Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Everyone froze around him. A moment later, the room burst into uproar. Akikawa spoke up to calm the noise.

  ‘What’s the condition?’

  ‘No condition.’

  ‘You want us to call off our boycott of the commissioner’s interview?’

  ‘No condition means no condition. We’re hoping you’ll consider doing that, of course, but I’m not going to make it a bargaining point.’

  Again the room fell into a state of turmoil. Ushiyama’s voice carried over the others.

  ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘The decision was made after careful deliberation. We’re going to make a leap of faith, and trust in your discretion.’

  ‘This came from your boss?’

  ‘This came from me.’

  ‘Right, so it could be turned around? If your boss decides against it.’

  ‘No.’

  There was a pause. Ami Kiso raised a hand, at Ushiyama’s side. ‘So you don’t object to us seeking confirmation from Director Akama?’

  ‘Not at all. He’s not in today, though.’

  ‘Mikami,’ Akikawa said, reclaiming the floor. ‘Why the principle of full disclosure?’

  Mikami stared right back.

  ‘Because there will be cases in which I’m sure we’ll both agree that an anonymous report will be best.’

  ‘Why would we agree to something like that? I don’t see it. Tell me – what kind of cases?’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell anyone the name of a rape victim. Much less would I ever stick it in a report on a board, detailing a name and address. If you were to insist I do that, I would have no choice but to step down from my position as press director.’

  ‘Well, but . . .’ Akikawa stumbled for a moment. ‘That’s an extreme scenario. What I’m worried about is you extending the interpretation. We’d be right back where we started if you were able to dictate to us the cases you deemed important or unique.’

  ‘Does the press need to know the name and address of a victim of rape?’

  ‘That’s why I’m—’

  ‘If we decide to make full disclosure the norm, you won’t have to fight to maintain face any more – you will all be able to make cool, rational decisions. What I’m hoping is that, instead of us having to force our opinion on to you, you will become able to sit down and think these things through: whether or not you really need to know a particular name, whether a given piece of information is important or not.’

  ‘It’s presumptuous. Essentially, you’re trying to brainwash us. We will not accept the proposal unless you remove the “principle” clause.’

  ‘Then you can consider the proposal withdrawn. It’s like I said. I’m only here talking to you like this because I trust your good judgement. If you continue to imply that you can’t trust ours, the proposal is null and void.’

  ‘So you’re just going to turn on us?’

  ‘Hold on,’ somebody said. It was Horoiwa, chief reporter for NHK. ‘We should at least consider this.’

  Yamashina and Yanase joined in.

  ‘Horoiwa’s right. It doesn’t make sense that we reject this outright.’

  ‘Full disclosure as the guiding principle. That’s a big step forward. It at least gives us room for discussion.’

  Kadoike from Kyodo News provided another voice in favour.

  ‘If he’s willing to make this proposal, the least we should do is explore the option.’

  You’re right. The moderates caved. We can talk this through. We should hold a GM. Definitely – we can hold a GM to make the decision.

  Akikawa was visibly shaken. His mouth was moving but nothing emerged. The other hard-liners remained silent, but it looked as though the majority were in agreement.

  It happened just as Mikami thought the matter had been decided.

  ‘How about some proof?’

  All eyes searched for the speaker. It was Madoka Takagi from the Asahi.

  ‘Proof . . .?’

  ‘You talk about full disclosure, but that doesn’t mean anything. What we need is proof. The road accident in Oito City. The driver was a pregnant woman. Can you give us her name and address now?’

  The words came like those of a god – one hell-bent on destruction.

  ‘Hold on there, Takagi!’ Suwa let out a shrill cry. ‘You really want to drag that up again? We put the lid on that already. And you couldn’t run it in an article at this point.’

  ‘We never finished talking about that. It’s still relevant. Things only got this bad between us because we wanted her name and you refused to budge. I’m not sure you’re entitled to talk about moving forward unless we resolve that matter first.’

  ‘But . . .’

  He stopped there. Suwa’s eyes darted through empty space. He’d only called attention to the validity of her argument. The tide had already begun to shift. More people were speaking up in support of her request, both moderates and hard-liners. She’s right. We have to get that sorted first. We can hold a GM afterwards. Akikawa seemed also to be regaining his poise. He made a survey of everyone in the room then sprung to his feet.

  ‘All right. We renew our request for Media Relations to provide us with the name of the driver. Are there any objections?’

  No. The answer echoed through the room. Akikawa turned to face Mikami. It looked like he was grinning.

  ‘Then it’s decided. Mikami, words are easy enough. We’d appreciate a gesture of goodwill to prove your intent.’

  Mikami shut his eyes. His eyelids twitched. Suwa. Kuramae. Mikumo. It felt as though he could hear their hearts beating behind him. He’d expected it would come down to this. He hadn’t foreseen the specifics, but it had seemed inevitable that to make a serious go of making Media Relations into a two-way window he’d have no choice but to tear open a few of the veins linking him to the force.

  He opened his eyes.

  ‘Fine. We accept the request.’

  Sir! He felt someone tug his jacket from behind.

  ‘I’ll need to go and fetch the documents,’ he said, and left the Press Room.

  His staff were huddled together. Suwa cried out the moment they were inside the office.

  ‘Are you really planning to tell them?’

  ‘We have to honour our promise.’

  ‘It’s a terrible idea. Really bad. It’ll all be over if they realize the connection with King Cement.’

  ‘Her surname’s different now. If we’re lucky . . .’ Kuramae said, inciting Suwa to shout him down.

  ‘They’re not that bloody stupid!’

  Mikami opened one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out the relevant sheet of paper. He scooped up Kuramae’s clear folder with it.

  ‘Sir, don’t do this.’ Suwa blocked the way. He looked desperate. ‘This is equivalent to a case of rape. I can’t tell you her name. That’s what you need to tell them.’

  ‘If I do that this will never end.’

  ‘Sir,’ Mikumo said, her hands clasped together, entreating. ‘When I talked about being less structured, that we didn’t have to rely on strategy, I was being naive. I was being stupid.’

  Her head was hanging low when Mikami answered.

  ‘It hit me when Takagi was speaking. You can’t open a window from the inside. If we’re going to make this work, we need to try stepping outside.’

  Mikami walked through them, into the corridor. Suwa grabbed his arm as soon as he was out.

  ‘Sir, this is the last warning I can give you. Don’t go through with this. You’ll lose your job if you do.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can to make sure I don’t.’

  ‘It won’t make a difference. Everything will be over.’ Suwa’s grip was strong. ‘I . . . if possible . . . I’d like to keep on working for you.’

  The corridor was completely quiet.

  Mikami took hold of Suwa’s hand. He moved it slowly away.

  ‘If that’s really true, you have to let me do this.’

  Suwa dropped his head, resigned. Mikum
o’s face was in her hands. Kuramae hovered like a ghost. Mikami wrapped one hand around the doorknob of the Press Room. He placed the other on Suwa’s chest.

  ‘Stay here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This time you stay on standby. If you were in my position, you’d ask me to do the same.’

  56

  The reporters had arranged themselves formally, looking like an orchestra waiting for the first wave of the conductor’s baton.

  ‘I’ll make the announcement.’

  At this, the reporters opened their notebooks.

  ‘The name of the driver involved in the Oito accident is Hanako Kikunishi. “Hana” using the character for “dazzling”. “Ko” as in “child”. “Kiku” as in “daily”, and “nishi” as in “west”. She is thirty-two years old. Her address is 1-15-3, Sayamamachi, Oito.’

  His voice was met with the sound of pens scribbling. In a few seconds they had finished and looked back up.

  It was the moment of their victory over anonymous reporting. They’d succeeded in learning the driver’s identity. Yet they showed no sign of arrogance. The anger was gone. They’d relaxed. This seemed true even for Akikawa.

  ‘I have more information,’ Mikami continued. Stepping outside. ‘Hanako Kikunishi is the daughter of Takuzo Kato, the chairman of King Cement.’

  The reporters were silent. One by one, their expressions transformed as the revelation sank in. Kato, from King Cement . . . Isn’t he . . .? He’s on the Public Safety Committee! Their expressions sharpened abruptly.

  ‘Is that why you kept her identity secret?’

  ‘I’ll leave that for you to decide.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  A few of the reporters jumped to their feet. You’ve got to be kidding. How corrupt can you get? Utsuki, Ushiyama and Sudou each shouted criticism in turn.

  ‘The fact that she is the daughter of a committee member does not factor into the equation,’ Mikami continued, standing his ground. ‘It remains a fact that Hanako Kikunishi is eight months pregnant. That she is in a state of shock, at having caused the accident. It is with this in mind that I ask you again to refrain from including her details in your coverage.’

  Mikami’s voice was lost amidst cries of indignation. He caught Akikawa’s gaze and held it, unsure if it was anger or serenity that he was seeing.

  ‘I have more.’

  The clamour petered out, the reporters’ eyes those of people hungry for fresh prey.

  ‘The injured party, Ryoji Meikawa, passed away. It happened in hospital on the sixth, two days after the accident took place.’

  ‘You kept that from us, too?’

  ‘You decide.’

  There was no outburst this time. The tension in the room seemed to break. ‘This is beyond a joke,’ someone said. Within seconds, the reporters had taken on a look of astonished incredulity. Everyone standing sat noisily back down. So this is it, this is the truth. Fucking police.

  Akikawa got idly back to his feet. He seemed to embody the atmosphere in the room.

  ‘As expected, it’s obvious we can’t trust you. You’re not fit to sit at the same table as us. I’m sorry to have to say it, but it’s the only conclusion we can draw.’

  ‘You’re like a broken record.’ Mikami couldn’t stop the words. ‘I’m not talking about the force as a whole. And I’m not asking you to put your faith in something as abstract as that. I’m in here, having cast off that role. What I’m asking you to decide is whether or not you can trust me.’

  ‘Mikami, we’re not . . .’

  ‘You need to put your banners down, too. How can I hope for a proper discussion when I’m talking to organizations, insubstantial bodies – the Toyo, the Yomiuri, the Mainichi, the Asahi?’

  ‘We’ve heard enough for today.’

  ‘I’m here putting my job on the line. You can at least hear me out.’

  Akikawa was the only one still defiant. The rest had given in, looking away but listening.

  ‘This isn’t like you. You’ve won, you’ve had your victory, you’ve got full disclosure. Why not use it? Why are you so happy to let it go? Maybe you prefer the fight. Is that it? I’ve taken a leap of faith. I’ve told you everything there is to tell. Are you saying that’s not enough? You condemn the police for being corrupt and untrustworthy. Does that mean you can’t even shake my hand? Are you so desperate to go back to the beginning and repeat your futile war? If that’s what you want, then go ahead. You make this a fight between organizations. Go and report everything I said to your superiors. Lodge a complaint with mine. You’ll get yourselves a new press director in no time. Then you’ll be free to start the fight again.’

  The room felt empty, it was so quiet. Everyone was still stunned. Some were looking away. Others had their eyes closed. A few had balled hands against their foreheads. Many were staring at something specific. The floor, a notebook, their hands.

  ‘That’s all I have to say on the accident in Oito City.’ Although, he muttered to himself, then decided to continue. ‘Actually, there is a little more.’ Mikami pulled the document from the clear file in his hands. ‘Some more on the man who passed away, Ryoji Meikawa. The cause of death was blood loss from internal damage. He’d been on his way home, after a couple of glasses of shochu at a bar nearby.’ Mikami scanned the rest of the page. He’d been taken by an overwhelming desire to read it all. ‘He was born in Tomakomai in Hokkaido. He’d had a poor background, and hardly made it through elementary school. He left his hometown to look for work, before turning twenty. He worked for forty years at a factory making food paste, staying there until his retirement. After that he lived on his pension. He lost his wife eight years ago. They had no children. He had no relatives living close by. He’d been living in a small, tenement-style flat . . .’ Mikami didn’t know if the reporters were even listening. He continued regardless. ‘The property was in his name, the land rented. His hobby was growing vegetables in planters. He didn’t gamble or play pachinko; his only monthly extravagance was to visit the bar, the Musashi, and enjoy a couple of glasses of shochu.’

  Mikami flipped to the next page. It was the additional information Kuramae had just brought him.

  ‘According to the bar’s owner, it was five years ago that Meikawa had first started showing up. He was generally quiet when he drank, but a failing tolerance for alcohol meant that in recent years he’d come to share a little about his life. His mother had been kind, but she’d died from an illness when he was eight. He never talked about his father. He had an elder sister, but had lost touch. He said he’d gone to Tokyo first, but had never been specific about how he’d ended up in Prefecture D. He never went back to Tomakomai in over fifty years. He was colour blind but had hidden this at work. Because of this, he never made any friends there. He had a lot of trouble with the colour red, but had an above-average sensitivity to blue. His real dream had been to become a photographer, taking photos of the sky and the sea.’

  Mikami felt a pressure around his eyes.

  ‘He used to say that meeting his wife was the best thing that ever happened to him. He’d been badly ill a couple of times, always had a low salary, caused her nothing but hardship, but she’d always been devoted and never complained. He’d taken her on a holiday, a tour around some hot springs, but they’d never taken a trip abroad together. He’d bought a magnificent gravestone for her, his second-biggest purchase after his home. After she passed away he spent most of his time watching TV. Mostly variety shows. He hadn’t found them particularly interesting, but had enjoyed the fact that everyone seemed so cheerful.’

  Mikami’s voice became harsher. The notes were driving home the deplorable downside of anonymous reporting. They hadn’t simply suppressed the identity of Hanako Kikunishi, they’d been complicit in stamping out the proof of Ryoji Meikawa’s existence in this world. He’d met with a sorrowful end, but the clash over anonymous reporting had robbed him of the chance of having his name in the papers, of the opportunity for someone who loved hi
m to read it and mourn his passing.

  Mikami continued to read.

  ‘The owner said Meikawa had been in a good mood on the day of the accident. That he’d told him he’d found his answerphone flashing when he got back from some shopping a few days earlier. There hadn’t been a message, but he never received sales calls or wrong numbers, and said his phone hardly ever rang. It was old so he had no way of finding out where the call had come from. Who could it have been? Who could it have been? he’d said, cocking his head. The owner said he’d never seen him look so happy.’

  Important . . . for him.

  Everything on the page was significant. The last two lines detailed the results of the official inquiry. It took an effort to read them out.

  ‘After contacting the police in Hokkaido, Meikawa’s sister was discovered to have already passed away. Contact was made with distant relatives, but they refused responsibility for the ashes.’

  Mikami let his hand fall to his side, the sheet with it. The reporters were still in a state of bewilderment, but they’d all turned to look his way. They were looking directly at him. Mikami felt an urge to say something else – something he hadn’t intended to say. Something he couldn’t have said if it had felt even the slightest bit underhand.

  ‘I want you to cover the commissioner’s visit. I don’t know if Amamiya is hoping the coverage will unearth new leads. But he’s given his consent for the visit and for you to cover it. Please – help us honour his wishes.’

  57

  Mikami felt a sudden wave of exhaustion.

  He sank back into his chair. Inside Media Relations, the atmosphere was as if they were awaiting sentence. When Suwa got back in, he gave Mikami a heartfelt salute. He’d no doubt had his ear on the door, heard everything. ‘Great work’ was all he said. Mikumo’s eyes were puffy, probably from crying. She said something but Mikami couldn’t make it out.

  Kuramae was . . .

  . . . at his desk in the corner, staring at his computer screen. He had a grave, almost troubled look, the expression in harmony with the general atmosphere of the room. It seemed like camouflage. Nothing conscious, or defensive, simply the natural state of a desk worker who made up the undergrowth of the organization.