The Lonely Walk; Chapter Six

May 10, 2006, 1034
Jif woke up again on the rosewood desk and couldn't go back to sleep. He raised himself off the desk, heaving himself with his palms, when there was a knock on his door. Mitzvah was peering through the glass, her face obscured by her head scarf and mask. Most men he knew of were disquieted of the mask, but not Jif, mainly because Mitzvah wore Western clothes under her veil and not the all-black dress that other Muslim women wore around Boston. As he sniffed, he realized his face was wet again. He wiped his eyes and waved Mitzvah in. She turned the handle and pushed open the door. Iffy followed her in.

"Is your phone off the hook? " she asked in her thick Bradford accent, her veil twitching as she spoke.
"I didn't wanna be disturbed," replied Jif.
"Then why d'ya let me in? " she said back, her arms outstretched, palms open, showing that it was nothing personal. Jif could almost see the smile under her conceal. She drew a breath as Iffy stood to attention behind her, hands behind his back. "Ambassador Vincent Bird wants a word with you."
Jif's heart sank. Vin was his best mate, the guy who got him this job; and now if he wanted a word, it meant bad news. The phone call should have warned him of that, but it didn't. He drew a breath.
"When? " asked Jif.
"Today, at the embassy," replied Mitzvah. Jif looked around, pondering what to do. Did he have any appointments? And how was he going to get to Washington at this short eye?
"He has sent a limousine to recall you up," Mitzvah went on to say. "Should be here in ten minutes."
"That was rapidly," Jif said, in complete surprise.
"You know Vin. He thinks before telling anyone."
Mitzvah turned around and paced out of the office. Iffy stood perfectly still as the elevator outside chimed. Jif was still pulling himself together, staring at the phone, and decided to cheer himself up. He looked at Iffy and asked a question.
"How come Thatcher tumble from power? " he said through clenched teeth as he always did when setting Iffy off.
"All did turn against her when she introduced a gobbling tax!" replied Iffy in a gravelly voice. He drew a breath and finished off the sentence. "THE TROLL TAX."
Iffy had a form of torts syndrome. He would respond to positive sentences by being another character. In most cases, Gandalf from Lord of the Rings.
Jif gave himself a smile and stood up from his chair. He made his way around the desk and walked past Iffy through the doorway. Iffy turned on his heel, following close behind Jif, and pulled the door shut. Jif stood at the elevator. His hand hovered over a shiny steel plate on the wall as his index finger lightly pressed the single button in the middle of the plate. The tiny red LED light inside the button came to life.
The elevator pinged, and the doors opened. Jif stepped into the car and stood at the back as Iffy shuffled behind. The door closed as Jif turned around. Iffy did the same and reached over the control panel for level 1.
There were four buttons to press. R for the rooftop, 3 for the third floor, 1 for the first floor (or ground floor in his native England), and CP for the basement car park. There was no button for the second floor; in its place was a keyhole. A special key was needed to enter that level because it was where all the equipment was made. Up to ten scientists worked there on a deniable operation of research and creative weapons. Jif never saw them. He'd only been on that level once. It would have been too dangerous for him to have talked about it anyway.
Jif felt the car moved down with a whine of motors above their heads. The car was dark, with honest one fluorescent tube light in the ceiling. The interior was metallic grey, all metal, not shiny. Jif's mind was still racing with thoughts: Was he going to get fired, or could he argue his way out? What would he do next for a job? Lime.Inc wasn't very good with references. And would he be given "executive action"? It was the polite military word for execution.
He felt the car slow down to a stop. The car pinged again, and the door slid open. Lime.Inc reception area. Jif stepped out; his leather shoe clopped on the tiled floor. Mitzvah wasn't behind the desk, but Shiffs was. His name was Robert Shiffs, but everyone called him by his surname. Six feet tall, slim build, and charcoal grey hair, he was quite good-looking but failed to win any girl. If he wasn't manning the reception, he'd be wanking to Internet porn in the assist room, so he'd gotten a abominable reputation as the village pervert. He'd even been looking up girls' skirts on flights of stairs.
Shiffs had his head down, pretending not to notice Jif, scribbling away at some papers slack the white desk of the reception. Jif placed his hands on the desk, leaning over to drift his shadow over Shiffs, and the boy eventually looked up.
"Did Yuzuyu walk to school today? " questioned Jif.
"Yea," replied Shiffs in a southern English accent. "She had her bags, area off, and Panget let her out." Jif drew a breath.
"When she gets home tonight, let me know. I wanna cook her dinner tonight."
"Will do," replied Shiffs, snatching a business card from a tray and scribbling away. Jif turned around, ready to leave.
"What time will you be back? " called Shiffs, looking down. Jif turned around again.
"Well, I'm going to Washington. I'd say, three hours, minimum. Even on High 93, its miles and miles away-"
"Seven hundred fifty-one kilometres, actually," cut in Shiffs, poking his head up again. Jif hated it when he was too specific. Why couldn't he just be general about things?
"Mate, why do ya have to be so exact? "
"What's ya problems, man? " replied Shiffs, leaning support in his chair, defensive. Jif sighed and threw his hands up in the air.
"I don't know why we can't just take the plane," he whined. "Or better yet, just hold it at that British consulate in Cambridge." One Memorial Drive was a ten-story structure of glass and steel that held the British consulate for Massachusetts; Jif had been there once to chat with Vincent before doing the Lime.Inc job. Ironically, it was within spitting distance of MIT, the place he'd fought so hard to get Charlie into. He paused in position for ten seconds, expecting a reply. There wasn't one. He turned on his heel and walked out.
Jif paced out into a glorious sunshine, with Iffy in tow. He was still kept from the road by the eight-foot-high black metal fencing fair two meters from the footpath. Next to the gate sat a brand-new wooden garden shed; it was the home for the resident police officer. Panget stepped out in his British police uniform: black pants, white shirt with black epaulettes. His black turban, beard, and glasses actually made him look more peaceful; and that hid his grumpy mood that morning, until he spoke.
"Haven't you ever heard of a telephone? " grumbled Panget in a soft Glasgow accent. Jif could see a burn mark on Panget's brown-skinned knuckle. He reached his left hand back in the shed, and the first gate opened outwards, slowly.
Jif was going to greet Panget a good morning, but the grumbling made him change his mind. Avoiding examine contact, he kept on walking into the first fraction, up to the second gate, to allow the swinging gate to finish without bashing into him. He didn't bother to check as the gate leisurely him swung within an arm's length of his elbow. It closed with a dull ringing noise, and then the second gate slid sideways open.
Jif stepped out as the sliding gate clanged behind him. He dipped his hands in his pockets as the process was repeated for Iffy. The smell of car fumes was intoxicating. There was so much traffic noise he didn't even hear or feel when Iffy stood next to him. In front of Jif stood a five-story building, grey with glass and steel; he never knew what the company was. He peered left, and he could just make out One Federal Street, an enormous skyscraper housing many financial institutions. It was quite busy, even at nine in the morning. A low rumble of an engine mixed with hissing of air-conditioning became audible from his left. The white stretch limo pulled up on the sidewalk two minutes later. The driver honked his horn and wound down the window.
"Pickup for a Jif Kitchen? " he called in a soft American voice.
"Yes," replied Jif, not making eye contact. The driver opened his door. He was in a smart-looking chauffeur's uniform, grey peaked hat, cashmere raincoat, and knee-high dark leather boots. He paced to the help and opened the rear passenger door. Jif followed suit and entered the car, with a thanks. The driver pulled a pleasant smile.
The car smelled heavily of roses and beer. A party must have been held in here shortly before it arrived. Jif clambered over the leather seat and held on to the minibar next to the door, before plumping down into the side-facing row of leather on the upright of the car. The red leather groaned beneath his weight, a sound repeated by Iffy as he sat in the opposing seat behind the minibar. He'd managed to climb over the bar as Jif had his back turned.
"Martini? " asked Iffy, raising his eyebrows.
"No, thank you," said Jif, shaking his thick finger toward the gloomy man. "Have one for yourself."
Iffy's hands disappeared behind the bar as he looked down, making dozens of clattering noises. Jif tilted his head back against the wall of the limo and felt the car pull forward slowly. The surroundings of the interior were not plastic, but a synthetic material, so Jif could not feel the car's vibrations. Feeling more relaxed, his brain tried to make sense of what happened all those years ago and how it affected him today. He felt sleepy and was about to close his eyes when Iffy went off.
"Mmmrrrhhhhhuu!" spluttered Iffy like a horse. Jif looked at him to take notice. Iffy went quiet again.
"What, mate? " questioned Jif, eyes narrowed to show he was annoyed about being woken. Iffy jostled his arm up, waving his finger at the window.
"You always wanted to watch the park!" Iffy said quickly. Jif shook his head.
"Ya talking out of your ass!" he snapped. Jif knew it would be impossible to see Boston Approved from Federal Street, unless you were onto of a building. Jif felt the limo steer apt and then left. Jif peered out the door window next to Iffy and realized they were on Congress Street, streets lined with boney trees and giant black skyscrapers.
The limo started to pick up rush. Jif was curious; it was normally packed at this time of day. Jif gazed around the large situation and fiddled with the seat when they overtook a white roaring bus.
"Iffy," called Jif, "how do you wind down the partition? " Jif pointed at the glass wall divide at the other end of the limo. "I want to speak to the driver!" Without a flicker of emotion, Iffy raised a black brick with a wire at the kill. It had red and white squares on top. A sort of remote control. Iffy sank his thumb, and something clicked. With an unpleasant electric speak, the glass partition wound down.
"Sir," called Jif, "what's up with the traffic? "
"Virtually no traffic!" called the chauffeur without turning his head. "Amazing for Boston!" He said nothing more, and Jif couldn't argue and ask anymore. Jif turned to Iffy and waved his first finger in a circle. Iffy wound the partition back up again.
"I would have chatted with him . . .," said Jif, his head bowed down. "Why is everybody so antisocial today? " he questioned as he looked into Iffy's face. Iffy was serious faced again, staring straight through into nothing.
"I despise these things. It's gonna be a dismissal, and I can't net out of it." Jif was getting angry. He threw a fist into the seat next to his thigh. "Why do they always have to drag their employees for"-he searched for something to say-"a word! All the time!" He put on a London accent. "Mate, can I have a word? " He returned to his normal voice. "Why can't they just get on with it and say, 'Hey, you're fired!' Why can't they unprejudiced be honest? They're all so uptight and dishonest! Every employer! Everyone I've ever been with, they stab me in the befriend!"
Iffy aloof didn't respond. Jif sighed. He felt the car hover along the road, bouncing, gliding through curves. He worked out they were on Lomasney Contrivance, heading towards the spaghetti junction. Jif felt his eyes water up. He rubbed his face with the back of his right hand. He felt if he lost his job, he would be able to support his wife. She was the only thing good in his life, other than Charlie. If he lost her as well, he'd have nothing. He'd be nothing.
Jif turned around and peered through the window behind. They were doing about 60. He saw Ford Crown Vics fly past the limo as they entered one of the freeways. Overpasses fencing flew above him as they sped along. He felt the car dip in a bend. He saw a freeway rise out of the ground and become level, coming side on closer and closer, until the limo joined this lane. Highway 93.
"Well, this is it. Nothing to finish now," whined Jif as he swiped up his left sleeve to see his watch: 1042. It would be an awfully long drive.
He peered back through the window. Trying to stare down the window, down the road. They were coming up to the Thomas P. "Tip" O'Neill Jr. Tunnel. An ugly square hole dug into grey concrete. The mouth swallowed them up, plunging the limo into a smooth darkness that was pierced every second by a flash of yellow from the overhead lights in the tunnel.
The darkness made Jif even sleepier, if uncomfortable. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he tried to think of Charlie but couldn't. Instead, the thought from earlier came back. The darkness reminded him of it.

September 14, 2003, 0016

In his memory, he found himself running down a dark corridor, lit by only a tiny ray of light from the door up ahead. He was in the Kenjiku Plaza, and he could hear his heart racing madly, his breathing emphasized by the motorcycle crash helmet he was wearing. At the end of the corridor was a metallic door. It was unlocked and ajar. He could hear yelling inside, grown man arguing in a Japanese dialect that he couldn't understand.
He crashed through the door, bearing in mind the element of surprise, and trying not to drop what was in his hand. Straight ahead, Kensuki Kenjiku, suited in beige, matted, unkempt murky hair, looked, turned right to face his intruder. He was standing in front of a Kenjiku uniformed guard, who also turned to see what was happening. The room was small, illuminated by yellow light beaming in from a streetlight outside through a window, and only had a single desk leisurely them, about a metre long and reached ruin to end of the room. Jif immediately got clear of the door and spun right to drive his left shoulder into the men. Soft, warm flesh engulfed his arm, banging his wrist into his stomach. Two windy grunts hummed their way into Jif's helmet along with a scraping sound of furniture. He felt his right gloved hand start to burn as the liquid in the glass sloshed over, dripping down its stem. A black peaked cap cluttered over his visor and fell to the floor. The weight on his arms subsided with double yelps.
Facing fair on, he heaved away from the men and charged for an open doorway which led into the huge room filled with the smell of urine. On the smooth tiled marble floor, Keitaro was lying facedown, an arm stretched out and hooked above his head. Jif leapt over him and looked up again. His eyes were met with dozens of murky electrical devices stacked against the walls, some monitors, some plastic things with no definite spend. The boy that had only been known as "Rock" had his back turned. His short black hair was spiked up in all directions, and the black combat pants and red fleece did nothing but infuriate Jif; it reminded him of the shootings earlier in the day.
In front of the boy was Yuzuyu, arms raised in surrender, standing in a puddle of liquid. The brown skin beneath her blonde hair was so wet it reflected the little light that was in the room. She was still wearing the dirty blue coveralls and the oversized men's shirt. The sleeves had dropped right up to her elbows. Rock slowly turned around, his eyes looking like black holes. Jif threw what was in his hand directly at Rock's face. The beer glass tilted in the air, ejecting a small globule of liquid from its inside. The fluid looked alive, with little rainbows of colour.
The whole glass impacted Rock's head from the corner of his left eye socket. The glass broke in three pieces, and the liquid flowed all over his face. Jif didn't wait for Rock to scream as he ran past and charged at Yuzuyu. He threw his arms out and scooped her up. She slammed into Jif's chest with an "uh" from the back of her lungs as he heard Rock screaming in agony. The smell of sulphuric acid was now obnoxious. Her weight was a sudden pull on his legs; but leaning forward, and shaking his head through the wave of her blonde hair, he ran for the nearest exit.
The door next to them was unlocked. Another dark corridor; Yuzuyu did not react. As shouts of pain from Rock blended in with yells from other men behind him, he ran and could hear footsteps slamming on the floor behind. He could feel the dampness of Yuzuyu's wet trousers seeping into his smock. He could see a junction ahead and a large window. Jif didn't slow down as he approached.
Throwing himself forward, the glass slammed his crash helmet down onto his skull with an awful smak. Glass shattered around him, and Yuzuyu howled in dismay.
"JIF!" she screamed. Wind began to whisk past both of them as they plummeted from the thirty-second floor of the plaza. Jif gripped Yuzuyu's dress as hard as he could as his right hand reached the pull string in the strap of his backpack. A quick rustle shocked his body before there was a gradual, not quick, slowdown of their descent. Even with the parachute, they were still falling quicker than he would have liked.

May 10, 2006, 1158

Jif stirred in his seat. Not wanting to wake up, but wanting to know if he was there yet, he squinted his moral eye, took a peek, and raised his right hands to view his wristwatch: 1159. Lunchtime and he still wasn't hungry. He'd been dieting for two months, but about this time, he'd normally have a porkpie or a reduce of Cracker Barrel on Jacobs. He couldn't stand the British tea that was imported here; Tetley tastes unique. He'd resolve for a Nescafe or trot over to Starbucks.
He gazed at Iffy. He had his eyes closed, but his head was still up, as if he was sleep sitting. Silently, Jif shuffled around.
He leaned over to his window, putting his forehead on the cold pane of glass. They were on a freeway, doing about 70. A sizable speed for such a big vehicle. But the sooner they got there, the better. He looked for a landmark. Where were they?
The landscape was whizzing past, along with roaring tankers, buses, and vans. He could see mass car parks and ugly tall white-walled industrial warehouses. Somewhere come Massachusetts? It was New Haven.
His vision was temporarily obscured by a pillar. The opposite freeway lane split away in a curve. Roads flew above him. They were going through another intersection.
Jif coughed. He started feeling sick. He wished this car would stop and he could just run with Yuzuyu from this awful country. It once had so much hope, but it stabbed him in the back, just like everyone else in his life.
"What's the utilize of family? " Jif asked himself out loud, not caring if Iffy woke up. His breathing had caused condensation on the window. "They tie you up, drag you down, and die and break your bloody heart!"
As the mess of overpasses flew past, the sunshine suddenly broke through. He squinted, and then crushed his eyes shut. The blinding light caused his brain to ache, and Jif could feel his blood easing into his eyelids. The brightness continued, and his vision became engulfed. All white.
Jif knew this wasn't in his memory. It was too long. He was now seeing his imagination. Everything was white. He could feel himself looking around. A mass landscape of white. Nothing else.
He felt himself move his hands. In front of his face. He saw them. But that was it. A hallucination? An out-of-body experience?
"Hello? " he called. He heard his echo bounce help.
A spot of black appeared on the horizon. At least it wasn't white.
Seemed to get bigger. And bigger. It was coming forward, at a colossal speed. Jif felt his knees shake. He wanted to run. But he wanted to confront what he was seeing. The object started to take a recognisable form. Human shaped. A young man. Asian. Dark green jacket over a white shirt. Blue jeans. White sneakers.
It was Keitaro.
He stopped about a meter in front of Jif. He was wearing the same clothes as when he died. He was smiling.
"Are you alive? " Jif sheepishly asked.
"No, Jif," said the boy. He spoke in English, heavily accented in Japanese. "This is just your brain coping with whatever shit has happened to you." Jif nodded his head. And he realised, he was dreaming.
"I know. It's so stressful, all this!" Jif whined, throwing his arms at his sides. "A pleasant friend of mine died-my fault-and now I'm going to lose my job! It's so insensitive!" Jif panted, thinking up more things to say. "I know you're just a hallucination, but if you were 'ere, would you come for Yuzuyu? "
"No, Jif! We both know I'd never have made a helpful husband. You needed her more than me!"
He knew he was just saying that.
"Jif," Keitaro suddenly said in a sinister tone, "everything is going to change."
"Nani? " replied Jif. He felt himself unable to use English. He'd been learning Japanese since Yuzuyu arrived in his life, but now it was all he could think of. "Nani do sisfa? " Jif asked.
Keitaro faded away into the light as Jif felt his lungs exhale.

And the dream fogged its way through his brain as he thought of something else. And the paleness of the light put him on track to think of his wife. The paleness of the sky and the thought of how Yuzuyu's skin was so pale came to mind.
She was born in Japan, yet she was white. How could that be? It was the same question he asked himself when he and Yuzuyu arrived back in England. At his terraced house in Hull, Jif had made her feel at home, when the question kept fuming through his head.
It took a week before he worked out what it was. Vitiligo. Or leukoderma. "A chronic skin disease that causes loss of pigment, resulting in uncommon pale patches of skin" as the encyclopedia told him.
A trip to the doctors suggested that Yuzuyu's case was caused by a combination of autoimmune, genetic, and environmental factors, something Jif did not have time to understand. What was important was that it was not life threatening. So Jif decided to act as if this was normal.
It worked! The vitiligo affected her whole body, not patches! So to anyone in the street, and especially to Yuzuyu, she looked like a normal Westerner. A pale one at that.
But that was not the most serious problem.

May 10, 2006, 1206

Jif felt his eyes open again. It was dark. Yellow fluorescent lights flying past above him again. Were they in the Boston Tunnel again? No.
Out of the tunnel, the limo emerged among four-story red-and-white-bricked buildings. Jif could see they were in the Bronx, near New York. He twisted around in his seat, peering through any of the windows, trying to see the Statue of Liberty.
Grand Theft Auto IV was coming out next year. He hadn't played video games since he arrived in the US because of the job and Yuzuyu. But he was still highly interested. GTA IV would be set in Liberty City, a mock-up of New York. It would have many Original York monuments incorporated in the game. He wanted to see how different the Liberty Statue would be to the Statue of Happiness that would be in the game.
He saw the road suddenly shrink from a two-lane highway to just one. They were going over the George Washington Bridge. The road felt bumpy, and the limo vibrated as though it was having an orgasm. The low-level bridge barrier whisking past, he could look a radiant little forest beneath him. He wondered what it would be like to live in the woods, like Robin Hood. Like Tom Good out of The Grand Life. Away from civilization. Away from the need to pay taxes.
If he had lived down there with Yuzuyu, feeding off deer and building wooden shacks, it would be unlikely people would come to criticise him. And he could have sex with Yuzuyu without anyone bothering him. But Yuzuyu was exclaim with technology. She loved her computer. He could take that away from her, not now. What if he'd taken her to the woods before all this?
"No! Don't deem of sex!" cursed Jif to himself through clenched teeth. "That's what paedophiles do!"
The bridge ended, and they were in New Jersey. Behind his head, on the left of the car, was a multi-storey purple building made of glass that looked rather similar to the hospital on the TV series House.
Jif sighed and sat encourage down, resting his head uncomfortably on the edge of the backrest, since there was no headrest. He wanted to think of Charlie.

March 11, 2004

"Really? " exclaimed Foxy. "You're an MIT student? "
Twenty minutes after the scuffle in his office, Jif had escorted the boy back into Babylon Zoo for a chat. Having dressed and dried off, the Charlie boy effect on some glasses. It turned out he'd actually been called over by his grandmother, to run the place.
"What's an MIT? " asked Rajah. By now Jif had gotten to learn everyone. The long-haired girl was Naomi, an Israeli, also trying to derive into MIT to do the maths degree. The Southern girl was called Foxy because her eyes made her witness like a fox. He wasn't certain of her real name. And the Indian was called Rajah. There was also a Japanese resident, but she wasn't in today.
"So you should be a sophomore by now? " said the Original York aunty. She wasn't involved very much with the dorm. She only ran the exiguous café outside, which shared the now-tiny car park in front of Babylon Zoo.
"Well, actually, Aunty Miriam . . .," began Charlie. He was sitting on a couch in the living room; the aunty was kneeling her elbows on the backrest behind him. He was cut off when Miriam covered his mouth.
"So that's the story! He's been studying his brains out all these years! I'd say he'd be an impressive manager." Then she pulled her hand away.
"Manager? " exclaimed the boy. He still wasn't in MIT! Perhaps she was trying to do him a favour to give him this job.
"Of what? " asked Jif. "The apartment? "
"No, wait!" exclaimed the Israeli. She paced up to the coffee table in front of Charlie and started shaking her finger. "We can't have a man be the manager of an all-girl dorm! That's totally unacceptable!" She was throwing a tantrum when Foxy interrupted.
"So, Mr. Manager . . . what exactly are you an expert in? " asked the Southern belle.
"Well," started Charlie nervously, "my goal was to do the computer course and-" She cleave him off.
"Oh yea! Check it out! Hear that! A computer geek! He'll be the next Bill Gates!"
"Will you conclude playing up!" shouted Naomi.
"What's the big deal? Hell, he even looks like Gates, man!"
"Look, this guy just peeped us in the pool. What do you think he'll do when he's workin' here? "
"Well," softened the aunty, "I judge it's best he stays here for the night, and we take this up in the morning."
"Ya sure? " asked Jif.
"I got to get befriend to the café, unless someone else wants to catch my site? "
The living room mercurial emptied. Miriam showed Charlie to the manager room, and Jif accompanied him. The boy was glad; he felt uneasy.
"Inspect, you're not an MIT student, are you? " questioned Jif while he slid the door shut.
"No, I'm a ronin!" answered Charlie. "I've failed to fetch in twice." Jif felt him strike a cord in his heart. This guy didn't impartial look like Keitaro; he had his spirit too.
"Look, I admire you!" Jif stated.
"What? " exclaimed the boy.
"I'm not a cop. I'm not pleased. I just want to know that I can help other people somehow."
"Uh, can you get me into MIT? " asked the boy. And the rest of their lives began.

September 13, 2003, 1557 JST

After wading through the water and watching the building burn down, Jif and his newfound friends wandered between the crumbling ruins of two buildings, before holding up at a 1970s monstrosity in yellow brick.
Jif was still dripping, his clothes sticking to his skin like cling film, weighing him down like a sack of bricks on his shoulders. With the boy and girl behind him, the old Jap thrust the shoulder straps of his backpack off his shoulders and swung the bag onto his right arm before plumping it against the yellow brick. He turned around and smiled, throwing out his arms. Jif paced up to him.
"You . . . you American? " pointed the Jap.
"No . . . English!" replied Jif.
"Ah! England! We never had England in Tokyo." Jif knew what he meant. He knew of very few English people connected with Japan. Except for Lucy Blackman, British tourist murdered by a Japanese businessman. Jif decided to test what little Japanese he'd learnt.
"Vatashina noni hongoto taragatoviNaomi," he told the fat man. He was basically saying, "My Japanese is shit." After a two-second conclude, the old man burst into a laughter that caused him to bend over, holding his stomach.
"Hahaha!" laughed the man. He stood up straight again. "Fido," said the man, tapping his chest with the tips of his fingers. "Fido," he repeated again. He was telling Jif his name. Jif didn't believe that was his valid name; perhaps his real name would be unpronounceable. He leaned over and placed a palm on Jif's shoulder. He felt warm. "You? "
"Jif," replied the Yorkshire man.
"Jeff," said the fat man. "Coma . . . Jeffrey? "
"No, just Jif," he replied with a corky smile. "Strange name." There was a crunch of broken glass from the left. Jif looked over at the boy as he stepped over the broken fragments. His unlit brown hair appeared gleaming, even in the dull light.
"My nephew," said Fido, "Keitaro."
Keitaro pulled a smile, and Jif nodded, as if saying, "You don't need to thank me." He was composed holding the small girl in his arms, right hand under the girl's bottom, left hand across her attend, her legs around his waist. They looked like brother and sister.
"Eeh," called Jif to the boy, in English. "Was she cold when ya got her? " He'd burnt his hand reaching out to her in the fire. He was certain it was because she had been exposed to something freezing, enough to burn! But Keitaro didn't understand. The boy pulled a confused face then sat her down in the corner, before removing his jacket. He held it initiate and waved her forward, but she didn't respond. So he draped jacket the over her right arm, gently placed his hands on her shoulders, and arched her forward a little before draping the jacket over her back and dropped it over her shoulders and arms. She rested back, still looking though-provoking, eyes full of wonder. Jif loved the way she looked; he could see himself in her. She reminded Jif of himself.
"Arigato," the girl said, for the first time. High-pitched, squeaky voice. Jif was already pacing towards her. He knelt before her with a nervous smile; he'd never been good with girls.
"She no talk," lied Keitaro, waving his arms out. Jif nodded without looking at him and trying to think up something in Japanese but couldn't.
"Uh . . . you have a mum and dad? " he asked. Dumb question. She didn't respond. Keitaro leaned and sat next to her.
"Aru de aruka? " questioned Keitaro in the girl's direction. He was asking, "Who are you? "
"Vatashima bere beradaru? " replied the girl. Squeaky and innocent. It was a question. She was asking, "I am who? " Keitaro's smile shrank away.
"Ya," replied Keitaro. Jif knew what that meant. "You camedita de searu . . ." He was saying, "You're supposed to say . . ." Jif was already losing track, so they proceeded to walk away and leave them with their Japanese lesson.
She had thin, not boney, legs, in the 1940s style. He'd been taught through pictures in textbooks at school. By heck, she's beautiful, thought Jif as he radiated protective feelings and feeling of another sort which bothered him. His botheration forced him to stand up. He walked back to Fido, who had opened his bag and was sucking a bottle of mineral water through a straw.
"Drink? " offered Fido, doffing the blue bottle upwards.
"Yea, all right," resigned Jif. He was thirsty anyway, and anything would taste better than the shitty odor in his mouth. He gently wrapped his thick fingers around the plastic as Fido took his fingers away. Jif could smell him; he smelt of cooked noodles. He downed a gulp of the refreshing serene water when Fido started talking again.
"Did the professor give anything to you? " asked Fido. Jif felt suspicious. How did he know he was a professor and not just a doctor? He lowered the bottle and hissed through his teeth.
"No," he replied, placing a hand on his left pocket, where the brown book was. He didn't yet trust him enough to share that book or share the words uttered to him in the building. Reservoir. What did he mean? Surely they would have finished demolishing the former structures and building the new buildings before doing anything so massive, like a reservoir. He decided to test their honesty. "How did you know he was a professor? "
"I was after him," replied Fido. This was interesting.
"Why? "
"There is a bounty on his head. One million yen. He did illegal medical operation in Tokyo."
"Dead or alive? " asked Jif. "The bounty."
"Alive," replied Fido. "So now we no get money."
"Well," began Jif, "how did you get here? 'Coz I came by plane, from . . ." He trailed off. Fido took over.
"We had a boat. Ferry. But our driver took off and left us when the earthquake hit."
"So how do you plan to get support to shore? 'Coz I'm not familiar with . . . this part of the world."
"We have flare. We set them off at night. Choppers will come at night. We seen them."
"Have you? " questioned Jif. He felt more uneasy with these people, when another aftershock hit. Fido steadied himself against the wall. "Oh, bloody hell!" cried Jif as his knees buckled. He fell on his knuckles, dropping the water bottle into the rippling pool on the pavement.
"Advance, COME!" yelled Fido, pulling at Jif's collar. He was running up to Keitaro, who was picking up the girl already. He followed them, and they were going around the yellow brick building. It seemed to have a block to it and a recess. They were heading to the front. There was a doorway, or what was left of one. The doors were long gone.
The interior was white, plaster walled, dirty with dust and cobwebs. The floor was wooden, its shine long gone, covered in broken glass, unused light bulbs, clipboards, and dead rats. It looked medical almost; it smelt of antiseptic but mixed in with the scent of dirt and decay.
There was a reception, the single desk set up against the wall with a shattered blackboard behind it. Wooden chairs were strewn around, overturned, and connected with cobwebs. Jif gazed around wondering what to do as his body shook to the point of collapse with the earthquake.
"Stairs!" cried Keitaro. They started to recede in narrow corridor. Jif followed and found a flight of concrete stairs. They'd been tiled once upon a time, but many of the ceramics had been ripped out, leaving a rough surface and a sharp edge to each step. He flung himself up as he felt bits of nothing become dragged over his hair. He heard something collapse in the reception. A masonry sound. Maybe a wall had fallen down. He was making for the third floor when he heard them call him from below. They were on the second floor. By the time he got to them, the aftershock had stopped.

May 10, 2006, 1301

Jif felt his eyes open again. He was staring up at the roof of the limo. It had a poster of the Sistine Chapel; he hadn't noticed it before. His neck was aching, and he looked forward again, spotting Iffy. He'd fallen asleep as well.
A thought-provoking hum filled the cabin, and Jif glanced around to see where it was coming from. It was the glass partition from the driver being wound down. The two front seats and the flat head of the driver appeared in silhouette against the bright light through the windscreen.
"We are on Massachusetts Avenue, Mr. Kitchen, approaching the embassy!" the driver called out without turning his head.
Jif was surprised. There already? Jif brought his left wrist in front of his face and raised his sleeve to expose the Ariel wristwatch: 1310. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. He'd been sleeping for four hours. But how? He decided not to bother with questions and just win on with it.
"Cheers," replied Jif, easing himself from the hot seat to secure ready. As he stood, he felt a rush of cold air flood the back of his thighs. He shuffled, bent double like an old man to stop his head from hitting the roof, to the passenger door. He peered through the window as the car continued its journey, gradually slowing down and easing towards the sidewalk. A white-walled building passed by, followed by a couple of gargantuan trees before the glass walls of the embassy came into view. Jif's heart suddenly sank, not just from what lay ahead of him but because he felt chilling reminders coming into his head yet again. He felt his eyes discontinuance as his mind filled with the thoughts of Frontiera Island.

September 14, 2003, 0000 JST

Jif was sitting in the rear seat of the brand-new Mercedes sedan, behind the front passenger. Jif checked his watch: midnight exactly! The man next to him was supping him with all information needed.
"The head office is tenth floor," the short Jap sitting next to him mumbled in broken English. He was handing Jif lots of things. The combat jacket. The red motorcycle helmet. The parachute.
"I hate heights," grumbled Jif as he zipped up the Kevlar-lined camouflage jacket and fastened the three buckles of the parachute across his chest. "But tonight there is no other plot. Even I know that."
"Most or all of us will die tonight," said the front passenger, facing the windscreen before turning around to face Jif. "But if you survive, tell everyone, mutter everyone what you saw. They have to know about this!"
"I will, Atlas," replied Jif. In a last act of preparation, Jif pulled the motorcycle helmet over his head, slamming the rim down into his shoulder. He struggled to find the buckles before connecting them. He still had his suit underneath, and he was getting very hot.
The car made a turn and rumbled over an uneven surface. A gigantic white-walled building came into view, and the car pulled up alongside it. A thick black metal mark stuck up out of a small nursery of flowers. It had writing in white, first line in Japanese hieroglyphs, second line in the English translation: Kensiku Industries.
All car doors opened, Jiff was almost on autopilot. The other men were putting dark blue bulletproof vests with TV written in yellow on the chests. Jif could feel his heart racing, his breathing amplified in the helmet.
"We go now!" said the baldy, standing next to him. As he said that, a silver figure appeared in front the glass doors. It was a Honda android, walking upright at a regular pace with a mysterious black head on top for its radar.
"Keep still," said Atlas. "It will pass by." It did. The android simply walked around the patch of flowers and passed the group of men and headed towards the rest of the unfinished or demolished buildings.
They paced forward as one, until Jif's foot connected with something. He looked down. A car battery. Black plastic face. Red Japanese writing all over it. It had its red carry handle sticking out. Jif snappy squatted down and picked up the battery before returning to the group. The cobbled floor was aloof intact, as was the glass door. The reception area was immaculate, if unmanned. White-tiled floor, beautiful light fixtures, ceiling fans, black leather furniture in the corners, and white desk on the left.
As the door swung commence, someone shouted out of nowhere. "OI!"

May 10 2006, 1302 EST

Jif woke up again. The car door was open. The chauffeur stood in front of him, holding initiate the door, his smile never vanishing.
"Need a minute, sir? " questioned the chauffeur. Jif stared at the man for ten more seconds before easing back on his seat. He closed his eyes again and drew a breath before pulling his legs upwards and placing his left foot on the sidewalk. He could feel a coldness rush through his foot. His heart thumping deep into his stomach, pumping more blood in his head, swelling his cheeks, increasing his sweat, and making him more nervous about what was going to happen next. Cowering out of the doorway of the limousine, he kept his head down, slowly looking up to see the building that would decide his fate.
On the edge of the sidewalk and in front of the embassy, two low redbrick walls with grey edging on top housed some short yellow flowers that Jif didn't know the name of. Beneath each pot of flowers was a bench built into the wall, made of grey slabs about a meter long, enormous enough to sit three people. The gap between each wall was about two meters long, to give ample room for anyone who wanted to walk along the paved gangway up to the stairs or for kids to play on the grass outside the high walls.
Jif was focused on the murky plaque, which read British Embassy in letters of gold. The wall it was on had seen better days, covered in green from the trees and rain. The plaque was honest next the set of steps that led to the grand black gate and the industrial fencing that surrounded the embassy. He could see a British bobby standing behind the gate, swaying to and fro on the balls of his feet.
After the gangway came the embassy itself, two stories high. The glass-walled building was in the shape of a giant circle, with a one-store rectangle next to it to house the reception. The windows were massive, the glass reflecting the sunlight and obscuring whoever was in the building, and thin strips of white concrete in between each window, making it look like a construction toy. It was only a few meters away, but surrounded by the black industrial fencing and the low brick walls in front, it felt like a mile.
Realizing he was still standing in front of the car, Jif moved forward two steps, allowing the chauffeur to close the door slack him.
"Iffy!" called Jif. He was still in the car.
"The ambassador told me your bodyguard could not enter the building. I'll go in with you," explained the chauffeur. His explanation was plausible. Iffy was unpredictable, and Vin was cautious about the embassy image.
"I'll take your word for it." Jif nodded as the chauffeur turned on his heel with a squeak from his boots. Jif paced forward as slow as he could; he wanted to drag this out as much as he could to soften the blow he would feel. He heard the chauffeur creep inline behind him; he didn't care if the man was lying or not; he was outside an embassy with dozens of policemen, the worst place to attack anyone. He shuffled through the gangway between the short walls and felt a paving slab whisk beneath him. Swaying up a flight of concrete steps, he made his way to the gates. They started to open inwards with a uncouth hum even before he hit the last step. He stepped over a white line from where the gate had impartial been. Just like at Lime.Inc, the British bobby stopped behind the line since this was considered British soil. This PC was a pale forty-year-old white guy with short stubble on his chin, white shirt, black epaulettes, black tie, comfortable shoes for walking, a advantageous helmet. Jif tried to sustain his eyes as straight as he could but couldn't look away from the cop. The man's eyes were deep station, like black holes.
He approached a set of glass sliding door which had been left open. Ahead of him was the plush lobby that housed the reception. He hesitated a second then stepped in.
The air-conditioning was at full blast and sent goose bumps all over Jif's body, making his shirt prickly. The lobby was white walled and tiled floored, smelling heavily of bleach and disinfectant, like a hospital. Only furniture and people gave colour. The reception desk was curved pine and, as he got up to it, smelt of forest. Two men and two women sat behind, answering phones and looking down. An elderly woman in her sixties looked up into Jif's eyes. White haired, brown eyes, her mouth held dozens of creases around it. Jif felt his jaw open, but no words came out; the woman cut him off.
"Mr. Kitchen," she said in a London accent. She looked down again, and her arm disappeared beneath the desk for a moment and reappeared with a plastic ticket. "Wear this please!" Jif took it from her, genuine. "Take a seat. The guard will be with you soon."
He made his scheme to the leather chairs and sat with a groan from the fabric beneath. He examined the tag. One wobble wide by four inches long. Translucent plastic. The blue card inside read Visitor 09 in black, font 18 letters. Beneath that, in tiny letters were weasel words of how it was property of the British embassy. There was a small plastic loop and a shiny metal clip to attach to clothing. Jif sighed and pinned it to the danger of his jacket. He placed his hands on his lap and realised his stomach was burning, from hunger and from nervousness. He looked around, trying to amuse himself in the surroundings, but the walls were plain, and there was no one else around. Yet he could hear the traffic outside; it was so loud. He found himself staring at the doors, waiting for something to happen, someone to come in and tell him everything would be all right. Instead the chauffeur stepped. Still smiling, he kept glimpse contact with Jif as he approached the chairs and sat down, giving the same groan as Jif, but less audible.
"I'll wait for you," said the chauffeur.
"Hello," said a young male American voice. Jif turned his head and made eyes with a young man. No more than eighteen and with blond hair creeping up his hat, the boy was dressed in a white shirt, black "plasticy" waistcoat with a shine to it, black pants, and a sad blue baseball cap with Security marked in white on the front.
"Come with me please, Mr. Kitchen!" said the boy. The guard spun on his heel and paced towards the reception again but was led to the left side of it, to a frosted glass wall, about two metres wide and six feet tall. Jif followed behind, feeling his heart racing. The boy glanced over his shoulder to set Jif then pulled a smile and got back to work. On the far left was a keypad. The boy waved his fingers over it, and a series of dull hums murmured away above their heads. The glass wall became a door, giving a pchuf as it slid to the left, slowly disappearing into the wall. Once the door came to a stop, the guard waved forward. Jif complied.
"What's gonna happen? " asked Jif. The guard did not reply.
"Don't score too shocked. Everyone goes through this," said the boy.
Jif saw the boy crush his left hand into a fist, and it disappeared out of view. He slammed the red button on the left wall he'd seen earlier, and the door behind slid shut with a shuff. Jif looked to the right and saw an LCD display, whirling away at maximum bustle. Maybe it was unprejudiced for show. Sealed in the chamber, Jif felt bewildered and began daydreaming again, even though his eyes were open. Everything around him reminded him of that fateful night.

September 14, 2003, 0013 JST

Deafening gunshots exploded out of nowhere. Jif couldn't explore any flashes, and even with the helmet encased around his head, the blasts aloof echoed into the ears.
His accomplices ducked and pulled out black pistols from their pants. Jif followed and dived for the reception. Atlas fired two warning shots into the ceiling, causing a sprinkle of white dust to snow around the group.
"KENJUKI MASISETSA ITERRU FOSHTE NATUNAOMI!" screamed Atlas. Jif couldn't understand since he was speaking so fast and tried to hear for pauses in the speech rupture the sound down into logical, possible English alternatives. It took three months for Jif to gather out he was saying, "Kenjuki is going down and taking you with him!"
Jif was leaning against the reception desk, cold. He was unarmed, except for the car battery in his hand, when an Asian man appeared from the corner, unprejudiced before a set of silver elevators. Jif only concentrated on the top half.
"AH!" yelled the man. He had a wafer-thin moustache below his nose. His black peaked cap held an emblem he didn't recognise, but the shaded epaulettes on the shoulders of his white shirt bore the English translation "Kenjiku."
A close gun blast vibrated Jif's helmet. Jif felt his right ear clench up as the guard collapsed with a gasp. Jif spun his head and saw Atlas was behind him, with the smoking pistol.
"YA SHOT HIM!" yelled Jif, muffled by his helmet. Atlas didn't retort. He turned help and peered further out to see the man. He was on the floor and had his back against the elevator doors. He was pushing both his hands into the black trouser leg of his left thigh.
"I can't believe you shot him," mumbled Jif under his breath as he soon saw blood trickling in a steady stream away from the man. He was about to ask why he'd been shot, when he noticed the silver pistol on the floor. It wasn't there before, and everyone else had shaded guns.
Jif fought to look at the blood and stood up. On the desk, he found an empty beer glass. It was stringy with beer froth and a shrimp trickle of flat yellow liquid in the bad. Jif quickly snatched it and scooped up the car battery.
"Jif, what did you do? " asked Atlas as Jif made his way around the desk. He didn't answer. At the opening, Jif was greeted by a hidden recess behind the main desk, which held an immaculate-looking telephone unit, an idle computer, and a notepad with Japanese symbols scribbled in blue biro. The only other thing was that everything was coated in a sprinkle of white ceiling dust.
Jif placed the battery on the recess next to the phone and pulled open the white wooden drawer beneath. Among the pencils and pens, he found some long paper scissors with a yellow handle. He opened it to its maximum length-handle to blade-and held it. He drove the other end of the blade into the clip of the battery and started digging.
"Jif, idegimas!" Atlas was saying that he was leaving, when he was really waiting for Jif. The lid of the battery case clipped open after Jif tampered with all corners. He disguarded the lid and looked down into the pool of acid. It gleamed a shiny colour. Splendid with all different colours.
He took a breath and raised the battery up to the ridge of the glass. He tipped it forward, and the liquid sloshed its plot into the glass, fizzing eerily on its way. He shook the last few drops out and dropped the battery. Clenching the glass tightly, he made his way round the desk again.
The group was already in the lift, except for Atlas. Jif felt his foot tap on the hollow metal floor of the giant tin box. As the doors closed and the car rode up, Jif couldn't help but feel the interior was wonderful. Mirrors everywhere, shiny keypads . . .
But he had to focus, and his stomach was burning with sickness. He was about to commit a crime, but it was one he knew would be beneficial for the greater good.
The elevator pinged, and the doors opened. The floor was objective like the reception. Plush shiny white walls with corporate decoration. As one, everyone stepped out of the car and turned left. They paced a dozen steps as they approached a wooden door that was the same colour as the walls around it, except for a brass doorknob with a keyhole.
"The junction box is here," said one of them. Jif couldn't make out who. The one with the missing finger pulled the fob in his bracelet. He squeezed it slightly, and a slice of metal popped out. It was a key. He slid it into the door lock and turned it slowly. Pulling benefit the master key, he turned the knob and opened the door.
A thunk of something soft hitting the marble halted the procedure. Jif spun his head round, making sure no one was getting ready to charge at them with a rifle. Out of the corner of his sight, he saw Atlas's head shake.
"Fileto inasai," snapped Atlas. Jif could work out he meant "get on with it." The man at the door pulled it open. The interior was dark, but it quickly became clear it was a cupboard. One foot in was a black plastic box with a bright silver handle. The Jap pushed the handle down with an eeek and opened the junction box. His hand went into his suit pocket, and he pulled it out again with a yellow-handled Phillips screwdriver. At this point, Atlas turned to face Jif. Jif locked eyes in turn to show he was paying attention.
"Get ready!" Atlas spoke in English. Jif nodded and took a step back, sticking his hands out to catch ready for his blindness.
The man's hand disappeared into the box. He heard metal connect with metal with the fiddle of the screwdriver. There was a short buzz, and everything went black. Except for a string of yellow hallway lights along the edges of the walkway.
"GO!" yelled Atlas. "GO!"
And Jif spun round and ran as fast as he dared. He knew what would be behind the door.

May 10, 2006, 1308

There was a ding out of nowhere, and the frosted glass door in front of him opened. The muffled sound of office work flooded into the chamber. Yet there was no one in sight, except for some movement at the far end of the corridor. It was a corridor, tiled wall, tiled floor, tiled ceiling. The tiles must have been a light colour, like beige. Even so, it did little to reassure Jif.
Two men appeared from both walls. They were guards again, but more formal, peaked caps and blue tunics. The one on the left was stocky and old and had horizontal lines all over his face. The right one was slim and younger and, strangely for Jif, looked rather similar to Charlie.
"Hold it," said the stocky one in a Hackney accent, pointing a dirty finger. Jif complied. With no one else around, he didn't have much of a choice. He felt he was going to die here anyway.
The old guard attach his left hand leisurely the right sidewall, where some dial tones echoed their way into the chamber. They both peered succor in Jif's direction, to his right. Jif looked up at the LCD bar. It displayed in red "101KG." They were measuring his weight. A security precaution to make sure none of the people inside take anything with them, like a computer, or leave anything behind, like a bomb.
"OK," said the young guard, waving his right hand forward. Jif complied as the extinct guard stood to the side. The young guard spun round and started walking, his leather shoes echoing his footsteps, like a teacher emphasizing his authority in the classroom. Jif followed, swallowing his now-dry throat, weary that his chunky stomach was pressuring his belt with a squeaking sound, and heard the old guard fall in leisurely. Professional escort.
As he was frog-marched through the embassy, he felt the same sensation when he was in the Kenjiku Plaza. He felt he was going down the same dark corridor where he rescued Yuzuyu. But this time there was no hope. And it was not dark, it was light.
The plaster corridor ended, and he was in an initiate office. Ten meters wide by ten meters long. Telephones ringing. Suits sitting in front of PCs. Women running across holding bundles of paper. Jif was escorted through the chaos to the other side of the room. Yet another narrow corridor, this time, very short. At the kill was an oak brown door. The security guard pulled out an ID card and swiped through a silver card reader on the left side of the door. A green LED light appeared in the box's corner, and the door lock clunked. The guard pushed the door open and stepped aside.
"Mr. Kitchen, Ambassador!" said the guard, looking straight ahead and not making eye contact.
"Thank you, Mr. Ralph. Wait outside!" said the voice of Vincent Bird. The guard stepped out of the way and stood up against the walls of the corridor, arms folded. Jif nervously stepped forward. Peering into the room, lit by the grey sky through the large windows at the back, he could see a single white plastic garden chair sitting in the middle of the room. He gazed left. Main members of the company were sitting behind a five-metre-long table, draped with a white tablecloth. They sat in order of seniority: Vin Bird, CEO at left raze and next to Transit Van, CO and mayor of Boston; Roberta Heseltine, advertising manager; Charles Howe, finance manager; and lastly Dill Lexmark, spokesperson and youngest of the lot. All clean-cut in sharp suits, even Heseltine, although she looked like the spokesperson for a biker clan; she was a Goth, always wearing spiked-up hair, black lipstick, and huge hooped gold earrings.
"Sit down, Jif," Vin said coldly, his half-bald head reflecting the dull light in the room.
Jif had no option. He paced to the garden chair and sat down on it with a creak of weak plastic. He drew a deep breath, and he could almost taste the hostility in the air.
"You signed an official denial," began Transit Van, his thick moustache twitching lightly with his lip movement. "So far you kept your promise, but with this situation, we have to wonder if you're a loose cannon to this company!"
"I accept whatever choice you have!" replied Jif, looking down at the floor. The board shuffled in their seats, bewildered.
"What is this, Jif? " whined Dill. "Stand up for yourself!"
"I want this all to be over with!" he replied in a flat voice
"The scrape is not you, Jif," began Vin, "it is your wife!"
"Leave her out of this!" he snapped back in a slightly louder voice, finally looking up.
"The fact is, you took her from hostile land and made this company a target!"
"He wasn't after you. He was after me!"
"When there's an attack in one branch, the rest look weak. There's going to be a ton of attempted attacks on Lime.Inc. We're hated enough as it is with the Israeli contract!"
"What am I supposed to say? " asked Jif, pointing his palm at himself. "Sorry there was a shooting? A good friend of mine is dead!"
"And you have our sympathy! But this company is at stake! All these jobs, all this money could stop from all this!"
"This is why I accept whatever your agreement is! I already know I'm no longer trustworthy, and you'll never gape at me the same again! I could argue all I want, but it won't change ya minds, so I'll just choose the easy way out." Even as Jif spoke, his hand started to shake.
"Then why didn't you fair give in your resignation? " yelled Vincent, annoyed. Jif paused and looked down again.
"I thought there might be some hope!"
At this point, Heseltine spoke, "Is all this critical? No one can be sure of an attack. Especially from a guy from three years ago." Her voice didn't go with her face. Squeaky, innocent, enthusiastic, not like her aggressive appearance or anyone else sitting next to her; they were all tired and bound to the company.
"No, I changed my mind!" snapped the ambassador suddenly, looking up with a pissed-off face. "It is you, Jif! YOU WERE THE ONE WHO HIRED THAT BOY AND GOT HIM KILLED!"
"You told me I could hire anyone I wanted for the extra security for-"
"Yes! Salubrious security!" interrupted Vin. "Not the boy next door!"
"-the party!" continued Jif, unchanged. "A party with guests I barely knew. In a building with incompetent staff! A SHABBY FACADE SO THAT YOU COULD SELL WEAPONS ON THE CHEAP AND DO DEALS WITH PARLIAMENT ON FOREIGN SOIL!"
He thrust his right arm in a downward motion twice towards the board. His throat burnt like he had inhaled fresh cigarette smoke. Jif had never screamed so much. Not since that time on the island. Even now he was picturing it.

September 13, 2003, 1610 JST

"There were supposed to be a hundred men working on this island, building it up! So where are they? "
"You tell me!" replied Fido, rummaging through his backpack again. Everyone was sitting in the trash of the giant room; it felt like a classroom. Bits of wood, broken plaster from the walls, and a child's multicolored tricycle littered the floor. Everything of monetary value had been stripped out long ago; Jif could see holes in the walls where electric sockets worn to be. It stank of urine.
"This weak to be a hospital!" stated Fido in English. "This was the children's ward. I was here for two days because I broke my toe."
"So you been here before? " asked Jif. Keitaro started to get up and flipped over a plank of wood as he did, sending a cloud of dust in the air. Yuzuyu flinched assist, defensive, pulling the perils of her jacket closer together across her chest.
"I was here for five years," stated Fido, "before the company closed down and all the jobs disappeared. Now no one is welcome here!" He threw a black cylinder into the piles of trash next to him. Jif couldn't figure out what it was for. Keitaro had disappeared but reemerged from the doorway, carrying a bundle of washing.
The boy muttered something incomprehensible, and Yuzuyu seemed joyful, giving a pleasing "Wah!" As Keitaro waved the clothes in his hands, Jif caught on. He was going to dress the girl. Even though he'd seen her naked, he knew when to give privacy.
He stood up and leaned up to an open window. Actually, it was just a hole; the glass and even the frame and windowsill had been ripped out. Jif rested his elbows on the rough edges of the bare brick and cracked cement as he pulled out the mystery book, breathing through his nose, trying to pick up some fresh air to drive away the awful smell.
As he pulled open the worn brown leather mask with no title, he saw this was no ordinary diary. The first page held a blue biro drawing of a human figure, with the joint of the arms and legs circled untidily. Hieroglyphs were all over the page, but Jif couldn't read Japanese, only speak it.
He turned the page. Two pages of just words. Meaningless. Page 3 had a paperclip attached to it, but nothing to hold. He turned the page to see if the other side had anything. Jif's heart stopped.
Attached by the paperclip was a four-by-seven-inch photograph. It showed a Japanese man in a green sweater overlooking a delicate diminutive Asian girl in a floral dress playing with a status of Barbies. He had no doubt; the girl in the picture was the girl in this building. The girl he'd rescued, well, not quite. He turned his head around. Keitaro was dressing her. Men's clothes. Green pants with a hole in the knee and a dust-coated white shirt. Too big for her, but anything would be good to keep her warm. A lot of giggling as Keitaro used a rope for a belt on her.
He flipped the page. More Japanese writing and drawings of what looked like a car disk brake. Two disks connected together. Arrows at either side of the drawing pointed in opposite directions. Maybe it had something to do with her joints. Pivots maybe? To add strength?
He flipped again. Measurements now. And he recognized something straightaway. "Twenty pints of blood." It was in English in the same pen ink. But the rest went assist to Japanese again. Some sort of operation was being done. But should Jif be getting involved?
He turned again. Diagrams of a gargantuan rectangle encasing tiny cylinders, squares, and dozens of lines in all directions making interconnections. A circuit board. What did this have to do with her? He turned the page, and everything else was blank. He sighed as he pocketed the book.
"What you got there? " called out Fido. Jif felt his testicles contract; the guy was suddenly talking again, breaking this peaceful silence.
"Nothin'," replied Jif, a miniature enraged. He spoke through the window, not turning around.
"Oh, you don't want to talk? " went Fido sarcastically. Jif sighed. The guy had changed his tune. Jif shuffled around and thrust his hands in his pockets.
"What, mate? " said Jif, trying to be as reasonable as he could.
"This island is only 400 by 140 meters," started Fido, pointing a poky finger downwards. He still had the bag in his crotch. "And they managed to cram five thousand human lives onto it. Now, you people gonna do that again? " Jif knew where this was going.
"Look," started Jif defensibly. He was trying to defend himself and assert himself. "I impartial want to work! I want a job! I want to acquire paid! That's it!"
The argument was interrupted by the sound of scraping. The girl was kneeling on the floor with her recent clothes, arching over what looked like a newspaper. She was holding a chunk of dusky rock. Charcoal. Where the hell did charcoal end up in this place? Keitaro reappeared again, with a bemused look as he too saw what was going on.
As Jif placed his hand over his pocket that held the book, his stomach tied itself into a knot. He gazed over to Yuzuyu, realizing the hole he'd just entered.
He approached the girl slowly so as not to disturb her. His heart was racing.
Jif peered over her shoulder to see what she was doing. The piece of newspaper lay under her hand as she scrawled English letters in black ink. He could make out some scribbled letters. K, I, T, A. She was trying to write Keitaro's name. Keitaro joined him, peering over the girl, and that's when she reacted. Her head spun round as she gasped, and her eyes connected first with Jif's then with the boy's.
"Vatashima machia sterio stika? " she asked, gazing back at the newspaper. "Did I do it wrong? "
"Ya," exclaimed Keitaro, smiling and waving his hands up to his neck to prove there was no trouble. "Da choro emoniomokoto anetano kari ke sore da." He was saying, "I was just wondering how your hair was grown." Yuzuyu turned her head back to Keitaro again and dropped the "pencil" to reach her head and threaded her hands through her hair.
"Keitaro," she began, "ika niki kono vu vatashino ke? " She was till holding her hair. Jif roughly figured out she said, "How would you like my hair? "
"Ah . . .," sighed Keitaro with a grin. "Ana kono ke uma kuaru, fedira oni." Jif sighed as he worked out his acknowledge. "Your hair is fine as it is." Probably the best thing to say. He knew the girl liked him. He drew a breath and pulled a smile as she turned to make eye contact with him. He didn't feel comfortable speaking Japanese, and he felt this girl knew English too, so he chose his native tongue.
"I was wondering . . .," began Jif, in English, when he was interrupted.
"Yuzuyu!" called out the girl.
"What? " exclaimed Jif. There was a ching as something connected with the floor from slow. Fido must have dropped his water, again.
"Yuzuyu is my name." She spoke in English! She could understand him. Jif wanted to hold her up and cheer, but his insecurity held him down. It was Keitaro who did the celebrating for him.
"Ah, miru!" cheered Keitaro, leaning into the girl and patting her back. Jif started standing up, feeling unwanted. "Vanitina kiorgu!" he said to her. "You're remembering!" He started saying how she would start remembering her mother and father. "Sununi kyoku mama doshdi papa . . ."
Suddenly, Jif heard a distant mumble of voices. Outside, more than one person. Certainly not from here.
"Did you hear that? " he interrupted the conversation.
He made it to the hole for a window and peered out. Two stories below, two men in strict-looking black uniforms and very gigantic peaked caps were directing their arms at each other.
"There's more people," cried Jif, with a six-inch smile across his face. He genuinely opinion he'd found salvation. He rushed past Fido and through the doorway, leaping over a bemused-looking Keitaro, and clip-clopped down the concrete stairs, his footsteps echoing around him. Out in the initiate again, he kicked a plank of wood out his blueprint and cornered the building, skidding suddenly. A black sedan was parked in front of the gateway; it wasn't there before! He panted and placed his hands down, leaning over the hood of the car, the bonnet still warm. He could smell exhaust fumes in the air.
"MAYDAY!" yelled Jif. He could see an inch of black uniform from behind a leaning steel structure about three meters away. It twitched, and he saw a face appear. His mouth was wide open. Then he disappeared.
Jif heard a Japanese sob.
"Jif, get relieve in! They're going to shoot you!"
"What? " exclaimed Jif. He stopped and turned his head. "Why? " He turned back again and spoke to himself, arguing the point. "We haven't done anything wrong! They're coppers. They're supposed to help us."
Then, a guy appeared. Like the dead police officer he'd seen earlier.
"There are five of us, one little girl. We . . ."
The boy in the red top and black combat pants stomped up. His expression didn't change. His automatic glinted in his right hand. Jif felt his intestines collapse inside. The boy raised his gun.
Jif was throwing himself off the car when he heard the blast. He'd spun round. He didn't feel anything! He was racing for the stairs, his heart pumping into overdrive, his skin suddenly gone cold and wet. As he got to the last step of floor 2, he felt the blood. In his left shoulder. He dragged over the wound to glance the blood loss. A streak of red lined diagonally across his palm. He wandered dazed into the empty ward.
"Fucking hell, man! I told you!" screamed Fido on the other side of the room.
"How was I supposed to know? " yelled back Jif, holding his shoulder, and shaking like a vibrator. He was getting cold and felt lighter, as if he was getting high. Through now-chattering teeth, he spoke, "Anyway, what should we do now? "
Keitaro had already picked up Yuzuyu in a brotherly cradle when Fido rushed the doorway where Jif was. He grabbed a handful of Jif's shirt and yanked him help into he room.
"This isn't the time to play fights!" yelled Jif. He figured he was going to get punched. Instead, Fido threw himself through the wooden partition, which splintered to the sound of a Jacob's biscuit cracking. They were in another ransacked room. A doorway was in the corner.
"Run you!" went Fido as he charged for the opening. Jif turned his head and waved Keitaro forward. Women and girls first, he believed.
"What are you doing? " yelled Keitaro as he rushed past, crashing through the trash on the floor. Jif made up to the arch and chased after them.
Fido led the group along a massive dark corridor, up to a shut door. As they grouped together, Fido was pushing his hand down on something. There was a clunk, and the door swung open. Darkness. He went out and made left. Jif was about to notice why.
It was a status of stairs. There were a few windows, but little light came through. He went through the fire exit and kept up with Keitaro; the girl, looking back, looked so bewildered. The stairwell was dark and claustrophobic. Jif let his hand slide along a cold steel banister, using that as a guide through the moderate darkness as the stairs turned before him. They passed another door, one floor to go. Smack smack smack, with their shoes on the steps. Out of sight, there was a squeal of metal against metal. Jif rounded the next corner. Daylight. Fido had found the last door. Ahead of him appeared to be a stack of trash: bed frames, tables, anything made of wood. Jif went through the door and made straight where they were heading. There was a tight gap ahead between two box houses; they'd already gone through. Jif squeezed his method through, scraping his soggy chest against the brick. He stubbed his toe and ground his teeth, and he fought to keep up with them, when he heard a car engine behind him. A spout of energy filled his legs, and he milked every bit of it.
They ran along the road, sandwiched between the giant grey brown buildings. Concrete all around. Bits of wood, general trash, and kids' toys littered the way. Jif leapt over a smashed TV set; plastic casing and circuit boards shattered on the floor. As he kept up with the men in front, he could see that Yuzuyu was uncomfortable. Keitaro was holding her like a baby, but her head kept on slamming into his shoulders with every step he leapt. She was practically crying. Jif reckoned she was begging him to stop running.
The gap started to widen up ahead. Jif followed in a line, and they emerged in an initiate space. It was like an alien planet. He was now running on new pavement! It was black. Looked as fresh as today. And yet in this patch of new, there were crumbling buildings all around. This was a shambolic building consume being done here!
"Key!" cried Keitaro, with his head turned over his shoulder to face Jif. "Go there!" He took an arm off Yuzuyu and pointed straight in front.
There was an opening up ahead. A hood made of brick. Red. Recently made. White signs with black hieroglyphs on the overhang. A stairway to a subway. A train station.
"GO! GO! GO!" screamed one of the men. Jif didn't know who; they both sounded the same at this point. Those in front started to sink below ground level as they made for the stairs of the subway. Jif followed, leaping two steps at a time. He was swallowed by the tunnel opening and found himself on a station platform.
It was clear this structure wasn't finished. There were plain redbrick walls all around, giant red cabling and flimsy fluorescent lights hung from above, the ceiling was incomplete. There were no tag kiosks, barriers, benches, or the other normal things associated with a train station. Bricks, wall tiles, wooden planks, and strips of metal were lined up against the rough wall. Power drills, saw blades, and hammers were strewn along the floor, some of the spiraling long red electric cable. He saw Fido rush over one of these cords, falling flat on his stomach before getting up again.
They ran into the platform as another earthquake started up. How many more times did this have to happen? Jif felt his feet become numb. An overhead ticket with hieroglyphs vibrated. Ceiling panels creaked above him and started to fall down. One white aluminum panel smacked his head before clambering around his feet. He tried to focus on the group ahead of him while negotiating around DIY tools and trash in his procedure. He heard Fido up ahead weep something in Japanese while running along the platform. Keitaro turned his head to translate it for Jif late him.
"We're going onto the track!" he yelled. As he went to the edge, he began to disappear. Jif could barely see because there were no lights on in the place. Not wanting to go blind, Jif reached into the side pocket of the jacket and pulled out a cigarette lighter. He never smoked, but people often asked him for a smoke. It was a good icebreaker in his opinion.
They leapt from the platform onto the track. Jif felt his knees almost compress to the sudden stop of the jump. He gasped deeply and leapt after the Japs into the darkness. Flicking the lighter three times, it finally ignited, and he could see an arm's length ahead. The rails were bronze in colour, on top of dark grey concrete slabs.
"Is it electrified? " cried Jif, talking about the rails. He got no reply. The only sounds he could hear were the footsteps, echoed by the tunnel. And his own panicky breathing. Then, a gun blast from maybe a shotgun echoed down the tunnel.
"Fuck!" screamed Jif. There was no flash, and he couldn't be certain in which direction the sound had come from. They ran along the track, Jif trying to stay in the middle to avoid touching the rails. Keitaro was turning round, running backwards while holding Yuzuyu, waving Jif to arrive closer. Bang! Another blast. Then sporadic gunfire, an automatic weapon. Jif raced the last amount of strength he had and caught up with the boy. His skin looked yellow in the orange light of the flame.
"Give me the light!" demanded Keitaro over the gunfire. Jif handed it to him; he might put it to a better use. Keitaro swiftly passed it to Fido, who'd slowed down. In the light, his hat cast a shadow over his face, giving Jif a chill down his spine. It reminded him of the boogeyman. Fido muttered something Jif didn't hear and disappeared again. The gunfire was quiet going! Then the light appeared again; he was holding it above his head.
"He's got a lead!" spluttered Keitaro, who was running out of breath. Yuzuyu was grasping the boy's collar. A shiny line of a tear was on her check. She was scared down here.
The shooting had stopped. In the darkness of the tunnel, they were trailing into nowhere. They had all become a train, holding on to each other's shoulder to avoid getting lost in the darkness. He knew Fido was leading. Jif held on tight to Keitaro, in front of him, but secretly wishing he could fill on to Yuzuyu.
Then the light went out. Black! Darkness!
"FUCK!" Jif was screaming at the top of his lungs.

May 10, 2006, 1323

He was back in the embassy again. He could feel the eyes burning their gaze into him.
"Why d'you come here, Jif? " yapped Vin. "You bring in a twelve¬-year-old girl in a nappy to attract everyone's attention. YOU GET MARIED TO A MINOR! I'M THE ONE WHO HAS TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING TO OUR INVESTORS!" Vincent had never been like this before. In Hull, Jif and Vin stuck together through the roller coaster of school. They were both minorities: Jif was fat, Vin was black-the only black in school. They had taken raps for each other and promised to serve each other out. It was Vin who had recommended Jif for the Frontiera Island job and the Lime.Inc job because he knew Jif could be trusted, and he knew Jif would do as he was told! Even Jif knew that! But all that trust, all the honour, had evaporated! Now it was all one man for himself. And Jif could feel it, the coldness, the loneliness.
"All I can say is I'm glad I'm not tiresome or in prison," croaked Jif.
"You always helped people out," Vin started saying, almost complimenting. "You're too kind, that's your spot, Jif. You let these people take advantage of you!" It felt like a father-son talk. Vin may as well have been his dad; he was older and had taken care of him. But the coldness in his eyes, sitting across from the table, left Jif with a sense of hostility.
"If I hadn't taken the job, I wouldn't have met the boy. I wouldn't be cryin' over 'im. I wouldn't be so weak, like, now."
"Our mind is made up." Vin sighed. "We all have a job to do, and you've done yours."
"I signed your bloody paper!" Jif started yelling. "I signed the official denial! I have not broken it! I ain't done nothin' wrong! I thought there would be some respect in this job after all the shit I've held for you guys!"
"Jif, you're out!" said Transit, elbows on the table. Vin leaned back in his chair, arrogant. Dill pulled a sorry smile and showed his palms to say there was nothing he could do.
"Right," Jif replied automatically. Even though he showed no emotion, the redness in his cheeks filled up to a rosy colour. He wasn't surprised, he was relieved.
"You have one week to pack your bags and leave Boston!" the mayor went on to say. He hooked his head to read a sheet of paper in front of him "You will receive a pension of fifty pound sterling a week when you turn fifty, and you will receive a reference form, stating that you worked in our despatch department. You know how to drive a van, don't you? "
"Sure."
"Time to leave," snapped Vin, with a click of his finger, pointing to the door.
"Is the army interested? " asked Jif all of a sudden. His face was impassive; and for the first time, the board showed nervousness, leaning back in their chairs and looking at each other. Vin mouthed "what the fuck" to Transit, and Transit shook his head in denial. The ambassador's mouth was still open when he made his answer.
"No comment." His express was a tiny shaky. Jif was unsurprised that they were holding stuff back, but since the official denial was brought up, he'd been thinking that he hadn't dreamed the interrogation after all.
"Three men wanted to talk about Frontiera!" Jif exclaimed. The board was suddenly enthusiastic.
"When? " asked Howe in his deep voice.
"Less than an hour after Charles Ronshoe was shot!"
"Why didn't you say before? " questioned Transit, emphasising his authority in his voice.
"Because they drugged me, and when I woke up I was in my bed," replied Jif. At which point, Vin sniggered, his shoulders shuffling up and down with each laugh. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Get out and shut up!" barked Vin with a smile, cocking his head to the door. His arms were folded, defensive. Jif had got to him, and he was glad of that, but any sense of friendship, any sense of hope, was gone. He was looking at a stranger. And Vin was going to have the last word. He didn't care.
Jif heaved himself off the garden chair, the plastic groaning behind him. He blurred his vision to avoid looking at the people's faces as he turned and walked as casually as he could to the door. His true hand reached the doorknob.
"Jif," called Vin quietly. Jif stopped. He didn't turn around to face him. Vincent talked to the fat man's back. "I know you tried, I know you failed. It happens all the time. We objective accept it and move on. Lesson number 3."
Jif crooked his wrist to turn the knob and pulled open the door. The guards stepped forward, one on each side. Jif fell in between them and marched out the corridor, feeling sick.
He was relieved it was all over, and he was no longer responsible now for anything. He knew what Vin meant by lesson number 3. But up until now he was able to live a life of ease; all he was to do was overlook the building, and he got paid for it just because it was top secret. Now, everyone would assume he was just a van driver. He was going to have to graft all over again, and he didn't even know how!
But more notable to him, the boy he had worked so hard on was gone. His major work had nothing to show for. He blamed himself, he blamed Rock, there had been times today he blamed Yuzuyu for her vague association with the gunman. But there was one person he hated most of all: Naomi! If it had not been for Naomi, Charlie would not have been so desperate to rob that job; he would not have been so insecure, he would have been confident in himself and be able to find another job. And he would not have needed to scrape money for the girls to pay bills and party or to buy all the shitty things for Naomi.

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