would have known it was there, same as
the others.
Unless that was the whole point. Unless he wanted to be
seen. The question was, by who?
C H A P T E R S E V E N
GINZA DISTRICT, TOKYO
19th April— 6:02 a.m.
This was a sanctuary. A refuge. A place to escape the
sensory assault of the outside world. The choking fumes
from the long ribbons of traffic, cut into neat strips where the
streets crossed. The deafening floods of people, the roar of
their heavy footsteps as they funneled obediently along the
sidewalks in different directions, depending on the time of
day. The blinding strum of the persuasive neon, the advertis-
ing signs preaching their different religions high above the
heads of those passing below, heads bowed as if in prayer.
Here there were no windows, and no way in, apart from a
solitary, soundproofed door that could only be opened from
the inside. The air was filtered and chilled, the walls covered
in the same black Poltrona Frau leather used by Ferrari, the
recessed lights waxing to nothing more than a lunar glow
before waning back into darkness at the press of a switch.
There was a single chair positioned in front of a blank
screen that took up almost an entire wall. A man was sitting
in it, naked. To his left was a glass of iced water. His head,
face, chest, arms, legs and groin were totally bald, giving
him the appearance of a grotesque oversized baby. From the
way he was sitting, it was also impossible to see his penis,
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
4 9
giving him a strange, androgynous quality that his distended
stomach, swollen breasts and delicate bone structure did
nothing to dispel.
He pressed the small remote balancing on his lap. The
screen flickered on, a searing rectangle of white light that
made the colorful brocade of tattoos that snaked over his en-
tire upper body ripple as if alive. From all around him came
the low hum and hiss of the concealed surround speakers.
Now an image appeared. A man. Terrified. His arms
pressed flat against a doorframe. Then someone else stepped
into the picture, a hammer in one hand and two nails in the
other. The first man’s eyes widened in sudden understanding.
The nail went through his wrist, the metal stretching his me-
dian nerve across its blunt tip like the strings over the bridge
of a violin, his thumbnail drawing blood where the refl ex had
caused it to embed itself into his palm. He screamed, the sa-
liva dribbling down his chin, then fainted. Reaching for the
remote, the viewer turned the volume up.
They waited until he regained consciousness and then
hammered in the second nail. He shrieked again, his body
momentarily rigid with pain, hands clenched into white tal-
ons, before sagging forward as the men released him and let
his wrists take the strain. The camera never left his face, si-
lent tears running down his cheek, a sudden nosebleed draw-
ing a vivid line across his upper lip and chin before dripping
on to his chest.
His tortured breathing echoed through the room, a steady
metronome that marked every few passing seconds with un-
feeling regularity until slowly, inevitably, the gap between
each rasping breath grew. For a few minutes it seemed as if
time itself was slowing, his lungs clawing for air, his lips thin
and blue, each breath shallower than the last until little more
than a whisper remained.
Then he was still.
Taking a sip of water and freeing his penis so it lay across
his stomach where he could touch it, the man settled down to
watch the fi lm again.
C H A P T E R E I G H T
CLERKENWELL, LONDON
19th April— 1:16 a.m.
With a sigh, Tom threw the bedclothes off and swung his
feet down to the floor. He’d never been a good sleeper,
and experience had taught him there was no point trying to
wrestle his mind into submission when it had decided it had
better things to do.
He pulled on the jeans and shirt he’d thrown over the back
of a chair and negotiated his way across
the others.
Unless that was the whole point. Unless he wanted to be
seen. The question was, by who?
C H A P T E R S E V E N
GINZA DISTRICT, TOKYO
19th April— 6:02 a.m.
This was a sanctuary. A refuge. A place to escape the
sensory assault of the outside world. The choking fumes
from the long ribbons of traffic, cut into neat strips where the
streets crossed. The deafening floods of people, the roar of
their heavy footsteps as they funneled obediently along the
sidewalks in different directions, depending on the time of
day. The blinding strum of the persuasive neon, the advertis-
ing signs preaching their different religions high above the
heads of those passing below, heads bowed as if in prayer.
Here there were no windows, and no way in, apart from a
solitary, soundproofed door that could only be opened from
the inside. The air was filtered and chilled, the walls covered
in the same black Poltrona Frau leather used by Ferrari, the
recessed lights waxing to nothing more than a lunar glow
before waning back into darkness at the press of a switch.
There was a single chair positioned in front of a blank
screen that took up almost an entire wall. A man was sitting
in it, naked. To his left was a glass of iced water. His head,
face, chest, arms, legs and groin were totally bald, giving
him the appearance of a grotesque oversized baby. From the
way he was sitting, it was also impossible to see his penis,
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
4 9
giving him a strange, androgynous quality that his distended
stomach, swollen breasts and delicate bone structure did
nothing to dispel.
He pressed the small remote balancing on his lap. The
screen flickered on, a searing rectangle of white light that
made the colorful brocade of tattoos that snaked over his en-
tire upper body ripple as if alive. From all around him came
the low hum and hiss of the concealed surround speakers.
Now an image appeared. A man. Terrified. His arms
pressed flat against a doorframe. Then someone else stepped
into the picture, a hammer in one hand and two nails in the
other. The first man’s eyes widened in sudden understanding.
The nail went through his wrist, the metal stretching his me-
dian nerve across its blunt tip like the strings over the bridge
of a violin, his thumbnail drawing blood where the refl ex had
caused it to embed itself into his palm. He screamed, the sa-
liva dribbling down his chin, then fainted. Reaching for the
remote, the viewer turned the volume up.
They waited until he regained consciousness and then
hammered in the second nail. He shrieked again, his body
momentarily rigid with pain, hands clenched into white tal-
ons, before sagging forward as the men released him and let
his wrists take the strain. The camera never left his face, si-
lent tears running down his cheek, a sudden nosebleed draw-
ing a vivid line across his upper lip and chin before dripping
on to his chest.
His tortured breathing echoed through the room, a steady
metronome that marked every few passing seconds with un-
feeling regularity until slowly, inevitably, the gap between
each rasping breath grew. For a few minutes it seemed as if
time itself was slowing, his lungs clawing for air, his lips thin
and blue, each breath shallower than the last until little more
than a whisper remained.
Then he was still.
Taking a sip of water and freeing his penis so it lay across
his stomach where he could touch it, the man settled down to
watch the fi lm again.
C H A P T E R E I G H T
CLERKENWELL, LONDON
19th April— 1:16 a.m.
With a sigh, Tom threw the bedclothes off and swung his
feet down to the floor. He’d never been a good sleeper,
and experience had taught him there was no point trying to
wrestle his mind into submission when it had decided it had
better things to do.
He pulled on the jeans and shirt he’d thrown over the back
of a chair and negotiated his way across
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