Number 9 dream Page 0,78

damp. I sneeze. My throat feels tight. Finally we climb to the surface on a dead escalator. Welcome to Valhalla, says Thor, a thunderbolt in one hand and a bowling ball in the other. Through a temporary door in a plywood wall we enter a vast darkness, sealed against the day. At first I cannot see a thing, not even the floor. I can only feel the emptiness. I follow the vapour trail and ember-light of Morino’s cigar. A hangar? A glow clusters in the distance. This is a bowling alley. We walk past lane upon lane. I lose count. Minutes seem to pass, but this is impossible. ‘Ever go bowling much on Yakushima, Miyake?’ Sometimes his voice seems far away sometimes near. ‘No,’ I answer. ‘Bowling keeps youngsters out of trouble. Safer than falling out of trees or drowning in undertows. Once, I went bowling with your father. A powerful bowler, your dad. An even better golf player, though.’ I don’t believe him, but I probe anyway. ‘What golf course did you play at?’ Morino waves his cigar at me – its tip is a firefly. ‘Not a crumb until midnight. That is the deal. Then you stuff yourself with all the details you can stomach.’ Suddenly we are here. Leatherjacket, Frankenstein, Lizard, Popsicle. Mama-san sits down and gets out her knitting. Morino smacks his lips. ‘Our guests are accommodated?’ Frankenstein jerks a thumb down the lit alley. Instead of tenpins are three wax human heads. The centre head moves. The left head tics. I should not be here. This is a nightmarish mistake. No. This is a sort of interrogation. Morino is not sick enough to hurl bowling balls at real people. He is at root a businessman. ‘Father,’ says Mama-san. ‘I have to say. This is an unspeakable act.’

‘War is war.’

‘But what about their retinas?’

‘I understand your concern, I really do. But my conscience rules out depriving a dead man a clear view of his destiny.’

‘Morino!’ shouts Centrehead, hoarsely. ‘I know you’re there!’

Morino raises his megaphone to his lips. His amplified voice is a dust-storm. ‘Congratulations on a fine opening day, Mr Nabe.’ Echoes slap away and back. ‘There seemed to be a minor ruckus in the pachinko parlour, but I’m sure everything is ironed out now.’

‘Release us! This instant! Jun Nagasaki owns this city!’

‘Wrong, Nabe. Jun Nagasaki thinks he owns it. But I know I own it.’

‘You are stark fucking insane!’

‘And yer,’ Lizard shouts back, ‘are stark fucking dead!’

The megaphone crackles. ‘You, Nabe, were always a walking lobotomy. Your death suits you perfectly. But you, Gunzo – I thought you had the sense to grab your pay-off and run for the tropics.’

Lefthead speaks. ‘We’re more useful to you alive, Morino.’

‘But you are more pleasing dead.’

‘I can show you how to strangle Nagasaki’s supply lines.’

Morino hands the megaphone to Leatherjacket, who deposits his chewing gum in a tissue. ‘Good afternoon, Gunzo.’

‘You?’

‘I favour customers who pay on time.’ He has a dusky foreign accent.

‘I don’t fucking believe it!’

‘Your inability to believe is the cause of your present dilemma.’

Centrehead shouts. ‘Then you’re dead too, you slimy Mongolian shit!’

The slimy Mongolian shit hands the megaphone back to Morino, smiles, and puts in a new stick of gum.

Lefthead cries, ‘I can be your messenger to Nagasaki, Morino!’

‘Yer ain’t our messenger,’ shouts back Lizard, ‘yer our fucking message!’

‘Most succinct, Son,’ comments Morino approvingly. ‘Most concise. You can throw first.’ Lizard bows graciously and selects the heaviest bowling ball. I tell myself this is just a bluff. I should not be here. Lizard steps on to the concourse, and lines up a shot. ‘Shoot us, Morino!’ shouts Centrehead. ‘Let us die honourably!’ Frankenstein shouts back. ‘What do you know about honour, Nabe? You sold your hole to Nagasaki faster than he could say “Bend over”!’ Lizard steps one, two and – wham! A fast uncurving line, my gut knots, I try to wake myself up, look away for my own good, but when Centrehead screams I look, idiot that I am. Righthead – Kakizaki, I guess – is no longer recognizable. I want to vomit but nothing comes. I am glued. Kakizaki is a staved-in cavity of bone and blood. The horn players burst into wild applause. Lefthead is shut down with shock. Centrehead gasps, drowning, spattered with red specks. Lizard bows again and comes back to the console seat. ‘Superb technique,’ praises Frankenstein. ‘Watch it on the replay, shall we?’ I turn around and keel, putting my head between my knees. I