People Who Eat Darkness – A Stupendous True-Crime Book that goes beyond the Sensationalized Headlines

The tragic case of British citizen Lucie Blackman is one of the most publicized cases in the British tabloid during the fall of 2000. The mystery surrounding Lucie’s disappearance and her eventual fate is all available in the public forum. If you have never heard of Lucie Blackman, you could read a few articles in internet and get a fine grasp on her case details. Or simply take the much preferable option to read Richard Lloyd Parry’s 400 plus pages non-fiction true-crime book People Who Eat Darkness: The True Story of a Young Woman Who Vanished from the Streets of Tokyo — and the Evil That Swallowed Her Up (published Dec. 2010). Even those who are already familiar with the case could also give it a chance, as this work borne out of decade-long research brilliantly probes into the depths of evil. Mr. Parry’s perceptive look at the dreadful crime takes a much broader approach, chronicling the conflict of interest between nation, within institutions, and family members. Altogether, this thrilling factual account which easily earns comparisons to other masterful true-crime literary works like In Cold Blood, Fatal Vision, and The Executioner’s Song.

A little, cute and fuzzy character Pipo-kun is the mascot of Tokyo Metropolitan Police. The orange-colored, imaginary character is designed to promote the friendly feelings between the citizens of Tokyo and the police; something unheard of in most countries, since the police opt to send an intimidating image to the alleged criminals through its choice of mascot. Furthermore, the official symbol of Tokyo Police is also said to be justified by the city’s low crime-rate. Despite being one of the most populous metropolitan areas in the world, it is the one of the most secure mega-cities, especially due to its sporadic occurrence of violent crimes. That image took a lot of beating in the British newspapers after the much sensationalized disappearance of Lucie Blackman in July 1, 2000. Richard Lloyd Parry, Tokyo bureau chief for The Times, like other fellow English journalists, first approached the case only with an outsider’s curiosity. But in the end, his accumulated deep interest in Lucie’s fate, not only chronologically reiterated the thrilling developments in the case – unfurled for nearly a decade – but also proffers culturally, socially, and emotionally informed details to take it beyond the mere fact-checking nature of news articles.

Twenty-one year old blonde middle-class Brit Lucie Blackman was dissatisfied with her tiring flight attendant job with British Airways. Vexed over the accumulating debt, Lucie decided to move with her best friend Louise to Tokyo and work as a hostess in the city’s vibrant pleasure quarters, Roppongi District. Known as ‘Water Trade’ or ‘mizu shobai’, this closed-in world encompasses hostess bars, dance clubs, massage parlors, strip joints, geisha houses, etc. It’s the era where Japan has recovered from worst financial crisis in the early 1990s and the yen is once again mighty strong. Adventurous and a bit insecure, Lucie hopes that the easy money she makes from 'Casablanca' bar in Roppongi district would pay off her debts. The hostess bars mostly caters to Japanese businessmen who wants to get acquainted with Caucasian women. A hostess’ job is to mix drinks, make conversation with the guests (in English), flatter them, and put up with their boring or flirtatious remarks. The hostess would be given bonuses if guests buy extra bottles of liquor. If the girls receive invitation for off-site dinners from the guests, there would be further bonuses. But the service just ends there. People looking for sexual offerings should seek elsewhere within the colorful, multi-faceted Roppongi District.

Journalist/author Richard Lloyd Parry

Chatting up lonely businessmen in bars might seem odd to most casual observers of the workings of red-light districts. However, Richard Parry provides a detailed and perceptive look at the purpose of hostess’ bar in Japanese community. By citing the doctoral thesis of Anthropology professor Anna Allsion (who spent four months working as hostess in a Roppongi Club), Parry dissects the cultural and social relevance of hostesses. One argument goes like this, “Japanese sex, like Japanese society, is ordered and orderly. Japanese men like to know exactly what is expected of them and how they are meant to behave before entering any situation. And, in the hostess clubs, they know that the only thing on offer is titillation… Most of the clients – Japanese ones – did not expect sex. They expected flirtation and flattery, and that is what they got.” Another vital account depicts how the Japanese corporations encourage its workers to visit hostess club to relieve stress and tension, rather than spending time with family. Much of the brilliance of the book could be attested to the way Richard Parry provides deeper background details (at perfect points) to grasp the different shades of this case in its full complexity.

One Saturday (in July 1, 2000) Lucie leaves her small living quarters to have lunch with an unknown client of the club and never returned. The police initially brushed off the friend Louise’s concerns. Two days after Lucie’s disappearance, Louise received a strange phone call from a Japanese man, saying that she has joined a religious cult and to not look for her. Within the next few days, Lucie’s sudden disappearance fueled headlines and the coverage of speculative media programs. Lucie’s younger sister Sophie and father Tim Blackman flew to Japan and launched a highly-publicized missing-persons campaign, which even caught the attention of then British Prime Minister Tony Blair. With a help of British Consulate and other generous British citizens in Japan, Tim and Sophie set up a phone line for tips, thousands of posters went around the city, and they consistently held press conferences. Tim’s allegedly strange resolve to find his daughter occupies a considerable part of the book. Tim, who was long estranged from Lucie and his wife Jane after the bitter divorce, approached the disappearance in a very unique manner, which was often misunderstood and heavily scrutinized by the media. Parry’s coverage of Tim, Jane and their acerbic relationship is impeccably level-headed, without ever judging or favoring one over the other.

As I mentioned earlier, the book is at its best when it adds profound, multi-dimensional background details to certain specifics of the case. This methodical approach delineates how the roots of a single violent crime are deeply buried within a society’s relentless prejudices, institutional apathy, and inept political practices. People Who Eat Darkness could naturally remain chilling, if it solely focuses on the twisted developments of the case. But this wider, deeply incisive take on the crime is full of emotional truths and further builds an extremely complex image of Japanese society, alongside its myriad of taboos. The book is full of tragic happenings. However, the tragedy isn’t just strictly attuned to Lucie, her family and friends. The real tragic aspects are police forces’ pain-staking yet very slow investigative process, the utterly inflexible nature of Japanese court system, the worse treatment of minority Ethnic Koreans in Japan, the charlatans who con desperate people for money, the media’s unsavory desire to play judge and jury, etc. Apart from delving into these deeper levels, Parry also efficiently guides us through maze of false starts, failed hopes, red-herrings, and sinister conspiratorial subplots. At times, the fresh discoveries and speculations in the case stay true to the word 'stranger than fiction'.

 In the winter following Lucie’s disappearance, her death/murder was confirmed and the dismembered body is found in a seaside cave. A suspect – 48 year old Joji Obara -- is apprehended even before the discovery of the body. The super-wealthy and highly intellectual serial rapist Obara is the book’s ultimate enigma. The case against him which unfurled over a period of seven years is full of fascinating, thoughtful details. Obara, like any criminal masterminds witnessed in celluloid, took charge of the defense, formulating a part-shrewd and part-bizarre counter-narrative to Lucie’s murder. Parry catalogues Obara’s depravity, over the period of three decades, in a very knowledgeable manner. In the end, the author doesn’t forget what lies at the root of this book: the tragic demise of young Lucie. Hence, the film’s end portions are sensibly dedicated to ponder over the effects of Lucie's murder on Tim and the rest of the Blackman family. These portions are intimate, sensitive, and moreover compassionately exhibits how each one of us process grief and guilt over loved ones’ loss in an idiosyncratic manner. Eventually, Richard Lloyd Parry asks us not to judge people or things in a rough, superficial manner: be it the Blackmans or the different facets of Japanese community. Even the glimpse into Obara’s heart of darkness shuns any superficial assessment. And, like all the violent crimes plaguing our world, the author subtly explains how those tragedies repeatedly occur due to little institutional slip-off and human errors.

On the whole, People Who Eat Darkness is an unforgettable exploration of evil, grief and trauma, and how the people confronting these are very often denied of easy understanding or beneficial resolution. Rarely, we come across a true-crime work like this that turns a criminal investigation into a moral exploration of the human condition.