by David Peace
Fuck, said Betz. Look at the rain.
Toda, Betz, and Harry Sweeney got out of their car into the night and the rain, the end of the night and the sheets of rain. Jesus wept, said Betz. And not an umbrella between us.
They turned up the collars of their jackets, they pulled down the brims of their hats, and again Betz said, Fuck.
That way, said Toda, pointing west.
How far that way, said Betz.
I don’t know, said Toda.
We’ll find out soon enough, said Harry Sweeney. Come on. We’re wasting time.
They walked away from the station. Beside the tracks, following the tracks. They crossed a footbridge over a narrow river. Beside the tracks, following the tracks. The tall, dark walls of Kosuge Prison rising up to their left, the wide, dark void of open fields gaping to their right. Beside the tracks, following the tracks. In the hard rain, amid the heavy sheets. They were drenched in their clothes, they were soaked to their skins. Into their blood, into their bones. The rain falling, the rain wounding. Betz said, How much goddamn further?
There, said Toda. That must be the place.
They saw lanterns up ahead, they saw men up ahead. Before a bridge, below an embankment. In their oilskins and in their raincoats. In their rubber boots, up and down the tracks, in their rubber boots, back and forth across the tracks. In the sheets of rain, by the light of their lanterns. They were picking up pieces of clothing, they were throwing down pieces of flesh. Up and down, back and forth, this way and that, all over the place, clothing and flesh, strewn about and ripped apart –
Jesus, said Betz. Will you look at that –
A severed arm between the outbound tracks.
Jesus, said Betz again. Poor bastard.
In the night and in the rain, Harry Sweeney said nothing. Harry Sweeney stood there, wishing the night would end and the rain would stop, staring up and down the tracks, trying to see as much as he could see, desperate to remember as much as he could remember. In the night and in the rain, Harry Sweeney took out his notebook and his pencil, and in the night and in the rain, Harry Sweeney began walking along the tracks, pacing out the distances, sketching the scene and jotting down details: the tracks passed under a bridge carrying another railroad; three yards from the bridge, there was a large amount of oil on the sleepers and the ballast; six and a half yards from the bridge, a right ankle in a torn sock lay on the ballast; twelve yards from the bridge, between the tracks, was the garter of a sock; approximately fourteen yards from the bridge, in the grass beside the outbound track, was a crushed right shoe; eighteen and a half yards from the bridge, the left shoe lay between the outbound tracks; twenty-six yards from the bridge, between the outbound tracks, Toda identified a strip of material as being a fundoshi, or loincloth, traditional Japanese underwear; thirty yards from the bridge was a white shirt, its back torn; forty-seven yards from the bridge, the left ankle again still in its sock lay on the ballast between the tracks; fifty yards from the bridge, between the tracks, was the jacket of a suit, its back torn in a way similar to the tear in the white shirt; fifty-nine yards from the bridge, on the ballast between the outbound and inbound tracks, was the face of a man, severed from the top of the head down to the chin, one eye still attached, staring up, up into the night and the rain –
Fuck, said Betz.
Toda nodded: Things a train does to a man.
Harry Sweeney said nothing, still walking, still writing: there was brain matter, too, beside the face; intestines scattered between the tracks for the next ten yards or so; seventy-five yards from the bridge, the right arm and part of the shoulder lay on the ballast between the outbound tracks; finally, ninety yards from the bridge, on the ballast between the outbound tracks, there was the torso, stripped and twisted, its back and its knees both contorted against the ballast, almost severed at the waist, the flesh open and the bones crushed –
Fuck, said Betz again. What a way to go. Jesus.
Harry Sweeney said nothing, watching a faint light now spreading from the east, watching it pick out the white pieces of wet skin and the gray chunks of damp flesh all scattered and strewn back down the tracks. In the grayer light and in the quieter rain, Harry Sweeney turned away from the skin and from the flesh, from the tracks and from the ballast. More men arriving, some men leaving, coming and going, up and down, back and forth, across the tracks and over the scene. He watched the Metropolitan Police investigators now taking charge of the scene, the public prosecutors and medical examiners now arriving, and asked Toda to find out their names and ranks, their positions and functions, what they had heard and what they had seen. And then Harry Sweeney stood in the dawn and in the drizzle, soaked through to his own skin and bone, and he looked to the east, and then turned to the south, to the west, and to the north, looking at a crossing and the station up the line, a building and the prison beside the tracks, the bridge and the embankment down the line, and the fields, the low, flat fields which stretched to the north, Harry Sweeney looking and turning, again and again, turning and looking at this silent, empty, and godforsaken landscape of a death –
What are you thinking, Harry, asked Betz.
Why here, Bill? Why here?
* * *
—
They were walking back down the tracks, back toward Ayase station, back toward the car, Toda reading from his notes, telling them what he’d learned at the scene, saying, I’ll spare you the names for now, but the driver of the last freight train from Ueno to Matsudo stopped at Ayase station to report that he thought he’d glimpsed some scarlet objects scattered across the tracks where they run parallel to the prison. Apparently, the place is known as Demon’s Crossing or Cursed Crossing –
You don’t fucking say, laughed Betz.
Yeah, said Toda. It’s notorious for accidents and suicides, so the locals keep away. Especially when it rains. That’s when the ghosts of the wronged gather by the bridge or the crossing. They reckon you can hear them all weeping.
When was the last one, asked Harry Sweeney.
The last what?
Suicide.
They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Sorry, Harry.
We can find out. Go on.
So the driver stops at Ayase to say he thinks he’s seen a “tuna,” that’s their slang for a corpse on the line. This is at approximately half past midnight. So the assistant stationmaster sends the ticket inspector and another member of staff down the line to the Cursed Crossing to investigate. They only had a hand lantern between them but they could see a body on the tracks, so they go straight to the police box by the prison to telephone the assistant stationmaster and report what they’ve seen. The assistant stationmaster then forwards the report up the chain of command to the chief of the maintenance team for the Kita-Senju area. I need to confirm this, but I think they were at Gotanno, on the Tōbu line, that’s the next station on the line which runs over that bridge. Anyway, the chief and one of his men set off down the Tōbu line, eventually coming down the embankment beside the bridge, arriving at the scene at half past one. It’s already raining by then, but they find the badly mutilated, partially severed body of a well-built man. They search through what they describe as the shredded, oil-stained clothing strewn about the scene, looking for a means of identification, and find name cards and travel passes in the name of Sadanori Shimoyama, President of the National Railroads. They immediately head for the nearest police box – which is Gotanno Minami-machi – and report what they’ve found to an officer named Nakayama. It’s now two fifteen. Nakayama immediately notifies the Nishi-Arai police station and then heads to the scene himself, which is where I found him; Nakayama’s the officer I spoke to who told me all this. When he got there – which was about two forty, he reckons – there were some other men there, men from Ayase station and the maintenance division. The stationmaster also arrived while Nakayama was there, and they all began to search f
or other means of identification. Found a wristwatch by the torso, a gold tooth, too. At some point, the stationmaster turned over the torso, found a wallet in one of the pockets of the pants. The rain was really coming down by now, but Nakayama said the ballast beneath the torso was dry when they turned it over.
They had reached their car. Ichirō sat waiting at the wheel; four or five more cars parked up, all empty.
I don’t know about you two, said Betz, but I want a hot bath and breakfast, and then my bed. Be lucky if we aren’t off sick for a week, way that fucking rain came down.
Harry Sweeney looked at the empty cars, looked at the station building, and said, You wait in the car, Bill. I’ll be back as quick as I can, okay? You come with me, Susumu.
Better be quick, Harry, I swear. I’m shivering.
Be as quick as we can, said Harry Sweeney again, lighting a cigarette, walking off toward the station buildings, asking Toda, These cars? They belong to the Railroad, yeah?
Toda glanced back and nodded: Yeah. Most of them.
Harry Sweeney smiled: Let’s save some legwork –
Inside the stationmaster’s office at Ayase station, three men from the Head Office of the National Railways were gathered around a small hibachi. Pale and wet, silent and mourning, they were drying their suits, drying their skins. Harry Sweeney took out his PSD badge and said, I believe one of you gentlemen identified President Shimoyama?
Yes, said one of the men. I did.
And your name is…?
Masao Orii.
Harry Sweeney said, Mister Orii, I want you to tell me exactly how you came to be here. Tell me who called you and when. And then everything you saw when you arrived here, and all that has happened since then. Everything, please.
Well, began Mister Orii, I received a phone call at the President’s house at three –
I am sorry to interrupt you, Mister Orii. I should have been more specific. I want you to go back through the whole day for me, tell me everything you can.
Well then, began Mister Orii again, I first heard the President was missing at around eleven o’clock this morning. Sorry, yesterday morning. Mister Aihara called me to say that the President had not yet shown up for work, for the daily morning meeting. But to be honest, at the time I did not pay particular attention to what he was saying, or take it very seriously. I thought it was ridiculous and forgot about it.
And why was that, Mister Orii?
Well, because I was so busy. It is my responsibility to arrange the extra trains for the repatriates who have been returning. There has been a lot of trouble, a lot of confusion at various stations. At Shinagawa, Tokyo, and Ueno. And I had men from the Ministry of Transport calling me, the police, and so on. Many people to deal with, a lot of calls, a lot of visitors. But around one o’clock, Mister Ōtsuka, the personal secretary to the President, he called me. He said that the President had still not shown up and could I think of anyone or anywhere the President might visit. I just told him what he had already heard from everyone else, what he already knew. But that was when I began to be worried, began to think something might have really happened to President Shimoyama.
Like what, Mister Orii?
Like he might have been kidnapped or something.
By whom?
Well, by people opposed to the cuts, the dismissals. I know there have been a lot of threats. Letters and calls. And then there are the posters.
Any specific individual or group?
No, no names. Nothing like that. I wasn’t thinking like that; I was just thinking, I hope nothing like that has happened to the President.
So after this call at one, then what did you do?
I had to stay in the office. As I say, I still had to deal with all the matters to do with the repatriates and their trains. And so I couldn’t leave. But I was worried, and I was also aware that there had been an announcement on the radio, and the newspapers had printed extra editions.
So what time did you leave the office, Mister Orii?
It was after midnight. I couldn’t tell you exactly when, I’m sorry. But after midnight, when things had calmed down. I went to the President’s house in Kami-ikegami. It was about one when I arrived. There were about twelve cars parked outside the house. All from the newspapers. I went into the house. The reporters were inside the house, in the drawing room. About fifteen or sixteen of them. I went upstairs, into the living room. Missus Shimoyama and all four of their sons were there, and the President’s younger brother. They were just sitting there, very worried, in silence. After a few minutes, Missus Shimoyama said she would like the reporters downstairs to leave. She said they had been there such a long time, and she had not even offered them any tea or anything. And she was sorry. So I went back downstairs and told them to leave. I said if we had any information, we would let them know. They all left, and I went back upstairs. Everyone was just waiting. No one talking, no one speaking. Just waiting. Then about ten past three, the telephone beside me rang. It was the Railroad Telephone. Our special phone. I picked it up immediately. It was Mister Okuda. He said a body had been found on the Jōban line, on the railroad tracks between Kita-Senju and Ayase stations, along with the President’s pass…
In the warm and damp, close and suffocating air of the stationmaster’s office, Masao Orii stopped speaking, rubbing his eyes and his face, struggling –
Did you inform the family, asked Harry Sweeney.
Masao Orii shook his head: I couldn’t, no. I didn’t want to believe it could be true, that it could be the President. I just said something like I needed to return to Headquarters, asked Mister Ōtsuka to step outside. I told him what I’d just heard, asked him not to say anything but just to wait with Missus Shimoyama and the children. But he wanted to come, too, and so we had no choice but to speak with the President’s brother. We told him what had been found, but that nothing could be confirmed until we went to the scene ourselves. He agreed nothing should be said to Missus Shimoyama, not at that stage, and then myself, Mister Ōtsuka, and Mister Doi left.
And you drove here directly?
Yes, said Mister Orii. Well, one of our chauffeurs, Mister Sahota, he drove us.
What time did you get here?
Just after four, said Mister Orii. Soon as we got here, we were taken to the scene. We were shown the President’s passes, his watch, his wallet. And then we were shown his body. What’s left of it. And I confirmed it was the President.
In the close and suffocating air of the stationmaster’s office, Harry Sweeney asked, And you are certain?
Yes.
Have the family been informed?
Yes, said Mister Orii again. Myself and Mister Doi came back here to call Headquarters and then the President’s brother. Mister Ōtsuka is still at the scene, with the body.
May I ask what you think?
What I think?
You went to the scene, you identified the body, said Harry Sweeney. And you knew the man, you knew the President. I’d like to know what you think happened here.
Masao Orii looked up at Harry Sweeney and shook his head: I don’t know what happened here. But I wish it hadn’t happened. A good man, a devoted husband and father, is dead. I know that. And I know this changes everything.
* * *
—
They drove back through the morning, through its gray light and heavy air. Back across the river, back into the city. Bill Betz asleep in the back, Harry Sweeney staring out of the side window. The city drenched and dark, its buildings damp and dripping, Avenue Q turning to Ginza Street again, Ginza Street taking them past the Mitsukoshi department store again.
Harry Sweeney looked at his watch again, its face still cracked and hands still stopped. He took out his notebook, he turned its pages. He stopped turning the pages, he started reading his notes. Then he leaned forward to the front and said, Stop at the C
hiyoda Bank, please.
Harry, pleaded Toda. The Chief’s waiting…
It’ll take five minutes, said Harry Sweeney. We’re almost there, right, Ichirō?
Ichirō nodded and turned onto Avenue Y. They passed under some tracks and came to the corner with 4th Street. Ichirō pulled up and parked outside the Chiyoda Bank.
Harry Sweeney did not wake Bill Betz. He got out of the car with Susumu Toda. They closed the car doors quietly and walked into the bank. The bank just opening, their day just beginning. Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda showed their PSD badges to a member of staff. Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda asked to see the manager. The member of staff took them to see the manager. She spoke to his secretary, she knocked on his door. She introduced them to the manager –
The manager was already getting up from behind his desk, the manager already looking concerned, nervously asking, What is it I can do for you, gentlemen?
We’re here about President Shimoyama of the National Railroads, sir, said Harry Sweeney.
The manager looked at Harry Sweeney, his clothes stained with rain, his shoes covered with mud, and the manager said, I heard on the radio that his body was found on the Jōban line?
Unfortunately, that is true, said Harry Sweeney. We understand from his driver that President Shimoyama called here yesterday morning. Is this information correct, sir?
The manager nodded: Yes. After the announcement on the news yesterday, the announcement that President Shimoyama was missing, Mister Kashiwa, who is in charge of our safety-deposit section, came to see me. He told me that the President had stopped by yesterday, just after we had opened.
And so yesterday morning, did Mister Kashiwa deal with the President personally?
The manager nodded again: I believe so, yes.
Is Mister Kashiwa at work today?
Yes, he is.
Please can you take us to him then, sir, said Harry Sweeney. Thank you.