Takumi heard a clatter alongside him. He tried to make sense of the movements swarming through his fogged gaze. It was futile, but still natural to try to look when he should have relied on his stronger senses. By the time he understood what the man was up to and tried to swat his hands away it was too late. The man had already moved.
‘Hmmm, a diabetic, eh?’
Takumi sighed. He should have moved the damn insulin pen. Before leaving for her movie date, Melissa had prepared his next dose of Humulin-S, setting the insulin level on the dispenser so that all he had to do was jab the needle in and press the plunger.
‘I’ve seen these before. Always wondered what they were. They look just like a pen these days — huh? Not like a syringe at all. Is that to make it more socially acceptable for when you’re injecting in public?’
Takumi didn’t answer. His bushido resolve to meet his death face on wavered for the first time. He hated that his condition had affected him so badly, taking his eyesight, taking his legs, and prior to this had dreaded succumbing to further complications. His doctor had warned him that his likely prognosis was renal failure, followed most probably by a heart attack. When first the killer of his co-conspirators had mentioned the gun, a flare of hope had risen up in him: better a clean death while confronting an enemy than wasting away in agony. Now that he understood what his tormentor planned, he was horrified.
Damn him, though, Takumi would not show his fear.
‘Just shoot me and get the hell out of here.’
‘No. Why waste good bullets?’
Takumi heard the click, click, click that was so familiar — and so despised — as the man charged the dispenser. By the number of clicks he’d ratcheted the pen all the way to the top. Knowing Melissa she’d have left him a full pen: that meant that there was 300 ml of insulin — more than plenty to send him into hypoglycaemic coma, from which there’d be no waking up.
Takumi tensed, trying to pinpoint the man’s whereabouts. His heart began to beat ferociously, his adrenalin kicking in, and Takumi thought that his body was his worst enemy of all, for his raised pulse would only aid the effects of the insulin. Despite his earlier resolve to show no fear, he cried out and began swiping randomly to push away his killer.
He felt the sting of the needle as it punctured the side of his neck. It was as if a wasp had stung him. He slapped at it, but found the man’s hand as he pushed down on the plunger. In desperation Takumi dug his nails into flesh and tried to tear the hand loose. The man only laughed and continued to depress the plunger. Takumi realised too late that he had not found skin, but leather gloves — the source of the man’s scent when he first noticed his presence in the room.
‘This is almost too easy,’ the killer said, stepping away. ‘I came here hoping that you were some sort of karate master and that I might have my hands full in a one on one battle. I was looking forward to the challenge. Instead, you’re about the most pathetic of them all.’
‘You bastard! You evil bastard!’
‘Hah, what happened to the inscrutable Jap reserve I’ve heard about? When you’re about to die, Japs’re no braver than anybody else.’
Takumi grabbed at the wheels of his chair, twisting round. Not to face the man but searching for his side table. He scrabbled with his fingers along the top, searching for the cellphone he’d placed there.
‘Looking for this? Oh, sorry, I forgot you can’t see. If you’re looking for your phone, I’ve got it right here.’
‘Please…’
‘What? Please what? Please help you?’ Something clattered against a wall and Takumi thought that the phone had been thrown across the room. He continued to scrabble at the table, his fingers meeting things that were normally familiar but in his panic unidentifiable. He could not find what he was seeking for. Takumi began yelling in frustration.
The wheelchair was yanked round. The man leaned over him, grabbing hold of his head and holding him tightly. ‘Shut up! Shut up, goddamnit, or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.’ Takumi felt the man shake him savagely. ‘Good. That’s better. Now if you scream again, I won’t finish things with you. I’ll wait here for your pretty little granddaughter to come home. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you understand what I’ll do to her?’
‘Leave her be, she has nothing to do with this.’
‘Shut up. You have no say in what I do. All you’re going to do is sit there and die, you old Jap bastard.’
The man shoved Takumi’s head to one side, then stepped away. ‘How long does it take for that insulin to work? I’d have thought it would be kicking in by now. Let me see your face.’
Takumi wanted to resist, but suddenly he felt a sinking feeling in his entire being, like someone had opened a valve and his blood was spilling out of him. He well recognised the symptoms associated with hypoglycaemia as his blood sugar levels began to drop. Ordinarily he would call to Melissa and she would bring him a sugary drink, or some hard candy to suck on, and he would stave it off. Never had it come on as rapidly as this before. Heat burned a swathe up the centre of his back. Conversely the sweat popping out on his brow was icy cold.
‘Shit. I’ve never watched a yellow man turn white before. I think you’re fucked up, old man.’
Takumi began to shiver. It didn’t manifest outwardly, the sensation was internal, his cells craving energy. The phantom pain was back. But now it travelled up from his ghost legs, through his thighs and into his lower abdomen. A cramp knifed its way into his stomach.
‘Are you hurting? What a pity. Well, if it’s any consolation it’s nothing to what you’re going to feel next.’
Takumi wasn’t thinking straight. He tried to wheel his chair past the man and into the hall. If he could get to the front door and shout for help, there was the hope that a passer-by would hear him and come to his assistance. A boot jammed against the chair, held it in place.
‘Where are you going?’ The man kicked the chair back again. ‘I’m just getting the fire started. Just imagine what it’s going to be like: you slipping into a coma, knowing that the flames are going to eat you alive. I don’t think you’ll feel it, but I bet that’s even worse. Jesus, just the knowledge that you’re burning alive and can do nothing about it… that must be terrible? Just think about that. Think how he must have felt.’
A spasm racked Takumi, drawing his hands into claws. Never had his hypoglycaemia reached this low level before. He had been told that if ever his blood sugar levels should drop off the scale then convulsions would follow. Well, it was apparent he’d reached that point. Not that he was conscious of that, because with the convulsions his brain activity went haywire. He jackknifed out of the chair and sprawled on the floor. The man was so close that his boot bumped against Takumi’s body as he stepped over him. The old man tried to grasp at it, but he was already too late, his fingers unresponsive. Groaning he rolled on to his back, trying in vain to see where the man was. In his fogged vision a new colour blossomed. It was yellow, then flared to orange, contracting to red as he screwed his eyes tight. Heat wafted over him, but it was a sensation he could no longer make sense of. He groaned again, as fresh pain lanced through him. This time its source wasn’t his amputated legs. He could not pinpoint the agony; it was everywhere at once, his every nerve ending screaming out. Darkness began to descend in his mind, a ragged blanket of feathers cascading out of the sky. He was almost thankful that unconsciousness was coming, but his killer had been right. Knowing that the fire was going to sear the living flesh from his bones struck terror into his heart and he began to scream. Yet — like the agony — the screams were internal, centred in his mind and soul.