on their shelves, watching us browse. Not a single window. In the computer section I am greeted by a tame Suga in a clip-on tie. His skin has a clingfilm gleam. I wonder if they have Vitamin B-emitting strip lights down here to compensate for the total absence of natural light. ‘You look like a man with his mind made up, sir!’
‘Yes, I’m thinking of upgrading one of my PCs.’
‘Well, I promise we can spoil you for choice. What’s your budget?’
‘Uh . . . I’ve got a research grant to burn through. My modem’s from the twenty-fifth century – now all I need is the hardware to match it.’
‘No problem. What’s your modem?’
I overdid it. ‘Uh . . . a very fast one indeed.’
‘Yes, sir, but which make?’
‘Uh, a Suga Modem. Saratoga Instruments.’
He bluffs. ‘Verrrrrrrrry nice machines. Which uni are you at?’
‘Uh, Waseda.’
I have used a magic word. He produces his card and bows low enough to lick my shoes. ‘Fujimoto – at your service. We do operate an academic discount scheme. Well. I’ll let you play – you just call me if I can assist.’
‘I will.’
I pretend to read the specifications on a few machines, gather a sheaf of brochures, and choose a machine to sit at. I click on to the Internet, and find the e-mail address of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police home page. I write it on my hand. I glance around, hoping no hidden video cameras are watching. I load Suga’s disk. A hearty welcome to the mailman virus! Suga made his virus more user-friendly than he ever made himself. Do you want to enter your message to the masses via keyboard or load it from disk? I press D. Okay. Load your disk and hit ENTER. I eject the Suga disk, insert the Kozue Yamaya one, and press Enter. The virus program takes over. The drive buzzes and blinks. Okay. Now enter address of lucky recipient. I type in the police home page address off my hand. Hit ENTER to lick stamp! The cursor pulses, my finger hovers – the consequences of pressing this key swarm – click. Too late to change my mind now. Mailman is delivering your letter to primary addressee . . . Flash. Mailman is forwarding your letter to second generation addressees . . . Short pause. Third generation addressees . . . Long pause. Fourth generation, [yawn]. The screen clears. Mailman will continue to generation99. The message scrolls off-screen. Log off now/leave the crime scene/run like hell. Beep. Bye-bye. Bye-bye, Suga. I eject the Yamaya disk and put it into my shirt pocket. I am a plague-spreader. Only this plague might cure something. ‘Excuse me.’ An older salesman strides over. ‘What did you just download into our system, exactly?’ I grope for a plausible lie, but find nothing. ‘Uh, well. I was morally obliged to release information about a Yakuza network which steals people, cuts them up and, uh, sells the body parts. Using your computer seemed the safest way to go about exposing them. I hope that was okay?’ The salesman nods gravely, trying to figure out where I am on the harmless to knife-slashing spectrum of lunacy. ‘Glad we could help, sir.’ We thank each other, bow, and I let the escalator whisk me away. I retrieve my backpack from the helpdesk, unhassled, and walk out into the warm traffic fumes. I drop the two disks down the nearest storm drain. From a phone booth near Onizuka TransJapan I try calling Ai at home, then on her mobile, but nothing doing. Quarter to noon. I had better find Onizuka’s stepfather and introduce myself. I am so tired nothing seems real.
Eight
THE LANGUAGE OF MOUNTAINS IS RAIN
I dribble my soccer ball along a busy shopping mall in downtown Tokyo. No flashy retailing hot spot, this – the shops are all in decline, selling pan-scrubbers in bulk, blouses of thirty summers ago, flimsy exercise aids. Light clots with jellyfish from ancient seas. How or when I won possession of the soccer ball, I cannot say, but here it is – a curse, not a blessing, because the enemy goalposts could be hidden anywhere in Japan. If I pick up the ball, the referee will cut off my hands with rusty shears. If I lose the ball to the enemy, I will be spat at by schoolchildren and bitten by dogs until the day I die. But players are chosen, they do not choose. I must find the enemy goalposts and blast