Volume 1 - CH 3.1

OCTOBER 9, 2022 ~ CTRLDEVIL

As soon as his shift came to an end, he grabbed the director, who had just arrived at work. He asked for another day off in addition to today’s off-duty day. “It’s about my wife.”

When he heard the reason, his face scrunched up as he quickly realized the situation.

“Nothing’s going on.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

He was tired of being reminded of this.

After changing into his suit in the locker room and passing through the service gate, the air had already begun to turn sticky. It was going to be another hot day. The relentless sun burned his scalp and the heated asphalt burned the soles of his shoes. His car was a gray Corolla. As soon as he opened its door, he was hit by a nauseating heat. From there, he headed toward Miyahara, where his ex-wife was waiting for him. While waiting for the traffic light, he swallowed three caffeine pills. It had been a long time since he had been on the road to the apartment he formerly called home. He turned off the old Nakasendo trail onto the national highway. He had taken the same route that day as he was taking now, he recalled.

October of the year before last.

A series of twenty-five arson cases centering on the three cities of Saitama City, Kawagoe, and Kasukabe were being pursued.

The suspect was a 30 year old man of no fixed address who was squatting in a house in Kawaguchi. Two motives that may or may not have had any significance, two dead bodies, and countless torched motorcycles and houses were produced. However, the suspect’s confession was elicited, and the public prosecutor’s office was able to close the case without incident. The public prosecutor took the bait, and the man was indicted.

Fujishima was returning home after attending a light victory celebration at the station. He had taken a short vacation, and he was in a good mood. He even had a feeling that all would be well for the day when he returned, even if it was not a house he could call his own. Now he could only think that he had been indulging in a stupid dream. The relationship with his family had long since grown cold. His absence, the head of the household, was the only thing that made it a normal family.

As Fujishima approached the apartment building, a light car pulled out of the building in front of him, with trailing red tail lights. It was a pale blue Wagon R. Kiriko’s car. Before he could think about this or that, his body reacted. Fujishima stepped on the accelerator and followed the car. He turned onto the Shin-Omiya bypass and headed in the direction of Urawa. He followed Kiriko with two cars in between.

While driving, he took out his cell phone. Should I call our apartment and ask Kanako? On second thought, he slipped the cell phone back into his pocket. There was no need to inform her of what was about to become an embarrassment. She knew all about it, surely. He had no reason to believe that she would be on his side.

Passingly he was aware he had to use the bathroom. Riding the highway from Yono, he realized it Kiriko was not headed to her parents’ house. Kiriko’s parents lived in Urawa, and they had already passed.

His faint hopes were dashed, and a terrible chill ran down his spine. He was even surprised that he had that much emotion left in him. Wading through the rage and resignation, he continued to the center of the city.

It was easy to figure out where she was going. All he had to do was take a peek at Kiriko’s cell phone. The owner of the apartment was a real estate company executive, a man named Iwanaka, her employer. He was a handsome man with a rugged face who seemed like he would look good in an aloha shirt. The type that would, after work, have an intense workout, and if there was a mirror anywhere in sight, stop to admire himself with a Rolex on his wrist. Naturally, the address book of the company she works for listed Iwanaka’s address.

Most of the leave he was given was spent trying to identify and monitor the man. He had no intention of doing anything about it, he had simply resigned himself to it all. It was not a relationship that could be defended when the end came – he told himself that.

Until the last day of his vacation, when he was playing pachinko and drinking alcohol.

It was late October. The apartment building near Gokokuji Station was a solid fortress with a full-time building manager. Except for the underground parking lot. There were no cameras in that concrete parking lot, just fluorescent lights on the ceiling that emitted a white, cold light. Among the rows of luxury cars, Fujishima parked his Corolla and waited for his return. His face was on fire and the smell of alcohol on his breath filled the car.

From there, his memories faded like gossamer and became terribly fragmented. He knew he wasn’t a saint when he got drunk. He had to have known what would happen if he went too far. But now, he understood. From the very beginning, he had subconsciously planned to attack from the moment his well-dressed wife came to visit that man.　

He could only remember the smell of cologne on Iwanaka, the smell of blood that reminded him of rusted metal, and the sound of a ridiculously loud gasp. The side window, smashed with a special baton, flying open in hail-like shards, and Iwanaka, who had been dragged out of the Audi, with gums dripping with dangling strings of spit and his sunglasses with warped frames.

Fujishima himself was so horrified by the scene that he ran across the parking lot.

Then there was self-pity, and anger. The next days, he lived like an empty shell. The day the case was reported in the newspaper never came, but within three days, the police began to hover around him. After several rounds of questioning and a recommendation to resign, he was told that if he did not comply, he would be arrested or prosecuted. If he complied, his supervisor said, there would be no arrest or prosecution. There was no way he could refuse.

With a few strokes of the pen, he lost his badge, his family, his reason for living, and his pride. He had lost so much, he had condemned himself to a mental prison forever.

Fujishima parked his car in an empty space in the parking lot and looked up at his home for the first time in a long time. It was a four room apartment on the eighth story of this brown-toned building. The auto-locking glass door in front kept out the outside world. On the first floor, a lobby existed, albeit small, with a few chairs and a desk. The property was bought after the bursting of the bubble economy and the collapse of prices, but even despite that, Fujishima’s salary was not enough to cover the expenses alone. This property was the result of support from his father-in-law.

Looking up, he saw housewives hanging laundry on the balcony. He glanced at them as he headed for the front entrance. Pressing the button on the intercom, it connected without a pause.

“Just a minute.”

The glass door in front of him opened. Upon entering, he saw a scratch on the elevator door that looked as if it had been scuffed by a coin. The ceiling of the lobby was stained with cigarette smoke. Seemed to have aged. Both himself and the apartment building.

He pushed the doorbell in front of room 103, where Kiriko resided. Even though she had already announced her visit, she hadn’t neglected to lock the door. The sound of the lock being released was audible.

“Come in.”

He drew in a breath at the sight before him. Her shoulder-length café-au-lait hair was plastered to her cheeks by sweat. Puffy eyelids. Bloodshot red eyes. Dark circles appeared on her face as if to prove that she had not slept well. She was wearing a worn white shirt, stockings, and a tight skirt.

She had not even changed her clothes after returning home from work. Kiriko’s body reeked of a strong odor of alcohol mixed with perfume. It was the same smell as those of the suspects who were waiting patiently to be placed in jail. The smell of a human being cloaked in exhaustion and despair.

He thought back as his eyes followed Kiriko’s unsteady steps toward the kitchen. Kiriko was a woman consumed by a strong sense of vanity. Looking at the Scandinavian-style furnishings, which had grown in number since before, and the bubbled glassware glimpsed through the glass shelves, he thought that she had remained the same. The bathroom would be even more forested with cosmetics – pots and jars of makeup – than when he last was here. To maintain the curvicature of her face and body, she had never stopped her ascetic efforts, until now.

He turned to Kiriko, who was fiddling with the siphon coffee maker.

“What happened?”

Her shoulders trembled. She kept her eyes on the coffee in the bottom of the cup and did not look up. It seemed like a scene from some provincial play, but there was genuine fear in her eyes.

“Oh, right…” She nodded her head repeatedly, as if to herself. “Go to Kanako’s room. Then you’ll understand.”

Kiriko pressed her mouth shut as if that were all she could say. Fujishima turned his head and glanced down the hallway he had just passed by. Old dust floated in the air.

“I asked you what happened.”

“Go and see.”

“Is it alright for me to go down that hallway alone?”

Kiriko reflexively looked at the cordless phone. It was a bitter memory. There had been a time when he had planted a bug on her when he witnessed her infidelity.

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Hear what?”

“You don’t get it?” Kiriko poured coffee into an ivory cup. Her hands were shaking. “I don’t know. Maybe I saw it wrong.”

He stared at her, still in the throes of grief. The corners of her eyes and jawline showed the weariness and decline appropriate to her age. The image of Kiriko entering the apartment by Gokokuji Station crossed his mind. Gritting his back teeth, he stepped out into the hallway. As he touched the door, he felt a rush of anxiety and frustration. Gently, he opened the door and slid it open.

He looked around Kanako’s room.

The sheer curtains were not drawn, but the room was brightly illuminated by the morning sun. The wooden flooring gave the room a clean impression. A thin scent of lotion lingered in the air. Having imagined the room to be in a rough state, he felt like he’d lost.

The room was so neat and tidy that there was little sense of a lived-in atmosphere. There was a minimalistic bed, a table, and a bookshelf filled with books. There were no girlish stuffed animals or posters of pop idols. Not many accessories to add a little color to the room, either. The room was filled with a few potted houseplants, some picture frames, and a large number of paperbacks and hardcover novels. The large study desk he had bought for her long ago had long since disappeared, replaced by a simple table meant more for decorative reasons. On top of it, several textbooks and reference books were tucked into bookends.

He reached for a photo frame. It was probably taken on the day of some event, and a group of girls in school uniforms were smiling carefreely as they posed for the camera, making V-signs and doing whatever they felt like. Kanako was on the far right, with her shoulders shrugged and a little smile on her face. She was a little different in terms of mood from the other girls, but it was enough to surprise Fujishima. So Kanako was capable of this kind of expression, after all.

Kanako’s grades were stellar. Not to mention that delicate face, which reminded him of her mother’s youth. However, they saw each other surprisingly infrequently. She rarely left her room. She always wore headphones with music playing and was distant from her parents. In a fit of anger and drunkenness, he had kicked the door to her room a few times. Eventually, they had lost the ability to even speak to one another.

He looked at the bed. The summer linen was still wrinkled. It was the first time he realized that – ah, this was where Kanako had been living.

Fujishima was puzzled. Was she really spirited away? Wasn’t she taking remedial classes at a prep school today as usual? He couldn’t figure it out. The vain Kiriko would go to any length to beautify herself, but never would it occur to her to make herself look as unsightly as she did today on purpose.

The closet door was cracked open, so he slid it open all the way.

Lots of shirts, high school uniforms and pleated skirts, plus winter and summer casual wear. Most of them were chic in black and white. He looked at the collars, but they were all unfamiliar brands. Yet, somehow, he got the impression that they were expensive. Opening the storage case on his lap, he found underwear and T-shirts folded and tightly packed.

Just looking at the number of clothing still there made it clear that the disappearance was not of her own design. Later, he would also have to check her toiletries and cosmetics. Was she involved in some kind of trouble or had someone kidnapped her?

Fujishima let out a low rumble. Whatever the reason, Kiriko must have known that she was not just running away from home. She should have immediately called the cops.

Next to the storage case was a navy blue school bag. The zipper was open. There were several reference books, a notebook filled with mathematical formulas and English vocabulary, and a drawstring bag full of sanitary napkins. There were several CDs, a small bottle of lotion, a compact, a pouch with lipstick. No cell phone, which he had expected to find.

From the bottom of the bag, Fujishima spotted something.

He pulled out of the darkness a second bag that looked out of place, with a design as though it was meant for men. Stunned by its somewhat unexpected appearance, he opened the zipper and stuck his hand into the bag. Feeling a cold sweat on his back, he bent down and shook the bag upside down. Its contents fell to the floor without making a noise. There were several small sachets, about an inch square. On it rolled a syringe and a handmade pipe made of shiny silver aluminum foil. Hi-Lite cigarettes. Several seconds passed before he registered the significance of this. There was a burn mark in the hollow of the pipe.

With trembling hands, he picked up a clear sachet. Inside, light shone off the translucent granules like snow. Now he understood what Kiriko must have meant.

In his hand was crystal methamphetamine1. Quickly he counted the number of packets. There had to be tens, maybe even around a hundred. He had no idea how much they each weighed. Only from experience, he knew that there had to be well over a million yen’s worth here at the end of the day. It was enough to last for a while, unless you were a serious addict. It wasn’t an amount that a high school girl would be carrying around for fun. Right in front of his eyes were all the must-haves of an addict. An aluminum pipe for smoking meth. The filters in the smokes2 could be taken out and used as a makeshift filter for the syringe. All this was taught to him when he was working in the Community Safety Division. It wasn’t uncommon in his profession. But not when they were in his daughter’s room. All he could think was that it had to be a bad joke.

Fujishima stared for a moment, then, as if resolved, carefully tore open the packet. He placed the crystals on his fingertips. There was no guarantee that it wasn’t actually cyanide. But he put the crystals in his mouth regardless and rubbed his fingers over his gums, and as he did so, it dissolved. Whether it was really methamphetamine or not, he couldn’t be sure. At the very least it wasn’t camphor3 or sugar, that’s for sure. He took out his lighter and fumbled to close the tear in the packet. Taking up the syringe, and removing the case from the tip, he looked at it closely. The plunge and needle were clean.

He put everything back in the bag it had come out of, and carrying it, strode quickly back to the living room. Whether it was the stimulant or the shock, his heart wouldn’t stop beating wildly in his chest.

T/N

1. he first refers it to as gankoro (ガンコロ) which is a term for specifically the crystal form of meth

2. people often use improvised filters like cigarette filters and tampons to inject drugs intravenously

3. camphor powder is white