Tokyo Zero | Page 5

that I was being observed. The only people on the platform were a small bunch of
tiny school-boys in uniforms with enormous leather bags and a couple of old women. So
I decided that the man in the Kiosk was my contact.
I cast my eye over the snacks on display. M&M's, some chips, a cluster of dried squid.
The squid were obviously the least appetizing to a Westerner so I would choose them to
signal who I was.
There were several types of squid, but I chose the ones that seemed softest and least
crunchy. For good measure I ordered three packs.
Nothing much happened and half an hour later, after pushing the snacks to the bottom of
my suitcase where they might never be found I got back on the train and continued to the

correct station (the school-boys were very helpful) where I bought one packet of
"oishii-squido" and was met by a man in a navy blue suit called Takeshi Honda.
***
We transferred trains twice to get to our final destination, Koiwa. Honda helped me carry
my bag: insisted on it.
I noticed that he looked a little different from other Japanese men in their thirties. His
skin was tan and smooth, like someone who exercises outside a lot, but not like some
weather-beaten sailor. I also noticed that the mask of his suit was occasionally threatened
by bustling muscles. He actually had a muscular head, once you observed it, most
noticeably two powerful muscles set perpendicular to the line of his mouth that looked
well positioned to drive his long slabs of tooth through rope, planks and any other minor
restraint. His face was relaxed and long; his manner was confident and ready for a minor
challenge such as a punch in the stomach or a request for an explanation of his
apocalyptic beliefs.
For he was a member of "The Path of Forgetting", the obviously dangerous Japanese
Buddhist sect who felt the end of the world in every moment and that was why he was
helping me with my suitcase.
FOUR
Honda was quiet on the whole, and didn't look at me much. I expect he didn't want to
draw too much attention to us. But before we left Koiwa station, he asked me if I wanted
a Pocari Sweat. "It has high levels of isotonic elements such as Niacin: it's a real
pick-me-up," he explained. "Isotonic elements sound good to me," I replied.
I decided that even if he came back with a can of Pocari Piss I would just drink it and not
ask what a Pocari was.
Koiwa station platform was a good 100 feet above street level. In fact, beneath us was the
beginning of a four-mile long department store. So I could see a lot of what Koiwa was.
In front of the south entrance to the station was a small plaza, and several arcades split off
from it. The Plaza showed signs of being a political speaking place as there were posters
of boring looking people scattered around it. There were two tall buildings on the south
side. One was very close to the station and I judged it to be one of those capsule hotels
that had fascinated the Western media in the eighties. In fact it looked somewhat run
down, as if that fascination were the only reason it was still around. The other, more
distant, building looked newer, more curved, and had some colorful artwork that I
couldn't appreciate as yet.
On the north side were a big supermarket called Ito Yokado, more shopping streets and,
in the distance, the bruise-colored Edo river.
The rails throbbed like electric heating elements. No doubt in the summer people
incinerated themselves on the rails, flashing away before the train even touched them. It

might be beautiful: the yellow train of the Sobu line bursting through a small pink cloud.
Honda returned with a can that looked like a slim blue Coca-Cola. I opened it up and
downed the slightly milky, slightly salty, damn good soft drink while Honda looked on
with a note of worry on his face that disappeared when I wiped my hand across my
mouth and said "aahhhh!"
He then gestured to move down the stairs and we were soon out of the station. The Pocari
was making it bearable: I estimated that I had twenty minutes walking in me before I had
to tear my shirt off and burst a water melon on my head.
Slowly and softly, Honda began to talk as we walked down a covered street full of small
shops, mainly fruit and veg.
"This is Koiwa City, on the eastern perimeter of Tokyo Prefecture. It is part of old Down
Town... very old-style."
I couldn't see the old style, unless 20