Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Try and say something.’

  The silence exacerbated the sense of darkness. Mikami felt its pull. He felt something close to panic.

  ‘Fourteen years. It’s been fourteen years.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘You can’t spend fourteen years in one room. That’s why I wanted to write you the notes. I want to know where you’ve been. The places you’ve visited. Are you in heaven? Hell? The bottom of some ocean? Somewhere in the sky? I want to know how you can stand being alone. Tell me so I can understand. Can no one else join you there? Not even family?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I was in a diner when I wrote the notes. I spent a long time trying to come up with something to put down; they’re the end result. I wrote exactly what I feel. I really do want to know. Tell me. Where are you now?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘What can I do so we can meet? Tell me how to reach you. If that’s too much for now, let me hear your voice at least. Just a single word will do. Anything.’

  The line went dead following a burst of static.

  Ayumi . . .

  Mikami had fallen into a trance-like state. It felt as though his soul had been sucked through to the other side.

  No, not Ayumi . . . Or was it . . .? Was it possible that, in that silence, all worlds were connected?

  He realized he was still holding the phone. He let out a long, deep breath. Pulling himself together, he redialled their number. Hiyoshi’s mother answered. He didn’t say anything. Through tears, she still showered him with gratitude.

  He felt exhausted. It was a trial even to stand up from the floor. It took him a while to notice Minako. She was sitting at the table in the kitchen area. The chair was turned away. It was a shockingly lonely image. Her thoughts would be on Ayumi. Or maybe on him, for having expended so much effort on someone other than their daughter. He glanced at his hand. He’d used it to wave her away . . . He felt a sudden rush of fear. He moved away from the phone and into the kitchen. It took all the courage he could muster to sit across from her. With a visible effort, she looked up.

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  The question was automatic. Mikami made a face, acting as though he’d been put upon. ‘It was someone who used to work in Forensics. He quit the force in the aftermath of the kidnapping. Ever since, he’s refused to leave his room.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘It’s been fourteen years. His mother’s having a hard time coping.’

  Minako said nothing.

  ‘I thought there might be a chance I could help.’

  ‘You’re such a good man,’ she snapped, immediately dropping her face into her hands. The gesture made it clear she regretted what she’d said.

  ‘Minako . . .’

  Unconsciously, he reached for her fragile shoulder. It pulled away to leave his hand swimming in mid-air.

  He felt suddenly helpless. He gazed into her face, the features obscured under the shadow of her hair. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Seeing no other option, he drew his hand steadily back. His mobile started to vibrate in his jacket. The muffled sound seemed to echo through the whole room. Agitated, Mikami took it out and flicked it open.

  It was Suwa.

  ‘Akama’s back. He’s asking to see you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mikami stood and turned his back to Minako.

  ‘Can you make it back to the station?’

  Mikami walked a little. He stepped around the kitchen counter and got to the sink before turning to face Minako again. She radiated despair.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go and report what’s happened. I’ll tell him we’ve agreed to full disclosure and convinced the press to call off the boycott. I won’t go into any more of the details.’

  ‘Appreciated.’

  Suwa fell silent, staying on the line even though they’d finished the conversation. Mikami lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘It was an unrelated call. You can let Kuramae and Mikumo know, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mikami closed up his mobile and walked back to the table. As though switching places, Minako stood to get dinner ready. The sound of the knife was muted. From behind, she gave an impression of being alone, of being an elderly woman preparing her own dinner. They didn’t talk during dinner, or after they’d moved into the living room. Mikami turned on the TV. He flipped to a channel showing a run-of-the-mill quiz programme. Minako inhabited the edge of his vision. Her eyes were on the TV but focused on some other place. The caller hadn’t been Ayumi. He knew Minako would be suffering after making that barbed comment. He ought to say something, but he was hesitant, the feeling of rejection still lingering in his hand. His head was buzzing with Mizuki Murakushi’s story. Are you okay? He wondered if he’d really said the words. He was starting to wonder if Mizuki had just made it up. Even after they’d got married he couldn’t be sure. They’d been together for over twenty years, but he couldn’t remember ever noticing a shift in her mood and saying something to comfort her.

  They were in bed by eleven o’clock. Minako had suddenly said goodnight; he’d replied that he was tired and that he’d join her. His every sense told him he had to. More than anything, he understood how important it was to stay at her side. They might both have been praying for their daughter’s safety, but that didn’t make their relationship anything more than that of a normal marriage. He was certain the insecurity and fragility that was creeping between them was no different to the kind that existed between every husband and wife.

  The bedroom was cold. Minako switched off the small lamp next to her futon. The white of the handset she kept by her pillow faded into dark, followed by the after-image. Mikami kept his breath quiet on his own futon. He felt uncomfortable even turning over. He could make out the faint sound of Minako’s breathing. His chest felt constricted, as though the oxygen in the room was getting thin. He wasn’t the slightest bit drowsy. Five minutes felt like an hour. After a while, probably unable to sleep herself, Minako let out a quiet sigh. It sounded like she’d given in.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ Mikami said, using the darkness as an ally. ‘The wind’s died down outside.’

  ‘It has . . .’

  ‘I suppose it’s hard to sleep when it’s too quiet.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being on the phone for so long, on a day like today. For getting so worked up, for the sake of a stranger’s son.’

  Minako didn’t say anything.

  ‘One good turn deserves another . . . do a good deed, and it’ll find its way back.’

  Still, silence.

  ‘Do you regret this?’

  He sensed Minako turning his way.

  ‘Regret what . . .?’

  ‘Getting together, with me.’

  A short pause.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Me? What reason would I ever have to regret marrying you?’

  ‘Well . . . okay, good.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Why would I? Don’t be so silly,’ Minako said, reprimanding him gently.

  To Mikami, it sounded like someone who was trying their best. He’d ruined her life. Out of all the paths her life could have taken, he’d led her down the worst. The thoughts came like tidal waves.

  ‘You could have stayed in the force.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You gave up being an officer because you married me. Don’t you regret that?’

  ‘Why would you ask me that?’

  ‘It’s something Mizuki said. She told me you worked harder than anyone else.’

  ‘I was thinking of leaving, even before we got married.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘I wasn’t suited to the job.’

  Not suited? It was the first he’d heard of it.

  ‘That doesn’t sound right.’

/>   ‘I was full of energy at the start. I really thought I could do something to help, to make the world a better place, you know?’

  ‘And you did, no doubt about it.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t it. It took a while, but I realized it eventually – I’d only joined the force because I wanted to be loved.’

  In the dark, Mikami stared, open-eyed.

  ‘I just couldn’t warm to people, to society. All those cases, accidents, all those egotists. I started to hate everything. That was when it dawned on me that I was only doing my job so I could feel loved – I wanted people to show me gratitude. When it hit me, I didn’t know what to do. I got cold feet about the whole thing. How could someone like that ever hope to protect people? Why had I ever thought about doing something so off the mark as keeping the peace? That was when . . .’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I thought, maybe I could protect a smaller world. Maybe I could build a family. Protect it. That much I thought I . . .’

  Her voice clouded over.

  Mikami sprung up. He turned around and put his hand under Minako’s duvet. He traced the mattress until he found her slender arm and took hold of her hand. She held his back, her grip weak.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  Again, Minako said nothing.

  ‘Ayumi . . . she’s not well.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Maybe it’s because of me that she’s like this. I never tried to get to know her, not really. I thought I could just leave her be and she’d grow up all on her own.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘And she inherited my face. It’s been a big obstacle for—’

  ‘That’s not the reason,’ Minako said, cutting him off. ‘Maybe it isn’t even about what we did right, what we did wrong. Maybe we just weren’t right for her.’

  Mikami’s head spun. Not right for her?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s possible we’d never have understood her properly, however much we tried. Just because we’re her parents, it doesn’t mean we know what she’s thinking.’

  Mikami felt himself flinch.

  ‘How can you say that? We lived under the same roof for sixteen years. You gave birth to her, you raised her—’

  ‘It’s not a case of how long. There are some things you just can’t understand. Parents and their children are different people; it’s not so strange that this happened.’

  ‘You think it’s a mistake she was born to us?’

  ‘That’s not what I’m trying to say. I just wonder . . . whether Ayumi just needs somebody else. Someone other than us.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone has to be out there. Someone ready to accept Ayumi as she is, who won’t try to change her one way or another. Someone who’ll tell her she’s perfect, who’ll stand silently by her side and protect her. That’s where she belongs. She’ll be free to be herself, do what she wants. Not here, not with us. That’s why she left.’

  It was painful to listen. What was she trying to say? Was she giving up hope? Was she trying to tell him she was ready to let go? Or was she simply clinging to an idea, some kind of hope? Whichever the case, it was the dark making her talk. It had taken a small idea, nothing genuine, and amplified it, until it came to dominate the infinite space before them.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

  Mikami rested his head back on the pillow. Their hands had come apart without either having consciously let go.

  ‘It does make sense. I know, because I was the same. I never felt like I belonged at home, even as a child. The feeling was always there.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘My parents seemed really happy together, right? The truth is they were really unhappy. There was a girl at my dad’s work who he’d been involved with for a long time. My mum was always unstable as a result. I remember you said you were glad there was someone to look after him when he remarried a few years after she passed away. That was the girl from work.’

  Mikami felt dizzy. Something else he was hearing for the first time. This made sense of the fact that Minako hardly ever got in touch with her father.

  Even so . . .

  ‘We’re not like that.’

  ‘Of course not. But their problems weren’t the reason I didn’t belong. I didn’t find out about the adultery until much later, and my parents were good to me most of the time. Still, I felt alone. I never told them how I felt. And I never got the impression they knew. I’d just assumed they wouldn’t understand. I don’t know why.

  ‘I always felt like I was coming back to an empty house, even though Mum would be there when I got back from school. How was school? I already knew everything she’d ask, and my answers were all fixed. It all seemed pointless. The feeling of emptiness didn’t change even when Dad got back. Even now, thinking back, it’s only the empty spaces I can remember. The wind or the sun coming through the window. The worn-out couch. The kokeshi doll, gathering dust on one of the shelves.’

  Her voice had trailed off. Mikami shut his eyes. The dark became darker still. Had she fallen asleep? Was she staring at nothing? She was quiet. Mikami had begun to lose sense of time, even the feeling of being on his futon, when he heard her speak again.

  ‘The woman’s son. I hope he comes back to her.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The man from Forensics. I hope he’s able to come back.’

  To come back . . .

  ‘Yeah. I do, too.’

  ‘Because . . . it could be you.’

  ‘What could?’

  ‘You could be that someone, for him.’

  You think so . . .?

  Mikami stopped thinking. He couldn’t think any more. He breathed out. As though it was a sign, it carried him into the dark.

  59

  The next morning Mikami found his shoes polished as usual.

  The commissioner was due to arrive in one day. He geared himself up and left the house. Anything could happen in the next twenty-four hours. For the moment, the papers had been empty of surprises. With nothing to suggest a repeat bombardment from Criminal Investigations, the pages had been filled with news articles catching up on the previous day’s scoop.

  The first shock had come a minute after his arrival in Media Relations. Kuramae and Mikumo had already been out, gathering details of a land survey for the new station building; Suwa had been by himself, brooding as he waited for Mikami.

  ‘Did you hear the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘There was a tip-off. It made its way around Criminal Investigations, late last night.’

  ‘A tip-off?’

  ‘About Administrative Affairs being in cahoots with Tokyo, conspiring to take over the director’s job – something to that effect. Anyway, word spread around the detectives, and now even the smaller district stations know about it.’

  The instigator. Was it Arakida’s plan to get every last detective up in arms?

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘A detective, someone I know from my intake. He was all riled up, called me a traitor.’

  Mikami hadn’t had a single call at home. If Suwa was being targeted due to his background in Administrative Affairs, Mikami, with his history as a detective, knew he’d become an even bigger target. Bastard got greedy, sold us out. He wondered if that was what they were saying on the other side.

  He picked up the external line, and dialled Amamiya’s home number. It felt more like a call to confirm, to double-check, than to run through the following day’s schedule. The phone had rung a few times when Kuramae came back into the office; Mikumo followed soon after.

  Nobody picked up at Amamiya’s end. Mikami waited a while before trying again, but all he saw was the lonely image of the phone ringing by itself in the man’s empty living room. Twenty past nine. Maybe he was still in bed.

  Mikami put his notebook back in his jacket pocket and got up from his desk. The internal line started to ring, stopping him. It was Akama. He told Mikam
i to report immediately to the first floor.

  The air inside Akama’s office was still.

  Ishii had been summoned, too. He was perched on the edge of one of the couches, his back hunched. He didn’t look around, although he would have heard Mikami come in.

  Akama acknowledged him with a quick flick of his eyes. He’d aged in just one day. That was Mikami’s immediate impression. Harried, dehydrated. Hair not combed properly after a night’s sleep. Fingers that twitched on the couch armrest. The details all spoke of the magnitude of the stress he’d no doubt faced in Tokyo.

  ‘I just finished talking with Ishii.’

  As he took his seat, Mikami threw a sideways glance at the man. Head drooping. Eyes staring. Mouth half-open. Whatever he’d been told, it had put him in shock.

  ‘Criminal Investigations apparently called him at home, issuing threats. He came to discuss the matter with me.’

  Mikami saw what was coming.

  ‘What kind of threats?’

  ‘Someone’s spreading information through the department.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘That Tokyo is planning to sequester the director’s post in the spring. That the commissioner intends to make the announcement tomorrow.’

  Mikami watched Akama in silence.

  Akama watched him back, clearly hoping to gauge something from his reaction. ‘You knew.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You received a threatening call, too?’

  ‘No. No one’s been in touch.’

  ‘So, you’ve been in contact with them?’

  Mikami said nothing in response. He felt the muscles pulling together over his forehead. Akama broke eye contact. It looked as though he’d done so to avoid an argument.

  ‘I’m not looking to blame you here. I heard from Suwa that you managed to placate the reporters. A job well done. It certainly raises you in my estimation. Why then . . .’ Akama looked back up ‘. . . would someone like that go crashing into the captain’s office? I hear you gave him your opinion? That you even urged him to reconsider the matter of the director’s post?’

  Mikami’s eyes had fallen to Akama’s chest. He didn’t know how to revisit the emotions he’d felt at the time, even now, as Akama raised the subject. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, not a single excuse.