by David Peace
‘But did you go to the address in Zōshigaya?’
Kimura nods and Nishi says, ‘Yes.’
I ask them both, ‘And…?’
‘It’s cinders,’ says Nishi.
I ask, ‘Have either of you seen Detective Fujita today?’
Kimura shakes his head and Nishi says, ‘No.’
‘Right then,’ I say and I take out the envelope from my pocket and hand them the piece of newspaper. ‘Find out which paper this advertisement is from and the date it was run. Then, last thing tonight, before they pull this man in tomorrow, you two are coming with me to Kanda to help me wake up the ladies of the Salon Matsu.’
Kimura nods. Nishi nods. They both bow. They both turn to leave. I wait until they’ve gone and then I run back to the toilets of Atago police station to vomit in the toilets –
But this time I do not vomit –
Nothing comes up.
*
Everything is falling into place. Back to Shimbashi to give Senju the name. Everything is turning out fine. Back to Shimbashi to get some Calmotin. Falling into place. Back through the pots and the pans, through the knives and the spoons. Turning out fine. Back through the suits and the sardines, the tinned fruit and old army boots –
‘Red apple to my lips, blue sky silently watching…’
But tonight there are many more pale-suited goons out here, many more patterned shirts and American sunglasses in the alleys and the lanes, in the shadows and the arches –
Trains screaming overhead…
Eight goons tonight at the foot of the stairs that lead up to his office, their legs apart and their hands in jackets, with twitches in their cheeks and pinpricks for pupils –
In the half-light …
His office door is closed, his office lights out tonight –
I straighten my jacket. I ask them, ‘Is the boss in?’
‘And who the fuck are you?’ asks one of them –
I tell him, ‘Inspector Minami of Metro HQ.’
This goon tells that goon to go up the stairs and so that goon goes up the stairs and taps on the door to the office and then that goon comes back down the stairs and whispers in the ear of this goon and so now this goon says, ‘You’re to wait, Minami of Metro HQ.’
No dice tonight. No calls of odd, even and play …
Now the door to the office opens. A foreigner, an American, a Victor, comes down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs, this man turns to me and says, ‘Good evening, inspector…’
‘Good evening, sir,’ I reply.
The foreigner, this American, this Victor, he winks at me now and Senju’s goons all laugh along –
‘Up you go now, Minami of Metro HQ,’ says one of the goons as the Victor disappears –
And up I go now –
Senju Akira is sat cross-legged in the dark with only the street lights illuminating the sweat on his skull and the sheen on his skin; Senju Akira naked except for a traditional loincloth –
‘You better have a name for me,’ whispers Senju Akira. ‘Or you won’t be leaving here again tonight…’
I curse him and I curse myself…
I kneel before him. I say, ‘Hayashi Jo of the Minpo paper.’
Senju says nothing. His eyes on me. Senju says nothing –
My face to the floor, I say, ‘He was seen with Nodera.’ His eyes on me. Nothing.
His eyes on me. Nothing –
‘They were drinking together in the New Oasis.’
His eyes on me. Nothing. His eyes on me …
‘The night before the hit,’ I tell him –
In the dark. Senju shifts his weight. In the dark. Senju hisses, ‘Get out, detective! Go now! Quickly before I change my mind…’
I slide back on my knees towards the door, the stairs –
‘Red apple to my lips, blue sky silently watching…’
In the dark, Senju is getting to his feet. In the dark, Senju is rising, saying, ‘You want your drugs, you be here tomorrow night.’
*
I open the door to the borrowed office at Atago. Fujita still not here. They are all asleep now. Fujita gone again. I put my head down on my desk. But Fujita will be back. I still can’t sleep. Fujita is safe now. Tomorrow I will sleep. Tomorrow Fujita will return. Tomorrow …
Everything will fall into place. Everything will turn out fine –
Tomorrow Kai and the First Team will make their arrest –
Tomorrow the killer will confess to both crimes –
Tomorrow everything will fall into place –
Everything will turn out fine –
Everything will end –
‘Boss … Boss…’
I open my eyes –
‘The advertisement is from the Asahi newspaper,’ says Nishi. ‘It ran on the nineteenth of July…’
‘Thank you,’ I tell him –
Nishi smiles. Nishi asks, ‘So is it time to go and wake up the ladies of the Salon Matsu yet?’
*
The streets are dark and silent now, the heat heavy still, as we walk up Hibiya-dōri and show our passes again and again as we walk in front of the illuminated Dai-Ichi Assurance Building, Emperor MacArthur’s Headquarters opposite the darkened Imperial Palace of the old Emperor, as we walk on up past the Imperial Theatre and the Meiji Seimei building, then the Yūsen building and the Kaijo building, to Marunouchi and Ōtemachi –
The old Mitsubishi Town …
Here most of the modern steel and concrete buildings are still standing, just the odd ones gutted here and there; here where the Victors rule from their offices and their barracks; here in the new heart of Occupied Tokyo –
Same as the old heart …
Now Kimura, Nishi and I cut under the tracks of Tokyo station to Kanda –
Here, less than a mile from the Emperors old and new, few of the wooden buildings are still standing. There were train yards here once. Family businesses. Bicycle shops. Homes. Now there are only burnt-out ruins and makeshift shelters, rare clusters of old timber houses that were spared and sudden alleys of one-storey offices that have sprung up among the fields of weeds and mountains of ashes, the braziers and lanterns, the guitars and girls, the songs and shouts –
‘Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu…?’
From the alleyways and the doorways with their permed hair and painted faces, they coo and they call, luring and then leading their catches back to the shabby little buildings where their foreign names and Japanese prices are written on placards or posters –
Off-limits. Off-limits. Off-limits. Off-limits …
The Salon Matsu is just another shabby little building stained with dirt among all the other shabby little buildings stained with dirt, an unlit pink neon sign the only new thing here. I slide open the cracked glass door. There is a young Korean man sat in the genkan, before a split noren curtain. The Korean has a pageboy haircut and spectacles, loud-coloured trousers and a grey undershirt –
He sees us. He stands up. He starts to speak –
‘Shut up!’ I tell him. ‘Police raid!’
I tell Kimura to wait with the Korean in the genkan and then I lead Nishi through the split curtain into the kitchen-cum-waiting room where three Japanese women are sat with their blouses wide open and their skirts up round their thighs, fanning themselves –
They look up at us. They sigh. They roll their eyes –
‘What do you want this time?’ asks the oldest –
I tell her, ‘We’re from Tokyo Metro HQ.’
‘So what?’ she says. ‘We’ve paid.’
I offer her a cigarette. She takes it. I light it for her. I ask her, ‘Are you the mama here then?’
‘So what if I am?’ she asks, and then she winks and says, ‘You after a free ride?’
I take out the envelope. I take out the clipping from the Asahi. I show her the advertisement. I ask her, ‘Are you still hiring?’
‘Why?’ she laughs. ‘You’re too ugly even for here.’
I ask her, ‘Do you do the interviews yourself?’
‘Why?’ she asks again. ‘So what if I do?’
‘Come on, play the game,’ I tell her. ‘Answer the questions and then we can all go home.’
She snorts. She says, ‘Home? Where’s my home? This is my home, officer. You like it?’
‘Listen,’ I tell her. ‘The body of a young girl was found up in Shiba Park, up behind Zōjōji. It had been there a while and it is impossible to identify…’
Now they are listening to me, smoking my cigarettes, sweating like pigs and fanning their thighs; the pictures in their heads, the pictures behind their eyes –
The Dead …
‘This advertisement was in one of her pockets, so we are here to see if you can identify her, help us put a name to her body…’
‘So how did she die?’ asks one of the girls –
The picture in her head, behind her eyes …
‘Raped and then throttled,’ I say –
The pictures of the Dead …
There is silence here now, behind the split curtain in this kitchen-cum-waiting room, silence but for the giggles and the groans from upstairs rooms, the panting and the pounding –
Ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton-ton …
‘Who says she came here first?’ asks the mama. ‘Poor thing might have been on her way here when…’
‘That’s what I’ve come to find out, to talk to you about…’
‘But you haven’t given us a description,’ she says. ‘How would I know if she was here or not?’
I ask her again, ‘So do you do the interviews yourself?’
‘Not just me,’ she says. ‘Me and Mr. Kim do them.’
‘Is that him outside?’ I ask her. ‘Mr. Kim?’
‘He’s a Kim,’ she laughs. ‘But not him.’
‘Where’s the real Mr. Kim then?’
‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Recruiting.’
‘Where?’
‘Where? Where? Where?’ she laughs and rolls her eyes. She puts out her cigarette. She picks up a mirror. She primps her perm –
I think about her all the time. I think about her all the time …
‘Ninety per cent of all the girls that come through our door have come from the International Palace,’ she says. ‘Now that doesn’t mean your dead girl did, but it doesn’t mean she didn’t…’
I turn to Detective Nishi. I tell him, ‘Please describe the body and the clothing of the victim for this lady.’
But Detective Nishi is miles away, lost between the breasts and thighs of these girls. Now Nishi blushes, reaches for his notebook and stammers, ‘The victim was approximately seventeen or eighteen years old with shoulder-length permed hair, wearing a yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dress, a white half-sleeved chemise, dyed-pink socks and white canvas shoes with red rubber soles…’
‘We’re all corpses then,’ laughs the mama. ‘All ghosts…’
‘It could be anyone,’ says another one of the girls –
Made of tears. Made of tears. Made of tears …
‘She’s all of us,’ says the mama. ‘Every woman in Japan.’
5
August 19, 1946
Tokyo, 87°, moonless & cloudy
The three of us leave the Salon Matsu, leave Kanda and walk back towards Headquarters. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. This time we walk back along the other side of the tracks, the Nihonbashi side, on the opposite side to the old Imperial Palace and the new. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. This side we don’t have to show our notebooks –
There are no Victors here. No white stars. No lights at all –
From Sotobori to the Yaesu entrance of Tokyo station –
Five trucks in a row. Five trucks full of Formosans –
But not all Formosans, some are Japanese…
Kimura looks at Nishi. Nishi looks at me –
No radio. No telephone. No car…
‘Boss?’ shouts Nishi. ‘What are you doing, Boss? Boss?’
I am walking towards the five trucks. I am taking out my police notebook. I am holding up my ID. I am approaching the passenger door of the first truck. I’m reaching up and opening the door of the truck and shouting, ‘I want you out of these trucks now!’
But now I’m looking up at a submachine gun –
Skin to the metal, metal to the skin…
Fingers on the trigger of the gun –
Bullet through my skin…
I am waiting to die –
Praying…
But the bullet never comes; not yesterday, not today and not tomorrow; not over there and not back here –
I can’t die. I can’t die…
It’s not a bullet to the gut that sends me sprawling back across the ground, it’s a boot to the gut as the trucks speed away down Sotobori-dōri towards Shimbashi –
Towards Senju Akira –
I’m already dead.
*
By the time I have got back to my feet, by the time Kimura, Nishi and I have started to run, by the time we have reached Headquarters, by the time we have repeated and reported our story four or five times, by the time we have been given a telephone that works, by the time we have requested reinforcements, by the time the reinforcements have been raised, by the time the reinforcements have been deployed, by the time we all get down to the Shimbashi Market –
It’s too late…
The Formosan trucks have been and gone –
The shots have been fired –
The blood spilled –
The battle over –
For now –
‘Kuso Formosan shits,’ Senju’s men, the former Matsuda men, all cursing. ‘Kuso American shits. Kuso police shits. Kuso Formosan shits. Kuso American shits. Kuso police shits. Kuso …’
‘Kuso … Kuso … Kuso … Kuso…’
Two dead. Eight injured –
But not Senju Akira –
Never Senju –
Senju with a short sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, his sleeveless white undershirt and the top of his haramaki spotted with fresh blood –
‘Lucky I was elsewhere on business,’ says Senju. ‘A stray bullet here, a stray bullet there and then where would we be?’
Senju takes off his American sunglasses now –
Senju stood before his men, before his troops; the Sho gun of Shimbashi beneath the night sky, outside his emergency field headquarters; the emperor of all he surveys –
‘Where would you be, detective?’
I shrug my shoulders but I do not reply to him. I say nothing –
Nishi, Kimura and half of Atago are here with me tonight –
I am here as a policeman tonight. I am not here to beg…
More to the point,’ continues Senju. ‘Where were the police? Nowhere, that’s where. These Koreans, Formosans and Chinese, they try to walk all over us and where are you? Nowhere…
‘And what do you do? Nothing …’ he sighs –
I curse him. I curse him. I curse him…
‘Nothing but beg…’
The stall-holders of the New Life Market, all risen from their sleep, roused from their dreams, are lining up to give Senju their support and their supplies for the coming war, bowing as they offer him their best sake, meat and polished white rice –
I am here as a policeman…
‘Because if I’ve got money, if I’ve got cigarettes, if I’ve got alcohol or some special food in, then I can always find a policeman, I can always count on meeting one or tripping over one grovelling around on his hands and his knees, begging for sleeping pills…’
And I curse myself…
‘The Formosans are hardly walking all over you,’ I tell him. ‘They just want stalls in your New Life Market, just like they had stalls in your old Black Market, but you won’t give them any…’
But
Senju is not listening. Senju is just speaking –
‘They act like the Victors but they won nothing! Beat no one! They didn’t fight and they didn’t win. They just got lucky! Lucky to be allowed over here and lucky to still be here…’
‘There weren’t only Formosans in those trucks,’ I tell him. ‘There were Japanese too; I know because I saw them myself.’
‘When you were taking their money to keep away?’
‘No one wants another war,’ I tell him. ‘Not now.’
‘Another war?’ spits Senju. ‘It’s the same war…’
I shake my head. ‘GHQ will close you down.’
‘See?’ he laughs. ‘It’s always the same war!’
‘Then the Formosans will have won it.’
‘The Formosans win?’ laughs Senju again. ‘Never, and I’ll tell you why, detective. Thousands of people depend on this market. If I let the Formosans or the Yankees close me down or drive me out then this market will die and if this market dies then so will the thousands of people who depend on it and depend on me…’
‘If they close you down,’ I say. ‘You’ve lost.’
‘Never! Never! Never!’ shouts Senju. ‘I have never lost. I have never been defeated and I never will be. Not by the kuso Formosans! Not by the kuso Koreans! Not by the kuso Chinese! Not by the kuso Yankees and not by the kuso police and the likes of you!
‘I’ve never lost! Never been defeated! And I never will be!’
‘So what are you going do?’ I ask him –
‘You kill one of mine,’ says Senju –
‘I’ll kill ten of yours, I swear!’
I look up at the night sky above us all. There are no stars out tonight. I shake my head again. I bow to him. I start to walk away –
‘See you later, detective,’ he shouts. ‘Don’t forget…’
Nishi and Kimura following behind me –
‘Because I never forget,’ he says –
‘I never forget a debt; not to the living and not to the dead.’
*
Men talk about the dead in their sleep. Men remember the dead in their sleep. Their fathers, their mothers, their wives and their lovers. Their family and friends, their colleagues and comrades. There are over one million urns containing the ashes of the war dead still unclaimed by their bereaved families. These urns contain the ashes from all ranks of the military and naval war dead. The First and Second Demobilization Bureaus who are responsible for the issuance of death notices and for the care of the dead say that many of the ashes have been transferred to their institution in a haphazard fashion and they are increasingly unable to verify whether all the ashes and remains of the war dead in their care actually belong to those of military personnel. The Bureaus are also encountering numerous difficulties in returning the ashes of the dead to their relatives who have often moved from their former addresses or had them destroyed. Moreover, the absence of claimants is usually as a result of death –
