The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

scream. The man sprang up and looked around. The
beret had slipped back. For the first time Honda saw
the hair and face. The hair was a pure white, and the
emaciated face was that of a sixty-year-old, wrinkled
to every corner.
The man brushed past Honda, now in a state of
shock, and ran off with a speed that belied his years.
“Let’s get out of here,” muttered the rat-like little
man in Honda’s ear. “There’s going to be hell to pay.”
“I couldn’t run if I wanted to,” said Honda weakly.
“Too bad. They’ll suspect you if you don’t get away.”
The man bit at his fingernail. “Maybe you should stay
and be a witness.”
There was a whistle, a rush of footsteps, and a stir
of people getting to their feet. The beam of a flashlight
came from surprisingly near in the shrubbery.
Policemen were standing around the woman,
discussing the problem in loud voices.
“Where’d he get her?”
“In the thigh.”
“It’s not much of a cut.”
“What sort of man was he? Tell us what sort of man
he was.”
The policeman who had been crouching beside the
woman with his flashlight in her face stood up.
“An old man, she says. He won’t have gone very