Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  Also by David Peace

  NINETEEN SEVENTY-FOUR

  NINETEEN SEVENTY-SEVEN

  NINETEEN EIGHTY

  NINETEEN EIGHTY-THREE

  GB84

  THE DAMNED UTD

  TOKYO YEAR ZERO

  OCCUPIED CITY

  RED OR DEAD

  PATIENT X

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2021 by David Peace

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published in Great Britain in hardcover by Faber & Faber Limited, London, in 2021.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Peace, David, author.

  Title: Tokyo redux / David Peace.

  Description: London : Faber & Faber, 2021. | Series: Tokyo trilogy ; 3 | Includes bibliographical references.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020004957 (print) | LCCN 2020004958 (ebook) | ISBN 9780307263766 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781101947784 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Tokyo (Japan)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6066.E116 T65 2021 (print) | LCC PR6066.E116 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020004957

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020004958

  Ebook ISBN 9781101947784

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photograph by Shiho Fukada

  Cover design by John Gall

  ep_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by David Peace

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  In the Gardens of the West

  Part I: The Mountain of Bones

  Chapter 1: The First Day

  Chapter 2: The Next Day

  Chapter 3: And Then the Next Days

  Chapter 4: Until the Last Day

  Part II: The Bridge of Tears

  Chapter 5: Minus Fifteen to Minus Eleven

  Chapter 6: Minus Ten to Minus Six

  Chapter 7: Minus Five to Minus One

  Part III: The Gate of Flesh

  Chapter 8: The Last Season of Shōwa

  Chapter 9: The End of the Line

  It’s Closing Time

  End Matters

  Author’s Note

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  For William Miller,

  always,

  and with particular thanks

  to Shunichirō Nagashima and Junzo Sawa.

  Later, one summer night in 1949,

  again the Buddha appeared to me,

  in my cell, beside my pillow.

  He told me:

  The Shimoyama Case is a Murder Case.

  It is the son of the Teigin Case,

  it is the son of all cases.

  Whoever solves the Shimoyama Case,

  they will solve the Teigin Case;

  they will solve all cases.

  “Sadamichi Hirasawa,” a poem,

  from Natsuame Monogatari, by Kuroda Roman,

  translated by Donald Reichenbach

  In the Gardens of the West

  In the twilight, at the border, they ducked down under the door and stepped inside the garage. The body was lying on the cement floor under a bloodstained white sheet. They put on their gloves. They turned down the sheet to the waist. The head and hair were soaked in blood. There was a black hole in the left side of the chest. A pistol lay on the floor by the outstretched fingers of the right hand.

  Did you know him personally, asked the detective from the City of Edinburg Police Department, Hidalgo Co., TX.

  The left hand was resting on the left leg of the pants. They turned the hand over. They touched the marks on the wrist. They shook their heads.

  Well, lucky you guys got here as fast as you did, said the detective. We can easy hit eighty degrees in March. Stink can be something else, I tell you.

  They looked up from the body. They stared around the garage: pistols and rifles in cabinets and on the walls, boxes and boxes of ammunition on shelves and on the floor.

  We don’t ordinarily like to leave them in situ so long, said the detective. Not if we can help it.

  They looked back down at the body. They turned the sheet back up over the face. They got to their feet and walked over to a long workbench against the length of one wall.

  We left everything just the way we found it, said the detective. Just like your field office told us.

  Hanging over the workbench was a photograph in a frame, a photograph of a Japanese mask: The Mask of Evil.

  No note, said the detective. Just that postcard.

  They looked down at the workbench. The top of the workbench was covered by a single sheet of old newspaper: page sixteen of the New York Times of Wednesday, July 6, 1949. There was a photograph of American troops parading down a wide Tokyo street for the Fourth of July. Below the photograph, the headline: TOKYO’S RAIL CHIEF FOUND BEHEADED. On top of the sheet of newspaper, a picture postcard was propped up against an alarm clock. They picked up the postcard, a postcard of the Sumida River in Tokyo.

  Guess our friend Stetson had a real thing about Japan, right, said the detective. Beats me why, I swear.

  They glanced back down at the alarm clock on the table. The hands of the clock had stopped at twelve twenty.

  Forty years ago, we were fighting the hell out of them. Now they’re the second goddamned largest economy in the world. Makes you wonder why we fucking bothered. They must be spinning, all them boys that died for nothing. Half the country driving about in Jap cars, watching Jap TVs. Makes no sense to me, I tell you. No goddamned sense at all.

  They turned over the postcard. They read the three words scrawled on the back: It’s Closing Time.

  I

  THE MOUNTAIN OF BONES

  1

  The First Day

  July 5, 1949

  The Occupation had a hangover, but still the Occupation went to work: with gray stubble shadows and damp sweat stains, heels and soles up stairs and down corridors, toilets flushing and faucets running, doors opening and doors closing, cabinets and drawers, windows wide and fans turning, fountain pens scratching and typewriter keys banging, telephones ringing and a voice calling out, For you, Harry.

  On the fourth floor of the NYK building, in the enormous office that was Room 432 of the Public Safety Division, Harry Sweeney turned back from the door, walked back to his desk, nodded thanks to Bill Betz, took the receiver from him, put it to his ear and said, Hello.

  Police Investigator Sweeney?

  Yes, speaking.

  Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.

  Harry Sweeney replaced the receiver in its cradle, picked up a pen from his desk, looked at his watch, then wrote down the time and date on a pad of yellow paper: 9.45 – 07/05. He picked up the telephone and spoke to the swi
tchboard girl: I just lost a call. Can you get me the number?

  Hold on a minute, please.

  Thank you.

  Hello. I have it for you now, sir. Would you like me to try it for you?

  Please.

  It’s ringing for you now, sir.

  Thank you, said Harry Sweeney, listening to the sound of a telephone bell, and then –

  Coffee Shop Hong Kong, said the voice of a Japanese woman. Hello? Hello?

  Harry Sweeney replaced the receiver again. He picked up the pen again. He wrote down the name of the coffee shop beneath the time and the date. Then he walked over to Betz’s desk: Hey, Bill. That call just now? What did he say?

  He just asked for you. Why?

  By name?

  Yeah, why?

  Nothing. He hung up on me, that’s all.

  Maybe I spooked him? Sorry.

  No. Thanks for answering it.

  Did you get the number?

  A coffee shop called Hong Kong. You know it?

  No, but maybe Toda does. Ask him.

  He’s not here yet. Don’t know where he is.

  You’re kidding, laughed Bill Betz. Don’t tell me the little bastard’s gone and got himself a hangover.

  Harry Sweeney smiled: Like all good patriots. Doesn’t matter, forget it. Be a crackpot. I got to go.

  Lucky you. Where you going?

  Meet the comrades off the Red Express. Colonel’s orders. You want to tag along, listen to some Commie songs?

  Think I’ll just stay right here in the cool, laughed Betz. Leave the Reds to you, Harry. They’re all yours.

  * * *

  —

  Harry Sweeney ordered a car from the pool, had a cigarette and a glass of water, then picked up his jacket and hat and went down the stairs to the lobby. He bought a newspaper, turned the pages, and scanned the headlines: SCAP BRANDS COMMUNISM INTERNATIONAL OUTLAWRY: SEES JAPAN AS BULWARK / RED-LED RIOTERS STIR DISORDERS IN NORTH JAPAN / RED LABOR CHIEF HELD / NRWU GETS READY FOR COMING FIGHT AS JAPAN NATIONAL RAILWAYS START PERSONNEL SLASH / ACTS OF SABOTAGE CONTINUE / REPATRIATES DUE BACK IN TOKYO TODAY.

  He glanced up and saw his car waiting on the curb outside. He folded up his paper and went out of the building into the heat and the light. He got into the back of the car, but didn’t recognize the driver: Where’s Ichirō today?

  I don’t know, sir. I’m new, sir.

  What’s your name, kid?

  Shintarō, sir.

  Okay, Shin, we’re going to Ueno station.

  Thank you, sir, said the driver. He took a pencil from behind his ear and wrote on the trip ticket.

  And hey, Shin?

  Yes, sir.

  Wind down your windows and stick on the radio, will you? Let’s have some music for the drive.

  Yes, sir. Very good, sir.

  Thanks, kid, said Harry Sweeney as he wound down his own window, took his handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his neck and face, then sat back and closed his eyes to the strains of a familiar symphony he just couldn’t place.

  * * *

  —

  Too late, barked Harry Sweeney, wide awake again, eyes open again, sitting up straight, heart pounding away, with drool on his chin and sweat down his chest. Jesus.

  Excuse me, sir, said the driver. We’re here.

  Harry Sweeney wiped his mouth and chin, unstuck his shirt from his skin, and looked out of the windows of the car: the driver had pulled up under the railroad bridge between the market and the station, the car surrounded on all sides by people walking in all directions, the driver nervously glancing into the rear-view mirror, watching his passenger.

  Harry Sweeney smiled, winked, then opened the door and got out of the car. He bent down to speak to the driver: Wait here, kid. No matter how long I’m gone.

  Yes, sir.

  Harry Sweeney wiped his face and neck again, put on his hat and found his cigarettes. He lit one for himself and passed two through the open window to the driver.

  Thank you, sir. Thank you.

  You’re welcome, kid, said Harry Sweeney, then he set off through the crowds, into the station, the crowds parting when they saw who he was: a tall, white American –

  The Occupation.

  He marched through the cavernous hall of Ueno station, its crush of bodies and bags, its fog of heat and smoke, its stink of sweat and salt, marched straight up to the ticket gates. He waved his PSD badge to the ticket inspector and walked on through to the platforms. He saw the bright-red flags and hand-painted banners of the Japanese Communist Party and he knew which platform was his.

  Harry Sweeney stood on the platform, in the shadows at the back, mopping his face and neck, fanning himself with his hat, smoking cigarettes and swatting mosquitoes, towering over the waiting crowd of Japanese women: the mothers and sisters, the wives and daughters. He watched as the long, black train pulled in. He felt the crowd first rise onto the tips of their toes, then surge toward the carriages of the train. He could see the faces of the men at the windows and doors of the carriages; the faces of men who had spent four years as Prisoners of War in Soviet Siberia; four years of confession and contrition; four years of re-education and indoctrination; four years of hard, brutal, pitiless labor. These were the fortunate ones, the lucky ones; the ones who had not been massacred in Manchuria in the August of 1945; the ones who had not been forced to fight and die for either of the Chinese sides; the ones who had not starved to death in the first postwar winter; the ones who had not died in the smallpox epidemic of April 1946, or of typhus in the May, or of cholera in the June; these were some of the 1.7 million fortunate ones who had fallen into the hands of the Soviet Union; a few of the one million very lucky ones the Soviets had now decided to release and have repatriated.

  Harry Sweeney watched these lucky ones step off the long, black train and into the hands and tears of their mothers and sisters, their wives and daughters. He saw their own eyes were blank, embarrassed or looking back, searching for their fellow soldiers. He saw their eyes lose their families and find their comrades. He saw their mouths begin to move, begin to sing. He watched the mothers and sisters, the wives and daughters step back from their sons and brothers, their husbands and fathers, step back to stand in silence, their hands now at their sides, their tears still on their cheeks, as the song their men were singing got louder and louder.

  Harry Sweeney knew this song, its words and its tune: the Internationale.

  * * *

  —

  Where the fuck you been, Harry, the fuck you been doing all this time, whispered Bill Betz, the second Harry Sweeney came in through the door to Room 432, Betz taking his arm and leading him back out through the door, back down the corridor. Shimoyama’s gone missing and all hell’s broke loose.

  Shimoyama? The railroad man?

  Yeah, the railroad man, the goddamn President of the railroad, whispered Betz, stopping in front of the door to Room 402. The Chief’s in there now with the Colonel. They’ve been asking for you. Been asking for an hour.

  Betz knocked twice on the door to the Colonel’s office. He heard a voice shout “Come,” opened the door, and stepped inside ahead of Harry Sweeney.

  Colonel Pullman was sat behind his desk facing Chief Evans and Lieutenant Colonel Batty. Toda was in there, too, standing behind Chief Evans, a bright-yellow pad of paper in his hand. He glanced round and nodded at Harry Sweeney.

  I’m sorry I’m late, sir, said Harry Sweeney. I was up at Ueno station. The latest repatriates were arriving.

  Well, you’re here now, said the Colonel. One less missing man. Mister Betz told you what’s happened?

  Only that President Shimoyama is missing, sir.

  We came straight here, sir, said Betz. The minute Mister Sweeney got back.

  Well, isn’t a whole lot else to tell, said the Co
lonel. Mister Toda, would you be so kind as to recap for the benefit of your fellow investigator what little we do know.

  Yes, sir, said Toda, looking down to read from his pad of yellow paper: Just after thirteen hundred hours, I received a call from a reliable source at Metropolitan Police Board Headquarters that Sadanori Shimoyama, President of the Japanese National Railways, disappeared early this morning. I then confirmed that Mister Shimoyama left his home in Denen Chōfu around 0830 hours, en route to his office in Tokyo, but has not been accounted for since. He was in a 1941 Buick Sedan, License Number 41173. The car is owned by the National Railways and was being driven by Mister Shimoyama’s regular driver. My source has since told me that the MPD were first informed of the disappearance at approximately thirteen hundred hours and that a police check showed no accident involving the vehicle in question has been reported. We were officially notified of the disappearance an hour ago, at 1330 hours, and were told that all Japanese police have been informed and are making every effort to locate President Shimoyama. As far as we are aware, no information has been given to the newspapers or radio stations, not as yet.

  Thank you, Mister Toda, said the Colonel. Okay, gentlemen. Top down, we got a bad feeling about this. Yesterday, as you are all no doubt aware, Shimoyama personally authorized over thirty thousand dismissal notices to be sent out, another seventy-odd thousand scheduled to go out next week. This morning he doesn’t show up for work. You take a walk down any street in this city, take a look at any lamp post or wall, and there you will see bills posted saying KILL SHIMOYAMA, is that not correct, Mister Toda?

  Yes, sir. It is, sir. My source also told me that President Shimoyama has been repeatedly threatened by employees opposed to the mass dismissals and retrenchment program, sir, and that he has received numerous death threats.