First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2014 Jason Rohan

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2016

ISBN 978 1 4052 7060 1

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1457 0

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

For Christine, the treasure I went to Japan to find.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

Glossary

Back series promotional page

Kenny’s fingers dug into the armrests of the aeroplane seat so tightly that his knuckles ached. The first time he had flown in a plane it had been an exciting adventure. Now, though, it was more of a chore.

The 747 lurched again and he felt his stomach float upwards before his weight settled back into the seat. It was like being on a slowed-down roller coaster, only a lot less fun.

Relax, Kenny told himself, it’s safer than driving. Try not to think about being strapped into a pressurised metal tube that weighs a thousand tonnes, is eleven kilometres above the ground and travelling at a thousand kilometres an hour. All perfectly safe.

The airline steward, whose name badge read Daniel Mayer, rested on one knee in the aisle beside him and patted the boy’s tensed arm. ‘Nervous about flying?’ he asked, with a practised smile.

Kenny shook his head, which wasn’t easy with a stiffened neck. ‘No,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Only about crashing. Why is it there’s only turbulence when you serve food? Is that deliberate, to spill everyone’s drinks?’

Dan smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve flown this Seattle–Tokyo route a hundred times and I’m still here. Besides, we’ll be there soon.’ His eyes flicked to the empty seat beside Kenny. ‘You travelling alone?’

Kenny nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m meeting my dad. He works out there. I’m staying for the summer.’

‘You don’t sound too happy about it.’

Kenny shrugged. ‘Well . . . it’s complicated.’

Dan patted Kenny’s arm again and rose to his feet. ‘Is this your first time in Japan?’

The boy nodded.

‘You’re going to love it. It’s an amazing place. Super high-tech on the one hand and super traditional on the other.’

‘Kenny Blackwood?’ said a female voice.

Kenny and the steward both looked up to see a Japanese flight attendant standing in the aisle, an envelope in her white-gloved hands. Her badge said Naoko Iwamoto.

‘Seat 57C? Kenny Blackwood? Is that you?’ she said again.

Kenny nodded.

‘I was asked to give you this, before we land,’ Naoko said and handed him the envelope.

Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘Since when do we play mailman?’ he muttered.

Naoko smiled at him and moved on.

Kenny turned the envelope over in his hands; it was blank, sealed, but he could feel the edges of a folded sheet of paper inside and a small cylindrical object, about the size and shape of a lipstick.

Weird, he thought. Who’d be sending me a letter on a plane? More to the point, who would even know where to find me?

He slit open the envelope using the plastic knife from his meal tray and took out a single typed page, which he began to read:

To my dearest grandson, Kenneth,

Yes, I know you hate being called ‘Kenneth’ but it could have been worse – your grandmother wanted to name you ‘Aloysius’.

If all is well, you will be reading this upon an aero plane high above the Pacific Ocean, making your final approach to Japan, where I have arranged for you to spend the summer with your father.

I remember what it was like for me, travelling alone to a strange and unfamiliar place, but, once I adjusted to the local customs, I found it a place of magical wonder. I suspect that you too may be embarking on a similar journey of self-discovery.

If I have any advice for you, it is this: believe in yourself; trust your feelings; do what is right, especially when it is most difficult; and always carry a cucumber near fresh water.

With all my love,

Your grandfather, Lawrence

Kenny scowled at the paper. His grandfather was in his nineties, a former Professor of Oriental Studies, now retired and living in Buckinghamshire. He was also famously eccentric, but this was bizarre, by anyone’s standards.

After turning the paper over, Kenny looked in the envelope again. Inside was a small square of translucent paper, about the size of a large postage stamp, and a small wooden whistle.

He took the paper out first and held it up to the overhead light. Some more writing was on it, which read:

Make a copy of the letter. Use the whistle only in emergencies. Now eat this note.

Kenny had to smile. His grandfather had always been fond of mysteries, puzzles and codes. In fact, the previous summer, he had insisted Kenny fly out from the States to join him on an elaborate treasure hunt.

This was obviously another sophisticated game he was playing. Kenny shrugged to himself, picked up his phone and took a photograph of the letter. He then nibbled one end of the pearly paper. It dissolved on his tongue like a wafer. Rice paper, he thought, before popping the rest into his mouth.

That left the whistle. It was a short length of bamboo, with a slot to blow through, a square opening on the top and a drilled hole at the end. Underneath was a carving:

Kenny poked his nose up over the headrest to check that no one was looking and then gave a gentle blow on the pipe. Pfft. No sound came out. Kenny tried again, this time blowing harder. Pffftt. As before, all he could hear was his own breath rushing through the tube. Thinking it must be a trick, he gave it one final blow, with all the force his lungs could muster. Pfffff–

He stopped, mid-puff, as a furious knocking came from the overhead storage compartment. Kenny froze, the whistle to his lips, and listened. The knocking stopped, to be replaced by a scratching noise from the same place. That is totally freaky. He felt goosebumps rising on his arms as he sat there, unsure of what to do.

The cabin address system pinged, making Kenny jump, and the purser said, ‘We are now commencing our final approach to Narita International Airport.’

As passengers took this cue to move around, making last visits to the bathroom, stowing bags in the overhead bins and under seats, stretching and yawning, Kenny stood and stared at the door to the locker above his seat. He wanted to open it, to look inside, but he was afraid of what he might find. Instead, he rapped twice on the door. Instantly, a tap-tap came in reply. He took a deep breath, opened the door slightly and peered in.

Staring back at him were two round, liquid eyes. Kenny yelled in surprise and fell backwards, landing on an extremely large lady who was munching on a packet of peanuts.

‘Watch what you’re doing!’ the woman said, as peanuts sprayed across the cabin.

‘I’m very sorry, ma’am,’ Kenny mumbled, backing away from her, but keeping his distance from the half-opened locker.

Dan, the steward, reappeared. ‘Can I help anyone?’ he said.

Kenny pointed at the overhead bin. ‘There’s a . . . There’s a . . . thing, in there,’ he said.

‘A thing? What sort of thing? Has something happened to your bag?’

‘No, some kind of . . . animal,’ Kenny said, his voice small.

‘Isn’t it a bit late for pranks? Listen, I know you’ve had a long flight, but we’re almost there now and you’ll soon be off the plane,’ Dan said.

‘I’m telling the truth,’ Kenny said, his voice shaking. ‘There’s an animal in there. Really. I saw it.’

‘Animals aren’t allowed on flights,’ the peanut lady said. ‘Everyone knows that. I’ve never heard such garbage in my life.’

‘OK, OK,’ Dan said, reaching up for the handle. ‘Let’s have a look in here and see what all the fuss is about.’

Kenny stood behind the steward, peering round him. The door swung upwards and there, sprawled in the wide bay, leaning against Kenny’s backpack with legs crossed, was a fat, furry animal, about the size of a badger. Its face was foxlike, with a long narrow nose, and its thick hair was reddish-brown. Its legs were black and the dark fur ran up its chest and around the snout to circle the eyes.

‘There,’ Dan said, ‘nothing in there, just your bag.’

Kenny’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you . . .? But-but can’t you see . . .?’

The creature, whatever it was, waved a paw at Kenny and placed a finger over its pursed lips. It then yawned and farted. Kenny stared before whipping his head round to see his fellow passengers all watching him.

‘Does . . . does anyone else . . . see that ?’ he asked, struggling to form the words and pointing at the furry creature.

‘Kid, there’s nothing in there,’ said the peanut lady, measuring each word.

‘Poor thing, he must be really tired if he’s hallucinating,’ someone said.

‘Probably on drugs,’ another voice added. ‘Kids these days, eh?’

‘Oh, come on. Is this some kind of joke?’ Kenny said, his voice rising and eyes searching face after face. ‘Are you really all telling me that you can’t see that . . . thing in there?’

Rows of blank faces answered Kenny’s question before the passengers lost interest and returned to their pre-landing activities.

‘Look, young man, I think it’s time you returned to your seat and got ready for landing,’ Dan said, his voice gentle but firm. ‘You’ve had your fun, but now the joke’s getting a bit old, OK?’

Kenny nodded, numbly, and took one last look at the furry creature snuggling against his backpack. It blew him a kiss before Dan closed the door on it. He slumped back into his seat, his head spinning, and fastened his seat belt.

Naoko, the Japanese attendant, came along the aisle. She reached over to take his rubbish and said quietly, ‘That thing you saw. Was it large and hairy, with black eyes like a raccoon?’

Kenny nodded. ‘Yeah, how did you . . .?’

Naoko smiled. ‘I didn’t see it, either.’ She winked at him.

Kenny slumped back in his seat, his arms crossed, and ignored the curious looks directed his way. This was not what he was expecting at all. It was bad enough that his grandfather had sent him to Japan of all places, but to spend the next twelve weeks with his dad was worse. And now, to top it all, some weird animal was stalking him.

He closed his eyes, picturing his room back in the Oregon International School. His room-mate Chad would be home by now in Boston. He would be off soon to Namibia for a safari with his family. Kenny sighed. How nice it must be to have a family.

The remainder of the flight passed uneventfully and when Kenny went to collect his backpack from the overhead storage, the animal, whatever it was, had gone; he must have imagined it after all.

He made his way down the walkway into the spacious, ultra-modern terminal building and on towards immigration control. He was feeling much happier to be back on solid ground. His good mood, however, was not to last.

When his turn came, the uniformed immigration officer beckoned Kenny forward and he handed over his passport and landing card. The official swiped the claret-coloured passport through the biometric scanner, stopped, examined the computer screen intently and then swiped the document again. He waved for his supervisor and the two men spoke briefly. Kenny shifted his weight and thrust his hands into his pockets.

The supervisor inspected the passport photo and compared it to Kenny’s face.

‘What is your name, please?’ the officer said.

‘It’s Kenny, sir. Kenneth Blackwood.’

‘How old are you?’

‘I’m fifteen.’

‘You are travelling alone?’

Kenny nodded, wondering where the questions were leading.

The official tapped a finger on the landing card. ‘You have British passport, but this address is in America. Is that right?’

‘Yes. I was born in England, but I moved to the States when I was eight. My mum was American, so I have dual nationality. Is that a problem?’

‘This address is not a house,’ the officer said, reading the card.

Kenny sighed. ‘No, it’s a boarding school. It’s where I live.’

The official raised an eyebrow. ‘Boarding school? Like Harry Po–’

‘No. Nothing like him. He loves his school.’

The senior officer studied Kenny, as if seeking the source of the boy’s sudden anger. ‘What is the purpose of your visit to Japan?’ he asked.

‘My dad’s a professor at Tokyo University. I’m spending the summer with him.’

The officer nodded at each answer. ‘I’m afraid we have more questions for you,’ he said. ‘Please, come with me.’

‘Is this going to take long?’ Kenny couldn’t help saying. ‘It’s just that my dad’s waiting for me and –’

‘Come. Please.’

The officials ushered Kenny past his gawking fellow passengers, including the peanut lady.

‘See? I knew he was on drugs,’ she said smugly.

Kenny followed the officials to a small office.

‘Please, sit,’ the senior official said, gesturing towards one of two hard chairs.

Kenny sat and drummed his fingers on the table while the two men departed. The door opened and another man entered. He wore a dark suit, sunglasses and his raven hair was slicked back.

‘Mr Blackwood,’ the newcomer said, extending his hand to shake. ‘My name is Sato.’ He slid a business card across the table and sat opposite Kenny. ‘I am here to help you. You can trust me.’

‘My counsellor says I have trust issues.’ Kenny chewed his lip. ‘What’s this all about, Mr Sato? I thought I didn’t need a visa to visit Japan.’

‘You are Ken Blackwood, yes? Son of Charles Blackwood and grandson of Lawrence Blackwood?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Kenny said, unable to hide his surprise. ‘How do you . . .?’

‘Your grandfather is a great man. A hero to some Japanese people. Did you know that?’

Kenny blinked. ‘Uh, no, sir. Not really.’

Sato leaned back and steepled his fingers. ‘I am not sure how much of this I should tell you, if any, but I shall try to help you and you will help me, yes?’

From the corner of his eye, Kenny glimpsed a huge shadow looming over the frosted-glass door.

‘Your ojiisan, your grandfather, came to Japan after World War Two, yes?’

Kenny’s eyes flicked back to Sato. ‘He did tell me that, yeah.’

‘And he told you he was here to help the Japanese people recover, after the war?’

‘Something like that.’

Sato smiled. ‘Your grandfather, I’m sorry to say, was a liar, as well as a thief.’

Before Kenny could respond, there was a light knock at the door.

‘Enter,’ Sato said.

The door swung open and in came another official, followed by an enormous figure, who had to stoop to enter the office. Although the thing was wearing a tailored suit, it was easily three metres tall and heavily muscled. This was alarming in itself, but what really troubled Kenny was the brick-red skin, the tusks growing up from the lower jaw and the two horns on its head. He jumped up, grabbed his chair to wield as a weapon and cowered against the wall.

‘Taro! Ike !’ barked Sato, pointing to the door. The ogre-like creature bowed and hurried out.

‘Mr Blackwood, please be seated. You are safe,’ Sato said, coming over to help Kenny to his feet.

‘What . . . was that . . . thing?’ Kenny asked, his voice hoarse and shaky.

‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘Oh, not again! Don’t tell me you didn’t see it.’ Kenny’s heart was still thumping against his ribs.

Sato tapped his sunglasses. ‘No, I saw it. I just want to be sure you saw the same thing.’

‘What, that big red horned thing? Like a cross between Shrek and Hellboy.’

Sato arched an eyebrow. ‘So, you have the Gift of Sight? Interesting. I thought gaijin cannot see oni.’

‘Oni ? Is that what it’s called?’

‘I call him Taro, but yes, he is oni.’

‘And what’s a guy-jean?’

‘You. An outsider, a foreigner.’ Sato sat down again. ‘Mr Blackwood, what you have just seen is something that most people never see. You have looked behind the curtain and peeped at the hidden world beyond.’

Kenny rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You do not have to. Your grandfather has sent you here to finish his work. Of that, I am sure. I am here to help you.’

‘Finish his work? What work? I’m just here to see my dad. Can’t I just go now?’

‘Empty your pockets, please. Do you have anything from your grandfather? Anything at all?’

‘Wait. You brought that oni thing in here. Why?’

‘Call it a test. The fact that you can see Taro tells me everything I need to know. Now, empty your pockets, please.’

‘And what if I don’t?’

‘Then Taro will empty them for you.’ Sato inspected his manicured fingernails. ‘I can wait.’

Muttering under his breath, Kenny placed the contents of his pockets on to the table: a set of keys attached to a Newcastle United key ring, some loose change, a half-empty packet of chewing gum, his phone, a pack of trading cards secured with a rubber band, and the wooden whistle.

‘Is that everything?’ Sato asked, rising to his feet again.

Kenny nodded and then stiffened as Sato approached him. Something about the man set Kenny’s teeth on edge, something not quite right, but he couldn’t decide what.

‘Stand up, raise your arms,’ Sato said and patted Kenny down. Paper rustled as his hand pressed against the boy’s ribcage. Sato reached into Kenny’s jacket and removed the envelope from the aeroplane. ‘Something you forgot?’ he said, taking out the letter, his eyes skimming over the writing.

‘Hey!’ Kenny protested. ‘That’s private. You can’t read other people’s –’

Sato’s free hand drew a shape in the air and Kenny’s voice vanished as suddenly as if an off button had been pressed. Bewildered, Kenny continued to protest; his mouth moved, he felt air pass over his vocal cords, but no sound came out. He tried screaming, but he was like a character in a silent movie.

Sato read the letter a third time and then addressed Kenny, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘This is a strange letter. Not very informative. I am going to make a copy of it. Please stay here, for your own safety. Do not try to leave as Taro will be guarding the door.’ He smiled, without warmth. ‘You can shout for help if you want.’

Sato tossed the envelope on to the table and left the room. The hulking shadow of the oni moved in front of the door.

Kenny’s mind was racing. None of this made any sense. Barely twelve hours ago, he was a kid looking forward to a trip to the Far East. Now he was stuck in some kind of waking nightmare, complete with monsters that most people couldn’t see.

He reached for his phone and swore silently when he saw that there was no signal. Slipping it back into his pocket, he gathered up the rest of his belongings. The last item he picked up was the envelope and, when he did, something rolled out from underneath it: the whistle.

What was it that Grandad had said? Use the whistle only in emergencies. Ridiculous, but then again, if this wasn’t an emergency, what was?

Kenny blew on the whistle as hard as he could. As before, no sound came out. He was about to blow again when he heard a scuffling sound overhead. He looked up and saw the corner of a ceiling tile lift up. A snout poked through, followed by two sparkling eyes.

Kenny took an involuntary step back at the sight of the fat, furry creature from the aeroplane. It was real and it was watching him. Kenny stared as it lowered its hindquarters through the gap, dangled by its arms and then plopped awkwardly on to the table. It stood up on its back legs and reached its arms out, as if asking for a hug.

Not knowing what else to do, Kenny picked it up. The creature’s quick paws loosened four buttons on his shirt and it slithered under his clothing.

‘Hey!’ Kenny mouthed silently. He was about to wrestle the thing loose when it shifted and seemed to melt, flowing round his abdomen and flattening out like a pancake. In seconds, it was wrapped round Kenny in a wide furry band. Hearing footsteps approaching, he quickly redid the buttons, just as Taro stepped aside and Sato came back in.

‘There has been a change of plan,’ Sato said. ‘You are now under arrest and will be taken to Tokyo for further questioning.’

‘But I haven’t done anything!’ Kenny tried to yell, his lips shaping the silent words.

Two policemen entered the room and, moments later, Kenny found himself being escorted through the terminal, handcuffed to an officer.

They stopped outside Narita Airport Terminal One, where two police cars and a pair of motorcycle cops were waiting. Sato climbed into the first car and Kenny was bundled into the second. Sirens wailing, the cars pulled out and headed towards Tokyo, the city lights glittering in the distance.

Kenny looked back at the receding terminal. His father would be in there, waiting for him, not knowing what had happened. This was crazy. He’d only just arrived and already he was Public Enemy Number One. There had to be a simple explanation for this. There had to be.

The police convoy pulled out on to the short connecting highway which led away from the airport, before joining the six-lane Higashi-Kanto Expressway. Low humpbacked hills slunk in the distance and the setting sun seared the sky a hot neon-pink.

Kenny stared out of the window, his mind a whirl. He knew his grandfather had once lived and worked in Japan, but that was over half a century ago. How could anything that had happened then be affecting his grandson now? What did Sato mean when he had said that Grandad had sent Kenny to finish his work? And what had happened to his voice? How could Sato just turn off someone’s speech?

Kenny was reminded of the animal hiding under his shirt as it shifted its grip, digging its claws into his ribs and making him wince.

The driver muttered something in a low warning tone and the police officer handcuffed to Kenny whirled round in his seat to examine the view from the back window. Sensing something was wrong, Kenny looked back too.

‘Honto, da!’ the police officer said, pointing.

Kenny watched, seeing nothing unusual, until a black object swung out from behind a heavy truck and sped towards the police car. It was a motorcycle, black, shiny and sleek, moving so fast that it had shot silently past them on the inside lane before Kenny had registered it. Pressing himself against the window, Kenny watched as the motorbike swept past Sato’s car and hurtled towards the two police motorcycles in front.

The driver snatched up his police radio and started speaking quickly into it. The police officer beside Kenny leaned forward, nose twitching, and pressed against the front seat in his eagerness to see what was happening.

The motorcyclist was clad in black leathers and was wearing a helmet with a mirrored visor. He slowed momentarily as he passed the police riders and then sped out in front of them again. Reaching into a side pannier, he took out a handful of small objects and scattered them on the road behind him.

There was a bang, then another, and Kenny realised the sound was tyres blowing out on one of the police motorcycles. It flipped on to its nose and somersaulted across the road. The other motorbike swerved to avoid it. Sato’s car, close behind, braked hard and skidded as the stricken bike slewed towards it in a cascade of sparks.

The driver of Kenny’s car cried out and wrenched the steering wheel as Sato’s car loomed instantly larger before them. The nose of the police car veered to the left and clipped the back of the squad car in front, shattering the brake lights, but the swerve brought it straight on a collision course with the wreck of the police motorcycle.

Kenny barely had time to grab the seat in front before the car hit the motorbike with a bone-jarring crunch, the front wheels lifting and the underside of the vehicle screeching over the mangled remains. With a jolt, the car scraped over the bike and its four wheels hit asphalt again.

Cars behind slammed on their brakes and, looking back, Kenny saw bits of broken metal and glass glinting across the highway, rapidly fading into the distance. In front, Sato’s car sped up to catch the motorbikes. Kenny’s driver floored the accelerator too, shouting into his radio mike while he did so.

The remaining police motorcycle raced after the rider in black, weaving in and out of cars and trucks. Kenny craned his neck to follow the chase. The black motorbike slowed and waited for the police bike to draw alongside. The rider then jumped up, keeping both hands on the handlebars, and lashed out with an outstretched boot, catching the police rider on his helmet. His balance thrown off, the bike slipped from underneath the officer, and both vehicle and rider clattered to the hard shoulder.

Sato, riding in the car in front, sprang into action. He punched open the glove compartment and snatched up a short stubby sub-machine gun. He smashed the passenger window with the stock and, wrapping his hand round the seat belt as an anchor, he sat up on the side. He levelled the gun and fired off several short sharp bursts at the black motorcycle in front.

The black rider saw the tarmac explode into a bouquet of tiny craters around him and swung in front of an eighteen-wheeler truck for cover. Kenny watched in growing disbelief as Sato urged the police car forward, to overtake the truck, and fired off several more rounds of bullets in the direction of the black bike. The rider pressed himself flat against the motorcycle, squeezed the brakes and jerked the handlebars. The bike swooped close to the ground and slipped under the moving truck and out the other side.

Sato’s car slowed down, waited for the truck to roar past and once again accelerated to catch up with the rider in black. The motorcycle swung out to the right; the rider reached for something on his back and then slammed on his brakes.

Kenny saw a long black smear of fishtailing tyres, a puff of rubber dust and the flash of a sword as the police car zoomed past the motorbike. The barrel of Sato’s gun fell in two and the rider thrust the curved blade back into the scabbard on his back before picking up speed once more.

Sato, still perched on the car door, drew something in the air with his free hand. The motorcycle swerved and swung from side to side, as if dodging unseen obstacles. Sato then drew a larger pattern and a huge wall of flame, some six metres high, erupted across the width of the road. The motorcyclist gunned the engine and shot through the flames, unharmed.

Kenny’s driver yelled and stamped on the brake. Nothing happened. He pumped his foot again as they advanced towards the wall of fire. Kenny threw an arm over his eyes and screamed silently. The police officer handcuffed at his side prodded him and giggled in relief which made Kenny look up. The flames had completely vanished and they were still speeding after Sato’s car and the mysterious rider in black.

Sato reached up again to draw in the air, but a flash of metal landed on his outstretched arm: a grappling hook, attached to a thin line – and the other end was in the firm grip of the black rider. Standing up on the footrests, the rider pulled with all his strength. Sato just had time to scream before he was yanked out of the speeding police car and bounced along the road.

The rider let go of the line, looked back once and then raced to catch up with the police car. Kenny saw Sato rise to his feet, unhurt, and throw his tattered jacket on the ground in disgust.

The driver again stamped on the brake pedal, but it was loose. He looked at Kenny in the rear-view mirror and shrugged apologetically. ‘Dameh da,’ he said.

Up ahead, the black rider pulled alongside Sato’s police car. He lobbed a small canister in through the passenger window and moved clear. There was a flash and white smoke filled the car. The driver immediately braked, pulling the car on to the hard shoulder so that he and the other police officers inside could burst free from the choking fumes and fall to their knees, retching.

Kenny’s mouth was dry, his pulse was racing and his chest was tight. Here he was, trapped in a police car without a voice, careening along at eighty kilometres per hour with no brakes. And, to top it all, it seemed like he was being hunted by a mad ninja on a motorbike who had just totalled three police vehicles and was coming to finish the job.

The driver pumped the brake pedal one last time before giving up. ‘No brakes,’ he shouted to Kenny. ‘You must jump before crash. Gambatte, ne ?’ And with that, his features melted away and his empty uniform sagged on to the seat.

Kenny stared in mute shock. A striped, furry nose poked from the trouser waistband and a brown badger shrugged out of the clothes, clawed open the door and dived out on to the road, clear of the speeding car.

‘Okubyomono!’ shouted the police officer next to Kenny. He jumped forward to hold the steering wheel steady with his free hand; the other tugged at the handcuff anchoring him to Kenny, until his wrist stretched like putty and the hand slipped out.

Kenny had completely forgotten about the creature wrapped round his middle until he felt it now loosen its hold and begin to grow thicker as it unflattened itself. It oozed out from under his shirt and dropped to the floor of the squad car, just as the black motorcycle drew up alongside, its speed matching the car’s, and took up position by Kenny’s door. The rider drew a symbol in the air and Kenny felt a twitch in his throat. Before he could wonder about this, he saw that the rider had unsheathed the sword again and was taking aim at him through the window.

Kenny yelled and hurled himself across the back seat as the sword came down. There was a clang and the door fell away completely, cut from its hinges. It cartwheeled down the road behind them.

‘Not good!’ shouted the police officer steering the car.

Kenny looked up and saw a bright row of lights across the road in front: toll gates. In about twenty seconds, the car was going to smash into the waiting traffic ahead. He had to get out quickly.

The furry animal evidently had the same idea as it was now jumping up and down, tugging Kenny’s collar and pointing in the direction of the black motorcycle. Kenny glanced up and saw that the rider was holding out a hand, gloved fingers beckoning him to take hold.

‘No way!’ he cried and then realised that his voice had filled the car. His voice! It was back, and that meant the rider had– There was no time for that.

‘Trust me!’ the rider said, his voice filtered through a speaker.

Kenny saw the line of parked cars looming closer. There were mere seconds left. He grabbed his backpack lying on the seat beside him, scrambled across the car and tried not to look at the gritty blur of speeding tarmac below. He reached for the outstretched hand. The bike wobbled, moving out of reach. Kenny slipped and almost fell. He steadied himself and reached out again. The rider’s strong grip closed round his and Kenny was about to jump when he felt a sharp tug on his jacket. The police officer was holding on tightly and pulling him back.

‘You, prisoner!’ the officer yelled. ‘Under arrest!’

‘No! Let go!’ Kenny shouted.

The line of tollbooths grew larger and a truck was parked directly in front.

Kenny saw a flash of red-brown fur and the police officer shrieked as the animal sank its teeth into his arm. His grip loosened, Kenny jumped and the motorcyclist swung him on to the pillion. The bike peeled away from the police car which ploughed into the back of the truck and exploded.

Kenny stared numbly as the flames licked the back of the trailer, shocked at how close he had come to a fiery end. A blur of movement drew his eye and he saw the furry creature bounding after him. The bike slowed and the animal scampered aboard, its fur smoking, and tucked itself between Kenny and the rider.

The motorcycle slipped through a toll gate and moved silently towards Tokyo.

Kenny kept his arms around the leather-clad rider, with the furry animal pressed warm against his belly. He was tired, but his mind was abuzz with too many questions – and there was something weird about the motorbike, but he was too sleepy to pinpoint what it was. Still, he was fairly sure that neither the odd creature nor the rider meant him any harm, not yet at least, so that was something.

From time to time, he opened his heavy eyes to see road signs flash overhead in Japanese and English, plus bright, shining skyscrapers in the near distance; once, he even thought he glimpsed an orange and white painted Eiffel Tower lit up against the darkening sky. The only thing he was sure about was that the bike was keeping to the back roads.

At one point, the rider stopped and pulled over at the sound of approaching sirens, but when it became clear that the police cars weren’t stopping, they resumed their journey.

After what seemed to Kenny like more than an hour, the motorcycle slowed and circled a large plot of land protected by a high stone wall. Satisfied that the way was clear, the bike approached the iron gates, which were ornamented with two fighting dragons, claws raking at one another. A man in a dark suit watched the bike draw closer and signalled to another to open the gates. Sliding silently on well-oiled runners, the dragons withdrew from their brawl.

The bike glided in and eased up the long driveway towards the magnificent house at the centre of the plot. Kenny stirred himself enough to see gracefully curved gable roofs, black wooden beams, slate-coloured tiles and soft light filtering out through the windows.

Parking the bike to one side, the rider dismounted and strode towards the main doors.

‘Hey! Wait up,’ Kenny called. ‘Where am I? Who are you?’

The rider disappeared into the house.

‘Great. My turn to be invisible,’ Kenny muttered.

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, I really don’t know why you’re –’

‘Kuromori-san, your grandfather rescued some of these treasures and hid them away. He sent you here to help find one of them.’

‘No, he sent me here to spend time with my dad, that’s all.’

Harashima arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? Then why did he ask us to keep an eye on you after you arrived?’

Kenny opened his mouth to protest, but then forced it closed. ‘Er, I can see . . . things. Is that a part of this?’

‘What sort of things?’ Harashima’s eyes shone with interest.

‘Well, there was this raccoon thing on the plane, who seems to live here – he’s in the next room – and this huge oni thing at the airport.’ Kenny’s cheeks burned. ‘I know it sounds stupid.’

The man smiled and his body relaxed slightly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is, as you say, a part of this.’

A huge wave of relief flooded through Kenny, pushing out more words. It was all still weird, but at least this man was taking him seriously.

‘Really? This guy, Sato, at the airport, he turned my voice off. And, after, when this ninja biker dude was chasing us, he made fire. And this police guy turned into a badger. What’s that all about?’

Harashima looked away and pursed his lips. ‘The word you would use in English isn’t one I would choose, but I cannot think of a suitable alternative, so “magic” will have to suffice.’

Kenny’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Magic?’

‘Please think of a better word to explain what you saw.’

Kenny ignored him, his face reddening again. ‘Where is that biker guy, anyway? You can ask him. The one who brought me here.’

‘After rescuing you and saving your life, yes?’

‘I wouldn’t have been in any danger if he hadn’t come along in the first place.’

Harashima smiled again. ‘Kuromori-san, you would be dead by now if my . . . associate had not helped you. But yes, I should introduce you.’ He clapped his hands once and the biker came in, still wearing the helmet with the mirrored visor. Without his boots, the rider was five centimetres shorter than Kenny.

‘Kenny Blackwood,’ Harashima said, ‘please say hello to my daughter, Kiyomi.’

Kenny stood weakly as the biker removed the helmet and shook out her long black hair.

‘You’re a girl?’ Kenny hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but that was how it came out.

‘Last time I checked, yes,’ Kiyomi said, smiling at his awkwardness. Her almond eyes looked directly into his and he blushed, turning away.

Harashima cleared his throat and addressed Kenny. ‘Your grandfather gave you a message, did he not?’

‘How could you possibly know about that?’

‘Poyo told me,’ Kiyomi said, setting her motorcycle helmet on the table. The visor faced Kenny and he saw his own distorted reflection looking in bewilderment back at him.

‘Who’s Poyo?’ Kenny was floundering; too many new things were happening to him at once and he felt the urge to scream, just to drown it all out.

‘This is Poyo,’ Kiyomi said and the furry animal squeezed through the doorway and scampered up to her. She knelt and gathered it up in her arms. ‘Ooh, you’re getting fat,’ she cooed. ‘Is Poyo missing Mama?’

‘That thing told you?’ Kenny said, struggling to keep up.

‘Mm-hm,’ Kiyomi nodded, tickling Poyo under his chin.

‘The message, if you please,’ her father insisted.

‘I don’t have it,’ Kenny shot back. ‘That Sato bloke took it from me. He’s still got it.’

‘Did you make a copy?’ Harashima said quietly. ‘If I know your grandfather, he would have allowed for this.’

‘A copy? No, with wha–?’ Kenny’s voice trailed away. ‘Wait. Yes. I do have a copy. It’s on here.’ He held out his phone. ‘I took a picture.’

‘Kiyomi-chan,’ Harashima said.

Kiyomi nodded and took the phone from Kenny, her fingertips brushing his. She clicked open a panel on the wall, pulled out a USB lead and plugged in the phone.

‘Poyo,’ she said. The animal waddled over to a shelf, picked up a remote control and tapped the buttons. This may have been the freakiest thing yet, but Kenny said nothing as the wall panel slid aside again and the enlarged snapshot of his grandfather’s letter appeared, spread out over numerous TV screens. Both Kiyomi and her father scanned it quickly.

‘Hm,’ Harashima said. ‘Hardly worth the effort of writing, do you not think, Kuromori-san ?’

Kenny hesitated. ‘I did think it was a bit strange . . .’

‘Didn’t you see the hidden message?’ Kiyomi said.

Kenny blushed again. Not only was the girl very beautiful, but she was also making him feel very stupid.

‘What hidden message?’ he asked.

‘Take another look,’ she said. Her spoken English was flawless, with a slight American accent. ‘Your grandfather typed this up in a cute font and it’s all nicely done, right?’

Kenny stared at the letter, grateful for something else to focus on. He nodded. ‘Yeah . . .’

‘Bzzt ! Sorry, wrong answer. Thank you for playing.’

‘Huh?’

‘Look, Ken-chan. Look harder.’

Kenny looked again, as carefully as he could, searching for hidden shapes and patterns. ‘I don’t see anything.’

Kiyomi walked up to the screens and pointed. ‘Didn’t you notice the wonky letters? Some of them are in italic. Look. Here, the “p” in “place” leans to the right. Two lines down, the “h” in “that” and then the “l” in “feelings” are irregular. Do you see it now?’

Kenny stared again. ‘Oh, wow,’ he said, as the pattern became clear, like a 3D Magic Eye picture coming into focus. ‘You’re right. I never saw any of that before.’

‘That’s because your brain irons out the wrinkles,’ Kiyomi said. ‘Here, let me underline the italics.’

‘It’s an old trick from World War Two,’ Harashima said. ‘Prisoners would send hidden messages this way in their letters home.’

‘So,’ Kiyomi said, arms folded in a teacher-like pose, ‘what does it say?’

To my dearest grandson, Kenneth,

Yes, I know you hate being called ‘Kenneth’ but it could have been worse – your grandmother wanted to name you ‘Aloysius’.

If all is well, you will be reading this upon an aero plane high above the Pacific Ocean, making your final approach to Japan, where I have arranged for you to spend the summer with your father.

I remember what it was like for me, travelling alone to a strange and unfamiliar place, but, once I adjusted to the local customs, I found it a place of magical wonder. I suspect that you too may be embarking on a similar journey of self-discovery.

If I have any advice for you, it is this: believe in yourself; trust your feelings; do what is right, especially when it is most difficult; and always carry a cucumber near fresh water.

With all my love,

Your grandfather, Lawrence

Kenny read down quickly. ‘It says . . . open . . . the . . . enve . . . lope. Open the envelope. Open the – Hey, I already opened it, otherwise how would I have got the letter out? This is stupid. It makes no sense.’

‘Do you have the envelope?’ Harashima asked.

Kenny patted down his pockets, heard the paper rustle and took it out. ‘Yes, here it is. They took the letter, but left this.’

‘May I?’ Harashima drew closer and held out his hand to take the paper. It was then that Kenny noticed that the last joint was missing from the man’s little finger. He stared for a moment, trying to remember what that signified. Harashima gave no indication that he had noticed.

‘Kuromori-san, your grandfather went to a lot of trouble to tell you to do something you have already done. Is that not so?’

Kenny nodded. He was feeling stupider and stupider, and getting weary of everything being phrased as a question.

‘Except you have not done as he instructed.’ Harashima carefully ran his fingertip under the sealed edges of the envelope, gently lifting as he went, and flattened it into one large sheet of paper. ‘Now it is opened,’ he said, sniffing at the paper and holding it up to the light.

He took a silver cigarette lighter from his jacket and struck the flint. He ran the flame beneath the envelope, scorching it in spots, trying to avoid burning his fingers. ‘Lemon juice makes a good invisible ink,’ he said. ‘So do onion and vinegar, but the smell gives them away.’

When he had finished, he snapped the lighter shut and handed the paper to Kenny. There, clearly written in brown lines, were the symbols:

N/Ca Al:Fm

Harashima smiled. ‘Your grandfather has done well to narrow it down. It is as we thought.’

Kenny stood up again. ‘OK, obviously, whatever’s going on here, you don’t need me. I’m way too dumb for any of this fun and games, so I’m just going to get my backpack and go, all right? I need to find my dad.’

Harashima adjusted a cufflink. ‘Kuromori-san, you are wanted by certain authorities who, no doubt, have you listed on their records as a threat to national security. You have no money, no friends, no contacts; you cannot speak, read or write Japanese. As of now, the only people who have helped you are us.’

‘I can call my dad, just as soon as I get a signal.’

‘Your father was arrested this afternoon, just before your plane landed. If you call him, it will lead Sato straight to you.’

Kenny’s hands closed into fists and he felt a scream starting low down in his stomach.

‘I know how difficult this is for you,’ Kiyomi said, ‘and believe me, I’d love to tell you more, but you’re going to have to trust us. You’re safe here. I saved your life once already. Why would I do that if I meant you harm?’

‘Look, I get it, OK? Something crazy is going on. I can see . . . weird creatures. My stupid grandad is somehow mixed up in this. You think I can help you, but you’re wrong. That’s not me. I don’t belong here and I don’t want to be involved in any of this, whatever it is.’

‘Kenny, you’re already involved,’ Kiyomi said. ‘As am I. We were involved in this before we were even born. Choices were made for us years ago, and now we have to decide whether to accept those choices or not.’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Kenny took a deep breath, placed his fists on the table and rested his weight on the knuckles. ‘OK, one question before I go: what does it mean? N, Ca, Al, Fm?’

‘Chemical names,’ Harashima said. ‘Nitrogen, Calcium, Aluminium and Fermium. They’re not important. What is important is their position in the periodic table. Nitrogen is 7, calcium is 20, aluminium is 13 and fermium is 100.’

Kiyomi looked expectantly at Kenny.

‘What? I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘I’m stupid, remember?’

‘Seven, twenty, thirteen, one hundred,’ she said. ‘It’s a date and time: July the twentieth, thirteen hundred hours.’

‘What’s the big deal about that?’

‘Ken-chan, that’s nine days from now. Unless you help us to stop it, that’s when fifty million people on the West Coast of America are going to die.’

Kenny’s legs buckled and he sat down hard.

‘Say that again,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I – I couldn’t have heard that right.’

Kiyomi sat down across from him and leaned closer. ‘Kenny, there is a plan to kill millions of people in America in nine days’ time to avenge something that happened many years ago.’

‘In nine days?’

Kiyomi nodded and leaned back.

‘How?’

‘We are not exactly sure, although I have a good idea,’ Harashima said.

‘And are you going to tell me?’

‘Not yet, Kuromori-san. You have not yet chosen sides, therefore it would be dangerous to tell you more.’

‘Sides?’

‘Ken-chan, there is a war still being fought,’ Kiyomi added. ‘There are some who would gladly turn back the clock and return Japan to its pre-industrial state.’

Her father turned off the television screens. ‘You are tired. Sleep will help.’

Kenny’s stomach growled and he put a hand over his middle to muffle it.

‘You’re still hungry?’ Kiyomi said. ‘Oyama said you ate everything. And I mean everything.’

Kenny cast a wry look in the direction of the furry animal. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘It was him.’

‘Poyo!’ Kiyomi said. ‘But you had dinner already. No wonder you’re so fat. That was naughty.’ The creature lowered its head in shame.

‘Um, what is that thing anyway?’ Kenny asked.

‘Poyo? He’s tanuki. Japanese raccoon dog.’

‘Do you know why he was on my plane?’

Kiyomi paused. ‘I sent him. He’s been watching over you.’

Poyo nodded vigorously.

‘What do you mean, “watching over me”?’ A gnawing suspicion was growing in Kenny’s mind.

‘We sent him to America a few months ago, when we . . . We thought you might be in danger.’

Kenny rounded on the tanuki. ‘So you’re the one who’s been raiding my fridge at school? I thought I was going mad and kept blaming my room-mate. I got into a huge fight over that.’

Poyo’s ears drooped and he slunk away to hide under the table.

Kiyomi nodded. ‘I know. Poyo told me.’

‘What else did he tell you?’ Kenny’s ears were heating up.

Kiyomi exchanged a glance with her father. ‘Oh, nothing much. Just that you’re, er, very independent. He likes you, by the way. Says you’re much cleverer than you look.’

Kenny’s stomach rumbled again and he stood up, eyeing the door.

‘So why did I need this?’ he asked, holding up the bamboo whistle. ‘If Fatso’s been spying on me the whole time?’

‘Because here you’re going to need all the help you can get. In America, you were pretty safe,’ Kiyomi explained.

‘You just said I was in danger.’

‘It was your grandfather’s idea,’ Harashima said. ‘And it worked. We protected you and brought you here.’

‘And that makes it all right, does it? You know what? I’ve had enough of being here, wherever here is. I’m off. See ya.’

Kenny went to the door, slid it open and stopped. His path was blocked by the huge servant he had encountered earlier. The man was holding Kenny’s backpack.

‘No one is going to prevent you leaving,’ Harashima said, ‘but know that you do not choose your path; the path chooses you.’

Kenny rolled his eyes. ‘Isn’t that what Yoda said to Luke?’

Kiyomi took the backpack and held it out to Kenny.

‘Tell you what,’ she said, ‘let’s go get some air. I’ll buy you a burger, so at least you’re fed, and then I’ll drop you off wherever you want to go.’

Kenny’s eyes darted between the people in the room. ‘No strings?’ he asked.

‘No strings.’ Kiyomi held up three fingers, palm outwards with thumb and little finger touching. ‘Scout’s honour,’ she said.

Kenny allowed himself a smile. ‘I’ll bet you were never a Scout, or even a Girl Guide.’

Kiyomi handed Kenny his backpack. ‘See? Poyo was right: you are smarter than you look.’ She returned the smile.

‘Kiyomi-chan,’ her father said in a low voice, ‘be careful. They know he’s here.’

‘So,’ Kiyomi said, leading the way past the huge servant, ‘do they have McDonald’s where you’re from?’

The cool night air ruffled Kenny’s hair as he clung to the motorcycle. They rode down a long thoroughfare which seemed like a canyon made of light. Glass-fronted buildings towered on either side, brightly lit from within. On the outside they were decked with huge illuminated signs advertising cosmetics, electronic goods, soft drinks, cars and countless other products.

Pedestrians milled around everywhere, patiently waiting for the traffic lights to change; when they did, the crowds would break and spill across the roads in great waves.

Kiyomi passed a small temple, the reflected lights of skyscrapers glinting in the koi pond in front. She pulled into the car park of a McDonald’s restaurant and glided to a stop. Kenny dismounted and crouched to take a closer look at the motorcycle.

‘This bike,’ he said, ‘has no exhaust pipes.’

Kiyomi stood with her arms folded and watched, a smile playing on her lips. Poyo plopped to the ground and sprawled beside Kenny.

‘It’s also completely silent,’ Kenny said, finally working out what it was that had been bugging him ever since he had first set eyes on the bike and its mysterious rider. ‘What? How –?’

‘Ken-chan, I’d love to tell you, but I can’t since you’ll be leaving soon. Poyo, you stay here. And no going through the trash cans.’

Kiyomi pushed open the glass doors and went to the counter to order. Kenny caught up with her in the queue. ‘You know, you’re not fooling me with this whole I-don’t-need-anyone lone-wolf routine,’ she said. ‘You should trust us to help you.’

‘I can handle myself,’ Kenny said.

‘Really? So, Mr Independent, why don’t you order for us?’

‘Irrashaimase!’ said the girl behind the counter, looking expectantly at Kenny.

He stared at the illuminated photos of hamburgers above the counter with Japanese writing underneath, before flashing Kiyomi an embarrassed grin. ‘Um . . . could you do it, please?’

Kenny found a table by the window and watched his fellow diners. There were office workers on the way home, school pupils still in uniform, a couple of punk rockers, an old lady wrapped in a long raincoat. The place was much brighter and cleaner than fast-food restaurants at home.

‘Did you want a shake?’ Kiyomi asked, placing a tray on the table.

‘Sounds good,’ Kenny said, reaching for a fry. ‘Chocolate for me.’

‘Well, now it’s summer, so you can have melon, peach, banana or green tea.’

‘Oh . . . maybe later then.’

Kenny bit into his burger, savouring the taste. ‘I haven’t had one of these in years,’ he said, wiping a dribble of ketchup from his chin.

‘How come?’ Kiyomi dipped a fry into her peach shake.

‘It’s something . . . My mum would treat me, but . . . I stopped.’ Kenny put the burger down, blinking several times.

Kiyomi put her hand on Kenny’s. ‘It’s OK. I know about your mother.’

Kenny pulled his hand back and wiped a knuckle over his blurring eyes. ‘I don’t think about her much any more.’ He sniffed.

‘I lost my mother too,’ Kiyomi said, gazing into space. ‘But I was too little to remember her.’

‘I was six,’ Kenny said. ‘You?’

‘I was two.’

They ate the next few bites in silence.

‘Thank you,’ Kenny said.

‘Huh? For what?’

‘For not giving me the usual “I’m sorry” routine.’

Kiyomi laughed. ‘Oh God, I hate that. Everyone says it and I just want to say, “Don’t be sorry, it’s not like you’re responsible.”’

‘Exactly. I was so sick of all the pats on the head, people telling me how brave I was, saying she’s in a better place – like they know anything.’

Kiyomi shrugged. ‘They mean well. They just don’t know what else to say.’ She took a slurp of peach shake. ‘They can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up without a mum.’

‘You know what the worst thing was for me?’ Kenny looked away, his cheeks pink. ‘It’s kind of silly . . .’

‘Come on,’ Kiyomi said. ‘Who am I going to tell?’

Kenny stared down at his meal. ‘I miss the cuddles and the hugs. You know, with my mum, it didn’t really matter what I did. If I was upset, she would just give me a hug and it was all better. With my dad . . . let’s just say it’s different.’ He popped the last of his burger into his mouth and licked his fingers. ‘How about you? What was the hardest thing . . . growing up?’

Kiyomi’s smile vanished. ‘It would have been nice to get tips on what to wear and make-up. Stuff like that. My dad isn’t –’

‘Hey, at least your dad is there for you, every day. He didn’t dump you like a bag of dog poo first chance he got.’

Kiyomi reached for Kenny’s hand again. ‘Your father fell apart afterwards. Papa told me. He couldn’t cope. You know that. I think seeing you was too painful for him, reminded him too much of your mum.’

‘And that’s an excuse to shut me out, is it?’ Kenny drew his hand back. ‘Anyway, you seem to know a lot about me. How come?’

Kiyomi dunked her last chicken nugget into a small pot of sour-plum sauce. ‘Our families go way back,’ she said. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? My grandfather and yours were friends. They worked together after the war.’

‘They did? Doing what?’

‘Sorry, can’t tell you that. You’re leaving, remember?’ Kiyomi wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. ‘We should go.’

‘Allow me,’ Kenny said, gathering the empty containers. He wrestled the rubbish into an overflowing bin and stowed the tray. He wasn’t ready to leave just yet. For one thing, he had nowhere to go; Kiyomi’s father was right about that. And he had so many questions. How could his grandfather have kept all this from him? He straightened up, as if adjusting the weight of a burden, and caught Kiyomi staring at him.

‘Neodymium alloy magnets,’ Kiyomi said, when he returned to the table.

‘Huh?’

‘My bike. It’s a prototype. Lithium-ion batteries and super-magnets drive the motor. That’s why it makes no sound. It’s electric. My father borrowed it.’

‘Stole it you mean?’ Kenny regretted the words as soon as they left his lips.

‘No. Borrowed it. From a business associate.’ Kiyomi stressed each word. ‘Do you really think I’d be riding around on a stolen bike?’

‘Well, your dad is, um, a gangster . . .’ The accusation was out of Kenny’s mouth before he could stop himself.

‘What?’

‘He’s a yakuza, right? Japanese mafia. I saw his missing little finger.’ Inside Kenny’s head, a small voice was screaming at him for messing up what was almost a pleasant meal.

Kiyomi grabbed her handbag and stood up. ‘Maybe it’s better you’re leaving us, Kuromori. I mean, you obviously know everything already. You don’t need us and we certainly don’t need you.’ She strode towards the door, watched by the old woman in the raincoat.

Kenny stood up. ‘No. I’m sorry. Look, that’s not what I meant. I, er . . .’

‘Get lost!’

Kenny watched numbly through the window as Kiyomi marched to her bike and swung a leather-clad leg over the seat. As she leaned forward to pull on her helmet, four dark shadows emerged from the gloom of the car park and swarmed at her. One of them swung something at Kiyomi, catching her around the head, and she fell from the bike, her helmet bouncing away over the tarmac.

Kenny was on his feet before he realised what he was doing.

By the time he was out of the glass doors, his mind had finished arguing with itself. One side was saying to keep out of it, that this was nothing to do with him, that it was dangerous and that he was leaving anyway; the other side said simply that someone was in trouble and he had to do something.

‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Kenny shouted. ‘Leave her alone!’ He made his voice as loud and as deep as he could while he fumbled for the whistle.

‘Hnh? Nandayo ?’ The four shapes moved back from the fallen girl and Kenny saw a jumble of black jumpsuits and leather jackets with Chinese writing on them, biker boots, long red sashes tied in an X-shape across the chest, headbands – and a baseball bat, a wooden sword, a metal pipe and a length of chain.

‘Uh-oh’ Kenny muttered, looking around for anything he could use in defence. Suddenly, this wasn’t such a great idea.

Two of the bikers moved behind him, cutting off his escape. He glanced into the restaurant, but the diners were oblivious. The lead biker slapped the metal pipe against his open palm and sized up the teenage boy standing before him.

‘Ki demo kurutta ka?’ he said, dragging the last word out into a sneer.

Kenny fought the urge to run. Instead, he pointed at the pipe and broke into maniacal laughter, quick and high-pitched, like a hyena. The biker blinked and took a step back from this foreign lunatic. In that moment, Kenny moved. He threw the whistle hard, aiming at the man’s face, and closed in, grabbing for the pipe before he could swing it.

‘Aiee!’ the man shrieked as the whistle hit his eye. His grip loosened and Kenny wrenched the pipe free.

‘Duck!’ Kiyomi screamed and Kenny dropped, feeling the rush of air as the baseball bat swept over his head. It smacked into the man who was clutching at his eye and knocked him to the ground. Still crouched, Kenny swung the pipe hard to his left. There was a sharp crack as it connected with a kneecap, another scream, and the biker holding the bat crumpled to the floor. Kenny sprang up and saw the remaining two, one with the chain and the other with the kendo sword, rushing him. Kiyomi dragged herself across the ground towards her bike.

Kenny twirled the pipe – like a baton – and edged away from the biker with the chain. Thinking quickly, he lowered the weapon, offering his opponent an opening. The man took it and swung the chain. Kenny brought the steel tube up to meet the flail. With a rattling clang, the chain wrapped itself round the pipe and Kenny pulled back sharply with all his strength. Caught off balance, the man stumbled and fell, releasing his grip on the metal links.

Three down, one to go, Kenny thought, but he was too late. The man with the sword bore down on him, raising both arms high above his head and then bringing them down. Kenny raised an arm to protect himself. There was a snarl, a flash of fur and then more shrieking. The man fell backwards, his hands clawing to fend off Poyo whose sharp little teeth were clamped to his crotch.

The last biker standing, the one who had been wielding the chain, looked at his companions – one on the ground with cracked ribs, one writhing with a broken kneecap and one with an angry tanuki attached to his privates – and decided it was time to go. He turned on his heel. And stopped.

The old lady in the raincoat had emerged from McDonald’s and was directly in front of him. She swayed gently and stared at him hungrily. Her eyes were small and beady, glinting red in the street lights, and her long grey hair was waving even though there was little breeze.

The biker looked from Kenny to the old woman and back. He shrugged and continued marching towards her, an arm raised to shove her aside.

That was when Kenny’s stomach lurched as he caught sight of a forked tongue flickering over the old lady’s lips. Something was horribly wrong here. ‘Wait!’ he shouted at the biker, raising a hand in warning. ‘Stop!’

The biker hesitated and the thing in the raincoat pounced. He was flung to the ground, spread-eagled, with the creature on top of him, its mouth clamped to his.

‘Ew, gross!’ Kenny said, backing away.

Kiyomi shook her pounding head to clear it and hauled her bike into an upright position. She heard Kenny’s warning shout, looked up, and her blood chilled. ‘Kenny . . . ’ Kiyomi said, her voice low but in a tone not to be argued with. ‘Get back here, now . . . We can still get away. Poyo, jubun da.’

Poyo unclamped his jaws from the biker and sniffed the air. His eyes grew wide and he bounded over to Kiyomi, whimpering. She picked bloodied, matted hair out of her eyes and pulled herself up on to the bike.

The creature released its lips from the now-still biker and leered up at Kenny, who was rooted to the spot. Blood dribbled down its chin and it began slithering towards him.

‘Run!’ Kiyomi yelled.

Kenny sprinted to her, hurdling the fallen bikers who lay groaning on the ground.

The creature reared up again. Its coat flapped open and Kenny glimpsed rippling coils covered with tiny scales.

‘What is that thing?’ he said, scrambling up beside Kiyomi.

‘Nure-onna,’ she said, wobbling on to the bike. ‘Bad news. Let’s go.’

‘What, and just leave those guys here for its dessert? We can’t do that.’

‘OK, it was just an idea.’ Kiyomi groaned and reached down into a side panel. ‘Here,’ she said, withdrawing a can of Pringles.

‘You’re going to eat crisps now ?’ Kenny said.

Kiyomi pressed her thumb against the end of the can; the fingerprint reader bleeped and it popped open.

‘Whatever you’re doing, can you hurry it up?’ Kenny said. ‘That thing’s getting closer.’

The nure-onna slithered over the three bikers and advanced towards Kiyomi and Kenny. The scritching sound of its scales on the asphalt set Kenny’s teeth on edge.

‘Aim for the head,’ Kiyomi said, handing Kenny the contents of the Pringles can: a short sword in a scabbard as long as his forearm.

‘This? You want me to fight that thing with this – this pocketknife?’ Kenny said, pulling out the blade halfway. It was exquisite, brightly polished, with Japanese lettering engraved on it.

‘Well, duh,’ Kiyomi said, putting her hand to her head and pulling it away, sticky and red. ‘Look, it’s your idea to stay and fight. I’ve got blood in my eyes and I’m seeing two of everything, otherwise . . .’

‘All right, all right,’ Kenny said, moving away from the bike. ‘But I’ll take any help you can give.’

The forked tongue licked at the air. Kenny backed away and the nure-onna closed in. He clutched the wooden scabbard tightly in one hand and gripped the short sword in the other.

‘Uh, you,’ he said. ‘Freaky snake-woman thing. You probably can’t underst–’

‘I know who you are, Kuromori-child,’ it hissed.

Kenny froze. The awful serpentine voice had sounded inside his head; its lips hadn’t moved.

‘And I know why you are here . . . but you will not succeed. A thousand starving yurei cry out for vengeance. You will not stand in their way.’

The nure-onna slithered closer, swaying as the snake body undulated beneath the raincoat. Kenny held his ground, trying not to look at the beady eyes, the long wicked fangs or the flickering tongue. He glanced into McDonald’s, through the windows behind the creature, but no one seemed to have noticed anything unusual happening in the car park. He was on his own.

Turning and running seemed a good idea, but the nure-onna was almost upon him. ‘Kiyomi . . . now would be a good time to do something . . .’ he muttered.

‘Poyo! Kame!’ Kiyomi said.

The tanuki shot across the car park like a guided missile and sank his sharp little teeth into the creature’s tail. It shrieked and in that instant Kenny rammed the scabbard into its open mouth, forcing the wooden case down the open gullet. The nure-onna gagged and Kenny whipped the blade across its neck, slicing through flesh. A startled expression stayed on the nure-onna’s face as its head bounced across the ground and the body flopped at Kenny’s feet, writhing and churning.

Poyo spat out a chunk of tail and retched in disgust, trying to dislodge the taste. He leapt back, startled, as the body crumbled to a fine dust.

Kenny lifted the raincoat with the point of the sword, but it was empty. He wiped the blade on the coat, picked up the scabbard, slotted the sword home and handed it back to Kiyomi. She started up the motorcycle and the engine hummed softly.

‘Come on, we should go,’ she said, scooping up Poyo. ‘One dead biker is going to attract attention. Or are you still going it alone?’

Kenny took in the scene around him: three wounded bikers lay moaning on the ground; one was still; the empty raincoat flapped; and the fine dust eddied away. ‘That thing, it was after me, wasn’t it? These guys just got in the way.’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘And there are more . . . things out there too? More of them after me?’

Kiyomi nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.

‘OK, I’ll come back with you. You’re very persuasive,’ Kenny said and he climbed on to the motorcycle behind her. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘look at the trouble you get into when I’m not around.’

Kiyomi elbowed him, hard, and then opened the throttle, pulling out of the car park so fast that Kenny had to fling his arms round her waist to keep from falling off.

‘Oww!’ Kiyomi said, squirming away from the huge servant’s grip as he applied antiseptic to the cut on her head.

‘Oyama used to do sumo,’ Harashima said, as if this explained everything. He was pacing the floor in front of the screen covering the TV monitors.

‘So who were those guys, the ones who jumped you in the car park?’ Kenny said, putting down his hot chocolate and pinching his nose to stifle a yawn.

Kiyomi’s face twisted in disgust. ‘Bosozoku,’ she said. ‘A biker gang.’ She glanced up at her father, whose face remained impassive. ‘I got into a race with one of them a while back, beat him easily. He said I’d cheated and wanted my bike as payment. Fat chance.’

Kenny nodded. ‘So they were waiting for you?’

‘Yeah, bunch of cowards. I could have handled them if they hadn’t snuck up on me.’ Kiyomi touched her scalp, felt the broken skin and pulled her hair back down to cover it. ‘Feels like a taiko drummer inside my head, but I’ll live,’ she said. ‘You did pretty well, though. Where’d you learn to fight like that?’

Kenny turned away. ‘You don’t spend seven years getting shunted from one boarding school to another without learning how to defend yourself.’ He was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘Plus, my grandad taught me a few moves last summer.’

Kiyomi tilted her head to appraise him. ‘You were lucky. You have poor technique, no balance. If those guys could fight properly, you’d be mincemeat.’

Oyama cleared the medical kit from the table, bowed and left.

Kenny waited for someone to say something, but both Kiyomi and her father seemed comfortable with the silence.

‘Sir?’ Kenny said, when he could stand it no more.

Harashima inclined his head to acknowledge him.

‘I came back, like you wanted, right? So, what happens now? I mean, you must have a plan, to stop this thing. How’s it going to happen? How are all those people going to die?’

After a long pause, Harashima replied, ‘I don’t know . . . exactly.’

‘Then what do you know? If I’m supposed to help you, I need to know what I’m being asked to do.’

Harashima nodded. ‘You are right, Kuromori-san. You deserve answers and you will have them, only not now. You are exhausted. You have had a long and . . . eventful day, with much to take in. You will rest now and in the morning you shall have answers. Is that acceptable?’

Kenny yawned a huge jaw-splitting yawn that made his face hurt. ‘OK. I’m too tired to argue.’

‘Oyama will show you to your room.’

The huge servant returned and motioned for Kenny to follow him.

‘As for you, my child, remain where you are,’ Harashima said to Kiyomi, who had been sneaking towards the door. ‘You have some explaining to do.’

Kenny awoke. Light was bleeding into the room through small square windows and he knew he was dreaming. He had always been able to tell when a dream was a dream. ‘Lucid dreaming’ was what scientists called it. Sometimes Kenny was able to influence the outcome of a dream, but not tonight.

He was lying on a camp bed in a metal hut with corrugated-steel walls that curved overhead. The tinny sound of Frank Sinatra crooned from a radio outside. Kenny rolled off the cot, yawned and stretched. He was wearing an olive-drab service uniform with brass buttons.

Outside, under a forbidding grey sky, he saw that he was in an army compound with chain-link fences, barbed wire, jeeps and off-duty soldiers heading out in small groups. The American flag drooped from a pole.

Kenny strolled out through the gate and the contrast couldn’t have been greater. He had crossed into a devastated wasteland where once a city had stood. Rubble from burnt-out homes and shattered roof tiles covered the ground to such an extent that Kenny could not tell where the road was supposed to be. He wandered past hundreds of silent, hollow-eyed Japanese people, huddled in groups, dressed in little more than rags. The luckier ones had fashioned huts from cardboard, rocks and chicken wire. An old man bathed in rainwater collected in an oil drum. A young girl accepted a kiss from a teenage American soldier in return for a Hershey chocolate bar. An elderly man traded a priceless Japanese sword for a bag of flour.

Quiet sobbing carried across the gloom. Kenny listened and followed the sound to the nearby ruins of a house, picking his way through the wreckage. He pulled open the broken door and saw a girl crying inside. She knelt with her back to him, but he could see that her hair was long and black and she was wearing a plain, white kimono.

‘Kiyomi?’ he croaked, his throat dry. ‘Is that you?’

The girl slowly turned towards him and Kenny cried out. She had no face; only a blank, featureless mask, as smooth as eggshell. He backed away, but the ground crumbled beneath him and he felt himself falling, dropping into an endless black void, tumbling over and over.

After what felt like an eternity, he landed with a crash at the bottom of a huge chasm. Kenny gingerly picked himself up, dusted down his fatigues and peered into the gloom. That was when he realised he wasn’t alone. There was something down there with him in the dark. Something huge. Something ancient. Something evil.

Kenny woke with a start. His heart was pounding and his clothes were heavy with sweat. He was lying on a futon but the house was dark and still. He checked his watch, which was still set to Pacific time. 12:23. That meant it was almost four thirty in the morning, local time. The night sky was a pale indigo, heralding the approach of dawn. Kenny sat up and rubbed his face, afraid to go back to sleep. He had never experienced a dream as vivid as this before. It was unnerving, as if his subconscious mind was trying to tell him something – but what?

Six kilometres to the east, in Shinjuku’s skyscraper district, lights burned in the corporate headquarters despite the earliness of the hour. The visitor exited the lift on the sixtieth floor and knocked once on the heavy walnut door.

‘Enter,’ came a voice from within and the visitor hurried inside.

Seated behind a mahogany desk and dressed in a black pinstripe suit was a stocky Japanese man. His thinning hair and sagging jowls placed him near retirement age. He set down the dossier he was reading. ‘Miyamoto-san, it is good of you to come at short notice. What news?’ the older man said.

Miyamoto bowed deeply. ‘Shacho . . . ’ he began, then hesitated. ‘The boy, sir, he got away.’

The older man cocked his head. ‘He . . . escaped? From Sato? How? He must have had help.’

‘He did, sir. Details are as yet unclear, but it would appear that Harashima-san may have been involved.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Two police cars, one truck and two motorcycles were destroyed. We had a road closure for three hours.’

The senior man nodded. ‘Yes, that sounds like Harashima all right.’ He sighed and stood stiffly. ‘Do we know where the boy is now?’

‘He is hidden from us. His being gaijin makes him harder to track.’

The older man dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief. ‘What of the boy? Is it true?’

Miyamoto nodded. ‘Sato tested him. He has the Gift of Sight.’

‘And to think we had him in our hands.’

The man shuffled round to a small cage perched on a filing cabinet. Inside, a fluffy, toffee-coloured ball lay curled on the sawdust. ‘The father?’

‘Arrested yesterday afternoon. He doesn’t know anything. He was simply there to meet the boy at the airport.’

The older man reached into the cage and gently lifted out the hamster. It sat up sleepily in his palm. He tickled it beneath the chin and fed it a pumpkin seed. ‘What charges are you holding the father with?’

Miyamoto shrugged. ‘We’ll probably go with possession of drugs. No one ever questions that when it comes to gaijin. We can make it stick.’

The man carried the hamster to a sideboard opposite. A fish tank sat on top, but no water was inside.

‘So, here we are – a few days away and now this boy arrives . . . this boy who can see,’ the older man said.

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Miyamoto ventured. ‘It doesn’t mean he is the one, does it, sir?’

The man lifted the lid from the fish tank and set it aside. ‘I don’t believe in prophecies,’ he said. ‘You’ve read Macbeth. Prophecies only come true when men act on them. Do nothing and who can say if anything will happen?’

‘But, sir, if there is any chance . . .?’

Something unfurled itself from within the tank, light reflecting from its tiny scales. The man dangled the hamster by one leg.

‘We have the boy’s father,’ he said. ‘Even if, by some miracle, the child is able to retrieve the sword, he will never be allowed to use it.’

There was a flash of movement, a piteous, muffled squeak and the hamster was gone, held in the jaws of the snake, which settled down to digest its meal.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.