Kusanagi (12 page)

Jim's mobile burst into a loud rap tune. He grunted and struggled to find it. ‘Yeah,' he said, trying to sound more than ten per cent conscious.

‘Evans-san,' said a Japanese voice.

He sat up. ‘Yes?'

‘This is Professor Nakabashi.'

‘Hi,' he said, sitting a bit straighter.

‘Did you receive the ten mirrion?'

‘Mirrion?'

‘Dorrars. The ten mirrion dorrars.'

The pronunciation clicked. ‘Don't know,' said Jim. It was one minute past nine. ‘Can you call me back in ten minutes?'

‘Yes, certainly.'

‘OK.' He dropped the line. Damn, he thought, he had to stop hanging up on people like that. He wasn't a trader anymore. He put on his dressing-gown, the gold embroidered D of the Davas crest sparkling in the gloom. It was another gloomy London day.

He stumbled down the stairs, slumped in front of his computer and fired up the banking software. He checked his email. Nothing from Jane as usual. He opened his statement. There was his ten million dollars.

He smiled to himself. He knew well enough why the professor was so eager. Inside the ten million dollar box was a hundred million dollar treasure. The polite, unassuming Japanese professor
was
trying to swindle him.

He checked his mobile in case there was a missed SMS from Jane. As he was shrugging in disappointment the phone rang again.

‘Evans-san, did you receive your payment?'

‘Yep,' said Jim. ‘It's there.'

‘When can I come and pick up the plaque?'

‘When do you want to come?'

‘Right away.' There was a short pause. ‘Ten.'

‘Ten thirty?' suggested Jim.

‘Yes, thank you,' said Akira.

Stafford was holding a tray in his left hand. On it was a folded newspaper. ‘Professor Nakabashi,' he announced. He looked distinctly unhappy and peered down his nose at Akira.

Jim got up and smiled. He held the smile with a certain difficulty that made his cheeks bulge.

The Japanese seemed to regard him as a card sharp would a stupid player. Blank but somehow sneering.

Akira bowed and shook his hand. ‘So glad you received the funds so quickly.' He took the bag from his shoulder with his short hand and passed it into the other. ‘I won't take up your valuable time.'

Jim pointed to the Roman table and the box. ‘Help yourself.'

Akira went to the golden box and, for a second, studied the ancient wooden table. He touched it with the palm of his hand. ‘This is very special,' he said, looking back at Jim. His eyes twinkled and Jim caught the glint of appreciation.

‘Thanks,' he said, softening towards the guy.

Akira unzipped the bag and Jim slipped the box into it. ‘I am very grateful,' Akira said, zipping it closed. He swung it onto his shoulder. ‘This object has a deep meaning and I thank you.'

Jim felt Akira's sincerity and his heart sank a little. He nodded but didn't say anything.

‘I will leave you now. I have a flight to prepare for.'

Stafford was standing in the doorway.

‘Goodbye,' said Akira.

‘See you,' said Jim. He turned away and went to his desk, watching with one eye the professor making his way quickly to the door. He might be buying an empty box on purpose but his eagerness to leave was a little too obvious. He slumped in his chair. The situation felt very, as Stafford might say, unsatisfactory. Why couldn't people just be straight?

Akira studied the box with his magnifying glass. He pored over every carved surface, every corner, indentation, scratch and mark. He could see no evidence of a latch, hinge or joint. He knew the release was the rising sun, which shone in the top right of the tableau. He knew it was the key, but he had tried it gently and nothing had given him the slightest impression that it was anything but a carved surface.

He had studied the box for three hours. He was now left with two choices: take it home for X-ray and microscopic analysis or exert more force on what he believed to be the lock mechanism. He pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. It would be madness to risk damaging such a treasure to satisfy his personal curiosity. It would be the height of arrogance to try to open the box for his personal satisfaction and glory. He took his right hand from his forehead and stared at the golden sun. He leant down and pressed on it with the palm of his short hand. He grunted with the effort and there was a click.

‘Ho!' he gasped. With his left hand, he touched the sunken sun, tweaked it, and found it turned anticlockwise. His mouth was open as he rotated it. Suddenly it rose up and he pulled on it. There was another click. Two lugs protruded from the side of the box. Two golden catches. He knew the Imperial box had no traps in it. He pushed the catches in and two rear ones opened. The front of the box lifted slightly.

He took a deep breath, took the lid and raised it.

He shrieked and jumped to his feet. The chair flew, with a crash, to the floor.

He could see the wax the regalia had been embedded in. It was freshly broken. Evans had found his way into the box, had taken the regalia and sold him the empty shell. He fell to his knees and held his head, his left hand across his face, his right on his cheek. He was overwhelmed by utter despair.

The door buzzer sounded. ‘Yes?' said Stafford, into the intercom.

‘It is Professor Nakabashi.'

‘Yes,' said Stafford, who had known this the moment his iPhone had flashed on with the CCTV feed.

‘May I come in?'

‘I will ask.'

Jim nodded from further down the hallway. He felt a little nervous. This was going to be interesting, he thought. As he went into the lounge, he heard Stafford say, ‘Please wait a minute.' He took the sword from the coffee-table and put it under the sofa. He dropped his jacket over the mirror and necklace and sat down on the sofa. ‘Ready,' he called. He took out his mobile and looked at it. There was a message he hadn't heard come in. It was Jane.

He opened it.

On my way tough guy.
Jim's face lit up. He hit reply and was about to start typing when Professor Akira Nakabashi entered the room. Stafford stood behind him.

Jim sighed and put the phone down. ‘Hi,' he said.

The professor looked very tense. A leather briefcase in his hand, he stood to attention and bowed. ‘I'm so sorry,' he said, ‘but there has been some misunderstanding.'

‘Really?' said Jim.

‘The box.'

‘The box?' said Jim.

‘The box.'

‘What box?' Jim stared at him challengingly.

‘The box I bought from you.'

‘The plaque, you mean. Plaque, as in solid-lump-of-metal thing.'

‘Yes.'

‘What about it?'

‘There has been a misunderstanding.'

‘I don't think so,' said Jim. ‘You wanted to buy it and you have.'

‘But I need all of it.'

‘All of it?

‘Well, you should have said. Why didn't you?'

Akira stood frozen to the spot. He understood Jim's anger and felt ashamed. ‘Do you have the contents?'

‘What might they be?' said Jim.

Akira was sweating. He was almost lost for words. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Very sorry.'

Jim pulled back his coat. ‘Is that what you're looking for?'

‘Oh…' Akira groaned at the sight of the mirror and the jewel. He sat down on the sofa across from Jim. ‘You know,' he said.

‘Yata–'

‘No Kagami and Yasakani no Magatama' said Akira. ‘May I?' he said.

‘Sure,' said Jim.

Akira picked up the mirror and looked into the distorting polished silver surface. His short arm appeared almost the normal length; his face seemed fresh and handsome; and he seemed blissfully happy. He was holding a legend, the sacred mirror that even the goddess of the sun could not resist looking into. The craftsmanship was almost divinely fine. He put it down gently and held out his hand towards the necklace. He looked at Jim for permission.

‘Go ahead,' said Jim.

Akira picked it up. It was made of the finest jade he had ever seen. The claw-shaped stones had a purity and depth of colour that even the most perfect stones normally only held in their very heart. He imagined that stones of this quality must have been found when the world was empty. Then gems and gold had lain in streams awaiting humankind to stumble upon them and scoop them up. Now we scuttle over the denuded globe, he thought, scratching for the leftover crumbs of a world once fecund with natural treasures.

He had always argued that the jewel was a crown in the form of a necklace. Myth had the Yasakani no Magatama as a single gem and he had disputed it in private with other scholars. The priests who were meant to have the object could have settled the argument and all the experts knew why they didn't. Anyone who cared even to consider making a study of the Japanese Imperial Regalia quickly came to the conclusion that it no longer existed.

The very objects that supported the legitimacy of emperors back over half a millennium were a mirage. They had been lost for more than six hundred years, and generation after generation had held faith with their symbolism and the legitimacy with which they imbued the state, while in fact they had been lost at sea. Who would have guessed they would return? Was it a miracle or a curse?

He looked up from the deep green gems. The Englishman was holding something. His eyes bugged out. It was the sword Kusanagi. Akira froze. Evans-san held Kusanagi, the grass cutter! He put down the necklace as if in a trance.

‘May I, please?' asked Akira.

‘Sure,' said Jim, holding it out.

‘Excuse me, sir,' said the butler. rather urgently, but it was too late.

Akira held the sword, the hilt in his short hand. He felt a surge of excitement and the world was suddenly bright and crystalline. The sword was destiny. In its metal, forged by legend, was a power so great that he who wielded it was invincible. Even the elements would obey him. The hero who held Kusanagi could not be defeated in battle or wounded. It vanquished all enemies. To carry it was to vanquish armies. Kingdoms fell before its blade. It had held the courage, valour and might of Japan for a thousand years.

He sprang up and pulled the sword from its scabbard.

Jim jumped out of his chair.

‘I must take these,' said Akira, loudly, raising the blade to threaten Jim. ‘Put the jewel and the mirror in my case.'

There was a crash.

Akira looked round.

The butler had dropped his tray and was aiming a pistol straight between his eyes. Even though he was fifteen feet away it was as if he could look up the barrel of the pistol.

‘Put the sword down,' said the butler, clearly.

‘There are no guns in Britain,' cried Akira.

‘Please don't make me shoot you.'

Akira wasn't backing down. ‘I must take what is rightfully Japan's.'

‘This is your final warning. Put the sword down.' Stafford sighed. ‘Let me demonstrate.' He turned his aim slightly. The pistol reported and the picture window behind Akira shattered. The weapon was instantly aimed again between Akira's eyes. ‘You will not hear the next shot. Please spare me your execution.'

Akira stared pleadingly into the man's eyes; his life was over anyway.

‘Put the fucking sword down,' shouted Jim.

Akira sheathed it and Jim snatched it from him. ‘Fucking hell,' he spat. Now it was in his hand, he wanted to pull the sword out and chop the professor in half. He clenched the hilt in his hands, then let out an angry grunt and sat on the sofa again.

‘I think you'd better leave,' said Stafford.

Akira hung his head. He picked up his case and walked to the door. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I'm so very sorry.'

Jim picked up the necklace and put it on. He felt a little better. He picked up the mirror, the sword on his knee.

Akira looked back as he left the room. The light moan he let out was the muffled echo of a deep inner cry.

Stafford watched the professor wander like a tipsy man down the road away from the house. He straightened his waistcoat and returned to the lounge. He walked in and went to Jim, who sat sullenly looking at his phone. ‘May I sit down?'

‘Sure. Thanks for saving my neck.'

‘My pleasure,' said Stafford, lowering himself awkwardly onto the oversoft sofa. ‘I'm afraid I need to bring you up to date on the events of a previous night. I didn't want to bother you with them.'

‘What events?'

‘Unfortunately I had to shoot a man trying to burgle us two nights ago.'

‘Where?'

‘Just by the table behind me.'

‘Is he OK?'

‘No.'

‘You killed him?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, bloody hell. Where's his body?'

‘Gone.'

‘I shouldn't ask. Should I?'

‘No.'

Jim got up, went to the Persian rug and lifted it, grimacing in preparation for what he might see. A neat square had been cut from the carpet. He dropped the rug.

‘We need to put the items somewhere safe.' Stafford stood up again. ‘Unless you say otherwise I'll see to it today.'

‘Why couldn't he have just done a deal?' Jim scratched his head.

‘Maybe they can't afford to.'

‘Really?' said Jim, sceptically. ‘That doesn't seem likely.'

‘Maybe the professor can't afford to.'

How Akira came to be standing in the park by London's Houses of Parliament, he didn't actually know. He had just walked away from Evans's house and kept going. He was in a daze, shocked by himself and by his reaction to holding the regalia. He was numbed by defeat and loss. He found himself musing about things in an almost disembodied fashion.

Compared with Tokyo, London was a scruffy, worn city of noise, dirt and smells. The pavements were broken and crazed, the roads pot-holed, chaotic and dug up. Apart from a few modern buildings the streets were a muddle of construction from different eras, haphazardly laid out, in a way like much of Tokyo. While the grubbiness had seemed quaint to him on arrival, it now seemed desolate and apocalyptic. It seemed to reflect the fact that he had failed and that his worthless life was over. His disgrace was total.

When people looked at him, they saw a monster. They had been right all those years. He actually was the deformed, diseased and twisted soul everyone knew he must be by the signature of his body. He had not only failed himself and his family, he had failed his country and his race.

His spirit and heart were broken.

He looked over the park wall at the river. He had been here before. His life had returned to the wall and the water that lay beyond. Now there was no challenge to achieve, no test to validate him. There was only the awkwardness and effort of climbing the low parapet to tumble into the waters below.

Only a few hours before he had touched the sacred, yet now he plumbed the depths of an inner hell.

He looked at his short hand, the fist tightly curled. He would open his fingers and place them on the wall, then vault up and over. He flexed his fingers a little but they were not ready to open. Instead his palm went into spasm. The cramp squeezed his fingers tightly shut. With his other hand he began to prise the fingers open. The pain was exquisite. The agony forced the fist closed as he pulled with all his might. Opening his palm was the only way to end the pain in his hand, then the pain in his heart and soul.

The sun was falling.

‘
Big Issue
?' said a voice.

He spun around.

‘You all right, mate?' said the high, fluttering voice of the homeless man, trembling as he held his magazines.

‘No,' he said, the cramp suddenly gone.

‘You don't look all right neither,' said the tramp, smiling sadly, his yellow stubs of teeth painful to see. ‘Thinking of ending it?'

‘Yes,' said Akira. He looked at the tramp, his wild mane of grey hair and white-streaked beard. ‘My life is over.'

‘I know what it's like, mate, that's for sure.' He smiled, a tremor flickering up and down his face as his body quivered. ‘But, you know, if your life's over and you're still standing, then everything else is a gift. If you're all washed up and you're still alive, then every spin of the wheel is a free shot.'

Akira was dumbfounded. ‘Free shot?'

There was a bang, splutter and roar on the road behind. Akira started. He knew that sound.

He turned and gasped. It was a black Harley Davidson, its rider, in leathers, wearing a black helmet. Akira screwed up his eyes to get a clear view of the biker as he passed behind the trees and onto the bridge beyond. The Harley banged and belched as he ran to the wall and leant forwards desperately to see the impossible. The black crash helmet flashed in the dying sunlight above the pediment of Lambeth Bridge, then was lost from view.

He turned back to the tramp – and froze at the sight of a young fox. It stretched its neck out to him, its right forepaw lifted. Its brush swept from side to side and its tongue flicked pink from its open mouth. It seemed to bow.

Akira stepped forwards and the fox skittered back. ‘Wait,' he called, holding out his long arm to it.

The fox trotted a few paces away.

Akira stood still and watched it retreat. It stopped, glanced back at him, then disappeared into the gathering gloom. Akira looked around him. It was getting dark. He wanted to cry. ‘Everything I do now is free of constraint,' he told himself, as he staggered towards the road and the possibility of a taxi.