The Pure Land by Alan Spence

nodding to him. ‘And presentable. That’s a good start. Now, some facts and figures, Mister Glover. It has cost Jardine Mathieson almost three hundred pounds to send you out here. I imagine that is in the region of three times your father’s annual salary. They see you as someone with a future. So, let’s prove them right, shall we?’
    Glover nodded, eager. ‘Aye, sir.’
    ‘I know you’ll be anxious to get to work straight away.’ Again there was that hint of humour, dry and ironic, about the eyes. ‘But first things first. Big lump of a lad like you, you’ll be needing your breakfast.’
    He hadn’t wanted to mention it, but his stomach was rumbling. ‘That would be grand.’
    ‘We can talk as we walk,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I understand there was a bit of excitement here last night.’
    ‘I thought maybe it was always like that,’ said Glover.
    ‘Not at all,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Sometimes it gets dangerous!’
    He strode across the bridge, off the island, Glover hurrying to keep up.
    ‘But to be serious,’ Mackenzie continued, ‘the situation is volatile, and the violence can get out of hand. Just last week, down that very street …’ He nodded to his right down a narrow lane. ‘Two American sailors were run through and beheaded.’
    ‘Dear God!’
    ‘No doubt they were drunk, and loud, and aggressive, probably stumbled towards the red light district, blundered into one of the ronin feeling more disaffected than usual.’
    ‘That’s all it would take?’
    ‘They are rather quick to take offence!’
    Glover remembered the face in the torchlight, on the other side of the bridge.
    ‘I’m sure I saw our friend Takashi last night, leading the mob.’
    ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Mackenzie. He stopped by a low open doorway, lifted back a flap of fabric that hung across the top, white Japanese writing painted on dark blue. ‘In here,’ he said, and he stooped and entered.
    Glover followed him in, to a dim room filled with the dark smoky smells of cooking. A few Japanese squatted on the floor, scooping up food from bowls. They seemed to eat with thin wooden sticks, a pair held between finger and thumb. Mackenzie exchanged greetings with the owner of the shop, placed an orderand sat on a low stool by the one table tucked in the corner. The owner bowed, pulled up another stool for Glover.
    ‘I’m afraid bacon and eggs are in short supply,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And oatmeal, for that matter. I hope you won’t find fish disagreeable at this hour of the day.’
    ‘I’m quite partial to kippers for breakfast, as it happens.’
    ‘Arbroath smokies!’ Mackenzie chuckled. ‘No, what they have is a wee bit different.’
    ‘I could eat a scabby horse,’ said Glover. ‘Scabs and all!’
    ‘Aye, well,’ said Mackenzie. ‘We’ll see how you get on with the local cuisine!’
    The owner of the shop brought each of them a bowl, a pair of the eating-sticks, a scoop-shaped bone spoon.
    ‘ Arigato ,’ said Mackenzie to the man, and to Glover, ‘That means thank you.’
    ‘ Arigato? ’ said Glover, and the man laughed and bowed.
    ‘Good!’ said Mackenzie. Then he picked up the sticks. ‘These are called hashi . In China we called them chopsticks.’
    ‘ Hashi .’
    ‘But I wouldn’t try eating the soup with them just yet!’ Mackenzie picked up the spoon. ‘ Bon appétit . Or Itadakimasu , as they say here.’
    ‘ Itadakimasu ,’ repeated Glover.
    The bowl was brim-full of steaming broth. Glover prodded and poked beneath the surface, saw a glut of slimy veg etables, what looked like tiny inch-long eels, a chunk of what might be a chopped-up tentacle with suckers. ‘Smells like Torry foreshore at low tide.’
    ‘You did mention scabs and a horse,’ said Mackenzie.
    ‘I have eaten tripe,’ said Glover. ‘And potted hough.’ He took a deep breath, slurped a mouthful of the soup, found it chewy and slippery once the liquid had slipped down. The taste was pungent but not