David Peace - Occupied City

until now you drop your pen,

drop your pen again, here –

Alone by the rivers of ink, alone on the mountains of paper, on your hands and on your knees, in the smoke and in the ash –

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult circle of its seven candles,

among the flurries and the flakes, the paper flurries of paper flakes, these now-black and white flurries

of news-paper flakes,

spinning, spinning

and spinning, deaf again to the steps on the stairs, the sirens and the telephones, startled anew by the hand on your shoulder, you look up from your ink, up from your papers, and you see a smile, a smile that says, that says, ‘My dear, sweet writer –

‘I know this river, I know this mountain. The smell of these fires, the taste of these ashes. I know all about insincerities, I know all about lies. For I am a Master of Insincerities, a Master of Lies. For I trade in insincerities, I trade in lies. For I am a journalist and these are my stories …

The city is a story, so many tales for her to tell, so many chronicles for me to chronicle. For the city is a chronicle, a journal, in black and white, and I am its chronicler, its journalist, in hat and coat. A thousand stories for every day, every night; never one city, but a thousand cities — heaven for some, hell for others. And for every story there are two sides, two sides at least, for the city is always, already a fiction, this city made of paper, this city made of print –

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I am Takeuchi Riichi, Homicide Reporter for the Yomiuri Shimbun . Every day, every night, I walk the city and I hear the city, her streets and her stories. I catch her stories and I collect her stories, to pin and mount them, on paper and in print, to display and exhibit, in black and white –

Monday 26 January 1948 …

In the Fictional City, this story starts like every story, with a siren, and then another, and another, another ambulance siren.

In the late winter afternoon, I am standing around a stove in the press office of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Board with all the other homicide reporters, my rivals from the Mainichi , the Asahi , and all the other newspapers, and we are listening to the sirens, waiting for a statement. But no one comes down from upstairs, no detective with a statement from the MPB, and so we ignore the sirens, warming our hands as we wait for a story –

A sniff of a story …

In the Fictional City, the tap on my shoulder, the word in my ear; ‘A moment of your time,’ whispers Shiratō Sakari. Shiratō is the Public Health reporter for the Yomiuri . Shiratō doesn’t often come down to Police HQ. Shiratō leads me out into the corridor.

‘You heard all those sirens, the ambulances?’ he asks. ‘Well, they’re all heading up to the Shiinamachi branch of the Teikoku Bank in Toshima-ku. Biggest case of food poisoning in years.’

‘Food poisoning? When? How many?’

‘The whole bank, at least ten people, about an hour ago. Loads of police up there, all saying nothing for now, but it’s a big, big story. And we can get the scoop …’

The face out of the door, the shout down the corridor; ‘Takeuchi, telephone!’

‘Wait here,’ I tell Shiratō, and I go back into the press office, the rival eyes of all the other reporters watching me as I shrug and I sigh, pick up the telephone and say, ‘Hello, Takeuchi here.’

‘I know everyone in the room is watching you,’ says Ono, my editor at the Yomiuri . ‘So just answer yes or no.’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘Did you hear those ambulances about an hour ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has there been any statement from the MPB about where they were going, about what’s happening?’

‘No.’

‘Have you spoken with anyone about them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shiratō?’

‘Yes.’

‘He told you it was a big case of food poisoning at the Teikoku Bank in Shiinamachi?’

‘Yes.’

‘He still with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, keep him there. I’ve sent Tomizawa up to Shiinamachi and he’s going to phone back all the details to you because I want you to write this. So you stay put because this is not food poisoning. This is mass murder and robbery, ten dead at least, and the bank’s takings stolen, so get writing the story now. Fill in the details with Tomizawa later. You understand what I’ve said?’

‘Yes … Er no.’

‘Quickly,’ says Ono. ‘Which is it?’

‘Yes. Maybe,’ I start to say, but Ono’s gone, the line dead. I replace the receiver gently. I turn around as casually as I can but I know I will have fooled no one; the rival eyes of all the other reporters still watching me. I fake a yawn but they are shaking their heads. I walk as slowly as I can towards the door but still they are shaking their heads and now, as I open the door, as I step outside, back into the corridor, the rival hands of all the other reporters are reaching for the telephones, their rival fingers dialling their editors –

‘What was all that about?’ asks Shiratō.

‘It was the boss. He says it’s not food poisoning. He says it’s mass murder. Robbery. Ten dead, at least. The takings gone.’

‘How does he know? Who’s he been talking to?’

‘Well, it’ll be one of his usual hunches, won’t it?’ I wink. ‘And, as usual, he’ll be right, won’t he? So he wants us to stay here and to start work.’

‘Work?’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘Work …’

In the Fictional City, at my desk in the press office, I begin to write the story:

MASS MURDER IN SHIINAMACHI —

Ten Workers of Teikoku Bank Slain In Broad Daylight — Robbery Behind Killing?

TOKYO, Jan. 26 — Ten were killed and (XX) others are in critical condition as a result of the attempted robbery and poisoning of the entire staff of the Shiinamachi branch of the Teikoku Bank at Nagasaki-chō, Toshima-ku, Tokyo by a (gang of) cold-blooded criminal(s) who apparently tried to snatch away heaps of bank notes in broad daylight on the afternoon of January 26 .

The sensational ‘poison bank holdup’ case was perpetrated about X o’clock Monday afternoon shortly after the bank had closed for business for the day when a man (men) entered the building .

In no time the bank turned into a veritable death chamber with all the victims writhing in agony. When the relief party arrived at the scene, 10 of the victims had already died. XX others were rushed to the XX hospital and remain in a critical condition .

According to the police, who are strictly keeping away outsiders in an effort to find a clue, XXXXXXXXX .

An intensive police search is being conducted across the city for the bank robber(s) .

A telephone rings. A voice shouts, ‘Takeuchi, telephone!’

I stop writing. I go over to the phone. I say, ‘Takeuchi.’

‘Takeuchi? It’s Tomizawa.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Shiinamachi.’

‘What’s going on? What have you got?’

‘There’s still been no statement from the MPB?’

‘No,’ I say, turning the pages of my notebook, licking the tip of my pencil. ‘So give me everything you’ve got.’

‘Well, it’s not food poisoning. It’s murder. Murder by poisoning. Ten dead for now. Six taken to the Seibo Hospital.’

‘Have you got a chronology for me?’

‘Locals found a young woman who works in the bank crawling around in the street outside at about 4 o’clock …’

‘Name? Age?’

‘No name yet, but early twenties.’