Lady Joker, Volume 1 Kaoru Takamura (ereader ebook .TXT) 📖

a car engine starting somewhere in the distance, and once it receded, all sound ceased. He could tell that someone was keeping watch nearby, but no one made a noise, there was no smell of cigarette smoke or anything else.

The futon and blankets were a little damp, and smelled of mold and camphor mothballs. He didn’t have the wherewithal to feel repulsed by this—his nerves were primarily absorbed with the pain in his bound wrists, and the ache in the pit of his stomach, where he must have been struck when they first took him away; for the next while, Shiroyama fought against his mind, which was refusing to think, and his senses, which threatened to fall into a torpor.

Shiroyama’s mind refused to consider any matters related to the kidnapping. His family, who must be awake with worry at this very moment. His company, panic-stricken that their president had been kidnapped. The ransom, and threats that would accompany such demands. The collateral damage he had no way of imagining. The sacrifices the company would have to make to remedy the situation. All of these simply blended together.

I can’t think about it now, I’m too tired tonight. Shiroyama told himself, and in the deepening warmth of the bed, he closed his eyes.

He knew that it was dawn from the clear resonance of a bird’s sharp cry. It seemed freezing outside—his ears sticking out from the quilt were stiff with cold. There were still no voices or other sounds, and in his vulnerable state just after waking, as he tried to sit up he wondered if someone was keeping watch, when hands shot out from somewhere to grab him and lift him up.

“I’ll untie you while you go to the bathroom, so don’t lift your hands.”

This voice was different from the first voice he had heard last night—this one definitely sounded younger. However, both voices spoke in a measured, deliberate tone that was almost brazenly calm.

Led by the arm, Shiroyama was taken a few steps. He sensed a door opening, and as he was pulled by the wrists his hands touched the edge of the toilet, to show him where it was. The lookout stood right behind him, not saying a word. With hands shriveled from the cold and humiliation, Shiroyama did his business. Amid the cold rising off the toilet and the stench around it, he heard his own urine trickle down softly.

Once he was back on the tatami, the same man asked, “Do you want something to drink?”

Shiroyama nodded, and from a short distance away the voice from the previous night warned, “If you make any noise, I’ll kill you,” then he felt a cotton work glove on his cheek as the duct tape was ripped off. Immediately the area around his mouth felt better. However, the muscles in his face had gone numb from being restrained and he had lost almost all feeling—he could barely sense the gentle, cool air, and he couldn’t have made a sound if he had wanted to. His throat was dry, and the inside of his mouth was sticky from being closed the whole night long.

In the next moment, a paper carton was placed in his hand. A straw was inserted, and Shiroyama brought it to his lips and took a sip. It was oolong tea. When the first mouthful of cold liquid reached his throat, his body trembled as every nerve that had been in crisis mode all night relaxed, and tears pooled in his eyes under the cloth blindfold. He drank deeply on the second sip, and in a moment Shiroyama had emptied the two-hundred-milliliter carton. Feeling his voice return, he couldn’t keep himself from mumbling, “Are you after money?” His voice was withered and hoarse, and barely audible.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” The reply came from that short distance away, and no other words followed. Instead, he heard a light sound as the man who seemed close by tore a thin film or cellophane, and then Shiroyama felt something else being placed in his hands.

“Breakfast,” the man said.

He brought it close to his mouth and smelled seaweed—Shiroyama guessed that it was a store-bought rice ball. He wasn’t hungry, and he couldn’t figure out how his mind, which stubbornly refused to work, had made any decisions, but Shiroyama did as he was told and bit into the lump. The rice grains caught once, twice in his throat, but still he managed to get them down to where they needed to settle. Once he finished, he was surprised to have been able to eat it all, but right away his hands were bound behind his back again, new duct tape was placed over his mouth, he was forced to lie down again and he was covered with a quilt.

The hours of sleeping and waking, only to sleep and awake again, had begun. He drifted restlessly before dozing off, and upon waking he grew restless again. At first, he heard the hum of a small motor interspersed with the crinkling of static. He contemplated just what the noise could be, and convincing himself as he listened to it that one of the men was using an electric shaver. When the shaver noise ceased after a while, a faint jingling started up from that short distance away from where he lay—the sound seemed to belong to a Walkman. But the men made no other sound, they didn’t even speak to each other.

The bird he had heard that morning had only let out that solitary cry—the world outside had returned to complete silence. He was used to hearing the low-frequency noise of cars passing by on the streets and the hum of buildings’ air conditioning units, and such stillness bore down on his eardrums oppressively. There was no sign of any movement at all—not even the branches on the trees or the wind—nothing. As he continued to drift in and out of wakefulness, he grew less certain that when he had heard the cry of