Eri was older than Shoji and already at university. She studied in Tokyo, but during the holidays would return to Fukuoka to help in the bookshop. She was usually calm and composed, so he was surprised by the way she’d reacted. He wanted to console her, but he had no idea how. Eventually, the doctor told them the cut wasn’t serious. At most, Shoji might get a barely noticeable scar. Eri finally calmed down.

The next day, his boss told Shoji his daughter had a fear of blood.

‘My wife died when Eri was little. Hit by a truck, in front of our house.’ He paused, seemingly struggling to find the right words. ‘Eri saw everything. There was a lot of blood.’

•

Something about Mizuki reminded Shoji of Eri. The two of them exuded the same air of elegance and fragility, like the yellow butterflies fluttering in his mother’s garden in Fukuoka. They were small and delicate, their wings so paper-thin anyone could crush them with a bare hand.

‘I had my boss and his daughter worried,’ Shoji told Mizuki. ‘The blood wouldn’t stop, but it wasn’t a deep cut.’

A week later, his summer holiday ended, and so did his part-time job. On his last day, Eri gave him a poetry book as a farewell present. She apologised for panicking, and he mumbled something along the lines of there being nothing to worry about. For a moment, he wondered where the book could be. He didn’t remember packing it when he moved to Akakawa.

Mizuki checked her watch.

‘Time to leave?’

She nodded.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Mizuki got up. ‘What are you going to do later?’

Shoji shrugged. ‘Wash some clothes, clean up a little, have instant noodles for dinner?’

‘Try to eat something healthy.’

He was smiling as he saw her out.

•

Once he’d done the housework, Shoji found that he’d run out of instant noodles.

‘I’m going to the convenience store,’ he told Yoko.

Her eyes were glued to the television. ‘Can you get me some shampoo?’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all.’

He put on a jacket and walked down the staircase. The night was slightly chilly and windy. Shoji shoved his hands into his pockets.

On his way down, he passed the building manager and they nodded to each other. The young woman had told Yoko and Shoji that the apartment was supposed to be for single occupancy, though she’d also said, ‘If you don’t give anyone a reason to report you, I don’t think the owner will care.’

Shoji turned towards the back of the building, where he’d parked his second-hand bicycle. Taking out a key, he crouched to unlock it. It was then that he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned around. A man he didn’t recognise grinned down at him.

CHAPTER 8

THE PROPOSITION

The man looked like he was in his forties or fifties. His chin was covered in short stubble. He wore an oversized black suit, a slightly crumpled white shirt, and dark-grey trousers — a typical salaryman ensemble. His features were bland enough not to stand out, but Shoji was certain he’d never seen him before.