Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2) by Patrick Sherriff

pain. 
    “Excuse me,” I say. And stand up. He sits down and I try my best to dart down the carriage. It’s standing room only, if that. Pushing my way through means squeezing my body through, brushing up against the backs of salarymen in suits. I feel sick. But I force my way through. The alternative means facing the masked man.
    I pull open the door at the end of the carriage and push my way through the concertina into the next carriage. It’s even more packed. I take a deep breath of warm air and move in. People are standing three deep. Men in suits, a couple of high school girls in cardigans and short skirts, boys dressed in black with their hair shaved for baseball, girls with soft toys dangling from their school satchels. But nowhere to sit. Nowhere I can hide. Then I see an empty seat. It isn’t a blue and silver seat. No one is sitting there. I look around. It isn’t next to a foreigner, but no one is sitting there. I sit, only then do I realise why it had been left. The seat stinks of shochu alcohol. The stench is coming from an old man next to me. His hair is matted. He’s humming to himself. And to the rest of the carriage.
    I put my hand in my pocket. There’s something in there. Plastic, round, the shape and weight of a small pear. I can’t make out what it is but it has a grey digital screen like a calculator and a single round button moulded into the plastic. I press the button. The screen lights up and I hear dialling. I try to turn the thing off, but there is no off-button. I stuff it back in my jacket pocket and smother the speaker with my hand.
    I think about changing carriages. Maybe there’s a guard? Are they at the front or the back of the train? I risk a glance over my shoulder down the carriage where the masked man would be coming from. I can’t see anything through all the bodies. Think. Maybe I can…
    “Excuse me.”
    “Yes?”
    It’s a woman sitting on the other side of me with grey hair and an oversize red paper bag with rope handles and an Italian name in fancy lettering on her lap.  
    “Are you an American person?”
    “Er, no, I’m not.”
    “Are you free?”
    “I’m kind of busy.”
    “I’m a Japanese. I’m fine. I’m an English student.”
    “Right.”
    I feel the train slowing. Everyone standing pushes their weight back on their heels. The train is coming to a stop. I can’t tell if the doors open on the left or right of the train. I prepare myself to run to the nearest door. But as I look out the condensation on the windows, I see only tunnel.
    The doors on the right, furthest from me, open. A river of people gets on. There’s no way I can push my way through. And still they stream on. People of all ages.  
    I look down the carriage. People are shuffling out of the way. There is murmuring. A few disgruntled shouts and movement. Is someone pushing their way though? I catch a glimpse of a hand. It grabs a woman and pulls her to one side. There is shocked silence. Nobody does that. Even on a packed train.
    “I’m very pleased to meet with you.”
    Think.
    “It’s lovely weather we have been having, don’t you think.”
    “Think, yes.”
    Think.
    I have to blend in. I can’t be recognised. Stop moving and you become invisible. Don’t attract attention to yourself. Like having a conversation in a foreign language on the train. That’s not a good thing.
    “I have lived in Tokyo for a very long time. I respect mental doctors, don’t you?”
    “What?”
    “Mental doctors are very fine people. Mental doctors are better than other doctors. Other doctors can see only what is wrong on outside. But mental doctors can see what is wrong on inside of heart. Are you a mental doctor?”
    “No. A journalism student.”
    “Oh, a writer! A writer! I respect writers. They can see what is wrong on inside of heart. Like mental doctors.”  
    I can’t think of anything. This is it. The masked man is going to be on me in a moment and will recognise me in an instant. I