Poky bars in Kabukichō – Tokyo’s red-light district – are always packed; some nights it’s almost impossible to get a seat. Ken’s came courtesy of a tearful, ageing gentleman who was being shown the door (ever so respectfully) by the venue’s sole bartender. The pair bowed and exchanged a note as Ken hastily squeezed inside.

“Whisky, please!” Ken barked. He slung his simple brown coat on an old wooden peg as the barman hurried back. By the time he was comfortable in his chair, the drink was waiting on a clean napkin. The barman turned his back and polished glasses in silence.

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