps along the road did not show the dark stain that would signal tragedy. She heaved a sigh of relief. Ikuko hadn’t fallen to her death. The northern, southern, and eastern sides of the building all had balconies protruding on the seventh floor. Even if Ikuko had fallen, the fall wouldn’t be fatal. Where did she go? Yoshimi’s stomach threatened to rise to her gorge. Who knew? Ikuko could be somewhere in the apartment. Was it too much to hope? Such thoughts passed through her mind as she looked back at the penthouse. The white fluorescent light spilled out onto the rooftop. Immediately above the penthouse sat the creamy-skinned overhead water tank, held aloft by a turret of iron poles. Bathed in light from beneath, the coffin-shaped body protruded straight up in the center of the clear night sky, holding water within its walls. This was where the household water was collected and stored before being fed to each of the apartments below. Two cord-like objects could be seen swaying in the shadows of iron poles that supported the overhead tank. Straining her eyes further, Yoshimi was just able to make out a tiny shadow playing under the tank. It puzzled her that she could only see the shadow, but not the object casting it. The image she began to conjure up in her mind was that of a little girl crouching directly beneath the overhead water tower. ‘Ikuko, is that you?’ There was no reply. To search the top of the penthouse, she’d have to scale the perpendicular aluminum ladder set in the concrete wall of the penthouse. It was a vertical climb of more than six feet that would fully engage both her hands and feet. Though such a climb, crawling spiderlike up the side of a wall, would normally be difficult for someone of Yoshimi’s delicate build, she hauled herself up, fueled by the desperate desire to get a look at what was up there. No more than halfway up, she looked down to gauge how far she had climbed. She spied a dark object lodged in the darkness of the drain that ran the length of the penthouse wall. It was just where it had been the night before, where she had swept it from Ikuko’s grasp and caused it to roll away. Yoshimi’s mind began to race in confusion. Something didn’t fit. She was missing some essential point. It couldn’t have been Ikuko! Her right foot almost missed a step as this realization came to her. It could not have been Ikuko who’d come up to the seventh floor in the elevator; her daughter was too short to be able to reach the button for the seventh floor. A shiver ran down Yoshimi’s spine. As she looked up she saw the shadow gaining greater substance. There could be no doubt that someone or something was up there. She heard the joints in her legs crack from the strain. If it wasn’t her daughter, who was it? She only needed to heave herself up a little further to have her entire face level with the upper edge. Yet her courage failed her. All kinds of images flashed one after another in her mind’s eye. Her body stiffened, making it difficult to climb up or down. At that instant, she heard the voice that she most longed to hear, calling out from directly beneath her. ‘Mommy.’ Yoshimi’s strength nearly left her. Her exhaustion was so great that it was all she could do to keep her hands and feet from losing their hold on the aluminum ladder. Her jaw pressing against her left armpit, she saw Ikuko standing there in pajamas. ‘Mommy? What are you doing up there?’ There was a hint of reproach in Ikuko’s tearful question. In the morning, she led her daughter by the hand to the elevator at the usual time. Once in the elevator, she noticed that the straining sound of the elevator cable was subtly different from how it had sounded late last night, although she couldn’t articulate the exact change. All she could say was that the light of day had brought a totally different nuance to the noise. Yoshimi unconsciously tightened her grip on Ikuko’s hand. Yoshimi had spent a sleepless night during which she had repeatedly asked herself whether Ikuko had lied, or whether her own behavior had been the impulsive result of an obsessive delusion. Ikuko had insisted that she’d been in the bathroom when her mother had inexplicably dashed out of doors. ‘You can’t imagine how hard it was to go up the stairs to the rooftop by myself! What on earth were you doing there?’ her daughter had said. Seeing her mother clinging to the wall of the penthouse, Ikuko’s heart had pounded violently as if to prove that she’d just rushed up the stairs. The anger in her voice came from the terror of having been left alone. As an infant, she would always cry hysterically if she ever woke up to find herself alone. She couldn’t possibly have been feigning all this. It must have happened just as Ikuko said it had. Yoshimi had rushed out into the passage without thinking that her daughter might have gone to the bathroom without turning the light on. The numbers on the elevator floor indicator had put the notion of the rooftop in her head. In the absence of any other possible interpretation, she had to take her daughter’s word for it. While she was ashamed over having behaved like a possessed woman, something still failed to convince her. Why did the elevator stop at the second floor? There had been nobody there. Yoshimi remembered quite distinctly the presence that had sneaked into the elevator. She remembered the moment the warm air had turned chilly inside the elevator. As soon as the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, Yoshimi took in the morning sun as it streamed all the way to the center of the lobby. The powerful rays of the sun seemed to banish the morbid aura of the night before. She spied the super ahead of her, broom in hand. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he greeted her with a broad smile. Yoshimi tried to walk past, avoiding his gaze and with only a token greeting. But changing her mind, she stopped and said, ‘Excuse me.’ ‘Ah, if it’s about that bag…’ he offered. ‘No, it’s not that.’ There was something else on her mind that Yoshimi didn’t know whether to ask him about or not. He no longer held his broom upright, and his hand hung casually by his side as he turned to Ikuko and asked affably, ‘You’ll be on your way to nursery school, then?’ ‘It’s nothing to do with me, I know, but you mentioned that the family that used to live on the second floor suffered some kind of tragedy. What exactly was it that…’ Yoshimi let her inquiry trail off unfinished. The super reined in the cheery smile, contriving an expression more suited to recounting the misfortunes of others. ‘Ah, that? Well, it all happened two years ago. The little girl was about the same age as little Ikuko is now. She was playing somewhere around here and went missing, you see.’ Yoshimi placed her hands on Ikuko’s shoulders and pulled her daughter closer to her. ‘When you say that she went missing, do you mean she was kidnapped?’ The super leaned his head to one side. ‘I don’t think it was done for a ransom. You see, the police turned it into an open criminal investigation.’ As long as there was a possibility that a kidnapping had been committed with a view to financial gain, the police conducted its investigation with utmost secrecy. But as soon as that possibility was ruled out, they usually launched a public investigation and announced it to the media. That way they could obtain more information faster. ‘So you’re saying that they…’ The super shook his head. ‘They never found her. For nearly a year, the parents never gave up hope that she’d return. In any case, when there was that move to buy up the apartments, it was Mr and Mrs Kawai on the second floor who objected most. They felt that if the apartment block were demolished, their daughter would have no place to return to. But in the end, they probably did give up hope. At any rate, they moved to Yokohama last summer.’ ‘They were called Kawai, the family?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. Mitchan—that was the little girl’s name—she was a lovely little girl. There are some evil people in the world, and that’s a fact.’ ‘Did you say “Mitchan”?’ ‘Her name was Mitsuko; we called her Mitchan.’ Mi, Mitchan, Mitsuko…the imaginary playmate that Ikuko was talking to in the bath. It all began to take shape, to fit into place, with that name. That column-like figure that Ikuko had fashioned out of a soaked hand towel and set up in the middle of the washbasin, the figure resembling a road-side jizo statue that Ikuko had chattered to like a friend, the figure that her daughter had called Mitsuko. Yoshimi felt the blood drain from her face. Placing her hands on her temples, she sought support against the wall, and slowly let out a deep breath. ‘Is anything the matter?’ She tried to deflect the super’s concern by glancing at her watch. There was no time to explain. If they didn’t hurry they’d miss their bus. She gave a slight bow in the direction of the super and quickly left the lobby. To learn more, she could take advantage of the odd spare moment at work to go through the newspaper archives on microfiche. Even without an exact date, she was sure to find an article concerning the disappearance of a small girl named Mitsuko Kawai without difficulty if she looked meticulously through the newspapers from two years ago. From what the super had said, it seemed clear that Mitsuko hadn’t been found. She had probably either been abducted by some pervert or had fallen into the canal. Either way, the poor girl no doubt lay dead and undiscovered somewhere. About eight o’clock in the evening that day, Yoshimi had just turned on the hot water for a bath when the telephone rang. She let the water run and hurried into the living room to pick up the phone. It was from the super’s office. ‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve gone and sprained my left ankle.’ The super’s remark made no sense to Yoshimi, who was at a loss to reply with anything but an ‘Oh.’ She had no idea why he was calling. It was only after giving an account of how he sustained the injury to his foot that he finally got to the point. ‘There’s a delivery for you.’ She finally caught his drift. The super would often accept her home deliveries because she was seldom home during the day. Usually he brought the deliveries up to her. What he was driving at was that his sprained ankle prevented him from doing so. If the package required urgent attention, he wanted to ask if she’d mind coming down to his office to collect it herself. She knew whom the delivery was from, and it was nothing that couldn’t wait. Still, she thanked the super for his trouble and, before putting the phone down, told him she was coming right away. Upon reaching the super’s office, she saw that there was a cardboard box on the counter. The super stood with his elbows on the box. As she thought, it was from her friend Hiromi. Hiromi had a daughter who would soon be starting elementary school, and she had kindly taken the trouble to send Ikuko the clothes and shoes that her daughter had outgrown. She found the box surprisingly heavy and could understand why it had been too much for the super with his sprained ankle. ‘Is your ankle all right?’ She affected concern by drawing her eyebrows together. ‘Nature’s way of telling a foolish old man he’s not as young as he used to be.’ The super laughed as he said this and betrayed signs that he wanted her to ask him how he had sprained his ankle. However, Yoshimi’s interest lay elsewhere. During the day, she had gone to her firm’s archives to look through all the newspapers dated between July and October of the year before last. She had not succeeded in finding any article that reported Mitsuko’s case. Yoshimi found ‘the year before last’ not precise enough for her liking. She wanted an exact date. She didn’t really expect the old man to remember, but she tried asking all the same. ‘Just a minute,’ he replied as he checked inside the counter, bending down awkwardly. He brought out a thick battered notebook and thumped it down on the countertop. The cover bore the words ‘Superintendent’s Log’ in thick black felt pen. Apparently he was in the habit of recording each day’s events in the logbook so he could furnish his employer with some kind of report. The super muttered to himself as he licked his finger and turned the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. Look.’ He turned the notebook upside down and slid it across to her. The page was dated March 17th two years ago. It was now September, so, to be precise, they were not talking about something that happened two years ago, but rather, two and a half years ago. Even the time of day was recorded in the notebook. The authorities had concluded that there was no further justification for handling the disappearance of Mitsuko Kawai of apartment 205 as a case of financially motivated abduction and consequently turned the investigation into an open inquiry, at 11.30 p.m. Yoshimi committed the exact date and time to memory. As she was about to return the notebook to the super, an image of that flesh-colored overhead water tank flashed through her mind, though she didn’t know why. No doubt the image had come through an association with some word or words. What had set it off were the following words, written higher up under the same date heading of March 17th. Cleaning operations performed on intake tank and overhead tank. Water inspection conducted. There it was—the overhead tank. This was the same overhead tank that floated like a giant coffin in the starry night sky. The cleaning operations in question had been performed on the same day Mitsuko Kawai had gone missing. Two cleaners hired by the building management had come and worked inside the water tank. Yoshimi let out an inaudible scream. ‘The water tank…’ Yoshimi paused to take a breath. ‘Is the lid of the tank usually kept locked?’ The super tilted his head to one side, puzzled as to why Yoshimi had turned the conversation to the water tank. But when he saw the entry in his own log about the cleaning operations, a look of satisfaction registered on his face. ‘Ah, this? Yes, under normal circumstances, it’s kept carefully locked.’ ‘When is the tank opened? Only when it’s cleaned?’ ‘Of course, of course.’ Yoshimi put her hands around the cardboard box. ‘Has the tank been cleaned since?’ ‘Ehh, we don’t have a maintenance association here, so it’s…’ ‘Has it been cleaned?’ she repeated, unable to bottle her impatience. ‘Well, it’s about time they got down it again. It’s been two years.’ ‘I see.’ Lifting the box, Yoshimi staggered backwards and reeled out of the office. So unsteady was her gait that it was a wonder she made it back to her apartment without stumbling. Being careful not to touch the water in the bathtub, she pulled out the plug and watched the water level drop gradually. She no longer felt like taking a bath. Ikuko had plaintively asked again and again why they couldn’t take a bath that day. Her persistence had seemed unending; only a minute ago had she finally fallen asleep. To all appearances, the water looked perfectly clean. Yet Yoshimi couldn’t but picture the particles floating in it. She opened the kitchen cupboard, took out the bottle of sake she kept there for cooking, and poured herself a glass. Although alcohol did not really agree with her, she felt that she was not likely to get any sleep without it that night. She made an effort to think about something else. The novel by that writer of violent fiction, the novel she was proofreading at work, would do as well as anything else to occupy her thoughts. What she needed to do was to recall some of those appalling scenes and thereby sever the chain of associations. Yet this just wasn’t possible; the swelling images always converged on one point. The red bag with the Kitty motif that was found on the rooftop, the missing child Mitsuko, the fleeting shadow under the tank, the mysterious stop made by the elevator at the second floor. The evening before, a thin stream of water had linked the bathroom in their apartment with the overhead water tank on the roof. Immersed in the bathwater, Ikuko had been talking openly to Mitsuko as if she were actually there. All this led to a sole conclusion. Yoshimi forced herself to block out this train of thought with a scene from the novel she’d been proofing. In that fictitious world thick with the stench of gore, a punk had been abducted and confined by a rival gang, who were subjecting him to a series of brutal beatings, when purely by coincidence…Yes, that was it: she should think of it as a coincidence. The overhead water tank just happened to be cleaned the very day little Mitsuko disappeared. How absurd to think it could have been anything other than coincidence. Yes, now that she thought about it, every part of it could be explained rationally. In the case of the Kitty bag, neighborhood children had put it on the rooftop in some kind of ritual, out of some childlike fancy, perhaps to signal a UFO. No doubt the children had seen the bag in the garbage dump, retrieved it, then quickly returned it to the rooftop. The elevator had stopped at the second floor quite simply because someone living on that floor had pressed the button with the intent of going down. When the elevator started dithering at the fourth floor, however, he or she had clearly lost patience and decided to walk down the stairway. That was why there hadn’t been anyone waiting when the door opened. By forcibly disconnecting one event from another, Yoshimi sought to find a logical underpinning for each mangled fragment. Yet no matter how hard she tried to disrupt her train of thought, the severed fragments would instantly link up again, like some serpent growing larger every time it reconnected. She was already aware of the truth, but didn’t want to accept it. The one and only possible conclusion. The inescapable conclusion. There was no mistaking it, Mitchan was in that overhead tank on the rooftop. She tried to suppress the thought, only to have the scene unfold in her mind. While the cleaners were away on their lunch break, the little girl had either fallen in the tank or been intentionally thrown in by someone. The decomposing corpse. The Kitty bag she clasped so tightly. The water-filled coffin. She had been drinking that water for the past three months. She had cooked with it, made coffee and chilled summer drinks with it. How many times had they soaked in hot bathwater that teemed with countless putrid cells? How many times had they washed their hands and their faces in it? More than you could tally. Yoshimi pressed her hands to her mouth. The odor of sake mixed with an eruption of gastric juices. She made a dash for the bathroom, crouched down over the toilet bowl, and vomited. Her eyes were bloodshot. A stinging sensation burned the back of her throat and nose. She flushed the toilet, the water immediately streaming into the bowl before her eyes and swallowing up her vomit in its downward spiral. What remained was to all appearances clear water. The water that trickled down to cleanse the toilet bowl contained skin cells, which had peeled off; it teemed with little pieces of hair, fine, downy hair. Her feeling of nausea did not abate. Yet there remained nothing more to bring up. As she wiped her mouth with toilet paper, Yoshimi coughed violently again and again from the choking sensation in her throat. She remained in her crouched position, waiting for her breathing to settle. It was then that she heard it. The sound of water dripping one drop at a time into the bathtub beside her. She thought she had turned off the tap tightly. Still, a tiny amount of water seemed to be leaking through. Her knees pressed against the floor, she clasped the toilet bowl with both arms. She frantically swallowed back the saliva, trying to prevent her delusions from becoming reality. Hallucinations! It was obvious. Hallucinations coursed through her very veins. She saw something that looked like the corpse of a little girl floating in the foul water that had collected in the bath. The face was purple and swollen to almost twice its original size. She tried to scream ‘Stop!’ and fell back on the wet floor. A red plastic beaker floated near the breast of the corpse. A green plastic wind-up frog swam across the surface of the water, its front and back legs jerking busily. The frog bumped into the shoulder of the corpse, swam away, and returned to bump into the same shoulder, over and over again, each time gouging a tiny piece of flesh from the corpse with its plastic claws. The bright-red bag with the Kitty motif bobbed up and down, its strap held tight in the grasp of the corpse, the bone of whose clenched hands showed in places. Apart from jerky gasps, Yoshimi had all but stopped breathing. The stench that assailed her nostrils was not unlike that of rotting kitchen waste. As she tried to avert her eyes from the putrefying corpse whose stench filled the bathroom, she struck her head on the door and collapsed in a heap, her cheek striking the chilly wooden floor of the corridor. She was quickly losing consciousness. A voice from far off that sounded like the chirping of a small bird penetrated the gloomy boundary between consciousness and darkness. ‘Mommy! Mommy!’ Yoshimi’s retina registered the form of Ikuko clad in baggy pajamas. Her hand on the nape of her mother’s neck, Ikuko’s trembling voice turned to sobs. The tiny hand moved back and forth near Yoshimi’s ear. This was Yoshimi’s only reality, the warmth and tiny proportions of Ikuko’s hand. The tiny body brimming with life was enough to banish her hallucination. ‘Help me up.’ The plea was but a hoarse whisper. Ikuko put her hands under her mother’s arms and heaved with all her might. Once Ikuko had her mother sitting up, Yoshimi put one hand on the edge of the bath and managed to stand up on her own. The jumper skirt she always wore at home was soaked from the waist down. She glanced at the bath and found that countless droplets of water clung precariously to the gleaming cream curves of the bath. The awareness that she had been hallucinating hadn’t been enough to fend off the hallucinations. Amid sobs, Ikuko looked up at her mother and simply murmured ‘Mommy…’ It would take enormous emotional strength to be a good mother to her. Yoshimi felt ashamed of herself for her near collapse. Incited by her daughter’s sobs, she too began to weep. As they crossed the bridge over the canal, Yoshimi resisted the impulse to turn back and look at the apartment building. She carried a bag containing their valuables and a change of clothes. Each time she shifted the bag from one hand to another, Ikuko would also switch sides so as to keep a firm grip on her mother’s empty hand. Her behavior must have appeared very silly. Yet it was impossible to live even one more day in an apartment whose water supply was unusable. Tonight, if only for a single night, she wanted to sleep soundly. The water tank could be checked the next day. Convincing the super to have the tank examined, opening the lid, and looking in—these were things better done in the light of day. The ground felt no more secure across the canal bridge than on the landfill. Yoshimi saw an approaching taxi with a vacancy light and hailed it. She helped Ikuko into the back seat and bent down to get in herself. As she did so, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the rooftop of the apartment building. There, dwarfed by the distance, loomed the flesh-colored water tank, high above the reclaimed ground. Was little Mitsuko still having fun splashing about in that sealed rectangular bath of hers? Whatever the case, Yoshimi wanted to sleep well. As she slid into the back seat, she gave the taxi driver the name of a hotel. SOLITARY ISLE (#ulink_9ca0d8ed-9eaa-5337-86a5-86766ea168d5) Chapter 1 (#ulink_c1910e8a-8791-5386-a973-b611ea71c956) He had often considered leaving the teaching profession. He was fed up with it all, the same routine year in year out; he simply wasn’t getting anywhere in life. The urge to quit had been particularly strong this May. But then he had received his bonus payment and summer vacation beckoned, inducing him to think that teaching might not be so bad after all. He was prepared to give it a try for a little while longer. It had been the same the year before: he had been on the verge of quitting in May, only to reconsider, deciding in July to give it a go for a bit longer. Summer vacation was not only for the benefit of students; it also served as a perk for teachers who would otherwise seek employment elsewhere. He was absolutely certain that without summer vacation, he’d have given up this teaching lark years ago. Kensuke Suehiro was going over all this in his mind as he walked down the corridor after his last lesson of the afternoon. He had entered the teaching profession eight or nine years ago right after graduating from one of Tokyo’s national universities. That university had formerly been a ‘normal school’ specializing in the training of teachers, which probably accounted for many of his classmates’ intention to pursue the vocation. As for Kensuke, he’d been swept along by the prevailing current and had found himself in the teaching profession before he knew it. As he stacked notebooks on his desk in the staffroom, he noticed a handwritten memo: ‘There was a call for you from Mr Sasaki of Josei Junior High School.’ Just reading the words ‘Mr Sasaki’ aroused fond memories. Sasaki meant a great deal to Kensuke. He’d been Kensuke’s respected teacher and mentor. Sasaki had been the head of teachers in charge of seventh graders when Kensuke had been assigned to his first middle school post after graduation. That school was in Tokyo, and Sasaki, like Kensuke, taught science. Not only had Kensuke learned a great deal from him about natural science in general, but Sasaki had also supported and helped Kensuke in many ways, both privately and professionally. Sasaki had a distinctively original approach to teaching. Rather than stuffing the heads of his students with facts, he tried to draw out their latent capabilities by letting them experience natural phenomena for themselves. Some of these activities included taking his students on field trips to collect butterflies in the hilly marshlands or staying up all night with them to observe comets. It was when they ceased to be colleagues that Kensuke’s passion for teaching began to wane. Sasaki, along with his distinctive approach to teaching, had moved on to another school. This alone had been enough to sap Kensuke’s motivation. The transfer occurred five years ago, and for the past couple of years their relationship had amounted to no more than the customary exchange of New Year’s greeting cards. Nothing could have delighted Kensuke more than learning that Sasaki had called him. Kensuke wasted no time in calling Josei Junior High School and asking for the headmaster. Sasaki had just assumed that post in the regular spring reshuffling of personnel. ‘This is Kensuke Suehiro. I’d like to…’ The moment Kensuke had given his name, the voice at the other end answered unceremoniously, ‘Hey, it’s me.’ Sasaki may have become a headmaster, but Kensuke was relieved that his old mentor had not changed his manner in the least. ‘Please excuse me for my long silence,’ Kensuke apologized to his mentor, bowing unconsciously though he was talking over the phone. ‘Sorry I called you during one of your lessons. It’d never have happened before, but I’ve lost my touch since I became headmaster. It was a lot more fun when I actually had classes to teach.’ This remark was no doubt sincere. Sasaki was the kind of teacher much more suited to be in the classroom than on the careerist ladder. Kensuke wished he could transfer to Josei so he could work under a headmaster like Sasaki. A boss like him would relieve a lot of the job’s stress. ‘Say, how would you feel about going to Battery No. 6?’ asked Sasaki point-blank, dispensing with pleasantries. ‘Battery No. 6? You mean…’ ‘Yes, that Battery No. 6, the one under the Rainbow Bridge…the ghost island.’ Kensuke found himself unable to speak. Little had he imagined that Sasaki had called to invite him to an uninhabited artificial island in Tokyo Bay that had held a special significance for Kensuke for the past nine years. ‘How are we going to get there?’ Kensuke sounded puzzled. ‘Leave that to me.’ ‘I think you’ll find that the island is off-limits.’ Sasaki lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘We’ll swim there in the dead of night so no one’s the wiser. Think your swimming’s up to it?’ The Tokyo Metropolitan Government had restricted access to Battery No. 6 as a means of conserving it as a cultural asset. ‘That’s hardly the kind of suggestion you’d expect to hear from a headmaster. After all, you’re a respected figure in the community.’ ‘Respected figure!’ Sasaki laughed. ‘You know how to strike where it hurts. But, come to think of it, you never had much nerve did you? Did you really expect that a pillar of the community like me would secretly go ashore in violation of the law? I’m talking about an on-site survey, okay, an on-site survey.’ ‘On-site survey…’ ‘Yes, the Minato Ward authorities have asked me to head an on-site survey.’ Sasaki went on to explain what had happened. He had received a request from a special committee of the Ward Council to undertake a survey of conditions on Battery No. 6—the flora and fauna, the soil, and such. There was a note of pride in his voice as he described how it had all come about. It would have helped a lot and avoided much confusion had he explained all this to Kensuke at the outset. Although municipal officials and ward councilors were to take part in the survey, apparently there was room for others as well, and the city was looking for someone interested in natural science. Sasaki’s style never changed. He had to take the other by surprise first, and clarified only then. ‘When is the survey due to take place?’ Kensuke was already asking about the schedule. ‘Can I take it you’re game?’ ‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Not only did Kensuke now have the opportunity to visit Battery No. 6, but also to do so legally. All he had to do was tag along. Now he’d certainly find out. The moment he set foot on the island, the bewitching creature that had dwelt in his mind for the past nine years would no doubt vanish. Once Sasaki had given him the details about when and where the expedition was to get under way, Kensuke bowed deeply into the telephone, saying, ‘I’m really very grateful for this opportunity.’ Sasaki’s response to this expression of gratitude was hard to decipher: ‘Well, do your best.’ Chapter 2 (#ulink_29894058-9cba-53f4-96ee-b9baa22272d8) The bewitching creature that had come to dwell on Battery No. 6 was a phantom by the name of Yukari Nakazawa. Phantom she was, but not one of the realm of spirits. Kensuke believed that Yukari Nakazawa was alive and well somewhere other than on Battery No. 6; and he hoped he was right. He had first met her at about the same time of year nine years ago. He had been in his fourth year at the university and summer vacation had just begun. If not for the sound of that car horn, he would have never known that she existed. Until that instant, he had assumed that Toshihiro Aso had come alone on his visit. Kensuke and Aso had been classmates in elementary and junior high. Both attended a well-known private school that assured its students passage all the way through college. When it had come time to enter high school, however, Kensuke found it impossible to deal with the traditional aspects of the private high and transferred out to a public school. In contrast to Kensuke, who was reserved and introverted, Aso became not only captain of the rugby team, but also one of the school’s academic stars. True to his childhood ambition, Aso succeeded in entering the department of medicine at his university. Although attending different high schools should have resulted in them going their separate ways, they continued to remain close friends for more than ten years. Though apparently complete opposites, the school hero and the dropout got on amazingly well with each other. That evening, Aso had suddenly turned up at Kensuke’s studio apartment in Azabu. It was already past nine, but Aso had brought a case and invited Kensuke to drink with him. In under an hour, they had downed more than a dozen cans of beer between them. Aso drank so fast that he was already shuttling back and forth to the toilet to relieve himself. He could hold his liquor and wasn’t one to get drunk on beer, but, upon consuming a certain amount, he seemed to need to visit the toilet with increasing frequency to empty his bladder. His cascade hitting the toilet bowl, he peed sonorously like he meant for it to be loud. Once finished, he’d linger a while before flushing the toilet. It was during one of these momentary interludes of silence that Kensuke had heard the sounding of the car horn. Unable to resist wondering about the source of the honking horn, he went out onto the balcony and looked down on the one-way street below. Despite being three floors up, Kensuke immediately realized that someone was honking at Aso’s BMW. The BMW was parked right in front of the curb, making it impossible for a large minivan to negotiate the turn. Aso was going to have to go down there and move his car. But even as he thought this, Kensuke saw the BMW begin to back up. The car could not have moved by itself. There was someone inside. When Aso returned from the toilet, Kensuke asked him what was going on. ‘Did you leave someone down there in your car?’ ‘Ha! No need to worry.’ ‘Why don’t you park your car in our garage and call your friend up?’ Kensuke’s parents had built the apartment building on this site to replace their old home when the time had come to rebuild it. His family took the entire ground floor of the building and rented out the three floors above. Although there was enough room for Kensuke on the ground floor, he preferred to live alone, and his parents let him have a single-room apartment on the top floor. His parents had their own parking space set aside in their private garden. It was spacious enough to accommodate at least two cars. A third car could squeeze in there with a bit of maneuvering. It was hardly necessary to keep someone waiting in the car out there at the roadside. Without waiting for Aso’s consent, Kensuke went down and moved his parents’ cars to make room for the BMW. He then walked over to the BMW and knocked on the windshield, gesturing to the driver inside to park in the extra space. In the driver’s seat sat a woman with a pale complexion and long hair. This didn’t surprise Kensuke very much. Aso often dropped by like this, leaving a lady in his car. But never for longer than half an hour. More often than not, he’d drop in and leave soon afterwards because he’d left so- and-so down in the car. That night, however, Aso had kept the woman waiting in the car for well over an hour. As far as Kensuke knew, this was the longest he’d ever dared to. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Kensuke apologized to the woman on behalf of his thoughtless friend. He wanted her to know that if he’d noticed earlier, she’d never have been left alone so long. ‘Aso never mentioned you were waiting down here,’ he said. Staring at the dashboard, she simply shook her head as if embarrassed. ‘Why don’t you come up and join us?’ Although he was unsure how Aso would react, Kensuke thought it better to invite the woman into his home. She nodded and got out of the car. As she introduced herself, she spoke with a lisp: ‘I’m Yukari Nakazawa.’ As they walked along the passage and rode in the elevator, Kensuke could not stop looking at the woman, this Yukari Nakazawa. Aso had introduced Kensuke to many girlfriends in the past, but Yukari was quite different from all the others. First and foremost, she wasn’t glamorous. Her petite body was well proportioned but she had only average looks, and she walked with downcast eyes in this terribly morose way. The red bag she carried under her arm looked so infantile that it would have made a schoolgirl blush. Her cheap-looking clothes had clearly been picked from a mail-order catalog. Yet her skirt revealed legs that were gorgeously slender, tapering down to firm and compact ankles. Kensuke found it difficult not to stare at her bare legs. Her entire appeal converged on her legs. Aso was obviously not pleased when Kensuke returned to the apartment with Yukari. Peeved, he insisted that they were leaving right away. Kensuke appeased him, going out of his way to lighten up the mood and urging them both to stay and have a little more to drink. The situation became increasingly clear to Kensuke as the three of them talked together. Aso had wanted to avoid introducing Yukari to him. There was little denying that she did not compare with his past girlfriends. That must’ve been it. Aso indeed went haywire, perhaps feeling defensive, and began insulting Yukari. ‘This woman has had no education to speak of, pal. She didn’t even make it through high school.’ ‘I knew she wouldn’t be able to join our conversation. She’s so stupid, everything goes straight over her head.’ ‘As if that’s not bad enough, she’s up to here in some weirdo religious cult!’ ‘I can’t show her around in public, can I?’ No matter how badly Aso trashed her, Yukari would only lower the corners of her mouth and look desolate, but show no hint of anger. She’d wait for hours on end in an illegally parked car if she were told to stay put. Women who would offer submissive loyalty in return for numbing brutality were an increasingly rare phenomenon. Kensuke could not for the life of him understand why Aso went out with Yukari. Surely there was absolutely no reason to be with her if he intended only to revile the poor girl. Yukari, too, could surely find someone more compatible than Aso. It soon became clear that it was not to be the kind of pleasant chat among three friends that he had expected. The more Aso drank, the more vicious the abuse he heaped on Yukari. Unable to endure the torment any longer, Kensuke announced that the party had to end. He was doing the unthinkable; he was asking Aso to leave. Kensuke walked them down to the car. Aso was already showing signs of being too drunk, so Kensuke sat him in the passenger seat. Yukari could drive. But Aso insisted that he was driving, and demanded a can of coffee. Kensuke ran to a nearby automatic vending machine and brought back cans of chilled coffee. He first handed a can to Yukari, who responded by taking a card from her bag and offering it to Kensuke. ‘Please don’t hesitate to drop by whenever you’re in the neighborhood.’ This did not escape Aso’s attention. ‘You stupid bitch!’ he snarled, striking her hand aside and sending her calling card flying. Aso then grabbed her wrists and twisted her arms behind her back, forcing her head down. ‘He happens to be a good friend of mine. Don’t you lure him anywhere nasty, get it?’ Yukari gave a small cry of pain and slumped onto the hood of the car. Aso did not move to help her up, but jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Adjusting her dress, Yukari went round the front of the car and got into the passenger seat. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ Aso directed a cheery smile at Kensuke alone, whereupon he drove off. As soon as the car was out of sight, Kensuke began to scan the road for the card that Yukari had tried to give him. He soon found it among some shrubs in the garden. He read what was on the card in the light of a street lamp. Under the name of a religious organization that he’d never heard of, Kensuke read the name Yukari Nakazawa followed by an address and telephone number. It was not clear whether the address and telephone number were those of the religious group or those of Yukari. Kensuke put the card in his pocket and returned to his apartment. All through the night, he somehow couldn’t still a feeling of excitement. Chapter 3 (#ulink_af212fd5-c54f-5c38-86b4-ec766bb8c535) That proved to be Kensuke’s sole encounter with Yukari Nakazawa. Yet, she became a phantom that was to dwell in Kensuke’s heart. It was all Aso’s fault. If Aso had never said it, Kensuke would have been spared the incredibly persistent image. It was the end of August, almost two months after the day he’d first met Yukari. Aso called at the same time of day as he had then, but came alone this time—Kensuke made a point of confirming this before Aso could get past the doorway. ‘Did you come alone?’ Aso nodded with a grave air. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked meekly. Kensuke got the impression that Aso had come because there was something pressing he wanted to talk about. Now that he thought about it, perhaps Aso had also come to talk about the same thing his last visit. Kensuke’s thoughts turned to that evening two months ago, and, in hindsight, it seemed likely that Yukari’s appearance had caused Aso to suddenly turn surly not because he had been seen with a woman who fell somewhat short of his standard of feminine beauty, but because her presence prevented him from saying what he had on his mind. But this night, as it turned out, Aso hadn’t come to say anything in particular, speaking instead as fancy dictated, reminiscing with Kensuke about their childhood days. After an hour of this, Aso suddenly announced, ‘I’m off,’ and got up to leave. ‘You can’t be in that much of a rush. Stay a little longer,’ urged Kensuke. Aso responded with a smile of derision, directed at himself. ‘There’s no end to memories like that, eh? You’re the only one I can talk to about those days. Great times. The good old days.’ As he spoke, the look in Aso’s eyes became distant, whereupon they plunged into another brief spell of reminiscing. That summer they spent together in Karuizawa…There was, of course, that time when they’d gotten lost in the mountains while walking along the unused tracks of the Kusatsu-Karuizawa line (it had linked the two towns until 1960), that time they’d resigned themselves to never returning to civilization alive. It was an experience they’d already rehashed numerous times since. They’d wandered off the track in the growing dusk, and there’d been nothing to do but spend the night outdoors. Kensuke, overcome with anxiety, could only moan and groan; Aso tried to give him courage by assuring him that if they just waited for morning and looked for the tracks, they’d be all right. It had been a night spent in fearful trembling. But looking back on the experience now, it had also been a night packed with excitement and rich in unspoken significance. Their friendship had deepened due to precisely that shared experience. Aso’s tone was different that evening. It was the first time Kensuke ever saw him wallowing so stubbornly, so sentimentally, in childhood memories. Possibly noticing the growing confusion on Kensuke’s face, Aso suddenly snapped back to his usual self, brought an end to the reminiscing, and signaled his departure with an uplifted hand. ‘I must be off.’ It was only down in the car park, about to see him off, that Kensuke got round to asking, ‘How’s Yukari getting on?’ He was asking this not so much to ascertain her wellbeing as to find out whether Aso was still seeing her. ‘How should I know? I dumped the bitch.’ The answer only confirmed what Kensuke had expected. That kind of relationship could never have lasted long. Not only was Yukari obviously not Aso’s type; not even she could tolerate such brutality for long. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ The impression of Yukari remained vivid in Kensuke’s mind. For some reason, she fascinated him. ‘Want to know where I dumped her?’ called Aso as he unlocked the door of his BMW and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘You mean there’s a place you dumped her?’ replied Kensuke in surprise. After all, ‘dumped’ simply meant ‘broke up with’. No one used the word to mean tossing a woman in some sort of trash bin. Of course not. ‘I found the perfect place. Want to know where?’ Aso’s look became provocative. It was a pretty sick joke, but Kensuke decided to play along for a little while longer. ‘Where was it you dumped her?’ ‘Battery No. 6.’ Battery No. 6…the uninhabited island out in Tokyo Bay. In the wake of the arrival, in Tokyo Bay, of Commodore Perry’s ‘Black Ships’, Japan’s feudal regime had created the islands to house gun batteries for protection against foreign attack. The only ones now remaining were Batteries No. 3 and 6. A breakwater now connected Battery No. 3 with Odaiba (Battery) Seaside Park, and only Battery No. 6 was still an island in the true sense of the word. Kensuke laughed. Battery No. 6 was not far from a large refuse disposal site, and what was more, the island, which had been constructed to house a gun battery, had never once been used as such. It thus seemed the perfect place for dumping a girlfriend who’d outlived her usefulness. Kensuke couldn’t help admiring Aso’s sophisticated sense of humor. His jokes were good, very good. ‘It’s hot out there. Climb in,’ Aso said, apparently not having yet had his fill of conversation. Kensuke got in and closed the door, and Aso turned on the air-condi-tioning and began his story. It was a detailed account of why he’d dumped Yukari, on Battery No. 6… Yukari was pregnant with his child. But the cult she belonged to forbade abortion. She had pressed Aso to marry her—a common enough scenario. Cult or no, this was the kind of story that Kensuke often heard from Aso. ‘Is that why you dumped her?’ intervened Kensuke, nudging Aso to get to the end sooner than later. If Aso was left to recount the story at his own pace, the whole joke would begin to sound too real. ‘The stupid bitch showed me this picture.’ Aso opened the glove compartment and took out a piece of paper folded into four. It bore a color illustration. Kensuke stared at the juvenile thing. It showed green trees growing luxuriantly under a sun painted in gold. Under the trees sprawled grown men and women surrounded by children at play. Dogs, cats, and even lions strutted contentedly among the trees. A closer look at the picture revealed that this earthly paradise was surrounded by the sea. Perhaps it was in the tropics; the trees were laden with coconuts. Kensuke guessed the author at once. ‘Yukari drew this?’ ‘Yeah, this is apparently what you get when the stuff she believes in is put on paper. Peace, tranquility, no disease or old age, just life eternal. What do you make of it?’ Yukari was not much of a talker, and Kensuke could see how it must have been much easier for her to express her cherished ideal of paradise on earth as a picture rather than in words. Kensuke just stared at the picture without answering Aso’s question. After all, it wasn’t the kind of question you could answer on the spot. ‘Why don’t we build our own paradise?’ His hands clasped to his chest, Aso trilled grotesquely, mimicking Yukari. Then, dramatically jerking his face closer to Kensuke: ‘Nothing pissed me off worse in all my twenty-three years. That idiot just doesn’t have a clue about how utterly miserable her notion of living on and on for all eternity is.’ Kensuke sided with Yukari. ‘You’re being too harsh. We’re all different in how we look at things.’ ‘Don’t call me harsh! She tried to force her idealistic crap on me.’ ‘So you went and dumped her on Battery No. 6, right?’ ‘Right. Banished her to a desert island, I did. I think I made the punishment fit the crime. If she wants to build a paradise, then she can damn well build it herself.’ ‘But that island is off limits, isn’t it?’ ‘Took a rubber dinghy over there in the middle of the night.’ Yukari didn’t know that Battery No. 6 was legally closed to the general public and so had no qualms at all about their nocturnal adventure. They took the dinghy in the car, but it mostly fell to Yukari to inflate and to row the thing to their destination. Yukari would have followed Aso to the end of the earth without the slightest suspicion. Once they had landed on the battery island, Aso used chloroform to knock her out, leaving her unconscious while he made his getaway. The way he described abandoning Yukari on Battery No. 6, he made it all sound so simple. Kensuke remained unconvinced. After all, a mere three hundred yards separated Battery No. 6 from the Marine Park. It was not too far a distance to swim. Even if you couldn’t swim, many pleasure boats cruised by the island. All you had to do was stand on an embankment and shout to make yourself heard. Surely, he pointed out to Aso, Battery No. 6 was as easy to get off as it was to get to. ‘No problem, I took all her clothes.’ ‘You mean you left her there naked?’ ‘Look, I know her pretty well. She’d rather die than be seen naked in public. She’s that sort of woman.’ Kensuke was left speechless. He didn’t know the whole story between Aso and Yukari, but he did know that they were in a relationship, and Aso must have felt something for her during that time. He didn’t feel it was right, even as a joke, for Aso to be saying that he’d stripped someone naked and left her for dead. Whether or not Aso was telling the truth, describing such an act to a third party was brutal enough. The atmosphere was oppressive and Kensuke remained silent. Glancing furtively sideways, he noticed that Aso seemed to be on the verge of saying something but swallowing the words each time. ‘I’d better be off then,’ he said. He shifted from Park to Drive mode and lowered his hand to disengage the hand brake. It was as Kensuke opened the car door that he put his final question to Aso. ‘When did you do it? When did you leave Yukari there?’ ‘It must have been around the time of the Obon festival. The city was deserted, everyone gone home to the country.’ Obon, when the ancestors returned…That made it about ten days ago. Kensuke got out of the car and went round towards the driver’s seat. Aso had the car window open, and his arm was dangling outside, his hand tapping the side of the car. He thrust this hand out in Kensuke’s direction. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/koji-suzuki/dark-water/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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