Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “So you can’t be sure?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “And so he might have said, for example, ‘All that you give me is never enough.’ ”

  “He might have said that.”

  “Might have said what?”

  “ ‘All that you give me is never enough.’ ”

  “Really? The bastard said that?”

  “The bastard said that.”

  “Right then. We’ll have to give him the works.”

  * * *

  —

  Yesterday, you attacked and assaulted President Shiozawa of the Shinpi Shōbō publishing house. Two days ago, a war veteran named Terauchi Kōji was found stabbed to death in Hibiya Park. The knife used to kill him was found in a drawer in your office in Kanda. On the previous day, you broke into the house of a Doctor Nomura, assaulted his daughter, and threatened the doctor. Meanwhile, Detective Hattori has told us he did not meet you, has not seen you for over fifteen years, and the proprietress of the Rabbit-o Hole bar in Yūrakuchō told us she was closed on the night in question, the night Nemuro Kazuko fell from her balcony, clutching your name card, the night you have no alibi for now. Furthermore, the whereabouts of your common-law wife, Tominaga Noriko, are unknown.

  Murota Hideki looked up from the handcuffs around his wrists. He looked past the men sat opposite him, past the men stood behind them, over at the wall, then up the wall to the low ceiling, to the place where the wall met the ceiling, where a narrow, oblong-shaped air vent had been cut into the outside wall, the air vent covered in a black grid of metal bars.

  Say something then, said one of the men.

  But Murota Hideki said nothing, he just kept looking up at the air vent at the top of the wall, staring at the drops dripping down through its bars. Drop-drip, drip –

  Talk, shouted another man.

  Drop by drop, a dark liquid sweated out through the bars of the vent in black pearls, the color of ink or the color of oil, they trickled down the wall, caught the harsh light of the bare bulb, and turned red, a dark and ruby red, they dripped, they dropped, in a trickle, then a stream –

  Confess, they screamed.

  Crimson and scarlet, it was blood, it was blood, and in a river, now a torrent, Murota Hideki saw the blood run down the wall, watched the blood pool on the floor, falling faster down the wall, rising higher from the floor, Murota Hideki saw the blood lapping at his shoes, all their shoes, watched the blood covering his shoes, all their shoes –

  Confess. Confess…

  But Murota Hideki stamped his feet, his bloody feet, in the pools, the bloody pools, paddling and splashing in the tide, the bloody tide, up to his ankles now, all of their ankles, and Murota Hideki sprung up from his chair, jumped up and down in the blood of the tide, the tide of the blood now up to his shins, all of their shins, then his knees and their knees, then his thighs and their thighs, and Murota Hideki turned his face to the ceiling, the low ceiling of the room, raised his handcuffs to the light, the harsh light of the bulb, the blood of the tide, the tide of the blood now over his waist, all of their waists, then up to his chest, all of their chests –

  Confess!

  Up to his neck in the blood now, then over his chin onto his lips, Murota Hideki tasted the blood on his lips, the blood in his mouth, licked the blood, sipped the blood, the blood down his throat, the blood in his belly, drinking the blood, swallowing the blood, dark and ruby red, crimson and scarlet, the room, this station all dark and ruby red, the world, this life all crimson and scarlet, drowning and drowned, this life, his life in blood, in blood, Murota Hideki now drowned in blood.

  * * *

  —

  The works, the works, oh did they give me the works: injected and sedated, then doused and roused, slapped wide awake, punched in the ribs, kicked in the shins, throttled and choked, then injected again, sedated again, bound and then dragged, from pillar to post, from room to room, then car to car, and house to house: from Hongō House down to Yokohama, from Yokohama to a mansion in Kawasaki, from Kawasaki back to Tokyo, a big suburban villa in Den-en-chōfu, always tied to a chair or strapped to a bed, until I could stand it no more, no more, could take it no more, no more.

  First, I tried to hang myself from a chandelier by my belt, but the lamp broke. Next, I tried to hang myself in the toilet, but my belt broke. Finally, having borrowed a pair of scissors from a sympathetic cook, I locked myself in the bathroom. I smashed the mirror on the wall, then with the scissors and the shards I set about my work. But we human beings are so frail and weak, so very frail and weak, and before my work was done I’d fainted and fallen to the floor, alas, not quite yet dead to the world.

  Busybodies and do-gooders, or sadists and torturers, call them what you will, but there’s always someone out there, out to save you from yourself, to break down the bathroom door, to wrap you up in bandages, to fill you full of pills, to strap you to a cot, to wire you to the mains and then to flick the switch.

  On and then off, off and then on, again and again, day after day, over and over, night after night, they’d flick the switch and watch me twitch, twitch and writhe, writhe and thrash, with each of the shocks, their electric shocks, through the electrodes into my scalp, shock after shock, into my skull, into my brain, black electricity into my brain, into my mind, on and then off, off and then on, the black electricity into my mind, my mind.

  “Release me,” screamed I. “Release me!”

  “If that’s what you wish,” they would sometimes say, and even sometimes do, driving me home, back to my house, my study and my desk, my pen and my papers. But no sooner had I picked up my pen, put my pen to my papers, than I’d hear them knocking on my door, hear them whispering in my ear –

  “Just checking how you are…”

  And back they’d take me, kicking and screaming, back I’d go, bound and gagged, back to the Cuckoos’ Wing of the Matsuzawa Hospital for the Insane, back –

  “To save you from yourself…”

  Dressed in soiled drawers and leather restraints, that’s where I’d be, that would be me, lying in my own feces, choking on my own dribble, day after day, night after night, hearing only the sound of the rain and a clock – drip-tick, drop-tock – struggling to stay positive, to somehow have hope –

  Drip-tick, drop-tock…

  As the rain fell and the time passed – drip-tick, drop-tock – until late one cloudy afternoon, not unlike today, as I lay moored to my bed, bobbing up and down in my own private harbor of recollection and reverie, remembering lost times, dreaming old dreams, when in among the raindrops and the clock-tocks, stealing over the walls of the hospital and in through the bars of my window, I swear I heard –

  Shu-shu pop-po…

  Abandoning the sanctuary of my inner harbor, I dared to open my eyes and face again the stains on the ceiling, the cobs in the corner, and there I saw the colors begin to change, to shift, to smear, and then to run –

  A moment later, even less, came a pale and sudden flash, then a clap of thunder so loud it shook my bed and bones, silencing the rain and stopping the clocks, the only sound now that sound of a train –

  Shu-shu pop-po, shu-shu pop-po, SHU-SHU POP-PO, SHU-SHU POP-PO…

  Louder and louder, faster and faster, nearer and nearer, shaking the walls, the ceiling, and floor, the noise of the train, the smell of the train, smoke through the window, steam through the bars, as I thrashed in my tethers and chomped on my gag, certain, so certain this was the end, the air grease and the air oil, the air coal and the air light, light flooding the room, the light from the train, coming down the line, coming down the tracks, through the tunnel of the window, round the bars of my window, the line and the tracks, up my bed, over my body, the tracks and the line, to the end, the end, where I was the end, the end of the line –

  SHU-SHU
POP-PO, SHU-shu, shhh…

  But then and there, yes, then and there, at the end of the line, did the saintly moon of my salvation rise up before my face, take the sodden rag from out of my bloody mouth, put its cold finger to my chapped lips, its own sweet lips to my bandaged ears, then whisper, gently whisper, “Shhh now…”

  But shhh now I could not – tears as big as pumpkins rolling down my cheeks, gasping for lost breath, struggling for forgotten words – finding his tongue and mine as I wept, as I begged, “Let me kiss you, my dear, dear Sadanori…”

  For here at the end of the line, at the literal end of my tether, unfastening my restraints, massaging my ankles and wrists, here was Shimoyama Sadanori –

  “Come back to set you free,” he whispered. “But quick, there is no time for explanation, we must hurry.”

  And Sadanori helped me up from the bed, my feet to find the floor, to steady and then to guide me into clean drawers and next a white gown, then toward the door –

  “Wait,” said I. “My manuscript.”

  “Where is it,” asked Sadanori, scanning my cell.

  “Over there,” pointed I. “Below the abandoned crucifix, under those vases of dead flowers.”

  “This,” asked Sadanori, moving both vases to one side, then picking up my mighty tome.

  “Indeed,” said I, tapping the side of my head, giving him the knowing wink. “Cleverly disguised as a telephone directory.”

  “Say no more,” said Sadanori, the book under his arm, now turning the lock, then opening the door, taking my hand, and leading me on. “Please follow me…”

  And so down the corridor – that corridor of muffled cries and stifled screams, of thrashing beds and knotted sheets, to the applause of the thunder and the flashbulbs of the lightning; no nurse, no orderly, no soul in sight, all gone for the night – from room to room we went, stepping out of our paper world of words, out of the book, through its paper walls of pages, from all its fictions, knocking on doors –

  * * *

  —

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  Murota Hideki twitched, twitched again, his eyes open and his heart pounding. He swallowed and he choked, he spluttered and he coughed, swallowing and choking, spluttering and coughing, again and again, over and over, because he could not get up, he could not sit up. His body was strapped to the bed, his wrists and his ankles tied to the posts of the bed. He could only splutter, only cough, fight not to swallow his tongue, to choke on his own tongue, and wait for it to pass, then to close his eyes again, for all of this to pass again –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  The muffled cries and stifled screams, of thrashing beds and knotted sheets, down the corridors, behind the doors, in this place of madness, time of madness –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  He did not hear the key turn in the lock, turn once and only once, if it did turn in the lock. He did not hear the door open, once and only once, if it did open. But he did feel the straps loosen on his chest, the ties fall from his ankles and his wrists as he opened his eyes, opened his eyes to see a figure in the moonlight –

  Ton-ton…

  In the moonlight of his cell, he raised himself up from the bed. He slowly swung his legs over the edge, slowly lowered his feet to the floor. Trembling and unsteady, Murota Hideki stood and stared as the silhouette stepped out of the shadows and came toward him, aged and skeletal, barefoot and dressed in a hospital gown, the specter had a thick book under his left arm, a teddy bear in his hands.

  Kuroda-sensei, I presume, asked Murota Hideki.

  Yes, yes, he replied with a sad smile. Unfortunately. But come, come, let us hurry, the rooms are about to be locked again, and we, we have an invitation to a séance…

  Séance, asked Murota Hideki.

  The book still wedged under his left arm, Kuroda Roman raised the teddy bear slightly in his hands. The teddy bear looked up at Murota Hideki, smiling sadly as he sadly said, Why, the séance in memory of my death, fifteen years ago tomorrow, and the mystery of its solution…

  * * *

  —

  Out of the room, down the corridor they went, hand in hand, two barefoot men in their hospital gowns, led by a bear and a book, through flashes of lightning, amid crashes of thunder – ’Tis the storm of history, whispered Kuroda Roman with a gentle nudge and a sad wink – then down the stone stairs, flight after flight, then through the kitchens, down to the basement, then past the boilers, following the pipes, until they came to a door marked DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHIC SCIENCES –

  After you, said Kuroda Roman, opening the door for Murota Hideki. But do mind your step…

  Inside, the room was dim and stifling, but, guided by the hand of Kuroda Roman, Murota Hideki found a seat at a large round table, between one patient who-appeared-to-be a Westerner and one who-appeared-to-be Japanese, even vaguely familiar, but who did not look at Murota, acknowledge him, nor even his surroundings, but –

  Ladies and gentlemen, interrupted another foreign man, lighting a candle in the center of the round table. I am Professor Peck of this department and I am very pleased to be able to introduce to you this evening Madame Hop…

  Professor Peck, somewhat green around the gills, turned to nod and smile at a round-faced, red-haired lady seated beside him, then continued, As you may know, Madame Hop is one of the foremost mediums of our time…

  They are Russian émigrés of the old school, whispered Kuroda Roman, leaning across the Westerner and the thick, black tablecloth to Murota Hideki. Berlin by way of Harbin, then back east again. Believers in the jinx and the hex, in numerology and demonology, black spots and evil eyes, the power of symbols and signs. Excellent –

  Silence, please, exclaimed Professor Peck. Madame Hop needs to be able to discern a spiritual atmosphere before she can begin, so now let us all join hands, and give ourselves up completely, and concentrate…

  In the faint, pale circle of the candle’s light, Murota Hideki glanced around the table, watching the eight people – not counting the bear sat in the lap of Kuroda-sensei – all join hands, Murota, too, joining hands with the Caucasian on his right and the Asian to his left, their hands and his own, hot and clammy, the fingers and the palms. But hand in hand, in the dim, yellow circle, Murota Hideki found it hard to concentrate, to keep his eyes closed, peeking at the dark walls of velvet curtains, at the cards and pens and charts across the tabletop, the collection of megaphones and microphones dangling over the table, suspended from an unseen ceiling, but –

  Concentrate on one thing, whispered Professor Peck, and one thing alone, emptying your mind of everything except the subject, and only the subject…

  Still peering at the proceedings, Murota Hideki watched the Professor rise from the table, walk over to an ancient phonograph, turn its handle again and again, then return to his seat, as the strains of a somewhat scratched recording by Artur Rubinstein of Liszt’s third “Liebestraum” tip-tip-tiptoed around the gloomy bunker –

  We are calling you, said Madame Hop. Who is able and willing to talk to us…?

  The “Liebestraum” faded into silence, then into the silence, the waiting, then came a gentle, regular knocking, a tap-tap-tapping on the table –

  Ton-ton, ton-ton…

  They had gone from ward to ward, down corridor after corridor, from room to room, opening and closing doors, lifting sheets here, pillows there, turning faces to the light, their light, then moving on, slowly on, from floor to floor, down flights of stairs, through the kitchens, into the basement, past the boilers, the pipes until –

  Ton-ton…

  They are here, cried Madame Hop, as the table began to shudder, to shake, to tilt, and to rise. The Messengers are here.

  The room was hot, then cold, now hot again, then cold again, in waves, on tides and on currents, of electricity, black electricity, hum, hum, black el
ectricity humming, humming, louder, louder, something coming, coming, was coming –

  Is anybody there, asked a voice, human-yet-not-human, from out of the biggest, blackest of the megaphones above the table and its sitters, then joined by other voices, also human-yet-not-human, from out of all the other megaphones, all speaking in chorus, We said, IS ANYBODY THERE?

  Yes, stammered Madame Hop. We are here.

  Who are you, they hissed, this “we”…?

  Madame Hop looked at Professor Peck, who looked to the foreign doctor on his left and asked, Doctor Morgan?

  Doctor Morgan looked up from his pen and notepad, adjusted his glasses, touched his bow tie, coughed once, then said, Naturally. So then, anticlockwise, we have myself, Doctor Morgan, a visiting consultant here at Matsuzawa, specializing in the study and treatment of the long-term mentally ill. Then, to my right, Professor Peck and Madame Hop, former students of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, well known in their field, and already to you, no doubt. Then, to their right, we have one of our longest-surviving patients, a former police inspector who went by the name of Minami, though he has not spoken a word since the day he was committed, back in 1946. Next to him, we have a recent arrival, Hideki Murota, charged with multiple murders, but whose mental competence to stand trial is currently under review. Beside Murota, we have a foreign national whose identity remains unconfirmed and who, again, has not spoken since being admitted to the hospital well over a decade ago now. Then we have Tamotsu Horikawa, better known as the writer Roman Kuroda, who has been in and out of here on a number of occasions. Finally, on my left, this is Sadamichi Hirasawa, the man convicted of the infamous Teigin mass poisonings in 1948. He is currently with us as part of an ongoing assessment of his mental competency, which, in turn, pertains to an appeal against his death sentence…

  Dark medicine, whispered the voices.

  Doctor Morgan touched his bow tie again, glanced up at the megaphones, cleared his throat, then said, So you now know who we are, but who, then, are you?