The conversation paused again as another train clattered past, right on time.
‘Maybe Tanimoto-san went back home to his family?’ said Taka, continuing their conversation.
‘People don’t just go home after this life,’ said Shimada. He raised his grubby palm. ‘This dirt . . . it doesn’t wash off. We’re less than human now, even to our families.’
Ohashi looked blankly at the sky as the other three sipped on their drinks.
‘I heard they’re putting people in vans and taking them away,’ said Hori.
‘Who said that? Did they see the vans?’ asked Ohashi.
‘Dunno. But there are rumours, you know.’
‘Where would they be taking them?’
‘Who knows . . .’ said Shimada.
‘Fishy,’ said Ohashi, looking off into the distance.
‘Like Taka’s breath.’ Hori grinned toothily.
The four of them sat around the fire, sipping on their drinks, staring thoughtfully at the flames. Then a loud voice from the shadows snapped them from their collective meditations.
‘Oi!’
‘Oh shit,’ muttered Shimada.
‘Urgh.’ Hori shook his head.
Ohashi felt his mood drop.
‘What are you bastards doing?’ A large, lumbering figure approached the fire, not quite visible yet, looming closer and closer.
‘Nothing,’ said Hori.
‘Whaddya mean nothing? Looks like you’re doing something to me. What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘I’ve some wheat tea here, if you’d like, Keita-san,’ said Ohashi.
‘Pffftt. Wheat tea! Who needs that rubbish? Unless you’ve mixed it with something.’ Keita’s burly features were visible now, his pockmarked skin catching the faint light flickering from the fire. He peered at Ohashi, and Ohashi held his dull gaze.
‘I’m afraid I don’t drink alcohol,’ said Ohashi, despite being certain Keita already knew this.
‘Rubbish. I’ve seen you drunk as a skunk, pissing your pants,’ said Keita.
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ said Ohashi coolly.
‘Calling me a liar?’ Keita had manoeuvred his way behind Shimada and found the large plastic bottle of cheap saké the group had been sharing. ‘Here we are. That’s what I’m talking about.’
He picked up the bottle, took off the top and began to glug down the alcohol in massive gulps. The hand that gripped the bottle was missing two fingers – the ring and pinky.
‘Hey, steady on! That’s to share,’ said Hori.
Keita stopped and wiped saké from his mouth, staring back at Hori in irritation.
‘Yeah, and I was just taking my share. Stingy bastard.’
Ohashi held up his hand. ‘Come on, I’m sure there’s enough for—’
‘No one asked you.’ Keita turned towards Ohashi. ‘Who the hell do you think you are anyway?’
‘I’m just trying to—’
‘You don’t even live here. I see you about, acting like you’re better than everyone else. Coming and going like you’re some kind of big shot.’
‘I honestly—’
‘You think you’re better than us. And you slink off at night without telling anyone where you’re going. Are you even homeless? I bet you’ve got somewhere to live, probably even got a girlfriend cooking you meals, and you just come down here to sponge off us poor buggers.’
Ohashi was shaking slightly.
Taka spoke up for him. ‘Keita, Ohashi didn’t mean to be rude. He was just—’
‘I don’t care what he was trying to do. He should watch himself.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Ohashi fixed his eyes on Keita.
Keita replaced the cap on the saké and tossed it aside. He yanked up his sleeve, revealing his gang tattoo. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a huge mobile phone, which looked like a relic of the 1980s. There was an unsettling glint in Keita’s eyes whenever he produced the phone. There was something decidedly convincing in his embracement of the role of yakuza thug.
‘All I’m saying is, don’t mess with me, okay?’ said Keita. ‘All it takes is one call to the family, and they’ll come sort things out.’
Keita stared back at Ohashi, until Ohashi dropped his eyes, shaking his head.
‘Gentlemen, I think I’ll take my leave. Have a lovely evening.’
‘Don’t go, Ohashi,’ said Shimada. ‘It’s still early.’
‘Thank you, but I’m tired from work today.’ Ohashi put on his shoes and picked up his shopping bag. ‘Have a lovely evening.’
As he walked away he could still hear their voices slowly fading in the distance.
‘Keita, why do you always have to act like that?’
‘What? He started it! He’s such a snob. He thinks he’s better than everyone else.’
‘He’s a nice guy.’
‘He gives me the creeps. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink.’
‘Oh come on.’
‘And what’s with that purple bandana? Looks like a tit.’
Ohashi felt relief only when he had made his way through the empty streets, crept back into the hotel and slumped down in his capsule. He covered himself up with his blankets and fell asleep.
Ohashi fed the cat and ate his paltry breakfast of onigiri and wheat tea, then slipped out of the hotel to begin another day looking for cans.
Trudging time was a difficult part of the day for Ohashi. The act of walking, the rhythm of it always made his mind jump back and forth between memories. Scenes from his childhood would shift into his high-school days, which would bleed into his life as an apprentice rakugoka.
Performing had been his life; now it was gone. What would the old master who’d once trained him think of him now?
These were the kinds of thoughts Ohashi avoided. All those memories led to the same abyss. Instead, he tried to think about his friends at the camp.
They all had their histories, their secrets. But there was a mantra in the community: the past is the past. And none of them ever talked about it. They had already paid any debts they owed for what they had done. By living as outcasts, they paid every day. That was their punishment.
But there were certain things Ohashi could infer from his friends.
Christian Taka slept with a doll, and sometimes he let his Tokyo speech slip into Kyushu dialect. Ohashi had some theories about Taka’s doll, but he tried not to dwell on them. Serious Shimada didn’t talk much, unless he had something important to say, which Ohashi liked. Toothy Hori from Osaka always turned everything into a joke. But that was important to the group. If they couldn’t laugh at life, what was the point?
And Keita . . . Well, Keita. Ohashi felt bad to admit this, but he would rather that Keita wasn’t there at all. He had those tattoos, and he was missing fingers, so they all knew he’d been yakuza at some point. And that mobile phone he carried around and threatened everyone with was so clunky it was almost laughable. And why did he never use it, even when he was attacked by youths? Still, Keita was a fierce fighter and handled himself better than most of the other homeless men.
Because sometimes they got beaten up.