Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  At the same time, they had had few leads. If Kenji was genuinely innocent, that meant Shoko had been abducted on the single road between her house and Kenji’s. The Neighbourhood Unit had swept the area repeatedly but had still come away without a single witness able to confirm the presence of any suspicious people or vehicles. And there hadn’t been many people around to start with. As Mikami had reaffirmed earlier in the day, the area was agricultural, with very few private residences. The date of 5 January had also helped form the vacuum. The men who worked part-time on the farms had been in their offices or at the local agricultural cooperative, while the women had been cooped up indoors, busy clearing up after the New Year.

  The kidnapper had left only three items. The plastic cord wrapped around the mercury lamps on the Kotohira bridge. The tape over the girl’s face. The washing line around her wrists. Each were standard items, sold nationwide, making it effectively impossible to pin down the location of purchase. They had expected to find footprints, but even these had proved evasive. The area around Dragon’s Hollow had been composed entirely of exposed rock, while the woods next to it had been carpeted with dry leaves from the beech trees.

  All they had left was the kidnapper’s voice. Since no recordings of the calls existed, the police had had to depend on the ears of the few people who had spoken with the kidnapper. Yoshio Amamiya, his receptionist Motoko Yoshida and the nine business owners and staff members who had answered the calls for Amamiya at each of the businesses en route to the ransom exchange. None of the officers on the case had heard the kidnapper’s voice. And this held true of the members of the Home Unit. The second call had come in before their arrival at the house, while the following day’s call had come into Amamiya’s office and been answered by Motoko, with no police there to witness it.

  They’d been unable to listen to the calls at the various businesses. The Aoi Café had been the only venue they’d been able to reach in advance of Amamiya, and even then they hadn’t had the time to modify the phones; they’d also been wary of there being an accomplice in the café, and felt unable to do anything more than keep watch. Mikami had heard that, for the two years that followed the kidnapping, the police had called Amamiya and the others in on a regular basis to take part in ‘voice’ line-ups. People with a record of disorderly behaviour. People in heavy debt. Known criminals. Canoeists. Locals of Ozatomura. Ex-employees of Amamiya Pickles. People from Morikawa Nishi, Shoko’s primary school. Contractors for and regulars of the nine businesses. Anyone reported to be acting suspiciously. The teams investigating the case picked up anyone on the list who they deemed to have even a minuscule possibility of being a suspect and recorded their voices over the phone. They then asked Amamiya and the ten others who had heard the kidnapper’s voice to listen to the recordings several times. The majority of the recordings had been made with the relevant person’s permission, and Mikami knew that methods not dissimilar to phone tapping had been resorted to for some.

  The voice of a man in his thirties or forties, slightly hoarse, with no trace of an accent. I’ll recognize it if I hear it. Amamiya had been certain. Motoko and the others had sounded confident in their ability to do the same. Despite this, Mikami had not once in fourteen years heard word that the Investigative Team had come up with a hit.

  ‘It’ll be difficult if the voice on the phone doesn’t lead anywhere.’

  As soon as he’d said it, Mikami cursed himself. It was taboo to mention the phone. The atmosphere in the room shifted. Minako said, ‘I hope they catch him, somehow . . .’ A short while later her eyes drifted to the phone on the low stand.

  Another night without the phone ringing.

  The room fell silent once Minako had left to go to bed. Mikami slid under the kotatsu until the duvet reached his chest. He let out a long breath then switched on the TV. He couldn’t handle watching it when Minako was there. Runaways. Disappearances. Silent calls. Suicides. There were so many words that could just come out of nowhere, and each time he worried they might break Minako’s heart.

  Maybe it was the TV that had got to Ayumi. The idea would come to him now and again. All those variety and entertainment shows, all those commercials. All united in stressing the importance of appearances. Nothing else mattered: if you looked good, you got ahead in life. Men would adore you. Doors would slide open. Your life would be one big party, they said, luring you in, sounding plausible as they claimed it was simply how everybody lived.

  Mikami would find himself trying to assign the blame to those behind the screen. Ayumi had been taken into a make-believe world. But she’d been crushed under the empty promises of the tabloids, lost sight of herself.

  She’d been full of life in primary school. She’d excelled in swimming and running, and her grades had always been good. She and Mikami had been close. She had always looked up to her dad, the detective, her eyes filled with loving respect – no doubt the result of the stories Minako told her every day.

  The change had come after she started secondary school. No, the first signs had been there in her sixth year of primary school. She started to shy away from photos. She threw a leaflet for the school’s Parents’ Day into the bin at a convenience store. She started refusing to leave the house with Mikami and avoided sitting next to Minako. She had perhaps sensed it, worked out what the other kids were thinking but not saying. Or perhaps someone had actually told her.

  You look just like your dad.

  It’s a shame you didn’t take after your mum.

  She hadn’t attended school on the day of her graduation photo. Her photo had been lodged next to the one containing the smiling faces of her classmates, taken on her own the next day. Her mouth had been clenched tight, her eyes on the floor. I tried . . . but I couldn’t get her to look up, her form teacher had later called to explain.

  A recommendation had meant that her high school had already been decided. Things will change once she’s there. She’ll grow up. A part of him had still been optimistic. At the same time, he had to admit his situation had made it difficult for him to keep a close eye on his daughter; the period had clashed with the shocking news of his first transfer to Media Relations.

  Ayumi had attended the school for a little over two weeks. When she stopped going she started refusing to leave the house at all, eventually withdrawing into her first-floor bedroom. She wouldn’t tell them why when they asked. When they’d resorted to forcing her to go, she’d bawled like an infant. She spent the daytime in bed, hiding under her sheets. Her day and night cycle reversed as she began to stay up all night and go to sleep when it grew light outside. She began to take meals alone in her room.

  Her behaviour had become increasingly eccentric. She’d started to hide her face whenever she did make the occasional trip downstairs. She would twist her head all the way to the right, facing the wall as she edged along the corridor or the side of the living room, because she thought the right side of her face the uglier – although it wasn’t until later that Mikami learned that this had been the reason behind her actions.

  Minako had been beside herself with worry. She had tried to hide it in the beginning, treating Ayumi as though nothing was out of the ordinary, but it had become too much for her to bear as Ayumi’s withdrawal became more and more serious. She had coaxed a reluctant Ayumi into coming with her in the car to visit the town’s education consultation centre. There, they were introduced to a therapist who they began to see, driving the hour-long trip each way. Minako bought a doctor’s mask for Ayumi, who was still afraid to leave the house, and allowed her to lie across the back seat for the duration of the journey.

  The change had come during their sixth session. Ayumi burst into tears, howling her heart out as she finally broke her silence. Everyone laughs because I’m so ugly. I’m too embarrassed to go to school. I can’t even walk outside. I’d rather die than see my relatives. I want to get rid of this face. I want to break it to pieces. As she continued, she had become increasingly distressed, stamping her feet and ball
ing her fists, hitting the desk over and over again.

  Dysmorphophobia. Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

  Mikami had found it impossible to accept the therapist’s grim-sounding diagnosis. While it had been horrifying to witness the video of their sessions, he had resisted the idea that his daughter was suffering from a psychological condition. Everyone worried about their looks during adolescence. Wasn’t it just that it was hitting Ayumi harder than most? He realized she wasn’t pretty in the way that made people fuss over her. She’d inherited a good amount of his genes. But there was nothing about her that was ‘ugly’. Anyone would attest to it. Ayumi’s looks were no different to those of any other normal girl, the kind you saw everywhere.

  The therapist had used the same point to argue that she had a psychological condition. He had stressed the importance of acceptance and recognition; that, as parents, they had a duty to accept their daughter as she was and to respect her as an individual. To Mikami it had sounded trite, and he had struggled to lend a genuine ear to the advice. He’d been angry, too. His daughter had opened her heart to a therapist – a stranger – telling him exactly how much she hated the way her dad looked. Mikami had felt uncomfortable and depressed, and the feeling had grown with each passing day, sapping away his will to talk things over with Ayumi.

  Opening up to the therapist had also encouraged Ayumi to lay bare her jealousy of and animosity towards Minako. Perhaps she’d simply concluded that there was no longer any need to keep her emotions bottled up. Stop staring at me with that face of yours. After this cruel statement, Ayumi had stopped talking to her mother completely. When she did occasionally look her way, her eyes harboured traces of hatred.

  Minako had started to panic; confused, she began to withdraw into herself. It had been hard to watch the way she would knock on Ayumi’s door, timid as she held a tray of food in her hand. She had taken to sitting quietly in front of her dresser; instead of putting on her make-up, it seemed as though she was cursing the way she looked. Mikami felt his blood boil. He doubted he would have put up with Ayumi acting this way for so long, not if he hadn’t been told she had a ‘condition’.

  The day had finally come. It was the last week of August.

  Ayumi, who was still locking herself in her room, had suddenly appeared in the living room. Her head had been twisted out of view; she addressed the wall when she spoke.

  I’m going to have plastic surgery. I’m going to use the money I saved from my New Year’s gifts. I need permission, so I need your signatures.

  Mikami had asked what she was going to have changed. He could hear the trembling in his own voice. Ayumi had been impassive when she’d answered.

  Everything. All of it. I want double eyelids. A smaller nose. Cheekbone and jawline reduction.

  She wanted to give up being his daughter. That was how it had sounded. He had pushed Minako, who had taken her daughter by the arms, aside and slapped Ayumi across the face. Ayumi had howled at the wall. He’d never heard a woman scream like that before.

  It’s all right for you! It’s okay for you to look like that, you’re a man!

  Mikami had lost control. All consideration for her condition disappeared. This time, he hit her with his fist. Ayumi had scrambled up the stairs and taken refuge in her room, locking the door from the inside. Leave her be! He’d bellowed the words from the bottom of the staircase as Minako chased up after her. Some minutes later a sound like someone putting their foot through the floor had rung out from above. Then something smashing. An extraordinary noise. Mikami had bolted up the stairs and kicked open the door to her room, then gone in. He’d felt a sharp pain in his foot. The mirror lay in pieces, the glass scattered all over the floor. Ayumi had been balled up in the corner, sitting in darkness. Punching herself in the face. Using her nails to tear at it. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! I hate this face. I want to die! I want to die! I want to die! Mikami had found himself frozen to the spot, unable to speak, scared to do anything in case Ayumi shattered like the mirror.

  Mikami had spent the whole night discussing the situation with Minako. For Ayumi in her current state, they were nothing more than the enemy. They had seriously considered checking her into hospital. In the end, seeing no other viable option, they’d called Ayumi’s therapist. I can come tomorrow. You should probably leave her by herself until then . . .

  It happened the evening after the therapist’s visit. Ayumi left the house without a word, without even leaving a note.

  She’s a lot calmer now. Just keep an eye on her, don’t make too much fuss.

  The words of a professional no doubt providing her with a glimmer of hope, Minako, who hadn’t slept at all the previous night, had dozed off in the living room. Ayumi had used the opportunity to run away. They had found an empty bag of doctor’s masks in the bin in her room. She’d taken a single shoulder bag. All she had to her name were the few coins and single ten-thousand-yen note she’d taken from the small music box. The bike she’d used to run away with was reported found four days later, discarded on the pavement next to the train station.

  While it was true that the work on City D’s public transport system had suffered delays, the train station was still the largest in the prefecture. Two private railways used it, alongside Japan Rail, and the bus terminus next to it had services that ran in all directions.

  Even so, a young girl in a doctor’s mask would stand out. It wasn’t as if there’d been a spate of summer colds. Somebody must have seen her. If nothing else, she would have caught the attention of the station staff.

  Such hopes led to nothing. Visiting the station during rush-hour, the people had flowed through the automated gates with alarming speed, and the majority waiting for buses or trains had had their eyes trained on mobile phones or magazines. The police officer who manned the koban outside the station also claimed not to have seen her. Ayumi had slipped through, completely unnoticed. Either that, or she’d headed away from the station after leaving her bike there.

  What evidence did you have to tell us she’d calmed down? Mikami had interrogated the therapist. He’d been unable not to. It was only because of the therapist’s advice to try going back to work that Mikami had seen fit to leave Minako and Ayumi alone that afternoon. You need to avoid provoking her, act as though everything is normal. Mikami had swallowed the advice and left the house; yet this had been the result. The therapist hadn’t shown any signs of remorse. ‘I won’t cause them any trouble, not any more.’ I decided she would be fine when she said that. He went on to tell Mikami that, in retrospect, the words might of course have signalled an intention to run away.

  In Mikami’s mind, the sentence had intimated more than a plan to leave home. A number of interpretations had entered his thoughts. She’d said it so they would lower their guard. To say goodbye. Had she perhaps hinted that she would commit suicide? No. Ayumi would never kill herself. She’d definitely said it to get them to lower their guard. She’d known they’d relax their watch if she told them she wouldn’t cause any more trouble. There’d been that element of calculation: she hadn’t run out of the house in the heat of the moment. Didn’t the fact that she hadn’t forgotten to take her wallet and a change of clothes prove that?

  I want to die! I want to die! I want to die!

  High-risk missing person. That was what the ‘special arrangements’ Akama had spoken of actually boiled down to. Someone vulnerable, with a high chance of becoming involved in an incident or an accident of some kind. Someone likely to attempt self-harm or suicide. Mikami had no argument with Ayumi being classified in this way. He understood that the investigation would become cursory in nature if the threat of suicide was removed completely, whether Ayumi was the child of a police officer or not. As it was, the regional stations had spared no effort in conducting the search. As well as officers on the beat, personnel from Criminal Investigations and Community Safety had also been assigned to the search. Even then, they had yet to pick up any significant leads. He had politely refused when, a month ag
o, they had suggested that he let them take the search public, which would mean exposing her face to every passerby in the street. Mikami had refused because he’d known that, for Ayumi, there could be no greater hell.

  His eyes stung from the glare of the TV set. Five or six girls not too far from Ayumi’s age were singing and dancing, looking half naked in their outfits. Each vying to stand out. Staring right into the camera, as if to say, Look at me, just me.

  If she had only meant to run away . . .

  If he’d been one hundred per cent certain that Ayumi wouldn’t try to take her own life, that she’d only wanted plastic surgery so that boys would notice her, only shouted abuse at them and charged out of the house because they’d turned down her request, then, even though she was in the middle of adolescence, he felt confident that his anger would have outweighed his concern. At sixteen, she was not yet fully mature, but neither was she a child. There was no reason to let her trample over her parents’ dignity. All daughters leave home eventually. Society’s full of families that don’t get on. I’ve seen too many cases of parents killing their children, children killing their parents. Lining up angry sentence after angry sentence, it was possible he’d convinced himself and Minako into thinking her behaviour was acceptable.

  What did Minako think . . .

  Of him, for having refused to deal with their daughter’s condition?

  Of her husband, for having raised his hand to their suffering child?

  Minako hadn’t tried to blame the therapist. Nor had she tried to blame herself for having fallen asleep. She had searched for Ayumi with the energy of someone possessed. She’d separated herself, then, from the Minako who had always consulted him before making a decision. He would try talking to her, but she hardly reacted. Her eyes wouldn’t meet his, even when he was standing in front of her. It was as though she’d been searching for Ayumi by herself. Once she’d exhausted the possibility of the train station or Ayumi’s friends helping, she started buying women’s magazines and making calls to the plastic surgeons and beauty clinics that had put out advertisements. Have you had a young girl come in, wearing a mask? She has a red sports bag. Please call me back if you see her. She then said, ‘I can’t get my message across on the phone, I need to ask them in person,’ and began to head out every day. To Tokyo. Saitama. Kanagawa. Chiba. If the silent calls hadn’t come in, she would have probably extended her investigations to the black-market surgeons.