Weeds in the Jungle

by Stuart Parker

pointedly, hoping to dissuade anyone from stopping there. It seemed to work.

  He looked to his new found friend. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Kaori,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m Taro.’

  She did not respond one way or another.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘Have you been working today?’

  After a moment with her cigarette she nodded.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Jiyugaoka. In a shoe shop.’

  ‘I used to live near there. Now I live in Roppongi.’

  ‘Roppongi is fun,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Which area do you like best, Midtown Plaza or Roppongi Crossing?’

  ‘Roppongi Hills?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes. A nice place to shop. I live quite close to there.’

  Her cigarette was smoked done now and she lowered it beside her. But she was still standing there. Taro smiled. ‘Which shop in Roppongi Hills is your favourite?’

  She mused over this question carefully. ‘There’s a spaghetti restaurant I go to with my sister. Its lunchtime set is very nice.’

  ‘Is that so? I’m not sure I know it.’ Taro spat out his cigarette and stamped on it. ‘I’m really glad I had this conversation. It’s probably the most boring conversation I’ve had in my whole life and it’s been the right tonic to get me calm and cool headed. Boredom has never been so effective.’

  He chuckled as he pulled out a folded up advertising flier and a pen.

  ‘If you’re writing down your number,’ said the young woman sorely, ‘you should know I already have a boyfriend.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m doing, but if all you’re getting in your life are these sorts of boring conversations, my number is probably what you need.’ He scrawled out a message on the back of the flier and showed it to her: “Your home is mine to enter at will. Koki, you dog, you would be a fool to feel secure.”

  He walked to a parked bicycle and began threading the note between its front spokes.

  ‘I can’t give you my number because you might prove to be a hostile witness.’

  He straightened up and turned his attention to a Community Education Centre on the street corner. Without a second thought he picked up the bicycle, ran across the street and flung it at one of the centre’s windows. The bicycle bounced off, leaving a large crack in the glass. Taro picked it up and flung it again, grunting with the added exertion. This time the window shattered. There were loud gasps and screams from inside the centre: old people in a panic.

  Taro walked back to the stunned young woman, shaking his head. ‘Maybe you calmed me down too much. That didn’t feel half as good as I hoped it would.’

  ‘That was my bicycle,’ the young woman murmured.

  Taro saw in her face that she was telling the truth. He smirked. ‘It still is your bicycle. It’s just hit a small bump, that’s all. Still, I’m sorry I did it. As you can see, I’m not in a good place mentally at the moment. Tell the cops I’ll be happy to confess to my crimes. All I ask is that they catch me first.’

  The street was getting crowded with bystanders and people rushing out of the community centre on earthquake footing. Taro had the urge to hit someone, especially one of those ageing businessmen who always looked upon him with judgemental eyes. That would be the best reason to smash a window: to draw out those judgemental eyes, just so that Taro could lay them straight with a hard fist. But he had to keep moving. If the police really did get hold of him they would keep him in custody at least long enough for an assassin to catch up with him.

  Taro patted the young woman on the arm and ran. The wall of gathering bystanders was easily negotiated. Their jaws were so limp a dentist could have gone straight to work.

  Taro ran for an exhausting ten minutes before he dared check behind him. There was no sign of pursuit. The police would be getting tied up at the crime scene, for the witnesses would be feeling even more insecure if they didn’t take the time to listen to them.

  Taro flicked his phone open to a message: “If your unannounced houseguest is being neglected, it might mean you’re still alive. Good night wherever you are. WM.”

  Wherever he was.

  Taro sunk his hands idly into his pockets and started walking. He soon came to a main road and a sign pointing towards Ueno. Ueno Park was one of the biggest in Tokyo. And a well-known spot for homeless sleeping rough. That would do him.

  He lent into the cool wind as he headed that way. As lonely and outcast as he had become in the world, he was not given to feeling dejected about it, perhaps because he simply couldn’t imagine a life that better suited him. It wasn’t much of a life, so no need to fret that it might soon be over. Any pain he felt in the meantime was just a consequence of buying a little more time.

  33

  Taro awoke in the same position on the wooden bench in Ueno Park as he had started. The crispness in the air and the small sprinkling of exercisers told him that the morning was still young. That was not surprising, it was not the kind of place where someone would sleep late. A manga comic book omnibus and his folded up jacket had not stopped Taro’s neck from getting sore. He stiffly hauled himself up into a sitting position.

  ‘Good morning,’ came a voice to the side.

  Taro did not like the idea that someone was looking at him while he was in this kind of a state. The voice was strong and direct. And steady. It couldn’t have been one of those health-nut early bird joggers doing laps.

  ‘Sleep well?’ the man added. Obviously he was not going to be ignored.

  Taro turned with his shoulders.

  ‘How are you?’ said the man. ‘I’m Shimizu.’ He was a smiling, chirpy young man. He was occupying the next bench along the row. He looked about Taro’s age. He had short black hair, a square jaw and a long neck. The curvature of his back suggested he had spent his life trying to be shorter than he was – not a trait of the average assassin.

  Taro relaxed a tad. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Couldn’t afford a taxi?’ Shimizu said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re wearing a suit so I don’t figure you as a regular Ueno Park resident. I guess you were out drinking past the last train.’

  People were usually not this talkative with strangers unless they had been plying some bars themselves.

  ‘I didn’t miss the last train,’ said Taro. ‘And I don’t have a train to catch today.’

  ‘Well, it probably wasn’t you using the public toilets. I’ve never seen such a mess. Would you like a coffee?’

  Taro glanced at his watch. It was six o’clock and there was a mosquito bite next to the watch face. He had slept four hours, more off than on. He would have to live another day before he got another chance.

  ‘Ok. Sounds good.’

  Shimizu maintained his stoop on his feet. They walked against the flow of joggers down to the 24 hour McDonalds. Shimizu ordered coffee to go.

  ‘Take out?’ said Taro. ‘We could have got something out the vending machines and saved ourselves a walk.’

  ‘It’s worth it. It’s good when you can see your maker in the eye. We can’t do it with our lives so at least we should do it with the food that keeps us alive. For me, that means McDonalds.’

  ‘What about your parents?’

  Shimizu didn’t reply.

  They ambled through the market streets around Ueno Station that in a few hours would be a hive of activity. Taro used his teeth to open the packets of sugar. Shimizu looked at him with surprise, as though he expected more civility from a man in a suit, even one who had spent the night on a park bench.

  ‘You really don’t have a home to go to?’ Shimizu asked.

  ‘Not one worth going to.’

  ‘I’ve heard of homeless men who hide the shame behind a suit.’

  ‘I thought all businessmen hide their shame behind their suits.’

  Shimizu’s eyes lit up. ‘If that’s the way you feel, there’s a night bus to Shikoku Island. You can come with me.
I’ve got a friend with a surf shop there. He’s asked me to go help him out.’ He pulled out of his baggy trousers a ratty-paged notebook. ‘The address is in here. It’s the only possession I’ve got left.’

  ‘I can’t surf,’ murmured Taro.

  ‘Don’t be stupid; it’s the customers that surf. You can suntan, can’t you? Get a good suntan and everyone will assume you’re a surf king. There won’t be much money but he has some bungalows out the back where we can sleep. I’ve been there before. It’s right up against the beach.’

  Taro drank his coffee and frowned. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t tell me, you’re a little bit homeless but what you’re really doing is looking for a home for that suit. Is that it?’

  ‘No, it’s not like that.’

  ‘Well, what is it? People’s lives end with heart attacks all the time. So, be your own heart attack. Go in a new direction.’

  Taro finished off the rest of the coffee. ‘I don’t know. I have to think about it. Can I call you?’

  ‘That’s a nice idea but my notebook doesn’t take calls. I sold my phone to pay for my bus ticket. Never mind. The bus is departing from the JR terminal at Shinjuku Station. If you decide to come, you can meet me there at eleven o’clock tonight.’

  A message came through Taro’s phone. ‘I’ve still got my phone,’ he sighed ruefully. He flicked it open to the message: “You haven’t made the morning news. You’ll have to try harder. WM.”

  The message held his attention for a good while after he had finished reading it.

  ‘Whatever you think is keeping you in Tokyo will flow under any surfboard you ride,’ urged Shimizu. ‘Trust me