Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  Worse than Teigin or Shimoyama then, said Murota Hideki now, now it was time –

  Seven months, laughed Hattori Kansuke. That’s all Teigin was. From crime to confession, just seven fucking months. Nothing compared to this…

  But Shimoyama?

  Like I could give a fuck about Shimoyama, snorted Hattori Kansuke. Then or now. Politics and bullshit, that’s all that was, then and still now, politics and bullshit. Man fucking killed himself, everyone knows, case fucking closed.

  Must be annoying, people still going on about it, then, said Murota Hideki, nodding again as he poured a dash more shōchū into his own glass, then a big splash more into the glass of Hattori Kansuke. When you were so certain, yeah?

  Certain, laughed Hattori Kansuke, picking up his glass. Certain? Fucking proved it was suicide, I did.

  Oh yeah, asked Murota Hideki.

  Hattori Kansuke turned on his stool at the counter, switching his glass from his right hand to his left. He held up the fingers and thumb of his right hand in the face of Murota Hideki, then began to fold them down, one by –

  One: family knows best. I was up at the house, day he went missing. First thing wife says to me is, He might’ve killed himself. I just hope he hasn’t killed himself, she said. I mean, I told her not to say such things, course I did. But that’s my biggest regret, that whole fucking business, that we didn’t listen to her, what she first said.

  Two: he had a mistress, or an ex-mistress, whatever you like. But this woman, she was bleeding him dry, asking him for money, making him sell stuff, pawn stuff. Even selling and pawning his wife’s rings and kimonos to keep this woman, this ex-geisha sweet, sweet and quiet, until he had nothing left.

  Three: the wife, four sons, the mistress, and no fucking money, not to mention his job and all that bullshit, course the man’s worried, he’s stressed, not thinking right, not thinking straight. So I went up to the hospital, their own railroad hospital they have, spoke with his doctor, his own doctor, saw the man’s records with my own fucking eyes, and there it was, in black and white: June 1, 1949, diagnosed with a nervous fucking breakdown he was. Doctor had prescribed him Brobalin, to help him sleep, to calm him down. But the guy got addicted to it, didn’t he? Doctor told me so himself, the man was in and out every other fucking day, asking for more. Bags of it he was taking, that’s why his wife is thinking he’s killed himself, right? Said so herself, said to me she thought he might’ve taken an overdose. Suicidal, she knew.

  Four: witnesses, twenty-fucking-three of them, I think it was, we had, all the way from Mitsukoshi up to Gotanno and Ayase. Two of them alone, though, they were good enough for me, and should’ve been enough for any-fucking-one. This old granny, she saw him standing by the tracks, then sitting by the tracks, pulling up the weeds he was. She took me to the place, showed me the spot, and there they were, these fucking weeds with their heads all pulled off, and guess what? The heads of them weeds, them very same weeds, we found them in his fucking pockets, didn’t we? Pockets of his corpse. Hell, there and then that’s case fucking closed for me. I mean, what more do you want, what more do you need? But if you wanted more, there was more, loads fucking more. This other guy, local guy, good job, respectable guy, he saw him, too, described his suit, described his shoes. See, the man was wearing these chocolate-colored shoes with expensive rubber soles. So we took this guy, this witness to headquarters and we showed him the shoes, showed him the suit, and of course he says, That there’s the suit I saw, them there are the shoes I saw.

  Five: the fucking forensics. All them fuckers who go on about the science, about how it all proves he was murdered, they don’t know shit. Ain’t going into all that now, can’t be fucking bothered but the shorthand is this: Doctor Nakadate, up at Keiō, he knew and he proved it was just another suicide, and as for them blood tests, all them fucking luminol tests, traces of blood, tracks of blood, up and down the tracks, here, there, and every-fucking-where, all that fucking bullshit, know what that was? Menstrual fucking blood from the toilets of the trains, that’s all that ever fucking was –

  Detective Hattori Kansuke had folded up his fingers and thumb, made a fist of his hand. He held the fist up in the face of Murota Hideki, held it up for a moment, a long moment, a moment too long in the face of Murota Hideki, then Detective Hattori Kansuke slowly opened his fist into four fingers and a thumb again, held the four fingers and thumb up in the face of Murota Hideki, and slowly said, These five fucking fingers mean that man killed himself, mean case fucking closed.

  Fuck, said Murota Hideki, raising his glass in a toast and nodding. You nailed it pretty fucking good, yeah?

  Hattori Kansuke shook his head, turned back to his drink, and said, Fat lot of fucking good it did me. I was just a leg of the fucking horse, you know, no one listened…

  They all thought it was the Reds, yeah?

  Fucking wished it was, yeah. Especially the fucking Yanks, yeah, some of our own government, too. MacArthur and Yoshida, suited them, didn’t it, or would’ve done, if the Reds had fucking done it, and we could’ve proved it…

  Pressure from above must’ve been…

  Like you wouldn’t fucking believe, said Detective Hattori Kansuke, shaking his head again. Hell, I tell you, almost ended up like you, I did, talking of booting me out, they were. Because you know me, I’m not going to just sit there, just suck it up. Kept telling them and telling them it was suicide, suicide, so they moved me, yeah, to silence me, shut me fucking up, moved a lot of us – you remember Chief Kanehara?

  Murota Hideki shook his head: No…?

  Head of First Division he was, my boss he was, great boss, great detective. He knew what he saw, knew what it was, knew it was a suicide, just another fucking suicide. Well, they moved him out, didn’t they, moved him out to fucking Sanya, some old fucking shabby station out there. No way to treat a man, a fine, loyal man like that, a great fucking detective.

  Murota Hideki nodded: You’re right…

  Yeah, said Hattori Kansuke, nodding, patting the arm of Murota Hideki. Don’t need to tell you…

  Nope, said Murota Hideki, sighing then smiling, smiling then saying, It’s funny really, isn’t it…?

  What is, said Hattori Kansuke, reaching for the bottle, filling both their glasses, emptying the bottle.

  Well, you know, like now, these days, everything you read about Shimoyama, read about the case, they’re always blaming the Americans, all accusing GHQ, right…?

  Detective Hattori Kansuke turned in his stool at the counter, turned to look over his glass at Murota Hideki as he said, You read a lot about Shimoyama, do you?

  Me, laughed Murota Hideki. Read a book? I’m from fucking Yamanashi, remember? I mean, everything you hear, hear all them fucking lefties blabbing on about…

  Hattori Kansuke was nodding, laughing now, holding up the empty bottle, gesturing to the Mama-san for another, then lowering his voice, still laughing, he said, Actually, you know where all that bullshit started, all that American conspiracy shit? Comes from this Kuroda Roman guy, this fucking writer guy – you ever hear of him?

  I’m from Yamanashi, said Murota Hideki again, shaking his head. What do you think…?

  Well, he’s the one started it all, this Kuroda Roman guy, going on about GHQ, about Zed Unit, was it? But the guy was insane, stark-raving, completely fucking mad. Talk about loose screws, hell, his screws were long, long fucking gone!

  Really, said Murota Hideki.

  Yeah, laughed Hattori Kansuke. And I should fucking know, I fucking met him, didn’t I? Few fucking times…

  Murota Hideki turned in his stool at the counter to look at Hattori Kansuke, at his face, maroon and dark with drink, at his mouth, open and wet, his big fucking mouth, wide open and wet, and Murota Hideki said, said again, Really…?

  Yeah, said Hattori Kansuke again, pouring more drink down his throat, then wiping his lips,
his lips and his mouth, his big fucking mouth. A few fucking times…

  Never thought my old bumpkin buddy would be hanging around with writers, laughed Murota Hideki, shaking his head, picking up his cigarettes, then lighting a cigarette, then picking up his glass, then taking a sip as he waited, waited for that big mouth, that big fucking mouth to open again –

  Nah, nah, he was the one who was hanging around with us, always hanging around headquarters, wasn’t he, bugging the fuck out of us, you know? So one day, Chief Kanehara, he tells me to go fucking talk to him, set him fucking straight, shut him the fuck up, yeah? So me and him, me and Kuroda, we go have lunch one day, he’s paying, right, so he takes me to one of them fancy restaurants they got in Hibiya Park, the Matsumotoro it was, you know the one I mean…?

  Hideki Murota shook his head again.

  Curry rice, they got, but not like any curry rice your mama ever made you, I tell you. Anyway, I lay it all out for him, the Shimoyama Case, just like I did for you, right? Explaining all the evidence, proving it was suicide, and he’s nodding along, fucking agreeing he is, saying, Yeah, yeah, yeah, it must’ve been suicide, has to have been suicide, so I thought that was it, right, job done, last I’d ever see of the fucker.

  No such luck, eh, laughed Murota Hideki.

  You’re not fucking joking. See, now the old fool thinks we’re best fucking friends, bosom fucking buddies, like we’re fucking partners or something, me and him. Never fucking leaves me alone, does he? Calling headquarters, dropping in unannounced, telling me he’s got this new evidence, that new evidence, never fucking shuts up, does he? Unbelievable…

  So what the fuck did you do then…?

  Well, what the fuck could I do? See, we couldn’t have him keep coming into headquarters, calling headquarters, could we? So I start to meet him every now and then, you know, agree to meet him every now and then, like to humor him, yeah? And, like, he might’ve been mad, right, but he had money, you know? So it was usually someplace nice, yeah? Good food, good drink, but I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was still a pain in the fucking ass, you know, listening to him, all his fucking theories, all his bullshit fucking conspiracy theories…

  Murota Hideki shook his head, lighting another cigarette, taking another sip of his drink, laughing as he said, So how long did this go on for then…?

  Until I went to his house, said Hattori Kansuke, shaking his head, sighing to himself.

  You went to his house?

  Yep, up past Ueno, Uguisudani way, said Hattori Kansuke, shaking his head again, sighing to himself again. Should see the place, creepy old fucking place it is, I tell you. And that’s just the outside, the garden, right? Hell, I mean, I knew he was fucking mad, yeah, but when I got in there, inside his house, yeah, fuck –

  What?

  One of the rooms, yeah, it was just wall to wall Shimoyama, like a fucking cave to the case. Photographs, maps, diagrams – hell, I couldn’t fucking believe it. I mean, I’d never seen anything like it, you had to see it to believe it. And hell, that’s just the walls, right, the fucking decoration, see, then he starts…Ah, fuck it, and fuck him! The fuck we have to talk about him for, yeah? So long ago now, who fucking cares?

  Yeah, right, said Murota Hideki, nodding, nodding but then asking, But what did you do, when you were…

  In his mad house, snorted Hattori Kansuke. What the fuck you think I fucking did? Got the fuck out of there as quick as I fucking could, made sure I never saw the cunt again.

  What happened to him?

  Why the fuck you care what happened to him?

  Murota Hideki laughed, patting the back of Hattori Kansuke, and said, Hey, come on! You’re the one telling the story, painting the picture, like some fucking rakugo master, then you suddenly stop, clam the fuck up, leaving me hanging. Just wondered what happened to the man, is all…

  Know what should’ve happened to him, I hope happened to him – the fucking grave.

  Hey, come on, laughed Murota Hideki again, his arm round the shoulder of Hattori Kansuke, squeezing his shoulder. Can’t be wishing a man dead…

  You never met him, didn’t know him, said Hattori Kansuke. If you had, if you did, and you had a heart, maybe you might say the same…

  Oh yeah?

  Yeah, sighed Hattori Kansuke, looking down at the drink in his hand, swirling the shōchū round in the glass. Last I heard, they were running five hundred volts through his skull every day, up at the Matsuzawa Hospital for the mad.

  Fuck…

  Yeah, fucking waste of electricity, is what that is. You know what they say, say’s the only cure for the mad, yeah?

  No, said Murota Hideki. What do they say…?

  Hattori Kansuke looked up from the drink in his glass, turned to look at Murota Hideki. His face still maroon and dark, but not with drink, no more drunk than the stool on which he was sat, he stared at Murota Hideki, reached up to the face of Murota Hideki, held the face of Murota Hideki in both his hands, and said, The only cure for madness is death.

  * * *

  —

  He was drunk and the rain was drunk. He’d missed the last train, the last train of the night. He had enough money, money in his wallet, money for a taxi back to his office, even back to his room. But he didn’t, he didn’t. He was drunk and the rain was drunk. Falling along the sidewalks, wading through the puddles, the man and the rain dashed over crossroads, splashed across streetcar tracks, splattered under railroad bridges, sprayed alongside tracks. He was drunk and the rain was drunk. They hammered on through the city, on through the night, on and on, they poured north through the city, north through the night, on and on, the man and the rain, bucketing down side streets, tippling down backstreets, through the valleys of the city, the low parts of the night. He was drunk and the rain was drunk. The city becoming darker, the night becoming quieter, coming darker, coming quieter, the city and the night, sopping and slopping, the man and the rain, his head starting to clear, her clouds starting to drift, but still drunk, still drunk, the man and the rain, until they had come to the place, had come again to the place, the place of shadows, the place of silence, the place again, of shadows again, of silence again, sodden and soaked. He was drunk and the rain was drunk.

  * * *

  —

  In the middle of the maze, drenched and wringing, at the heart of its labyrinth, he staggered and he stumbled, through the tall shrubs, through the giant weeds, stumbled back and staggered back, into the lane, into its mud, then staggered forward, stumbled forward, forward again, through the shrubs and through the weeds, into the wood, the wood of the gate, stumbling and staggering, back and then forward, forward again, into the wood, the wood of the gate, back again then forward, forward again, his weight in his shoulder, all his weight to his shoulder, his shoulder to the wood, all his weight in his shoulder, into the wood, the wood of the gate, his weight and his shoulder, into the wood and through the gate –

  Darling, darling, what are you doing…?

  With a crack in the wood, with a crack from the sky, through splinters, in splinters, of wood and of rain, through gourds and through vines, through leaves of plants onto leaves from trees, falling and fallen, Murota Hideki fell through the gate, into the garden and the past of a man –

  Long ago, it’s so long ago now…

  In the garden, the past of a man, in its shadows and its silence, its shifting tones, its shifting shades, pale then gray again, dim then dark again, he pushed himself up, he picked himself up, wiping the leaves and the dirt from his clothes and his hands, as he felt for the stones, overgrown with weeds, found the stones of the path, grown over with moss, the path to the house, the house of the man –

  My tears, not yours…

  Through the leaves, the leaves of the trees, onto more leaves, the leaves of the plants, the rain fell, through the shadows and through the silence, drip-drip-dropping, plip-plip-
popping, onto the leaves, from the leaves, to his right in the shadows, into old stone basins, an ornamental pond, to his left in the silence, as he followed the path, overgrown with weeds, grown over with moss, step by unsteady step, by unsure step, under a trellis of woven twigs, the low branches of a pine, he weaved and he ducked until –

  It’ll end in tears…

  In the shadows of the garden, the silence of the garden, from out of these shadows, out of this silence, the house, the house of the man loomed –

  In tears…

  Darker than shadow, deeper than silence, draped in vines, shrouded in weeds, the ancient wooden house, its rickety, rotten veranda, knelt, bowed before him, waiting for him, welcoming him –

  In tears…

  From the last stone of the path he stepped up, up onto the veranda, the warped planks of the veranda, and he trod, gently, softly, unsteady step by unsure step, along the veranda, across the veranda, the planks of the veranda, warped and loose, loose and moving under his tread, under his steps, gently and softly, he reached the shutters, the shutters of the house, reached out to the shutters, touched and tried each shutter, gripping one of the shutters, he prized, forced open one of the shutters, the shutters of the house, the house of the man –