by David Peace
Ton-ton, don-don, ton-ton…
He walked down to the end of the corridor and into the toilet, past the basin, the stall and the urinal. He opened the window wider, peering out, staring down, down to the street. He pulled his head in, then looked at his watch, his watch running slow. He turned to the urinal, undid his flies, and took a piss, a long piss. He did up his flies as he walked to the basin. He ran the faucet, he cupped the water. He washed his hands, washed and washed his hands, then looked up into the grime, the grime of the mirror above the basin: fifty-two, balding and bandaged, fat and gone-to-shit, always, forever shit –
Don-don, ka-chunk…
He cupped the water once again, washed his face and washed his neck. He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his trousers, down the front of his shirt. He put his hand in his pocket and took out his handkerchief, his handkerchief stained with dry blood, his own dry blood. He wiped and dried his face in the stains of his own dry blood, then put his handkerchief back in his pocket and took out his cigarettes. He put a cigarette to his lips, lit the cigarette and inhaled, then exhaled, blew the smoke at the mirror, the smoke over the mirror, the grime in the mirror, his face in the grime, hidden in the mirror, lost in the smoke. He tried to smile, to laugh again, but failed again and blinked, then blinked again and said, Fucking liars –
But you knew that, darling, know they’re…
Cunts, he spat through the smoke, into the mirror, then turned from the mirror, away from the smoke, glanced at his watch, his watch running slow, then dropped the cigarette butt into the sink, down the plughole, and walked out of the toilet, into the corridor and down the stairs, the four flights of stairs, out of the building, onto the street, across the street, into the shadows, the shadows of the morning, in the shadows of the alleyway, across from his building, to watch –
Don’t, darling, please, please…
From the shadows of the alleyway, in the shadows of the morning, under a damp and rodent sky, all fur and teeth, amid the stench from the river, the river and fumes, the noise of construction, construction and trains –
Shu-shu, pop-po, shu-shu…
He watched and he waited, watched for the car, waited for the car, an old gray car to come down the street, slowly, slowly down the street. He watched the car pull up outside his building, saw a passenger door open and a man get out, a thin young man in a tight, shiny suit. He watched the young man close the passenger door, saw the young man go up the steps, into his building, and then –
Don’t, darling…
Murota Hideki stepped out of the shadows, ran across the street to the car and its door, its passenger door. He opened the door, climbed into the back, over the seat, toward a man, an old, old man in a white double-breasted suit, shouting, I know who you are –
This old, old man in his white double-breasted suit, in his round, tinted spectacles and Panama hat, nodding at Murota Hideki, smiling at Murota Hideki, as the driver reached into the back of the car, grabbing and pulling Murota Hideki –
You set me up, shouted Murota Hideki into the face of this old, old man. You set Kuroda up and –
That guy who called himself Hasegawa back out of the building and down the steps, joining the driver, grabbing and pulling Murota Hideki away from the man, out of the car, onto the street, hard into the ground, pinning him down, holding him down, ripping open the collar of his shirt as this old, old man stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, Murota Hideki pinned down, held down on the ground as the old, old man crouched down, down beside Murota Hideki, reached inside his white double-breasted suit, and took out a narrow velvet case, opened the case and took a syringe from the case –
I know, I know, screamed Murota Hideki, pinned to the ground, held down by their arms, their hands gripping his face, twisting his neck, the veins of his neck throbbing and bare, bare and exposed, exposed to the syringe, the needle of the syringe. You set up Shimoyama. You murdered Shimoyama.
7
Minus Five to Minus One
June 30–July 4, 1964
Yes, I was falling, yes, falling, toppling head first and long, long into darkness, falling down, slowly down, from the drainpipe, from the wall, past windows and their ledges, falling, still falling, down, slowly down, past walls, more walls, bookcases and cupboards, maps and pictures hung upon pegs, maps of the city, the Occupied City, pictures of the crime, the scene of the crime, falling down, slowly down, bottles and jars standing on shelves, a bottle marked “CLUES,” a bottle marked “WITNESSES,” a jar labeled “FICTION,” a jar labeled “TRUTH,” and as I fell, slowly fell, through the darkness, past the shelves, I reached for the jar, the jar labeled “TRUTH,” and I took down this jar, this jar from the shelf, this jar labeled “TRUTH,” the biggest, heaviest jar I ever had seen, seen or held, held in my hands, but as I fell, slowly fell, when I prized off the lid, when I opened the jar, to my great disappointment, my instant regret, all the truths blew away, flying up, up and away, back the way I’d come, up, up into the night, in a rainbow of butterflies, feathers, and petals, and as I tried to juggle the jar and its lid, tried to catch one truth, one butterfly, feather, or petal at least, one truth at least, this jar labeled “TRUTH,” this jar now empty, it slipped through my fingers, it dropped from my hands, spinning off, spiraling down, slowly down, down and down, into the darkness, the darkness below –
“Look out,” cried I. “Look out down below!”
No answer came up from the darkness below, just the echo of my voice, my voice in the dark: “Look out…”
But too late, too late came the echo of my voice, a warning in the dark, for thump! thump! thump! down I came upon a heap of broken jars, then bump! bump! bump! down something came upon my head, and I remembered –
Nothing more until I was not falling anymore, not in darkness anymore, not lying on a heap of broken jars anymore, nor in a pile of garbage in an alley anymore. I was being picked up, I was being carried along –
I opened my eyes: I was slumped on the back seat of a big car, with a sore head and aching bones, the car speeding through the night and the city –
“Thank heaven you’ve come round, Sensei,” said the voice of the driver from the front, as I tried to sit up. “But I’d lie still, if I were you. Looks like you took an almighty tumble.”
I nodded, but even that hurt. Still, I managed to blink a few times, to try to focus on the driver, the driver hunched in the front, a man too large even for a car of this size, dressed in a military coat unsuitable for late March, let alone for early July – assuming it was still early July – his hands on the steering wheel wrapped in winter gloves. But it wasn’t winter, must be still summer, for I was sweating, soaked and dripping, my tattered yukata sopping wet through –
“So sorry about that, Sensei,” said the driver. “But if I hadn’t gone into the alley to answer nature’s call, and if the stream of my call hadn’t roused you, then I’d never have found you. Very lucky, all in all…”
“Thank you,” said I, turning my face, and particularly my nose, away from the stench of my yukata toward the window, unfortunately closed.
“Think nothing of it, Sensei,” said the driver. “I’d do the same for any man. But in your case, you being you, it’s an honor. I am a great admirer.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” said the driver. “I grew up reading your books, Sensei. Your characters were like family to me, practically raised me, they did.”
“Thank you,” said I again. “Thank you.”
“No, no,” said the driver, “thank you, Sensei. In fact, it’s funny me picking you up tonight because only the other day I was thinking to myself, I wonder whatever happened to Kuroda Roman? Because you’ve been a bit quiet of late, haven’t you, Sensei? But it makes sense to me now. Because, and please don’t be offended, Sensei, but I can see you’ve been having some problems. I just hope, and forg
ive me if I am being too blunt, but speaking as an admirer, I just hope you hadn’t been trying to do anything stupid back in that alley, the open window and…”
“No, no,” said I. “It wasn’t like that. I fell.”
“Right, right,” said the driver. “It can happen.”
“No, really,” said I. “I got locked inside the building. I’d been at the Mystery Writers of Japan…”
“Had you now,” said the driver. “Oh, I do envy you, Sensei. I’d have liked to have been a fly on them walls, I tell you. Bet you were all discussing the Shimoyama Case?”
“We were actually, yes.”
“I knew it,” said the driver. “I bet there were some theories flying around that room, weren’t there?”
“A few, yes.”
“But you know what annoys me?”
“No,” said I. “What?”
“Headlines like THE CAR USED BY THE SUSPECT IS THE CLUE, and the way some of you writers blame the driver. I don’t mean you, Sensei. At least, I don’t think you suspect the driver, do you, Sensei…?”
“I don’t, no.”
“Didn’t think so,” said the driver. “You’re much too intelligent, I know. But one of your colleagues – forget his name, but a popular writer – in one of the newspapers, he claimed the death of President Shimoyama is a case of murder and that the testimony of his driver, as reported in the newspapers, was highly questionable. He suspected that the driver had been blackmailed or threatened and that he should be considered the prime suspect. What an idiot, an absolute fool!”
“Quite,” agreed I.
“And I’m not saying this just because I’m a driver. It’s not as though all us drivers are part of some kind of secret brotherhood. It’s just that I know the job. And so if he says he was asleep in his car outside the Mitsukoshi department store for five or six hours, I believe him. Because I know that’s how the job is.”
“Of course,” said I.
“Actually, it’s a shame you didn’t come round a bit sooner, Sensei,” said the driver, “because we passed Mitsukoshi, you know, ‘one of the scenes of the crime,’ just a bit back, back when you were still dead to the world.”
“Is that right,” replied I, looking hard out of the window, unable to tell where we were, the car traveling too fast, even accelerating, the inside of the car seemingly shrinking, the body of the driver ballooning.
“But if I may say so,” said the driver, not waiting for I to say yes or say no, “I think novelists, even great ones such as yourself, Sensei, they should stick to their fictions, not get themselves mixed up in the facts. I mean, you of all people, Sensei, you know it’s better not to go and get yourself mixed up in a real-life murder case –”
“Where are we going,” asked I.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sensei, you probably don’t remember, what with you being in the state you were in, but I said I’d take you home…”
“Home,” asked I. “You know where I live?”
“It’s still Negishi, isn’t it, Sensei,” answered the driver, “that is, if my memory is correct?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, Sensei,” said the driver. “It’s my pleasure, Sensei. But hang on, what have we here…?”
Suddenly, the driver braked hard and the car screeched to an abrupt stop, sending me forward, out of my seat, my head bouncing off the back of the driver’s chair. “Owww!”
“Sorry about that, Sensei,” said the driver. “I’m sure it’s just routine, a formality, nothing to worry about.”
I sat back upright, holding my neck, glimpsed the Matsuzakaya department store to my right, and realized we were in Ueno, not far from home, and I’d soon be home sweet –
“So sorry about this, Sensei…”
The back door on the left side of the car opened, and a rough-looking youth, dressed in military khaki and possibly Korean, climbed onto the back seat, the back seat next to me, then slammed the door shut –
“Excuse me,” said I, politely, “but I’m afraid this car is taken, isn’t it, driver?”
The youth turned to me, seized me by my throat with his left hand, punched me twice in my gut with his right, pushed my head hard against the side window, then said, “Step on it, driver!”
Crumpled on the back seat, clutching my stomach, my face pressed to the glass, I watched through the window, a window of tears, as the car began to move forward again, then to turn left, to pass the Shinobazu Pond, where the lotuses were closed and asleep for the night, then left and left and left again, up a hill, then down a slope, until all I could see were high walls and tall trees, their shadows and the night, and all I could hear was the youth whistling the Funeral March as the car slowed before a set of gates marked OFF LIMITS: STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE, then passed through these gates, the gates closing behind the car, and up a long gravel drive, round to a large mansion, a mansion I recognized, the former residence of the Iwasaki family –
“I’m sorry, this is not where I live,” whispered I.
“It is now,” laughed the youth.
The driver turned off the engine, got out of the front, and opened the back door.
I looked up at him and said, “I’m afraid there has been a terrible mistake.”
“Let’s hope not,” said the driver.
“Stop your blubbering and get out,” said the youth, heaving me off the back seat, out of the car and down onto the gravel, the sharp, pointed gravel.
“Get up!”
“I’d rather not,” said I, lying face down, trying to dig a hole in the ground, to tunnel my way out of here.
“Help me get him inside,” the youth ordered the driver, and together they turned me over, picked up an arm and a leg each, then carried me squirming and writhing over the threshold, into the former Iwasaki Mansion, now known as Hongō House.
“I shall be missed,” wailed I.
“In your dreams,” laughed the youth again.
“Questions will be asked!”
“You’re goddamn right they will be,” boomed the familiar voice of an American, just a split second before –
* * *
—
Knuckles and fists rained down on him, on the stones of the street, they punched and chopped him, in the broad light of day, packed and sent him, in the back of the car, their blows and the needle taking him down, knocking him out, down and out, out for the count –
Don’t fight them, darling, please don’t fight…
He drifted as they drove, just drifting, just drifting, in and out of the day and the city, the darkening day, the passing city, here and then gone again, gone again, gone –
Just let them do, do what they want…
Out of the car, the back of the car, they dragged and they hauled him, up stairs and down corridors, they kicked and they kneed him, into steps and into walls –
For we could be happy, darling…
They dropped and they threw him, again and again, across judo mats and polished floors, dropped and thrown, then rolled in a futon, wrapped tight in a futon, they smothered and they suffocated him, again and again –
Darling, we could be happy…
Smothered and suffocated –
Happy and dead.
* * *
—
In a room underground, under the house, under Hongō House, in this tiny room, this cell of a room, under Hongō House, they tied me to a chair, tied me to a desk, bound my fingers to a pen –
And said, “I want you to write it all down.”
“He wants you to write it all down.”
Two figures in the room, this tiny room, under the house, under Hongō House, one in a black raincoat, one in a white raincoat, both masked, in masks: black-raincoat wears a smiling mask, white-raincoat wears an unsmiling mask –
“Who? What? When and where?”
“And the how? And the why?”
“The what and the where?”
“The who and the when?”
The light goes down, down and out, the light comes up, up and in; this is how time passes here, under the house, under Hongō House, where the weather is always the same, where the weather is always bad; this is how time passes here –
“Who? When? How and why?”
“Who–when–how–and–why?”
“WHO? WHEN? HOW? WHY?”
“WHOWHENHOWWHY?”
Light going down and out, light coming up and in, the weather always bad, bad and getting worse, the time passes here without seasons, only fall, my fall –
“Well?”
“Nothing.”
“He didn’t write anything?”
“No.”
“He didn’t write it then?”
“No.”
“Not what we wanted to read?”
“Not what we wanted to read.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“No.”
“He didn’t say it then?”
“No.”
“Not what we wanted to hear?”
“Not what we wanted to hear.”
“But did he weep?”
“Oh yes, he wept.”
“And did he scream?”
“Yes, he screamed.”
“Did he beg for mercy?”
“Yes, he begged for mercy.”
“How did he beg? What did he say?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘All that I give you is never enough.’ ”
“Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“It’s what’s been written down.”
“You weren’t there?”