13

August 27, 1946

Tokyo, 85°, fine

I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The bodies rock from side to side with the motion of the train as the dawn begins to pick them out through the holes in the boards and the gaps by the doors. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. There is an old white-haired woman sat across from me, wedged between a younger man and woman. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The younger man and woman both trying to wake her up now, whispering, ‘Wake up. We’ll soon be in Asakusa. Wake up…’

But there is no movement or answer from the woman –

‘Wake up!’ hisses the other woman. ‘I can’t move my arm.’

The train jumps a joint now. The old woman falls forward –

The man on her left, sensing something is not quite right, lifts up her head to the light. The old woman’s eyes are still closed –

There is froth round her mouth and down her chin –

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asks the man. ‘Wake up!’

The train jumps another joint. The old woman rolls over –

‘She’s dead,’ says the woman to the man. ‘She’s dead…’

Now they both try to push the old woman’s body off them, to push her away, but the woman’s body won’t move because it is held in its place by the weight of the bundle strapped to her back –

The weight of the bundle, the supplies on her back …

‘Take it off,’ the man is whispering to the young woman as they struggle with the body. But the young woman has had a better idea as they separate the body of the old woman from the bundle on her back, the younger woman opening the bundle and the man doesn’t need telling and now he joins her picking through the ropes and the knots, each of them glancing this way and that to check that no one else is awake, the ropes and the knots now gone, that way and this to make sure no one is watching as they take the polished rice and the sweet potatoes from out of the bundle on the dead woman’s back and hide it in the bundles on their own backs –

This way and that, that way and this …

I lower my head and I close my eyes –

I turn their shoes to face the door …

But not for long –

The other bodies in the freight wagon begin to stir now. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The whispers with them. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The rumours that the police will be waiting at Asakusa to search the passengers and their bundles for any black-market goods –

People thinking about getting off at Kita-Senju station –

People saying Kita-Senju will be just as bad –

People talking about jumping off –

I have heard enough –

I put my knapsack of bones and fragments of clothes on my back and I jump down from the freight wagon at Kita-Senju station –

But I do not go through the ticket gates at Kita-Senju. I walk up the stairs and down another flight to another platform. Then I stand on the roofless platform and I wait for the train to Ueno –

It is the twenty-seventh of August. I think. It is just gone 7 a.m. It is hot and humid and the sky is a dirty grey stain –

I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari …

Gari-gari. Gari-gari …

Gari-gari …

This platform for Ueno and Tokyo is not very busy but across the tracks the platforms for Saitama and Chiba are both crowded –

I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I itch and I scratch –

Gari-gari. Gari-gari. Gari-gari. Gari-gari …

I hear my train approaching now. I step forward towards the edge of the platform. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The train pulls in and hundreds of people get off, pushing and shoving. I get on board, the carriage still full of hundreds of people, still pushing and shoving. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I stand by the door as the train pulls out. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. There is silence inside the carriage. The people are nervous. The people are worried. The people afraid –

I am nervous. I am worried. I am afraid. I am scared …

There are always police at Ueno station, always searches of clothing and baggage. But I will not go through the ticket gates here. I will change to another platform. I will change to another train –

They will not see me. They will not stop me …

I will take the Yamate Line to Kanda –

They will not find me. Not catch me …

The Chūō Line to Shinanomachi –

I will be safe this way …

But there are police at Shinanomachi station. I curse. I am on the platform now. I curse. I am walking towards the ticket gate. I curse. They are stopping people. I curse. They are searching people. I curse. I can’t show my notebook. I curse. I can’t tell them my name. I curse. I am stood in the line for the gates. I curse. I am in the queue now. I curse. I hand my ticket to the station staff. I keep walking –

‘You there,’ commands the voice of a policeman. ‘Stop!’

I curse and I curse. I stop. I curse again. I turn around –

There are two uniformed policemen. ‘Come here!’

I curse. I curse. I curse. I curse. I curse …

I bow before them and I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘What have you got in your knapsack?’

I curse. I curse. I curse. I curse …

‘Just my clothes and things…’

‘Show us then,’ they tell me.

I curse. I curse. I curse …

‘But it’s just clothes.’

‘Just open it then.’

I curse. I curse …

‘Really, just…’

‘Open it!’

I curse and I curse but I nod. I take off my knapsack and I start to open it up but one of the officers snatches it from out of my hands. He sets it down on the floor and he starts to go through it –

I can feel the gun in the small of my back …

‘What is all this?’ he asks now, dropping the pieces of cloth and the fragments of bones onto the floor and standing back up –

Ishida’s gun tucked in my belt…

The other man bending down to look at the cloth and the bones, now staring back up at me with horror in his eyes –

I have no choice now …

I take out my keisatsu techō, my police notebook, and I hand it to them. I tell them, I’m taking this evidence to the autopsy department at Keiō

No choice …

But the two policemen are both smiling at me now, their caps in their hands, wiping their faces and wiping their necks –

‘Why didn’t you just say you were one of us?’

‘I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.’

‘Just show your techō next time …’

‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘My mistake.’

‘We’re not looking for policemen,’ they laugh as I walk out of the station with the clothes and the bones in the bag on my back.

*

It is still early but the Keiō Hospital is still busy; queues through the gates, queues to the doors, queues in the corridors. I walk through the gates, through the doors and down the corridors; past the queues, past the patients and past the gurneys to the elevator. I push the button –

I hate hospitals. I hate all hospitals. All hospitals …

I step inside. I press another button. The doors close –

I have spent too long in hospitals …

I ride the elevator down in the dark –

I have spent too long here …

The doors open. Light returns –

In the half-light …

I walk past the tiled walls of sinks, of drains, the written warnings of cuts, of punctures, down the corridor to the mortuary and the autopsy room. I knock on the door to the office –

‘Yes,’ shouts Dr. Nakadate from inside –

I open the door. I step into his office –

The smell of death, then disinfectant …

Dr. Nakadate sat at his desk, his face unshaven, his eyes red –

‘What happened to your hair?’ he asks. ‘It’s gone grey.’

‘I almost didn’t recognize you…’

I say, ‘I’ve brought you some souvenirs from Tochigi…’

Dr. Nakadate puts down his pen. He shakes his head –

I put the knapsack down on his desk. I open it up –

I take out the clothes. I take out the bones –

Nakadate looks at them. Then he looks up at me. ‘Kodaira?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘But I think it’s going to be hard to prove, unless he confesses when faced with the evidence we have…’

Dr. Nakadate asks, ‘Why? Where’s the rest of it?’

‘Utsunomiya,’ I tell him. ‘There are three cases but only one of them was ever treated as a crime. I have asked Utsunomiya to send any remains and any reports they can find here to you.’

‘What are the names of the victims?’ he asks.

‘These bones here were taken from the scene where the body of a woman named Ishikawa Yori was found in September last year. The Kanuma police believe Ishikawa died in June. Then, at a second site, I found these pieces of clothing which I believe belong to a girl called Nakamura Mitsuko, who was reported missing last July. Just last month, Kanuma police found a skeleton which I believe to be hers, though I have not seen the autopsy report. However, I am going to take these pieces of clothing to her family to try to confirm her identity. The third case is that of a young woman named Baba Hiroko who was murdered in January this year…’

Nakadate stops writing. Nakadate nods.

‘You know about that one?’ I ask. ‘Then I can also tell you that we found no evidence to connect Kodaira to a fourth case, that of a Numao Shizue and which had been forwarded to us by Nikkō.’

‘You’ve been very busy, detective,’ says Dr. Nakadate now. ‘Don’t tell me that you’re after a promotion…?’

‘So you heard what happened to me?’

‘Yes,’ says Nakadate.

‘Who told you?’

‘Chief Kita himself,’ he says.

‘When did you see him?’

‘When I took him the Miyazaki Mitsuko autopsy report.’

‘You told me you were going to wait a few days…’

‘I’m very sorry,’ he says. ‘But I had no choice.’

I have no choice. I have no choice …

‘There’s always a choice,’ I hiss –

‘Not this time,’ says Nakadate. ‘The Public Safety Division came here asking to see all reports involving the Kempeitai…’

‘So you gave them the Miyazaki autopsy report?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I gave it to Chief Kita.’

‘And what did Chief Kita say?’

‘He already knew about it.’

‘But he hadn’t connected it to Kodaira?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Nakadate.

‘Did Chief Kita say what he was going to do about it?’

‘He said they would question Kodaira about it.’

‘What about Chief Inspector Adachi?’

‘What about him?’

‘Did Chief Kita say anything about Chief Inspector Adachi and the Miyazaki case?’

‘No.’

‘Did the Public Safety Division ask you about Adachi?’

‘No.’

‘So what did they ask you about then?’

‘Kempeitai cases,’ he tells me again.

‘About me?’ I ask him –

Nakadate nods –

‘What…?’

‘I’m very sorry,’ he says again. ‘But they have statements. They have witnesses, detective. There was nothing I could do…’

I had no choice. I had no choice. I had no choice …

In the corridor of tiled walls and written warnings, I push the button and I wait for the elevator to come. Dr. Nakadate bows. Nakadate apologizes again. He wishes me luck and then he asks –

Finally he asks, ‘What will you do now?’

‘I have debts to pay,’ I tell him –

‘You owe them nothing…’

‘Not to the living,’ I say. ‘Debts to the dead.’

*

The last streetcar hit a youth and a woman jumped in front of a train so the streetcar is late and the trains have stopped and so I am stood in the queue next to a woman of about fifty in a pair of brown monpe work trousers similar to the rotten pair in the knapsack on my back. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. To my left is a youth of about fifteen or sixteen. There is a tear in the shoulder of the coarsely woven factory uniform he is wearing and beneath the visor of his army cap his eyes are closed and his jaw hangs open, his body swaying slowly back and forth in the morning heat, back and forth. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Back and forth, back and forth until, just as it seems he’ll fall forward flat onto his face, the youth pulls himself up –

‘Is he drunk or is he sick?’ asks the woman –

‘Probably just tired and hungry,’ I say.

The woman leans across me. She puts a hand on the youth’s shoulder. She asks him, ‘Are you all right? Where are you going?’

The youth does not answer. The woman asks him again –

This time the youth says, ‘I’m going to Ueno.’

‘Then you’re on the wrong side,’ says the woman. ‘You need to go and wait on the other side of the road for Ueno. Over there…’

The youth stares at the streetcar stop on the other side of the road. But he does not move. Under his cap, he closes his eyes –

‘Over there,’ says the woman again. ‘Can you see?’

Now the youth’s jaw hangs open again.

‘You’re on the wrong side,’ the woman persists –

But still the youth doesn’t open his eyes.

‘This bus won’t take you to Ueno…’

The youth sways back and forth again.

Now she turns to me. ‘He’s going the wrong way.’

I nod. I say, ‘But it makes no difference.’

*

I walk down the street to the Nakamura house but keep on past it and do not stop until I reach the corner. Then I stand there and I stare back at the house, the bad news I bring in the knapsack on my back. Now I turn and I walk back down the street towards the house. I stop in front of the latticed door to the entrance. I reach up to open it but it is locked and will not move. I knock on the doorframe but no one comes. I knock again, louder this time, calling out in apology –

‘Who’s there?’ asks Nakamura Mitsuko’s father.

‘Detective Minami,’ I say. ‘From the Metropolitan Police.’

I hear his slippers in the genkan. Then the door opens –

‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ I say. ‘But I have some news…’

Nakamura Mitsuko’s father does not ask me what kind of news I have brought them. Nakamura Mitsuko’s father does not ask my anything. He just nods once and invites me into their house –

These things I have brought. These things I will leave …

I feel sick as I take off my boots, nauseous as I follow Mitsuko’s father into the reception room at the front of the house, as I set down my army knapsack, as I sit down on the tatami across the low table from Mitsuko’s father, as I open the knapsack –

The pain I have brought. The pain I will leave …

I take out the rotten pair of brown monpe trousers. I take out the pale yellow blouse. Finally, I take out the elliptical-shaped ammonite brooch. I place each of the items on the table before him –

Nakamura Mitsuko’s father reaches out his hand –

I tell him about the skeleton in the woods …

Mitsuko’s father picks up the brooch –

I tell him about the cypress trees …

He brings the brooch to his chest –

I tell him where she is now …

He holds the brooch there –

How she’ll soon be home …

He bows his head –

‘She was my only daughter,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

*

I sit down on a pile of broken concrete. I take out a cigarette. I light it. There is a row of barrack housing on the other side of the road. I watch a young woman hanging out a futon from one of the second-floor windows. I watch her beat the futon with a stick, dust coming off. Every now and again she turns to say something to someone inside the house. She says it with a smile or a song in her voice. But now the woman sees me watching her and quickly pulls the futon back inside the room and closes the window. I see her peep again at me from inside the room, a small child in her arms, her eyes filled with hate and fear. I want to ask her who she thinks she is to look at me with such contempt, such fear, to ask who raised her up to look down on me. But I look away from the window. I look down at my boots, my soldiers’ boots. There is the corpse of a pregnant collie dog lying on its back just a metre or so from my right boot. Its stomach has been split open by some other animal. Half-rotten but fully formed puppies have been dragged from out of her stomach and savaged, staining the soil and the stones a deep, dark and bloody red. Now I stand up. In the Year of the Dog, I sweep dirt and dust over the black dried fetuses with the side of my soldier’s boot –

Masaki, Banzai! Daddy, Banzai!

*

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

I walk through Kyōbashi Ward. I come to the battered board fence, the huge pile of rusty iron and the cabin with its glass door and tin roof. Behind the fence, two men in labourers’ clothes, one short and one tall, are carrying the small stool and the empty packing cases out of the cabin. I go through the opening in the boarding into the scrapyard. I say who I am and ask if Kobayashi Sōkichi is around –

In the sunlight and shadows, the white and the black …

‘Don’t you know?’ asks the tall one. ‘He died yesterday.’

‘Mr. Kobayashi is dead?’ I repeat. ‘How did he die?’

‘He was killed about eight o’clock last night,’ says the man. ‘He’d gone in his truck to pick up some scrap in Ōmiya and on the way back his truck turned over on a narrow bridge. Both Kobayashi and the other man who was with him were killed…’

‘I heard one of the Victors’ trucks ran them off the road,’ says the shorter man. ‘That they couldn’t get out of the way…’

‘You don’t know that,’ says the tall man. ‘It’s just gossip.’

‘No, it’s not,’ says the short one. ‘This old man who lives by the bridge, he saw the whole thing and made a statement to the police and he said that there was a convoy of four or five US army trucks heading for the bridge, which is just this old wooden bridge, that it is so narrow that it’s impossible for two vehicles to pass, and that the US army trucks were sounding their horns and flashing their lights but Kobayashi’s truck was almost on the bridge, so he couldn’t turn back but the US army trucks were coming too fast and so it looked to this old man like Kobayashi tried to pull over at the side of the bridge but that the first army truck that came across the bridge, it clipped Kobayashi and sent his truck rolling right down the banking…’

‘And he told all this to the Ōmiya police?’ I ask –

‘Yes,’ says the short man. ‘But the police said there was nothing they could do, not when it’s Shinchū Gun…’

I shake my head. I thank them for telling me the details of what happened. I ask if I might step inside the cabin for a moment –

They nod. ‘We’re just here to tidy things up.’

Now I step inside the cabin. The old colour postcard of the Itsuku-shima Shrine is still tacked to the wall. The potted sakaki tree sat on the butsudan before the three framed photographs; the three photographs and now one small candle burning on the shelf –

‘Perhaps he’s already just another ghost…’

Now I kneel down before the butsudan. I make my report –

To the three photographs and to the burning candle –

I tell them I have found justice for Hiroko –

I promise there will be vengeance.

I stand back up. I take the old colour postcard of the Itsuku-shima Shrine down from the wall. I turn it over. It’s from Hiroko –

A school trip in a happier time …

I put the postcard in the pocket of my jacket. I walk back out of the cabin, into the sunlight and the scrapyard, the two men still talking, the taller man saying, ‘You live through all that he lived through, you survive all that he survived, the war, the bombs, the fires, you survive all that just to die in a stupid traffic accident…’

‘It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ says the short one –

‘Except when your time comes, it comes…’

I thank them again and then I step back through the boarding and out into the street. I look at the buildings going up, the offices and the businesses, and I think about Kobayashi’s son, still chopping wood on the Amur River, not knowing his father died in a traffic accident at eight o’clock last night, not knowing his aunt died of a broken heart, not knowing his cousin was raped and murdered, not knowing he is better off dead, he’s better off dead, better off dead –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

*

I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I am hungry and I am starving. I need a drink and a cigarette. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I walk through another makeshift market, through its stalls and its stands. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I stop before a stall where a young woman is selling sweet potatoes. I stare at the potatoes and now at the woman –

Her sunburnt skin and her short skirt …

The frayed hem of her skirt hiked up, the woman sits on a crate with one leg crossed over the other –

‘Are you just going to stare up my skirt, old man?’ she asks. ‘Or are you going to buy a potato…?’

I blush now and I look away.

The woman uncrosses her legs and stands up. She wipes her face and she wipes her neck. She looks at me and she laughs –

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘They’re just two yen.’

I take out the money and I hand it to her –

‘Help yourself,’ she laughs now.

I pick up a sweet potato and I begin to walk away. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I glance round at the woman but she has already sat back down on her crate, one leg crossed over the other –

Her sunburnt skin and her short skirt …

And now I see him; I see him among the crowds, among the stalls; caked black in rags and filth, his face and his hands covered in blisters and boils, the boy is weeping pus and tears. I keep walking through the crowds, through the stalls. I glance back again. I see him again, among the crowds, among the stalls, caked black in rags and filth, covered in blisters and boils –

He walks behind me …

I keep walking. I am hungry and I am starving. I need a drink and a cigarette. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I turn a corner and I turn another. I glance back over my shoulder but I cannot see him. Now I stop walking. I sit down in another ruin, among another pile of rubble. I bite into the potato –

It is cold, it is old …

But it still tastes hot, it still tastes fresh to me. Now a shadow falls across my face and hands and I look up. The boy is stood before me, caked black in rags and filth, covered in blisters and boils, just centimetres before me –

He points …

His belly distended, his bones protruding, he smells of rotten apricots. Now he raises his hand and he points his finger at me –

His yellow eyes, stained a deep, dark and bloody red …

I start to break the sweet potato in half, to give him one half, but the boy snatches the whole potato out of my fingers and now, with his other hand, he throws dirt and dust into my face –

Dust into my eyes as he turns and he runs –

Runs away weeping and laughing –

Tears and pus, Ha, ha, ha, ha …

Daddy, Banzai!

*

I knock on the door of the old wooden row house in Kitazawa, not far from the Shimo-Kitazawa station. There is no answer. I knock again. There is still no answer. I try the door. It is not locked. I open it. There is silence. I step inside the genkan. The kitchen is deserted –

I call out, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Murota? Excuse me…?’

But there is still no answer, still only silence –

I take off my boots. I step inside the house. I walk across the old tatami mats. I go through the shabby curtain that partitions the downstairs. Nothing but stale air and shadows –

Nothing but shadows here …

I go up the steep, narrow wooden stairs. There are two rooms, one at the back and one at the front of the house. The room at the front is the larger one. There is a chest of drawers stood in one corner on the dirty mats. I open the drawers. They are empty. The window in the back room has been left open. There are mosquitoes here. There is also a closet but, again, it is empty –

Nothing but shadows now …

I go back down the wooden stairs. Back through the shabby curtain. I stand in the kitchen. There are mosquitoes here too. The smell of old meals. Murota Hideki and the woman who called herself Tominaga Noriko are long gone –

No one who they seem …

I sit down at the low wooden table on the old worn tatami. I take out one of the two wristwatches from my pocket. I turn it over in my hand. I hold it up to the light. I read its inscription –

Tominaga Noriko …

I place the watch on the low wooden table –

I take out my notebook of rough paper –

I lick the tip of my pencil stub –

In the half-light …

I write, over and over –

I write my name –

Over and over –

My name.

*

The sky has turned a darker shade of grey now. Not you. The air is heavy with dread and heat. Not you. The branches and their leaves hang low. Not you. The street stalls have all been covered over with straw mats. Not you. Men and women squat among the rubble, watching the sky and fanning themselves. Not you. Jeeps and trucks roll past with their huge white stars on their doors, their canvas canopies rolled up. Not you. Men with white faces and men with black faces sat in the backs of the jeeps and the trucks. Not you. They have guns in their hands or guns on their knees. It was not you. They are smiling and they are laughing. It was not you …

It was not you we were waiting for …

*

They are searching for me, on the trains and at the stations, but I have found them first, back here where they least expect me, back here at the Atago police station. I stand across the road and I watch and I wait, I watch and I wait. I watch them come and I watch them go and I wait. I wait until I see Detective Nishi and now I move –

Nishi on his own coming down the road –

Ten quick steps and I’m behind him –

The pistol pressed into his ribs –

Eyes in the back of my head –

‘This way,’ I tell him and force him to turn around, to turn back and walk across the road, to stand him up against the trees, here among the weeds and the garbage, the black metal drums full of ashes and remains, an army-issue pistol pressed into his belly –

He looks like shit, like he still hasn’t slept –

I am looking in a mirror, in a mirror …

‘Where is everyone?’ I ask him –

Nishi stares at the pistol stuck in his stomach. Nishi says, ‘They’re all celebrating, aren’t they?’

‘Celebrating what?’

‘A case closed.’

‘Which one?’

‘Kodaira.’

‘So they couldn’t even wait for me to get back from Tochigi. They couldn’t even wait to see the evidence I found, to read my report. They couldn’t care less about all the others, could they?’

There have been others. There have been others …

‘But they’ve been looking for you, you know that don’t you?’ he tells me now, still staring down at the pistol stuck in his stomach. ‘You should go to Daimon. You should go and join the party. Talk to Chief Kita, but you should go now before it’s too late…’

‘Shut up!’ I tell him. ‘It’s already too late.’

Nishi shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not.’

Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! …

‘Shut up!’ I hiss again. ‘And just answer my questions…’

Now Detective Nishi bows his head. Now he nods –

‘What happened to Detective Fujita?’ I ask him.

‘Nishi looks up. You don’t know?’

I push the pistol deeper into his gut. ‘Just tell me!’

‘They found his body in the Shiba Canal,’ says Nishi. ‘Hands and feet nailed to the back of a door, drowned face down, just…’

‘Just like Hayashi Jo,’ I say for him –

Nishi nods again and says, ‘Yes.’

‘And whose case is it?’ I ask –

‘Chief Inspector Adachi’s.’

I curse him. I curse him …

‘And so who does your great inspector think killed Fujita?’

‘The chief inspector thinks that Fujita was somehow involved with Nodera Tomiji in the murder of Matsuda Giichi, that Hayashi Jo tried to blackmail Fujita and so Fujita killed him to silence him, that Boss Senju then somehow found out about it and had Fujita killed.’

‘This is not a problem … this is going to be a pleasure…’

‘And me?’ I ask him. ‘What’s he saying about me…?’

Nishi shakes his head. Nishi says, ‘Nothing…’

I raise the pistol so it is level with Nishi’s eyes, the space between his eyes, and I say, ‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying…’

‘But it’s the truth,’ pleads Nishi. ‘Please…’

I ask, ‘Then what about Ishida?’

‘What about Ishida?’

‘What has Adachi said about Ishida?’ I ask. ‘Where does Detective Ishida fit into all this?’

Nishi shakes his head again. Nishi says, ‘I have no idea…’

‘Ishida was working for Adachi all along,’ I tell him –

But Nishi is still shaking his head, ‘I don’t know…’

‘Adachi had him spying on me, on you, on us all.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…’

‘Maybe now it’s you, now he’s gone…’

‘Now who’s gone? What’s me?’

‘Ishida’s not coming back.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Hell,’ I tell him –

Nishi staring down the barrel of the gun. Nishi sweating. Nishi telling me now, ‘That’s between you and Detective Ishida –

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he begs. ‘Please…’

‘Is that what Adachi told you to tell me…?’

‘He’s told me nothing,’ shouts Nishi –

I touch the barrel to his forehead –

‘Nothing!’ shouts Nishi again –

I press the barrel into him –

‘Adachi is trying to help you,’ cries Nishi. ‘To save you!’

‘Liar! Liar!’ I whisper as I pull the trigger. Click –

‘No! No!’ he screams. ‘It’s the truth…’

‘Adachi sent Ishida to kill me!’ I tell him as I pull the trigger, again and again, as I pull it. Click. Click –

Nishi dropping to his knees –

Click. Click –

Nishi on his knees –

‘Please, no…’

I lower the pistol now. I take out my notebook of rough paper from my jacket pocket. I bend down over him. I lift his face up to the light. I push the notebook into his face. I force open his mouth –

Now I stuff the notebook inside Nishi’s mouth –

‘That’s the truth in there,’ I say. ‘My truth…’

In the half-light, the half-things …

‘Read it and remember it!’

*

The nighthawks under the tracks are out early tonight. Asobu? Asobu? In their yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dresses. Asobu? Asobu? They have had their radios on, their newspapers open, and have heard there is a typhoon approaching. Asobu? Asobu? In their white half-sleeved chemises. Asobu? Asobu? They know there will be no business later, only rain and only wind. Asobu? Asobu? In their dyed-pink socks. Asobu? Asobu? They know they have to earn what they can now. Asobu? Asobu? In their white canvas shoes with their red rubber soles. Asobu? Asobu? But they do not try to grab my hand –

In their yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dresses …

They do not try to lure me into the shadows tonight –

‘Get away!’ they scream. ‘Get away from here!’

They look into my eyes, then hide their own –

‘We don’t fuck the dead! We don’t fuck ghosts!’

*

Potsu-potsu, the rain is beginning to fall now, hot fat drops on the kettles and the pans; potsu-potsu it falls in a terrible rhythm on the crockery and the utensils; potsu-potsu as the stall-holders still left outside the Shimbashi New Life Market struggle to cover the clothes and the shoes; potsu-potsu on the cooking oil and the soy sauce; potsu-potsu as the canvas and the straw mats are hauled out –

Potsu-potsu as it drowns out even the ‘Apple Song’ –

‘If two people sing along, it’s a merry song…’

Potsu-potsu on the patterned shirts and American sunglasses of the goons guarding the foot of the stairs to Senju Akira’s office –

Potsu-potsu on the patterned shirts and American sunglasses as they frisk my body and clothes for guns and knives –

Potsu-potsu on the patterned shirts and American sunglasses as they only glance inside my old army knapsack –

Potsu-potsu as it falls on the corrugated tin roof which covers the stairs up to Senju Akira’s office –

Potsu-potsu on the blue-eyed Victor coming down the stairs; potsu-potsu as he winks at me –

‘Good evening…’

Potsu-potsu as I push past him up the staircase to the office; potsu-potsu …

Senju Akira sat cross-legged before his long low polished table; bare-chested again with his trousers unbuttoned at the waist, there are revolvers and short swords lain out on the table before him –

Senju Akira is preparing for war, preparing for another war –

I put down my knapsack. I bow low on the tatami mats –

‘There’s always a war somewhere,’ he tells me –

My face to the floor, I do not answer him –

‘At home or abroad,’ he says. ‘There’s always war and always profits to be made for the bold and the brave among us!’

I raise my head. ‘Always war…’

‘The great Matsuda Giichi taught me this,’ continues Senju. ‘He was among the very first to see the opportunities on the continent; first he went to Shanghai, then he went to Dairen. He made money. He invested money. In transportation. In industry. His efforts supported the Kantō army in northern Manchukō. And the Kantō army appreciated and rewarded him well. But, when he returned home in the sixteenth year of Shōwa, was he rewarded for all he had done for the Japanese army, for the Japanese Empire?’

I shake my head. I say, ‘No, he wasn’t…’

‘No, he wasn’t!’ thunders Senju. ‘This man who had built railways for the Japanese army, this man who had provided supplies for the Japanese army, that the Japanese army might expand and protect the Japanese Empire on behalf of the Emperor, what welcome did this man receive upon his return home…?’

I shake my head again. ‘None…’

‘Worse than none!’ shouts Senju. ‘No parades. No medals. No honours. They sent him to prison for assault and battery!’

I bow my head low again and I say nothing –

‘But was this great man defeated?’ cries Senju. ‘Was this great man reduced to nothing?’

‘No, he wasn’t…’

‘Of course, he wasn’t!’ laughs Senju. ‘Matsuda Giichi organized the inmates of the prison, he protected and he helped them, no matter what their trouble, no matter what their background –

‘Matsuda Giichi became their leader –

‘So then, on his release, each of these men he had protected, who he had helped inside the joint, each man came to thank him and to pledge their undying loyalty to him –

‘I was one of those men!’

I nod. ‘I know…’

‘In defeat…’

‘I know…’

‘That was how the Matsuda gang was born,’ says Senju. ‘From the ashes of his own personal defeat, Matsuda rose up again. Because you could not defeat a man such as Matsuda Giichi. You could not beat him down. You could not hold him down. Because Matsuda Giichi was a bold man. Matsuda Giichi was a brave man. And, most importantly of all, Matsuda Giichi was a man of vision –

‘A man of vision!’ shouts Senju Akira. ‘A man of vision!’

I do not speak, my head still low against the mats –

Low until Senju says, ‘But you are a blind man –

‘And so you are a defeated man! Defeated!’

I still do not speak. I still wait for him –

Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku…

Now Senju Akira puts a bundle of money on the table. Now Senju puts a bag of pills on the table. I lean forward –

I curse myself, I curse myself…

I bow. I thank him –

And I curse him …

But now Senju moves the money and the pills just out of my reach and says, ‘You kill Adachi, you get all these and also these…’

Ishida mumbles about Fujita. Ishida moans about Senju …

Now Senju holds up a file in one hand and a piece of paper in the other; the Miyazaki Mitsuko file and a demobilization paper –

‘The end of one life and the start of a new one…’

I curse him, I curse him and I curse myself…

I ask him, ‘But how did you get that file?’

‘I’ve told you before,’ he winks. ‘Those in the know, know, and those who don’t, don’t, eh, corporal…?’

I look down at the tatami –

And I curse him …

‘You do this one last job for me, then you run,’ smiles Senju. ‘You burn this file, you fill in this paper, then you live again –

‘A new name in a new town with a new life –

‘A new life among the living, detective –

‘A third and final chance!’

I bow low. I thank him –

And I curse myself…

Now Senju throws some cash down onto the mat by my face. Now Senju says, ‘You do the job and you get the rest. But do it soon, before you’re picked up by the Public Safety Division…’

Ishida lies and he lies about Adachi …

I nod. I clutch my knapsack. I start to shuffle backwards towards the door, on my hands and on my knees –

Ha, ha, ha, ha! He, he, he, he …

Senju laughing at me now as he asks, ‘You didn’t bring me back any souvenirs from Tochigi, then? Not very thoughtful…’

‘I am very sorry,’ I tell him and I bow again –

But now Senju has said too much …

On my hands and on my knees –

He has said too much …

I get off my knees.

*

Every station, every platform, every train, every carriage. Zā-zā, za-za. The rain is coming down in sheets of sheer white water now, bouncing back off the train tracks and the umbrellas on the platform at Shimbashi. Zā-zā, za-za. Now the headlights of the Shinjuku train appear and the pushing begins, the shoving begins, the umbrellas adding to the confusion and the chaos of the bundles and baggage everyone carries. Zā-zā, za-za. I push my way forward and I shove my way on board. Zā-zā, za-za. I have food in my knapsack now. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I have money in my pocket now –

But Senju has said too much …

The train doesn’t move and the doors don’t close so there is still pushing, still shoving, one man asking another, ‘Excuse me, can I put this up there next to your bag?’

He has said too much …

‘There isn’t room, is there?’ snaps the other man, looking up at his knapsack on the rack –

Now the doors close and the train starts. Zā-zā, za-za. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Pushed and shoved as we crawl along the tracks through the rain. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Passengers get off at Hamamatsu-chō and Shinagawa but just as many push and shove their way inside. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. But now I cannot see the passengers any more. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I cannot see their bundles and their baggage. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. I cannot see this train at all. Zā-zā, zā-zā. Now I do not itch and I do not scratch. Zā-zā, zā-zā. I close my eyes –

Zā-zā, zā-zā. Zā-zā, zā-zā…

I am not here any more –

I am sat cross-legged on a cot, a blood-flecked scroll on the wall above my bed. My head shaven and my belly bandaged.

*

I have no umbrella and I have no raincoat so, with my hat pulled down tight upon my skull and my jacket stretched over that, I run past the crooked, impotent telegraph poles down the road to my usual restaurant, half-way between Mitaka station and my own house –

The one lantern swinging in the rain and in the wind –

Ha, ha, ha, ha! He, he, he, he! Ho, ho, ho, ho!

I pull back the sheet that acts as a door on a night like this and the jokes, the smiles and the laughter stop dead. Dead. No more jokes. No more smiles. No more laughter. Everyone stares at me and then glances up at the master behind the counter –

I ignore them. I shake the rain from my jacket and from my hat. I sit down in a space at the counter –

I order yakitori and sake –

‘Men were here again,’ says the master. ‘Asking about you.’

‘Who were they?’ I ask him. ‘Good guys or bad?’

‘What do you mean, good guys or bad?’ asks the master. ‘How would I know? You tell me. All I know is that they weren’t friendly and they were asking after you…’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t like to see you frightened…’

‘I’m not frightened,’ says the master. ‘But I don’t want trouble with the Yankees and I don’t want trouble with the gangs and I don’t want trouble with crooked cops either…’

I take out some money. I put it on the counter and I tell him, ‘I know I have run up debts…’

Debts to the dead …

The master picks up the money from the counter. The master puts the money back into my hand. He closes my fingers round it –

‘I don’t want your money and I don’t want your custom either. The slate’s clean but, remember, you’re not welcome here any more.’

‘Idiot!’ I shout and storm out of his little shithole of a bar –

I walk down my own street cursing him, over and over –

‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’

In the rain and in the wind, over and over again –

‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’

Hat on tight and jacket up over my head –

‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’

I scratch and I scratch and I scratch –

Gari-gari. Gari-gari. Gari-gari …

‘Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!’

In the rain and in the wind. Idiot …

On my hands, on my knees –

Idiot. Before the gate –

The idiot …

*

The gate to my house is closed. I open it. The door is locked. I open it. The house is dark. The house is silent. I stand in the genkan –

The rotting mats, shredded doors and fallen walls …

The house still sleeping, always sleeping –

I wipe my face and I wipe my neck –

The house smells of children –

Their shoes face the door …

It smells of pain –

‘I’m home…’

My wife comes out of the kitchen, her face is stained with soot, her hands brushing dust from her worn monpe trousers –

She smiles and she says, ‘Welcome home…’

Home. Home. Home. Home. Home …

I have brought cherries home, cherries for my children, their stems tied in a necklace around my neck –

Home. Home. Home. Home …

I never want to leave again –

Home. Home. Home …

I close my eyes –

Home. Home …

Now I am –

Home.