The Last Train

Chapter 1

Chapter 1She was as tall as he was, but he was twice as wide and at least a decade, maybe two, older. She held his swaying bodyweight upright with her arm tight around his waist. Her tall, strong limbs prodded him forward along the late-night street—another Tokyo couple after a night out.

His overstuffed suit and rambling walk marked him as a foreigner, and a very drunk one. His knees popped and locked like a cheap robot with rundown batteries. He swayed from the booze inside him, or something more, beyond the fatigue and freedom of Tokyo.

She was sober and focused, nodding absently at his sputtering comments. A long shawl, as thick and black as her hair, fell around her broad shoulders. Her tight summer dress pulled at her trim figure with every stride. Her muscled legs were bare except for the wide leather sashes of her sandals. She was a Tokyo woman, confident, directed and conscious of the city around her.

She pulled him toward the entrance of Tamachi Station away from the nearby warren of bars, eateries and all-night clubs filled with bar hoppers and boozers. She checked her watch, barely noticing the drizzle.

The trains would stop running soon.

Drunken, red-faced Japanese men in groups, or alone with a woman peeled off from one of the hostess bars, ambled along the streets with liquored-up gracefulness. Drunk together at night, they talked loudly and coarsely, acting boisterous and loose, though in the morning they’d return to quiet, meek company mode.

The waiting chauffeurs and taxi drivers parked along the curb smiled to themselves. They could see the poised, pretty woman would have the plump, too-drunk foreigner’s money without any more work. He was clearly unable for much more of anything.

The drivers pulled at their uniforms, inhaled their cigarettes, and settled deeper into their patient wait along the curb.

She dragged him forward toward the trains, ignoring their stares.

Near the taxis in front of the station, the first driver in line cranked open the back door. The man swayed toward it, but the woman steered him past without a glance.

Under the glaring lights of the station’s vaulted entrance, she appeared even younger and prettier than out in the dark and drizzle. Her face, shrouded by thick hair, was a classic oval. Straight-cut eyelids arched over her strong-boned cheeks and her lips curved deliciously. As they entered the station, she took in the times of departing trains and gauged the distance from ticket machine to platform.

The man’s red cheeks, shiny brow and comb-over did not match his chic, European suit. His broad chest and full belly strained against his tie-less, wide-collared shirt, one shirttail flopping out in front. He lurched after her toward the wall of ticket machines, missing a step, then another.

He disentangled his arm from hers and held up his hand in a gallant offer of buying the tickets. She dug in her purse for loose change. He looked up at the sprawling, overhead map of Tokyo train lines glowing like a stained glass window. Neat, bright colors rendered the immense circulatory system of the city into one readable grid, a maze of connections that led everywhere, or nowhere.

The man looked back and forth for a minute, and then twisted toward her in stuttering confusion. She brushed back her hair with her hand and dropped coins in for two tickets. It didn’t matter if she got the right price. He tried to make a joke, but she checked the departure board and hurried him through the gate toward the escalator for the silent ride down to the platform.

At the bottom, she steered him around a kiosk shuttered for the night. With his arm clamped in her grip, she walked him down the empty platform toward the end.

An express train shot by. The speeding mass of metal blasted the platform with a whoosh of air and noise that sent him reeling for a couple of sidesteps. Her shawl and hair danced up and around her, but she clutched him tight and kept going.

The yellow-lit windows of the passing train cars were close enough to touch. From inside, images of people safe and snug flashed by, like an old film off its sprockets. Drain channels on the outside of the car spit drops of rain onto the platform. At that speed, the long train passed through in seconds.

Silence and stillness followed.

She checked her watch again. The next express train would arrive in two minutes.

At the dark end of the platform, they stood alone. She propped him against a huge pillar that took up most of the platform, and then she pulled him around to face her, her arms locked on his, keeping him balanced. He leaned forward for a kiss. She gave him her cheek, but his head wobbled too much to kiss her on the first try.

Along the underground sweep of the station, eight other platforms lined up in parallel conformity. On each, a few passengers congregated near the escalators at the center of each platform, fingering text messages, reading tiny paperbacks, or staring off into the night.

If anyone had looked over, they would have seen the foreign man’s knees unhinging and his arms swinging. His whole body pinwheeled like a bulky doll, held up only by the strong force of her limbs.

She tugged him over to the yellow warning strips at the platform’s edge and squinted down the tunnel at the next express. She could hear it approaching. She craned her neck to see the front lights coming out of the darkness.

She placed her hands just above his elbows and looked into his face. He smiled back giddily and flopped forward, thinking she was going to kiss him again or whisper a sexy secret. Her lips were set as rigid as a Noh mask.

Then, with her left hand, she tugged his wrist down and pried her other hand under his arm. She planted her sandals and took a deep breath.

He looked at her with glassy-eyed confusion, swaying and blinking and nearly asleep.

She could feel the rumble of the train as it sped along the length of the platform toward them.

It was all over in one fluid motion.

In the confusion that followed the long, scared howl cut short by a muffled thump and harsh screech of brakes, no one noticed the woman gliding swiftly up the escalator.

She walked to the exit gate, kneed open the barrier and slipped out.

Behind her, the alarm sounded and uniformed attendants hustled out of the office, careful not to trip as they ran, knowing what to do, but not yet why. Startled passengers stared from the other platforms.

The woman walked with long strides toward the taxis, and the first in line opened its automatic door. She ducked inside and the door closed. The driver pulled off smoothly into the night.

“Yushima Tenjin Shrine,” she told the driver.

“Rain’s falling harder,” the driver said, stealing a glance at her in the rear-view mirror.

“What else can it do?” she said, leaning back for the ride.