Number 9 dream Page 0,154

her sister.’

‘So,’ says Smiley, ‘does the kid.’

What are they talking about? Smiley nods at my death notice on the table. ‘Look closer.’

It is the queen of clubs, not spades. Clubs.

Mr Donut says, ‘I need my inhaler’. Mama-san nods, and he fishes it out of his jacket pocket. He holds his head back, breathes in a blast, holds it, and breathes out. Then he turns over the queen of spades.

Nobody says anything.

The screen Mr Donut is sweating worse than a man dying of plague.

Me, I am trembling and wracked with relief and guilt and pity.

Mama-san clears her throat. ‘Your queen has appeared, Mr Tsuru.’

The speakers stay silent.

‘Mr Tsuru?’ Mama-san frowns at the smoked glass. ‘Your queen has spoken.’

No response.

Mama-san leans over and knocks on the glass. ‘Mr Tsuru?’

A guard wrinkles his nose. ‘What’s he cooking now?’

Another guard frowns. ‘Well it aint sausages . . .’

The guard nearest the door in the glass pushes it open and peers in. ‘Mr Tsuru?’ He breathes sharply, as if blocking a karate kick with his stomach. ‘Mr Tsuru!’ He stays where he is, and turns around to face us, blankly.

‘Well?’ demands Mama-san.

His jaw moves but nothing comes out.

‘What?’

He swallows. ‘Mr Tsuru has grilled his face to the hotplate.’

A riot of improvised theatre breaks out. All I can do is close my eyes.

‘Mr Tsuru Mr Tsuru Mr Tsuru! Can you hear me?’

‘Scrape his head off!’

‘Turn the gas off!’

‘His lip has fused to the metal!’

‘Ambulance ambulance ambulance someone call a—’

‘Fuck! His eyeball just popped!’

‘Wipe it off on your own shirt!’

‘Get that fucking dog out of here!’

Someone vomits noisily.

The dog barks joyfully.

Mama-san scrapes a metallic object down the smoked glass. The screech is unbearable, and the chamber falls silent. Her composure is perfect, as though she scripted this moment many years ago and has rehearsed it ever since. ‘Mr Tsuru’s entertainment has been overtaken by a deus ex machina. It appears the excitement was too much, triggered a second stroke, and since our dear leader chose his barbecue to fall on, it no longer matters particularly when that ambulance gets here.’ She now addresses the two or three older men. ‘I am appointing myself the acting head of this organization. You shall obey me, or oppose me. Make your intentions known. Now.’

The moment is dense with calculations.

The men look at us. ‘What will we do with them, mama-san?’

‘Card games are no longer company policy. Show them the door.’

I dare not trust this new development, not until I am outside and running. Mama-san addresses us. ‘If any of you go to the police and somehow convince a recently-graduated detective that you are not a lunatic, three things will occur, in this order. One: you will be taken into protective custody. Two: a bullet will be put through your head within six hours. Three: your debts will be transferred to your next-of-kin and I will personally ensure that their lives are destroyed. This is not a threat, this is standard procedure. You will now indicate that you understand.’

We nod.

‘We have been in business for thirty years. Draw your own conclusions about our ability to protect our interests. Now get out of here.’

The cinema is full. Couples, students, drones. The only free seats are in the front, where the screen looms over your head. Everything in Tokyo is nearly full, full, or too full. There was no trace of Mari Sarashina in the reception outside the chamber. ‘If I was you guys,’ said the guard as the elevator doors closed, ‘I’d buy a fucking lottery ticket.’ In the seat next to me is a girl – her boyfriend’s hand has been edging over the back of her seat. The elevator began its long, slow descent. Mr Donut dropped his cigarettes. We watched them lying there where they fell. Mr Donut began shaking, but with laughter or fear or what, none of us knew. Smiley closed his eyes and tilted his head back. I kept my eye on the descending floor numbers. Twitcher picked up a cigarette and lit it. This movie is brutal and cheap and fake. If people who dream up violent scripts ever came into contact with real violence, they would be too sickened to write such scenes. When the elevator doors opened we plunged into the afternoon crowds without a word. The sunny weather was a sick prank. I came to a place where street performers twisted balloons into crocodiles and giraffes, and had to dig my fingernails into my arm to stop myself crying. The movie finishes