Free The Pure Land by Alan Spence

incense, a waft of music, plucked strings, almost discordant. He recognised it, the bittersweet twang, an instrument called the samisen.
    ‘First things first,’ said Walsh. ‘We have to bathe.’
    *
    For the second time that day, Glover was immersed in water. But now instead of thrashing in the cold depth of the harbour, he was soaking in the hot tub at the teahouse. One of the young girls had been assigned to him, another to Walsh. They’d been soaped and scrubbed – the girls giggling at the thickets of hair on chest and legs; they’d been rinsed clean with buckets of warm water, and only then had they eased down into the tub. The heat of it had gone straight to Glover’s head, a sudden rush, made him feel almost dizzy. But that had passed, and now he lay back enjoying it.
    ‘The trick is not to move,’ said Walsh, ‘or it feels even hotter.’
    ‘I had noticed!’ said Glover.
    Their voices boomed as they spoke. Walsh had lit another cigar, its fragrant smoke curled, mingled with the steam from the tub.
    ‘Mackenzie says you’re doing good work, Tom.’
    ‘Does he now?’
    ‘Of course, he’d never tell you to your face.’
    ‘No. Of course not!’
    ‘Have you thought about setting up in business for yourself?’
    ‘I’ve thought about it, aye, eventually, when I’m ready.’
    ‘Why wait?’ said Walsh. ‘I think you’re a natural: smart, hardworking. You have the gift of the gab too, by all accounts. Add that to your height and build and you can’t go wrong. You’ll charm the pants off the women and scare the shit out of the men!’ He laughed again. ‘I’d be happy to put work your way. Mackenzie could get you a loan from Jardine’s. You can still do work for them and trade on your own account. That’s what Ken does. And let’s face it, there’s plenty to go round!’
    They stepped, dripping, from the tub. The two girls, giggling again, brought towels to wrap round them, helped to dry them off. The one attending to Glover led him to a small room where a futon was laid out on tatami mats. He mimed roaring, beating his chest. She laughed and motioned to him to lie face down.She removed the towel and sat astride him, started massaging his back, working down the spine with her tiny hands, the strokes even and firm. By the time she turned him over onto his back, he was ready, gave himself over entirely to her ministrations.
    *
    He was kneeling on the floor, blindfold. He knew the room was in semi-darkness, lit only by a flickering candle he could sense rather than see through the cotton bandana tied tight over his eyes, knotted at the back of his head. He could smell the smoke, the dripped wax, like the cold smell of an old chapel, could smell too the damp mustiness of the room, the thick fusty male-smell of tobacco-reek from much-worn coats. He was in his shirtsleeves, his shirt open at the front, baring his chest against which something hard and sharp was pressed, something he knew was the tip of a swordblade.
    A voice came out of the darkness. ‘Do you feel anything?’
    And he made the correct response. ‘I do.’
    There was a knocking, three times on the wooden floor, then he was taken by the arm, helped to his feet and led forward a few steps.
    Now he could smell incense, and paraffin.
    The voice spoke again. ‘Having been kept in a state of darkness, what now is the predominant wish of your heart?’
    Again he responded, as he had been instructed to do. ‘Light.’
    The blindfold was removed and he blinked as he looked round him, the room now lit by lamps.
    ‘Do you promise to hold fast and never repeat the secrets of initiation into this mystery?’
    ‘Hele, conceal and never reveal.’
    ‘If you break this oath, your throat shall be cut, your tongue torn out and you shall be cast out, branded as void of all moral worth.’
    For the first time the urge to laugh rose in him, the thought of responding, Is that all? But he quelled it, responded with due formality. ‘I