The Earthquake Bird (20 page)

“Was she clumsy?” I try to remember if this was true but I can’t even picture Mrs. Yamamoto’s face.

“Yes, she was. But that’s not why I’m here.” She looks into my eyes, speaks slowly. “I wanted to see you. I’ve read a lot
of nonsense in the papers. I hope you’re taking no notice. I want you to know that I’m going to sort this out and you’ll be
free soon.”

“But I don’t want to be free.”

“Why ever not?”

“I’ve got nowhere to be. I’m going around in circles in Tokyo.”

“Well, then, you must return home, to Britain.”

“There’s nothing for me. All the people are ghosts. It’s not a home, you see.”

“In that case you must come and stay at my house, here in Tokyo. There’s certainly no point in going back to your lonely apartment
with that despicable neighbor and all those noisy cars.” She paused. “It must smell terribly of gasoline, too.”

“All right.” I say it to keep her happy because I’m still hoping to be convicted of murder.

Mrs. Katoh’s hopes, not Lucy’s, have been realized. A day has passed and I have learned that I am to be released with no charges.
The case against me was circumstantial and the police were unable to find a single fingerprint or DNA sample on Lily’s body.
Moreover new evidence has come to light.

After details about me appeared in the national newspapers yesterday, the police received an envelope. It contained two photographs.
The first showed Lily at a McDonald’s near my home. Investigations reveal that it was taken on the night of the murder, two
hours after she was seen at my front door. The cashier who recognized her in the picture recalled that she and her male Japanese
friend had some kind of communication difficulty. Both seemed distressed. She left her cheeseburger untouched but drank her
Coke.

Probably, she died later the same night. One thing is clear to the police. Lucy’s venture into the evening with her stockings
over one shoulder had no connection with Lily’s death. I was outside for only ten minutes or so. And my neighbor had reported
that she didn’t hear me go out again that night.

The second photograph was quite different. It was a picture of a woman squashed up within close brown walls, head lolling
to one side as if she no longer had the power to hold it high, dark eyes empty, like two fat plums.

There were no fingerprints on either photograph. The police don’t know that Teiji took the pictures, but I do. And the pictures
don’t prove that Teiji killed Lily. But they show that Lucy didn’t.

Teiji. Why were you waiting for Lily in McDonald’s and what did she say to you? That it was over because she wanted to be
my friend? Perhaps then you realized your mistake—you’d lose both of us—and thought you could come back to Lucy, if only Lily
wasn’t there. Was that reason enough to kill Lily? I don’t think so. Is first-degree murder just a habit of yours, like taking
pictures? Or perhaps it’s part of the same habit, something to photograph for your collection, something to keep. Now, more
than before, I wonder what became of Sachi. It seems Lucy has finally met her match in killing. But then, the evidence is
only circumstantial. I, of all people, should not be too hasty to judge.

I
’m lying on the balcony at Mrs. Katoh’s house. Balconies in Japan are generally reserved for washing rather than people, but
I like it here. I can see through the railings. There’s a small park with bushes and trees. It has a play area for children
with a slide and swings, but there are no children, no people at all. Beyond the park is the local railway station.

Mrs. Katoh is in the kitchen cooking dinner. I can smell fish and ginger frying. We’ve invited Natsuko and Bob for dinner
and they’ll be here soon. A long time has passed since I saw either of them but they were happy and friendly when we talked
on the phone. Bob told me he’s been recording songs and performing in clubs around Tokyo. His musical career is going well.
Natsuko took over my most important translations and all our clients are happy. I can return to work when I am ready. Bob
and Natsuko know I’m innocent. There’s no need for explanations or apologies. We’re friends and to eat and drink together
is enough for today.

I’m writing to Jonathan. It started as a postcard but has turned into a letter. I discover that there are things to tell him.
I write about my job, then about Natsuko’s camellia tree because I know he’ll understand how beautiful it was, and I tell
him a funny story of how I was wrongly arrested on a charge of murder. If I get a nice reply, I may even go and see him in
Yorkshire at Christmas, for a few days. Lily’s parents live only fifteen miles away. I expect they’d like a visit from someone
who knew her in Japan. Then I’ll return to Tokyo, to Mrs. Katoh, because her house is big enough for two she says. And she
doesn’t say, but I know, that she likes to look after me, to make a fuss and cook for me, to run the bath to just the right
temperature each night and put out a clean towel.

I drop my pencil and turn my eyes to the station. It’s good to watch people board the trains, a full platform become an empty
one within a few seconds. The train carries them away. Another crowd floods through the barriers and the platform is full
again, of what look like the same clothes, bodies, and faces. I like to listen to the announcements, the touching caution
that to rush onto trains is dangerous, that we must be careful to stand behind the yellow line because an approaching train
is also dangerous.

We had a neighborhood earthquake drill the other morning. It was calm and orderly, deemed successful by the municipal authorities.
Of course, you never know when the big one will strike, but there are a few small things you can do to increase your chances
of survival. I’m still nervous of tremors but less so than before. And that is another reason why I like to be close to the
station. The trains rattle past our street and shake the buildings with such vigor that it’s easy to miss the other movements,
the ones that start under the earth’s crust.

Mrs. Katoh calls me to say that Natsuko and Bob have arrived. Their voices chatter in the hall. I stand and stretch my legs.
A train leaves the platform, zooms away past the houses and apartment blocks. The balcony shakes and I rest my hand on the
railing. There’s a noise somewhere in the sky that I can’t identify but it reminds me of my old apartment and before I have
a chance to listen carefully to tell if it is the earthquake bird, another train rattles loudly to the station. I shiver,
pointing out to myself that the earthquake bird came only at night so this must be something different. But the sound carries
with it a picture of Lily crouching under my table in the light of the street lamp, and another of her hunched-up body in
the shed. I remember the woman, scattered in pieces deep in the bay, whose name I shall never know. Then I think of Sachi.
Please, no. The noise, or perhaps just an echo of it, is still in my ears. I look at the sky which has turned gray and heavy
but there are no birds.

There is a moment of quiet. Then, a rustling in the trees as if someone is creeping toward the house. My skin turns cold.
I am absolutely still. I tell myself it’s the neighbors’ dog but I know that dogs don’t creep. My mouth is dry. And then I
hear it. The unmistakable sound of a camera clicking. The whirr that follows it as the film winds on for the next shot. I
look around for Teiji but see only trees and bushes. I listen for his footsteps but now the clicking seems to be echoing quietly
around the park, in every direction, and I don’t know which way to turn. I put out my hand and feel the rain, small hard drops
of water landing one by one on my skin and on the leaves and the balcony railing.
Potsu potsu
it falls, then becomes heavier, like beads of ice. I turn to enter the house, but I know Teiji’s waiting out here for me
and I hope that the warmth of the home and of my close friends will be enough to keep me safely indoors. I hope with all my
heart it will, and yet—

It is going to be difficult.

S
USANNA
J
ONES
grew up in Yorkshire. Her interest in Japan began at London University, where, as part of her drama degree, she studied Japanese
Noh theater. This interest took her to Japan, where she lived and worked as a teacher and radio script editor. She received
an M.A. in writing from Manchester University and currently lives in Brighton, where she is at work on her second novel.

Photograph by jerry Bauer

WINNER OF THE MAIL ON SUNDAY/JOHN LLEWELLYN RHYS PRIZE FOR BEST NOVEL OF THE YEAR AND WINNER OF GREAT BRITAIN’S JOHN CREASEY AWARD FOR FIRST NOVEL

“Lily is there in the shadows of the cell’s corners, in the buzzing of the light over my head, the fruit fly at the corner of my vision that may just be a speck in my eye. When I lean forward my hair flops over my left temple and then I know Lily is inside my face. Sometimes I feel I am walking not quite like my self—my steps shorter, quicker, a scuttle, almost—and so I know she’s got into my legs too.”

The place is Tokyo. Alone and alienated, two expatriate English women seductively and dangerously compete for the affection of a secretive Japanese photographer. It is a simmering triangle primed to erupt—into a violent death, a baffling disappearance and a startling, unforgettable descent into the heart of a killer.