People Who Eat Darkness (2 page)

Just after five o’clock, her mobile rings. The screen displays the words
USER UNSENT
. But the voice is that of Lucie, who should be heading home soon to prepare for the night ahead. Instead she is calling from inside a moving car. She’s on the way to the “seaside,” she says, where she will have lunch with him (although it is getting very late to talk of lunch). But there is no need to change their plans for the evening, she tells Louise; she will be home in good time, and she will call again in an hour or two to say exactly when. She sounds happy and cheerful, but self-conscious in the manner of someone whose conversation can be overheard. She is calling from his mobile, she tells Louise, so she cannot chat long.

Later, Louise would say that she was surprised by this development and that it was out of character for Lucie to get into a man’s car and drive out of Tokyo with him. But it was very like her to make this call. Lucie and Louise have known one another since they were girls, and this is the kind of friendship they have. They phone one another just for the sake of it, to reaffirm closeness and trust, even when there is little to say.

It’s an oppressively hot and humid summer afternoon. Louise visits her and Lucie’s favorite shop, the department store Laforet, and buys shiny stickers and glitter to decorate their faces for their night of dancing. The sun sinks in the sky; the evening begins, spreading a cloak over the dim residential shabbiness and illuminating in neon the restaurants, bars, and clubs, all the places of promise and delight.

Two hours pass.

At six minutes past seven, when Louise is back at home, her cell phone rings again. It’s Lucie, full of high spirits and excitement. He is
very
nice, she says. As promised, he has given her a new mobile phone—and a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, which she and Louise can drink together later. It’s not clear exactly where she is, and Louise doesn’t think to ask. But she will be back within an hour.

At seventeen minutes past seven, Lucie calls the mobile phone of her boyfriend, Scott Fraser, but connects only to voice mail. She records a short but happy message, promising a meeting tomorrow.

There Lucie vanishes.

It’s the beginning of a Saturday evening in Tokyo, but there will be no girls’ night out and no date with Scott. In fact, there will be nothing else at all. Stored in the digital data bank of the telephone company, where it will be automatically erased in a few days’ time, the mobile phone message is Lucie’s last living trace.

*   *   *

When Lucie failed to return as promised, Louise’s alarm was immediate and overwhelming. Later, people would point to this as a reason for suspicion: Why
would
Louise have got into such a panic, so soon? Her flatmates, who were sitting in the living room smoking marijuana, couldn’t understand her agitation. Little more than an hour after Lucie’s expected return, Louise was already telephoning her mother, Maureen Phillips, in Britain. “Something has happened to Lucie,” she told her. Then she went to Casablanca, the hostess club in the entertainment district of Roppongi where the two of them worked.

“I remember that first day very clearly, the first of July,” said a man who was there at the time. “It was a Saturday night, and it was Lucie and Louise’s day off that week. Neither of them was supposed to work. But quite early on, Louise came in and said, ‘Lucie’s missing. She went to meet a customer. She’s not come back.’ Well, it’s not so surprising. It’s still only eight, nine o’clock. I said, ‘It’s normal, nothing really strange, Louise. Why are you so worried?’ She said, ‘Lucie’s the kind of person who will come back, or if something happens she’ll call me.’ And it was true for them. What one was doing, the other one always knew about. They had a really strong relationship. Louise knew that something was wrong, right away.”

Louise kept calling the club all night, asking if anyone had news of Lucie, but there was no news. She walked around Roppongi, visiting every one of the bars and clubs where she and Lucie used to go: Propaganda, Deep Blue, the Tokyo Sports Cafe, Geronimo’s. She talked to the men who handed out flyers on Roppongi Crossing, asking if any of them had seen Lucie. Then she took a taxi to Shibuya and went to Fura, the club where the two of them had been planning to go that night. She knew that she wouldn’t find her friend there—why would Lucie have gone on ahead alone, without coming home first, or at least calling her? But she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

It rained for much of the night—warm, perspiration-inducing Tokyo summer rain. It was light by the time Louise returned to Sasaki House early on Sunday morning, having been into every bar that she could think of. Lucie was not at home, and there was no message from her.

Louise telephoned Caz, a Japanese man who worked at Casablanca as a waiter, and debated what to do. Caz called a few of the bigger hospitals, but none of them had heard of Lucie. Wasn’t it at least possible, he suggested, that Lucie had decided to spend the night with her “nice” customer and simply failed to let Louise know? Louise said that it was unthinkable, and no one was closer to Lucie than Louise.

The obvious next step was to contact the police. But this prospect brought its own load of anxiety. Lucie and Louise had entered Japan as tourists, on ninety-day visas that explicitly forbade them from working. All the girls in the clubs, in fact most of the foreigners working in Roppongi, were in the same situation. They, and the clubs that employed them, were breaking the law.

*   *   *

On Monday morning, Caz took Louise to Azabu Police Station in Roppongi and filed a missing-person report. They explained that Lucie was a tourist on holiday in Tokyo who had gone out for the day with a Japanese man she’d met. They made no mention of hostessing or Casablanca or its customers.

The police showed little interest.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Louise went to the British embassy in Tokyo. She spoke to the vice-consul, a Scot named Iain Ferguson, and told him the full story. Ferguson was the first of many people to express bafflement at the circumstances in which Lucie had gone out on that afternoon. “I asked what was known of the client and was taken aback to hear nothing,” he wrote in a memo the next day. “According to Louise, girls within the club routinely, and with the club’s consent, hand out their business cards and clients as a result often make private appointments with the girls. I stated I found that hard to believe, that the club would allow the girls to meet with clients without their knowledge. Louise however remained firm. Certainly Lucie had said nothing of her client, his name, anything of his car or even where they had gone other than the beach…”

Ferguson pressed Louise on Lucie’s character. Was she capricious, unpredictable, unreliable? Was she naïve or easily influenced? “All of Louise’s responses drew a consistent picture,” he wrote, “of a confident, worldly-wise, intelligent individual who had the experience and judgment not to have foolishly put herself in danger.” Why, then, had she got into a car with a complete stranger? “Louise could … not explain, restating that such behavior was out of character for Lucie.”

No one has more experience than a consular officer of the folly of the British abroad. And no one understands better that, most of the time, when a young person “disappears” there is a predictably mundane explanation: a tiff between friends or lovers; drugs, or drunkenness, or sex. But Lucie had telephoned twice during the afternoon to update Louise on her whereabouts. Having called to say that she would be back within an hour, it was hard to imagine that she would not have done so again, even if her plans had changed. Iain Ferguson called Azabu Police Station and told them that the embassy was deeply concerned about Lucie and that they regarded it not as a simple missing-person case but as a probable abduction.

*   *   *

Louise left the embassy. In the two nights since Lucie’s disappearance, she had hardly slept. She was in a torment of uncertainty and tension. It was unbearable to be alone, or to spend any time in the room she shared with Lucie. She went to the apartment of a friend, where other people who knew Lucie were also gathering.

Just before half past five, her mobile rang again, and she snatched it up.

“Hello?” Louise said.

—Am I speaking to Louise Phillips? said a voice.

“Yes, this is Louise. Who’s this?”

—My name is Akira Takagi. Anyway, I’m ringing on behalf of Lucie Blackman.

“Lucie! My God, where is she? I’ve been so worried. Is she there?”

—I am with her. She is here. She is fine.

“Oh, God, thank God. Let me speak to Lucie. I need to speak to her.”

It was a man’s voice. He spoke English confidently but with a distinct Japanese accent. He was at all times calm and controlled and matter-of-fact, almost friendly, even when Louise became agitated and upset.

—She must not be disturbed now, the voice said. —Anyway, she is in our dormitory. She is studying and practicing a new way of life. She has so much to learn this week. She can’t be disturbed.

To her friends, Louise was frantically mouthing, “It’s him,” and signaling for paper and a pen.

“Who is this?” she said. “Are you the one she went out with on Saturday?”

—I met Lucie on Sunday. She met my guru on Saturday, my group’s leader.

“Your guru?”

—Yes, my guru. Anyway, they met on a train.

“But she … when I spoke to her, she was in a car.”

—The traffic was bad, so bad, and she didn’t want to be late to meet you. So she decided to take the train. Just before she got on the train she met my guru and she made a life-changing decision. Anyway, she decided to join his cult that night.

“A cult?”

—Yes.

“What d’you mean, a cult? What … Where is Lucie? Where is this cult?”

—It is in Chiba.

“What? Say that again. Can you spell it?”

—In Chiba. I spell it: C-H-I-B-A.

“Chiba. Chiba. And … what is it called?”

—It’s the Newly Risen Religion.

“The what? What is…”

—The Newly Risen Religion.

The man calmly spelled this phrase out too, letter by letter.

Louise’s thoughts were churning. “I have to speak to Lucie,” she said. “Let me speak to her.”

—She’s not feeling too well, said the voice. —Anyway, she doesn’t want to talk to anyone now. Maybe she will talk to you at the end of the week.

“Please,” said Louise. “Please, please, let me talk to her.”

The line went dead.

“Hello? Hello?” said Louise, but there was nobody there. She looked at the small silver telephone in her hands.

A few heartbeats later, it rang again.

With trembling fingers, she pressed the pick-up button.

—I’m so sorry, said the same voice. —The signal must have broken. Anyway, Lucie can’t talk to you now. She’s not feeling well. Maybe she will talk to you at the end of the week. But she has started a new life, and she won’t be coming back. I know that she has a lot of debts, six or seven thousand pounds. But she is paying them off in a better way. Anyway, she just wants to let you and S’kotto know she’s okay. She is planning a better life.

He said, quite distinctly, “S’kotto,” the characteristic Japanese rendering of the unfamiliar English name Scott.

—She has written a letter to Casablanca to say that she will not be coming back to work.

There was a pause. Louise began to sob.

—Anyway, what is your address?

Louise said, “My address…”

—The address of your apartment, in Sendagaya.

“Why … why d’you need to know my address?”

—I want to send you some of Lucie’s belongings.

Louise’s dread, which up until now had been on behalf of her friend, suddenly became personal. “He wants to know where I live,” she was thinking. “He’s going to come after
me
.” She said, “Well, Lucie knows it. She knows her address.”

—She is not feeling too well now and she cannot remember.

“Oh, I can’t remember either.”

—Well … can you remember where your house is near?

“No, no, I can’t remember.”

—What about the street? Can you remember the street?

“No, I…”

—Anyway, I need to send her belongings back.

“I can’t remember…”

—If it’s a problem, don’t worry.

“I haven’t got it on me now…”

—That’s okay. Don’t worry.

Louise was overcome by panic and emotion. Weeping, she handed the phone to a friend, an Australian man who had lived in Tokyo for years.

“Hello,” he said in Japanese. “Where is Lucie?”

After a few moments, he handed the phone back. “He’ll only speak English,” he said. “He only wants to speak to you.”

But Louise had collected her thoughts. She realized that it was important to draw the conversation out, to try to find out where Lucie was.

“Hello,” she said. “This is Louise again. So, can I join your cult?”

The voice seemed to hesitate. Then it said, —What religion are you?

Louise said, “Well, I’m a Catholic, but Lucie’s a Catholic too. I don’t mind changing. I want to change my life too.”

—Anyway, it’s up to Lucie. It’s up to what she thinks. I will think about it.

“Please let me speak to Lucie,” said Louise desperately.

—I’ll speak to my guru and ask him.

“Please let me speak to her,” Louise cried. “I’m begging you, please, let me speak to her.”

—Anyway, I have to go now, the voice said. —I’m sorry. I just had to let you know that you won’t see her again. Goodbye.

The cell phone line went dead for the second time.

*   *   *

Lucie disappeared on Saturday, July 1, 2000, at the midpoint of the first year of the twenty-first century. It took a week for the news to reach the world at large. The first report appeared the following Sunday, July 9, when a British newspaper carried a short article about a missing tourist named “Lucy Blackman.” There were more detailed stories the next day in the British and Japanese papers. They named Louise Phillips, as well as Lucie’s sister, Sophie Blackman, who was said to have flown to Tokyo to look for her, and her father, Tim, who was on his way there. Reference was made to a threatening phone call and the vague suggestion that she had been kidnapped by a cult. Two of the stories spoke of “fears” that she had been “forced into prostitution.” Lucie was identified as a former British Airways stewardess, but the following day’s news identified her as a “bar girl” or “nightclub hostess” in “Tokyo’s red-light district.” Now Japanese television had seized on the story and camera crews were prowling through Roppongi, looking for blond foreigners. The combination of the missing girl’s youth, nationality, hair color, and the implications of the job she had been doing had tipped the story over the threshold that separates mere incident from news; it was now impossible to ignore. Within twenty-four hours, twenty British reporters and photographers and five separate television crews had flown to Tokyo, to join the dozen correspondents and freelancers permanently based there.