Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  I’m sorry. Not yet.

  So my husband is not at GHQ?

  Not as far as we are aware.

  I thought he must be. Recently, there have been a number of occasions when he has been summoned there. Suddenly. I thought maybe…

  Can you think of anyplace else he might be?

  No, but I am sure he must be just sleeping, just resting somewhere. So I am sorry for all the trouble he is causing. He took some sleeping pills last night, but I don’t think they worked. So he must have needed a rest, a nap somewhere.

  Yes, said Harry Sweeney. I heard he was very late to bed. I heard Colonel Channon visited you.

  Missus Shimoyama shook her head: Not last night, no.

  Are you certain, ma’am?

  It was the night before.

  Are you sure it was not last night?

  It was the night before last. I’m certain, Mister Sweeney.

  But your husband did not sleep well last night?

  No, he did not sleep well, Mister Sweeney. Recently, he has been working so hard, and it’s affected his sleeping.

  I’m sure, said Harry Sweeney. But this morning, how did your husband seem this morning, ma’am?

  Missus Shimoyama smiled: He was tired, I know. But he got up at seven o’clock, as he always does. I heard him speaking quite cheerfully with our second son, Shunji, while he was shaving in the bathroom. Then he came down to the dining room and he ate breakfast as usual.

  And did you speak with your husband, ma’am?

  Of course. Our eldest son is studying law at Nagoya University. But he’s coming home this evening. My husband was very much looking forward to seeing him. It’s been a long time since we last saw our son. A long time since my husband saw him. We were talking about his visit. About tonight.

  I see, said Harry Sweeney. And so you’re expecting your husband home for dinner this evening then, ma’am?

  Missus Shimoyama nodded: Yes. But we are never quite sure when my husband can return home these days…

  Down the stairs a telephone rang briefly –

  Missus Shimoyama turned to look at the door: I am just sorry for all the trouble. I just wonder what is going on. He should have arrived at his office. He should have been there by nine thirty. Surely no one could have abducted him, not in broad daylight. I can’t believe they would try…

  Up the stairs feet were coming quickly –

  Not from his car. In broad daylight…

  Susumu Toda got up from the table and stepped out of the room, Missus Shimoyama watching him go, Missus Shimoyama staring at the doorway, Missus Shimoyama wringing her hands, Missus Shimoyama getting to her feet now –

  What is it? What is it? Please…

  Harry Sweeney on his feet too, his hands out toward Missus Shimoyama, asking Missus Shimoyama to sit back down. To wait, to please just wait –

  Viscount Takagi disappeared, she was saying. He disappeared, too. And then they found him, found him dead in the mountains. I hope…

  Susumu Toda stepped back into the room. He looked at them both, he said to them both, They’ve found the driver.

  * * *

  —

  The hell you playing at, Sweeney? You should’ve left Toda where he was, where I sent him, where I told him to stay.

  I’m sorry, Chief. But he’s back there now.

  Too goddamn late, sighed Chief Evans.

  He called in, Chief. I’ve got it all here.

  You better hope you have. Go on.

  Harry Sweeney looked down at the yellow pad of paper in his hand and began to read: They’ve got the driver at Metro HQ and they’re still questioning him. But so far the shorthand from Toda is the driver picks up Shimoyama as usual at eight twenty. But instead of going straight to the office, to Railroad HQ by Tokyo station, Shimoyama tells him to head to the Mitsukoshi department store in Nihonbashi. They park up there, wait for the store to open at nine thirty, then Shimoyama goes inside. He told the chauffeur to wait. Said he’d be back in five minutes. Driver hasn’t seen him since.

  And what time was that?

  Nine thirty, Chief.

  So what the hell’s the driver been doing?

  Says he was just sitting there, waiting in the car outside the store. He switches on the radio at five o’clock, hears the news his boss is missing, then runs straight inside the store to telephone head office.

  He’s just sitting in that goddamn car for over seven hours, doesn’t think to get out and look for his fucking boss or to pick up a telephone and find out what the hell is going on? That’s his goddamn story, is it? Jesus Christ.

  He was told to wait, so he waited.

  For over seven hours?

  That’s what he’s saying, Chief. So far.

  What do we know about him?

  Name is Ōnishi. Forty-eight years old. Twenty years’ service with the railroad. Clean as can be. Not even a parking ticket. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t gamble. No hint of any left-wing sympathies or associates. Loyal, trusted. That’s why he’s the chauffeur for the President. But they’re still questioning him, and Toda will call the minute there’s anything more.

  Chief Evans rubbed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, then looked back up at Harry Sweeney: What do you think, Harry? What’s your gut telling you?

  Don’t know. I spoke with Colonel Channon at CTS. He says Shimoyama wants to resign. Lot of internal railroad politics going on. That’s on top of the rest of it. And I spoke with his wife. The man’s not been sleeping, been taking pills. The pills aren’t working. She’s just praying he’s off someplace resting, that he’ll be back for his dinner.

  The Chief sighed again: You reckon he’s just gone and wandered off reservation then?

  Maybe. Hopefully.

  You don’t sound so convinced, Harry?

  Just not so sure he’ll wander back, Chief.

  Well, we need him back, Harry. And back now.

  * * *

  —

  Hot and humid still, it was getting dark now, the city closing down, the city going home. Ichirō drove Toda and Harry Sweeney along Avenue A, then up Avenue W, under the railroad tracks, through the crossroads at Gofukubashi and on past the Yashima Hotel, turning left by the Shirokiya department store, then over the river at Nihonbashi, before turning left again, up one side street, then right and right again, down another side street, until Toda said, This is the place.

  In the shadows of the Mitsukoshi department store, alongside the doors to its south entrance, Ichirō parked up.

  In this narrow side street, the car facing the main street, from the back seat Harry Sweeney stared past Ichirō, out through the windshield, down through the shadows, up toward the lights on the main street: traffic heading home, people going home; men heading home, returning to their homes.

  Hell of a tour to get here, said Toda.

  Harry Sweeney turned to his left and looked out at the doors to the store, glass and gold, dark and closed. The doors closed, the store closed. Everything closed, everything dark. He nodded, then said, Tell me again.

  Okay, so according to Ōnishi, said Toda, taking out his notebook, opening up his notebook, Shimoyama wanted to do some shopping, said something like it was okay for him to arrive at the office by ten. So first he tells Ōnishi to drive to Shirokiya; when they get there, the store’s not open. So Shimoyama tells him to drive here. Ōnishi says Mitsukoshi won’t be open either. This is all before nine o’clock. So Ōnishi starts to head back toward railroad HQ, but Shimoyama tells him to go to Kanda station. They pull up there, but Shimoyama stays in the car. Ōnishi asks if he’s going to get out; Shimoyama says no. So Ōnishi starts back to HQ again. But when they’re crossing Gofukubashi, Shimoyama tells him to go to the Chiyoda Bank. They park in front, Shimoyama gets out. He goes into the bank; he’s inside for about twenty minutes.
He comes back out. It’s now about nine twenty-five. Shimoyama says something like now is the best time to go. Ōnishi assumes he means back here, back to Mitsukoshi. When they get here, when they park up here, Shimoyama just stays put again, says the store isn’t open yet. Ōnishi can see there are already customers inside and tells Shimoyama the store’s open. Shimoyama gets out. He tells Ōnishi to wait. He says he needs to buy a present, a wedding present, but he’ll be back in five minutes. Then Shimoyama walks off, in through those doors.

  Harry Sweeney stared out at those dark doors, those closed doors. Everything closed now, everything dark now.

  They’ve sent in Hattori with a whole squad to search the building, said Toda. Top to bottom, every floor, every room, the restrooms and the roof. Not a trace of the man. But they’ve kept all the staff back. They’re still in there, as far as I know, still questioning them. Someone must have seen something. The man can’t have just vanished into thin air.

  Harry Sweeney nodded again. He opened the door of the car: You go back to the office, wait there. I’ll call you.

  But what if he turns up? Where will you be?

  Then you won’t need me, said Harry Sweeney. He got out of the car and closed the door. He stood on the side street and stared up at the Mitsukoshi department store –

  The seven stories, the tower on the roof. The darkening sky above, the lengthening shadows below.

  Harry Sweeney turned and walked away from the car, the car heading off toward the main street and the bright lights. He walked down the side street, down the side of the store, toward the end of the building, deeper into its shadows. He turned to his right and walked down another side road, along the back of the building, the length of the store, past the loading bays, the platforms, and the shutters. Everything closed, everything dark. He turned right again at the end of the building and walked down another side road, down the north side of the building, the north side of the store, past the windows and past the doors. Everything closed, everything dark. He walked through the shadows, back toward the lights, the bright lights of the main street. He reached the corner of the building, the junction with the main street. He turned right onto the main street and walked along the front of the store, past the dark windows to the front doors, the main entrance with its bronze statues of two lions, poised there, sitting there, guarding the store, on their marble plinths with their mouths open, their eyes open, watching the street, the passing traffic, the passing people, the traffic heading home, the people going home.

  Under the lights of the street, at the entrance to the store, Harry Sweeney reached out to touch the two front paws of each bronze lion. He rubbed each paw and he said a prayer, then he heard a rumbling underground, felt a trembling in the ground. He turned away from the lions, turned away from his prayers, and he walked toward the entrance to the subway.

  Harry Sweeney went down the steep stone stairs to the subway below, under the ground, along a corridor. There were marble columns and a tiled floor, the basement of the store to his left, other shops to his right. Everything closed, everything dark. The corridor led to the subway, a passage to Mitsukoshimae station. He could see the station up ahead, down the corridor. He walked along the corridor toward the station, past the basement windows of the Mitsukoshi department store, to the basement doors of the store; the doors from the department store to the subway station, from the station to the store: an entrance and an exit. He walked toward the ticket gate to the subway and was about to show his PSD badge, was about to go through the gate, when he saw some more shops in the gray shadows down the corridor, beyond the station and the store. He saw a hair salon, he saw a tea shop, and he saw a coffee shop: COFFEE SHOP HONG KONG.

  Harry Sweeney turned away from the ticket gate, walked down the corridor, beyond the station and the store, to the coffee shop in the gray shadows. He stood before its dark window and its closed door. He knocked on the door and waited. Everything closed, everything dark. He knocked again and tried the door. No light went on, no answer came –

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

  Harry Sweeney heard a rumbling underground again, felt a trembling in the ground again. He turned away from the door, turned away from his petitions, and walked back toward the ticket gate. He showed his pass, went through the gate and down the steps, onto the platform. The trains for Asakusa to his left, the trains for Shibuya to his right. East or west, north or south, under the ground, under the city, people going home, men heading home, returning to their homes.

  But not tonight, not here: the platform was deserted, and Harry Sweeney was alone, waiting for a train, looking into the mouth of the tunnel, staring into the darkness, watching for the light, waiting for the light. A solitary Japanese came slowly and unsteadily down the stairs onto the platform. He was short but stocky, in a pale summer suit darkened by grime and stains, sweat and drink. He walked up close to Harry Sweeney, foisting his face up to his face, smelling as bad as he looked, as drunk as he sounded: America! America! Hey you, America!

  Harry Sweeney took a step back, but the Japanese took a step forward: You hairy coward! You think you won the war, but we Japanese are not so easily defeated!

  He stood there, glaring up through his spectacles at Harry Sweeney, and repeated the same sentence, but more slowly and much louder. Then he made a sudden lunge and gripped Harry Sweeney in both arms, maneuvering to throw Harry Sweeney onto the live electric line. He was too weak and too drunk, but Harry Sweeney was locked in his embrace.

  Another man, also drunk, now joined the party: I Korean, America’s friend, he shouted, and pulled the Japanese off Harry Sweeney as a blast of wind came rushing out of the tunnel and along the platform, picking up scraps of paper and ends of cigarettes, making small tornadoes of trash around their feet. Harry Sweeney gripped his hat, held it tight as the train pulled into the station, the screams of its wheels and brakes piercing his ears. At that moment, the Japanese made another sudden, wild rush, but the young Korean knocked him out with one punch. Go, said the Korean. Just go.

  Harry Sweeney got onto the train. The doors closed and the train began to move. He looked back at the platform: the young Korean standing over the still-prone Japanese, going through the man’s pockets, and then they were gone. Harry Sweeney turned back to the brightly lit carriage of half-empty seats. He sat down and took off his hat. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and then his neck. He put away his handkerchief and then his hat back on. He looked up and down the carriage, then across the aisle, at the passengers. A man here, a man there, in jackets, in ties, sleeping or reading, a book or a paper. Back pages and front pages, in their hands or at their feet: one left on the floor of the carriage, a single sheet of newspaper, an extra Mainichi. Harry Sweeney leaned forward, reached down to the floor, picked up the sheet, and read the headline: PRESIDENT SHIMOYAMA MISSING; On The Way To JNR Headquarters From His Home; Police still investigating as of 5pm.

  Harry Sweeney looked back up at the passengers, the men here and there, in their jackets and their ties, reading or sleeping, sleeping or not. Men after their work, men going back home. Maybe, maybe not. Harry Sweeney folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. The train stopped in Kanda. Harry Sweeney took off his hat again. He reached back into his pocket and took out his handkerchief again. He wiped his face and then his neck again. The train stopped in Ueno. Harry Sweeney put away his handkerchief and put on his hat again. He stood up and walked through the carriages toward the front of the train, to the end of the line. The train terminated in Asakusa and the doors opened. Harry Sweeney stepped onto the platform. He walked up the steps to the ticket gate, showed his pass, and went on through the gate. There was another basement entrance to another department store: the Matsuya department store closed, the Matsuya department store dark. Harry Sweeney walked up the steps to the Tōbu line station, but he did not take the se
cond staircase up to the platforms. Harry Sweeney turned left, out of the station, onto the street, and stopped. His back to the station, his back to the store, the Kamiya Bar to his right, the Sumida River to his left, the shops already shut, the stalls now packing up, he watched the people walking past, the people going home. Harry Sweeney watched them pass, he watched them go. Into the night and into the shadows. Men disappearing, men vanishing.

  Harry Sweeney turned and started to walk away from the station, away from the store, across Avenue R, toward the river, the Sumida River. He walked into the park, through the park, the Sumida Park. He came to the river, the banks of the river. He stood on the bank and he stared at the river. The current still, the water black. There was no breeze, there was no air. Only the stench of sewage, the stink of shit. People’s shit, men’s shit. The stench always here, the stink still here. Harry Sweeney took out his pack of cigarettes and lit one. By the river, on her bank. The streets behind him, the station behind him. All the streets and all the stations. He stared down the river, into the darkness, where its mouth would be, where the sea would be; across the ocean, there was home. A dog barked and wheels screamed, somewhere in the night, somewhere behind him. A yellow train was pulling out of the station, the yellow train crossing an iron bridge. The bridge across the river, a bridge to the other side. Going east, going north. Out of the city, away from the city. Men disappearing, men vanishing. In the city, from the city. On its streets, in its stations. Their names and their lives. Disappearing, vanishing. Starting afresh, starting again. A new name, a new life. A different name, a different life. Never going home, never coming back. The train disappearing, the train vanishing.

  Harry Sweeney looked away from the bridge, stared back down at the river, the Sumida River. So still and so black, so soft and so warm. Inviting and welcoming, tempting, so tempting. No more names and no more lives. Memories or visions, insects or specters. So tempting, very tempting. An end to it all, an end to it all. The pattern of the crime precedes the crime. The end of his cigarette burning his fingers, blistering their skin. Harry Sweeney threw the butt of his cigarette into the river. This dirty river, this stinking river. People’s shit, men’s shit. He turned away from the river, walked away from the river, the Sumida River. Back to the station, back down the steps. Away from the river, the Sumida River, and away from temptation, away from temptation. The pattern and the crime. Disappearing, vanishing. Into the night, into the shadows. Under the city, under the ground.