loss of trading time on the opening day. Two cadillacs. Lost insurance premiums, cleaning bills and general indemnities. Fifty-four million yen.’
‘But Morino caused that damage.’
‘And you,’ says Mama-san, ‘are the last living disciple of his faction.’
I want to be sick. ‘You know I was no disciple.’
God rattles his speakers. ‘We have your contract! Signed in your mixed blood! What more binding an ink is there?’
I look at the smoked glass. ‘How about her?’ I point at Mamasan. ‘She was Morino’s accountant.’
Mama-san is nearly smiling. ‘Child, I was a spy. Now shut up and listen or one of these bad, evil men will take a scalpel and slice your tongue in two.’
I shut up and listen.
‘Mr Tsuru has selected you, his most hopeless debtors, to play a card game. A simple card game, with three winners and one loser. The winners will leave this chamber free men, owing not a penny. The loser will donate organs to needy patients. A lung,’ she stares at me, ‘a retina, and a kidney.’
Everyone in the room behaves as if this is quite normal.
‘I am supposed to say,’ I have to start again because no voice came out the first time, ‘I am supposed to say “Sure, fine, let’s gamble with my body parts”?’
‘You are free to decline.’
‘But?’
‘But you will then be declared the loser.’
‘Decline, kid,’ jeers Twitcher, opposite me. ‘Stick to your principles.’
I smell mustard and ketchup. I have no logic to combat any of this. ‘A game?’
Mama-san produces a pack of cards. ‘You shall cut to decide shuffling order. Aces high, highest shuffles first, the other players follow clockwise from the starter. Then we begin the game proper. In the same order, you shall turn over the top card until the queen of spades appears.’
‘Whoever she chooses,’ says God, ‘loses.’
I feel how I felt back in the bowling alley.
‘Is that voice him?’ I ask Mama-san. My vocal chords are dry as sand. ‘Is that Mr Tsuru?’
Twitcher claps sarcastically.
So, Tsuru is God. God is Tsuru. I try to buy time. ‘Even you,’ I say to Mama-san, ‘must think this is insane.’
Mama-san’s mouth becomes a tight slit. ‘I take my orders from the company president. You take yours from me. Cut.’
My hand feels as heavy as a brick. The jack of spades.
Mr Donut draws the ten of diamonds.
Twitcher cuts the two of clubs.
Smiley turns over the nine of spades.
‘The boy is the first to shuffle,’ says Tsuru from behind his smoked glass.
The players look at me.
I clumsily flicker-shuffle the pack. Up on the screen, hands many times the size of my own do the same. Nine times, for luck.
Mr Donut wipes his hands on his shirt. The cards fly from hand to hand in gymnastic formation.
Twitcher makes a magical gesture with three fingers and cuts once.
Smiley shuffles in precise, circular motions.
Mama-san slides the pack to the centre of the table. It sits there innocently. I look at it as I would a bomb, which is exactly what it is. I wait for an explosion, an earthquake, a gunshot, an ‘It’s the cops!’
I hear sausages spitting on a grill.
The slow breathing of men.
‘Take the top card now,’ prompts Tsuru’s voice gently, ‘or a guard will remove your eyelids, and you will never be able to close your eyes again, not even to blink.’
I turn over the nine of diamonds.
Mr Donut’s breathing grates as his asthma worsens. He cuts the ace of clubs.
Twitcher intones Namu amida butsu three times – he had a Buddhist education – before his hand darts out and snatches the ace of spades. ‘Thank you,’ he says.
Smiley is the coolest of us all. He calmly turns over the seven of spades.
My turn again. I feel as if Miyake is operating Miyake by remote-control. I look at myself on the screen. Myself stares back, I never knew I looked like that. My hand extends—
A narrow door in the smoked glass swings open and a waggy labrador skitters out, chomping on a sausage and slipping on the polished marble. ‘Bring her back!’ cries Tsuru, his real voice emerging from the entrance, only half picked up by the microphone and speakers. ‘She mustn’t run on a full stomach! Her digestion is delicate!’ Two of the guards eventually shepherd the dog back to its master.
‘We,’ murmurs Smiley, ‘are just TV dinner for the mad old fuck.’
All eyes in the room on me again.
Something alien is under my tongue.
I turn over the six of hearts.
I lick my forearm, taste salt, and see a tiny black insect.
Mr Donut’s arm