Sally Shears’s mood, it developed, was one of barely suppressed rage, a fury that made itself known in her stride, in the angry gunshot crack of her black bootheels on icy pavement. Kumiko had to scramble to keep up, as the woman stalked away from Swain’s house in the crescent, her glasses flashing coldly in directionless winter sunlight. She wore narrow trousers of dark brown suede and a bulky black jacket, its collar turned up high; expensive clothing. With her short black hair, she might have been taken for a boy. For the first time since leaving Tokyo, Kumiko felt fear. The energy pent in the woman was almost tangible, a knot of anger that might slip at any moment. Kumiko slid her hand into her purse and squeezed the Maas-Neotek unit; Colin was instantly beside her, strolling briskly along, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, his boots leaving no imprint in the dirty snow. She released the unit then, and he was gone, but she felt reassured. She needn’t fear losing Sally Shears, whose pace she found difficult; the ghost could certainly guide her back to Swain’s. And if I run from her , she thought, he will help me . The woman dodged through moving traffic at an intersection, absently tugging Kumiko out of the path of a fat black Honda taxi and somehow managing to kick the fender as it slid past. »You drink?« she asked, her hand around Kumiko’s forearm. Kumiko shook her head. »Please, you’re hurting my arm.« Sally’s grip loosened, but Kumiko was steered through doors of ornate frosted glass, into noise and warmth, a sort of crowded burrow lined in dark wood and worn fawn velour. Soon they faced each other across a small marble table that supported a Bass ashtray, a mug of dark ale, the whiskey glass Sally had emptied on her way from the bar, and a glass of orange squash. Kumiko saw that the silver lenses met the pale skin with no sign of a seam. Sally reached for the empty whiskey glass, tilted it without lifting it from the table, and regarded it critically. »I met your father once,« she said. »He wasn’t as far up the ladder, back then.« She abandoned the glass for her mug of ale. »Swain says you’re half gaijin. Says your mother was Danish.« She swallowed some of the ale. »You don’t look it.« »She had them change my eyes.« »Suits you.« »Thank you. And your glasses,« she said, automatically, »they are very handsome.« Sally shrugged. »Your old man let you see Chiba yet?« Kumiko shook her head. »Smart. I was him, I wouldn’t either.« She drank more ale. Her nails, evidently acrylic, were the shade and sheen of mother-of-pearl. »They told me about your mother.« Her face burning, Kumiko lowered her eyes. »That’s not why you’re here. You know that? He didn’t pack you off to Swain because of her. There’s a war on. There hasn’t been high-level infighting in the Yakuza since before I was born, but there is now.« The empty pint clinked as Sally set it down. »He can’t have you around, is all. You’d be too easy to get to. A guy like Swain’s pretty far off the map, far as Kanaka’s rivals are concerned. Why you got a passport with a different name, right? Swain owes Kanaka. So you’re okay, right?« Kumiko felt the hot tears come. »Okay, so you’re not okay.« The pearl nails drummed on marble. »So she did herself and you’re not okay. Feel guilty, right?« Kumiko looked up, into twin mirrors.
Portobello was choked Shinjuku-tight with tourists. Sally Shears, after insisting Kumiko drink the orange squash, which had grown warm and flat, led her out into the packed street. With Kumiko firmly in tow, Sally began to work her way along the pavement, past folding steel tables spread with torn velvet curtains and thousands of objects made of silver and crystal, brass and china. Kumiko stared as Sally drew her past arrays of Coronation plate and jowled Churchill teapots. »This is gomi ,« Kumiko ventured, when they paused at an intersection. Rubbish. In Tokyo, worn and useless things were landfill. Sally grinned wolfishly. »This is England. Gomi ‘s a major natural resource. Gomi and talent. What I’m looking for now. Talent.«