on that.’
Taro picked up his pace, leaving Shimizu behind. ‘I’ve got to go. I will see you tonight, if I can.’
Shimizu waved a farewell with his notebook.
34
She was wearing a white mini-skirt and black high heel boots. Her legs were long and slim. Although her face was less than symmetrical and her jaw was jutting, Taro did not even look. He stopped behind her, put his mobile phone under her miniskirt and snapped a photo. He stepped away smirking.
Even if she had not realised what he had done, there were other eyes upon him. Harajuku Station would not be busy until shop opening hours, but there was a sprinkling of people waiting for their morning trains, and some of the businessmen had been admiring the woman for themselves. Taro brushed aside their glares with a taunting kiss to the phone.
He walked further along the platform in search of another addition to his collection. It would not take long, for in such a fashionable part of Tokyo there were miniskirts aplenty. More admonishing eyes emerged upon the platform, however, and this time, with their accompanying police uniforms, Taro paid more attention. They had come down the stairs in a group of four; Taro knew how they work: they patrolled in pairs and made their arrests in packs of four or more. And if he was in any doubt as to their purpose, there was also a station attendant trailing behind the police, his eyes also boring into Taro. Probably he had called them in. The station was interwoven with cameras, and Taro’s performance was inevitably going to draw this kind of response.
He took another couple of steps towards them, taking comfort in their chubby physiques, telling himself that soft bodies equalled soft minds and that he for one could not afford either. He turned and ran.
The automated announcement of an impending train came onto the speakers. Taro set himself to beat it to the end of the platform. A train line geared towards carrying five million passengers a day moved swiftly and relentlessly and he would have to sprint at his fastest to beat it. The police were shouting for him to stop, which worked to his advantage for at least everyone else on the platform obeyed, giving him a clear run. He passed the woman in the white miniskirt. She had her head bowed and he suddenly felt sorry about involving her. He wanted to stop and tell her the pictures weren’t going anywhere, but that would have meant certain capture. He reached the end of the platform and did not even stop to check the progress of the oncoming train. He could feel the shudder, he knew it was close. He jumped down onto the tracks and ran across them, making a despairing lunge onto the wire perimeter fence at the end of the platform. He had eluded the train by a split second.
He climbed the fence and carefully straddled the sharpened points at the top. He waited for the train to clear the platform. The police would be hoping he was under the wheels, for they would be able to clear up the case as quickly as it took to clear up the mess and they could bill his family for the effort. Taro stayed on the fence to meet their eyes. The train slowly moved away and he found the police had gathered at the end of the platform. He gave them a taunting smile and retrieved a note from his shirt pocket. It read: “Women cannot prevent my advances. Let them try to spurn me.” He stabbed it onto the wire fence. He was relieved that this was the last note Waneta had instructed him to leave. He was fast tiring of making himself worthy of an assassin’s attention. But there was still work to done. He was yet to make the news.
35
Taro had breakfast at a corner café in downtown Tokyo. Spaghetti and black coffee. As he ate, he scrolled through the pictures on his phone. Only a couple of them were clear enough to even catch a glimpse of underwear; there, however, had been a perverse pleasure in taking them that he did not much like. Waneta’s instructions had not included what to do with the pictures, so he took it upon himself to delete them. He felt better then. But a bitter aftertaste remained. He recalled Waneta’s warning about Tokin’s unscrupulous use of people. He knew he was being used now and he could think of no other course of action than to trying seeing it through to the end.
After breakfast he went looking for a knife. Japanese cuisine with its slithers of fish and vegetables required the sharpest knives in the world, so he knew he would be spoilt for choice. As he browsed through the shops, he recalled Yasahiro, the pizza maker at Domino’s Pizza. The man had been a renowned sushi chef until the pressure of having to please discerning customers night after night had finally overcome him. Now all Yasahiro had left were the knives. And the only reason he had continued to work in any sort of kitchen was so he could justify keeping them. ‘Air and water belong to our maker,’ he would say as he effortlessly cut through the ingredients of his toppings, ‘but steel belongs to man.’
Taro bought the kind of knife Yasahiro would have approved of: long bladed, heavy, exquisitely balanced and supremely sharp. He threw out the box and slipped the knife into his jacket’s deep inner pocket. He took a train to Tokyo Station.
One company owned all the land around the station and charged exorbitant prices for the exclusive leases. Many of the major companies in Japan were only too willing to base their headquarters there, to demonstrate their power and importance. It meant that standing on the station corner he could see many of the kind of cars he hated most: the chauffeur-driven ones. Sitting behind drawn silk curtains with the world at their feet and legions of unquestioning workers at their disposal were Japan’s business elite. They were the target Taro wanted. He waited for a red light before running at a line of them, slashing their tyres in a frenzy. The knife performed beautifully, slicing through the rubber with all the ease of the raw fish it had been intended for.
Taro ran off then, leaving the intersection in chaos. This, he knew, would certainly make the news. Perhaps it was owing to its old samurai past that the people in Japan were more concerned about someone running amok with a blade than what carnage a firearm might cause. It seemed to strike a nerve.
36
‘I don’t know what’s come over me. I wouldn’t usually give myself over to a pervert like you. Taking pictures up young school girls’ dresses is deranged.’ Waneta smiled and kissed him. ‘I suppose I’m not too angry. After all, I’ve taken you to one of the best love hotels in Tokyo.’
Taro was lying on his back on warm silver satin sheets in a queen sized bed next to her, enjoying the stunning view of Shinjuku’s skyscraper district outside a large golden framed window. The bed certainly beat for comfort the park bench he had been lying on the previous evening. If only he had actually been able to sleep here awhile. Even if it was just an afternoon nap. He glanced up at himself in the ceiling mirror. It seemed that the dark mood swirling through his mind had not leaked out to the rest of him. His body looked strong, fresh and perhaps even innocent. It occurred to him that some tattoos would have helped to describe what kind of body it really was. He mulled over this. He hoped he could find the time to get something done. Something to look at when he looked at himself in the mirror.
Waneta reached over him to check the time on the bedside clock radio. ‘It’s almost three o’clock. Would you like to hear what the radio has to say about you?’
Taro shrugged. ‘As long as they don’t have a name, they can say what they want.’
‘They only have a description. Tall, short hair, around twenty. I had trouble finding you in Shinjuku Station, and I had a lot more to go on than that.’ She reached even further across the bedside table to her handbag; while he was preoccupied trying to kiss her breasts, she fished out a hand gun. ‘Akutagawa is still the one you should be worried about. Remember, he has that nasty habit of never failing a job.’ She put the gun down on his belly. ‘Tokin wouldn’t approve. But in Brazil, when our life is threatened, we make sure we have an answer prepared for every question.’
‘I’ve never fired a gun before,’ said Taro, taking hold of it.
‘Have you ever played shooting games on your TV?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, that’s all the practice you’re going to get. Anyone with a gun in his hand has a cha
nce to kill someone; that’s what makes guns so dangerous.’ She dropped down on the bed beside him. She gently stroked his chest. ‘With every cop in Tokyo now keeping an eye out for you, all you’ll have to do is lie low. I’ve got a place in mind. A friend of mine has gone back to Brazil for a few months. She’s asked me to keep an eye on the place. A nice, traditional double storey home, stocked up with a week’s worth of groceries. Sound good?’
Taro nodded, his mind wandering to the previous evening in the park and waking up to Shimizu and his offer. He was in Shinjuku now. Not far from the bus station. All he had to do was wait a few hours and walk down there. A new life in a surf shop. One cramped night on the road would take him there.
Taro glanced at Waneta. Her makeup was off, just the way he liked it. She was beautiful and fascinating but would never really be a part of his life. He had grown up with Hiromi, she was the one who had comforted him when his father died. He regretted how poorly he had treated her and he could not deny that her departure had left behind a gaping wound. Stitching it up, no matter how crudely, was all he could think about. If it took more days like this one or a lifetime’s scrubbing the floors of a