Kusanagi (15 page)

Jim looked into the glass front of the bank and safe-deposit centre where Stafford had stashed the regalia. It had on display a large orange fibreglass cow covered with diamonds. There appeared to be a jungle and a waterfall inside. It wasn't like the antiseptic bank he had worked in. It looked more like a greenhouse gone wrong than a powerhouse of wealth management.

The crazy movement of the yen was playing on his mind. For starters the situation just screamed out to be traded. Sitting on his hands was like asking a little kid with a plate of chocolate biscuits shoved under his nose not to eat them.

If that wasn't off-putting enough, the thought that it was connected directly to him and the regalia was weighing on his mind. Davas was right: he was dabbling with things he didn't understand. It was like being in possession of Excalibur or the Holy Grail. Something was bound to go horribly wrong.

He tried to put that thought out of his mind as he headed for the revolving door with his un-fiancée and his un-butler.

They were shown down to the vault.

There were three ancient men with Akira Nakabashi as they entered the meeting room of the safe deposit section. The professor stood, and two tiny old men struggled to their feet. The third, in a wheelchair, simply nodded.

Jim suddenly felt a little too informally dressed, in his tennis shirt, slacks and jumper. It was wet and cold outside and he held his raincoat over his arm. ‘Please sit down,' he said, dropping the coat over the back of a chair. The two old men must have been at least ninety and looked as though a draught from the door might blow them over.

‘Thank you,' said Akira. Nobody sat. ‘I am most honoured to introduce to you three living national treasures. Saito-san,' he said, pointing to the ancient man in the wheelchair, ‘is our living national treasure in touretics.'

‘Nice to meet you,' said Jim.

Stafford and Jane were bowing. The old man nodded, his small knobbly hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair.

‘What's touretics?' asked Jim.

Akira paused. He seemed to be searching hard for a good word.

‘Metal carving,' said Stafford, quietly.

‘Exactly,' agreed Akira.

‘This is Stafford and Jane,' said Jim, rather put off by the prospect of complicated introductions.

‘This is Fujita-san, living treasure of sword making,' said Akira.

Fujita-san bowed stiffly. The stiffness expressed a degree of anger rather than advanced age.

They bowed back.

‘This is Suzuki-san, living treasure of
bachiru
and also most respected expert of
magatama
.'

‘Ivory carving and jade gems, like the necklace,' whispered Stafford.

Suzuki-san smiled and bowed, bobbing up sharply with a wide grin of broad yellow twisted teeth.

They all bowed again.

They sat down.

‘They're bringing the things in a second,' said Jim, to the frail assembly of Japanese men. ‘Did you all just fly in?' he asked. A long flight might have been enough to kill people that decrepit.

‘Yes,' said Akira.

Suzuki-san spoke.

Akira translated. ‘Suzuki-san says it will be a fine end to his life if he sees the Three Sacred Treasures.'

‘That's nice,' said Jim. He glanced around the room. It was like a bunker. There were no windows. The tired panelling was punctuated with bland abstracts that might have been fashionable in the seventies but were now the height of kitsch and rather grimy to boot.

To his relief the meeting room door opened. The three old men sat up in their seats and watched intently as the safe deposit manager brought in a long, thin, silver-coloured box. Stafford took a key from his pocket and the manager produced another. They unlocked the box together.

The manager left the room.

Stafford opened the box and removed what looked like a felt bag that might have held an expensive pair of shoes. He took out the mirror and placed it on the table on top of the flattened bag.

Akira passed it to Saito-san, who held it as if it was as fragile as a butterfly. He blinked at it as if dust had blown into his eyes. He turned the mirror in his hands, barely touching it, as though even the slightest contact was some kind of violation.

Stafford took the necklace from another bag and laid it on the table.

Suzuki-san let out a cry of what might have been pleasure or the result of an excruciating blow to the funny bone, such as Jim had experienced as a child. He plucked up the necklace with the middle finger of his right hand and held it to the light. He uttered a long series of oohs.

Jim took out the sword and suddenly the room was still. He offered it to Fujita-san.

Fujita-san stood up, as if sitting down would be disrespectful. He took the sword in both hands and looked down at it without moving. He breathed in, scowling, then exhaled and pulled the blade half out of its scabbard. He looked at it, then at Akira.

He spoke and Akira nodded.

‘What did he say?' said Jim.

‘I said,' replied Fujita-san, ‘this must surely be Kusanagi.' He laid the sword, back in its scabbard, on the table and sat down.

Suzuki-san and Saito-san had swapped items and were engrossed in their reveries.

‘Don't you want to look at the sword some more?' Jim asked Fujita-san.

‘No,' he said curtly.

‘Why?' wondered Jim.

‘It is not for me to handle the sword Kusanagi.'

‘It is difficult,' interjected Akira. ‘These are sacred items.'

Jim wanted to point out that the other two living treasures weren't having similar difficulties but instead he picked up the sword himself and took it from its scabbard. It seemed to bathe in a kind of cold white light. He turned it. They were staring at him and at the flashing blade. ‘I'll be sorry to part with this,' he said finally, sheathing it with a satisfactory flourish.

Akira turned to his living treasures and spoke to them in turn. They each replied, ‘
Hi
.'

‘I think they agree,' said Jane, softly.

‘I think you are right,' said Stafford.

‘Thank you, Evans-san, Stafford-san,' Akira seemed to ignore Jane. ‘Thank you so much for letting us see the regalia. I look forward to quickly resolving this matter with you.'

Suzuki-san stood up and touched the hilt of the sword, drawing his hand back slowly. He smiled and bowed.

Fujita-san led the living treasures out of the room, Akira pushing Saito-san in his wheelchair. Suzuki-san was the last to leave, and as he went to close the door behind him he paused and gave Jim a long, mysterious smile.

The door closed.

Jim sat down and slipped the necklace on. ‘I like this,' he said, sliding it under his tennis shirt. ‘I might keep it.' He picked up the sword and mirror and posed regally. ‘Maybe I can be Emperor of East London.'

‘You'd look good,' said Jane.

‘Allow me,' said Stafford, taking the mirror. ‘In a few minutes our car will pull up outside and we will go on to the new vault.'

‘Who's the driver?' asked Jane, suddenly.

‘An old friend of yours. Superintendent Smith.'

‘That's good,' said Jim. Trust Stafford to rustle up the best.

The door opened and the vault manager brought in a briefcase with a handcuff attached to the handle.

Stafford put the mirror into its soft bag and passed it to Jim, who pushed it into the pocket of the raincoat he held over his arm. Stafford cuffed the briefcase to his hand. ‘It's a long time since I've been a decoy,' he said. ‘Let's hope this instance turns out happier than the last.' A flicker of reminiscence flashed across his face. He blanched and snapped back to the present. ‘Would you like to wear the Magatama or do you think it might be better in your other pocket?' he asked Jim.

Jim touched the necklace under his shirt. He always felt a little sad taking it off. The stones felt warm against his skin, even though they weren't. ‘I'll leave it on,' he said. He picked up his raincoat and put it on. He straightened it on his shoulders, feeling the mirror wedged deep in its left pocket. He opened the coat and slotted the sword into the inside pocket. Kusanagi slid down into the lining snugly. Stafford had made it with a needle and thread, sewing as expertly as Jim's nan had when she'd darned his socks all those years ago.

‘As soon as Smith calls, we will go,' said Stafford, sitting down with the briefcase. He adjusted the handcuff on his wrist and set his face to a determined frown.

Jim felt Jane kiss his cheek. ‘Never a dull moment around you,' she said, smiling.

‘Likewise,' he responded.

Jim suddenly appreciated the broad plate-glass windows of the bank. They gave him a clear view of the street ahead. No one alarming was standing on the pavement outside. Stafford got into the revolving door and pushed ahead as Jim entered the next compartment. No sooner was he halfway round than he realised Stafford was pushing hard on the door to get out and saw, from the corner of his eye, figures rushing from the left towards them.

A door of their car, a Mercedes people carrier, was opening, and Stafford was now squeezing out of the revolving door in an attempt to sprint for it. He was a couple of strides across the pavement when the figures were on him. One tried to rip the case from his grasp but managed only to have the briefcase suspended between him and Stafford's outstretched arm. Another held Stafford fast.

Jim was out of the revolving door, shouting at the top of his voice: ‘Hey!' There were four men as far as he could see. There was a flash of metal as one of the men pulled a sword, and another as Jim drew Kusanagi. The bulky Japanese standing side on to him was raising the blade to cut Stafford's arm off.

Jim didn't hesitate: he slashed Stafford's attacker. As the blow struck Jim felt resistance in his sword. The bulky figure fell, cut in two.

There was a flash to Jim's right, which he instinctively blocked with Kusanagi. The attacker's sword shattered, fragments striking Jim's head. His eyes focused on his opponent, whose arm was outstretched, his hand still clutching the broken blade. Jim thrust forwards and skewered him.

He turned. Jane was landing a punch to the throat of the man still pulling on Stafford's briefcase. He focused on the man holding Stafford's other arm. He could see the shot, a diagonal blow through the base of the neck to the hip. He could just sweep his arm around and down and swat the man like a fly. It was the right blow, the perfect cut. He would touch him with the finger of death. There was terror in the man's eyes. Jim could see his fingers loosening on Stafford, could sense his enemy's realisation that he was about to die. He could see everything clearly in the cold bright light.

He blinked. The Japanese let go of Stafford and Jim waved the sword at him. The guy turned and fled across the road.

Jane was bundling Stafford into the people carrier, and Jim realised he was splattered with blood. Horrified faces lined the windows of the bank and the pavement was covered with gore. He slipped the sword into its scabbard and jumped into the vehicle. He slammed the sliding door and Smith drove away.

‘What the hell was that?' shouted Smith, before calling in the incident over his radio.

Stafford's wrist was bleeding and he cursed quietly to himself as he tried to take the handcuff off.

‘First aid?' called Jane.

‘In the boot.'

‘Going to need it fast.'

‘Need to get clear of the scene first,' called back Smith.

‘Got a gun?'

‘Yes.'

‘Pass it back and stop the car.'

Jane took the pistol from Smith and as the people carrier stopped, she jumped out and opened the boot, retrieved the kit and sprinted back into the vehicle. ‘Go.'

Jim was looking at Stafford's bleeding wrist. It didn't seem as bad as Jane reckoned it was.

‘Hold still,' said Jane. She pressed a wad of bandage onto Jim's head. ‘Hold that there.'

‘What?'

‘Just press firmly and hold still.' She wrapped another bandage around his head and under his chin and fastened it with a large plaster.

Stafford had freed himself of the handcuff and was staring fixedly at Jim's head.

‘What?' said Jim, angrily.

‘You have a large gash in your scalp, which is rather hanging off,' said Stafford.

Jim looked at Jane, then back at Stafford. ‘Doesn't seem to be bleeding,' he said, ‘and it doesn't hurt.'

‘Give it time,' said Jane. ‘Smith, we've got to get these guys to a hospital.'

‘Not me,' said Stafford. ‘I've got to get these somewhere safe.' He started to bandage his wrist.

Smith had put a magnetic blue light out of the window and it was now flashing.

Jim lifted the necklace over his head and put it into the other pocket. He slid out of the raincoat. ‘You'd better take this,' he said, as he handed it to Stafford. Now there was a shooting pain in his head.

Jane slipped off her jacket and unbuttoned her shirt. She folded the blouse quickly into a square. She added it to the bandages, which were sodden with blood. ‘Press on this, Jim – you'll be OK.'

‘Let me out here,' said Stafford. He looked at Jim, blood trickling down from beneath the bandages. ‘I'll see you all later.'

Jane buckled Jim in. All he could hear was thunder in his ears.

Akira was sitting next to the little table by his hotel bedroom window. He glanced out through the grubby net curtains onto the grimy wall of the building's inner well, put his mobile down and sighed.

‘Samurai Carnage,' said the newspaper's website.

He had seen the black suited men on the pavement as the people carrier containing himself and the living treasures had pulled away.

Why hadn't the butler, Stafford, answered his call? Why did people never seem to have their mobile phones switched on anymore?

His eyes closed and he saw the fox in front of him again, its pink tongue pulsating with each breath. The image was the only thing that gave him strength. He had begged the head of Imperial Security for help but the response had been stony. He was piling disgrace on himself and his family.

He dwelt on the tramp and the fox.