—
Hakuba waited in the corner of the parlor, eyes scanning the day’s newspaper, though he wasn’t actually absorbing any information. Jones had left about an hour previous with claims of ‘work to be done’ and ‘the wife expects me home for dinner.’ He did, however, promise that he would be back the next day to solidify the statement that they’d drafted.
With his agent gone and Baaya spearheading the delegation of managerial house chores, Hakuba was left alone to wait.
The messages hadn’t stopped. None of them were new to him; he’d seen them countless times before. Though he couldn’t be sure of the precise numbers, it certainly felt as though he had as many enemies as he had fans.
“It’s to be expected, really,” he’d said to Jones over tea and sorting through the paper slips. “I’m not only just a… half-breed, but I’m direct competition for other, favored detectives. It’s only natural…”
“And given your advantage, father being in such a powerful position…”
“Yes, exactly. It’s just part of the territory. I never expected anything different, really.”
“Considering you came to take down Kaitou Kid, whom the population adores…”
Hakuba laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. I guess I set myself up to be an enemy from the start, didn’t I? Rich, spoiled brat from London importing himself with self-important fanfair… Can do as he likes, being Daddy’s only son, intent on capturing Kaitou Kid and putting the other detectives to shame…”
Jones tilted his head at that but said nothing, opening another letter to fill the silence.
“It’s fine, really, Jones. I never intended to stay in Japan long. I haven’t even a chance of making it past rank six, even if I’m incredibly fortunate…”
The agent held up the enclosed letter and smiled. “Ah, look. This one isn’t hate mail! They’ve written here… well, wait, this is asking about arsenic poisoning. That’s not really either, is it?”
“No, not exactly. Please put it in the ‘to answer’ pile, I’ll get to it this afternoon.”
“I really ought to have these forwarded through my office first. You don’t really have time to be sorting through this, do you?”
“No, but there’s not really a more efficient way, Jones.” Hakuba took a sip of Earl Grey before setting it aside and turning back to his laptop, sorting through another chunk of email. “I need to be aware if someone is asking for help… or trying to get my attention for something time-sensitive. I’m not sure that your office can get to things in time, let alone know what they need to be looking for.”
“Hmf.” Jones shrugged, picking up the next letter from the pile. But then he dropped it back on top. “Why are you still here?”
The detective blinked once, then glanced away from the screen to the older man. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you still in Japan?”
Hakuba snorted and, shaking his head, went back to work, archiving another handful of emails. “I can’t exactly go home now, can I? I left with a bloody procession… They sent their champion teenage detective celebrity to capture the illustrious thief, and…” He sighed, smile tired. “It’s been months. I’m no closer to capturing him than I was in London.”
“What, is Kaitou Kid really that good?”
“Yes. For reasons that you couldn’t even begin to understand.”
Jones hummed at that. “I wish I was his agent. Do you think he has one already? Does he need one?”
“I believe he has plenty of PR help from the press already, free of charge.”
“Damn.”
“I’ll let him know if he asks, though.”
“Thank you.” Jones nudged the envelope open, glanced inside, then put it in the growing hate pile. “But really, is that why you’re here? Are you genuinely afraid to go home, defeated?”
“I expect that’s part of it.” The young blonde sighed, forcing a sad sort of quirk to his lopsided smile. “But you know, I’ve always been a glutton for punishment.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Another snort. “Actually… I may have managed to make a handful of friends here. I think it will be quite painful to leave them when I do.”
—
Dear Baaya,
I’m sorry that I haven’t written much lately. Studies have been exhausting. I am well, but looking forward to summer holiday. Do you know if Papa is still on for Paris? I don’t think it will be the same if he is not there.
Pleasantries aside, I have a petition to make. Over the past couple of weeks, I have made the acquaintanceship of a certain older gentleman – an Irish Wolfhound, to be precise – and have found him to be a most agreeable companion. He has no collar, no tags, no ear markings that I can find. True, the majority of our conversations happen with the gate between us, but he is a dependable sort. He’s always there when I’m able to walk after supper. I bring him bread, as per our agreement, and he seems to like that I’ve begun calling him ‘Baron.’
(I almost called him Val Jean, mind, but as Bisclavret seems more apt given the breed, my decision is firm.)
I thought that, perhaps, in light of poor Sherlock’s fate this past summer, it would be appropriate to request that he return home with me at break. The estate does need a dog, after all, and while Baron is not a Golden Retriever, he is sure to be a fine hunting companion, which should please the uncles all the same.
Please consider my request and campaign to Mum on my behalf.
Always,
S. James Hakuba
He ate alone. He studied alone. He sat, alone, on the hard wooden bench for morning prayer. He spoke to no one unless spoken to. Teachers were given exactly what was requested, no fuss. Fellow students were given aggressive eye contact and cold retorts.
Most left him that way. Gave him space. Wary glances. Some were filled with pained sympathy, but he never noticed.
S. James liked being alone. It made it easier to hide. He didn’t have to lie about being okay if no one asked. Didn’t have to justify the limp in his step or the wince every time he put his back against the seat when he settled down for classes.
He had no friends. He didn’t want friends. Not there. At first, he’d imagined that White Chapel Academy would be different. They were all supposed to be the intellectual elite for their age group, Certainly that meant more maturity.
But, no. Just as had happened in other schools outside of Japan, ‘Saguru Hakuba’ became ‘Saggyroo Hakooba’ and that devolved into variations of ‘Sags’ and ‘Saggy’ which left the boy pleading with the administrators to make the change that they had suggested in the first place. S. James Hakuba would return, and S. James Hakuba would stay, for the duration of his time in the United Kingdom.
This all happened within the first week. The other children would have gotten over it. Hakuba might have, too. Eventually. But in the brief window of time where he considered finding someone, anyone, to share his pain… he found no one that had not, in some way, hurt him. Namecalling, a bewildered glance, a brush in the hallway. Even the smallest offense was remembered.
Clearly, everyone at White Chapel hated him. And he hated them back. For everything. He trusted no one. Except for Baron.
On the weekdays, he met the milk-colored dog outside by the East Gate just after sunset. No one else ventured into the cold after supper; no one had a reason to. The free period they had was spent by the fires and in common areas, playing games, studying, chatting. It made his escape all that much more… fitting.
He’d bring a slice of bread or a roll, whatever he would sneak into his coat pocket, and slip it through the gate to the dog. Then, as Baron ate, S. James talked. It was usually about what he was studying, but occasionally, he’d recount passages of his favorite books. It always turned to the thought of hunting in the end, though.
“We’ll go to my uncle’s farm and you can chase the horses. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Baron? And when we go hunting in the fall… There are elk. And deer. You’ll get to stretch out your legs and give chase. And I’ll have someone to talk to when they’re discussing their wives and babies. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
Baron sat and listened quietly to whatever the boy had to discuss, offering nods, hand licks, and nudges where appropriate. S. James removed his mittens to give him a good rubdown on his neck and shoulders, as far as he could reach. And although it was the only time he felt safe enough to talk, S. James compulsively checked the time every few minutes.
Every evening he stayed with Baron until it was too cold to be out. Hands frozen, legs numb, he’d eventually say goodnight and head back inside, having never said what was really gnawing at him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.
On Saturdays, S. James left the grounds. He wasn’t supposed to, but the adjoining cemetery’s fence had a gap that he could just squeeze through. Baron met him on the other side, and the two went on walks through the nearby woods, one-sided chatter accompanied by the crunch of snow under their feet. Although they never caught any, S. James always looked for rabbits for them to chase. He dug his fingers into the wiry hair to keep warm, and turned back only when it began to get dark.
Some days they covered a lot of ground. Other days, it hurt too much to get further than just out of sight of the academy. Baron kept to S. James’ pace, and never complained when the boy leaned on him for support. Never chided when he’d wrap his arms around his neck, face buried against that woolly chest, and sob. He lapped at the tears, whimpered at the pain, and made sure that he was always at the gate when it was time. And there he’d wait, just in case the boy was delayed.
Seven weeks they carried on, just like that. Gradually, walks in the woods continued on into dark, and then during the week.
“We should run away, you and I. I bet we could make it back home if the weather gets a little better.”
Baron had no complaints about the plans. But then, he never did.
No, he never did. He was even overjoyed to see S. James out on a Sunday, for the first time. The boy was crying, but that wasn’t necessarily unusual.
“We’re leaving, Baron… we’re leaving tonight. I can’t… I can’t do… I just… can’t…”
The dog licked his hand. Reassured him.
“We’ll… cross through the woods and get to the main road… then we just have to follow it Southerly.” Swallowing back another sob, he looked back at the academy in the fading afternoon, then nodded. This was their best chance. “Come along Baron, let’s be off."
…
Baaya,
Please disregard my previous letter as circumstances have changed.
Always,
S. James Hakuba
