Vol 2 Chapter 5 (1/2)

Part V: Paradox Spiral

Back when I was a kid, I used to hold on to this little piece of metal all the

time. It was an ugly little thing, with these dull, jagged teeth that started to

dig into your skin if you held it tight enough. A lot of times, it felt like holding

all the loneliness of a cold December day. Still, I loved that little thing.

I loved the way it made a click every time you turned it around, a chime

for each day’s beginning and another for its end. The sound made me

so proud every time I heard it, but it was also twinned with something

strangely melancholic.

But in time, I soon found those spiraling days coming to a close. The

only thing that remained is the silver glint of the metal, and the chill of its

surface. There was no joy when I held it now, only blood that sometimes

oozes when I grip it too tight. There wasn’t any sadness either. Maybe

there never had been. It’s just a simple sc.r.a.p of metal, nothing more. And

when I grew older still, even the glint of it—which once seemed so magical—disappeared.

It was then that it finally hit me: growing up is throwing away fantasy for

the cunning of survival. And for realizing that, I praised myself for my own

cleverness.

46 • KINOKO NASU

Prologue

This is the year when autumn went as fast as it came.

Having just entered the departing days of November, and with winter

already well underway, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department found

another strange tale adrift on its sh.o.r.es. To be fair, ghost stories and the

like were never out of season for the Crime Investigation Section, a trait it

lovingly shares with hospitals all over the city. It’s practically a year-round

campfire, huddling together in a dark corner of the human experiment to

share what new stories the city decided to churn out the murder mill.

Which is probably why when Detective Akimi, who is as natural a police

as they come, actually gets interested in a case of his own accord, it is a

case of some deserved curiosity. Akimi built his career on stone whodunits,

a man who loved the mystery. Combine this with him hearing gossip about

a very peculiar report, and you have him phoning the relevant stations for

the very same report in no time at all.

So far however, reading the plainly written report held little for him. It

told a story of a bizarrely failed burglary that took place in some residential

high-rise a small ways away from downtown in early October. The perp was

a joe with a previous record, an all too common caper: burgle the apartments

of people who’d just left it unlocked. Simple, old, but still effective.

The day of the incident, he stole into just such an apartment after staking

the place out and waiting for someone to leave, which was probably the

extent of his planning.

What came after was what made this report interesting. Apparently, the

same guy came running to the nearest police station yelling for help. The

on-duty officers eventually got a story out of his hysteria: that he saw the

dead bodies of the family that lived in the apartment he broke into. An

officer escorted him back to the apartment immediately, only to find that

the family he spoke of was indeed there. On the other hand, they weren’t

dead. Instead, they were in quite good health and in fact enjoying a family

dinner. This understandably disturbed the burglar, though the officer really

cared only about the fact that the man had exposed himself to breaking

and entering, and thus, took him into custody.

Leaning back on his squeaky pipe chair, Detective Akimi offers an incredulous

“What the f.u.c.k?” at the air, directed at no one. The suspect tested

negative for alcohol or drugs, and didn’t suffer from any glaring mental

health problems. Certainly a strange and curious report, but otherwise,

/ PROLOGUE • 47

there didn’t seem to be a case here, if it was worthy of even being called

one. Hardly a case to stand beside the current investigation that’s got half

the section in a rustle: four missing one after another, with no clue as to

their whereabouts, and four families that they needed to shut up while

they worked the case from an angle that benefitted from their silence.

Much like the serial killings three years ago, it’s resulted in many a sleepless

night for him, and he certainly didn’t need this case to add more.

Still, he could feel the hairs on his back rise when he read the report, a

feeling that he’d learned to trust as the instinct that something was there,

waiting to be discovered; maybe even a report that could be turned into a

case with legs to spit s.h.i.+ne the clearance rate.

“Worth a call, at least,” Akimi says as he picks up the receiver on his

desk phone and puts it to his ear. He dials the number of the station where

the report came from. Before long, an on-duty officer answers and Akimi

starts to inquire for details on the report. Did they check with the other

tenants for anything out of place? Did they find any inconsistency with the

suspect’s description of the family? But it becomes fruitless as the answers

fit his expectations, that they had indeed asked the neighbors, and no there

was nothing out of place, and that the description of the perp was spot-on

except with regards to the family’s state of being. With quick thanks, Akimi

puts the receiver back.

At that instant, a voice calls him from behind. “What are you on the

phone for, Daisuke? You need to get rolling. The second guy’s body’s just

been found, and you’re the primary on the case.”

“f.u.c.k it, another one? Don’t tell me it’s another partially eaten body.”

Akimi’s friend only responds with a curt nod, which is his cue to drop his

curiosity and get out of here. No one’s going to care about the report, but

it was all tumbleweeds when he read it anyway. And nothing takes priority

over this new serial murder case. With that, the report goes back into file

in a cabinet somewhere to be forgotten, even by Detective Akimi, the CIS’s

lover of mysteries.

48 • KINOKO NASU

Paradox Spiral - I

In the first few days of October, the streets already blow over with the

bitter cold.

Winds with fingers of ice grant gentle caresses to the lamp posts and

dumpsters. Usually, the city still looked alive at this hour, at 10 o’ clock in

the evening. But tonight is different. Tonight, scattered pools of light in the

streets, from display stores to the street lamps, only serve to accentuate

the little shadows and silhouettes playing across them. Winter is coming

early this year, and considering the temperature, it wouldn’t be at all out

of place to discover snow falling tonight. The silhouettes of people exiting

the train station, jackets worn and collars fluttering in the wind, lack all

the life they normally have. Like automatons, they walk at brisk paces to

their homes, not stopping for a look at a display window or a warm cup

of coffee. They hurry because they all want the warmth and familiarity of

their homes.

From the wave of people, to the heat that refuses to gather, and even

the shops whose lights seem just a little bit dimmer; the boy witnesses all

of it. He sits beside a vending machine situated in a little nook beside the

avenue, idly watching the people exiting the train station. Almost as if to

hide himself, he sits hugging his legs to his chest, and he cuts a pitifully

thin figure that makes it hard to determine his gender from afar. His hair,

arranged like a bundle of unkempt straw, is dyed red. He looks to be around

the age of sixteen or seventeen. His eyes are narrowed, yet they don’t seem

to be particularly interested in anything. He s.h.i.+vers under strange clothes:

dirty jeans and a blue jacket one or two sizes too big for him, with nothing

else to cover his top. It isn’t surprising to see him with teeth chattering.

He sits there for a long time, and just when the number of people exiting

the station begins to thin noticeably, he finds himself surrounded by a

number of other people.

“Yo, Tomoe,” says one of them, not even attempting to hide the scorn in

it. The red-haired boy doesn’t respond.

“Ah c’mon, Enjō, don’t be a d.i.c.k and ignore us,” he persists. Lifting the

boy by his jacket, he forces the boy from the ground. The boy saw all of

them now, five people surrounding him, stand at almost the same height

as he does, and it is easy to tell their ages are not so far apart. “What, just

‘cuz you stopped going to school, we strangers now?” The same person

continues. “Oh, now I get it. Our little Tomoe is a f.u.c.king grown up now, so

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 49

he don’t talk to kids like us anymore, eh?”

The rest of his companions all snicker in response. But when the noise

dies down, Tomoe continues to ignore them. Frustrated, the boy holding

Tomoe by the jacket lets it go with a grunt, only to bring his hand back up

in a fist, punching Tomoe in the face. He collapses back to the ground, and

he hears a distinct clinking sound of something metallic falling out of his

pocket.

“Hey, don’t even think about sleepin’, man.” More laughter. Hearing that

clinking sound seems to jolt Tomoe Enjō from whatever state of shock he

had been suffering up to now. He whispers his own name, like some sort

of resuscitative ritual, remembering who he was, why he was here. With

senses regained, he looks at the boys surrounding him, finally remembering

them as his cla.s.smates, former “friends.” Normal students who played

at being adult.

Preying on weak people like me, Tomoe thinks.

“Aikawa, right?” says Tomoe. “h.e.l.l you doing here at this hour?”

“Right back at you, man. We all been worried you be suckin’ d.i.c.k behind

the restaurants just to get by. I mean, seeing as you’re such a girl. Am I

right?” He gestures and looks over his shoulder toward his compatriots.

Because of his overly thin build, Tomoe has been called a girl in school

for as long as he can remember. He never paid any heed to it, and that is

largely how he reacts now. However, he does pick up the empty aluminum

can he had been drinking from some minutes ago.

“Hey, Aikawa,” Tomoe calls. Aikawa returns his attention to him.

“Wha—“

As soon as Tomoe sees that pimple-ridden face turn towards him, mouth

half open to speak, he thrusts the can violently into it, twisting the can as

deeply as he can inside Aikawa’s mouth. He quickly follows it up by slapping

the can as hard as he can muster. Now it is Aikawa’s turn to collapse.

Tomoe’s slap partially crushed the can, causing the surface to bend sharply

in places, and when Aikawa coughs it up on the ground, both the can and

his mouth are dripping with blood.

Aikawa’s companions are dumbstruck. They thought they would just

mess with their former cla.s.smate, maybe even take some of his money. It

never occurred to them that it would turn to violence.

“Still s.h.i.+t for brains, I see,” Tomoe remarks wryly. Then he kicks him

sharply and repeatedly in the head, almost like he wants to kill him, a stark

contrast to his seemingly uninterested demeanor earlier. Aikawa doesn’t

move an inch, though whether it’s because he’s unconscious or his neck

is broken, Tomoe doesn’t know. After a few quick kicks, Tomoe makes a

50 • KINOKO NASU

break for it, before Aikawa or his cronies can come to their senses. Thinking

the crowd will just slow him down, Tomoe turns instead towards one of

the side alleys where he can make good his escape in the sharp, confusing

turns. It’s only a second or two after he starts running that the group he left

behind start to process what just happened before them. He hears their

angry calls as they start after him.

“a.s.shole thinks he can just do this to us? Let’s kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h!”

says a voice echoing in the alleyways, whipping his companions into a

frenzy. Through the capillaries of the city, they chase Tomoe like live game,

baying for blood.

“Kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

I let the words bounce around in my head, and I laugh heartily to myself.

I heard the verve in their voice, heard how serious they were, and they

would probably follow through on it when they catch up to me. But they’re

faking it, as much as anyone else who says it jokingly. They don’t know

what happens to you after you do it for the first time. They don’t know

what killing someone does to a person. But see, I do.

I killed someone, just before I went to the train station. I remember

gripping the knife, and feeling the tenderness each time I stabbed. Just

thinking back on it makes me s.h.i.+ver and want to throw up. My teeth start

to chatter again, and my mind recoils on the memory with the force of a

hurricane. Those guys don’t understand how far it removes you, and that’s

why they can say they’ll “kill” as if they’re just going for a little walk.

Guess I’ll be the one to teach them, then. I focus my mind and allow my

laughter to recede into a little smile. I don’t consider myself a particularly

violent guy. I believe in an eye for an eye, but tonight’s the first time I’ve

ever busted someone up who just hit me. Disproportional response. It ain’t

like me, but I did it. Maybe because I actually liked the feeling of not holding

back.

I come to a narrow alley sandwiched between two buildings, far from

the main road and any curious eyes or ears. I stop here, right at the corner,

thinking it a prime spot for the act. Before long, they catch up, and things

happen in snapshots of time. One of them, ahead of the others, rounds

the corner of the alley, and I take a fraction of a second to confirm it’s who

I want it to be before I spring on him. The palm of my left hand shoots up

to connect with his jaw. I think fast. In an amateur fistfight, it often comes

down to endurance in an exchange of blows. I know I don’t have a hair’s

breadth of a chance winning like that, especially outnumbered, so if I’m

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 51

going to do this, I do it to kill them one by one, without hesitation, before

I’m surrounded.

The guy I just hit tries to return the favor, but before that happens, I

thrust a finger into his left eye. It feels kind of like slightly hard jell-o when

I twist my finger around.

His scream is enough to send a chill down anyone’s spine. Before he has

time to regain their composure, though, I grab the guy’s head and, putting

my whole body behind it, finish him off by slamming the head into the wall.

A dull thud as it makes impact with the concrete, and when I let go of him,

his body slides against the wall towards the ground, the back of his head

leaving a lazy blood trail on the wall and his left eye a dripping, b.l.o.o.d.y

mess. Still, he’s probably not dead from just that. I pull my eyes away from

him to meet the other four still coming, and if I’m lucky, they’ll be just that

little bit hesitant after they heard their friend screaming his guts out.

When the rest of them turn the corner, they are immediately taken

aback at the sight of their friend. Just as I thought, they are unprepared.

They’ve probably seen their share of accidentally spilled blood in street

fights, but they’ve never seen a body that looks like it’s bleeding its life out

on the asphalt. Wasting no time, I attack the nearest guy, slapping him, and

then grabbing him by the hair. I lower his head fast, then bring my knee

up to his kindly waiting face. A low crunching sound tells me that I may

have broken his nose. I give him three more kneeings for good measure,

then bring my elbow down at his skull. The impact is a painful shockwave

traversing my arm for a brief moment.

Two down. My knee is a dark red, soaked in the second man’s blood.

“Enjō, you motherf.u.c.ker!”

That last one finally pushes the rest of them over the edge. Without any

sense of reason or forethought, they jump into the brawl all at the same

time. That’s when I know I’m done. I can’t take on three guys at the same

time, and they prove me right.

They lash out punches and kicks, pus.h.i.+ng me back against the same wall

I slammed their friend against not moments ago until they force me to the

ground. I feel the knuckles digging into my cheeks, and I reel from every

kick that lands on my stomach. Nevertheless, they’re not fighting the same

way I did earlier. No ferocity. They’re not gonna kill me. They don’t want to.

And yet, if they keep this up, they will eventually kill me. They won’t know

that they’ll break bones, cause internal bleeding, and make it more difficult

for me to breathe. The fact that my death will be a slow slide into nothingness

instead of a quick and easy one grants me a measure of anguish.

See? Even if they don’t mean to, people still end up killing other people.

52 • KINOKO NASU

As the hits continue to land on my body, I wonder: Between people like

me who truly seek to kill, and people like them who will just commit an

unintentional homicide, who carries it heavier in the end?

My body is already covered in bruises, but the pain is becoming routine,

almost welcoming now. I’m sure that bunch are getting really into it in their

own way, too. It won’t be long before they start to enjoy it, and they won’t

be able to stop themselves.

“Now don’t we look cute with that face, Enjō?” says one of them. He

thrusts his foot keenly into my chest, and my violent coughing immediately

afterwards leaves the taste of blood in my mouth. I’m down for the count,

and I realize I have maybe a precious few seconds before they completely

beat the life out of me, the same life that I never valued as anything

above expendable. A fist hits my eye, and half my vision goes dark. At that

moment, I hear a faint sound. Then a beat of silence. Another beat. They

don’t seem to be moving.

The noise resounds again like a bell: the singular, clacking tone of wood.

With pained eyes I see the three guys, heads already turned towards the

sound emanating from the alley’s entrance. I train my vision to the same

direction even as the swelling in my eyes grow more painful as I move them.

My mind stops.

Silhouetted against the mouth of the alley is a person who clearly

doesn’t belong here. The clacking sound we’d all heard earlier comes from

the person’s wooden geta footwear; the dark finish, red strap, and oval

shape clear even from this distance. A woman’s geta. The clothing on the

figure is peculiar to say the least: a red leather jacket atop a dead plain

orange kimono.

The shadow advances, each step like a reverberating wooden bell. The

person’s movement is a hypnotic sway of clothes and carelessly cut inkblack

hair that invite surrender, and I almost forget myself. Wraithlike white

skin, and eyes of clear void. Surely not the usual everyday sight in a backlane

filled with scattered bottle shards and discarded syringes.

A woman…a girl. I almost can’t tell her gender, but somehow, I know

she’s a girl.

“Hey,” she calls out, continuing to venture deeper into the alley and

closer to us. The three who had surrounded me now break off to meet her.

It’s painfully obvious what they’re planning on doing to the girl.

“Ain’t nothing for you here, lady.” The trio flex their fingers for a new

round of violence, the excitement in their gait barely contained. They move

to surround the lone girl. Unable to move more than an inch, and with

my speech coming out as strained gasps of air, I can do nothing except to

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 53

curse them in my mind. I chose this place so as not to involve anyone else,

and yet here she is in defiance of all probability. And now, no doubt only

because she chose to turn the wrong alley for a shortcut home, she’ll be a

victim as well.

“I ain’t playing, girl!” one of the three shouts. “Don’t you got ears to

hear what I just said?”

The girl is silent again now, but in a flash, she extends a hand, using it

to grab the arm of one of the approaching boys. She pulls. Her posture

changes subtly to one that puts her entire weight behind the action, and

her purchase on the boy’s arm then forces him to the ground in one violent

motion. Watching it from where I lie, the entire thing seemed to go frameby-frame,

as if I was turning the handcrank on an old viewing machine.

The remaining two attempt to close in on the girl, and she immediately

strikes the closest one in the chest with her palm, causing him to crumple

like a ragdoll to the ground, unconscious. It amazes me that she knocks

them out of commission with such ease, all in the s.p.a.ce of about five or

so seconds, while I exerted so much effort to take out an equal number of

people. The last one must have realized this fact as well, since as soon as

the second man is down he starts to turn on his heels and run screaming.

She soon ends that with a swift roundhouse kick delivered straight to the

guy’s head, with barely the noise of rustling clothes to its credit. Like the

previous two, he is rendered unconscious.

“Ouch. Literally hard head on that last one,” she grumbles as she fixes

the creases on her kimono. I keep my eyes fixed on her, wondering if she’s

even going to talk to me. It’s strange but not altogether uncomforting that

I can still slightly distinguish her form in this isolated place, even in the

absence of light. “Hey, mister punching bag,” she calls out as she turns to

me. I try to speak but it only results in me coughing. She reaches inside

a pocket in her leather jacket and pulls a small object out, throwing it on

the ground within my reach. “Dropped it back there on the street. S’yours,

right?”

I turn my eyes sideways to look at it, and see a single, s.h.i.+ning key. It must

have fallen out of my pocket when the guys were roughing me up. My key

to a house that I’ve already tried to stop caring about. She must have come

here just to give it back to me.

She turns her back on me without a single word and starts to make her

way back out of the alley with all the airiness of her previous entrance: the

relaxed gait of a casual night stroll, leaving me lying on the ground to fend

for myself.

“Wai—,” the word comes half-formed out of my mouth, and I reach out

54 • KINOKO NASU

my hand towards her. Though I’m hesitant to call more attention than I

needed to from a girl who just took out three guys in the time it took me to

take out one, I couldn’t stand just being left here like a fake toy, lost among

the refuse of the city.

“Wait.” The word comes out, though in a weak breath. I try to redouble

the strength in my voice and shout. “Just wait, for crying out loud!”

I try to stand, and every bone in my body throbs with pain from the

attempt. I end up having to support my half-standing posture with a hand

on the wall, itself aching from having to exert pressure. At least my noisemaking

manages to stop the girl, who now directs her cold gaze in my

direction.

“What now?” she says, her voice still as calm as before. “Look, if you

dropped anything else, good luck finding it.”

“Are you just going to leave these dudes here?” I manage to protest in

between bouts of labored breathing. The girl in the kimono takes in the

scene around her, casting her eyes downwards almost as if it’s her first

time looking at it. Her sight lingers on the two persons who I took care of

in my haphazard, improvised fas.h.i.+on, then finally looks back at me with

upturned eyes and a curious sigh.

“You don’t have to worry about them. That one,” she says, motioning

her head towards the first of the two, “will probably get an eyepatch and

be doomed to do pirate impressions for the rest of his life. The other will

have trouble breathing with his nose for a while. But no one’s dead. I’d be

much more worried about what the first guy who wakes up will do to you.

And yet, here you are, implying that we should get them some help?”

“I…guess?” I respond.

“Well see, that puts us in a pickle. Who do we call, hmm? The police? An

ambulance, maybe?” Her eyes narrow with each sentence that prods me. I

wasn’t thinking about calling the police. Maybe the hospital. But they’d ask

questions. If I mentioned self-defense…maybe the police would be faster,

but—

“Five-oh are out of the question.”

“And why is that?” she asks, but it feels like she already knows the

answer. Her eyes continue to bore into me. There’s no use in hiding it

anymore. She’s got me, and if I tried to hide it, she’ll just ask more questions.

And so I say it.

“Because…I’m a murderer.” As I say it out loud, as much to myself as to

her, time seems to stop and all things grow silent. Far from my expectation

of her being shocked, however, she only walks toward me. Her eyes scan

me up and down.

/ PARADOX SPIRAL - I • 55

“Well, you don’t look like one.” She looks me over, an eyebrow c.o.c.ked

and a hand on chin and lip paused in pensive observation. Overtaken by

the moment, and feeling quite shocked by her doubt, I feel compelled to

explain.

“It’s true! It weren’t a few hours ago, I swear. I took a kitchen knife and

stabbed her over and over in the stomach until everything was all wet

and mushy, then I cut off her head. You can’t tell me she ain’t dead after

that!” I start to snicker in spite of myself. “The five-oh are all probably in

my house wondering where the f.u.c.k I’ve gone, all scratching their heads

‘cause of another late night job. Just you wait, I’ll be all over the morning

news tomorrow!”

It took me a while to notice that I was making a sort of strange laugh

after I said that, the kind of noise that lies somewhere in that ambiguous

s.p.a.ce between laughter and sobbing. The kimono-clad girl gives me time

to calm myself down before talking again.

“Right,” she says, unsurprised. “Well, cool, I guess. You’ve convinced me.

Let’s put off contacting anyone unless you want your mornings to have

significantly more iron bars than usual. Guess that explains why you’re

s.h.i.+rtless. I thought that was what all the cool kids run with these days.”

Her cold fingers brush over my chest with a light, almost curious touch.

“Hey,” I say, but with little force behind it. She was right. I dumped my

s.h.i.+rt since it was covered in so much blood I’d get noticed easily. I just

grabbed my jacket to compensate as I ran out of the house. “Ain’t you even

gonna say something about me? I really did kill someone. You think I’m just

gonna let you go, knowing what you know? Ain’t no difference between

killing one person or two.”

That seems to grab her attention. She brings her face closer to mine,

eyes half-closed in disappointment. “Yes,” she sighs. “There is.”

“There is what?”

“A difference.”

Her presence is almost overpowering, even though I stand a head higher

than her and she’s the one looking up at me. Her empty eyes never stop

staring at me, and I gulp involuntarily. I’ve never seen anything like them

before. The black irises are a tempting well that threatens to drown you

endlessly. In my seventeen years, I’ve thought people can be many things:

cruel, deceptive. But never beautiful. So overwhelmingly beautiful that I

almost forget myself.

“I’m…a murderer,” I declare again. I feel that there is nothing more to

say. The girl casts her bewitching glance away from me and lowers her

head.

56 • KINOKO NASU

“I know. I’m one of those, too.” She doesn’t explain further. There is no

need to. She turns on her heels, and with the wind ruffling her clothes and

the sound of her geta on the asphalt she starts to leave. I didn’t want her

to disappear. Not tonight.

“Wait!” I run to catch up to her, but with my injuries still getting the

better of me, I fall to the ground. I stand up again, and look straight at the

girl, unwavering. “If we really are the same breed of person, then help me,”

I yell with such uncharacteristically reckless abandon, casting away reason

and shame. The girl’s eyes open in surprise.

“Same breed? Well, I certainly know what it feels like to have that empty

s.p.a.ce in your chest. But what do you expect me to help you with? The

crime of your murder, or taking care of your wounds? Either way, I can’t do

anything for you.”

“Sooner or later, someone will spot us here. Maybe you could hide me.”

She ponders the suggestion with a scratch of her head and annoyed

grumbling, probably the most human thing she’s done so far.

“Are you saying I should help you go find some place where you can hole

up?”

“Yeah, someplace no one would think to try and find me.”

“It isn’t like there aren’t eyes all over this city, man. The only place you’re

really ever likely to find any privacy is your own home,” she says, making a

perplexed expression.

“Aren’t you f.u.c.king listening?” I inadvertently shout. “I’m asking you