Just who does that Osakan think he is?
Really. Hattori Heiji, detective. How did I come to loathe him so? Why does he have to be so reckless and coarse? I’ve gone back and forth between hating the brute and trying to let it go so many times in the past few weeks that I can’t seem to get my head to stop spinning.
I’ve already gone through this month’s pack of cigarettes and into my secret backup stash. At this rate, my father is sure to discover… I shouldn’t be so careless. The more I indulge, the less sensitive I am to the smoke, and it does cling…
God, what am I doing?
Insult my intelligence all ya want…I don’ need big words ta make my point… But ya’d know all ‘bout that, wouldn’ ya? How somethin’ so simple as a cross can inject fear like a syringe injects hot air inta an IV line?
How could I have let him see the cross? Of all of the people to discover it… My head is throbbing just thinking about it. It’s a symbol of faith and protection, yet Hattori compares it to self-induced air embolism. Surely he must know…
But then, does the cross really protect if the wearer is entrenched in sin? If he’s unfaithful and unrepentant and living lie after lie after lie? Koizumi-san asked if I was a man of logic. I am. I believe that I am, and yet…
Why do I carry this symbol if I don’t even know what I believe anymore? The people of this country, Japan… Many wonderful people who life rich, fulfilling, wholesome lives without any regard to a rosary. Are they to be condemned? I can’t imagine any real God could be so cruel. But for myself, I know, I am bound for Hell.
I wear the cross as if it were a shameful secret. And it is. I dread the thought of my colleagues making the discovery. Now that Hattori-san knows, I’m certain it won’t be long…
…Though, he doesn’t seem to remember that night. At least that part. Did he forget on my behalf? Has God spared me the awful truth of-
No, that doesn’t make sense. No sense at all. Not in any way, shape, or form. I’m writing nonsense.
That flash of silver in the rain betrayed me.
….the flash of silver, similar to the lighter – ah, the cross! The cross is the key.
Damn the cross! Damn Hattori! I am not Javert. I am not Val Jean. I have no noble aspirations; I survive only to be punished to atone for my life, praying and pleading to die and leave this miserable and cold, lonely place.
Cambridge. They’d told me to go to Cambridge and become a lawyer. I’d wanted to. If I had been stronger, more obedient, would I be there now? Would I loathe myself more than… more than that man, or–?
I don’t belong here. Not here, not in London. Ramson is in prison where he should be, yet those in the court plead for his release. How could they? Forgiveness in all things, yet…
Yet I cannot forgive.
Circular logic, trapped and drowning. What to do? Everything aches. I haven’t been able to work, sleep, or eat. More and more my associates ask if I ever relax. KID, too. I don’t have any answer for them. How can I relax when everything is at the verge of crumbling apart? Everything I’ve worked for, struggled to maintain?
Paris.
Paris in a forty-seven days. I can last that long. Surely, I can. I’ll drink until everything is numb and let the city take me. A brief reprieve. I am strong enough.
Perhaps I’ll give that terrible symbol to La Seine with Notre-Dame herself as the witness! No longer keeping it… caged in my ribs.. and no longer upon my shoulders… or whatever that nonsense Hattori was spouting.
God… God, I need something stronger than scotch tonight. I must figure out how to help Hattori-san.