The Turtle, by Nelson Groom

‘Meet my boss.’

Lina leads me through the club, past the pulsing dancefloor and the round pool where little turtles swim to a thudding techno beat. Her fingers feel cold in my own, and the smell of sweaty possibilities thickens the air. Until tonight, I had no idea she existed. She told me she’s a promoter, someone paid to lure models like me to clubs. But it feels like that’s not the real reason I’m here. And I’m about to learn what is.

Lina stops at a shell-shaped booth and sweeps a hand like a hunter hauling their prey. Four blokes in baggy suits look up and raise their glasses.

The first thing you notice is their eyes. Holes. Even when they smile, there is nothing in them. Then I notice the tatts. Even in suits I can see they’re all densely decorated, dragons sloping around their arms and necks, coming to life with every movement.

Lina says something in Japanese and holds her heart, trembling theatrically. Is she pantomiming my fear? The owners laugh and it sure feels like I’m the joke.

Lina locks eyes with the eldest, who holds himself like their leader, a gargoyle-faced man with round glasses and tufts of silver hair. He hits me with a gravelly voice that comes from beyond the grave. I shiver. That voice.

‘I’m Ren,’ Ren waves a hand to the glistening banquet.  ‘Help yourself.’

I bow almost to the floor, knowing better than to offend this fella. He is imposing, and refusing his offer would surely be an insult. I stack a plate with everything, roast piglets and truffle linguini and fresh sashimi, and look back at Ren making room for me to join them in the booth. No one speaks as I rip into my meal, but I feel their eyes on me. The rest of the models are putting shots away, cutting loose. There’s a sharp excitement in the air, of not knowing what comes next. I carry on stuffing my face.

‘Thought models eat nothing!’ the pug says with a chuckle. ‘I’m Hoka.’ Something about his outfit makes him look constricted, like his skin can’t breathe.

A smooth, bald bloke sitting opposite with wraparound glasses lets out a howl of laughter, like a giant baby, and a goblet of something escapes his mouth. Out of nowhere Ren springs up and barks something at Lina with rage that hangs in the air, glaring at her with eyes expanded by his glasses. Lina slinks to the bar, and soon comes back holding a silver platter. Hang on, what’s this? Something round stirs in the middle of a moat of shot glasses. I go stiff when he picks it up. It’s a little snapping turtle from the pond, stretching its limbs like it just woke up.

‘Can I get a knife?’

For some reason, I don’t think twice about the next part. Digging a hand in my bumbag, I fish out my shank.

‘How’s this?’

Lina gives me a pleasantly surprised look. Then, like it’s no big deal, she plunges the blade into the critter’s belly. Watching this makes me feel dirty, like she tricked me into doing it myself. Poor bastard squirms around, blood dripping down into a gold dish. That was bad enough, but now she lifts the dish and pours it into the shots, and goes to dump the donor back home.

‘He’s fine,’ she says.

 I don’t take her word for it. The dish is filled to the brim. I’m quietly off it, off her, off tonight. The table are laughing again. The only thing I understand from their rapid Japanese is ‘gaijin’. I try not to show how crook I feel.

Lina holds up a glass. Like the roots of a tree, I watch the blood mix with sake.

‘It’s a tradition,’ she says.

But that’s not what this is. This is a test. Ren raises his glass, invites a toast. Everyone at the table locks their eyes on me.

‘To new mates,’ I say. ‘Kanpai.’

‘Kanpai!’ they chirp.

What if I casually tossed the glass over my shoulder? Would anyone notice? If they did, the turtle wouldn’t be the only one with a splintered spleen. So I suck it up and send it down. It’s the taste of disgrace. When I open my eyes through the wince, I notice them all smirking at me. Holding full glasses.

‘Didn’t think you’d actually do it.’ Is that disappointment in her voice? Disgust? ‘We were just testing you.’

‘Cool,’ I say.

Feeling like an idiot, I stand for a throw up destination. Along the way, I notice all the turtles swimming playfully together. Are my eyes are playing tricks on me? Something else in that shot? I glide through the room like ghost.

Nelson Groom,

Author and freelance writer

EMOTIONS AND LIGHT – Cultural Magazine