London, 7 July 2005
Hisa woke up with the familiar feeling of being out of place. Grey light seeped through the filthy windows of rampART, and the smell of damp acted as an alarm clock. On the sofa beside her, Ken was still snoring, his mouth slack and a crushed can of Red Stripe tipped over on his chest. Hisa wondered if it was physically possible for a human being to snore off-beat. She turned to look at him, asking herself how she’d ended up in bed with him.

The night before had seemed like a good idea. With the hangover gone, everything looked different. She got up quickly, trying not to wake him. She promised herself it would be the last time.

She gathered her T-shirt and baggy jeans, which were scattered on the floor, ignoring the hoodie. She dressed in a hurry, no bra, as usual. The jeans slipped on her narrow hips, the T-shirt clung to her skin with the sweat of the night. She could still smell sex on herself and, for a moment, she smiled. She didn’t regret it. Ken was still a prick.

She tiptoed downstairs, avoiding the usual death trap of the second rotten plank. She found Ana in the kitchen, reorganising supplies.

“Hisa, it’s your turn for the shopping today. And no instant ramen, please.”

Hisa nodded and slipped on her shoes. As she stepped out of rampART, the usual buzz of Commercial Road hit her: the rumble of double-deckers, the voices of the Indian shopkeepers, the rattle of shutters going up. It was a morning like any other, the same traffic, the same smell of curry and piss, the same mix of languages overlapping like layers of a breakbeat.

She noticed the black T-shirt hugged her curves more than usual. A builder in an orange hi-vis whistled and shouted, “Oi, Japanese girl!” She felt eyes on her, but instead of shrinking, she felt a strange sense of power. Back home, she would’ve dropped her gaze. Here she lifted her hand and pressed it against her chest, as if inviting more looks right there.

Still shaken by that feeling of freedom, she headed towards Aldgate East station. A siren tore through the air. Then another. Then another. Hisa stopped, confused. Shouts and raised voices came from the bus stop ahead. A group of people ran towards her, eyes wide, someone crying.

“What’s going on, please?” she asked a woman passing by, but the woman didn’t stop.

A man, jacket half on, sprinted past her. “Something’s blown up on the Tube! Run, run!”

Hisa felt her stomach knot. At twenty-three, she still saw herself as a child again, in front of the TV turned up loud in the house in Date, her parents whispering about sarin gas and the Aum Shinrikyo cult. The fear was the same, just nine thousand kilometres away.

She ducked into a café on the corner, ordered a tea, and sat by the window. An old television showed blurred images.

“…possible electrical fault on the Underground… several stations evacuated…”

She took a sip of tea, hot and sweet. Her heart was still racing, not just from the chaos. She thought again of the builder, the abs she imagined under the hi-vis. Outside, the sirens multiplied. Excitement tangled with fear, which slowly took over as the street filled with police cars and ambulances.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Ben: “Don’t take the Tube. Stay home. Seriously.”

She tried to reply, no signal. She tried messaging her mother in Japan, nothing. She felt invisible again, like when she’d first arrived in London and English felt like a language made only of noise.

A little later, a girl sat down at her table uninvited. She had short blond hair, early twenties, and a Sonic Youth T-shirt. Her hands were shaking.

“Do you mind if I stay here a bit, please?” she asked, not looking at her.

Hisa shook her head. “You heard it too?”

The girl nodded, then introduced herself. “I’m Molly. And you?”

“Hisa.” The H was hard, the I short. Molly smiled, uncertain.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the sirens outside. The barista turned up the TV.

“…not confirmed whether this is a terrorist attack… all lines closed… bus services suspended… military on alert…”

“I don’t know if I’m more scared of dying or of having to go back to my parents,” Molly said, with a nervous laugh.

Hisa smiled, recognising the same fear. “I left Japan to escape fear.”

Molly looked at her, surprised. “Why London?”

Hisa searched for the right words. “Because here no one knows me. And because here, even fear feels different. And here…” She made a crude gesture with her hand. “Back home, it was just me.”

“But don’t you have siblings, or other family members?     ” Molly asked, lowering her voice.

“I do. I love them very much. But I have needs… how to say… special ones.” Hisa looked down. “In my town, I’d have been judged.”

Molly nodded. “We’re all a bit out of place today.”

A man burst into the café, out of breath. “The Tube’s shut. There’s been an attack, or that’s what they’re saying…”

The barista shook his head. “Radio says it’s an electrical fault, but the police have closed everything. No one knows what’s going on.”

Hisa checked her phone again, nothing. “I can’t call home. Phone’s dead.”

Molly looked at hers, hopeless. “Mine too. Maybe it’s better that way.”

Outside, a siren drew near, then faded. The tension on the street was thick. Another voice came from the TV.

“…Prime Minister Blair is returning to London… citizens advised to stay indoors…”

Another customer came in. Her face was smeared with dust, hair full of grit. She sat down in silence, shaking. The barista handed her a glass of water without a word.

Hisa watched the scene. In Japan, she thought, no one would show fear so openly. Here, it seemed normal. She still felt foreign, but for the first time, she wasn’t alone.

“Do you think we should go home?” Molly asked.

Hisa shrugged. “I don’t know if rampART is safer than this, but at least there’s someone I know there. Do you want to come with me?”

Molly hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes. I don’t want to be alone.”

They stood and headed for the door.

Before leaving, Molly stopped, noticing the strange pendant around Hisa’s neck. She stepped closer than necessary and brushed it with her fingers, letting her touch rest on Hisa’s skin a moment too long. For a moment the air between them grew dense. Hisa didn’t pull away. There was a playful, knowing glint in her eyes.

“What is it, please?” Molly whispered.

“A hexagram…” Hisa replied, holding her gaze.

“Thank you for being there. I don’t know why, but talking to you’s calmed me down.”

Hisa smiled. “You’ll thank me later. Let’s go.”

They stepped outside. The streets were full of people moving in silence, many with suitcases, others pushing bikes. Buses stood idle behind police tape. A man handed out bottles of water. A woman cried into her phone. Hisa and Molly made their way through the crowd, step by step, back towards rampART.

As she walked, Hisa thought of Date: the tiny room, the tatami that smelled of damp, her parents whispering so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. She remembered how frustrated she’d felt, like her existence was a typo in the family history. Now, in London’s fear and chaos, she felt she was finding others like her.

When Molly had touched the pendant, Hisa had felt a small shiver run up her spine. It had been an innocent gesture, but it didn’t take much to form a bond. A touch. A look. A word at the right moment.

She looked at Molly, who smiled back at her. For the first time, she didn’t feel out of place.

Maybe, she thought, she’d found someone willing to stay.

She stopped, slipped off her shoes, and stood barefoot, looking up at the grey sky above Commercial Road.

“Sayonara, Date,” she whispered.

Then she walked on.