The train lurches forward. I sit on the heated train seat with my soggy feet up, like a cat in from the cold. I’ll miss my boots. I absently toy with the plastic name tag on my chequered convenience store jacket. I have time to think a little. A new thought. What about the 7-Eleven guy? Was he after me too? He had saved me. Or had he tried to harm me? He was left with the masked man in the room. Was he trying to kill me too? He’d pushed me out the window head first. But that act had saved me. Always assuming the masked man had been about to kill me. How had the masked man found me? Nobody knew I was there, except me and Steve’s voice mail.
I look at the name tag pinned on the front of the jacket. Kanji with “Hotaru” spelled out in English letters. I run Hotaru through Google Translate. FIREFLY. Had Firefly tipped the masked man off about my location? If he had wanted to do me harm, he could have when I slept. But he hadn’t. He’s on my side. I’m pretty sure of it.1 He’s just a nice guy, like Steve.
The train goes round a bend and I can see down the whole length of the carriage and through the open doors of two more. The train straightens up. I see a man in a green-grey suit and wearing pink socks. He’s striding down the aisle, righting himself as the train lurches from side to side. He has something in his hand. A black stick?
I see him. The masked man. I daren’t look again, but I have to, just to be sure I’m not going crazy. So I look down the carriage. Now I can’t see him anywhere.
CHAPTER NINE
The masked man must be making his way through the carriages, searching for me. I have to get off the train. We are moving. Maybe he won’t see me? If I run, he will see me for sure. But there are too few people in this carriage, he’s bound to see me if I stay. I have no choice but to move further down the train. I jump up and slip forward against the arm of a woman in a kimono.
She glares at me.
I bow my head in apology. I hurry through the carriage doors without looking back. The next carriage is a little busier. Almost all seats are taken. There are dozens of people standing too. There is one spare seat. I race to sit down and make it before anyone else standing notices it. I sit. It’s a blue and silver seat. An old man stands in front of me and glares at me. He points behind me. A poster has a picture of a teenager with headphones on sitting in a “silver seat” while an old guy with a walking stick and plaster on his leg is forced to stand. I glare back at him. Then I see his leg. He has a plaster on, just like the poster behind me. Oh, man. Other people are staring at me, but I’m used to people staring. You don’t walk around with red hair in a black-haired world without getting used to being stared at. No, that doesn’t bother me. Just that the old guy looks like he’s in some kind of pain.
“Excuse me,” I say. And stand up. He sits down and I try my best to dart down the carriage. It’s standing room only, if that. Pushing my way through means squeezing my body through, brushing up against the backs of salarymen in suits. I feel sick. But I force my way through. The alternative means facing the masked man.
I pull open the door at the end of the carriage and push my way through the concertina into the next carriage. It’s even more packed. I take a deep breath of warm air and move in. People are standing three deep. Men in suits, a couple of high school girls in cardigans and short skirts, boys dressed in black with their hair shaved for baseball, girls with soft toys dangling from their school satchels. But nowhere to sit. Nowhere I can hide. Then I see an empty seat. It isn’t a blue and silver seat. No one is sitting there. I look around. It isn’t next to a foreigner, but no one is sitting there. I sit, only then do I realise why it had been left. The seat stinks of shochu alcohol. The stench is coming from an old man next to me. His hair is matted. He’s humming to himself. And to the rest of the carriage.
I put my hand in my pocket. There’s something in there. Plastic, round, the shape and weight of a small pear. I can’t make out what it is but it has a grey digital screen like a calculator and a single round button moulded into the plastic. I press the button. The screen lights up and I hear dialling. I try to turn the thing off, but there is no off-button. I stuff it back in my jacket pocket and smother the speaker with my hand.
I think about changing carriages. Maybe there’s a guard? Are they at the front or the back of the train? I risk a glance over my shoulder down the carriage where the masked man would be coming from. I can’t see anything through all the bodies. Think. Maybe I can…
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
It’s a woman sitting on the other side of me with grey hair and an oversize red paper bag with rope handles and an Italian name in fancy lettering on her lap.
“Are you an American person?”
“Er, no, I’m not.”
“Are you free?”
“I’m kind of busy.”
“I’m a Japanese. I’m fine. I’m an English student.”
“Right.”
I feel the train slowing. Everyone standing pushes their weight back on their heels. The train is coming to a stop. I can’t tell if the doors open on the left or right of the train. I prepare myself to run to the nearest door. But as I look out the condensation on the windows, I see only tunnel.
The doors on the right, furthest from me, open. A river of people gets on. There’s no way I can push my way through. And still they stream on. People of all ages.
I look down the carriage. People are shuffling out of the way. There is murmuring. A few disgruntled shouts and movement. Is someone pushing their way though? I catch a glimpse of a hand. It grabs a woman and pulls her to one side. There is shocked silence. Nobody does that. Even on a packed train.
“I’m very pleased to meet with you.”
Think.
“It’s lovely weather we have been having, don’t you think.”
“Think, yes.”
Think.
I have to blend in. I can’t be recognised. Stop moving and you become invisible. Don’t attract attention to yourself. Like having a conversation in a foreign language on the train. That’s not a good thing.
“I have lived in Tokyo for a very long time. I respect mental doctors, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Mental doctors are very fine people. Mental doctors are better than other doctors. Other doctors can see only what is wrong on outside. But mental doctors can see what is wrong on inside of heart. Are you a mental doctor?”
“No. A journalism student.”
“Oh, a writer! A writer! I respect writers. They can see what is wrong on inside of heart. Like mental doctors.”
I can’t think of anything. This is it. The masked man is going to be on me in a moment and will recognise me in an instant. I scrunch my eyes shut and push my hands in the jacket pocket. I feel some paper and string. A mask. A flu mask. I put the mask on. Instantly, I’m a Tokyo commuter with a bad case of flu, or who hasn’t had time to put her make-up on or who is just plain shy. What does it matter? You’d have to look very closely to see my eyes are wrong and my hair naturally red, not dyed to look not-black. And there is only one thing for it to disappear properly on a Tokyo commuter train. I have to fall asleep.
I flop my head onto the shoulder of the old drunk. I don’t know if it’s really hiding me, but my action at least makes the woman stop talking. There is shuffling nearby. I dare not open my eyes. I let my hair fall over my face. Somebody stands on my toe. I bite my tongue. There is a commotion in front of me. Someone is really heavy on my foot, but I don’t move a muscle. Then the weight comes off. The carriage door beside me opens and shuts. I crack open an eye. People all around are looking at each other. I dare to squint open both eyes. The man isn’t there.
I open both eyes fully. He isn’t there. I ease my head off the drunk.
The tramp’s eyes are open but fixed on some point in the distance. He’s reading a public information poster across the aisle warning women not to put makeup on while sitting on the train.
He turns his head and looks at me.
“Please do it
at home,” he says, reading the English slogan at the bottom of the poster. He brushes his shoulder.
I take a breath of air. I think I’m going to make it.
The carriage door swings open and the masked man is there.
His eyes are glassy. His mask hides his mouth. But I see the mask moving in and out as he breathes. He reaches for something by his side. He strides straight towards me.
CHAPTER TEN
There is no time to think.
I bolt. I’m throwing myself into gaps between people and squeezing my arms in like I’m pot-holing. He’s coming for me, behind me.
The train is slowing, suddenly everyone is standing up. I’m stuck in that mass of people. Hundreds of people all standing at once. There is no way I can resist the flow. I’m lifted off my feet as the crowd pushes toward the door and the cooler air of the station wafts in as we fall out of the train. I gasp for air and am relieved, but then think: if I’m being released onto the platform with everyone else, so is the masked man. I look around but can see only shoulders and home-made signs. It’s some kind of protest
“Hey!”
I grab a paper placard on a stick and run, swept forward by the crowd and am propelled toward the street. At the top of the stairs, there are so many people going through the ticket gates that no one even notices an English girl pushing her way through the barriers, just a hair’s breadth behind the guy in front of her.
I see the sign of the station just as I leave it, Nagatacho, the home of the Japanese parliament. I go with the flow of protesters. They are all ages, many nationalities, but mostly Japanese old people. I’m with a man with grey hair and in a business suit. He smiles absently at me and my sign. I smile back. I look at the placard I’m holding.
It’s in English.
“No Nukes.”
Out on the street, dark blue police buses with wire meshes over their headlights and windows line the streets with no space between the bumpers. We are hemmed in to the metre-wide pavement. At the intersections, police with caps on look like soldiers. But they don’t have their guns out, instead they all carry long sticks, like broom handles. They stand in line keeping the protesters from going anywhere near the building across the street. But that is where everyone is looking.
Except me. I hold my placard in front of my face and look over my shoulder back at the stream of protesters coming out of the station. I can’t see the masked man. A man with a megaphone is trying to get the crowd to sing. In English.
ALL WE ARE SAYING
I have to think of a plan. I can’t think of anything, so I do the next best thing. I get my phone out.
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“Uncle Kentaro...?”
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“Hana, are you out partying? Shouldn’t you be looking for a job?”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“I have a big problem.”
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“Are you at an anti-nuke demo?”
“Yes, I think so, but that’s not important…”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“I think it’s pretty important. Nuclear power. It’s an important issue. But you have to focus on what’s important to you.”
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“I am. I’m in danger Uncle Kentaro.”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“Do you have any idea what shutting down nuclear power has done to this country’s balance of payments?”
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“I don’t care about balance of payments. My life is in danger.”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“Your life is more in danger from all the pollution and increase in greenhouse gasses than the threat from nuclear...”
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“No. My life is in danger right now, I need your help...”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“North Korea is more of a danger than nuclear power. At least to their own people.”
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“I’m being followed by a masked man with a sword. I think he’s going to kill me. Maybe he’s from North Korea. I need your help. I’m all alone.”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“If you’d just speak Japanese, Hana, you wouldn’t find yourself in such predicaments.”
The man with the megaphone takes a break.
“Uncle Kentaro, please, you must take me seriously, you don’t believe me, do you?”
“That all this, this chase you are on, this mission to find a missing killer, it’s all nonsense, you know. Admit it, there is no masked man, it’s all in your head.”
I’m not sure if my mouth drops open, but I’m speechless for a second. How can he doubt me? Has he always doubted me?
“It’s not my imagination. I didn’t imagine being chased here by a masked man. I didn’t imagine jumping down an emergency chute for my life.”
“Listen to yourself, Hana. ‘For your life?’ You hate heights. You never take lifts, let alone escalators and you’re too scared of going underground because of what? It’s all very Freudian, you know.”
“I know I sound crazy, but I’m not going mad. And there is a crazy guy after me who probably wants to kill me all because of something I’m not supposed to know.”
“Not supposed to know? There’s a mountain of things I’m supposed to know, but don’t. If there’s anything I’m not supposed to know, I don’t know what it is, or if I ever did, I don’t know now, you know?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I know I sound mad, but I’m sure I’m on to something here. The letters A.O.I. in a picture and now the masked man chasing me.”
“Listen to yourself, for a minute, would you? Letters? Masked men? I think you are imagining things, everything will be all right. All I’m saying, is give peace a chance...”
I feel myself getting redder in the face.
“How did I end up here if I’m making it all up?”
“What do you...”
“I came by train, Uncle Kentaro. Underground train. Would I do that if I didn’t think my life was in danger?”
“The mind is a powerful thing. I don’t know what’s going through yours.”
More drops of rain fall on my head.
“Can’t you just believe me? If you weren’t always so drunk you might be able to give a damn about other people? Do you ever think about anyone else or just where your next drink is coming from?”
He pauses. Raindrops trickle down my face. When he comes back on the line, he’s reasonable and calm.
“I’m no psychoanalyst, but your story. I mean, it’s all a bit far-fetched isn’t it? If something sounds implausible and highly unlikely then it probably is. Especially when there is a simpler explanation. Simple is best you know.”
“Yeah? What’s the simple explanation? That I’m an idiot and just made it up? I don’t believe it. Sometimes the simple explanation is just plain wrong. My Dad didn’t slip and get hit by a train; he was pushed. You can spend your whole life believing the simple truth, and the simple answer is true 100 percent of the time until the moment it isn’t and then you realise everything you thought was simple was actually a lot more complicated. I may be confused but not about this, Uncle Kentaro.”
“You are no idiot, but you’ve been through a lot.”
“Yeah, with you.”
“No, your mother and father. And the accident. It’s understandable that you might get a little…confused. It’s great that you are loyal to Steve’s memory. I get that, that’s what makes you special. You have that ability to care and do the right thing. It’s admirable, really. But please listen to yourself.”
I want to bite his head off and tell him how wrong he is, but I have to admit I do sound crazy.
“Maybe I’ve made a few too many assumptions...but I didn’t choose any of this, it chose me. But now it has, there’s nothing I can do, I must find answers.”
The man with the megaphone starts up again.
ALL WE ARE SAYING
“You know I love you, Hana, but this craziness has to stop. Give this craziness up.”
IS GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
“I can’t. Not until I have answers.”
I hang up. I look behind me. Crowds of people, but no one I recognise. And no masked man. But for how long? I push my way forward past people, just hoping the masked man is far behind. I cry. I cry for myself, for my position. What am I going to do? Where am I going to go? And without Steve, my world is nothing. No future in England. No way to get there. Without Uncle Kentaro’s help, no future in Japan. But here I am. I know no one from my school days. I have email addresses of ex-classmates, but after my parents died, I dropped out of school. I don’t have anything in common with anyone I used to know. Uncle Kentaro had got me back on my feet. But I hadn’t bothered to get to know anyone in college. I was moving on, ready to move back to England, my homeland. What do I need with Japanese ties now? So now, I’m completely on my own in someone’s convenience store jacket, who may or may not be on my side.
Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2) Page 5
