by David Peace
I am falling, I am falling, I am falling,
I am falling, I am falling,
I am falling,
into the grey-ness, I am falling,
falling and falling away,
away from the light,
from the Occupied City, towards a grey place,
a place that is no place. But then the light
grips me, it holds me tight, tight,
tight, it pulls me back
Down the bank’s corridors, into the bank’s genkan. Help me! Through the doors, into the street. On my hands and on my knees, I crawl through the Occupied City. Into the light, into the sleet. Help me, I say. She is drunk, she is mad. In the mud and in the sleet, on my hands and on my knees, in the Occupied City. Help me …
‘Please help me!’
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I hear boots in the mud, I hear sirens in the sky. But I am falling again. In the Occupied City, people are asking me my name. I am still falling. In the Occupied City, I do not know my name. For I am falling. In the Occupied City, I am moving. I am falling. In the Occupied City, I am in a white room. But I am still falling. In the Occupied City, people keep asking me my name. In the Occupied City, I do not know my name. For I am falling. In the Occupied City, people are asking me what happened. I am still falling. In the Occupied City, I do not know what happened.
And then I stop. I stop falling
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, nuns are sticking a hose down my throat, doctors are pumping my stomach, and I am coughing and I am retching, fluid and bile, rambling and ranting. But I can speak again. And I am talking now. Men sat beside my bed. Men stood beside my bed. Men holding my hand. Men whispering in my ear.
And I am talking, talking to the men beside my bed. The men who are holding my hand, holding it tight, tight, tight.
‘The drink,’ I whisper. ‘The drink …’
‘But what did you eat?’ they ask.
‘It was the drink. The drink …’
‘What did you drink?’
‘It was medicine …’
‘A medicine?’
‘A doctor …’
‘What doctor?’
‘Dysentery …’
The men beside my bed let go of my hand. The men beside my bed stand up now. The men beside my bed say, ‘This is not a case of food poisoning, Detectives.’
And now the men beside my bed leave, shouting, ‘This is a case of murder! Of robbery …’
And then the men are gone and I am alone, in the white room, I am alone again, in the Occupied City.
And I am afraid.
I am scared.
That night, that dream, IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, that night, for the first time, that dream: I AM THE SURVIVOR
But of course I know: only through luck
Have I survived so many friends.
But night after night
In dream after
Dream
I hear these friends saying of me: ‘Those who survive are stronger.’ And I wake and I hate myself
I hate myself
In a white room, I wake again. It is a hospital. There are nuns and there are nurses and there are doctors. They are giving me drugs. They are giving me medicines. But I am afraid.
I am afraid in this place, of this place, this hospital. I am afraid of the nuns. I am afraid of the nurses.
I am afraid of the doctors.
I am afraid of their drugs. I am afraid of their medicines.
But in this place, in this hospital, I close my eyes and, for the second time, I dream the same dream: I AM THE SURVIVOR
But of course I know: only through luck
Have I survived so many friends.
But night after night
In dream after
Dream
I hear these friends saying of me: ‘Those who survive are stronger.’ And I hate myself
I hate myself
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I open my eyes. I am awake again in the white room. In the hospital. But a man in a white coat is holding my hand, a man whispering in my ear, a man sat beside my bed. And I am afraid and so I pull away from this man in a white coat beside my bed, this man who is whispering in my ear and holding my hand, and I say, ‘Get away! Get away! Get away from me!’
And now this man lets go of my hand and now I am alone again in this white room, in this place
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
‘I can help you. Please believe me. I can help you …’
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I am awake again, my hand in another hand again, the whispers in my ear again:
‘I can help you. You can trust me …’
‘Who are you? Are you a doctor?’
‘No, this white coat is just so I could talk to you. That’s all. I just want to talk to you. I just want to help you.’
‘But why? Who are you?’
‘My name is Takeuchi Riichi. I am a journalist.’
In this place, in this white room, in this hospital, I want to cry, but I am laughing, ‘You’re a journalist?’
‘Yes, with the Yomiuri.’
I want to laugh, but I am crying, ‘Get away from me!’
And again, the hand is gone, and again the whispers are gone, and again I am alone in this place, in this white room, in this hospital, and again I am afraid in this place, and again
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
‘I can help you. Please believe me. I can help you. I can make that dream go away …’
In this place, I open my eyes. In this white room, I squeeze his hand. In this hospital, I whisper, ‘How can you help me?’
‘I can save you from this place, these dreams.’
‘Until yesterday,’ I say. ‘I thought a cup was a cup. Until then, a table was a table. I thought the war was over. I knew we had lost. I knew we had surrendered. I knew we were now occupied.
‘But I thought the war was over. I thought a cup was still a cup. That medicine was medicine. I thought my friend was my friend, a colleague was a colleague. A doctor, a doctor.
‘But the war is not over. A cup is not a cup. Medicine is not medicine. A friend not a friend, a colleague not a colleague. For a colleague here yesterday, sat in the seat at the counter beside me, that colleague is not here today. Because a doctor is not a doctor.
‘A doctor is a murderer. A killer.
‘Because the war is not over.
‘The war is never over.’
‘I know,’ says the man in the white coat beside my bed, the man who is not a doctor, the man who is a journalist, this man called Takeuchi Riichi, this Takeuchi Riichi who now squeezes my hand tight, tight, tight, and who says again and again and again, ‘I know.’
‘I was still going through that day’s thirty deposits when the killer arrived. I didn’t see what time it was when he entered, but business had closed as usual at 3 p.m., and I had then immediately begun to count up the deposits. The thirty deposits would have taken me no longer than ten minutes, which means the killer must have arrived sometime between 3 p.m. and 3.10 p.m.
‘When the killer began to distribute the poison, I looked him in his face. I will never forget that face. I would know it anywhere.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know.’
‘I am a survivor,’ I tell him. ‘But of course I know only through luck have I survived so many friends. But night after night, in dream after dream, I he
ar these friends saying of me: “Those who survive are stronger.” And I hate myself.
‘I hate myself.’
‘I know,’ he says again, ‘But I will help you …’
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, it is 4 February 1948.
There are flowers and there are presents, photographers and well-wishers. The nuns, the nurses, and the doctors stand in a line to bow and wish me well. And I bow back and I thank them and then I leave this place, this hospital, and I step outside.
But something is still wrong…
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, it is cold and it is grey, and there are more flowers and there are more presents, more photographers and more well-wishers. Mr Yoshida, Mr Tanaka and Miss Akuzawa are here too, and we greet each other for the first time since that day, trying to smile as the cameras flash and the reporters shout, thinking of our colleagues who are not here, who will never be here to receive these flowers and these presents as the smiles slip from our lips and fall to the floor of this cold, grey Occupied City.
And now we are led through the crowds to the cars, the cars which are waiting to take us back, back to the bank, the bank and the scene of the crime. And so we sit in the backs of these cars and we stare out at the cold, grey Occupied City, the cold, grey Occupied City which stares back into these cars at us and whispers through the windows, ‘In due time, in due time
The cars turn up past the Nagasaki Shrine and now the cars pull up outside the Shiinamachi branch of the Teikoku Bank and I don’t want to get out of the car, I don’t want to get out of the car, but a policeman has the door open and my hand in his as I step out of the car and into the mud and into the sleet and I want to drop to the ground and crawl on my hands and on my knees away from this place, away from this city, but where would I crawl, where would I go, for there are no white horses here, no one here to save me from the Occupied City, and now I am standing in the genkan of the bank, taking off my hospital shoes, putting on my freezing slippers and going down the corridor into the bank with my eyes closed tight, tight, tight; tight, tight, tight for I AM THE SURVIVOR
But of course I know: only through luck
Have I survived so many friends.
But night after night
In dream after
Dream
I hear these friends saying of me: ‘Those who survive are stronger.’ And I hate myself
I hate myself
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I wake up. It is cold, in the Occupied City. I do not know what day it is and I do not want to get up. I do not want to get dressed. For something is wrong. But I do not want to lie all day beneath this quilt. I do not want to sleep because I do not want to dream. So I get up and I think, something is wrong. The room is cold and I know, something is very wrong. I walk through the house but no one is here. I open cupboards and I open drawers. Among the rubbish I find the newspaper and I open the newspaper and I look for his name, for Takeuchi Riichi. And I find his name and I see the story he has written, a story about a letter, a letter his paper has received and I read the story, I read his words:
Dear Teikoku Bank, Shiinamachi, Toshima Ward.
I am sorry I caused quite a disturbance the other day. At first I had an unpleasant feeling watching so many people writhe and squirm in agony but later I didn’t mind at all. I let Miss Murata Masako live bemuse I have some use for her later.
In due time, I shall pay her a second visit.
Signed, Yamaguchi Jirō.
And now I hear the tapping on the front door and I am walking through the house and I am opening the door, hoping and praying that he will be here, here to take me away, to save me from the Occupied City, but it is only another policeman, only another car, another car come to take me back to the police station, back for another interview and another look through another book of photographs, and so I sit in the back of another car and I stare again at the cold, grey Occupied City, the cold, grey Occupied City which stares back into the car at me and whispers again and again and again through the window, ‘In due time, in due time
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in the Mejiro Police Station, the detectives say, ‘The man’s name is Hibi Shosuke. He was arrested two days ago by the Toyohashi Municipal Police on a shoplifting charge. When Hibi was taken into custody, the Toyohashi Police found on his person newspaper clippings relating to the Teigin incident as well as a map of Itabashi Ward, ¥10,000 in cash and ¥1,000-worth of lottery tickets. Subsequent inquiries have revealed that Hibi applied for a four-day vacation from the Electro Communications Engineering Bureau where he works, from 24 to 28 January. Hibi also bought ¥10,000-worth of savings bonds on 31 January. According to his company, Hibi has easy access to potassium cyanide through his work. Finally, Toyohashi Police believe Hibi’s features exactly match those of our Teigin suspect.’
Now the detectives place a piece of paper on the table before me and say, ‘So we would like you to carefully study this telephoto of the suspect from Kyodo’s Nagoya office …’
I stare down at the piece of paper on the table before me, hoping and praying that he will be here, here to take me away, but I shake my head and I say again, ‘When the killer began to distribute the poison, I looked him in his face. I will never forget that face.
‘I would know it anywhere.’
‘We know,’ they say.
‘But this is not that face. This is not his face. I am sorry.’
The detectives take away the piece of paper from the table and say, ‘Thank you for your time. A car will take you home.’
And again the police are gone, and again the questions are gone, and again I am alone in my room, alone in this city, and again I am afraid in this city, afraid in this place
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I wake up. It is warm now, springtime in the Occupied City. But it is Monday and I do not want to get up. I do not want to get dressed. For something is still wrong. But today I cannot lie all day beneath this quilt. Today I must get up. I must get dressed. But I do not want to eat breakfast. Today I cannot eat breakfast. For today is my first day back at work.
Work. Work. Work.
In the Occupied City, I walk through the mud and the drizzle, the mud on my shoes and the drizzle in my hair. Something still wrong. But I walk through the mud and the drizzle, past the shrine and up the hill, the road busy and crowded, people coming to Shiinamachi to work, people leaving Shiinamachi to work. An American jeep sounds its horn and we all jump to the side. The wheels of the American jeep turn and splatter us with mud.
Something always wrong.
I slide open the wooden door. I step inside the genkan to the bank. I take off my dirty shoes. I put on my cold slippers. I go down the corridor into the bank. I say good morning to Miss Akuzawa. But we do not talk about the weekend and we do not talk about the weather as we change into our blue uniforms. We do not talk at all. Then we go down the corridor into the main room of the bank.
In the warmth of the heater, in the light from the lamps, I take my seat at the counter and I wait for the bank to open, for the working day to begin, the working week.
Just before half past nine, Mr Ushiyama makes his usual speech which starts every week and we all bow and the clock chimes half past nine and the bank opens and the working day begins, another working week, but I know something is wrong…
For the police come every week, every day, to take me away from the bank, back to Mejiro, for more interviews and more books of photographs. And then the press come and the photographers. And I spend more time with the police and with the press than at work in the bank. And sometimes he comes, Takeuchi Riichi of the Yomiuri. And sometimes he takes me for coffee. And sometimes he brings me flowers. And sometimes he invites me for dinner. But every night I go back to my room, back to my quilt, and every night I close my eyes tight,
tight, tight and I remember I AM THE SURVIVOR
But of course I know: only through luck
Have I survived so many friends.
But night after night
In dream after
Dream
I hear these friends saying of me: ‘Those who survive are stronger.’ And I hate myself
I hate myself
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I wake up. It is hot now, summertime in the Occupied City. And there is banging on the door and I am walking through the house and I am opening the door, hoping and praying that he will be here, here to take me away, to save me from the Occupied City, but it is only Takeuchi Riichi with another car, another car come to take me to Ueno Station, and so I sit in the back of another car and I stare again at the hot, humid Occupied City, the hot, humid Occupied City which stares back into the car at me and whispers, ‘In due time, in due time
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in Ueno Station, Mr Takeuchi leads me through the crowds, through the crowds that have come to see a man, a man who everyone believes is the man who murdered my colleagues and my friends, the man who tried to kill me, a man called Hirasawa Sadamichi. But I cannot see this Hirasawa Sadamichi. For this Hirasawa Sadamichi is hiding his face beneath heavy blankets. And then this Hirasawa Sadamichi is gone, lost in the crowds, and I am holding on tight, tight, tight to Takeuchi Riichi, my eyes closed tight, tight, tight because
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
