２５　Ａｐｒｉｌ，　Ｔａｋｅｍａｒｕ　Ａｂｉｋｏ

It’s been a while since I was awakened like this—my husband’s body odor assaulting my nostrils. I remember last night falling asleep right here on the sofa bed, my face buried in his pillow. Still hoping it was all a dream, I peer under the sofa bed. But there’s my husband, his cell phone lying by his hand. He’d been trying to make a call, but it was too late. . . .
　　For two full weeks my husband was self-isolating, working and taking all his meals here in his study. He said he didn’t want me to get sick. As recently as yesterday morning, the voice from the other side of the study door was brimming with life. He said his fever had broken, but that he still had that harsh cough. However, he assured me, it was no worse than the sore throat and cold he caught every year. It probably wasn’t

you-know-what

after all. He hadn’t been out drinking at night, and he’d never failed to wear a mask while commuting to work (though he had reused the same one). Still, there was no doubt that this was a nasty cold, and he’d better be careful not to pass it on. Even if it did turn out to be

the

thing

after all, he was sure he would get away with just the lightest of symptoms; after all, he was barely forty, and had no underlying medical conditions.
　　I believed him. On television, medical professionals were saying the same thing. And if his condition did get worse, there’d be plenty of time to get him to hospital. He’d been answering my LINE messages up until yesterday evening, but then he’d stopped. When he didn’t answer the phone either, I got worried and left work early. When I got home, I discovered my husband’s dead body, already cold as ice.
　　I hesitated to use the cell phone he’d dropped next to him, instead rushing downstairs and snatching up the receiver of our home phone/fax machine. But which to dial—110 or 119?
　　119—of course—ambulance—it had to be, right? And yet. . . . Was it really appropriate?
　　I recalled how chill his body had felt to the touch.
　　He was dead. Long dead. It was ridiculous to call an ambulance. Even if one turned up, once they heard the situation they’d be bound to leave again. So. . . police? The local health authority? I couldn’t picture what would happen next. All I knew for certain was that if they came for him, I would never be able to hold my husband again. He’d be cremated without my ever seeing his face. I hated the thought. Intensely.
　　I replaced the receiver and made my way back upstairs, unsteady on my feet. I entered my husband’s study and stood there a few moments before finally making up my mind to hold him. I’d touched him once already—it wasn’t a big deal.
　　Whose fault was it? Who was to blame for this awful tragedy? The doctors on the TV? The policy-makers? The staff at the local health authority who refused him a test when he called? Or—
　　I lowered myself to the floor and, snuggled up close, gently cradling his head in my arms. I kissed his chilled lips. And then, I took a deep breath. I wanted to inhale the virus cells that had multiplied inside his body, the ones that had completely devoured my husband. And I knew there’d be plenty of them all over the pillow, too. . . .
　　I’ve been sleeping in the study for three days now, and at last I’ve begun to develop the same cough as my husband. That’ll do it. Now I’m ready to go and pay a visit to the responsible parties.


Translated by Louise Heal Kawai / Arranged by TranNet KK

Takemaru Abiko
Born in Hyōgo Prefecture, 1962. Enrolled at the Division of Philosophy of Kyoto University’s Faculty of Letters. Joined the university’s mystery story research club. As one of the pioneers of the

shin

honkaku

suiri

(new whodunit) movement, making his debut in 1989 with

The

8

Mansion

Murders.

Takemaru Abiko is known for his ability to write in a variety of styles, from the deeply serious

Satsuriku

ni

itaru

yamai

(The disease that leads to slaughter) to the more light-hearted

Ningyō

wa

kotatsu

de

suiri

suru

(The puppet solves a crime at the kotatsu).He was also the main writer of the bestselling game

Banshee’s

Last

Cry

. His other works include

Kaitō

fushigi

shinshi

(The mysterious gentleman thief),

Rin

no

tsurune

(The hum of Rin’s bowstring),

Kankin

tantei

(Confined detective), and

Shura

no

ie

(House of the asura).