Free Missing in Tokyo by Graham Marks Page B

phrases, like ‘Which way to the station, please?’ with their Japanese translation underneath. ‘Have a good trip.’

14
Stay real, be sexy
    Adam sat looking at the immigration form in front of him. He’d filled everything in, except where he was staying. Could he write in Capsule Hotel Riverside, or Capsule Land Shibuya? According to the Rough Guide these places were ‘generally for one night’, so he thought maybe not … probably shouldn’t. He didn’t know how important it was to put down where you were staying, but had heard his dad tell the story about a friend who’d been turned round by immigration at JFK in New York and sent home. He couldn’t now remember why, just found himself worrying that it’d happened to someone sort of connected to him. Was that a bad omen?
    But then, as he chewed the end of his pen, it slowly dawned on him that he could make it up. Surely they couldn’t check where every single visitor stayed, could they? He got the guidebook out of his small backpack again and began leafing through the accommodation section.
    Standing in the queue, waiting his turn to be seen by an immigration officer, Adam wondered, if they somehow guessed he was lying about where he was staying, would they really turn him away, send him back home?
    Home. His mind flashed on a series of images – his mum and dad … Badger … Grangie and Granpa Eddy, before, when they were both fine – and it came as a shock that he hadn’t thought about any of them since he’d left the house.
    He wondered what would happen if his parents had found out what he’d done and had got in touch with the authorities in Tokyo – once they realised who he was would he be hauled out of the queue, handed over to the cops and then put on the first UK flight? Or would –
    â€˜Excuse me, it’s your turn.’
    Adam, feeling a tap on his shoulder, looked up and focused in front of him. He saw that, without realising, he’d moved so far forward he was now first in line and there was an empty bay to his right. He glanced at the man behind him, an American. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜It’s OK, I’m kind of asleep at the wheel myself.’
    Adam went over to where a doll-like woman, hardly visible over the ledge in front of her, was waiting for him to hand over his passport and papers. ‘Sorry.’
    She nodded without looking at him and began to go through his passport, stopping to check the reality against the photo. ‘Grasses.’
    Momentarily taken aback by the fact that Japanese people really did totally pronounce their Ls as Rs, Adam smiled to himself, then saw the woman was miming someone taking off a pair of specs. He’d forgotten he had his new sunglasses on. ‘Sorry …’
    The immigration officer was now checking the form he’d filled in on the plane and Adam found he wasn’t tired any more as he stared down at the top of the woman’s head, willing her not to ask him about where he was staying. He’d chosen a place the book had said was cheap, cheerful andwhat he could afford. All she had to do was stamp whatever she had to stamp and let him go …
    â€˜Horiday?’
    â€˜What? Oh, yes … just a short one.’
    Ka-thunk. ‘Have nice stay.’
    And that was it. No more polite ‘sorry’s, he was through. He was in Japan and all he had to do now was find Charlie.
    It was almost midday by the time he got into Tokyo. He’d decided to get off the train at Asakusa because that’s where the guidebook said there was a pretty decent capsule hotel; the only trouble was, he couldn’t book in until at least 3:00 p.m.
    Three hours before he could crash. Adam stood outside the station in the bright sunshine just letting everything sink in: this street, these people, this city, all so much the same as at home and at the same time so incredibly dissimilar. People streamed by on