Flowering Dogwood
Massive. But not sprawling.
Rather, an unusual low rise density of so many neatly tiled roofs and the fine details of precisely bounded portions of land.
Each similar in nature, but satisfyingly different in execution. Incremental responses to leftover voids and gaps between existing structures. Each a measured addition to the larger agglomerative fabric of the neighbourhood. All together creating a system of incalculable spatial relations quite like no other.
Tokyo, at 5.33am.
Everything seemed just so.
Chang leant on the balcony staring out at everything and nothing in particular. The way we naturally do when taking in vast cityscapes.
Morning mist dimmed flashing red beacons atop the distant cluster of thirty- and forty storey commercial high-rises. The tall buildings seeming childlike compared to the lone, thrilling height of the Skytower. The upper third of which was still invisible in the cloud cover, giving it a totem-like heavenly quality.
Staring out from the balcony at that time, before first light, Chang could sense the weight of the city. It revealed itself in degrees of increasing detail.
First, the basic outlines of buildings. At distance giving the illusion of a rectilinear mountain plateau. Next, a city of sticks and urgent threads. The curious architecture of a giant telephone network. All those poles and wires. Black and birdlike. And the urban envelope unfolded immediately around him. Buildings upon buildings that from ground level formed an ever present canyon all around. A canyon that seemed to alienate and beckon all at once.
And lastly thousands of trees. Almost one million in the greater metropolitan area. Even though they seemed hidden.
Flowering Dogwood, Gingko and Cherry. And the fine avenues of Planes. Softening the geometric backdrop without any effort at all.
Chang lived alone.
His apartment for the month was on the 7th floor. The place was basic and the price was cheaper than usual because of the undesirable, linear layout. The lounge, bedroom, bathroom peeling off in a straight line, one after the other. Almost half the place being corridor. At the end of this corridor was the compact kitchen, which in turn lead to the balcony Chang was now standing on.
The door to the kitchen was permanently held open with a fire extinguisher, dirty from years of accumulated kitchen greases. Never used. Never checked. The sort of fire extinguisher patiently waiting in dank apartments all over the world. From inside, the kitchen door opened outwards not inwards. As if the builders had installed it as a token afterthought, knowing it would be propped open all it’s life.
The day before, Chang had moved the extinguisher. He’d decided to fry steak, so closed the door fully to contain the smell. Frying steak is what saved Chang’s life.
Now standing on the balcony and watching the morning lift the city into wakefulness, some reptilian sense, perhaps detecting a pressure change or subtle shift in ambient sound or air temperature, told Chang something was off.
It was.
Need both hands free, he thought.
Immediately Chang laid his mug of coffee onto the wide, flat handrail of the balcony, careful not to graze the rough ceramic on the bottom of the mug where it met the metal rail.
Without breathing Chang opened his jaw to listen intensely, for only a moment. Suddenly he rotated a perfect 180 degrees. Turning smoothly within his own footprint. He was feline. His movements efficient and tactical. Neither taking, nor conceding space.
Stock still, standing just beyond the balcony threshold, he scanned the interior darkness of the ahead for a split second. Attuning to possible predation.
The clock from the microwave cast it’s neon glare, giving the room a green ghoulish feeling, but allowing Chang to pick out the familiar shapes in the space.
Refrigerator. Table, Chair. Door.
There.
He saw it in under a second.
Also motionless, resting above the kitchenette door was something aberrant and cruel; four fat fingertips, wrapped in a thick leather glove. Holding the door in place for visual cover less than four steps away.
It didn’t matter how they’d gained entry.
Chang acted without hesitation.
In Hollywood, actors draw their pistols in an exaggerated fashion. Drawing a big arc up and over from holster to target.
Looks good. Shoots bad.
At close quarters a determined man armed with only a knife could stab you to death before you’d make even a half-decent target picture.
Chang drew his Glock the right way, rotating the pistol vertically upward so that the muzzle faced forwards as soon as it came out of the holster. The weapon immediately ready to fire even at his hip.
Looks bad, shoots good.
Without thinking Chang fired. He traced a compact, skilful diagonal, from lower left, to upper right. Bringing the gun up into an open eyed shooting stance.
Five entry holes punched violently through the door. Wood, blood and bone exploded back outwards and rushed up the wall, splashing the ceiling.
In the tiny space, at that hour, the sound of five shots being fired was sickeningly loud. A desecration of every citizens unspoken pact to be quiet until at least sunrise. Lacking ear protectors, Chang felt nauseous from the high pressure wave of the contained gunshots.
Ears ringing and pupils burning.
But silence. No other external noise.
Then gurgling from behind the door.
Then the outside world reacted.
Someone shouted a worried sounding phase in still melodious Japanese. Neighbours were obviously opening doors and looking through blinds. Some would be panicking. Making a commotion. Others calling police.
Chang didn’t care. And didn’t wait. He knew why the murdered man in his kitchen had come, and he knew he needed to do.
Head up and gun up Chang moved into the corridor ready to fire again.
No one. Swift and silently he swept through the rest of the apartment, scanning each room, gliding over the cheap linoleum flooring.
Nothing.
He holstered his pistol. Dressed.
Jeans. Shirt. Socks. Boots. Jacket.
Everything else Chang needed was ready in a small black nylon holdall.
Currency. Passport. One identical set of spare clothes. Three fully loaded spare magazines for the Glock. A small bottle of water, a cheap fruit knife he’d bought from a cluttered hardware store, and somewhat gratuitously, four boxes of those chocolate almonds that seemed to be on sale in every 7–11.
Chang had eaten them for breakfast everyday since he’d arrived.
Fuck knows why.
Left hand was back on the pistol grip. He took the holdall in his right hand. Walking out of the apartment Chang turned past the elevator and took the stairwell. Fast but not running. His gum boots slapping the raw concrete efficiently two stairs at time.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Five steps to clear each set of ten stairs.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Two sets of stairs for each storey.
He’d clear the stairwell in under a minute. In three he’d be passing through the ticket gate of the neighbourhood metro station. He head two stops out of town, and then change and double-back.
By 5.45am Chang would be heading into the centre of the busiest pedestrian area on earth. He hunt black coffee first, then plot for payback.
Only then did Chang realise he’d been shot.


