Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  “Are you speaking to me?”

  The one, two, three, four of them, in their single file, they stopped, two, three, four paces down the slope from me, but they did not turn to look at me, to look back up at me, yet the man at the rear, the fourth and last man, he let go of the tails of the third man and straightened to attention –

  “I am speaking to you.”

  A curse flung at a barking dog, his answer both scolded and threatened me, the breath of hell itself, it mocked and frightened me, stopped the night and chilled the air, yet captured and tempted me to ask –

  “What do you want?”

  Still he did not turn, turn to look back up at me, but stared straight ahead, down the hill, as he said –

  “I wish to speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  Down the slope, on the tracks, a train was coming from Ueno, the last train of the night, heading toward Nippori, its wheels all fire and steam, on through the night, it whistles and screams, blind and into the night –

  “It’s closing time,” he said, through the steam, through the screams, the ringing of a telephone, the whisper down the line. “But Zed Unit are not to be blamed for nothing.”

  * * *

  —

  Were you followed?

  No.

  Under a twilit sky, on a bench, hidden by trees, in Hibiya Park, two men were sat together. One man was dressed in the white robes of a war veteran, a cane in his hand, a cap on his head, dark amber spectacles hiding his eyes; the other man had a dirty bandage wrapped around his head, specks of dried blood on his jacket and shirt. Terauchi Kōji glanced at Murota Hideki, then away again, and said, What happened to your head?

  People don’t like the questions I ask.

  But still you keep asking them.

  Yes, said Murota Hideki.

  That’s why you tracked me down, you called me up; to ask me questions I won’t like.

  Your name and number were in the address book of Kuroda Roman, said Murota Hideki. You’ve been in the papers, in magazines. You seem to like to talk.

  Terauchi Kōji turned the top of his cane in the fingers of his hand, laughed, and then said, I choose to hide in plain sight, Murota-san. Makes it harder for them, that little bit harder. But for fifteen years now I’ve been looking over my shoulder, waiting for the push in the back on the crowded station platform, at the top of a steep flight of stairs, or off the curb of a busy street. For fifteen years, Murota-san, fifteen years I’ve been living in this nightmare, hiding in plain sight, seeming “to like to talk.” But if that’s what you think?

  I try not to think, said Murota Hideki. I just want to find Kuroda Roman, ask him a question, listen to his answer, then get the fuck out of this city, away from all this.

  The air thick and still, darkening and more stifling by the minute, Terauchi Kōji laughed again, into the gloom again, then said, That’s very candid of you, Murota-san. And so if I may be equally candid, I would suggest you forget about Kuroda-sensei, forget about your questions, and get the fuck out now, away now, while you still can.

  Murota Hideki turned to look at the man beside him on the bench, this pale figure in the dark park, and said, That sounds like a threat – are you threatening me, Terauchi-san?

  No, said Terauchi Kōji, his peaked cap and tinted spectacles turning to face Murota Hideki. Not at all.

  Murota Hideki patted the top of the thigh of the pale figure on the bench beside him, smiled, then said, That’s good. Because I’m not going anywhere until I’ve found Kuroda Roman, until I’ve asked him my question, and nor are you, Terauchi-san, until you’ve answered my questions.

  That’s why I’m here, why I came, said Terauchi Kōji. But I don’t hear any questions, just a lot of –

  Where is he – where’s Kuroda?

  Terauchi Kōji turned his peaked cap, his tinted spectacles back to the dark of the park, the shadows of its trees, smiled again, then said, I don’t know, and I’m glad I don’t.

  Is that right? And why’s that then?

  Because maybe he’s someplace you, me, we – all of us – someplace we cannot reach, someplace, then, they cannot reach, someplace far from them, out of their reach, that’s why.

  They, them, their reach, said Murota Hideki, gripping the thigh of the man, gripping it tight. You’re them.

  The pale man did not flinch, he just laughed again, into the dark, and said again, Is that what you think?

  I told you, Murota Hideki told him again. I don’t think. But I see and I see you, and you’re either one of them, working for them, or a fraud, a fantasist, and a charlatan.

  The air thicker still and still more still, pitch black and suffocating, Terauchi Kōji said, I am not one of them, have never worked for them, nor am I a fraud, a fantasist, or a charlatan. But I had the misfortune to know some of them and for one of them to tell me what they had done that night, that terrible night in July 1949, that night that changed the course of history. I am not a Communist, nor even slightly sympathetic, Murota-san, but they had disobeyed orders and murdered an innocent man, a good and decent Japanese man. And so I made a choice, for it was my choice and mine alone, to share what I’d been told, the truth that I’d been told.

  But why choose Kuroda Roman, hissed Murota Hideki. Why drag him into all this, him of all people?

  I gave him a choice, I warned him. And he made his choice. But he was already fucked, already rotting – just like you’re already fucked, already rotting, Murota-san, just like I’m already fucked and rotting, too – but fifteen years ago, almost fifteen years ago to the day, to the night, we sat on this bench, this very bench in this park, and I warned him –

  * * *

  —

  “Too late, it’s too late…”

  “No, no,” shouted I, springing up from the bench, running as quick as I could through the shadows of the trees, to the gates of the park, muttering and vowing, “It’s never too late, too late…”

  But I was going to be late, was going to be late, I knew, stuffing my pocket watch back up inside the sleeve of my yukata, up there along with the rolled-up papers, my notes on the crime, the things he had said, the truth he had told, as I ran through the gates to the curb and looked left then right, but there were no buses, were no taxis, only cars and only trucks. “Just my luck!”

  The lights at the crossing about to change, I started to run across the road, but halfway across, with the lights now green and the traffic advancing, the thong of my left geta tore –

  I stepped out of both geta, bent down, picked them up, then sprinted barefoot for dear life, dear life, toward the other side, where, narrowly, and ironically, just missed by a taxi, I collapsed on the curb to a chorus of motor horns and whistles, police whistles and yells –

  “You there – yes, you there, there on the curb: STOP!”

  Heavens, no, not now, thought I, and I jumped up, bowed deeply in the direction of the police box on the other side, then turned and set off, with my geta in one hand and the hem of my yukata hitched up in my other, sprinting barefoot again, down side roads and up back alleys, first to Ginza, past department stores and street stalls, then to Kyōbashi, all the while humming the finale to the William Tell Overture, just to keep up my spirits and chin, to stop me from thinking, “Too late, it’s too late…”

  Until at last, at last, devoid of breath and hum, I hobbled on my bruised and bloody feet up the steps and through the revolving doors, into the foyer of the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building, where I fair flung myself onto the sign board, which announced that the monthly meeting of the Mystery Writers of Japan was taking place in the Tōyōken on the seventh floor, clinging thankfully to the board, relieved it had yet to be taken down, that the meeting was still in session. But there was no time, no time to rest, was no moment, not a moment to lose, so I peeled myself from the board and limpe
d over to the wall of elevators, only to find they were all out of order: “Typical, bloody typical.”

  I stared up, up, up, up, up, up, up at the stained-glass ceiling in the roof of the building, sighed, then staggered over to the staircase, hitched up the skirts of my yukata once again, and began to whistle the “Flight of the Bumblebee” as I climbed up, up, up, up, up, up, up the one, two, three, four, five, six, seven flights of stairs to the imposing, grand, and closed double doors of the Tōyōken up, up, up, up, up, up, up on the seventh floor, where, heaving open the heavy doors with the very last ounce of my strength, I stumbled inside with a loud, “DA-DAA!”

  But there at the back of the meeting room, through a thick fog of cigarette smoke, I was greeted by the words of the much-lauded and best-selling founder and chairman of the Mystery Writers of Japan, as he announced, “That concludes our special meeting to debate the death of the late Mr. Shimoyama Sadanori, President of the Japanese National Railways…”

  “No,” cried I from the back. “No!”

  “Thank you all for your attendance and for your many contributions to our most lively debate…”

  “Wait,” exclaimed I. “Wait!”

  “Until next month…”

  “I know who did it!”

  “Otsukaresama.”

  “Exactly who did it, who killed President Shimoyama,” shouted I, banging together my geta. “You have to listen –”

  But the members of the Mystery Writers of Japan would not listen to me, they were not listening to me –

  “For they are planning to kill again, and kill again soon, but there’s time, still time, it’s not too late, too late, for there’s time, still time, for I am the Mystery –”

  But the members of the Mystery Writers of Japan were not interested, were not interested in –

  “The Mystery to the Solution!”

  The Mystery Writers of Japan were packing up their things, heading to the doors –

  “Stop, stop,” shrieked and cried I. “Don’t any of you care? Is it all just a game –”

  Looking forward to their dinner and drinks, lots of drinks, pushing straight past me –

  “A puzzle for the train, a quiz before bed?”

  Brushing me off, walking right through me, as if I didn’t exist, wasn’t even there –

  “But I know you can see me, know you can hear me, and I know what you think –”

  Laughing and joking, gossiping and bitching: Has-been, never-was, drunk again, drunk and mad again, not even a mystery writer, nor even a writer, can’t call that writing, what we would deem writing, that’s what they thought, what they said –

  “I know, I know, don’t think I don’t know –”

  Leaving me alone, alone in that room, my yukata shamefully gaping undone, my battered, broken geta in my bloody, ink-stained hands, alone, alone, alone again –

  “Go on then, ignore me then,” whispered I, struggling to hold back my tears, my tears of rage and sorrow, of guilt and grief. “But I’ll show you all, all of you, you’ll see –

  “I’ll publish and be damned. I’ll be damned, but so will you, all of you – we’ll all be damned –

  “Damn………”

  Most unfortunately, by the time I had dried the tears from my eyes and my cheeks, pulled myself and my yukata together, and limped back down the seven, six, five, four, three, two, one flights of stairs to the foyer, the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building was lit only by stained-glass moonlight, its revolving glass doors and two side doors all padlocked and chained for the night. “Just my luck…”

  I tugged on the chains and rattled the doors to confirm my sentence, then leaned my forehead against one of the panels of the revolving doors and stared out at the deserted night streets of the now seemingly abandoned capital, waiting for a passer-by to pass by, but who never passed by. “Typical, bloody typical.”

  After who knows how long, and having decided the entire city must have gone to bed early, but still cursing my ill luck and its repetitions, I stopped staring out at the forsaken streets and decided to find another way out of the building.

  Over on the front desk there was a telephone; a stroke of luck for a change, thought I, as I picked up the receiver –

  “What number, please,” asked a female operator.

  “Excuse me,” whispered I, “but I don’t need a number. I’ve been locked inside the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi, and so I would be extremely grateful if you could please inform the appropriate authorities of my situation, thank you.”

  “Hello? You’ll have to speak up, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” said I, in my most normal voice. “But I’ve been locked inside the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi, and so please, please could you let the appropriate people know of my predicament – this pretty pickle I find myself in.”

  “Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?”

  “Yes, yes,” shouted I, “I’m here!”

  But the line went dead.

  I placed the receiver back down in its cradle, then picked it up again –

  “What number, please,” asked the same female voice.

  “My name is Kuroda Roman,” shouted I down the line. “And I’ve been locked inside the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building in Kyōbashi! Could you please, please, PLEASE inform the appropriate authorities, and do so immediately!”

  “This isn’t funny,” said the operator.

  “I know that,” laughed I.

  But the line went dead again.

  And so off I set, down the corridors of the ground floor of the Daiichi Seimei Sōgo building, along all the corridors, trying all the doors, the handles of every door I came to, only to find them locked, all locked. “Just my luck, just my luck…”

  Back at the front desk, I glanced at the telephone, but thought better of it. I picked up my geta, looked down at my feet, my bruised and bloody and very dirty feet, and I sighed and said, “I’m sorry, dear feet, so sorry…”

  And then slowly this time, I hobbled back up the first flight of stairs, then along the corridors of the mezzanine, past the closed-up restaurants, trying all the doors, and some of them twice, just in case, until –

  “Eureka!”

  – the handle of the door to the ladies’ bathroom moved and I could open the door. No lights were on and all was quiet inside, but, just to be on the safe side, always best to be on the safe side, I called out, “Excuse me…? Emergency…”

  There was no answer.

  I found the switch on the wall, turned on the lights, stepped inside, and, straight ahead, saw an outside wall with a window, a big window, and a big window which opened. I leaned out of the window, looked down at an alleyway some twelve or so feet down below, and said, “Could be worse.”

  I looked left along the outside ledge of the window, and there, at its corner, spied a thick and most solid-looking drainpipe running down the length of the wall, right down to the ground. “Could be a lot, lot worse, in fact.”

  I turned back to the sink. I ran the faucets, washed my hands, washed my face, and smoothed down my hair. Then I unthreaded both the broken and unbroken thongs from my geta and used the material to secure the sleeves of my yukata and their contents. Then I pulled up both corners of my yukata, knotted them together, and stuck the knot inside the belt of my obi. Then I clambered up onto the sill, through the window, and out onto the narrow ledge, where, clinging to the painted metal frame of the window, I turned myself around so I faced back into the bathroom and began to edge along the ledge, inch by inch, toward its corner and the drainpipe. Then, with the fingers of my left hand still gripping the last of the frame of the window, I stretched out the fingers of my right hand toward the drainpipe. Then, as the fingers of my right hand clutched the drainpipe, I leaned slightly back, let go of the window frame, and in a missed beat of my heart had the
pipe in both hands. “Praise be! Hallelujah!”

  Just below the window ledge, running parallel, a horizontal pipe met the main drainpipe, and so, still clutching that main pipe in both hands, I crouched down, taking my right foot off the ledge, searching for the junction where the two pipes met. Mission accomplished, my left foot then joined my right foot, so I was now off the ledge, completely attached to the main drainpipe. Then I hooked my poor, sore right foot around the main pipe, then my equally poor and sore left one, and began to tentatively, inch by inch again, descend the drainpipe, thinking how most fortunate it was, indeed and in fact, that I had spent so many hours of my days clambering up and down the myrtle tree in my garden; far from being a waste of time, it turned out now to have been very good and valuable practice –

  “Sensei…”

  “What the –” said I, looking up for the source of the voice from above, to find a very round and most peculiar, brown and furry face looking down at me from the window of the bathroom, waving some pieces of paper in both of its paws –

  “You’ve forgotten these,” said the face at the window, “with your mystery to the solution.”

  “What the –” said I again, but, at that very moment, I felt the drainpipe begin to move, to detach itself from the wall, to come and then to fall away…

  * * *

  —

  Fuck, said Murota Hideki. He put down the phone, looked at his watch, his watch running slow. He picked up the glass from his desk, drained the last of the wine from the glass. He put down the glass, picked up the manuscript, stuck it back in the drawer. He closed the drawer with his foot and stood up –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  He looked at his watch again, his watch still running slow. He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on, then his keys and his cigarettes from the top of his desk. He walked over to the door of his office, then turned –

  Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ton-ton…

  He stared round the room, the tiny office and its yellow walls, at the dusty shelves and empty cabinet, the sticky desk with its brown rings, the glass and the bottle both empty and finished. He blinked, blinked again, tried to smile, to laugh, but turned back to the door. He opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, closed but did not lock the door –