Year of the Talking Dog: A Hana Walker Mystery (The Hana Walker Mysteries Book 2) by Patrick Sherriff Page A
Authors: Patrick Sherriff
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scrunch my eyes shut and push my hands in the jacket pocket. I feel some paper and string. A mask. A flu mask. I put the mask on. Instantly, I’m a Tokyo commuter with a bad case of flu, or who hasn’t had time to put her make-up on or who is just plain shy. What does it matter? You’d have to look very closely to see my eyes are wrong and my hair naturally red, not dyed to look not-black. And there is only one thing for it to disappear properly on a Tokyo commuter train. I have to fall asleep.
I flop my head onto the shoulder of the old drunk. I don’t know if it’s really hiding me, but my action at least makes the woman stop talking. There is shuffling nearby. I dare not open my eyes. I let my hair fall over my face. Somebody stands on my toe. I bite my tongue. There is a commotion in front of me. Someone is really heavy on my foot, but I don’t move a muscle. Then the weight comes off. The carriage door beside me opens and shuts. I crack open an eye. People all around are looking at each other. I dare to squint open both eyes. The man isn’t there.
I open both eyes fully. He isn’t there. I ease my head off the drunk.
The tramp’s eyes are open but fixed on some point in the distance. He’s reading a public information poster across the aisle warning women not to put makeup on while sitting on the train.
He turns his head and looks at me.
“Please do it at home,” he says, reading the English slogan at the bottom of the poster. He brushes his shoulder.
I take a breath of air. I think I’m going to make it.
The carriage door swings open and the masked man is there.
His eyes are glassy. His mask hides his mouth. But I see the mask moving in and out as he breathes. He reaches for something by his side. He strides straight towards me.
CHAPTER TEN
There is no time to think.
I bolt. I’m throwing myself into gaps between people and squeezing my arms in like I’m pot-holing. He’s coming for me, behind me.
The train is slowing, suddenly everyone is standing up. I’m stuck in that mass of people. Hundreds of people all standing at once. There is no way I can resist the flow. I’m lifted off my feet as the crowd pushes toward the door and the cooler air of the station wafts in as we fall out of the train. I gasp for air and am relieved, but then think: if I’m being released onto the platform with everyone else, so is the masked man. I look around but can see only shoulders and home-made signs. It’s some kind of protest
“Hey!”
I grab a paper placard on a stick and run, swept forward by the crowd and am propelled toward the street. At the top of the stairs, there are so many people going through the ticket gates that no one even notices an English girl pushing her way through the barriers, just a hair’s breadth behind the guy in front of her.
I see the sign of the station just as I leave it, Nagatacho, the home of the Japanese parliament. I go with the flow of protesters. They are all ages, many nationalities, but mostly Japanese old people. I’m with a man with grey hair and in a business suit. He smiles absently at me and my sign. I smile back. I look at the placard I’m holding.
It’s in English.
“No Nukes.”
Out on the street, dark blue police buses with wire meshes over their headlights and windows line the streets with no space between the bumpers. We are hemmed in to the metre-wide pavement. At the intersections, police with caps on look like soldiers. But they don’t have their guns out, instead they all carry long sticks, like broom handles. They stand in line keeping the protesters from going anywhere near the building across the street. But that is where everyone is looking.
Except me. I hold my placard in front of my face and look over my shoulder back at the stream of protesters coming out of the station. I can’t see the masked man. A man with a megaphone is trying to get the crowd to sing. In English.
ALL WE ARE SAYING
I have to think of a plan. I
I flop my head onto the shoulder of the old drunk. I don’t know if it’s really hiding me, but my action at least makes the woman stop talking. There is shuffling nearby. I dare not open my eyes. I let my hair fall over my face. Somebody stands on my toe. I bite my tongue. There is a commotion in front of me. Someone is really heavy on my foot, but I don’t move a muscle. Then the weight comes off. The carriage door beside me opens and shuts. I crack open an eye. People all around are looking at each other. I dare to squint open both eyes. The man isn’t there.
I open both eyes fully. He isn’t there. I ease my head off the drunk.
The tramp’s eyes are open but fixed on some point in the distance. He’s reading a public information poster across the aisle warning women not to put makeup on while sitting on the train.
He turns his head and looks at me.
“Please do it at home,” he says, reading the English slogan at the bottom of the poster. He brushes his shoulder.
I take a breath of air. I think I’m going to make it.
The carriage door swings open and the masked man is there.
His eyes are glassy. His mask hides his mouth. But I see the mask moving in and out as he breathes. He reaches for something by his side. He strides straight towards me.
CHAPTER TEN
There is no time to think.
I bolt. I’m throwing myself into gaps between people and squeezing my arms in like I’m pot-holing. He’s coming for me, behind me.
The train is slowing, suddenly everyone is standing up. I’m stuck in that mass of people. Hundreds of people all standing at once. There is no way I can resist the flow. I’m lifted off my feet as the crowd pushes toward the door and the cooler air of the station wafts in as we fall out of the train. I gasp for air and am relieved, but then think: if I’m being released onto the platform with everyone else, so is the masked man. I look around but can see only shoulders and home-made signs. It’s some kind of protest
“Hey!”
I grab a paper placard on a stick and run, swept forward by the crowd and am propelled toward the street. At the top of the stairs, there are so many people going through the ticket gates that no one even notices an English girl pushing her way through the barriers, just a hair’s breadth behind the guy in front of her.
I see the sign of the station just as I leave it, Nagatacho, the home of the Japanese parliament. I go with the flow of protesters. They are all ages, many nationalities, but mostly Japanese old people. I’m with a man with grey hair and in a business suit. He smiles absently at me and my sign. I smile back. I look at the placard I’m holding.
It’s in English.
“No Nukes.”
Out on the street, dark blue police buses with wire meshes over their headlights and windows line the streets with no space between the bumpers. We are hemmed in to the metre-wide pavement. At the intersections, police with caps on look like soldiers. But they don’t have their guns out, instead they all carry long sticks, like broom handles. They stand in line keeping the protesters from going anywhere near the building across the street. But that is where everyone is looking.
Except me. I hold my placard in front of my face and look over my shoulder back at the stream of protesters coming out of the station. I can’t see the masked man. A man with a megaphone is trying to get the crowd to sing. In English.
ALL WE ARE SAYING
I have to think of a plan. I
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