In which Shoki and Nanashi follow a revenge spirit into a local brothel hoping to prevent a death.

3

Basement Brothel Blues

“Gotō’s lackeys are not your responsibility,” Nanashi persists.

“I couldn’t care less about his hired thugs,” I say. “I just can’t stand back and let Faintfoot ruin another girl’s life.”

His mask jolts disconcertingly as he shakes his head, becoming speckled with white flecks like one of those snow globes found at Christmas market. “Believe me, those girls were ruined long ago.”

I take the journal and move back through to the lounge. Slung across the arm of my sofa is a vintage 1970s lime-green mackintosh. It’s the only item of clothing I’ve ever cared about. I push my arms through the sleeves and tuck the journal into the right hand pocket.

Wasting no time changing from my slippers or locking the apartment door, I rush down the stairwell to the lobby, avoiding contact with insurers currently inspecting my neighbour’s blackened living room.

As soon as we’re outside, I can see my breath in the chill air. The buttons are missing from my mac so I slide my hands into the pockets and draw the edges together.

Yōkoso Harbour differs from many Japanese towns in that the street names are based on popular landmarks instead of area codes. Red Gate Street takes its name from an old theatre at the north end. The building entrance was bricked up years ago but the surrounding wall is still bright with colour. The pavement below is always littered with peels of dry, red paint. There seem to be endless layers, as if the decorators knew the theatre would one day be abandoned and vowed to keep its memory alive.

I hurry across Red Gate to reach the basement steps. A lamppost overhangs the entranceway, rising up from a pyre of bent and sodden cigarette ends. Moths and midges swarm around the frosted lamp competing for space while eager spiders welcome the chaos, priming their webs for a long feast.

The door to the basement is dented in places and plastered with graffiti. The Crying Lemon is a far cry from the upmarket establishments of Shiranami. Though the services on offer are just as sordid, at least in the heart of the city the yakuza have zero tolerance for vandalism. To the left side of the door is a makeshift security panel fashioned from chicken wire. I take the steps and knock on the panel, hearing a bolt strain as it’s pulled across. With a final clunk the door grinds open.

A wash of buttery light bathes my face and music vibrates underfoot. A door attendant stands before us, a giant of a man virtually filling the dimensions of the entrance. He’s wearing a body-hugging white t-shirt and has tucked a packet of cigarettes beneath the sleeve like a Greaser from ‘50s America.

“Ex sumo,” Nanashi says. “Only job going for retired fighters.”

Nanashi may not like people, but he sure can read them. Greaser has cauliflower ears, a retreating hairline, a disproportioned upper body and swollen, pale hands. At some point in his life he was definitely a wrestler.

“You’re not one of our girls,” Greaser says. “What do you want?”

With Nanashi’s appearance, lying became a necessity. And now, after years of practice, I can weave a story as if I’m performing Rakugo to a packed audience.

“I’ve be sent from The Honey Emporium,” I reply. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” The Emporium is a popular club in Shiranami’s red light district. I’ve passed it many times on my way to Mama’s apartment, unable to resist gawking at the girls and their chaperones dressed like they’re attending a movie gala. “They’re looking out this way for venues with potential. Clubs that could represent the famous Honey name.”

Greaser looks indifferent.

“I’m not spending long in each place,” I continue. “Just enough to get an impression and take in the atmosphere.”

His expression remains unchanged.

“Your words are bouncing off a wall of flesh,” Nanashi remarks.

“I could easily skip your establishment,” I press. “But I’m sure your manager wouldn’t pass up this opportunity…”

“When it comes to the door, I make the calls,” Greaser interrupts.

I have to maintain the upper hand. “So the dents and graffiti are your responsibility?”

He flushes with anger and the neglected muscles in his neck tighten as if he’s reversed time to his wrestling days. “Unless you want a painful exit from this place, I’d watch your mouth.”

Spreading my mac and stretching my t-shirt at the collar, I reveal the raw blisters. “You couldn’t hurt me.”

Greaser’s expression changes from anger to intrigue. He removes a see-through-plastic lighter from his trouser pocket, which he rolls deftly between his chubby fingers, all the while studying my neck. After an uncomfortable silence, he sits back on a barstool and lights a cigarette he had tucked behind his deformed ear.

He gestures to the sloping corridor ahead with a doughy hand. “I get off in a few hours. Maybe you’d like a tour of the Harbour? It’s at its best come daybreak.”

I nod reluctantly and step in. His eyes are on me, unblinking even as he exhales smoke.

I often attract men, which puzzles me considering the state of my clothes and the perpetual deep rings beneath my eyes. It’s not a sympathetic interest either; reasonably good-looking guys have propositioned me on occasion. Nanashi is insistent: “Bring someone back. Boy or girl, I’m not fussed”. And blatant: “Since I can’t do it, I’ll watch you on your back instead”. Consequently I’m still a virgin.

The corridor descends to slatted wooden swing-doors seen in any Spaghetti Western. Pushing through, we enter a spacious room centred by an oval cocktail bar. The décor is in keeping with the café above. Large plywood cutouts of lemons are nailed to the walls and seem to shift beneath the mood lighting, as if dorsal shapes cutting through murky waters.

To the far side is a karaoke stage where a drunken crooner is attempting to silence his critics by wielding a microphone like a bola, swinging the cord dangerously close to a rotating mirrorball overhead.

I recognise the man. His name is Keitarou. At one time he was a fisherman and rented the apartment across from us. I happened to be sitting on the pier when the bailiffs came to repossess his trawler. He acted like a maniac that morning, swinging a knotted rope above his head much like the microphone in his hands now. It strikes me how similar the two events are, as if he’s transformed his misfortune into a bizarre stage performance.

Bouncers arrive to end his routine and he’s dragged out through a fire exit where he’ll be lucky to escape unharmed.

Nanashi points to the kaleidoscope of drinks bottles behind the bar. “Just a small glass?” he requests.

“Wait till we get back,” I whisper.

“A taster then?”

I ignore him.

“Button-nosed bitch!” He inhales dramatically before letting it back out with even greater gusto. “Never mind my lovelies, I’ll be with you before you know it.”

A Chinese girl wearing an off the peg jade kimono is studying me from a nearby sofa. She frowns at the oil stains patching my t-shirt and the scorch marks along my mac collar. Though our lives are worlds apart, at that precise moment the pitiful looks we exchange are identical. To my relief a balding man sits down beside her and whispers something distracting in her ear. She laughs falsely and turns to offer her full attention.

Moving around the bar, I spot the private quarters to the right of the karaoke stage. Faintfoot will be back there searching for a host. She’ll be after a girl who knows the premises intimately, someone with access to a weapon, and above all, someone easily manipulated. I don’t have much time.

Like mosquitoes on hot skin, girls huddle around the lone salaryman at the bar. He clutches his briefcase to his chest, clearly out of his depth, probably many miles from home, abandoned by his colleagues for whatever services they offer here. Beside him, the barman is preparing a cocktail for a heavyset man with a neat goatee and gelled-flat, white hair. Though I’ve only met Gotō the one time, this man bears a striking resemblance to the yakuza boss.

Nanashi tests the air. “What’s he having? I’m getting vodka, Tia Mariaandsomething else. Is that Cointreau?”

The barman slides the white cocktail to the patron and I know it’s Gotō’s lookalike when he lifts the glass to his lips with a gloved hand. As a child, you’re taught many rules of etiquette, not wearing gloves indoors being one of them. Most people stick to these traditions, but Gotō isn’t most people.

As I move towards the lookalike formulating what to say, a girl wearing fake clip-on pigtails nestles up beside him. I change direction at the very last moment, ducking into a nearby lavatory.

Dammit!

The tastelessly finished room has chrome basins set in pink marble and a wide, concave mirror. Plastered across the mirror are countless star-shaped stickers, each one centred by the flawless face of a pop idol. They are perfectly ugly.

I enter the far cubicle, lock the door and take a seat.

Nanashi reaches to one side and activates the Sound Princess, a device that produces an artificial flushing effect.

I cut it short with my fist. “I’m never convincing that gangster to leave.”

“Then we get a drink and go,” Nanashi suggests.

“I’m not abandoning the girl now. I have to stop Faintfoot instead.”

He groans. “This again.”

I cross my arms. “There has to be a way. Tell me or I’m adding extra ingredients to your homebrew.”

“Puh! What ingredients?”

“Just know it won’t taste quite how you like it.”

His mask turns wasabi-green, sprouting patches of something dark and fungal. “Nothing’s changed; you face her now and she’ll kill you quicker than a sloppily prepared blowfish.”

“If I can face her then surely I can do something.”

“Shoki, I wouldn’t lie to you about this.” He sounds different; his voice is softer, almost concerned. I don’t know this Nanashi.

“Then why point her out in the first place? I would’ve been none the wiser.”

“I just thought you’d be glad she hadn’t found the real Gotō. How was I to know you’d go on some idealistic crusade?”

“I don’t buy it. You might think that mask gives you a poker face, but I can tell when you’re lying. You knew I’d follow her down here.”

He taps the cubicle wall, leaving black marks like Rorschach patterns.

“C’mon you coward, admit it!”

His silence tells me everything.

“I knew it!”

“Of course you knew it! Hardly a stretch to imagine this place was on my radar. I was just waiting for her.”

“Faintfoot?”

“Who else? I knew she’d be along soon enough. Gotō’s doppelganger has been in and out of this place for weeks, even sitting upstairs when they’ve got coffee instead of girls on the menu.”

I know his alcoholism can be a problem, but I never imagined he’d stoop to this.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “You have no idea what it’s like to truly desire, to fantasise for months with no relief. Every time that rancid homebrew passed my lips, my mind was transported here, tasting a Crying Lemon cocktail. And now, finally, when that swollen sack of cats opened the front door, I could smell every sweet bottle. The nectar drifted up that slope as if borne on the back of divine Amaterasu herself.”

I know this Nanashi.

“You’d risk our lives for a drink?”

“Not just any drink,” he purrs.

I kick the cubicle door a little too hard, causing the bolt to hang loose. Outside they’re playing the blues song Midnight Moon by Timbo Ells. Just a few cords are enough to take me back to the attic veranda beneath the mountains. Papa slides a vinyl LP into the record player. The needle lowers as he sits in his rattan chair, feet up on a three-legged stool, wisps of smoke from his cigarette dense in the cold air.

Where did they get a copy of that song? And why play kitsch J-Pop one minute and obscure American blues the next? Nanashi begins to hum along, clearly not troubled in the slightest by this extraordinary coincidence.

“Shut up,” I say, my mind a jumble. “Just shut the hell up!”

Without warning, the lavatory door swings open and the Chinese girl in the jade kimono saunters in, placing a dainty purple handbag to one side. She leans forward to inspect her eyelashes in the mirror. All I can do is stare from the exposed cubicle.

She glances at my reflection. “The clients are all taken,” she says.

Ignoring her, I step out and head straight for the exit.

“Did you hear me, Goth?” she continues. “I said there’s no one for you.”

I’ve been called many names – especially when caught pickpocketing – but never a Goth. I’m wearing a bright-green mac, not a corset, black eyeliner and ripped stockings.

Before leaving, I wheel around and hiss at her like a cat.

 “You really know how to intimidate people,” Nanashi mocks. “Maybe try out animal impressions on Gotō and his posse?”

Outside, the girl’s balding client is examining a framed print of cormorants diving for fish. He doesn’t notice me as I edge around behind him. Passing beneath an archway decorated with fake ivy, I come to the first of the entertaining rooms and place my ear to the door.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Nanashi is now singing Midnight Moon. Timbo Ells is Papa’s favourite blues musician. The New Yorker’s voice is unique, almost a growl at its lowest pitch. Though Nanashi’s impression is admirable, he’s only trying to annoy me.

“Quiet,” I insist.

He raises his voice.

“Shut it! I can’t tell if there are people…”

“Screwing,” he cuts in; “writhing up against each other like a catch of eels on a trawler.”

This isn’t the room.

“What are you doing, Shoki? The bar’s back there.”

Placing my ear to the next door, I recoil immediately from its ice-cold surface. I have to rub my earlobe vigorously to regain some feeling.

I’ve found her.

“There are far safer ways to get back at me,” Nanashi continues. “Why not settle our little dispute over a few Manhattans?”

I turn the handle. Through the gap I can make out a dressing table supporting a collection of plush toys and a ceramic lamp with a mandarin shade. Behind the table is a corkboard plastered with nightclub flyers. Nudging the door further, I reveal Faintfoot. Her head is bowed and sheer black hair covers her face. Her short-sleeved white shirt is dotted with thumb-sized smudges. At first I take them for mud stains and then one moves beside her shirt pocket. They’re slugs! Her corpse must have been left in a damp place, probably a cellar or shallow grave ironically swarming with life.

Whenever Nanashi is close to her kind his body heats up until I feel like I’m shouldering a clothes iron. I haven’t yet entered the room and already his elemental form prickles my skin.

Faintfoot’s bony arms and fingers are outstretched, reaching for a petite girl applying lipstick before a full-length mirror. Nanashi insists I can’t stop Faintfoot, but if I can get to the girl first, I won’t have to.

As I move inside, Nanashi folds around me like a foam neck brace, only one made of molten larva. I cover my mouth to prevent a whimper from escaping, but fail to notice the plastic fumes now rising up from my smouldering mac. They fill my nostrils. I sneeze into my palm.

Dammit!

Faintfoot turns to observe me, her black hair parting in the centre. Her eyes are milky white, the pupils grey beneath the surface like hard-boiled yokes. The slugs are everywhere: gathered in the sunken nape of her neck, poking out from between her lips, settled on her crown, their countless shiny trails glistening amber in the lamplight.

I can’t tear my eyes away. The cream carpet beneath my slippers wavers and then seems to unravel. I’m sinking! Scrambling for purchase, I claw at the carpet but it parts between my fingers like tofu left out of the fridge.

The girl is panicking. I must look like I’m having some sort of seizure. She’s trying to edge around me to reach the door. I’m blocking her escape! I’m putting her in danger!

As Faintfoot drifts across the room, I can only think of one thing: when she takes the girl what will happen to the slugs? Will they disappear or become a part of her, moving just below the skin?

I’m about to disappear when I feel one of Nanashi’s fingers press up against my earlobe. For once I welcome the sting; the pain brings me back and the carpet is solid again. Finding my feet, I lunge ahead and seize the girl by the wrist. She struggles wildly, smearing purple lipstick down my t-shirt. I try to restrain her flailing hand but she catches me square on the jaw. The room shudders, as do my legs. When I’m pushed back, I lose my footing, and then I’m falling, down and down until my head meets a solid surface.

Where am I? Why can’t I see? Who’s talking? Why is my back wet? Is that water? No, it’s thicker. More like paint. What’s that noise? A horse? Can’t be anything else. It’s growing. Getting louder. Closer. I’ll be trampled! I’ve seen horses stampede a thrown jockey in the Japan Cup. Hooves are disturbing the paint. It’s lapping up against my thighs. Where are my tracksuit bottoms? Am I naked? I’m naked! They’ll find me naked, trampled and covered in paint!

When I come to, I’m assaulted by a smell. It wrinkles up my nostrils like the leftover carcasses from fish market sloshing about in thawed ice.

“Take it easy,” Nanashi says.

I scramble to my feet and immediately regret it. Lightheaded, I lurch to one side, scattering the plush toys and the lamp from the dressing table. The back of my head is throbbing and there’s a patch of dry blood beneath my hairline.

“Where’s the girl?” I start, setting my hands down and concentrating on the nightclub fliers until I can clearly read the words ‘Foam Party at the Acid Cellar’.

“Possessed and probably frolicking in that lookalike’s entrails.”

Panicked, I head for the door, kicking soft toys from my path as I go. The girl’s makeup collection is scattered outside: purple lipstick halved, mascara pen bent, concealer tray cracked. Slugs also litter the carpet, dry and shrunken like spent fortune cookies. At least she’s been spared that fate.

Have I gone deaf? No, it really is that quiet. What’s happened to the music? And what is that smell? It’s coming from the bar area, intensifying as I stumble along the corridor. When I reach the lavatories, the source becomes clear. The tiled floor is waterlogged. Alcohol from dozens of broken bottles soaks my slippers, mixing to create a nauseatingly powerful smell. When the full impact of it hits me, I’m desperate to get away. I make a beeline for the exit, splashing through the pungent liquor.

Nanashi tugs at my hair. “The place is empty,” he says. “Grab any leftover bottles.”

It’s enough to distract me. I catch my ankle on something bulky and sprawl to the ground. I’m only a few feet shy of the swing-doors; close enough to reach out and push them aside. Instinctively my eyes move to the object that has caused my fall. The bar isn’t empty – Gotō’s doppelgänger lies facing us. Puncture wounds pepper his neck, and blood has pooled beneath him turning the alcohol thick like tar. He has an intricate tattoo, which I can see through his saturated shirt: a silvery eel coiled around a red baseball bat.

His dead eyes are on me.

“I can’t move,” I whimper. “Help me.”

“Will you give me what I want?” Nanashi asks.

Whenever I’m in a vulnerable position, which seems all too often recently, Nanashi asks me the same thing. It’s safe to assume his desires will involve either drink or sex, possibly both, but there’s something in his request that terrifies me.

Fear motivates me into action. Unable to stand, I shuffle to the swing-doors and half push through. The combination of blood and piss brings tears to my eyes.

“This is just undignified,” Nanashi says.

“Well help me out then!”

“Final freebie.”

He reaches down and clamps his tendrils behind my knees as if attaching jumper cables to a car battery. When he sends the heat through, I feel new empathy for mechanical parts. Muscles recharged, I muster what little willpower I have left, get to my feet and head for the exit.

At the top of the slope, Greaser is slumped in his stool. His arms hang loose like a sleeping gorilla’s.

“Stop!” Nanashi demands. “We’re not leaving empty-handed.”

I don’t have the energy to challenge him or the stomach to look upon Greaser’s startled face. Nanashi stretches from my shoulder to rummage through the doorman’s clothes. He returns swiftly to deposit a collection of items into my mac pocket.

Hands shaking, I unbolt the door, shouldering through when I hear the clunk.

It has started to rain. Reaching the top of the steps, I lean against the lamppost to steady my nerves and catch my breath. Bloody footprints cross Red Gate to disappear into an alleyway.

I can still help her.

“Walk the other way,” Nanashi says, guessing my intentions. “She’s better off in hospital.”

“Hospital? You mean an institution! I’m not leaving her like this. I don’t care what you say.”

He doesn’t have to. Police sirens. Closing in. Fast.

And with that Nanashi has won. I imagine he’s grinning behind that expressionless mask. The police will discover the girl squatting in the alleyway, clutching the murder weapon, wondering whether the blood covering her hands is her own. If I had succeeded, I could’ve led her away, cleaned her up and taken her to Tiger for sanctuary.

But Nanashi has won and I have failed.