‘. . .’
‘It’s okay to talk. I’ll listen, whatever it is.’
‘. . .’
‘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.’