The Black Friar

 
     Sixteen days in and the appeal still hadn't worn off. He imagined that after sixty or six hundred, the fluorescent lights of Tokyo would still glow for him. Paul Smyth didn't really mind being an exile. Now he actually felt that he was one of the few to have benefitted from the recession. Ireland seemed so backward, so dull. Tokyo was full of life. Even when the Celtic Tiger snarled loudest probably via an Adam Clayton bassline, it never had this. Tokyo; it just had a...quality.

      It was mysterious, perhaps even a little dangerous. This would prove to be the problem.

      Every evening after work, Paul would go for a walk and explore the city. He could feel the city pulse. It was as if it had a heartbeat. Cars filled its arteries. Cars intertwined with people. Cars containing people. And one car containing an old man all dressed in black. They called him the Black Friar. And his hallowed turf was sacred.

      Paul was never really a guidebook kind of guy. He just explored. Guidebooks and travel guides never showed the real city. What Dubliner has actually been to St. James's Gate? The way to discover any place was on foot, alone, getting lost.

      Paul was a fit man. He had aspirations of inter-county GAA. He didn't mind walking for hours. After a while, he knew he'd end up at some place he'd recognize. He'd see a neon advertisement that signalled his apartment was close. The first time this had happened, he laughed. He thought of the maps of people at home. "Go as far as the thatch house and then take a left." "If you reach the pub, you've gone too far." Nobody knew the Stillorgan dual-carriageway was actually called the N11.

      The Black Friar wasn't a man of God. But he was a man of principles. Only two. One: He ruled all. Two: Everybody else fucked off, did what they were told, or ended up dead. He wouldn't pray over his prey. He never sought redemption. The name had come from one of his (late) competitors. He had said that he didn't look like a mobster, more like a Black Friar. The Black Friar kind of liked the name. He indulged it. He allowed it to stick. Even so, he had his competitor extinguished. Recently, however, he had taken to using a calling card. He would send something to the widows of those he had killed. It was his own cease and desist warning. Or else simple bragadoccio.

      The mob map of Tokyo was awash with different colours. But all the while, the darkest area was growing. Paul was totally ignorant of this. As were all westerners and the majority of locals. That night Paul had walked for hours, continually getting lost and finding himself again. He had went from green to blue, back through green and then into the big swash of black. Though in no way intentional, this was a mistake.

      The Black Friar swore at his driver. This was nothing new; the driver was used to it. He encouraged it. For he was worried that the day the Friar stopped swearing would be his last. He had been the third driver in two years. This was not a job offer he could really have refused. His predecessors' families had both received religious tokens. They never received their sons or husbands back. He ordered the driver to make a right turn and rolled down the window. He flicked out his still burning cigarette.

     Paul admired the street art. To many it was tacky, but to him it was beautiful. He looked up at a particular sign. A bane he couldn't decipher. The foreign tongue added to the charm. Something hit him in the leg. A fag butt. He looked down. It had burnt a hole in his trousers. He looked around to find its origins. A man in the back of a black car was rolling up his windows as he went by. Paul gestured at his leg and then gave the universal symbol for "fuck you". The car stopped.

     The Black Friar ordered the driver to reverse.

     It took the embassy four days to arrange for Paul's body to be sent home. When he was found he had only one form of ID on him. From his workplace. His wallet had been stolen. The police marked it down as a mugging gone wrong. One with disasterous consequences. There was a big turnout at the funeral. Even though it wasn't traditional, his eldest brother gave a eulogy. His mother was emotionless throughout. She just blankly stared at the hole in the ground. She didn't really speak to any of the other mourners. When asked was she alright or whether she wanted tea, she meekly answered in monosyllables. Not even her husband could connect with her.

          Two weeks later, a small package arrived in the post. She couldn't make out, or pronounce, the place on the postmark. She turned it over in her hand and opened it carefully. It contained one item only. No letter, no note, no explanation. Just a set of rosary beads. She looked up to the sky, thanked God, and she cried.