Bullet Train

by Kotaro Isaka

  The Prince regards Kimura. ‘Uncle, what’s happening? I’m scared.’ He makes a face like he’s on the verge of tears.

  A sense of duty wells up in Kimura, to protect this vulnerable child, but right away he tells himself Don’t let him fool you. This looks like a frightened kid but he’s just a psychopath playing a part. A cunning creature pretending to be a schoolboy.

  ‘I wonder if you guys are working for Minegishi too,’ Lemon asks. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Minegishi?’ Kimura glances nervously at the Prince. Why’s he talking about Minegishi?

  ‘Here’s how it is. I’m gonna shoot one of you. You, or you. If you’re wondering why I don’t just shoot the both of you, it’s cos Tangerine would get angry. He usually gets angry when I kill someone we could have got information from. He’s so fussy about that kind of stuff. Typical type A. But then I can’t just let both of you live, right? Too dangerous. Gotta shoot one of you. So. I have another question for you.’

  Then Lemon lowers the gun. He bends one leg and slouches. ‘Which one of the two of you is the leader? I’m not fooled by looks or size, either. I wouldn’t say for sure that the kid isn’t the leader. So, on three, the leader raises his hand, and the other one points to the leader. If your answers don’t match up right, like if you both raise your hand or you both point at the other one, I’ll know you’re lying, so I’ll just shoot you both.’

  Kimura feels desperate. ‘I thought you’d get in trouble if you killed both of us.’

  ‘What, unc, are you type A too? Fussy. Well, whatever, I don’t like it when Tangerine’s mad at me but it’s not like he’s gonna kill me. I’m more interested in having some fun.’

  ‘Is this fun for you?’ Kimura’s face rumples. Earlier the Prince had said Let’s play a game, and now Lemon is having fun playtime. What’s wrong with these people? He feels like he’s the most upstanding one there, able to quietly get his enjoyment from alcohol.

  ‘Okay, here goes. Answer truthfully, now,’ Lemon says with puckered lips.

  Just then a young mother and her toddler son enter the gangway. Lemon falls silent.

  Kimura and the Prince keep quiet too. ‘Mama, let’s go-o-o,’ shrieks the little boy happily, running past Kimura. It makes him think of Wataru. The mother peers at the three of them facing off there in the gangway and can sense that something is wrong, but she just keeps moving towards car seven.

  The little boy’s voice flips a switch in Kimura. I’ve got to live. I’ve got to get out of this for Wataru. No matter what happens, I can’t die. He repeats it over and over again, like he’s trying to hypnotise himself.

  The boy and his mother pass through the carriage door, which hovers open for a moment, then slowly slides shut.

  Lemon watches it close. ‘Who’s the leader?’ He smiles wide. ‘One, two-o-o – three!’

  Kimura doesn’t think twice. He lifts his hand. A glance to the side reveals the Prince, pointing over at Kimura. He looks back to the front. There’s Lemon, and the barrel of the gun.

  In the curtained-off sink area next to them, there’s the sound of a hand dryer blowing.

  Someone must have been in there the whole time. The quiet roar of hot air draws Kimura’s eye to the curtain.

  The gunshot never goes off. Just a light ka-cha, like a key turning in a lock while the dryer’s still blowing. Ka-cha, ka-cha, the key turns again. It takes some time before Kimura realises it was the sound of the silenced gun. So quiet he didn’t even know he’d been shot. Then he notices his chest is warm. No pain, just the sensation of fluid leaking from his body. His vision blurs.

  ‘No hard feelings, unc.’ Lemon is still grinning. ‘And I guess that’s that.’

  By the time the words reach him Kimura can no longer see. He feels something hard up against the back of his head. Am I on the ground?

  Pain spreads through his skull. Then all he can feel is the rumbling of the Shinkansen.

  Before his eyes yawns an abyss, then all is black. No sense of space, no up or down.

  His mind winks out.

  After a bit he has the sense of floating. Or being pulled?

  He doesn’t know what’s happening or how long it’s been since he was shot. This isn’t at all like falling into a deep sleep. It’s much more lonesome.

  Being shut up in a close, dark space.

  Uncle, uncle, someone is saying, somewhere.

  Kimura can feel his consciousness dissolving into mist, to be scattered forever, but his mind is still casting about. He wants a drink. His physical senses are fading. Fear and uncertainty grip the root of his heart. Squeezing harder, excruciating. But there’s one last thing. One thing to make sure. His love as a father gushes up like magma.

  Is Wataru all right? Sure, he must be.

  In exchange for my death, my son’s life goes on. I can be happy with that. Far away, the Prince’s voice is like the wind howling outside your house. Uncle Kimura, you’re dying. Are you sad? Scared?

  What about Wataru? Kimura wants to ask, but he can’t breathe.

  ‘Your son’s going to die too. I’ll make the call soon. That means you died in vain, uncle. Disappointed?’

  Kimura doesn’t know what’s happening. All he knows is he heard that his son is going to die.

  Let him live, he tries to say, but his mouth won’t move. His blood is barely flowing. ‘What’s that, uncle? Is there something you’d like to say?’ The Prince sounds casual, and far away.

  ‘You can do it. Just say, Please let my son live, and I will.’

  There’s no more anger at the Prince. If he’s willing to spare Wataru, then Kimura is willing to beg. He makes up his mind even as it’s shutting down.

  He tries to work his lips. Blood oozes out, and he feels like vomiting. His breath is a rattle. ‘Wataru,’ he mouths. But he’s wrung dry, and his voice won’t sound.

  ‘Sorry, what was that? I can’t hear you. Hey. Uncle.’

  Kimura no longer knows who it is that’s speaking to him. I’m sorry, I’ll talk as soon as I’m able, really I will, please just help my son.

  ‘What a disgrace you are, Uncle Kimura. Little Wataru’s going to die. And it’s all your fault.’ The voice sounds delighted. Kimura feels himself sinking back into the abyss. His soul his screaming out something, but no one hears.

  The Prince

  ‘ALL SET,’ LEMON SAYS. The Prince watches him straighten back up.

  ‘So now it’s locked?’

  After they stuffed the barely breathing Kimura inside the bathroom, Lemon used a thin copper wire to lock the door from the outside. He gave the wire a sharp tug just as the door closed. It didn’t work the first time, but the lock clicked into place with the second try. The technique strikes the Prince as being somehow primitive. The wire now pokes out of the door frame.

  ‘What about this little dangling part?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. No one’ll notice or care, and this way I can reopen it if I pull the wire up. Here, gimme back.’ He holds out his hand. The Prince passes him the bottle of mineral water. Lemon gulps down a mouthful. Then he fixes the Prince with a stare. ‘I was wondering, though, you were talking all quiet in there, what was that?’ When they dragged Kimura into the toilet, the Prince had asked to say one last thing to the dying man and had leaned over to speak.

  ‘Nothing important. He has a son, I was just saying something about his son. And it looked like he wanted to say something to me, so I waited to hear what it was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He couldn’t really talk.’ The Prince thinks back to the scene, moments ago, when he told Kimura that Little Wataru was going to die. Seeing Kimura pale and fading, and then watching the man’s face grow even more desperate at the mention of his son – that one instant – it flooded the Prince with indescribable satisfaction.

  The Prince feels proud of himself. I made someone who was already on the verge of death feel even more hopeless, he thinks. Not everyone can do that. The sight of Kimura trying to form the words to
beg for his son’s life was hilarious, how he was straining so hard and still couldn’t say anything.

  It reminded him of something he read in the book about Rwanda. The majority of the Tutsi who died were killed with machetes. Many were butchered horribly. Fearing this fate, there was one person who offered everything he had to his assailants so that they would shoot him to death instead. Not please don’t kill me, but please kill me less painfully. It struck the Prince as so completely pathetic. The thought of someone being brought so low also excited him.

  Death cuts someone’s life short, but it’s not the worst thing you can do to them. You can also plunge them into despair right before they die. Once the Prince realised this he knew he had to try it out himself. He approached it with the same attitude of a musician attempting to play a difficult piece.

  From that standpoint, what happened with Kimura couldn’t have gone any better. He keeps wanting to laugh when he thinks how even at the moment of Kimura’s own death the man couldn’t stop worrying about his child, about another human being. Which gives him another idea: maybe he can use Kimura’s death to torment other people. Like Kimura’s son, or his parents.

  ‘Alrighty, let’s go. Follow me.’ Lemon jerks his head towards the front of the train.

  Lemon must know how to aim for a clean shot, because barely any blood spurted onto the floor. When they dragged Kimura to the toilet it left a faint trail, like a red slug had crawled that way, but Lemon mopped it right up with a moist towelette.

  ‘Why do I have to go with you?’ The Prince tries to project fear, but he makes sure not to overdo it. ‘I was just doing what that old guy told me to. He’s not really my uncle. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know what to do with his gun.’

  Lemon had returned the gun to the Prince’s backpack. ‘Yeah, well, I still don’t believe you. I think you might be a professional.’

  ‘A professional?’

  ‘Someone who takes money to do a job. Dangerous jobs, you know, like what me and Tangerine do.’

  ‘Me? I’m just a school student.’

  ‘There’s all kinds of school students. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I killed some people when I was in school.’

  The Prince brings his hands to his mouth to make a surprised face. But on the inside he’s disappointed. He has been killing people since he was eleven. He had hoped that Lemon would surprise him, but now that hope is wilting. One more test. ‘Why is it wrong to kill people?’

  Lemon had started walking but now stops. Another man passes through the gangway, so Lemon steps out of the way, beside the door. ‘C’mere, Percy.’ The area where they’re standing is fairly spacious. ‘Why is it wrong to kill people? Percy would never ask anything like that.’ His eyes are narrowed. ‘That’s why kids love Percy.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered. I mean, we kill people in war, and there’s the death penalty. So why do we say it’s wrong to kill people?’

  ‘I just killed someone, so it’s pretty funny for you to ask me that,’ says Lemon, but he doesn’t look like he’s amused. ‘Okay, here it is: people who don’t want to be killed made up the rule that it’s wrong to kill people. They can’t do anything to protect themselves but they wanna feel safe. If you ask me, if you don’t wanna get killed, then you should act in a way that keeps you from getting killed. Don’t piss anybody off, or get strong, or whatever. There are lots of things you can do. You should take this to heart, it’s good advice.’

  The Prince doesn’t find this answer very deep at all, and he almost laughs with derision. This man may act odd, but he’s just doing criminal work because there’s no other way he can survive. There are lots of people like him, no philosophy at all. The Prince is actually angry that Lemon didn’t live up to his expectations. If someone turns to violence after a thoughtful consideration of who they are as a person, that would be fascinating, but someone who just lashes out is empty, nothing more than a paper cut-out.

  ‘What’re you smiling about?’ Lemon’s voice comes like a slash, but the Prince just shakes his head quickly.

  ‘I’m so relieved,’ he explains. For the Prince, making a weave of explanations and logic is a basic technique for controlling people. Giving a reason, withholding a reason, explaining the rules or hiding them – these tools make it surprisingly easy to influence people, or to fool them. ‘That old man scared me so much.’

  ‘You didn’t seem upset when I shot him to death.’

  ‘After what he did to me …’

  ‘Was he really that bad?’

  The Prince tries to look frightened. ‘He was awful.’

  Lemon stares hard at him. His sharp gaze goes below the surface, one layer at a time, like peeling a citrus fruit. The Prince worries that his true self might show in his face, so he pushes it deep down into his chest.

  ‘Sounds pretty fishy to me.’

  The Prince’s mind starts racing, trying to hit on what to do. Meanwhile he shakes his head piteously.

  ‘You know, this reminds me of an episode.’ Lemon’s eyes light up and his cheeks relax into a smile.

  ‘What episode?’

  ‘The time when the Diesel came to Sodor Island. The Diesel didn’t like Duck, the green steam locomotive. He thought he would get rid of him, so he started spreading rumours about Duck.’

  ‘I don’t know that episode.’ The Prince keeps a wary eye on the now more animated Lemon, all the while scrabbling for a plan.

  ‘The mean old Diesel went around saying that Duck was spreading nasty rumours about all the other trains! The locomotives on Sodor Island are kind of gullible, you know, so they all got angry at Duck, he said bad stuff about me, like that. Basically, he was set up.’

  Lemon is talking excitedly, like he’s speaking before a crowd. Even the Prince is drawn in. At the same time, the Prince doesn’t fail to notice how as Lemon talks he has the gun in one hand and the silencer in the other, having removed it earlier, now twisting it onto the gun like a sushi chef making a roll. The whole series of movements feels like the preparation for a ceremony, measured and practised. When did he …? The Prince realises he doesn’t even know when Lemon took the gun back out of the backpack.

  ‘Duck was shocked. Before he knew it, everyone was mad at him. When he finally found out that he was framed for being a gossip, you know what he said?’ Lemon looks questioningly at the Prince, like a teacher giving a lesson. He gives the silencer one final twist into place and points the gun at the ground. He pulls back the slide to check the chamber.

  The Prince can’t move. Listening to this man tell a children’s story while preparing to murder someone doesn’t feel real.

  ‘I’ll tell you what Duck said. He said, I could never come up with that stuff! Which is true. Those nasty rumours were too clever for Duck to have come up with them.’

  Lemon’s right arm dangles, gun in hand. Ready to go, the gun seems to be saying, I can fire whenever.

  ‘And then,’ says the Prince, looking away from the gun and straight at Lemon, ‘and then what happened?’

  ‘Then Duck said something good. Something you should remember.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Steam locomotives would never do something so cowardly!’

  The barrel of the gun appears in front of the Prince. Lemon’s arm is extended, and the gun is pointed straight at the Prince’s forehead. The attached silencer seems to float in the air.

  ‘Why?’ asks the Prince. He’s searching frantically for what to do. This is bad, he finally admits.

  He considers leaning on the innocent kid routine. Controlling people’s emotions depends a good deal on appearances. If babies weren’t as cute as they are, if they didn’t push that emotional button, no one would go to all the trouble of taking care of them. Koalas are violent creatures, but even if you know that to be true it’s hard to feel threatened by an adorable koala bear with a cub on its back. In the same way, if something is grotesque-looking, it doesn’t matter how much you care about it, there will
always be an instinctive revulsion. It’s nothing more than an animal response, and that makes it even easier to take advantage of.

  People make decisions based on instinct, not intellect. Physical response is a lever for emotional control.

  ‘Why are you going to shoot me? Before, you said you wanted to leave one of us alive.’ This seems like a good first move. Lemon might have forgotten what he said earlier, and it makes sense to try to remind him.

  ‘Yeah, but then I realised.’

  ‘Realised what?’

  ‘That you’re the mean old Diesel.’

  ‘What do you mean, I’m the Diesel?’

  ‘Well, it’s like –’ he begins reciting – ‘The Diesel is an engine who came to help at Sir Topham Hatt’s railways. He is nasty and vain. He makes fun of the steam locomotives and only ever does things to benefit himself. But in the end his wicked plans are discovered and he is punished … That’s the Diesel. Same as you. Am I right?’ Lemon isn’t smiling now. ‘You said that your uncle was an awful man, but I think he was more like Duck. He could never come up with all that stuff. Right? He didn’t seem like the smartest guy. He was a no-good drunk, sure, but I don’t think he was cruel.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ The Prince tries to collect himself. He stops focusing on the barrel of the gun. If I have attention to spare on the gun then I should be figuring out a way out of this instead. You panic, you lose. He lays out his options: bargains, pleas, threats, temptation. First I need to buy some time. What will get his attention? He tries to think about what this man wants the most. ‘Um, about the suitcase.’

  ‘Then again,’ Lemon says, ignoring the Prince, ‘I don’t think that guy was a good guy like Duck. But the fact that he was set up, that makes them similar.’

  The gun is pointed like it’s one of Lemon’s fingers, extra long. The barrel stares, unblinking.