He breathed deeply while Tamagusuku tacked a square of cloth across the broken door. He breathed deeply and considered his options. There was, Kit had to admit, a sense of relief in discovering that he didn’t have any. All that remained was to go on.
Dragging himself all the way round the outside of the cabin, so he could approach its door from the other side, Kit took up his position. Only this time when he hammered it was with an outstretched arm, using the heel of his one remaining shoe.
Silence.
Kit gave it five seconds, then hammered again. Inside the cabin Tamagusuku swore.
“Yuko,” Kit said, voice raw. “Your husband killed Yoshi.” He sounded like a ghost, even to himself, but then he felt like one too. “An accident,” said Kit. “But it still happened.”
“How, an accident?”
“He meant to kill me,” shouted Kit, clinging to the side of the cabin. “But I was late getting home. So Yoshi stayed. You were right,” he added. “It was my fault, but your husband planted the bomb.”
Inside the cabin, someone killed the lights and when the door banged open Tamagusuku’s silhouette held a gun. A. 38 calibre, to judge from the slightness of the damage to the door.
“I did not plant a bomb.”
“Oh no,” said Kit, “that’s right, you didn’t. You had your bodyguard do it.” He watched Tamagusuku turn to find the source of Kit’s voice. Watched as the man raised his pistol.
“Do it then,” Kit said, stepping away from the cabin. “But you’re too late. Yuko knows now.”
“Enough.”
“It’s the truth,” said Kit, watching Yuko appear in the broken doorway behind her husband, still clutching the Suntory bottle.
“Yuko, if I could change it all I would.”
“It’s a lie,” Tamagusuku shouted.
“Ask him where he was.”
“She knows where I was. In London. I brought her presents.”
“From Mitsukoshi,” said Kit. “He’s lying. If he was in London how come he was seen watching my bar?”
“When?” she demanded.
“About eight hours before Yoshi died.”
“Who saw—”
“Yuko, enough.” Tamagusuku was furious, too furious. “He’s a liar. I’m not having this discussion.”
“You already are,” Kit said. “So tell me one final thing. Why send a hit man if you’d already decided on a bomb?”
“I didn’t…”
“The homeless man,” Kit said. “With the shabby suit and the expensive knife, a gun and a Taser. All that hardware can’t have come cheap.”
“I know nothing about this,” said Tamagusuku, and the weird thing was Kit believed him. He’d bombed the bar all right, but the thug who came after Kit that night was the lid to a whole other can of worms.
“What man?” said Yuko.
Both Tamagusuku and Kit ignored her.
“Look at you,” said Tamagusuku, “you’re dying. All I have to do is wait, then tip you over the side.”
“We die every day,” Kit said. “It’s called being human.” Taking a stumbling step towards Tamagusuku, he watched the other man steady his automatic.
“Yoshi,” said Kit, taking another step. “I’m sorry.”
Tamagusuku fired.
Kit must have imagined the click of an empty gun, because wind through the rigging would have drowned any noise that subtle. Yuko’s husband slapped his gun, as if it had jammed, firing again. Tamagusuku was about to pull the trigger a third time when Kit reached for his throat.
“Wait,” Yuko said.
“Too late,” said Kit, tightening his grip.
The protest was slight, but Tamagusuku very definitely shook his head. Grabbing the jagged spike of wood still sticking from Kit’s chest, the man twisted, and gulped air as Kit screamed.
Expecting the man to ram home the spike, Kit pushed at Tamagusuku’s wrist and accidentally helped Yuko’s husband do what he’d always intended, rip free the splintered piece of door.
Kit crumpled.
“Wait,” said Yuko. “I want to talk to him.”
“No,” Tamagusuku said. “Not this time.” Kneeling on Kit’s chest, he reversed his gun and raised his arm, ready for a final blow.
“You killed her,” whispered Kit, and the darkness he awaited never fell. Because in that moment Yuko stepped forward and slammed her whisky bottle hard against the side of her husband’s head. When the bottle didn’t break, she hit him again.
“Yoshi was my twin,” Yuko said.
CHAPTER 66 — September
The report in the Asahi Shimbun was suitably restrained. Under a heading Yacht Lost in Storm, Untimely Death, it ran a photograph of the Suijin-sama. A smaller picture, set to one side, showed a serious-looking Tek Tamagusuku, wearing a dark suit, with his hair swept back and slightly grey at the temples. The caption announced, Family in mourning. Irreplaceable loss to Japanese business, says Kisho Oniji.
A small feature on page three mentioned that the Suijin-sama was one of thirteen Japanese-registered vessels lost in the typhoon, although it was the only one lost near Tokyo Bay. An editorial, opposite the Letters page, put shipping losses in the context of wider damage, while the financial pages dealt with the implications of that damage for world risk/insurance ratios.
In passing, the feature mentioned an interview with a Texas-based academic denying Asia’s worst typhoon had anything to do with global warming.
Local news shared space with stories from the wider world. A bomb blast in Baghdad, tension on the Chinese/Russian border, more riots in Mexico City, a possible, very tentative cure for breast cancer.
But the news that really interested Kit concerned the 47 Ronin. Men from the construction company had worked alongside bozozoku clearing rubble from Roppongi’s streets, busily photographed by what remained of the camera crews. When the clearing was done, neither bikers nor builders returned to the site, and neither was prepared to say how such an agreement had been reached.
“What happened?” asked Kit.
No Neck laughed. “Someone made a call to someone else, you know how it goes…Everything comes right if you wait long enough.” At his shoulder, Micki grinned, quickly covering her mouth with one hand.
Micki and No Neck had arrived with a huge pile of newspapers, going back weeks to the night of the actual storm. Being No Neck, he also carried a crash helmet and wore a ripped tee-shirt reading, Where are we going? And why am I in this hand basket?
“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Kit. “I know.”
“And you look like shit.”
“Tommy…” It was weird to hear No Neck called by his real name. Weirder still that he smiled sheepishly at the girl who used it. If No Neck didn’t look out, his real name was going to prove catching.
“You look good,” Micki said.
“No.” Kit shook his head. “Tommy’s right, I look terrible.” He’d seen himself for the first time in a mirror that morning. His hair was greyer than he remembered and getting thin. Pretty soon he’d need to get it cropped. But then, pretty soon he’d need to do a lot of things, so he might as well start now.
“About the bar,” Kit said.
“Pirate Mary’s…”
“No,” said Kit. “That name’s dead. You’ll need a new one.”
“Me?” Tommy looked puzzled.
“The site’s yours,” Kit said. “Just as soon as I sign the paperwork.”
“Fucking hell,” said No Neck. “You serious?”
“Yes,” said Kit. “Very. I can even recommend a bank who might help you raise funds for rebuilding.”
“Except I’m Australian,” said Tommy. “I mean, I’m grateful. But you know what they’re like about that.”
“Put the land in Micki’s name,” said Kit, glancing between them. “And then make bloody sure you register the marriage.”
Micki grinned.