The Sword of Kuromori. Jason Rohan

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      The furry creature slithered from the bike and waddled after the rider. Kenny climbed off the seat, winced, and squatted to loosen the stiffness in his legs and the numbness in his backside. With both hands on his lower back, he flexed his hips. Feeling something tugging at his leg, he looked down to see the small animal impatiently pointing towards the house.

      ‘OK, I get the idea. Let’s go see what this is all about,’ Kenny said, and he followed the creature through the open front door.

      The hallway inside was softly lit by recessed lighting. The walls were papered in sage green and on one hung a scroll with large Chinese characters written upon it. There was no sign of the biker, but a huge Japanese man stood in the entrance, holding out a pair of white slippers in his plate-sized hands.

      Looking down, Kenny saw that he was standing in a kind of shallow pit. The biker had left his boots there, neatly placed side by side, the toes pointing to the door. Small feet, Kenny thought, before he shrugged, kicked off his trainers and took the slippers from the giant of a man.

      ‘Thank you,’ Kenny said. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what –’

      The big man turned and gestured for Kenny to follow.

      ‘I guess not,’ Kenny finished. He pulled on the slippers, stepped up on to the wooden floor and followed the huge servant into the house.

      His guide led him to a screen door and slid it open. Beyond was a spacious room furnished only with a low table and a cushion on the floor in front of it. The man ushered Kenny inside and then left him.

      The first thing Kenny did was take out his phone. He was about to call his father when he noticed that the signal reading was again at zero. How can there be no signal in the middle of Tokyo? he thought, scowling at the screen. For a smartphone, this thing’s pretty stupid.

      He plonked himself down on the edge of the table and rubbed his burning eyes. This was not exactly the welcome to Japan he’d been expecting. After a long flight, all he wanted was a hot shower, a proper meal and maybe even a chat with his dad. Instead, he’d been arrested, interrogated, confronted by a horned monster, caught up in a high-speed car chase, almost killed and now kidnapped by a maniac ninja. And that was just in the past two hours.

      His fingers idly danced over the touchscreen, calling up images of home – his new home in Oregon and his real home, back in London. It was funny; even after seven years in America, he still thought of England as home. His room-mate Chad would tease him about this, both for his accent and his manners. ‘Stop living in the past, Kenneth old bean,’ he would say. ‘Let it go, dude. Today is a gift, that’s why it’s called the present.’

      Kenny stopped when an old photo filled the screen. He hadn’t been thinking about it; it was just that he always seemed to find this picture when he was feeling low, which was every other day lately.

      A five-year-old Kenny grinned back at him, a squidge of pink tongue poking out through the gap in his bottom teeth. Kneeling beside him, with a protective arm around his waist, was his mother, Sarah. She was still beautiful, despite the hollowed-out cheeks and missing eyebrows brought on by all the radiotherapy she’d been having at the time. His father, standing behind, was cropped from the photo, left only as a pair of trouser legs.

      The door slid open again and the big man came in, holding a lacquered tray. With surprising grace, he set the tray on the table and withdrew once more.

      Kenny hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the tempting smell of fried food drifted towards him. He jumped on the cushion and knelt to inspect the meal. On the tray, carefully arranged, was a bewildering variety of small plates, bowls and dishes. Some were round, some oval, some hexagonal; some were plain, others floral; a few were striped. Inside each was a tiny portion – no more than a single bite – of a different food. Kenny recognised something fried in batter, but that was all he could make out. In one bowl was a clear soup with some leaves swimming in it and a thick layer of sediment on the bottom. Another held what looked like an omelette squashed into a cube. On a plate was something resembling a pink and white eraser. A leaf folded into a samosa-like triangle sat beside a bowl of sticky, slimy blobs.

      Kenny’s appetite wavered, but he finally settled on a deep-fried battered prawn. It was delicious – firm, sweet and crispy – and he could easily have devoured a dozen more, but there was only the one. He sipped a steaming, bitter-tasting, dirt-coloured drink in a cup and sat back to wonder where he was and what was happening to him.

      His thoughts were interrupted by a scratching sound at the door. Cautiously, Kenny opened it a crack to peep out. A furry paw inserted itself into the gap and slid the door open wide enough for a fat little body to squeeze through. The now familiar creature waddled over to the tray, picked up a pair of chopsticks and began to tuck in.

      ‘You have got to be kidding,’ Kenny said to the animal. ‘Of all the weird stuff I’ve seen today . . . Did someone train you to do that?’

      He sat and watched, amazed at the easy manner in which the creature transferred food from plate to mouth. When it had finished, it belched loudly and pushed the tray away.

      The door slid open again and the huge man motioned for Kenny to follow him. He led the way down a short passage and knelt before another sliding door, which he opened. Kenny went inside and stopped dead in his tracks.

      The far wall opposite was a bank of flat television screens, easily ten deep and twenty across. Each was tuned to a different channel and Kenny could see international news bulletins, stock-market updates, documentaries, quiz shows and sporting events among the competing images.

      Standing in front of the screens, with hands clasped behind his back, and his shape silhouetted by the ever-changing light, was a Japanese man wearing a white suit. He watched the chaotic medley of programmes for a few more minutes before abruptly snapping his fingers. All of the pictures went dark at once and a large screen slid into position to cover the televisions completely.

      The man turned towards Kenny and nodded once to acknowledge him. ‘Kuromori-san,’ he said, ‘welcome to my humble home.’

      For a moment, Kenny wondered who the man was addressing. He looked around, but he was on his own. ‘Um, my name is Kenny . . . sir. Kenny Blackwood. I live in Portland, Oregon –’

      ‘Please, sit.’ The man gestured towards an elegant mahogany table with high-backed chairs. ‘I apologise for the . . . unpleasantness of your arrival to our shores. I had hoped to meet you under more hospitable circumstances, but events overtook me. I am Harashima.’

      ‘I need to call my dad,’ Kenny said, taking out his phone.

      ‘In 1942, your grandfather, Lawrence Blackwood, was recruited into British Intelligence because of his skills in the Japanese language.’

      ‘Say what?’ Kenny’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the second person to mention my grandad since . . . And that Sato guy called him a thief. And did you just say “British Intelligence”? Are you saying . . . he was a spy?’

      ‘No, his role was translation and code-breaking, to begin with. In 1945, at the request of the United States government, your grandfather came to Japan to assist the Americans during the period of Occupation.’ Harashima spat the last word as if it stung his mouth. ‘This was a time of terrible suffering in Japan and many people were forced to sell family treasures to survive. Some of these treasures were more . . . significant than they seemed.’

      ‘Uh, СКАЧАТЬ