Recoiling, June shut the doors to contain the stench and checked the other rooms. No sign of her grandmother. In the main bedroom, she looked in a few drawers, finding a pouch of banknotes, a thin fold. In the kitchen she found a box of rice cakes, the kind you cook in the microwave. The electricity was still on and she warmed one on high, then chewed the rubbery result. The table in the adjoining sunroom was bare except for a newspaper, folded once. Paging through a photo album on a side table in the hall, she saw photos of her late grandfather’s war: a tour of the Pacific, island beaches in blazing sun, crisply uniformed young sailors standing in a row.

Why was the house abandoned? June checked the shuttered lower floor. More dark furniture stored away. Near the entry, a bicycle with a broken chain lying beside it on the floor. The bath in a separate room, a big stone tub set into the floor. When she tried the tap there was no water, just a nasty honk of steam. Thwarted, she went back upstairs, stripped off by the kitchen sink and washed herself with a flannel. Afterwards, in the TV room, she made her best find yet: the low kotatsu table with its built-in heater. Turning it on, she sat down, crossed her legs under the table and arranged the rug-like covering around her to contain the heat. She sat like this, shivering, and warming up by degrees. It was only then, with a start, that she noticed the shrine on the far wall.

The last time she was here, the shrine had given pride of place to her late grandfather’s stern-faced photograph. She remembered studying the black and white image as a child, not quite believing that this man with his combed-back hair had once been alive, like her. His photo was still there, but now it was not alone. It was accompanied by one of his wife, who looked out with a calm gaze from her own picture frame, and this was how June knew that her grandmother was dead.

The cocktail bar was empty, just a young woman wiping tables. June’s age or a little older, her wide eyes made even bigger with eyeliner. And her height – she was very tall, June saw when she straightened up.

‘We don’t open until five,’ she said in Japanese.

The Tropicana was already brightly lit, with lamps and coloured lanterns. It was the day after June’s arrival, and she had returned to the bar at the seafront.

‘Is there a manager I can speak to?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for work.’