swarms and claws at my eyes. I walk past the station and push on along the coastal road, but walking is wading and progress is slow. No cars. I try to get through to Uncle Money from a callbox, but it sounds as if the lines are down now. Unaerodynamic objects sail by – car shrouds, beer crates, tricycles. Sea booms, wind wails, salt water banzais the sea defences and spray slaps me. I walk past a roofed bus shelter without a roof. I consider stopping at one of these houses and asking if I can sleep in the entrance hall. I walk past a tree with a bus-shelter roof embedded in its trunk. Then I hear a whoooooosh. I crouch on reflex, and a black animal bounds by – a tractor tyre! I am now afraid of winding up as road mush. I draw level with Iso-teien garden. I was brought here on school outings and I remember brick buildings with alcoves which I can probably shelter in. I scale the wall – the wind flicks me over the top, and I land in thrashing bougainvillea. The peaceful summer garden is now a demonic possession movie. A madwoman is banging a door, over and over. Over there – I scramble, pummel, swim – flying twigs sting my face. Up a steep slope, and I trip into the hut. Compost smell, tarpaulin, twine – I am in a potting shed. The latch is smashed, but I drag over a sack of soil and succeed in wedging fast the door. The whole structure judders, but any inside is better than outside. My eyes adjust to the darkness. A whole arsenal of spades, trowels, gardening forks, rakes. There is a narrow partition down one wall but it is too dark to see behind. First, I gather up the pots and repair the damage caused by the wind’s break-in as best I can. Second, I arrange a makeshift bed. Third, I finish a bottle of green tea that I bought at Miyakowherever. Fourth, I lie down, listen to the typhoon rhino-whipping the old structure, and worry. Fifth, I give up worrying and try to identify single voices in this lunatic roaring choir.
My bladder is outside my body – a golden embryo-shaped sac. It sags painfully off my groin. I am in Liverpool – I know this because of the mini cars and bee-hive haircuts – and I am looking for a toilet. Gravity is stronger in England – hauling myself up the steps of this cathedral exhausts me. The door is a manhole. I shuffle through on my back to keep my bladder-baby safe on my stomach. ‘One moment, Captain!’ says Lao Tzu from behind a wire grille. ‘You need an entrance ticket.’
‘I already paid at the airport.’
‘You didn’t pay enough. Cough up another ten thousand yen.’
This is an exorbitant price, but I either pay or piss my pants. With difficulty, I extract my wallet, roll up the note, and post it through the grille. Lao Tzu rips it in two, and scrunches it up his nostrils to plug a nosebleed. ‘So. Which way is the toilet?’ I ask. Lao Tzu looks at my swelling bladder. ‘I had better show you the way.’ Liverpool Cathedral is a tiled rat-run maze. Lao Tzu crawls ahead on his belly. I backstroke after him. Water slides down the walls in curtains. Sometimes sprinklers erupt in my face. My bladder-baby begins to wail with the voice of a seal dragged inland against its will. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ I gasp. I stand up in a grotto. Stalactites drip. A row of men in uniforms occupy the urinals. I wait. I wait. But none of the men moves.
‘Colonel Sanders!’ General MacArthur claps my shoulder. ‘One of the natives stole my platinum lighter! Worth a fortune, dammit! Heard anything on the grapevine?’ I have been encased in the body of the chicken magnate to spy on GHQ, and to discover if they know anything about the kaiten project. How weird to be so fat. I know unseen meanings flow beneath the words, but it is hard to focus with a singing bladder. ‘No?’ General MacArthur sneezes a fountain. ‘Lemme give you a lift to the port, anyhow.’ The US Jeep drives to Kagoshima port. My bladder is now a child clinging to my waist. I am afraid she may be punctured by a sudden jolt of the Jeep, but we get to the ferry terminal without mishap. Unfortunately,