Kusanagi (3 page)

Akira sat by the concrete flyover pillar and looked down into the green canal water. It had become a daily ritual to go there on his way home, sit down and smoke two cigarettes. It was a lonesome private place to linger and think. His empty days without a mission passed slowly. He longed for James Dean to be parked at the end of the road, waiting for him, engine running. Yet the days had rolled into weeks and he felt that the gates to his magical world of excitement and adventure had slammed shut.

He heard someone approaching and looked up. It was a grey-brown raincoat-clad figure. His father.

Akira stood up smartly.

‘Quiet smoke?' his father enquired.

Akira relaxed a little: his father was not furious with him, it seemed.

His father took his own pack out. A moment later Akira had pulled out his Zippo and was offering to light his father's cigarette.

‘I thought I should seek you out,' said his father, after the first puff. ‘Your mother is worried about you.'

‘Worried?'

‘Yes.'

‘She didn't worry when I came home every day beaten.'

‘Certain hardships she expects. She wonders why you often come home so late.'

Akira swapped his cigarette into his short hand, took a drag and said nothing.

‘So this is where you come?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘What of your friends?'

‘I do not have friends. Other kids think they will catch something.'

‘That is their loss.'

Akira flicked his cigarette into the canal. ‘Shall we go home?'

‘Yes. Your mother is waiting.'

As the bell rang, Akira glanced out of the classroom window and across the playground. James Dean was parked on the road beyond. He jumped up from his desk.

The other children were heading for the next class, but he ran through the empty hallways down to the floor below and outside. He sprinted into the street and stepped in front of a tree that covered him from view. As he did so, James Dean rolled his bike to him. His face was cut and bruised. ‘Jump on kid.'

Akira leapt onto the back of the Harley. James Dean revved the engine and sped off, in a cloud of blue smoke. Soon they had reached one of Akira's favourite haunts. He loved the little coffee shop. The owner welcomed him and James Dean like brothers and didn't blanch at the sight of a crippled child in school uniform. He ordered coffee like an adult and was served as one. They sat in the wooden shack like the real outlaws of his comic books.

‘What happened?' he asked eventually.

‘Trouble,' said James Dean.

‘No kidding,' said Akira, using one of James Dean's favourite American expressions.

‘I need to ask you a big favour.'

‘Sure.'

‘I need you to go to my place and get some things for me.'

‘Sure.'

‘It'll be dangerous.'

‘OK.'

James Dean gripped Akira's right hand and squeezed it. ‘Very dangerous.'

No one ever touched his short hand. No one dared to. He squeezed James Dean's as hard as he could. ‘OK. What do you need?'

‘My gun. My money. A black book.' He showed the latter's size with a forefinger and thumb. ‘In the kitchen in the top drawer by the sink.'

‘You in big trouble?'

‘Nothing I can't fix with my money, my gun and my little black book.'

‘Easy,' said Akira.

‘But people might be waiting for me outside my home. They can't get the book.'

‘OK.'

‘I'll drop you two streets away. Go in, get the stuff. Come straight out and back to me.'

‘OK.'

The street outside the rundown apartment building was empty. Akira's heart began to race, as it always did when he was with James Dean. He entered and went up the stairs to James Dean's flat on the second floor. Nothing stirred. He put the key into the lock and turned it slowly, then pushed the door open. He looked into the den. The light was out and, through the gloom, he could see that the room was empty. He went in and closed the door.

He felt safer now that he was inside and his heart slowed. He moved across the blacked-out den to the kitchen. It, too, was empty. The air smelt stale. The table was covered with beer bottles and the ashtray was full. It looked as though James Dean had been entertaining friends.

Akira moved to the sink and opened the drawer immediately to the right. There was a pile of dishcloths but he saw no gun or money. He lifted the folded linen and saw a lot of money. He pulled out the dishcloths. As James Dean had described, there were bundles of cash on the right side of the drawer and a pistol on the left. There was also a black book, held closed with an elastic band.

Akira picked up the weapon. It was a shiny, stubby chrome revolver with a black rubber handle and no hammer. It was heavy and felt large in his hand. He stuffed it into his outer pocket. He put the book inside his blazer. He swung off his satchel and filled it with the cash. James Dean's stash amounted to many millions of yen. To Akira it was a fortune of neatly bundled ten thousand yen notes, perhaps twenty thousand dollars, a good proportion of the proceeds of James Dean Yamamoto's life's work.

The satchel was heavy on Akira's back. He went to the den window and tried to look out. There was nothing to be seen from this restricted vantage-point. He put his ear to the front door and listened. He heard nothing. He opened the door slowly and looked out. The corridor was empty. He closed the door behind him and walked down the stairs.

On the ground floor, two figures were slouched in the hallway, dressed in leathers. They were smoking and talking gangster-style. The hallway by the front door was a tight space with mailboxes and barely enough room for two people to pass. Akira put his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped the pistol handle.

One of the figures cast a glance at him, but he kept walking, hurrying as he normally would. He scuttled past them to the door and trotted out into the street. He ran up the lane and back through the alleys to James Dean, who kick-started his engine as soon as he saw him.

‘Did you get the stuff?'

‘Yes.'

‘All of it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Was the coast clear?'

‘No.'

The bike surged off.

Akira was taking notes in the history class. No one had noticed he had been gone for nearly three hours. The school simply didn't have truancy and was not equipped to spot it. If he wasn't there, it must be for a good reason, like a trip to the optician. There were no guards in this prison camp, no tripwires to snare transgressors. He had slipped between the sunlit world of children to his dark adventure playground unnoticed, like a student between a lecture and a daydream.

On the first Wednesday of every month, he would travel to the coffee shop in Roppongi where, from five until six, he would drink and smoke and wait. He had visited James Dean's flat on several occasions but it had been empty. The last time a woman had answered, and through the gap between her and the door, he had glimpsed new furniture and family life, which had to mean that this was no longer James Dean Yamamoto's home.

His fourteenth birthday had come and gone.

He passed the cigarette from his short hand to the good one and stubbed it out. He would leave soon and not return for another month.

Perhaps James Dean was in prison – or dead, even.

A figure came through the door, a salary man in from the rain of a dark, blustery Tokyo evening. Akira started. With a quiff, sideburns and a little less weight, he could almost have been James Dean.

The figure was coming towards him. Akira tried to focus in the dim brown light of the coffee-shop shack. He found himself standing up.

‘Sit down, kid,' said James Dean, plonking himself on the bench across from him.

‘James Dean! It's you – at last.'

‘I've been busy,' he said, lighting a Lucky Strike. A pot of coffee and a refined cup and saucer were delivered to the table without reference to an order. James Dean acknowledged the café owner with a nod. ‘I've been busy lying low.'

‘I'm glad you came. Have you a job for me?'

‘Yes,' said James Dean, ‘but first I have to tell you I'm going to disappear. Maybe for good.'

‘Why?'

‘It's right for me and it will be right for you.' James Dean looked around as someone came into the café. He looked back to Akira. ‘I've got an idea and it could be big. I've got to cut myself free of the past and take a shot at the moon. This town is going to go crazy and I'm going to ride the madness. But first the old James Dean has to die so the new one can be born.' He pushed his little black book across the table. ‘I want you to keep this safe for me.'

Akira took it. ‘Sure.'

‘And I've got you a present.' James Dean took out his flick-knife and pushed it across the table. ‘This is for you.'

Akira picked it up and passed it to his short hand. He pressed the silver button halfway down the handle and the blade clicked open. ‘Thank you,' he said. He twisted the blade lock with his thumb and folded the blade shut.

‘Well, this is it kid.' James Dean stood up. ‘Remember, don't be a little prick.'

‘Will I ever see you again?'

James Dean smiled and patted his own hair, as if the quiff was still there. ‘You never know, kid.'

Tokyo March 2013

Akira looked from the palace rampart to the far wall of the moat. He squinted. If he could focus his eyes just so, he thought, he would see himself thirty years before, clinging to the far wall.

‘And what of the mirror, Sensei Nakabashi?'

Akira snapped out of his dream. ‘The mirror? Oh, that's very difficult. Not even the Emperor can see the sacred mirror.'

‘So does it – or for that matter does any of the Imperial Regalia – actually exist? After all, as curator of the royal treasure you must be one of the few to know for sure.'

‘Yes, yes,' he said. ‘Of course it exists. Every piece has been at every coronation, as you surely know, since the beginning of history.'

The two American professors were looking smugly at him.

The tall stork-like woman from the New York Metropolitan Museum tilted forwards as if she was going to peck the top of his head. ‘Do you think you might be able to arrange for me to see the sword Kusanagi no Tsurugi?'

‘Very difficult,' said Akira. ‘The priests at Atsuta allow access to it only for a coronation.'

‘And what of the Yasakani no Magatama?' asked the relaxed, informally dressed young man from the Getty in California.

‘It is very beautiful and also very difficult to examine. The priests at Kashikodokoro guard it with their every sinew. But I can tell you a secret about it. It is not a jewel, but many jewels of the most exquisite jade, a necklace held together by a golden chain.'

‘And you've seen it,' said the improperly dressed curator from California.

Professor Akira Nakabashi, keeper of the Sacred Imperial Treasures, waved his short hand at the honoured guests. ‘Please, let me show you the view further along.'

The two Americans smirked at each other.

‘I am very sorry to disappoint you,' said Akira. ‘The Imperial Regalia are sacred items, drawn from the dawn of our history. They represent the very soul of the Japanese nation. They encapsulate the Imperial rights and status, its authority, continuity and legitimacy. They are not items to be examined and tested. Not even by the Emperor himself.' He smiled cheerily. ‘Please, come this way – there is much else to see.'

Brandon hated heights so today's exercise was going to be a misery. Dropping down the line from the chopper was bad enough, but after the four kilometre swim there would be a cliff to climb and he would hate every second of it. Not that the sickness or the fear was going to slow him down, let alone stop him. His face stayed as set and determined as it always did. His doubt and fear were locked inside him and throbbed deep below his impassive exterior.

In a few seconds he would hit the water, detach and form up with the three other SEALs in their squad. Danny, Reece and Casey were his spiritual brothers. The exercise was simple. They would be injected offshore from the chopper, swim in formation to the beach, scale the cliffs, quick march ten K to the RV and return to base.

It was the climb that spoilt his day. He simply didn't feel comfortable scaling things. He could be deep under water, totally reliant on his equipment for life, and yet be as relaxed as if he was in his childhood bed. Climbing up a wall, fixed by even the sturdiest of lines, set all his senses on fire. There was something overwhelmingly hostile about a vertical drop. A fall from even thirty feet up was likely to bust you up for life. It didn't matter that the stats were bad, it was just something visceral for him. There was no rescue if you fell.

The water enveloped him as he penetrated the other-worldliness of the sea. The movement and muffled sound soothed the churning inside him. The sea was his friend, the blue water a comforting blanket. The sea off Okinawa was dazzlingly clear. He could see down thousands of feet through the azure ether of the world's clearest waters. Shafts of light twisted and turned, sparkling like the facets of a sapphire. The tension of the descent melted away as he fell in at the rear of the four-swimmer formation.

Reece led the squad. He was an experienced petty officer who always seemed to know the right thing to do. He would be going up the wall first. Casey and Danny were as solid as they came. Brandon was proud and happy to be part of such a first-rate squad. He often felt he was struggling to keep up with their incredibly high standards. He copied their stone-cold courage and taciturn demeanour, but felt somehow junior to them. He wished everything could be as easy for him as it seemed to them. Nothing fazed his comrades, and while to the outside world nothing seemed to sway him either, he knew that his blood would boil and fizz like that of a diver explosively decompressing.

There were no streams of bubbles trailing behind the others. The re-breathing aqualungs they carried did not exhaust air into the water but recycled it, scrubbing the carbon dioxide from the exhaled gas and reusing the oxygen. A diver only took 25 per cent of the oxygen with each breath, and re-breather technology allowed for longer, deeper dives. It also gave them a stealthy advantage when bubbles floating to the surface would have given them away. Not that bubbles mattered on this trip.

Some SEALs liked the skydiving, others the sheer physicality of long marches on land; some liked the equipment, be it transport or munitions, but Brandon loved the sea, whether he was diving, swimming or operating out of boats. At some point he was going to leave the military and had determined to get into the sports fishing business. When he was swimming he had those kinds of dreams. Floating in the friendly blue void, he would make plans between the cross-talk of the radio, which crackled intermittently with chatter.

They were coming up on the shore.

‘That's one hell of a lot of hammerheads,' he found himself reporting into his mic, as he watched a swarm of sharks far below cruising in long lazy loops.

‘It's the season,' replied Reece.

‘Is it shark humping season?' asked Danny, rhetorically.

The reef reared up from the abyssal plain, a sealife-encrusted face rising vertically out of the void. They would be no more than half a kilometre from the beach and the dreaded climb up the 150-foot cliff.

The seabed appeared below him, covered with coral and flecked with fish. When he had first gone diving he had seen everything around him as either a trophy to be taken or prey to be speared, but it hadn't been long before he'd realised that a reef was like a jewel, a fabulous opal you could swim through rather than look into from the outside.

Something glistened on the white sand forty feet below. On the sand a thousand golden coins winked up at him. He did a double take. He checked his tanks, everything was fine: he wasn't narked up. He didn't say anything into his mic, but flipped down and swam hard for the bottom. As he approached, the glinting coins didn't fade away or resolve into a different object. They got clearer. They were oval, like golden fingernails, and in the instant it took him to scoop up a handful, he saw they had writing on them.

Brandon wasn't going to admit to breaking formation or go on record by saying anything. He pushed the sandy handful into the rubberised pocket on his right thigh. He recorded the position and swam back to the group.

Casey's head flicked round as he caught up but nothing was said over the radio link.

The climb was only minutes away and trepidation suddenly overwhelmed him. He was biting hard on the mouthpiece of the regulator.

Brandon climbed out of the water and put his mask up. The wall looked awfully sheer. How the hell were they going to get up that?

Reece looked around at them grinning. ‘Aha,' he drawled. ‘What a tiny rock – it's hardly worth the journey.'

Brandon smiled confidently like the others. ‘Want me to lead us up?'

‘Danny's turn,' said Reece.

Danny grinned.

‘The fast way,' said Casey, wading forwards. ‘I want to get back early.'

‘Ah, hell, Casey, you're no fun,' joked Danny.

‘Just this one time, brother,' said Casey.

Inside Brandon sighed with relief. Danny just loved a gnarly route and this time he would be spared it. Though he trusted Danny with his life, as he trusted Casey and Reece, he was glad that today the need to do so was minimised.