Exposure (15 page)

“Exactly,” said Charlie. “If you lose your focus, the way you do things, you’re finished.”

“So you never have any doubts?”

“Not in the way you mean: not about a job, no.”

Helene shook her head.

“I don’t get that. You kicked Bill in the goolies because he hit me, but you were prepared to kill him because he was a loose end? And what about the man that you helped to kidnap? Didn’t you ever think about him? Did it never occur to you that it was wrong? …that by any standards of humanity you shouldn’t have been involved in something like that?”

Her voice had begun to rise, the questions rushing out of her.

He shook his head and shrugged.

“Maybe he needed kidnapping.”

“Oh come on, Charlie!” she snapped. “How can you be so blasé about it?”

“Look,” he said fiercely, his voice hard and low, “don’t come so bloody high-minded with me. I do what I do because I’m
good
at it. Maybe you can’t compute that, Ms Journalist, but I didn’t choose this life: it chose me
because
I’m good at it – one of the best. I work when I want to work for people I choose to work with. I make judgements every day about what I’m prepared to do and what I won’t do. That doesn’t make me any different from most people who work in an office and count paperclips. So don’t come all holier-than-thou with me. You know nothing about me.
Nothing!
”

He was really angry. But Helene felt that she was finally getting somewhere.

“Then tell me,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell me about your life. I
want
to know about you, the real you, not the one you wear like a mask the rest of the time.”

He was silent, studying her.

Helene sighed.

“This doesn’t get reported,” he said.

“Of course not!” she said sharply, looking up again. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

He looked sceptical.

“Oh well,” she said, “it’s up to you. If you can’t trust me by now…”

She went back to lie on the futon.

“Do you believe in God, Helene?”

His question was so out of left-field, she was almost speechless. He’d just performed one of those mental cartwheels that made her dizzy.

“What? Er, I think so, yes. I mean I don’t think God is a man with a long, white beard sitting on a fluffy cloud, but, yes, I believe that there’s a higher order at work. I know that when I’ve been in the foxhole, I’ve prayed.”

“Were your prayers answered?”

“I’m still alive.” She paused. “Do you believe in God?”

He smiled at her suddenly: it was like the sun coming out on a day full of rain.

“My dad was a vicar.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, it’s true. I was brought up in a vicarage on Hayling Island.”

Helene opened her mouth to say the word ‘Zambia’ but then she closed it again. That was a conversation for another time: she hoped there’d be another time.

“I can’t imagine you in a vicarage,” she said at last.

“Why not?” he smiled impishly.

“Because you’re the archetypal bad boy,” she said, smiling again. “You’d have ended up flirting with half the members of the Women’s Institute and the Mothers’ Union: probably at the same time.”

He laughed. “Well, it’s true I did get sent away to school…”

Helene smiled back. “And I bet you were the leader of the high jinks that must have surely ensued.”

He suddenly looked young and mischievous.

“Well, there was that time that I led a break out: we were pretending it was Colditz and I was Jock Hamilton and my friend Ben was Bill Goldfinch. We’d built a glider, more of a kite really, and we got caught about to launch ourselves from the roof. Probably just as well because it would have flown like a brick.”

Helene laughed out loud.

“Yes, that’s about what I’d have guessed your school days were like. And then what?”

His smile withered and his gaze hardened.

“Life,” he said shortly.

Helene was disappointed: just when he’d started talking about himself. But she recognised a full stop when she was shown one.

“I think I’ll try and get some sleep,” she said, stretching out on the futon again and yawning.

“Mmm,” he said.

His gaze had returned to the computer.

She watched him for a while, then her eyes began to close and soon she was asleep. Confused dreams ran through her like small, brightly-coloured fish, making it impossible for her to hold on to them. Every now and then she awoke and looked up to find him still seated at the computer, still working – on what, she couldn’t say.

At six in the morning, the host tapped on the cubicle and showed them, by pointing at his watch, that Genji-yo! was closing.

Helene rubbed her scratchy eyes and Charlie packed away the laptop. He looked surprisingly fresh for someone who had just spent the night staring at a computer screen, fortified by enough caffeine to speed an entire football squad.

Helene, by comparison felt like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and was far less coiffed than she would have liked. She pulled her wig straight and popped a mint in her mouth. That was the morning ablutions done. If they had time, she hoped to find a shower at the train station.

When she stumbled out onto the pavement, the brightness of the morning sun made Helene squint. She pulled her sunglasses out of her bag, although it might be considerably better if she put the whole bag over her head, she decided on reflection.

Several other Genji-yo! stalwarts were leaving at the same time. One of them was the young woman who had called her a cougar. The girl’s mouth was an O of recognition. She bowed deeply in the feminine style and said, “Ku-ga sama,” in a reverent voice.

Helene was nonplussed. She went from wanting to punch the girl to blowing her a kiss. The girl giggled and tottered off into the morning, high heels giving her rather short legs the appearance of pigs’ trotters.

Helene smiled to herself. She might be thirty years older than the girl, but she had considerably better legs – though she said it herself.

It was still unbearably early, but the streets were already beginning to fill up. The food vendors were opening, along with several shokudo eateries that were raising their shutters. Even the plastic display food in the windows looked good to Helene. Never mind, she could pick up something at the station: more rice balls, if necessary.

They made their way to the nearest local station and waited with a gaggle of other early risers for the circle line. Half an hour later they were at the mainline Tokyo station.

The entrance looked like Helene’s old Victorian-built grammar school: red brick with white stone window trims. Inside it was the usual Japanese sleek emporium to Mammon, with low, silvery ceilings and one corner of the enormous concourse opened up into a substantial department store.

It took them a while to find the correct platform for the Hikari train to Shin-Osaka.

But there were no showers: the nearest were 30 miles away at Narita Airport. Helene sighed. Another day without washing: it wouldn’t kill her but might make her an unpopular travelling companion. Thank goodness the train would be air conditioned. She sniffed surreptitiously at her armpits. Bearable: just.

Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably and embarrassingly loudly.

“You can’t still be hungry!” said Charlie. “Not after last night.”

“Of course I am,” said Helene. “Last night was last night. I need to keep up my sugar levels or I’ll get grumpy.”

She perused the possible food outlets.

“In that case,” he said, “there’s a shop selling about 20 different types of KitKat over there.”

Helene glanced over her shoulder: he was right.

Helene had never seen a KitKat covered in pink icing before. Or was it pink chocolate? It was hard to tell from the picture. Either way, Helene was pretty sure she wanted to try one. Life was a journey full of experiences after all.

She bought one packet of the pink KitKats and one packet of the regular type just in case. Then she went to one of the plastic food shops and pointed at several interesting looking examples. She had no idea what she’d ordered but none of it looked like squid brain or bee larvae so she thought she’d probably be all right.

“Okay,” she said. “This should do it: let’s head for the train. Hopefully there’ll be some tourists we can mix in with.”

Their train arrived with military precision and after some hesitation they managed to find their seats. Blending in was out of the question. Every step they took, they were watched openly: they were the only gaijin in the carriage.

“I guess it’s not the tourist season,” said Helene, sadly.

Charlie didn’t reply.

She sighed. Maybe he’d be less grumpy if he ate something. She was a great believer in the healing properties of chocolate. Not that she’d call herself an addict.

She opened the packet of pink KitKat as Charlie watched her disapprovingly. Something to do with a Protestant upbringing, she decided. Helene, on the other hand, had long ago decided that one of the benefits of being a grown up was eating chocolate for breakfast if you wanted to. One of the downsides was that on reaching adulthood, one rarely wished to.

The chocolate, if you could call it that, was nauseatingly sweet albeit slightly cherry-flavoured. If Charlie hadn’t been watching, Helene would never have finished the bar. But she wasn’t going to allow him to dictate what she did or didn’t eat either.

It was a relief to swallow the last piece of KitKat and wash it down with some bottled water: thank goodness she hadn’t bought fruit juice – the sugar rush might have pushed her over the edge.

Charlie was clearly in no mood for talking. He was staring out of the window and Helene couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed. Something about the rise of his cheek made her think they were. Perhaps he was tired after all. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and let him be.

She pulled out the laptop and amused herself by writing descriptions of the passing scenery. One of the old names for Japan was ‘the land of a thousand autumns’, and was therefore at its most beautiful as the leaves turned, but also when the cherry blossom bloomed. Even in the heat of summer, Helene found much to admire. For one of the most populated countries in the world, there were still pools of untouched beauty and as the train sped westwards, Mount Fuji held the valleys in thrall.

The velocity of the bullet train made it seem as if the mountain was gliding towards them. Its symmetry was perfect and, just as in every tourist postcard Helene had seen, snow-capped, even in July. She could understand why it was so revered by the Japanese who seemed to worship the ever-changing perfection of nature. The mountain had even been given an honorific: Fuji-san.

But as the train charged onwards, Helene was appalled to see the foothills blighted by a squatter camp of concrete buildings and factories puffing out thin, grey smoke. She had seen suburban sprawl threaten to overrun the pyramids in Cairo but she had not expected such a lack of respect for the environment here. When she read in the guidebook that 50% of Japan’s coastline had been substantially altered by the addition of concrete, she shut the book in disappointment.

Eventually Charlie seemed to shake off his bad mood and accepted some food from Helene’s table picnic. The strange-looking skewer things were surprisingly tasty. Once Charlie started eating, he managed to hoover his way through just about everything, although he declined the cherry KitKat. Helene couldn’t blame him.

“Sorry,” he said, looking up.

“For what?” said Helene, genuinely puzzled.

“For zoning out back there.”

She shrugged. “It happens. Don’t worry about it.”

He went back to staring out of the window and Helene, feeling more relaxed, went back to tapping out scenic descriptions (where she could faithfully omit any mention of concrete). She was glad the tension had been broken.

Every now and then she looked up from the screen to watch the world sail past. Despite her disappointment with the Japanese’ attitude to their land, she couldn’t help comparing the sleek bullet train with the tortuously slow Paddington West Coast service. The distance from Tokyo to Osaka was about the same, but it took twice as long to go from London to Penzance.

A couple of hours later they had arrived.

Shin-Osaka station was hideous. An architectural abomination of grey, utilitarian 1960s concrete. Helene was still surprised that the Japanese could build something so ugly. It looked like a giant multi-storey car park. Maybe they had used British architects.

Changing onto a local train line, they were carried at a far more stately pace than the shinkansen.

The slower speed suited her mood. The shinkansen has been so energetic: it was peaceful dawdling along, sitting without responsibility, being carried towards their destination, or, if Helene were feeling fanciful, towards their destiny.

They changed for the last time at Takamatsu. Everyone chose their seats quickly as the train left promptly. Still no gaijin – in fact they seemed to be the only tourists of any nationality.

“Have you seen anyone following us?” said Helene.

Charlie shook his head.

“No, I think we’re clean,” he said calmly.

Helene was filled with relief.

That, of course, should have made her nervous.

Chapter 11

In a seat across the train’s gangway a beautiful doll-like girl-woman, with bright brown eyes, rosebud lips and porcelain skin was taking her seat. Charlie was all but staring and Helene could practically hear Charlie’s gears revving up a couple of notches.

It was understandable, she thought, fairly; the girl was exquisite.

As if she could hear their thoughts, the girl looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. She was probably used to the adoration of strangers. Her smile could have melted glaciers. She could even have thawed Mrs Jenkin, which was a tougher job.

The girl-woman rose gracefully and shuffled towards them with tiny, shy steps.

“So sorry, please,” said the girl, bowing slightly. “May I speak English with you to practise me?”

Charlie grinned. “Yes, I’d love to practise you.”