without leaving a forwarding address. Drones in Jupiter Café tuck into their breakfasts. I want to stop a passer-by, and tell the story of the last six weeks, from PanOpticon stake-out up until this moment. How do I feel? Oh, I cannot begin. But hey, Anju, I kept my promise. I wish Ai were working at the Jupiter Café today. I would ride in on my Harley Davidson like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman, and she would climb on, and we would vanish down the narrow road to the deep north. I watch the pedestrians crossing en masse when the green man says so. I join them. I cross Kita Street – I feel disappointment that our father turned out exactly how all the evidence said he would. I wait for the man to turn green. I cross over Omekaido Avenue – I feel shame that his blood is in my veins – and I wait for the man to turn green. Then I cross back over Kita Street – I feel sad that I found what I searched for, but no longer want what I found. I wait, and cross back over Omekaido Avenue. I feel release. I complete one, two, three circuits. I can go now. I hear my name. Onizuka has pulled up on his Nero scooter. I am immune to surprise, now and maybe for ever. I don’t know what he wants, but I rule out walking away from Onizuka in case he knifes me in the kidneys. ‘C’m here.’ He hoicks and spits. ‘Been looking for you.’
‘You found me.’
‘Been watching you walking in circles.’
‘Squares. Not circles.’
He toys with his lip-stud. ‘Want to ask you something.’
I go up to him.
He thumbs towards Nero’s. ‘Tomomi the Mouth says you’re going to Miyazaki.’
‘Tomomi the Mouth is right.’
‘Your mum’s ill?’
‘She is, yeah.’
‘Short of dosh?’
Where is this going? ‘I’m not exactly the Bank of Japan, no.’
‘My stepdad runs a haulage business. Said one of his drivers’ll get you to Osaka, then sort out a rig for Fukuoka.’ Onizuka never jokes, and he hasn’t started now. He hands me a slip of paper. ‘Map, address, phone number. Be there by noon.’
I’m too surprised – too grateful – to say anything.
Onizuka drives off even before I properly thank him.
‘You want to visit your mother in Miyazaki, but you can’t be sure when you’ll be back,’ Buntaro announces as I step into Shooting Star. My landlord folds his Okinawa Property Weekly. ‘As if I could say “No!”, lad! My own mother would murder me. Yes, my wife will take care of the cat. Like old times. Your rent is covered until the end of October, and your deposit can take care of November, unless you need me to return it, in which case I’ll pay it into your bank account, box your stuff and put it into storage. Call me from Miyazaki when you know what your plans are. Shooting Star isn’t going anywhere. My wife has made you a lunch box.’ He rubs his gold tooth, and I realize that it is Buntaro’s lucky amulet. ‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘Pack!’ My capsule is exactly as I left it twenty hours ago. Socks, yoghurt cartons, scrunched pillows. Weird. Cat is out, but Cockroach waits on the window ledge. I get the death spray, creep up on it, and – Cockroach is motionless. Daydreaming? I hassle him with the corner of a cookie wrapper. Cockroach is a dead husk.
Onizuka TransJapan Ltd is near Takashimadaira station out on the Toei Mita line. Through the gates is a walled yard with a loading bay and three medium-sized trucks. It is only eleven. I walk back towards the station, where the giant electronics store is opening. Inside is cold as pre-dawn February. Two identical receptionists at the helpdesk chime ‘Good morning’ in such angelic harmony that I am unsure which to speak to. ‘Uh, which floor are the computers, please?’
‘Basement, third level,’ answers Miss Left.
‘Mind if I leave my backpack with you?’
‘No problem at all,’ answers Miss Right.
I float on the down escalator. Souls of shoppers float with me. Everywhere is draped with tinselly maple leaves to announce the coming of autumn. Miniature TVs, spherical stereos, intelligent microwaves, digital cameras, mobile phones, ionizing freezers, dehumidifying heaters, hot-rugs, massage chairs, heated dish-racks, 256-colour printers. The escalator announcement warns me not to stand on the yellow lines, to assist children and old people at all times, and orders me to enjoy quality shopping. Goods sit