Number 9 dream Page 0,80

‘I have grasped the fundamentals of this game.’

Morino nods. ‘You are one of us. Please.’

‘I’ll tidy up Gunzo. I always disliked Gunzo.’

A steady roll, a clamped quaver of fear from Nabe, and a blat. Applause.

‘Oh dear, Nabe,’ bellows Frankenstein, ‘I distinctly heard a squeak.’

‘No!’ comes the broken, bruised, buggered voice.

Morino gets to his feet. ‘Try to see the funny side! Humour is the soul of the soul.’ I should not be here. Morino takes his time. ‘Yuk. This ball has been used already. Bits of Gunzo’s scalp. Or Kakizaki.’ Nabe is sobbing, softly, as if he lost a teddy bear and nobody cares. Morino paces – one, two – rumble, the bowl flies. One short saw-toothed howl. A chopstick snapping. Two heavy things thump into the pit.

Three Cadillacs glide down the fast lane. A nowhere land, not city, not country. Access roads, service stations, warehouses. Afternoon drains away the day into a hole of evening. I am branded with what I saw in the bowling alley. The burn will not hurt until the shock wears off and my nerves come back to life. I think about the places I could be if I never re-entered Valhalla. I could be chatting with Ai Imajo in a coffee shop. I could be feeding Cat and smoking with Buntaro. I could be bombing around the coastal road of Yakushima on Uncle Tarmac’s motorbike. The moon rises over forest slopes. Where is this? The something peninsula. Frankenstein is driving, Leatherjacket is in the passenger seat. Morino and I sit in the middle seat. He blows wreaths of cigar smoke, and makes several phone calls about ‘operations’. He makes a chain of telephone calls mostly no longer than ‘Where the fuck is Miriam?’ Popsicle is giving Lizard a blowjob in the back seat. We enter a tunnel. The roof lights barcode-scan across the windscreen. Mighty ventilators hang from the tunnel roof. I should not be in this nightmare. ‘I wish you would stop saying that,’ says Morino, apparently to me. ‘It’s getting on my nerves. We all get exactly the nightmare we deserve.’ I am still trying to fathom this out when Frankenstein speaks. ‘My nightmares always wind up in tunnels. I’m having this ordinary dream, nothing spooky or nothing, then I see the mouth of a tunnel and I think, “Oh yeah, here comes the nightmare.” I drive into the tunnel and it starts. People hanged from the ceiling. Some guy I offed ten years ago come back and my shooter jams. The tunnel presses in closer and tighter till you can’t breathe no more.’ Popsicle slurps. Lizard groans slightly and speaks. ‘Nightmares are yer law-of-the-jungle stuff. All yer modern gizmos stripped away. Yer just left there, alone, dinner for something bigger and badder and eviller. Watch yer teeth!’ He slaps Popsicle, who whimpers. Morino taps ash into the tray. ‘Interesting stuff, boys. My view is, a nightmare is comedy without a release valve. They tickle, but you can’t laugh. And the pressure builds up and up. Like gas in lager. Got anything to add to our fascinating discourse, Miyake?’ I look at this torturer, wondering if this is just another day for him. ‘No.’ Morino seems no longer to even need his lips to speak. ‘Cheer up, Miyake. People die all the time. Those three killed themselves the moment they double-crossed me. You just helped deliver the sentence. You’ll have forgotten all about them in a week. They say “Time is the greatest healer”. Bollocks, that is. The greatest healer is forgetfulness.’ Lizard comes with a contented smack of the lips. Popsicle sits up, wiping her mouth. ‘Candy!’ Lizard mutters and unzips something. ‘Yer arm’s a fucking pin-cushion. Show us yer thigh. I’ll shoot you up there. Don’t drool more than yer have to.’ Leatherjacket speaks. ‘In my homeland, it is said nightmares are our wilder ancestors returning to reclaim land. Land tamed and grazed, by our softer, fatter, modern, waking selves.’ Frankenstein produces a steel comb and pulls it across his hair, keeping his other hand on the wheel. ‘Sent by who?’ Leatherjacket folds in a new stick of gum. ‘Nightmares are sent by who, or what, we really are, underneath. “Don’t forget where you come from,” the nightmare tells. “Don’t forget your true self.”’

A neon poodle prances across its sign for all eternity. It wears a little doggie bow tie. Our Cadillac joins that of the horn players. Mama-san has taken the third away on business of her own. The men