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.
