Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2)

by Patrick Sherriff

  She looks around her, but says nothing.

  She rolls up her left sleeve and pulls out something.

  “What are you doing?”

  I back away from her, but I’m too slow. In a moment, I feel pain shooting up from my thigh. I reach down and I grab what was in her hand and is now in me: a syringe. There’s a syringe sticking out of my side, and the plunger is down. My heart is beating to bursting. She runs out the door.

  I follow her, but the pain is intense. I look into the mirror and the girl I see staring back at me is not me, she’s a stranger. She’s dressed like me and looks like me, except her eyes are glassy. My head is spinning. I close my eyes and crumple to the floor. I pull the syringe out and have sense enough to put my finger over the wound that is dripping blood down my leg.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I don’t know what the waitress has injected into me, but I know I’m done for if I do nothing. I force myself to open my eyes and then to stand. I pocket the syringe. Maybe Firefly will know what to do with it. But if I lose the girl, I’ll lose the link to Steve. I splash my face with water from the sink and hobble out to the dining room.

  “Firefly, the waitress?”

  She disappears behind the counter and through a backdoor. Firefly notices me limping and says something, but I stumble forward and push him back. I point to the door. “The waitress!”

  He gets it. We push our way through the door. We are in a kitchen. Inside are half a dozen men smoking cigarettes. The oldest one, wearing a chef’s bandana, shouts at us in Japanese, then Korean and finally English: “Can’t come. No here.”

  There is silence. But a back door slams shut from somewhere on the other side of the kitchen. I hobble through the kitchen, knocking over a plate of kimchee. A man with a meat cleaver bars my way. Though he looks more skilled at stabbing a person than dicing vegetables.

  Firefly nods at me. Like he wants me to say something. Like there is some way I can get us out of this situation and continue the chase. But I can’t see a way past these men. And the waitress is long gone through the backdoor onto the backstreets of Shibuya.

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding. We’re going,” I say.

  We pile down the steps, with me leaning on Firefly, and make it out of the front door without anyone following us. I look for a side entrance. We hurry around the block. Next door are a couple of shuttered shops. But there are no side entrances in the whole block. So the back door in the kitchen leads into one of these buildings. Or there is a secret entrance.

  “Thanks for looking after me, Firefly.”

  Maybe he doesn’t know what I’m saying, but I squeeze his hand, and hope he can figure it out. He holds out his phone to translate a comment and it gives me an idea.

  I click on the map application, and see the blinking dot where we are. The shuttered building in front of us is a Korean supermarket according to the map. Above it’s a Korean language school and next to it a Korean community centre. It seems odd to have a little Korea here in Shibuya. The subway entrance is two blocks behind the building according to the map. That seems the most likely place to go if you want to escape.

  “Let’s take the subway” I hear myself saying. It’s possible she’s there; it’s possible she’s anywhere. But I have to find out. And that means going underground again. Steve had always complained there was no point in having the world’s best transport system if I didn’t use it. He’d be happy now. But I knew a few more things he didn’t. The number of suicides for 2010 is 211. They’re death machines. I vowed on my father’s death that I would never ride a train again. And yet now I find myself once again heading down the steps into the earth.

  My palms are sweating and my legs don’t want to move; my left leg is seizing up around where I was jabbed. But I don’t have time to worry about that right now. I push myself forward. Firefly is striding ahead. I try to think of something else, anything else, but as I lurch toward the blue-and-white sign for the Metro, I feel the hot stale air blasting through gratings in the pavement. I can hear the screams of the train’s brakes and I think I can hear the screams of someone else. Just my imagination. Has to be the train is screaming. I’m crouching now. I count the cracks in the pavement.

  Firefly strides ahead and is down the stairs without even looking back. I’m not sure if he’s brave or stupid. Doesn’t he know that 211 Japanese killed themselves in 2010 by jumping in front of trains? I try to regain control of myself. The answer to Aoi’s disappearance is on the wrist of the girl who could well be down there. I have to get up. I can’t let her slip away.

  And then I see him. The man with the mask. He’s on the other side of the street striding towards the entrance. My neck is drenched in sweat and I stay on the ground, willing myself to seem as small as possible. I don’t think he has seen me. He might not even be after me at all; he’s focused on the entrance to the subway. He has a phone in his hand, but isn’t Tweeting or phoning anyone, he’s using it as a map to locate something, or someone. Has he been watching Firefly and me? Or someone else? The waitress? There is no way of knowing. Unless I follow him. I take a deep breath and stumble forward to the entrance. The masked man is heaving his way down to the bottom of the stairs and is going through the gates on to the station platform. He’s carrying a stick. I see Firefly ahead, but he doesn’t see the masked man. My heart beats faster.

  Firefly walks straight past him on the crowded platform. The masked man isn’t looking at anyone’s faces, he’s looking at his phone. And then he stops at the end of the platform and turns with his back to me. Next to him is the waitress, but I can’t make all of her out behind his bulk. I have a sinking feeling about what’s going to happen next.

  The train lights are coming. I scream to Firefly to look, but he can’t hear me, no one can as the brakes squeal and a wall of hot air rushes out of the tunnel towards me. One moment the waitress is standing on the platform, looking around. She notices the man in the mask behind her. Their eyes meet. The waitress’ lips move, but if the man in the mask noticed her or said anything in reply, I have no idea.

  But the next moment she’s gone. The train brakes squeal and people close to me shout. The masked man looks up and down the platform, puts his phone back in his pocket and walks back the way he came.

  The train stops halfway along the platform, not in the right places for the doors to open and so there’s general confusion when the doors don’t open.

  The masked man is coming straight for me. Firefly runs the length of the platform towards me, over the yellow pock-marked paving stones for blind people on the edge of the platform. The only thing to do is run. But where? I turn and see the yellow exit signs but I don’t have the strength to run up the stairs. That leaves only one other direction — down a passenger tunnel that crosses under the tracks to the platform on the other side. I shudder, but push myself on. Warning tape in black and yellow is wrapped around the low-hanging beams. I have to duck my head to go under the tracks. The vibrations from the train coming from the other direction above my head makes me feel like I’m being trampled to death. I turn to see if the masked man is following me. I can’t be sure. Everyone is wearing a mask. Men and women scurry back and forth through the tunnel trying to get to the other side. I can’t make any sense of the sights and sounds in this tiny space. I’m not really here, my spirit’s trying to get out, that I can’t be here, but at the same time it’s like a coffin and I somehow belong here, no matter how much half of me protests, the other half says otherwise. I think of Dad. Was this the feeling he had as the train barrelled down on him? The last moment of consciousness, when he knew what was going to happen? There is no fear, just an understanding that this is it. This is the end. So be it. I turn again and look over my shoulder. A man in a mask is striding behind me. Smack. Pain in my head and then nothing.

  My head is aching and I can’t feel my legs. I’m blacking out, my chest is tight and the echoes of voices are mingling and mixing into one.

  Then rapid fir
e, like corn popping in a pan until there are just one or two kernels left. I don’t know where I am. Or what my eyes are telling me. I’m in a tunnel. I’m lying down, maybe I’m looking up at the ceiling or maybe I’m on the ceiling, looking down at the ground far below. Yellow and black. The colours of a stinging insect. People around me, talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I try to hold on to the moment, but my mind is drifting. I’m hot, the air is bad. I have a bad feeling, a feeling of loss, but what has gone, I don’t know. Something bad. And it’s my fault. But I’m helpless to change it. The waitress. She said something and then she went. Under the train? Pushed or jumped? I try to remember the movement of her lips. I try to get my head round hers for just that moment, bridging the divide between us. I’m under the tracks. I’m with her for a moment. I mouth the shape her lips made. I will the sounds to come out, I try and, in this moment, my mind is clear, a voice in my head tells me I’m close to something. Is it Japanese? English? Korean? I can see her lips purse together and roll out from her mouth making a p- or b- sound. But her chest doesn’t move so it must be a b-, then her mouth forms into a smile or a grimace like she’s imitating the sound of an airplane with her tongue — nnnn — as she puckers her lips and makes an o shape with her mouth, holding her face quizzically — o. Bi-nnnn-oooo. Bingo? She’s playing bingo? It can’t be. But if it was not English or Japanese? Bing-du? I practise saying it in my mouth, trying to imagine I’m a Korean pop star. Bing-du? Ping-gu? A cartoon penguin? This is the last word she says. Her final words. Because I know inside that she’s dead. The masked man killed the waitress. Why? Why hasn’t he killed me?

  And that is all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m high above the city, but I have no fear. Which is odd for me, but I’m comfortable floating high above it all, looking down. Which city, I can’t be sure. There are red double-decker buses below, but no sign of Big Ben or the River Thames, so not the London of the Peter Pan ride in Tokyo Disneyland. But people look Japanese. Then I’m sipping something cold and sweet. A coffee. A vending machine can of coffee. Everyone is relieved. Even my dad. Which is strange because he never drinks vending machine coffee. And he’s dead. But I can tell he’s enjoying the coffee. He’s smiling but he’s looking over his shoulder. Then singing. Lots of singing. Girls are dancing, wearing top hats and tails, but with long legs in silk stockings. There are massive numbers of them dancing in step. Dad can’t make himself heard over their racket. I try to get closer to hear what he’s saying. His lips are moving but no sounds are coming out above the noise of the girls.

  I scream to him.

  He waves for me to come closer. He’s on the edge of a raised platform. Behind him the city stretches out into the distance. He wants to say something, something important, I’m sure.

  “Hana.”

  A voice from the other side of the room. I can’t hear him--the J-pop music is getting louder--all I can do is read his lips. But even that is hard work with a line of dancing girls between us. Dad is the hub of a circle of girls high-kicking, forming spokes of a circle with arms linked like a primary school undokai sports day. They’re marching past in rows wave after smiling wave, sparkly red hats tilted on their heads, and whirling diamond-encrusted batons in one hand. Dad’s in the centre, getting flustered, looking bewildered. But he’s speaking.

  “Hana.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  Then he’s drinking a red can of coffee, but coughing and spluttering, then wave after wave of dancing girls.

  I push my way forward through the uniformed girls. They are pros though, they don’t stop for one moment, they keep marching in circles, absorbing me in their mass. Where am I? Where’s Dad? Every time I push towards the centre, it turns out to be the edge and I’m face up against a glass wall and a glass floor. I look down and there is the whole city below. I’m going to fall. But I know it’s going to happen and I’m not scared. I just wish I could hear what my father’s trying to tell me.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “What? That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I’m in a formal room. Grey walls. Cheap speckled grey linoleum floor. No windows. So, police or doctors again. Or, if I’m lucky, just a run-down hotel. A television is blaring above from a bracket screwed into the wall. It’s a cookery show. A TV tarento is trying the local delicacy of a family ramen noodle shop in Saitama. He ladles the soup with a cheap plastic spoon. You can see from the colour of the broth that they’re using miso soybean paste as the main ingredient rather than soy sauce or just salt as they do in Tokyo. You can see the white specks of pork fat floating on the soup. So, this is Kyushu-style ramen. They like it fat and spicy down south. Aunt Tanaka always says ramen noodles have an accent.

  The celebrity is about to put the ladle to his mouth and then his expression is frozen like when a Skype connection goes bad, but it isn’t accidental. Was it delicious or not?

  Suddenly J-pop dancing girls march by. They are dancing around cans of coffee that are extremely refreshing for businessmen at a morning meeting. The girls disappear when the businessmen open the cans.

  Now the celeb is back on and they replay the exact moment when he’s about to spoon the ramen soup into his gob. The master-san and his wife with sweat towels tied to their heads watch in the background expectantly. What will the celeb make of their humble broth? Their concerned faces are mirrored in the eyes of the celeb. Is this bowl of pork fat something to savour or reject?

  “Oiiiiiishiiiii!” he says. An exaggerated “delicious!”

  The celeb must have been from Kyushu. Then back to the dancing girls and the coffee.

  It’s strange because I don’t remember turning the TV on. There’s a red can on the table beside me. Looks the same as the cans of coffee that the girls had been dancing around, and the sickly-sweet smell of dissolved sugar and the sourness of black coffee is overwhelming. I reach for the can. It’s one of the ¥120 cans of coffee you can get from any vending machine on any city street. There are hundreds of kinds of coffee in cans that come heated in winter and ice cold in summer. Boss, Georgia, Wonda and the varieties that they come in are dazzling, as are the packaging, the names and the celebrities who endorse them. They all have one thing in common: they all taste like crap.

  This can is empty. This is a café latte with a big picture of cream on the side of the can. I never go for that kind. Far too sweet. After I get to the bottom of the can, my teeth are on edge and I can’t tell if my heart is beating double time from the caffeine or the sugar.

  I realise I’m in a bed. I can move my right arm to reach the empty coffee cup, but when I try to get out of bed, my left hand yanks me back. My wrist is handcuffed to the side rail.

  Handcuffed?

  A naked bulb hangs from the ceiling. So. Probably not doctors. They always give you green tea and never instant coffee. No sugar. Cops? And there beside my bed is a policeman.

  Detective Watanabe. He’s snoring. I slide my handcuffed hand along the rail. I can move it about a metre either way, but when I try to yank my hand free, I only have 30cm to spare before the other end of my handcuff clatters against the end of the rail.

  “Walker-san. So, what have you been getting yourself into now?”

  “Handcuffs.”

  “For your own good.”

  “Like the coffee?”

  “I never drink it. Too sweet.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are in St Christopher’s hospital. You were bad. The doctors say delirious. A good night of sleep and you will be fine.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “By ambulance. From the Metro station.”

  “What happened to the waitress?”

  “The waitress?”

  “Did you catch the killer?”

  “The killer?”

  “You know, the masked man.”

  “Masked man?”

  “Do you have to repeat everythin
g I say? Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”

  “Notes?”

  “Yes, it’s what detectives do to find connections and solve cases, to bring killers to justice and save those in danger.”

  “The only one in danger I can see is you. You bashed your head there on the overhanging beam. And now you are all…confused.”

  “Confused? I saw a woman get killed. She was pushed in front of an oncoming train by the man with a mask. The same one who killed my fiancé, I’d say. Then he came after me.”

  “I see. Interesting theory. Except that no one died on the tracks last night.”

  “But I heard her scream. And saw her being pushed. By a masked man.”

  “I see. If that were true, where is the body?”

  “On the tracks?”

  “No. There are no reports of any problems except from a certain Flying Horse restaurant. We had a complaint that you went crazy and threatened people with a meat cleaver in the kitchen.”

  “No, that wasn’t me, that was them.”

  “It was the masked man?”

  “No. He came later. He’s dangerous. He pushed a waitress onto the tracks. He’s part of something bigger, something to do with Unit 731.”

  “What is that?”

  “It was a military unit that did medical experiments on Chinese. They used to remove one arm from one side and stick it on the other without anaesthetic just to see what would happen.”

  I tried to demonstrate with my arms, but with one cuffed to the side of the bed, I flapped about unconvincingly.

  “Maybe I should be taking notes. What was it? Unit 753? I think I would have heard about it. I was good at history in high school.”

  “Unit 731. They don’t teach it much in the history books in Japan. Try Google or Wikipedia.”

  “Right. So, our schools are less trustworthy than the internet?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”