Bullet Train

by Kotaro Isaka

  Kotaro Isaka

  * * *

  BULLET TRAIN

  Translated from the Japanese by Sam Malissa

  Contents

  KIMURA

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  KIMURA

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  KIMURA

  MORNING GLORY

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  KIMURA

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  MORNING GLORY

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  KIMURA

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  KIMURA

  THE PRINCE

  MORNING GLORY

  FRUIT

  NANAO

  KIMURA

  FRUIT

  THE PRINCE

  NANAO

  KIMURA

  THE PRINCE

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  NANAO

  THE PRINCE

  MORNING GLORY

  KIMURA

  NANAO

  LADYBEETLE

  About the Authors

  KOTARO ISAKA is a bestselling and multi-award-winning writer who is published around the world. He has won the Shincho Mystery Club Award, Mystery Writers of Japan Award, Japan Booksellers’ Award and Yamamoto Shugoro Prize and twelve of his books have been adapted for film or TV.

  SAM MALISSA holds a PhD in Japanese Literature from Yale University. He has translated fiction by Toshiki Okada, Shun Medoruma, and Hideo Furukawa, among others.

  Kimura

  TOKYO STATION IS PACKED. It’s been a while since Yuichi Kimura was here last, so he isn’t sure if it’s always this crowded. He’d believe it if someone told him there was a special event going on. The throngs of people coming and going press in on him, reminding him of the TV show he and Wataru had watched together, the one about penguins, all jammed in tight together. At least the penguins have an excuse, thinks Kimura. It’s freezing where they live.

  He waits for an opening in the stream of people, cuts between the souvenir shops and kiosks, quickening his pace. Up a short flight of stairs to the turnstile for the Shinkansen high-speed bullet train. As he passes through the automated ticketing gate he tenses, wondering if it will somehow detect the handgun in his coat pocket, slam shut while security swarms around him, but nothing happens. He slows and looks up at the monitor, checking the platform for his train, the Hayate. There’s a uniformed police officer standing guard, but the cop doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention.

  A kid with a backpack brushes by, looks to be eight or nine years old. Kimura thinks of Wataru, and his chest tightens. He pictures his beautiful boy, lying unconscious and unresponsive in a hospital bed. Kimura’s mother had wailed out loud when she saw him. ‘Look at him, he looks like he’s just sleeping, like nothing even happened to him. He might even be hearing everything we’re saying. It’s too much.’ The thought of it makes Kimura feel scraped out from the inside.

  Bastard will pay. If someone can push a six-year-old boy off the roof of a department store and still be walking around, breathing easy, then something in the world is broken. Kimura’s chest clenches again, not from sadness but from rage. He stalks towards the escalator, clutching a paper bag. I quit drinking. I can walk a straight line. My hands are steady.

  The Hayate is already on the track, waiting for its turn to depart. He hustles to the train and boards the third car. According to the info he got from his former associates, his target is on the three-seater side of the fifth row in car seven. He’s going to enter from the next car and sneak up from behind. Nice and easy from behind, sharp and alert, one step and then another.

  He enters the gangway. A recess with a sink is on the left, and he pauses in front of the mirror. Pulls the curtain shut on the small vanity area. Then looks at his reflection. Hair unkempt, beads of gunk in the corners of his eyes. Whiskers sticking out at odd angles, even the downy fuzz on his face seems coarse. Ragged and raw. It isn’t easy to see himself this way. He washes his hands, rubbing them under the water until the automatic stream cuts off. Fingers trembling. It’s not the booze, just nerves, he tells himself.

  He hasn’t fired his gun since Wataru was born. He only even touched it when he was packing his things for the move. Now he’s glad he didn’t throw it out. A gun comes in handy when you want to put a little fear into some punk: when you need to show some asshole that they are way out of line.

  The face in the mirror twists. Cracks split the glass, the surface bulges and warps, the face curls into a sneer. ‘What’s done is done,’ it says. ‘You gonna be able to pull the trigger? You’re just a drunk, couldn’t even protect your boy.’

  ‘I gave up drinking.’

  ‘Your boy’s in the hospital.’

  ‘I’m gonna get the bastard.’

  ‘But are you gonna be able to forgive him?’

  The bubble of emotion in his head is no longer making sense, and it bursts.

  He reaches into the pocket of his black tracksuit jacket and draws out the gun, then pulls a narrow cylinder from the paper bag. He fits it to the muzzle, twists it into place. It won’t completely eliminate noise from the shot, but on a little .22 like this one it’ll muffle it down to a tiny thunk, lighter than a pellet from a toy gun.

  He looks in the mirror once more, nods, then puts the gun in the paper bag and steps away from the sink.

  A female car attendant is prepping the snack trolley and he almost barrels into her. He’s about to snap ‘Move it’, but his eyes fall on the cans of beer in the cart and he backs off.

  ‘Remember, one sip and it’s all over.’ His father’s words flash through his mind. ‘Alcoholism never really goes away. One sip and you’re right back where you started.’

  He enters car number four and starts up the aisle. A man seated just inside the car on his left bumps Kimura as he passes. The gun is safely tucked away in the bag, but it’s longer than usual due to the silencer, and it catches on the man’s leg. Kimura hastily hugs the bag towards himself.

  His nerves spike and he feels a violent surge. He whips towards the man – nice-guy face, glasses with black frames – who bobs his head meekly and apologises. Kimura clicks his tongue and turns away, about to move on, when the nice guy pipes up. ‘Hey, your bag is torn.’ Kimura pauses and looks. It’s true, there’s a hole ripped in the bag, but nothing sticking out that could be obviously identified as a gun.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ he growls as he steps away.

  He exits car four, and moves quickly through cars five and six.

  One time Wataru had asked, ‘How come on the Shinkansen car one is at the back?’ Poor Wataru.

  Kimura’s mother had answered, ‘Whichever car is closest to Tokyo is car number one.’

  ‘Why, Daddy?’

  ‘The closest car to Tokyo is car one, the next is car two. So when we take the train to where Daddy grew up, car one is in the back, but when we go back to Tokyo car number one is up front.’

  ‘When the Shinkansen’s heading to Tokyo they say it’s going up, and trains heading away from Tokyo are going down,’ Kimura’s father had added. ‘It’s always about Tokyo.’

  ‘Granny and Grandpa, you always come up to us!’

  ‘Well, we want to see you, that’s why. We come all the way up the hill, heave-ho!’

  ‘But you don’t do it, the Shinkansen does!’

  Kimura’s father had looked at him then. ‘Wataru’s adorable. Hard to believe he’s yours.’ />
  ‘I get that all the time. Who’s the dad.’

  His parents ignored his sulky remark, chattering away happily. ‘The good stuff must have skipped a generation!’

  He enters car seven. On the left side of the aisle are rows of two seats and on the right side are rows of three, all facing forward, backs of the seats to him. He puts his hand in the bag, closes it around the gun, then takes a step in, once, twice, counting the rows.

  There are more empty seats than he had expected, just a sprinkling of passengers here and there. In the fifth row, by the window, he sees the back of a teenager’s head. The kid stretches out, white-collared shirt under a blazer. Clean cut, like an honours student. He turns to stare out the window, dreamily watching other Shinkansen pull into the station.

  Kimura draws closer. One row away he’s seized with a moment’s hesitation – Am I really gonna hurt this kid? He looks so innocent? Narrow shoulders, delicate frame. Looking for all the world like a schoolboy quietly excited about a solo trip on the Shinkansen. The knot of aggression and determination inside Kimura loosens ever so slightly.

  Then sparks burst in front of him.

  At first he thinks the train’s electrical system is malfunctioning. But it’s his own nervous system, gone haywire for a split second, first sparks and then blackness. The teenager by the window had whirled round and pressed something into Kimura’s thigh, like an oversized TV remote. By the time Kimura realises it’s the same sort of home-made stun gun those schoolkids had used before, he’s paralysed, every hair on his body bristling.

  Next thing he knows he’s opening his eyes, seated by the window. Hands bound in front of him. Ankles too, wrapped in bands of sturdy fabric and duct tape. He can bend his arms and legs, but his body isn’t going anywhere.

  ‘You really are stupid, Mr Kimura. I can’t believe you’d be so predictable. You’re like a robot following its programming. I knew you’d come for me here, and I know exactly what you came to do.’ The kid is sitting right next to him, talking brightly. Something about the double-folded eyelids and the well-proportioned nose looks almost feminine.

  This kid had pushed Kimura’s son off the roof of a department store, laughing while he did it. He might only be a teenager but he speaks with the self-assurance of someone who’s lived several lives. ‘I’m still surprised that everything went so smoothly. Life really is too easy. Not for you though, sorry to say. And after you gave up your precious booze, and got yourself all worked up for this!’

  Fruit

  ‘HOW’S THAT CUT DOING?’ TANGERINE, in the aisle seat, asks Lemon, next to the window.

  They’re in car three, row ten, the three-seater. Lemon is staring out the window, muttering. ‘Why’d they have to get rid of the 500 series? The blue ones. I loved them.’ As if finally hearing the question, he knits his brow, ‘What cut?’ His long hair sticks out like a lion’s mane, though it’s hard to tell if he styles it that way or if it’s just bedhead. Lemon’s complete lack of interest in work, or in anything really, shows in his eyes and his curled upper lip. Tangerine wonders vaguely if his partner’s looks dictated his personality or the other way round.

  ‘From when you got slashed yesterday.’ He points. ‘The cut on your cheek?’

  ‘When did I get slashed?’

  ‘Saving this rich kid.’

  Now Tangerine points at the guy sitting in the middle seat. A younger guy, early twenties, long hair, wedged in between them. He keeps staring back and forth from Lemon to Tangerine. He’s looking a lot better than when they rescued him the night before. They had found him tied up, worked over, shaking uncontrollably. But it hasn’t even been a full day and he seems pretty much back to normal. Probably nothing going on inside, thinks Tangerine. Often the case with people who don’t read fiction. Hollow inside, monochrome, so they can switch gears no problem. They swallow something and forget about it as soon as it goes down their throat. Constitutionally incapable of empathy. These are the people who most need to read, but in most cases it’s already too late.

  Tangerine checks his watch. 9 a.m., so, nine hours since they rescued the kid. He was being held in a building in the Fujisawa Kongocho part of town, in a room three floors underground, this rich kid, Yoshio Minegishi’s only son, and Tangerine and Lemon busted him out.

  ‘I’d never do something so stupid as get slashed. Gimme a break.’ Lemon and Tangerine are the same height, around five ten, and both have the same rangy build. People often assume they’re brothers, twins even. Twin killers for hire. Whenever anyone refers to them as brothers, Tangerine feels a deep frustration. It’s unbelievable to him anyone could lump him in with someone so careless and simplistic. It probably doesn’t bother Lemon, though. Tangerine can’t stand Lemon’s sloppy ways. One of their associates once said that Tangerine is easy to deal with but Lemon is a pain. Just like the fruit – no one wants to eat a lemon. Tangerine had agreed wholeheartedly.

  ‘Then what’s that cut on your cheek from? You’ve got a red line from here to here. I heard it happen. That punk came at you with a blade and you screamed.’

  ‘I’d never scream because of that. If I did scream, it was because the guy went down so fast and I was disappointed. Like, oh my God, is he really such a wuss, you know? Anyway, this thing on my face isn’t from a blade. It’s just a rash. I’ve got allergies.’

  ‘Never seen a rash look so much like a slash.’

  ‘Are you the creator of rashes?’

  ‘Am I the what?’ Tangerine looks dubious.

  ‘Did you create the rashes and allergic reactions in this world? No? Then maybe you’re a health critic, and you’re denying my twenty-eight year history with allergies? What exactly do you know about rashes?’

  It’s always like this. Lemon gets all puffed up and starts casting wild aspersions, spouting off at random. If Tangerine doesn’t either accept the blame or stop listening altogether, Lemon will keep it up indefinitely. But they hear a small sound between them, coming from the kid, Little Minegishi. He’s making uncertain noises. ‘Uh. Um.’

  ‘What?’ asks Tangerine.

  ‘What?’ asks Lemon.

  ‘Um, what, uh, what were your names again?’

  When they had found him the night before, he was tied to a chair and wrung out like a limp rag. Tangerine and Lemon woke him up and carried him out, and he just kept saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he couldn’t get anything else out. Tangerine realises that the kid probably has no idea what’s going on.

  ‘I’m Dolce, he’s Gabbana,’ he says off-handedly.

  ‘No,’ says Lemon with a nod, ‘I’m Donald, he’s Douglas.’

  ‘What?’ But even as Tangerine asks, he knows that these are characters from Thomas and Friends. No matter what the subject is, Lemon always manages to steer the conversation to Thomas. A long-running TV show for kids, filmed with model trains – Lemon loves it. Whenever he needs an allegory chances are he’ll pull it from an episode of Thomas and Friends. Like everything he ever learned about life and happiness came from that show.

  ‘I know I’ve told you this before, Tangerine. Donald and Douglas are twin black locomotives. They speak very properly. Well, well, if it isn’t our good friend Henry – like that. Talking like that makes a good impression. I’m sure you agree.’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  Lemon sticks his hand in his jacket pocket, rummages around, pulls out a glossy sheet about the size of an address book. He points at it. ‘Look, this is Donald.’ There are a bunch of trains on it, Thomas and Friends stickers. One of them is black. ‘No matter how many times I tell you, you always forget the names. It’s like you’re not even trying.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re no fun. Look, I’ll give this to you so you can remember their names. Starting from here, this is Thomas, here’s Oliver, see, they’re all lined up for you. Even the Diesel.’ Lemon starts rattling off names one by one. Tangerine shoves the sheet of stickers back at him.

  ‘So, uh, what are your names?
’ asks Little Minegishi.

  ‘Hemingway and Faulkner,’ says Tangerine.

  ‘Bill and Ben are twins too, and so are Harry and Burt,’ puts in Lemon.

  ‘We are not twins.’

  ‘Okay, Donald and Douglas, sirs,’ says Little Minegishi earnestly. ‘Did my dad hire you to save me?’

  Lemon begins digging around in his ear, looking disinterested. ‘Yeah, I guess that’s right. Although if I’m being honest, we kind of had to take the job. Too dangerous to say no to your dad.’

  Tangerine agrees. ‘Your father is a frightening individual.’

  ‘Do you think he’s scary too? Or maybe he goes easy on you cos you’re his boy.’ Lemon pokes the rich kid, only very lightly, but the kid jumps.

  ‘Uh, ah, no, I don’t think he’s that scary.’

  Tangerine smiles acidly. He’s starting to settle in. That particular train seat smell. ‘You know about the things your father did when he was in Tokyo? There’s all kinds of crazy stories. Like the one about when he was loan sharking and a girl was five minutes late on her payment and he chopped off her arm, you heard that one? Not her finger, you know, her arm. And we’re not talking about five hours, she was only late five minutes. And then he takes her arm –’ And here he cuts himself off, feeling like the well-lit world of the Shinkansen isn’t the place for gory details.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that one,’ mutters the rich kid, sounding uninterested. ‘And then he put it in a microwave, right?’ Like he’s talking about the time his dad tried some new recipe.

  ‘Okay, okay, how about the one –’ Lemon leans forward and pokes the kid again – ‘where Minegishi had a guy who wouldn’t pay up, and he got the guy’s son, and he stood father and son in front of each other and gave them both box cutters and –’

  ‘I’ve heard that one too.’

  ‘You heard about that?’ Tangerine is nonplussed.

  ‘But really, your father’s smart. He keeps it simple. If someone’s giving him a problem, get rid of them, he says, and if something’s complicated, he just says forget about it.’ Lemon watches through the window as another train pulls out of the station. ‘A little while back there was a guy in Tokyo named Terahara. Made a ton of money, and made a mess doing it.’