Patient X

by David Peace

  ‘Now we’re here,’ I say, ‘we may as well take a look …’

  And we join the flow of silent, serious men, ambling up the first of the alleyways, crisscrossing from one side to the other, stopping to peer in through the peepholes, occasionally glimpsing the full face of the woman inside but mostly seeing only their eyes, trying so hard to shine and to smile, to welcome and invite, and every now and again, I stop and turn back to him, with a wink and a smile of my own. But we do not dally for long, soon coming to the end of the passageway, out onto a wider street lined with kiosks and a Western restaurant, and with taxis here, too. I know my companion is not in the mood, feels he has seen enough. Still, I point to the next alleyway and say, ‘It would be a shame not to complete our tour, no?’

  And I lead the way again, down the next alley, then back up another, house after house, peephole after peephole, until each pair of eyes inside becomes but one single pair of sad and desperate eyes, and we find ourselves back where we’ d begun, where we’ d come in –

  ‘Let’s go home,’ says my companion.

  ‘Yes, we could just go home,’ I tell him. ‘But seeing as we’ve come so far, and might never have the chance again, how about one last turn?’

  He doesn’t say yes, he doesn’t say no; he just follows me up and down the alleyways again, peeping in here and peering in there, quicker the second time around, until we’re back at our original spot.

  The humidity has grown ever more oppressive, the stench of drains ever more overpowering, and now big fat drops of rain are falling like leeches from the heavy, low night sky on the tops of our heads –

  ‘Is that really all there is to this place,’ I say, feigning outrage. ‘Well, I must say, I do say, it’s really rather disappointing!’

  ‘Not only disappointing,’ he says. ‘Depressing and exhausting.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I agree, bending down to rub my thighs and my knees. ‘I’m completely shattered. I don’t think I can take another step …’

  Now the rain is starting to fall heavily, as he says, ‘Well, if you can just make it back to the main road, we’ ll be able to get a taxi …’

  ‘I really do want to go home,’ I tell him. ‘Honestly, I do. But I’ d also really like to rest for a while first. Just a little while …’

  ‘But where,’ he says, looking around.

  ‘You don’t think one of those places might offer us tea,’ I say. ‘After all, we’re going to have to walk back up the alleyways anyway.’

  He shakes his little head. ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘But we can at least try,’ I insist, standing up straight again now, squaring my shoulders. ‘I’m sure we can find a willing place, if we negotiate. But don’t worry, leave the negotiating to me!’

  And so for the third time, we go back up the alleyway – me purposefully striding up to one of the first lattice doors, him reluctantly following behind – and as I bend my neck to look in through the peephole, I beckon him over, and looking through the glass, we can see a slightly plump woman in her middle-twenties, with a gentle, pretty face, sitting all on her own inside the house, and I whisper to him, ‘Shall I try?’

  ‘If you want, if you must …’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, speaking through the door, still looking through the glass. ‘My friend and I are a little tired and would like to rest a little while, and so we wondered if you could kindly offer us a little tea?’

  Perhaps our pale faces and intense stares through the glass alarm her, for the woman nervously says, ‘There’s nobody here.’

  Undeterred, I immediately cross to a house diagonal to the last, peeping in and asking, ‘Could we possibly have some tea?’

  ‘Please, do come in,’ calls the voice of a woman from inside the house; we can see her silhouette rising now, moving towards the door, but then, still leaning forward, still staring through the small glass window, I can see her, see her clearly, clearly as she is, and what she really is, and I spring back, I cry out, scream out, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh, no …’

  ‘What is it,’ he asks me. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s too frightening,’ I whisper, spinning round and running quickly off, off up the alleyway as fast as I can go –

  ‘What is it? What happened,’ he calls after me, but I do not stop, cannot stop, just keep on running, until I come to the corner, to the end of the alleyway, hiding round the corner, my hands over my face, my whole body trembling, mumbling over and over, ‘Did you see? Did you see? Did you see? Did you …’

  ‘See what,’ he asks. ‘See what?’

  I grip him by his slimy, bony shoulders, stare into his red and tiny eyes and ask, ‘Really? Didn’t you see? See what I saw …?’

  ‘See what,’ he asks again. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘That woman,’ I shout. ‘That woman!’

  ‘I only caught a glimpse of her face, but I didn’t feel there was anything particularly strange about her …’

  ‘It was a ghost!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her,’ I tell him, shuddering again. ‘I saw her full face, her whole body when she stood up …’

  But he just shakes his stupid wounded head and tries hard not to laugh. Yet I know what he’s thinking: if anyone in this hellhole resembles a ghost, it’s me and only me; a miracle the poor woman did not scream out in terror at the horror of my face, my own face –

  ‘Let’s just go home,’ he says.

  In the taxicab, the rain running down the windows, neither of us speak until he asks the driver to pull up beside the Shinobazu Pond in Ueno. He gets out with a sigh, but then, just as he’s about to turn to say goodnight, I reach across to grab his cold and scaly arm and ask, ‘Please tell me honestly, you really didn’t see anything strange at all back there?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I wish you’ d gone back to look.’

  He smiles. ‘I’m glad I didn’t.’

  The lights from the street and the rain on the glass throw strange black characters across us both as I smile back and say, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ ll see you soon, back in the valley,’ says Tock, closing the cab door, the taxi driving off as I turn to look for him, to wave goodbye to him, to see him standing by the pond, one hand still trying to stem and stop the blood streaming and spurting from the concave saucer on the top of his head, the other hand waving goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye …

  6. The House of Sleep

  ‘Hello,’ said Hyakken Uchida, ‘hello … hello … hello?’

  But Akutagawa did not move, he did not stir; his chin on his chest, his hair over his face, his body sunk in the rattan chair, in front of the tokonoma, in his upstairs study, in his house in Tabata.

  It was almost evening, twilight now, in the middle of July, the hottest July on record. Even here in this dimly lit study, the heat was unbearable. Hyakken wiped his face again, he wiped his neck again, sitting on a cushion among the papers and the books, three different editions of the Bible open among the boxes of Golden Bat cigarettes scattered here and there, Hyakken just staring up at his friend; even in this heat, even in such a state, Akutagawa looked so elegant, he looked so refined, occasionally opening his eyes, raising his face towards Hyakken, half smiling as he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you,’ asked Hyakken.

  ‘My stomach has been hurting,’ said Akutagawa, his tongue struggling to move in his mouth, his words slurred. ‘I’ve not been able to sleep, so I had to take something, and then I got up before I was really awake …’

  ‘You shouldn’t take so much medicine, you know.’

  His heavy lids had closed again, his thin body slack in the chair again, yet still Akutagawa mumbled, ‘And you shouldn’t drink so much, you know …’

  Hyakken had no idea what to say to him, what to do for him, just sitting there, watching him drifting in and out of sleep, his own eyes closing in the gloom now, opening then closing again, his neck hanging in the heat …

/>   ‘About the money,’ said Akutagawa, suddenly.

  Hyakken sat up and said, ‘Yes, I’m sorry …’

  Akutagawa stood up slowly, unsteady on his feet, tottering towards the doors. His eyes still half closed, he reached up to a picture hanging above the door. He put his hand behind the frame. He took out a crisp new two-hundred-yen banknote. He handed it to Hyakken and said, ‘Here you are, and I can arrange to give you more …’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hyakken, embarrassed. ‘But this is more than enough. I’m just sorry to be such a burden …’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Akutagawa, slumping back into the chair.

  Hyakken felt he should go, let his friend rest. But now he realised he didn’t even have change for the train. Hyakken cursed himself; he’d meant to make sure he had some prepared …

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Akutagawa, standing up again, again looking so dizzy. ‘Just wait a moment, please …’

  Akutagawa stumbled through the door, down the corridor towards the steep ladder staircase. Hyakken followed him out into the corridor, worried he might fall down the stairs. He felt dizzy himself, but Akutagawa seemed to manage, disappearing down the steps, and so Hyakken just stood there, waiting for him to return, staring out at the garden, quivering in the heat.

  From the moment they had first met, Akutagawa had always been so kind to him, and even now, still now, Hyakken could not imagine why. They had first become properly acquainted when Akutagawa had started to visit Sōseki-sensei, and joined the Mokuyō-kai. But even after the death of Sōseki-sensei, even when so many others had already begun to shun Hyakken, Akutagawa had always remained a good and loyal friend; when Hyakken had been complaining about his low salary from the Imperial Military Academy in Ichigaya, how his paltry wage and big family meant he could not cover his monthly expenditures, Akutagawa had recommended him for a second job at the Naval Engineers Academy in Yokosuka, even though they hardly knew each other. And when Hyakken had asked him why, Akutagawa had simply smiled and said, ‘Because our grandmother will be pleased.’

  Akutagawa seemed to have been gone for an age but, just as he was wondering whether he should have followed him down the stairs, Hyakken heard him coming up the other ladder, at the opposite end of the corridor, Akutagawa swaying as he walked towards him now, the hem of his summer kimono ridden up on his leg, with his hands cupped together.

  Akutagawa stopped in front of Hyakken, just standing there, still swaying from side to side, his whole body shaking and trembling, and yet smiling proudly, raising his hands before Hyakken, holding them up to his face, offering him a huge handful of nickel and silver coins.

  ‘Why did you bring so much,’ asked Hyakken.

  ‘I kept trying to pick out your fare from my purse, but I couldn’t. In the end, I just emptied everything out into my hand. Please just take it all …’

  Hyakken picked out a ten-sen coin from his palm and said, ‘Thank you, and I’ll go now, goodbye.’

  Akutagawa took one step back into his study and parted his palms, showering his rosewood desk with the coins, the noise ringing through the house, following Hyakken down the steep ladder, his wife calling up the stairs, ‘Are you okay? Are you okay? Did you fall …’

  7. ‘Are You Ready to Go Now?’

  The first-class battleship Uno went into dry dock at Yokosuka. Her friend the battleship A lay at anchor in the harbour. The A was a younger ship than the Uno. Now and then they would communicate wordlessly across the broad expanse of water. The A felt sorry for the Uno, not only because of her age, but also because she had a tendency to steer erratically (the result of an error on the part of the architect). But in order not to upset her, the A never referred to this particular problem, and always spoke to the battle-seasoned Uno in the most respectful terms … But one cloudy afternoon, a fire broke out in the hold of the Uno, and suddenly, with a fearful roar, she heeled over in the water. The A, who had never been in battle, was naturally shocked, could scarcely believe it … Three or four days later, since there was no longer any pressure from the water on her sides, the Uno’s decks gradually began to crack. When they saw this, the engineers began to hurry along with their repair work even faster. But soon the Uno had given up all hope … And staring out across Yokosuka harbour, the A awaited her own fate now with a growing sense of unease as she began to feel her own decks warping, little by little, the architects of her own design worse even than those of the Uno, the racking on her corners ever more intense, the tide coming in, flooding in, the rising waters and the endless waves, up to her neck and over her chin, into her mouth and through her hair, over her hair and over her head –

  I wake in my chair, gasping for air, struggling to breathe, coughing and spluttering, phlegm in my mouth and drool down my chin, the Bible falling from my hands, falling to the floor, as I wipe my chin and dry my eyes; Uno’s condition had deteriorated again, the situation becoming unbearable for his wife and family, and so Dr Saitō had arranged to have Uno hospitalised at the Komine Research Institute in Ōji. When I last visited him, in the asylum, on the ward, strapped to his bed, Uno just stared up at me, shook his head and said again, ‘You and me, me and you, we’re peas in a pod, Ryūnosuke, peas in a pod, possessed by the same demon: the demon of the fin de siècle …’

  ‘Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po …’

  I get up from my chair, pick up the Bible from the floor, put down the Bible on my desk. I light a cigarette and step out of my study, into the corridor. I stand and smoke at the glass windows, watching my two older boys in the sun-drenched garden, playing locomotives –

  ‘Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po …’

  They are not only making the sounds of a locomotive, they are moving their arms, imitating the motion of a locomotive. Not only my children do this, I know, many children do, but I wonder why? Is it because they sense the power of a locomotive, with all its noise and steam and speed, all its violence? Perhaps they want to have the violent life of a locomotive? But then the possession of such a desire is not limited to children; adults are the same, we’re all the same, rushing headlong down the tracks, just like a locomotive, but down the tracks to who knows where; the tracks can be many things, anything: fame, women, money, power. But they are always tracks, tracks we cannot leave, and tracks we want to be able to pursue as freely and as selfishly as we can, blind to the fact they are tracks, tracks we cannot leave. And countless generations, in countless societies, have tried to put the brakes on our engines, upon our desires, but they have always failed, and so still we hurtle on, down the tracks –

  ‘Shu-shu pop-po …’

  I turn from the children in the garden, unsteady on my feet, leave the window in the corridor and return to the desk in my study. I light another cigarette, then stare down at the two manuscripts which lie unfinished; one is my autobiography, which perhaps I should call ‘The Art of Slaughtering Dragons’, the other my attempt to write a biography of Christ, in the meagre, shabby words of a useless, washed-up bourgeoisie hack, an attempt to write ‘My Christ’, and which I’ve called ‘Man of the West’ …

  In fact, because I’ d come to the day of the deadline, I was forced to abandon this work, and have already submitted it to Kaizō; yet I cannot let it go, let Him go, and so I want to write more …

  But looking from one incomplete work to the other, lighting another cigarette, I cannot decide which manuscript to work on now; I need to finish them both, and finish them both today. But before I’m able to decide, now I hear the voice of my wife, calling up the stairs, calling me down to lunch.

  Despite the heat and their exertions in the garden, the two older boys are still lively, filled with a seemingly boundless vitality; they never stop talking, even while eating, and Takashi keeps kicking the leg of the table. I scold him and, instantly, in that moment, the mood changes; both boys stop speaking, just silently eating their lunch now, and my wife says nothing, too, her eyes downcast and filling with tears; once again, yet again, I have failed, as
a father and as a man, as a human being, wracked with guilt and regret, knowing I bring only pain and misery to the ones who have the misfortune, the curse of loving me, knowing they’ d be better off, they’ d be happier if I disappeared, if I wasn’t here, was never here, was gone.

  I get up from the dining table, go back up the steep ladder, up to my study and back to the desk. I pick up the autobiography, stuff it into an old envelope, scrawl ‘RUBBISH’ on its face and put it by the bin to be burnt; I don’t have the strength to go on writing it, to go on feeling like this, living on like this –

  Is there no one kind enough to strangle me in my sleep?

  I sit back down at the desk and turn back to ‘Man of the West’, this ‘Man of the West Continued’ –

  If I can only finish this manuscript today, by the end of this day, then I’ ll find peace, can die in peace. And so, with a trembling hand, I pick up my pen again, this chipped and narrow sword again, and I start to write again, in these meagre, shabby words of a useless, washed-up literary hack, to write and to write ‘My Christ’ –

  ‘… who in these last days I have come to love, who is no longer a stranger, but who is yet still a spectre, a spectre on the Cross at which I stare and I stare, though most have tired of looking, though many have tried to bring it down, yet still I stare and I stare at ‘My Christ’ on his cross …

  ‘… who was born for me in Japan, born to Mary – an ordinary woman we sense in all women, in the burning fire of the hearth, in the abundant harvests of the field, her life lived with a ceaseless patience in “the vale of tears” – born to Mary and the Holy Ghost – neither a Satan nor an Angel, the Holy Ghost who walks on the other shore, beyond Good and Evil …