David Peace - Occupied City

the medium a detective; a dead detective –

And now you crawl towards her, on your hands and on your knees, towards her prone body, and you put your fingers on her face to close her eyes, her two pitch-black eyes staring up at the ceiling of the upper chamber, the roof of the Black Gate, and in these two pitch-black eyes, in the eyes of this dead detective, you spy a crow, and in her eyes, you follow the flight of this crow,

in these two pitch-black eyes,

through the city, across its rooftops, down its streets, into its alleyways, in her eyes, her pitch-black eyes, and now these eyes, these two pitch-black eyes, these eyes they blink, alive again –

The medium, her left hand behind your head, pulls your face towards her own, and now her lips open your lips, her tongue touches your tongue, moving up and down, her tongue inside your mouth, up and down, in and out, up and down, in and now out –

For now, in the light of the candles, these four candles in their occult square, now the medium pushes you away and she whispers, she whispers the words of the dead detective –

‘You are not him. You are not the man I seek, the man I failed the man I failed THE MAN I FAILED

Act I

1. The city is a wound the city is a wound THIS CITY IS A WOUND In the half-burnt pages of my half-destroyed notebooks in the half-said whispers of the half-heard voices IN THESE HALF-REMEMBERED MEMORIES OF THIS HALF-FORGOTTEN DETECTIVE In the Occupied City in the Occupied City IN THE OCCUPIED CITY We uncover the murders of 169 new-born babies in a maternity home in Shinjuku they parade the guilt of 28 soon-dead men in a court house in Ichigaya THEY WILL FIND YOU GUILTY AND THEY WILL HANG YOU, UNTIL YOUR BLADDER EMPTIES AND YOUR NECK BREAKS My father is dead and my mother has remarried your wife was once a whore, and she is a whore again IN THE FAMILY ALBUMS, IN THE HISTORY BOOKS Even the Emperor has married again, in his top hat and tails, an American General, with a pipe in his mouth your child is not your child WE ARE ALL WHORES I hate all Americans your family is cursed, your house is cursed IN THE RUINS OF THE CITY, IN THE EYES OF THE DEAD I took their job, I take their money the ground beneath is hollow ground THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS I sharpen pencils, I write reports under your chair, under your desk WHAT WILL YOU FIND In my unstable chair, at my untidy desk something is moving, moving behind you, moving beneath you THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS The telephone rings from a music box, what is that tune WHO WILL YOU FIND The clock strikes that familiar, scratched tune GOOD DETECTIVE, BAD DETECTIVE And the case begins, this last case begins a light glowing above the city, a fire raging across the town DON’T LOOK BEHIND YOU On January 26, 1948 it’s coming your way, don’t look behind you IN THE SILENCE, NOTHING BUT SILENCE The telephone, the clock, and this last case it makes you hold your breath AS THOUGH THE WORLD WAS DEAD

2. Across the Occupied City, in our borrowed cars you follow a tune, the sound of scratching IN HEAVY BANDAGES Roads turn to mud, mud turns to rivers across the city, through the night FROM OPEN WOUNDS Snow turns to sleet, sleet turns to rain, turns to sleet again sudden, oncoming headlights, American, blinding headlights THE SCENE OF THE CRIME There are ambulances, there are crowds crawling down the street, on her hands and on her knees THEY STAND, THEY STARE Former soldiers standing in their white robes and khaki-caps, feral children hanging from the branches of the shrine-trees raving about poison, asking for help THEY ARE THE SPECTATORS, WE ARE THE SPECTACLE The Nagasaki Shrine to my right, the Teikoku Bank to my left the sound of scratching, from under the ground THE SPECTACLE, THE CRIME I put out my cigarette, I follow the other detectives, up the steps, into the bank for hell has found us, as hell always finds us THE SCENE OF THE CRIME Down the narrow passages, through the heavy furniture dragging it with us, every place we go IN THE LIDLESS GAZES Between the empty chairs, the rows of desks on our hands and on our knees OF THE RECENTLY DEAD The cash on the desks, in piles, the vomit on the floor, in pools we should tidy, we should clean, straighten the room, wash the cups I STAND, I STARE In the corridor, on the mats, in the bathroom, on the tiles you follow a tune, the sound of scratching I AM THE SPECTATOR, THEY ARE THE SPECTACLE Ten bodies, ten corpses the sound of whispering, the sound of weeping THE CRIME, THE SPECTACLE The clock on the wall, its black hands still moving every place we go, dragging it with us IN HEAVY WINTER CLOTHES Their hands raised, frozen and petrified, at their throats on our hands, on our knees FROM OPEN HUNGRY MOUTHS These men, these women, this child, they died in agony, they died in fear, they died in silence, fallen on each other, lying side by side, faces up and faces down not speaking, but moaning THE SPECTACLE OF THE CRIME

3. I stand in the Seibo Catholic Hospital, by the beds of the four survivors crawling out of hell, on their hands, on their knees THE CRIME SCENE IN MY MIND Nuns stick hoses down their throats, doctors pump out their stomachs down the bank’s corridors, into the bank’s genkan THE CASH ON THE DESKS, THE VAULT DOORS WIDE OPEN I watch them cough, I watch them wretch, fluid and bile through the doors, into the street, the snow and the mud NOTHING OUT OF PLACE, NOTHING BUT THEIR BODIES I wait for them to wake, I wait for them to speak on their hands, on their knees THE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER, THE DIRTY CUPS BEING WASHED Beside their beds, beside their lips it was the drink, it was medicine, a doctor, dysentery THE CRIME SCENE CONTAMINATED

4. I turn the corner into my street what fine men, straight as trees I CAN HEAR HER VOICE, I CAN READ HER THOUGHTS I see my wife, her child strapped to her back, standing with her friend that one gave you a very friendly eye HER LASCIVIOUS VOICE, HER WANTON THOUGHTS They are watching the American soldiers passing in their jeeps look at you, your shining eyes NOT SPEAKING, BUT MOANING Having fun, I ask that child is not your child SKIN UPON SKIN, FLESH INTO FLESH What are you doing here, she asks, shouldn’t you be at work mist rises from under the ground, black smoke from their American ovens NOT SPEAKING, BUT MOANING I say, I was in the neighbourhood, why their fog follows me, follows me to work, follows me back home AMERICAN SKIN UPON JAPANESE SKIN, AMERICAN FLESH INTO JAPANESE FLESH Why nothing, she says, come home, I’ll make you something to eat he thinks too much, his mind wound tight NOT SPEAKING, BUT MOANING I can’t come home, I say, I’m still on duty it is always so dark, he is always so haunted HER WORRIED VOICE, HER FRIGHTENED THOUGHTS Is something the matter with you, she asks, you look so distracted he never even looks at his own child, he will go mad from his own thoughts I HEAR HER VOICE, I READ HER THOUGHTS Nothing is the matter, I say, but I must go no sunshine, no streetlights, only clouds, only shadows ALL THEIR VOICES, ALL THEIR THOUGHTS

5. Wake up, Detective N., says Detective Inspector H., shaking my shoulders, kicking my chair bones aching, chest hurting IN THE OCCUPIED CITY I sit up, I cough twice eyes smarting, ears ringing WHERE IS THE RESISTANCE We’ve just received a report of a body, sounds like a suicide, at an inn in Shiinamachi, near to the Teikoku Bank from the smoke, from the tune THERE IS NO RESISTANCE Take Detective K. and go check it out, says Detective Inspector H., handing me an address on a scrap of paper from the music-box, the American ovens THERE IS NO UNDERGROUND We walk down Mejiro-dōri, we cross over Yamate-dōri, then we turn left into the Nagasaki neighbourhood, looking for the Kiraku Inn in Shiinamachi 5-chōme the smell of burning, the sound of scratching IN THIS CITY OF COLLABORATORS There is an ambulance outside the inn and a doctor stood with the owner of the inn and his wife outside the rooms, inside the rooms IN THIS CITY OF TRAITORS They lead us up a narrow, steep staircase, then down a long, dark corridor to a closed door at the back of the inn biting, chewing, devouring EVERY WIDOW IS NOW FOR SALE He’s in here, says the owner as he slides opens the thin stained door to a small dim room and a body on a futon, the quilt pulled back, the body clothed you can always hear their teeth EVERY WIDOW, EVERY WIFE, EVERY WOMAN It looks to me like a suicide by potassium cyanide, says the doctor, and I read in the newspaper that you believe the killer at the Teikoku Bank may have used potassium cyanide, so I stressed this when I reported the death for everything decays, decomposes and dies IN THE MARKET PLACE, IN THE SHOP WINDOW I walk over to the window, I slide back the screen how many bodies, how many rooms OLD BODIES, FRESH MEAT The body is dressed in a grey sweater, a khaki coat, and black serge trousers in rooms that are not yours TWO-FACES, TURN-COATS A black overcoat hangs by the door, a wallet lies on the floor beside the futon you open doors, you enter rooms ON THEIR KNEES, ON THEIR BACKS I pick up the wallet, I open up the wallet, ¥100 inside the wallet how many rooms that were not yours, how many bodies that were not yours MY WIFE, MY MOTHER He gave his name as Yokobe Kunio, says the owner, and his profession as a company official from Komagawa-mura, Iruma-gun, Saitama Prefecture from room to room, from body to body IN THE SHOP WINDOW, IN THE MARKET PLACE And he arrived here when, I ask in the black fog, in the black mist FOR A NEW MAN, FOR A NEW LIFE About 9:30 p.m. last night, says the owner in your eyes, in your ears IN A NEW COUNTRY, IN A NEW CITY How long do you think he’s been dead, Detective K. asks the doctor the sound of whispering, the sound of scratching THEIR RINGS LOOSE, THEIR LEGS OPEN Not very long, replies the doctor, he’s still warm from the American ovens, from the music-boxes IN THIS COUNTRY OF NO RESISTANCE He’s better off than me then, laughs Detective K. among the smoke, among the tunes IN THIS CITY OF NO RESISTANCE How did you discover him so quickly, I ask the owner you are always so suspicious, you are always so jealous I HATE THE LOSERS, I HATE THE VICTORS The owner shakes his head, then looks at his wife, and he says, She did her eyes will wander, her legs will wander I HATE ALL AMERICANS, I HATE ALL CAUCASIANS I couldn’t sleep last night, says the wife, I had such terrible dreams, dreams about the Teikoku Bank, I had a bad feeling, a bad feeling about him no father for her child, no provider for her needs THE WHITE STARS ON THEIR JEEPS, THE WHITE TEETH IN THEIR MOUTHS I point at the body, and I ask the wife, A bad feeling about him you are never here, you are always gone WHITE SKIN ON YELLOW SKIN, WHITE FLESH IN YELLOW FLESH She nods, About him what does she see in him WHERE IS THE RESISTANCE I stare at her, in her monpe trousers, in her heavy sweater, and I ask, Why this woman is much younger than her husband IN THIS CITY OF COLLABORATORS The wife shakes her head, the wife closes her eyes, then the wife slowly says, Last night, I passed him in the corridor, and he suddenly squeezed my arm, and said he had come to see his friend, but his friend was not here she could have any man she wants IN THIS CITY OF TRAITORS He had tears in his eyes, tears on his cheek, she says a better man than you I AM THE DETECTIVE, I AM THE RESISTANCE I cough once, I cough again an exorcism, an exit THE ONLY RESISTANCE, IN THIS CITY Is it him, asks the wife, the Teikoku killer not you, never you NO RESISTANCE CITY I shake my head, I say, His hair is too long, it can’t be him, the Teikoku killer, not him, no you are no exorcism, you are no exit NO RESISTANCE