Bullet Train

by Kotaro Isaka

  ‘Wait, wait. I don’t understand what you mean. And I, uh, about the suitcase.’

  ‘You’re not Percy, you’re the mean old Diesel. It just took me some time to see it.’

  I’ve been shot. The Prince can’t see anything. Then he realises that he’s closed his eyes. He snaps them back open.

  If I’m going to die here, I want to watch it happen. Shutting your eyes against fear and danger is for the weak.

  He’s not feeling fear, which is good. All he feels is a mild sense of disappointment that it’s happening so abruptly. As if the end of his life is a television being switched off, and someone’s telling him that there weren’t really any good shows on anyway. The news doesn’t bother him that much, though. He’s more proud that he’s facing his end unperturbed.

  ‘Yeah, you’re the Diesel,’ he hears Lemon say.

  Then he looks hard at the barrel. The bullet that’s going to end my life will come out of that hole. He doesn’t intend to look away.

  A few moments pass, and the Prince starts to wonder why he hasn’t been shot. Behind the gun, he notices the right arm begin to sag.

  He looks up at Lemon, who is blinking and frowning, touching his face and around his eyes with his free hand. It’s clear enough something’s wrong with him. He shakes his head back and forth, then yawns twice, his mouth opening wide.

  Is he falling asleep? That can’t be. The Prince takes first one step to the side, then another, away from the barrel.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he tries asking.

  Medicine. It comes to him in a flash. Once when he was going after a classmate, trying to bring her down, he used strong sleeping meds. This looks exactly the same.

  ‘Fuck.’ Lemon waggles the gun. Some flash of danger, urging him to take out the Prince before he goes under. ‘I’m pretty sleepy.’

  The Prince grab’s Lemon’s arm with both hands, seizing his chance while the other is sluggish, then single-mindedly wrenches the gun away. Lemon snarls and swings his other arm around. The Prince dodges, then backs up against the far wall of the gangway.

  Lemon’s knees buckle and he lurches into the door. He’s wrestling with the sandman, and he’s losing. His arms shoot out to the walls and grope feebly, then he’s on the floor, like a marionette with the strings cut.

  The Prince puts the gun in his backpack, not bothering to take off the silencer.

  There’s a plastic bottle at Lemon’s feet. He steps over cautiously and picks it up. Just an ordinary-looking bottle of mineral water – maybe the medicine was in here. He peers in. Who would have put it here? Just as the question rises to the surface, another thought paints over it entirely.

  I’m so lucky. I’m so lucky.

  He can hardly believe it. When it seemed like there was nothing he could do, when he was a hair away from death, to have such a stupendous turnaround.

  He circles behind Lemon and grabs him from under the armpits. He’s heavy, but not so heavy he can’t be moved. Okay. He sets Lemon back down and goes over to the toilet door. Careful not to cut himself, he grabs the end of the copper wire and yanks it upward. It unlocks.

  He goes back to Lemon, stepping up behind so he can lift and drag him to the toilet.

  Then comes the attack.

  Lemon looks deep asleep, but both arms fly up and grab the Prince by the lapel of his blazer, then wrench him down. The Prince tumbles forward and slams to the ground. Everything is upside down, he’s lost his handle on the situation. He springs back up, his hair on edge at the thought of Lemon’s next attack, the one that will finish him.

  ‘Hey.’ Lemon is still seated. His eyes are pointed in different directions and his hands are pawing at the air in front of him, like a drunk. He slurs, ‘You tell Tangerine.’

  The medicine must be strong if Lemon can’t stay awake no matter how hard he tries.

  Watching him fight is highly comical to the Prince, like watching a fool struggle to keep one foot on the shore while the boat’s already sailing on the tide. This probably wasn’t regular sleeping medicine, it must be something nastier. Gun in hand, the Prince steps closer to Lemon. He leans his face in.

  Lemon grits his teeth to stay awake. ‘Tell Tangerine, the thing he’s looking for, the key, it’s a coin locker in Morioka, you tell him.’ Then his head falls forward and doesn’t come back up.

  He looks dead, but the Prince can tell he’s still breathing.

  When he goes behind to lift the body again, he notices a little picture under Lemon’s hand.

  It’s a sticker, stuck on the floor.

  A little green train engine with a face. Some character from a kids’ show. He sure loves that stupid show, thinks the Prince, but then it occurs to him that it might be some kind of signal for his partner. He peels it off and crumples it up, then tosses it in the trash.

  He proceeds to haul Lemon into the bathroom. There’s Kimura, on the ground. A red-black stain emanates from his body, the blood mixing with the piss flecks on the floor. The Prince feels a wave of disgust and hisses, ‘Gross, Mr Kimura.’

  Before anyone can walk by and see what’s going on he shuts the door and locks it, then hoists up Lemon’s unconscious body and sits him down on the toilet. Next he pulls the gun out of his backpack, and without hesitating presses the barrel up to Lemon’s forehead. But he doesn’t want to risk chunks splattering on him, so he backs up to the door.

  He sets his stance, takes aim, and pulls the trigger, ga-chin. The sound leaves a hum in the air. Between the silencer and the rattling of the Shinkansen nobody heard the gunshot.

  Lemon’s head lolls and hangs. Blood burbles from the hole.

  Being shot in your sleep – it seems to be missing something. I bet he didn’t even feel any pain.

  The blood is oozing out feebly, barely flowing now. The Prince smiles wickedly. A toy running out of batteries dies a more dignified death.

  I do not want to go like this.

  After thinking about it for a moment, he decides to leave the gun in the bathroom. First he was going to keep it on him, but the risk seemed too high. His stun gun he can say is for self-defence, but that won’t work for a real gun. And considering that Kimura and Lemon were both shot dead it makes sense for there to be a gun in the bathroom.

  He goes back out to the gangway and uses the wire to lock the door.

  A few steps towards car eight and he stops again, an idea popping into his head. He pulls a phone out of the front pocket of his bag. It’s Kimura’s. Finding the last number in the history, he hits call.

  It rings for a while. ‘Yes?’ It’s a gruff male voice.

  ‘Is this Mr Kimura’s father?’ The rumbling of the train makes it difficult to hear, but the Prince doesn’t care.

  ‘Sorry?’ The man pauses for a moment, then, ‘Oh, the, uh, schoolkid I talked to before.’ His voice softens.

  The Prince can picture the tranquil scene, tea in front of the TV, and he wants to burst out laughing. Your son was killed while you were enjoying some tea! ‘I wanted to tell you that everything Mr Kimura said before was true.’

  Kimura’s father doesn’t respond. Whenever the Prince is revealing something a thrill runs through him.

  ‘Mr Kimura got himself into a dangerous situation. His son is in danger too.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what? Wataru’s in the hospital.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he is.’

  ‘Where’s Yuichi? Let me talk to him.’

  ‘He can’t come to the phone any more.’

  ‘What do you mean, any more? Is he on the Shinkansen?’

  ‘You know, you and your wife must be relaxing, I probably shouldn’t have called.’ His voice is flat and colourless, like he’s just reporting the facts. ‘And I think it’s best if you don’t talk to the police.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Sorry, that’s all I have to say. I’m hanging up now.’ The Prince pushes the end button.

  That’ll work, he thinks. Kimura’s parents are probably panicki
ng right now. They have no idea what’s happening with their son and grandson and they’ll be tormented by worry. All they’ll be able to do is call the hospital. But when they call, if nothing’s happened yet, then the people at the hospital will say, All’s well, no problems here. Beyond that, Kimura’s parents can do nothing. He doesn’t imagine they’ll go to the police. And even if they do, it’ll probably just be written off as a prank call.

  Then when everything comes to light, then they’ll feel despair. An old couple, living out their final years in peace and quiet, only to have their little remaining time filled up with rage and regret. The Prince can’t wait. He pictures himself crushing people so he can harvest the juice that comes pouring out. To him nothing else in the world tastes as sweet.

  He heads into car eight. You weren’t such a big deal after all, Mr Lemon. No one is.

  Children, adults, animals, all weak, all worthless, all junk.

  Morning Glory

  THE TAXI RIDE ISN’T EVEN long enough for the meter to go up.

  He pays the fare and disembarks, then watches the cab disappear. Across the prefectural road, two lanes in each direction, stands a building. It’s tall and new-looking.

  Is the go-between already here? He’s an administrator, working by phone from a desk, and the thought of him nervously venturing out into the field makes Morning Glory smile. It’s much more pleasing than someone who finds excuses to hide themselves away.

  He makes the call. The go-between doesn’t answer. Even though he’s the one who said to be here. There’s no anger, just a feeling of having wasted time. He considers going home. By the time he realises it, he’s crossing the street, towards the building.

  Waiting at the traffic island for the pedestrian signal to turn green. He regards the road. To him it looks like a river. His field of vision narrows and colour falls away. The river runs by in front of him, irregular waves peaking and dipping. The guardrail next to the pavement is a bulwark, keeping the murmuring current from spilling over the riverbanks.

  Now and again a storm whips by and turns the water to froth, but apart from that the surface of the water barely seems to tremble.

  His vision returns to normal. The river vanishes and the road appears. The scene takes on colour and becomes solid.

  In the shrubs on the traffic island is a little flag urging pedestrian caution and a small aluminium trash receptacle. He looks down. At the base of the shrubs are some dandelions. Their little yellow flowers have a wholesome vitality, like a child who sleeps when it wants to sleep and plays when it wants to play. The more subdued green stalks hold up the bright flowers, swaying gently.

  There are drooping green frills around the yellow flowers. Common dandelions.

  The non-indigenous common dandelion pushed out the native Kanto dandelion. He remembers hearing that.

  But it’s not true.

  The Kanto dandelion is disappearing because humans are encroaching on its habitat.

  Then the common dandelion just fills in the space where the other dandelions used to be.

  Morning Glory thinks the whole thing is fascinating.

  People act like the common dandelion is the culprit in the drop-off of the Kanto dandelion, and that humans are merely the witnesses, but the truth is it’s the humans who are to blame. Common dandelions just happen to be tough enough to live with humans. Even if the common dandelion hadn’t appeared, the Kanto dandelion would still be dying off.

  Next to one of the yellow flowers is a speck of red.

  No bigger than a fingernail, a perfect red droplet. A ladybird. On the back of the red droplet are neat black spots, like they were painted on by the finest of brushes. Morning Glory looks closer.

  Who came up with the design for this insect?

  It doesn’t seem like an environmental adaptation. Is there any evolutionary use for a red body with black spots? It isn’t grotesque or bizarre like some other insects, but it is an appearance that doesn’t seem like it should occur in nature.

  Morning Glory stares as the ladybird climbs busily up the leaf. He extends his finger and the insect circles behind the stem.

  When he looks up the signal is green. He’s about to step out onto the crossing.

  A call comes in. The go-between.

  Fruit

  TANGERINE IS STARTING TO WONDER what’s taking Lemon so long, but he forgets about it the moment he steps from the green car into the gangway and sees a man with glasses sitting on the floor.

  The train enters a tunnel and the roar of the tracks changes its sound pattern. The surroundings go dark. A sudden pressure bears down on the train, as if it’s diving underwater.

  Nanao sits up against the wall facing the rear of the train, his knees bent. He looks unconscious at first. His eyes are open but staring blankly.

  Tangerine reaches into his jacket for his gun but there’s Nanao, aiming a gun back at him before he can draw.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Nanao says. He’s still seated, but the gun is steady. ‘I’ll shoot.’

  The Shinkansen bursts out of the tunnel. Through the window paddies of rice ripe for the harvest stretch into the distance. Almost immediately the train plunges into the next tunnel.

  Tangerine puts his hands up slightly.

  ‘Don’t try anything funny. I’m not in the mood. I will shoot.’ Nanao keeps the gun trained on Tangerine. ‘To bring you up to speed – I found Minegishi’s son’s killer. The Hornet.’

  In his peripheral vision Tangerine notices the snack trolley. The attendant is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Yeah? Easy win? Where is she?’

  ‘In the multi-purpose room. It was a tough win,’ Nanao says. ‘Now you don’t need me for a fall guy. Right? There’s no point in attacking me now.’

  ‘I wonder.’ Tangerine takes a measuring look at Nanao. I could find an opening. Could probably get the gun away from him. He acts it out in his head.

  ‘Like I said before, our best hope is to work together. Nothing good will come of us shooting it out. That will only serve someone else’s purposes.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know. But there is someone.’

  Tangerine remains still, facing Nanao. He’s thinking. Then he nods. ‘All right. Put the gun away. Let’s have a cessation of hostilities.’

  ‘I never opened hostilities in the first place.’ Nanao slowly gets up on one knee and leans a hand on the wall. He places the other hand on his chest and takes several deep breaths. The fight with that woman must have taken a lot out of him. He’s gingerly checking in with his body. There is a rip in the leg of his cargo pants. On the floor lies something that looks like a toy syringe. When Nanao notices Tangerine eyeing it he scoops it up and throws it in the trash.

  Then he puts the gun in the back of his belt.

  ‘Were you shooting up?’

  ‘She was a pro, so I figured she’d have some kind of antidote. I came this close to dying. I was counting on her to bring out the antidote if she got stabbed. It was no sure thing though.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I didn’t know if it was already too late for me.’ Nanao opens and closes his hands a few times, just to be sure. Then he leans over and fiddles with the torn fabric of his trousers.

  Tangerine’s pocket buzzes with an incoming call. He pulls his phone out and checks the caller ID. A heavy feeling immediately presses down on him. ‘It’s our mutual client.’

  ‘Minegishi?’ Nanao’s eyes open wide. Just as he was starting to come back to life, speaking that name makes him go white all over again.

  ‘We’re almost at Sendai. He’s calling to check in one last time.’

  ‘Check in on what?’

  ‘To make sure I know that if I don’t tell him the truth he’ll start to lose his temper.’

  ‘But what could you possibly tell him?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give the phone to you and you’ll tell him.’

  Tangerine answers.

  Minegishi doesn’t bother to say who i
t is. ‘I got a question for you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is my son all right?’

  It’s so direct that Tangerine doesn’t know how to respond.

  ‘I got a call a little while ago,’ Minegishi says. ‘Saying that something didn’t look right with my boy on the train. He said, Your son looked a little odd, you might want to check up on it. So I said, My son isn’t on the Shinkansen by himself. I hired two men I trust to accompany him. Nothing to worry about. But then he says, You might want to be careful about trusting those two men. They may be with him, but your son wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.’

  Tangerine smiles uncomfortably. ‘Your man in Omiya was wrong, sir. Your son was asleep. He might have just looked like he wasn’t breathing.’ He’s terrified that Minegishi will ask him to put the kid on the phone.

  Nanao stands watching, looking nervous.

  ‘You know, it occurred to me, sir, as we were talking, that one of the two Chinese characters for the word son is the character for breath. Your son must be breathing.’

  Minegishi isn’t listening to Tangerine. He’s used to giving orders and making demands. The advice and opinions of others may not even reach his ears. All he needs from other people are their reports.

  ‘And so,’ continues Minegishi, ‘just to be sure, I’m having some people check up on you at Sendai Station.’

  Guess Momo was right. Tangerine shrinks a little. ‘That’ll be fine, but the Shinkansen won’t wait long.’

  ‘So just get off. The two of you can get off the train at Sendai, with my son and my suitcase. Several of my men are waiting on the platform. I also hired some of your fellow professionals.’

  ‘Everyone at the station will be mighty surprised, sir. So many fine young men lined up on the platform.’

  The melody signalling the arrival at the next station begins to play. It’s a light and whimsical little tune. Tangerine smiles uncertainly again.

  ‘If everything was going as it should have, this wouldn’t be necessary, but sometimes this sort of thing is unavoidable. So I’ll ask again. Is my son all right? And do you have the suitcase?’