Chapter 1: Emptiness
Some say Tokyo is a haven where people and technology coexist in harmony; some say it is a crime-free city where civilians are safe to roam outside their homes until the wee hours of the morning; others say it is the one of the cornerstones of the advanced world alongside the United States and China.
I say that Tokyo is none of these.
As much as Tokyo can be labelled a 'dream city', truth to be told, it's not as utopian as a foreigner would think. People use technology, yes, but deep down, they want to have a respite from all the lit-up screens and annoying sounds that come with it. Crime rates are just as high as any city in the developed world, a day never going by without raping and kidnapping cases appearing in the newspaper. As for its position in the developed world, I'm not so sure myself. What I do know is that the city's shinny exterior is slowly crumbling… from the inside.
My colleagues call me Farron. Hardly anyone addresses me by my first name. I work for the Tokyo Police Department, doing all the dirty work to keep Tokyo and her people safe. It's ardous, but someone's gotta do it. Kind to think of it, I rather enjoy my job. My most memorable cases often involved huge drug busts and intense shootouts. Occasionally, a few convicts escape our net, but when we catch them, it's simply rewarding. Poor saps though: they would have to do their time behind bars.
I sit in the armchair by the window of my apartment unit, watching the afternoon rain as I swing my crossed legs rhythmically to and fro. On my lap is a Haruki Murakami paperback that I had purchased at a Kinokuniya some time back. I hadn't had the time to read it since I was so busy before this, and now that I am on my annual break, I have all the time in the world. Even so, there were just too many distractions in my head that forced me to look up from the book and stare into space while I sorted things out. Some break this is turning out to be.
Beyond the rivulets of raindrops that covered the window glass, I could see the congested highway. It must have moved a little the last time I glanced at the window, but my immediate thought now is that none of the vehicles had advanced in the last half hour. Everything just seems frozen in time, like insect specimens trapped in amber, unchanging throughout the ages.
Returning to my book, I read a few lines of text and stopped. I feel something tugging inside me, a feeling not alien to me, but discomforting all the same. I look around my room, but that only made the tugging sensation even worse. Placing the paperback onto the cushioned seat of the armchair as I arose, I make my way to the kitchen.
From the cabinet, I take a packet of instant coffee, tear the seal and dump its contents into a black mug. I pour hot water from the kettle and stir the solution thoroughly. I sip the coffee nice and slowly, relaxing my tense shoulders and flopping onto one of the wooden chairs I left lying around. As I drain my drink, the feeling somewhat subsides, but it still gnaws at me. I sigh, clamber over to the sink and wash the mug.
That's the last time I'm read Murakami on a rainy day. Any avid fan of the master of surrealist fiction would know that his works often incorporated lonely characters in a crowded world. Having read a few pages of a particularly disturbing chapter in one of his books, I began thinking. Not to say that I don't usually think, but I hardly ever ponder so deeply. Normally, I would have preferred to talk to someone about something that bothered me. At this very moment, however, I am alone.
Serah, my younger sister, had moved out several months ago to start a new life with her husband. I can only sadly recall the day she left, with her boxes of possessions all stacked up in the trunk of the car, all ready to go. She was to live somewhere downtown, within 30 minutes by car. Not too far, but still a considerable distance. As I watched her go through her checklist, I could barely smile. Smiling… something I could never quite do naturally, let alone during those last few moments I had with her before she went her way. I tried to smile for Serah, to show her how happy I was for her, but in my heart, I wept terribly.
Heading back to the living room, I pass by the door to Serah's bedroom and noticed that it is slightly ajar. I steal a peep into the semi-dark interior. The room is just the way Serah had left it, albeit a little dusty. I could have converted it into a guestroom, but I don't have any friends or relatives from out of town who wish to stay overnight at my place. Like I have any friends outside Tokyo or any relatives besides Serah.
Sluggishly, I head back to the living room and switch on the TV. A news programme is on, showing footage of victims of an illegal sex syndicate covering their faces as they cower from the camera. I've handled such cases myself before, and I know how shaken up the victims can be when you find them. The trauma a victim faces after any crime is perhaps more damaging psychologically than the physical wounds, if there are any, inflicted.
The video on the TV screen transitions to a female newscaster, who appears rather bored as she reads out the next piece of news. An image of a young boy – a teenager perhaps – pops on screen with the word 'MISSING' on the bottom. He had strange grey hair and emerald green eyes on his rather pallid complexion.
"A boy by the name of Hope Estheim, 14, is reported missing," said the newscaster in a monotonous voice. "His single father reported him missing after he failed to return home after school yesterday. He was last seen at Chibuya High School by his schoolmates. Police are currently conducting a thorough investigation on the matter."
Chibuya High School… That kind of rings a bell. Isn't that the name of the school where Serah is teaching? If that's right, then a student from her school is now missing. I'll know about more about it sooner or later, be it from tomorrow's newspaper or from Serah herself.
As if on queue, my smartphone rings. I reach into my pocket and withdraw it. Without looking at the screen to check the caller ID, I answer my phone. "Hello?"
Serah's voice literally yelps into my ear. "Lightning! Is your TV on? Have you watched the news?"
"Wow, wow! Slow down, Serah." I attempt to sound as calm as possible, suppressing the urge to get caught up and excited. "Does whatever you want to tell me have to do with a missing student from your school?"
"Yes! Hope, one of my favourite students. I can't believe he's missing!"
"Look Serah," I say exasperatedly, "I am on my annual break now. I need to get some much-needed rest. Besides, the police are handling the matter. You can trust my colleagues."
"I know, I know." Serah sounds a little disappointed. "It's just that this happened a little too suddenly. I have to tell someone about it as soon as possible. How else am I supposed to cope?"
"Can't you tell Snow? He's your husband!"
"But you're my sister."
I am about to say something but I stop myself. I should at least hear Serah out. Maybe she misses me as much as I miss her.
"Alright. Tell me anything. I'm all ears."
I sense Serah hesitate for a moment before continuing. "Hope is a great student. He's brighter than the rest, but most of the time, he just keeps to himself. I try to coax him out of his shell once in a while, and when he does, he mixes well with the others. Never in my life would I have thought that he'd go missing."
"Sounds like a charming boy." As much as I could have remained ignorant, I had to show some concern. "You must have been close to him."
"Very," mumbles Serah.
We went on talking about the kid, how he was picked at and made fun of, how he first approached Serah for help and the wonderful Teacher's Day gift he had given her. He would smile and greet Serah with a "Good Morning, Miss Farron" before heading off to class. I wondered if a student could have such a bond with his teacher. I looked up to many of my former teachers, but somehow, I always maintained a healthy distance from them. I have heard of many student-teacher relationships that ended in disaster.
"So," says Serah, changing the subject, "how are you doing, Lightning?"
"Fine as always," I say bluntly. "Catching up on some reading, actually. You and Snow settling down well?"
"More or less, I guess. It's just different without you, you know?"
Ding-dong!
"I understand. Hey, my doorbell's ringing. Call you next time, okay?"
"Okay," says Serah reluctantly. "Sooner the better."
We say goodbye to each other and hang up. Whoever ringing the doorbell must be pretty impatient. I heard it ring three more times following the first one. I walk over to the front door and peer down the peephole. I see some girl with cherry-coloured hair glancing about her, looking nervous. I latch the door with the small chain and open it wide enough for me to talk to the girl.
"Who are you and what do you want?" I ask, frowning slightly.
The girl jumps and looks fearfully into my eyes. She gulps and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "I am Vanille Oerba," she says, her squeaky voice somewhat quivering. "I am looking for Miss Serah Farron's sister."
"I am her sister, yes." I purse my lips. "What do you want to see me about?"
"Something urgent. I'll need some time. Just please let me in and I'll explain everything."
