Bullet Train

by Kotaro Isaka

  ‘Maybe. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what the Hornet looks like … but I think it’s a she. And there’s a picture of her.’

  ‘What do you mean, there’s a picture of her?’ Not knowing where Nanao is going with this, Tangerine starts to get annoyed. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘In the back of car six, you’ll find an older man seated by the window. There’s a photograph in his jacket pocket.’

  ‘And that photo is of the Hornet, huh? Who’s the old guy?’ Tangerine swivels round towards car six. He thinks he remembers seeing a middle-aged man sleeping.

  ‘He’s in the business. A real sleaze. He said the photo was of his target. Then I thought, that means she must be on this train.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s the Hornet?’

  ‘I don’t have any real proof. Just that the man with the photo was one of Terahara’s underlings. Liked to brag about how much the boss liked him. And Terahara –’

  ‘– was killed by the Hornet.’

  ‘Right. And the man in car six was saying he was on the Shinkansen for revenge. He called it a vendetta. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, but he was probably talking about getting revenge on the Hornet.’

  ‘That’s just speculation on top of speculation.’

  ‘Oh, and he mentioned something about Akechi Mitsuhide. I bet he was saying the Hornet killing Terahara was like Akechi killing Nobunaga. You know, a trusted lieutenant turning on the boss.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m convinced, but I guess we’ll go and get the picture from the old guy and see what he has to say.’

  ‘Um, you won’t get much out of him,’ Nanao says hastily, but Tangerine talks over him.

  ‘I’ll have a look at the picture and call you back.’ He hangs up. Lemon steps over and asks what’s up.

  ‘Looks like I was right.’

  ‘Right about what?’

  ‘I guessed that Little Minegishi died from an allergic reaction, remember? Turns out that may have been right.’

  They enter car six and stalk down the aisle. Several passengers stare at them, by now wondering what the two rangy men are doing coming and going. The pair ignore the scrutiny, proceeding straight to the back of the car.

  A middle-aged man is leaning up against the window of the two-seater. His flat cap is pulled low on his brow.

  ‘What’s with Uncle Sleepy?’ Lemon frowns. ‘This isn’t Glasses Guy.’

  ‘Sleeping like the dead.’ As soon as Tangerine says it, he realises that the man actually is dead. He sits down next to the corpse and pats down the tracksuit jacket. It feels unclean, even though it’s not visibly stained, and Tangerine plucks it open distastefully so he can reach in. Sure enough, there’s a photo in the inside pocket. He pulls it out. The head slides off the window and lolls forward. Broken neck. Tangerine rearranges the head against the pane.

  ‘You’re just picking his pocket like that?’ hisses Lemon. ‘And look, he’s not even doing anything!’

  ‘Because he’s dead,’ Tangerine says, pointing at the head.

  ‘Guess it’s dangerous to toss and turn too much when you’re sleeping.’

  Tangerine steps out the door at the back of the car into the gangway. He pulls up the history on his phone and calls the last number. Lemon emerges from the car and stands beside him.

  ‘Hello,’ Nanao says.

  The train’s passage rumbles in Tangerine’s ears. ‘I got the picture. What’s with that guy? Broken necks in fashion this season?’

  ‘Sometimes things like that just happen,’ Nanao says gravely, without any further explanation.

  Tangerine doesn’t bother asking if Nanao was the one who did it. Instead he looks down at the photo. ‘So this is the Hornet?’

  ‘Well, I can’t see the picture, but I’d be willing to say there’s a good chance. If you see anyone on board who looks like her, be careful.’

  Tangerine has never seen the woman in the photo before. Lemon leans in to have a look. He asks excitedly, ‘How do you beat the Hornet? Insecticide spray?’

  ‘In Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, they kill a bee with a spoon.’

  ‘How’d they kill a bee with a spoon?’

  ‘I ask myself the same thing every time I read that part.’ Then he hears Nanao saying something indistinct. ‘What’d you say?’ There’s no response. Tangerine asks again, and after a moment Nanao answers.

  ‘Sorry, I was buying a tea. The snack trolley came by. I was thirsty.’

  ‘Sure are taking it easy for someone in so much trouble.’

  ‘You have to get your nutrients and fluids when you have a chance. Same with going to the toilet.’

  ‘Well,’ Tangerine says, ‘I don’t necessarily believe you, but I’ll keep an eye out for her. It’ll take some time to check every passenger, but it won’t be impossible.’

  Then Tangerine realises with a start that maybe that’s Nanao’s plan, trying to buy time before the train gets to Sendai.

  ‘He-e-ey,’ Lemon says with dawning recognition, pointing his finger at the face in the photo. ‘It’s her!’

  ‘Who?’

  Lemon seems surprised that Tangerine can’t place the face. ‘The snack trolley girl. The one who’s been pushing that cart back and forth this whole time.’

  Nanao

  REWIND A BIT FURTHER. NANAO is about to hand the suitcase over to a conductor. On the right side of the gangway between cars eight and nine is a narrow door with a sign that says Crew. Just as Nanao is approaching a conductor steps out of it, and the two nearly collide.

  ‘Whoops, sorry.’ On my way to see a conductor and I almost bowl him over. Bad luck as usual.

  While Nanao is flustered, the surprisingly young-looking conductor in the snappy double-breasted suit uniform is completely calm. ‘Can I help you?’

  Before he can change his mind, Nanao thrusts the bag forward. ‘Could I give this to you?’

  The conductor makes a puzzled face. His hat is too large, which makes him look like a little boy who loves trains and somehow got a job on the Shinkansen. His vibe is gentle despite the formality of the double-breasted uniform. ‘You’d like me to take your luggage?’

  ‘I found it in the bathroom,’ Nanao lies. ‘In the gangway between five and six.’

  ‘Is that right?’ answers the young conductor, without any apparent suspicion. He examines the bag as he turns it around, tries the clasp and finds it locked. ‘I’ll be sure to make an announcement about it.’

  Nanao thanks him and proceeds into the green car, then beyond to the next gangway, linking the green car to car ten. The end of the Hayate. He’s thinking about the Wolf and the Hornet and the connection between the two. After a moment he takes out his phone.

  Tangerine answers, and Nanao explains the situation as quickly as he can. About how he’s ready to give up, that he turned over the bag to the conductor, his theory that Minegishi’s son could have been killed by the Hornet, the fact that the man in the back of car six has a photo of the Hornet in his pocket. Then Tangerine hangs up.

  Nanao leans against the window and gazes out, gripping his phone like he’s waiting for a call from a lover. The train enters a tunnel. Plunging into the dark feels to him like holding his breath underwater. When the scenery is visible again the air comes rushing back. But almost immediately there’s another tunnel. Dive, surface, dive, surface, dark, light, dark, light, bad luck, good luck, bad luck, good luck. He recalls the old saying about fortune and misfortune being inextricably intertwined. Although in my case it’s mostly all misfortune.

  That’s when the refreshments girl pushes her trolley into the gangway. The trolley is stuffed with snacks and drinks, a tower of paper cups perched atop.

  Nanao orders a bottle of tea just as Tangerine calls back. He wedges the phone between shoulder and ear as he hands some change to the attendant. Tangerine asks what’s going on and Nanao explains that he’s buying tea.

  ‘Sure are taking i
t easy for someone in so much trouble.’

  ‘You have to get your nutrients and fluids when you have a chance. Same with going to the toilet.’

  The refreshments girl thanks him and starts to push her trolley towards car ten.

  ‘Hey, Nanao,’ says Tangerine forcefully. ‘Something you’ll want to hear. It seems that the snack trolley girl is the Hornet.’

  ‘What?’ The sudden revelation catches Nanao so completely off guard that he raises his voice more than he means to.

  The snack trolley comes to a stop.

  The attendant still has her back to him, but she turns her head to look over her shoulder in his direction. Her full, still-youthful cheeks are arranged in a kind smile, as if to say, Is everything all right? May I be of some assistance? She looks perfectly natural.

  Nanao hangs up the phone and stares. Could she be the Hornet? It seems hard to believe. He looks her up and down carefully.

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’ She slowly turns to face him. With her vending apron on top of her staff uniform she doesn’t look like she could be anything else but the snack trolley attendant.

  Nanao puts his phone in his rear pocket. ‘Oh, uh, no, everything’s fine.’ He tries not to let his nervousness show. ‘Um, can anyone use this room?’ He points to the door on the left that says Multi-Purpose Room. Next to the sliding door is a plate on the wall directing passengers to inform a staff member if they plan to use the room. Must be what Maria was talking about, with the breastfeeding. He tries the door and finds it unlocked. A drab space inside, nothing but an empty room and a single seat.

  ‘Most people use it for childcare needs,’ replies the attendant, ‘but as long as you let a staff member know, you can use it too.’ By now her smile seems pasted on, artificial. He can’t tell if it’s the standard issue customer service smile or a sign of some deeper tension.

  Opposite the multi-purpose room is a bathroom, larger than the ones on the other gangways. On the wall next to it is an oversized button to open the door, no doubt for passengers in wheelchairs.

  The attendant is still smiling. What do I do, what do I do? The refrain reverberates through Nanao’s head. Should I try to find out if it’s really her? And if it is, what do I do?

  There’s a small ripping sound.

  It’s the label on the bottle of tea in his hand. He had been picking at it without realising. ‘Sorry, but is there a hornet onboard?’ He tries to sound as casual as he can, like it just occurred to him. Stepping away from the door to the multi-purpose room, he peels the label off completely.

  ‘Pardon me?’ She seems startled by the question. ‘A … hornet?’

  ‘You know, the Asian giant hornet. The venomous kind,’ he presses. ‘I feel like there’s one on the train.’

  ‘You saw one flying around? Maybe it came aboard at one of the station stops. That could be dangerous. I’ll let one of the conductors know.’

  He can’t tell if she’s deflecting or if she really doesn’t know what he’s getting at. Nothing about how she’s acting gives anything away.

  She flashes another smile and turns away once more, towards car ten.

  Nanao turns too and makes it look as if he’s going back to the green car. He focuses all his attention behind him, trying to sense any movement.

  He raises the plastic bottle, seeing if he can use the fluid as a mirror.

  There, reflected vaguely in the sloshing tea, is the woman, noiselessly coming closer.

  Nanao whirls round. She’s right in front of him.

  He whips the bottle at her face. She dodges the blow but Nanao uses the opening to shove her, fast and sharp and full force. She staggers backwards and crashes into the snack trolley, toppling the stack of paper cups and scattering several boxes of souvenir snacks. Her back against the cart, she slides down and sits hard on the floor.

  Nanao notices something else: what looks like a length of cord unspooling from under the cart, wriggling back and forth.

  The snake.

  The same one he witnessed jump out of the terrarium at the back of the train. It must have been hiding out among the snack boxes under the trolley. It slithers along the wall of the gangway and after a moment Nanao loses sight of it.

  The woman grips the cart handle and pulls herself up. Something glitters in her right hand. A needle.

  Her form-fitting blue button-down shirt and indigo apron aren’t meant for athletics, but that doesn’t slow her down in the slightest. She darts forward, no hesitation. The way she’s moving gives Nanao no clues as to how she might attack, whether she’ll stab with the needle or throw it.

  She’s almost on him.

  Nanao hits the big door-open button for the wheelchair toilet. The door slides open. The woman glances at the opening door.

  Nanao doesn’t miss his chance. He steps around at an angle and kicks at her as hard as he can, trying to knock her into the bathroom. He knows that it doesn’t matter if your opponent is a man, woman or child, if they’re a pro there’s no room for mercy.

  She careers into the bathroom and he follows right behind her. Even with more space than the standard toilets there’s not much room for the both of them. They’re right on top of the toilet. He launches his left fist at her face but she deflects the blow with her forearm, so he quickly punches with his right, aiming at her ribs. Just as the body blow is about to land she twists and it glances off.

  She’s quick. Looks slightly concerned, he’s making her work, but she’s handling his attacks.

  He has a feeling that any moment the needle will come flying at him.

  The automated door starts to slide shut so Nanao pounds the button inside the bathroom and it reopens. He springs out into the gangway and tries to turn round and secure his footing, backing up hard against the door to the multi-purpose room. A flash of pain shoots up his arm from where Lemon stabbed him earlier.

  The gun falls out of the back of his belt, the gun he took off Lemon, clattering to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up when he hears a metallic ping behind him.

  Something hits the door and falls. A needle, hurled like a missile.

  The woman steps back into the gangway. She kicks the gun away from Nanao’s outstretched hand, sending the weapon spinning across the floor.

  Nanao scurries over to the cart and scoops up one of the gift-wrapped boxes of souvenir snacks that litter the ground. He holds it up towards the woman, using it as a shield. The instant he raises it a needle comes piercing through. A split second slower and – She pulls back her hand, the needle held between the fingers of her closed fist. She thrusts again. Nanao catches it on the box once more.

  He wrenches the box to the side, the needle still lodged in it, pulling her arm along.

  He aims another kick at her, catching her in the solar plexus with the toe of his shoe. It’s a solid hit. She clamps her hands to her midsection and sinks down and back.

  That’s it, Nanao thinks, closing in to press his advantage.

  But just as he’s stepping over the coupling between cars the train bucks. It only lasts for a second, but it’s intense, like an animal shaking water from its fur. If Nanao were a ladybird on the animal’s back he could easily fly away to escape the fleshly quake, but for Nanao the human on the Shinkansen this is impossible. Before he can catch himself he’s lost his footing and is spilling to the floor.

  Rather than thinking, Why now? he tells himself, Of course. Falling over in the middle of a fight. More proof of love from the goddess of bad luck.

  Nanao starts to struggle to his feet. The woman is still holding her stomach and groaning.

  As he tries to use his hands to prop himself up he feels a stab of pain. What? Then he feels the blood drain from his face. There’s a needle sticking out of the side of his hand. His eyes go wide and the hair on his neck stands up. The needle the woman threw at him bent when it hit the door and the point curved up like the tip of a fishhook. Nanao had put his hand down right on top of it. And this is no ordinary pinprick, he kn
ows. The needle is poisoned.

  In the next second Nanao’s head fills with signals, a blizzard of words and thought fragments. Rotten luck. The Hornet. Poison. Dying. Always so unlucky. And then, Is this really it? A great heaviness settles on him. Just like that?

  But at the same time his head is buzzing with the familiar chorus of What do I do, what do I do? He can feel his vision narrowing and he looks around wildly, fighting to stay aware. The woman, doubled over. The cart. The scattered refreshments. He can feel the poison coursing through his body. How fast is it circulating? Then it comes: the rising waters, the churn, the overflow. What do I do? What do I do? The question fills him up.

  An instant later it’s done. The waters recede and his field of vision is wide open. His head is clear. He knows exactly what to do.

  First he yanks the needle out of his hand.

  No time to lose.

  There’s another needle on the ground next to the woman. Nanao shoots to his feet and advances.

  She’s finally able to sit up, though she’s still clutching at her solar plexus with one hand.

  The other is pawing at the floor, trying to grasp the gun that Nanao dropped.

  Nanao flies towards her. First he grabs the gun. Then he plucks up the needle and without a moment’s hesitation he plunges it into her shoulder, as naturally as if he’s clapping her on the back in encouragement. Her mouth snaps open and stays that way, like a chick in the nest waiting for food. Then she sees the needle sticking out of her shoulder and her eyes go round.

  Nanao takes one step back, then another.

  She’s dumbfounded at having been stabbed with one of her own poison needles.

  Nanao doesn’t know how long it takes the poison to kick in or what symptoms signal its onset. As he stands there waiting he starts to imagine his breath going ragged, his consciousness fading, his life winking out, and terror washes over him. He thinks about the end, swift and sudden, like pulling a plug, and it becomes almost too much for him to stay standing. Cold sweat starts to pour from his skin. Please, I’m begging you, hurry up. As if hearing his pleading, the woman starts patting her apron, feeling for the pocket. She pulls out something that looks like a felt pen. She’s visibly frantic. Pops off the cap, then pulls her skirt up and exposes her thigh. She moves the pen towards her skin.