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men’s arms. But Ayumi had probably been hesitant to impose on Aomame. And
Aomame had never once called Ayumi to suggest an outing.
It was nearly four o’clock in the morning when Aomame found that she could no
longer bear to stay alone in her apartment. She stepped into a pair of sandals and went
out, walking aimlessly through the predawn streets, wearing only shorts and a tank
top. Someone called out to her, but she kept walking straight ahead. She walked until
she was thirsty. Then she stopped by an all-night convenience store, bought a large
carton of orange juice, and drank it on the spot. Then she went back to her apartment
to cry.
I loved Ayumi
, she thought,
even more than I realized. If she wanted to touch
me, I should have let her touch me anywhere she liked, as much as she liked
.
The next day’s paper carried another report, under the heading “Policewoman
Strangled in Shibuya Hotel.” The police were doing everything in their power to catch
the man, it said, and the woman’s fellow officers were utterly perplexed. Ayumi was a
cheerful person who was well liked by everyone, a responsible and energetic
individual who had always earned high marks for her police work. Several of her
relatives, including her father and brother, were also police officers, and their family
ties were strong. All were puzzled as to how such a thing could have happened to her.
None of them know
, Aomame thought.
But I know. Ayumi had a great emptiness
inside her, like a desert at the edge of the earth. You could try watering it all you
wanted, but everything would be sucked down to the bottom of the world, leaving no
trace of moisture. No life could take root there. Not even birds would
fly over it. What
had created such a wasteland inside Ayumi, only she herself knew. No, maybe not
even Ayumi knew the true cause. But one of the biggest factors had to be the twisted
sexual desires that the men around Ayumi had forced upon her. As if to build a fence
around the fatal emptiness inside her, she had to create the sunny person that she
became. But if you peeled away the ornamental egos that she had built, there was
only an abyss of nothingness and the intense thirst that came with it. Though she tried
to forget it, the nothingness would visit her periodically—on a lonely rainy afternoon,
or at dawn when she woke from a nightmare. What she needed at such times was to
be held by someone, anyone
.
Aomame took the Heckler & Koch HK4 from the shoe box, loaded the magazine
with practiced movements, released the safety, pulled back the slide, sent a bullet into
the chamber, raised the hammer, and aimed the gun at a point on the wall with both
hands solidly on the grip. The barrel was rock steady. Her hands no longer trembled.
Aomame held her breath, went into a moment of total concentration, and then let out
one long breath. Lowering the pistol, she reset the safety and tested the weight of the
gun in her hand, staring at its dull gleam. The gun had almost become a part of her
body.
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