David Peace - Occupied City

36. In the Occupied City, I walk away from the riverbank English words, American voices CRIME AND POLITICS In this city of no resistance, I walk up to the road there he is, he’s over there POLITICS AND DISCIPLINE In this city of wounds, I turn another dark corner back to the car, quickly he’s getting away DISCIPLINE AND PUNISHMENT In my ears, car doors slam over there, over there IN THE NEW JAPAN, IN THE NEW WORLD In my heart, the engine revs quick, put your foot down, quick THE ENGINE OF AMERICAN CAPITALISM, THE ENGINE OF JAPANESE CAPITALISM In my mind, the wheels turn over there, quick, over there THE WHEELS OF THE AMERICAN MILITARY, THE WHEELS OF THE JAPANESE BUREAUCRACY In my eyes, the headlights bright quick, over there to the left, at the side of the road THE BRIGHT LIGHTS OF THEIR GREEDY EYES, THE BRIGHT WHITES OF THEIR GREEDY TEETH Bang did we hit him THE EYES OF THE PEOPLE OF JAPAN, THE TEETH OF THE PEOPLE OF AMERICA The engine revs again can you see him JAPAN WATCHING, AMERICA LAUGHING The wheels turn again he’s there, over there LAUGHING AT ME, LAUGHING AT YOU Turn and turn again back up, back up REVERSE COURSE Bang that felt like him, like we got him BANG No more detective no more mysteries NO MORE HOPES OF HAPPY ENDINGS Out of the last corner of my eye, I see them coming half-seen figures, half-heard whispers IN THE BLACK FOG, IN THE BLACK MIST Paralysis, petrification on your hands and on your knees REFLECTED, FRACTURED, DISFIGURED AND OTHER Dead. Dead. Dead is the little Jap bastard dead IN THE BLACK MIRROR, THROUGH THE BLOOD-STAINED LOOKING GLASS Only truth only truth TRUTH Only fragments fragments ONLY FRAGMENTS In the darkness the darkness IN THE DARKNESS I have left the scene of the crime for the last time the scene of the crime THE CRIME, THE SPECTACLE

Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult square, in the light of its candles, truth only fragments, fragments only here –

No more mysteries no more mysteries

NO MORE MYSTERIES –

No more whodunnit contests, no more cash prizes,

no more solutions sealed in envelopes,

no more puzzles, no more games,

here fragments, only fragments

in the candlelight, in the half-light,

only fragments, fragments here. Here where nothing is rational, nothing is fair, where there are no more happy endings,

no more endings at all; no endings and no beginnings,

no books; no book-to-come –

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, beneath the Black Gate, among your blank papers, among your dry pens, you are spinning,

spinning and spinning, spinning again,

deaf again to the foot-stair-steps,

to the sirens, to the telephones,

to the familiar whisper of a familiar man, ‘I told you before, no more tears. No more tears for him …’

that familiar elderly man, that familiar first detective, among his boxes and among his files, dust-webbed and cob-covered,

dragging the dead body of the second detective, dragging it out of the occult circle, away from the light of the candles –

‘Where is your mystery, your whodunnit now?’ he laughs at you, he barks at you, ‘I told you, he did it! He did it!’

‘Liar! Liar! Liar-Dog! Dog-Liar! Lie! Lie!’ you are shouting again, because you hate detectives, and you hate dogs, and all detectives are dogs, all dogs detectives,

except one; this one,

this one which that familiar elderly man, that familiar first detective is dragging

away,

laughing and barking as he goes, as you try to stand, in the light of the four candles, as you try to stop him, in the occult square, to push him to the ground, to kick him in his gut and kick him in his head again, in his deceits and in his lies again, but he is gone now,

kicking over a candle as he goes, the ninth candle,

gone now with the body of the detective,

the dead body of the second detective,

gone now, now only three candles,

in an occult triangle,

remain. And still this book, this book will not come, still it remains the book-to-come, in the light of these three candles, in this upper chamber, where the shadows, the shadows are shuffling, moving now, advancing step by step towards you,

step by step-step, the shadows and the walls, step by step-step, the walls and the darkness, step by step-step –

For this chamber is shrinking, step by step-step, the walls coming closer, step by step-step, the ceiling coming lower, step

by step-step, one candle behind you, one to your left,

one to your right, closer, step by step-step,

lower, step by step-step, the shadows

and the walls, step by step-step,

the walls and the darkness,

step by step–

step –

In the upper chamber of the Black Gate, in the light of the three remaining candles, now a man is seated on the floor before you,

an old and broken man, his body bones and his hair grey,

his clothes those of a convict, a condemned man,

for this is the man who brought you here –

To the scene of this crime, to the words of this book; this book-to-come, that will not come here –

Here beneath the Black Gate –

The man whose case inspired you, inspired you to write this book, this book-to-come, this old man whose name you had hoped to absolve, exonerate and clear, clear –

Through your words,

through your art, to bring him justice, to give him redemption, to bring you attention,

recognition,

and now this old and broken man raises his head, and your eyes meet as the old man says, ‘People have been telling lies about me. I have been telling lies about me. Are you here to tell more lies?’

You shake your head, you smother a sob, and you push a candle towards him, across the tear-splinter-ed floor, and now you say, ‘I am here to listen, to listen to the truth, and then to write that truth. For this candle is your candle; your candle, your story …’

But the old man sighs, then the old man says, ‘I see no candles here, sir. No stories. I see only prisons. Only prisons …

This city is a prison. Its streets and its houses. This room is a prison. Its chair and its bed. This body a prison. My head and my heart.

And they were prisons long before I was convicted of the Teikoku Bank murders, before I was sentenced to death and locked up in this cell in this prison. For I was my own jailer.

My own judge. I was in hell then.

I am in hell now.

Some doctors and my defenders will tell you that I have K-disease, that this disease is the reason I was convicted of murder and sentenced to death, and that this disease has been and remains my first and true prison. And maybe it is true. But I really don’t know. I cannot say. For there are so many things I cannot remember. And there are so many lies I have told. But is this because I am a diseased person, or is it simply because I am a bad person –

Not a sick man, but a wicked man?

But I will tell you my story, neither for your pity nor for my own absolution. I will tell you my story for those who mistakenly but unconditionally once had the misfortune to love me –

For my ex-wife and for my children, those on whom I have brought only shame, for them and only for them.

My name, the name I was given, is Hirasawa Sadamichi. I was born, so I have been told and so believe, on 18 February 1892, in the Officers’ Residence of the Kempeitai Headquarters in Ōtemachi, KŌjimachi Ward, Tokyo.

Because my father was a member of the Military Police, he was stationed in China during the Sino-Japanese War; however, my mother and I remained in Tokyo. On Japan’s victory in the war, my father returned to Tokyo in the autumn of 1904, but was soon transferred to Sapporo in Hokkaido. This time the whole family went with my father and I was enrolled in the local elementary school.