Out [Paperback]

'Daring and disturbing, OUT is prepared to push the human limits of this world… Remarkable’

'OUT is a potent cocktail of urban blight, perverse feminism and vigilante justice.'

'No gritty urban American tale of violence can match the horror of OUT.'

'A melodrama, beautifully observed… An exciting, disturbing read.'

A masterpiece of genre from the queen of Japanese crime. A vintage Original.

'In this top-drawer page-turner, Kirino offers a clever snapshot of her own culture ...slyly amusing and compulsive...'

In the Tokyo suburbs four women work the draining graveyard shift at a boxed-lunch factory. Burdened with chores and heavy debts and isolated from husbands and children, they all secretly dream of a way out of their dead-end lives. A young mother among them finally cracks and strangles her philandering, gambling husband then confesses her crime to Masako, the closest of her colleagues. For reasons of her own, Masako agrees to assist her friend and seeks the help of the other co-workers to dismember and dispose of the body. The body parts are discovered, the police start asking questions, but the women have far more dangerous enemies -a yakuza connected loan shark who discovers their secret and has a business proposition, and a ruthless nightclub owner the police are convinced is guilty of the murder. He has lost everything as a result of their crime and he is out for revenge. OUT is a psychologically taut and unflinching foray into the darkest recesses of the human soul, an unsettling reminder that the desperate desire for freedom can make the most ordinary person do the unimaginable.

REAL WORLD: New Natsuo Kirino coming out in September 2008

(20031208)

A masterpiece of genre from the queen of Japanese crime.
A Vintage Original.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU CROSS THE LINE...

...WHEN YOU DISCOVER A TASTE FOR THE UNTHINKABLE?

COULD YOU BE DRAWN INTO A MURDER? FOR FRIENDSHIP? FOR A WAY OUT OF YOUR DREARY EXISTENCE?

Natsuo Kirino, born in 1951, quickly established a reputation in Japan as one of a rare breed of crime writer whose work goes well beyond the conventional crime novel. This fact has been demonstrated by her winning not only Japan's top mystery award, for Out, but one of its major literary awards, the Naoki Prize for Soft Cheeks. Several of her books have also been turned into movies. Out is the first of her novels to appear in English. (20031208)

NIGHT SHIFT
She got to the parking lot earlier than usual. The thick, damp July darkness engulfed her as she stepped out of the car. Perhaps it was the heat and humidity, but the night seemed especially black and heavy. Feeling a bit short of breath, Masakp Katori looked up at the starless night sky. Her skin, which had been cool and dry in the air-conditioned car, began to feel sticky. Mixed in with the exhaust fumes from the Shin-Oume Expressway, she could smell the faint odour of deep-fried food, the odour of the boxed-lunch factory where she was going to work.

‘I want to go home.’ The moment the smell hit her the words came into her head. She didn’t know exactly what home it was she wanted to go to, certainly not the one she’d just left. But why didn’t she want to go back there? And where did she want to go? She felt lost.

From midnight until five-thirty without a break, she had to stand at the conveyor belt making boxed lunches. For a part-time job, the pay was good, but the work was back-breaking. More than once, when she was feeling unwell, she’d been stopped here in the parking lot by the thought of the hard shift ahead. But this was different, this feeling of aimlessness. As she always did at this moment, she lit a cigarette, but tonight she realised for the first time that she did it to cover the smell of the factory.

The boxed-lunch factory was in the middle of the Mushashi-Murayama district, facing a road that was butting the grey wall of a large automobile plant. Otherwise, the area was given over to dusty fields and a cluster of small auto repair shops. The land was flat and the sky stretched in every direction. The parking lot was a three-minute walk from Masako’s workplace, beyond another factory, now abandoned. It was no more than a vacant lot that had been roughly graded. The parking spaces had once been marked off with strips of tape, but dust had long since made them almost invisible. The employees’ cars were parked at random angles across the lot. It was a place where no one would be likely to notice someone hiding in the grass or behind a car. The whole effect was somehow sinister, and Masako glanced around nervously as she locked the car.

She heard the sound of tyres, and for an instant the overgrown summer grass that bordered the lot shone in the yellow headlights. A green Volkswagen Golf cabriolet, top down, drove into the lot, and her plump co-worker, Kuniko Jonouchi, nodded from the driver’s seat.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, pulling the car into the space next to Masako’s faded red Corolla. Her driving seemed careless, and she made more noise that necessary outing on the hand brake and closing the car door. Everything about her was shrill and gaudy. Masako stubbed out her cigarette with the toe of her sneaker.

‘Nice car,’ she said. The subject of Kuniko’s car had come up a number of times at the factory.

‘You really think so?’ Kuniko said, sticking out her tongue in pleasure at the compliment. ‘But it’s got me up to my eyes in debt.’ Masako gave a non-committal laugh. The car didn’t seem to be the only source of Kuniko’s debts. She had nothing but designer accessories, and her clothes were obviously expensive.

‘Let’s go,’ Masako said. Sometime after the New Year, she’d begun to hear talk of a strange man hanging around the road that led from the parking lot to the factory. And then several of the part-timers had reported being pulled into the shadows and assaulted before barely escaping; so the company had just issued a warning that the women should walk in groups. They set through the summer darkness along the unpaved, ill-lit road. On the right was a ragged line of apartment blocks and farmhouses with large gardens – not particularly appealing but at least a sign of life in the area. On the left, beyond an overgrown ditch, was a lonely row of abandoned buildings: an older boxed-lunch factory, a derelict bowling alley. The victims said that their attacker had dragged them between the deserted buildings, and so Masako kept careful watch as she and Kuniko hurried along.

From one of the apartment houses on the right, they could hear a man and woman arguing in Portuguese; more than likely they worked at the factory. In addition to the housewives who worked part-time, the factory employed a large number of Brazilians, both ethnic and of Japanese descent; many of them married couples.

‘Everybody’s saying that the pervert is probably a Brazilian,’ said Kuniko, frowning into the darkness. Masako walked on without answering. It didn’t make much difference where the man was from, she thought, there was no cure for the kind of depression that came from working in that factory. The women would just have to protect themselves as best they could. ‘They say he’s a big, strong man, that he grabs the women and holds them without saying a word.’ Something in Kuniko’s tone betrayed a hint of longing. Masako felt that Kuniko was somehow blocked, closed off, like a thick cloud cover obscuring the stars at night. From behind them came the sound of squeaking bicycle brakes, and when they turned nervously to look, they found an older woman straddling her bike.

‘So it’s you two,’ she said. Hi.’ It was Yoshie Azuma. She was a widow in her late fifties, with nimble fingers that made her the fastest worker on the line. The other women had taken to calling her ‘Skipper’ out of grudging respect.

‘Ah, the Skipper. Good morning,’ Masako said, sounding relieved. Kuniko said nothing but dropped back a step.