David Peace - Tokyo Year Zero

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry…’

‘Fujita’s finished,’ I tell him. ‘And you’ll be finished…’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…’

‘If you don’t tell me where he is…’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry…’

‘Tell me! Quick!’

‘Detective Fujita will be in the Ginza tonight,’ sobs Ishida. ‘He’ll be at the New Oasis club. After nine o’clock.’

‘He was seen drinking with Nodera Tomiji at the New Oasis on the night of the Matsuda Giichi hit…’

‘The New Oasis? Why there?’

But Ishida looks at the floor –

Ishida shakes his head –

‘I don’t know…’

I take out my handkerchief. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck –

I lean over Ishida. I lift up his face. I dry his eyes –

I tell him, ‘You stay here with Kimura, OK?’

He buries his head again and he nods.

*

There were tea-shops and cafés here once where you could listen to a gramophone recording as you watched the latest fashions stroll past. Now I stand on the Ginza and I stare into the windows of the Victors’ Post Exchange. I stand and I stare with the hungry kids and teenage girls at the Victors’ brand-new clothes, at their bright white towels and their real leather shoes. I stand and I stare as the children and the girls swarm around Victors laden down with shopping bags, the children and the girls begging the Victors for gum and chocolate –

I walk away. I walk away. I walk away. I walk …

Past the department stores, most still empty but some now opening on the lower floors, though these floors are covered with rubble and their showcases filled only with cheap junk. Past dead buildings still nothing but concrete frames, still black from the flames, along crumbling sidewalks and the endless piles of garbage –

I turn away. I turn away. I turn away. I turn …

From the shoddy little mats along the old broken curbs with their harsh silk handkerchiefs and their coarse picture postcards, their busted fountain pens and their flavoured cups of ice –

I look away. I look away. I look …

But every single rag and every single morsel has a market value here, every single grain of rice from our one bowl a day when one cup of rice, three cigarettes and four matches are our ration, when a long-dead fish is a whole week’s wage –

I cannot run away. I cannot run …

Now it’s time. Chiku-taku …

Now day is night.

*

Day is night. Night is day. Day is night. Night is day. Day is …

I stand before the door. I read the sign above the door –

The New Oasis is a Korean-run shithole in the shadow of the original Oasis, down another Ginza backstreet, between another bombed-out shell and another mountain-range of garbage. The original Oasis was another gift to the Victors from the Recreation and Amusement Association, another International Palace. But the New Oasis is not for the white Victors. The New Oasis is for the yellow ones, the Koreans and the Chinese. The New Oasis is not run by the Recreation and Amusement Association. The New Oasis is not owned by Ando Akira. The New Oasis is owned by Mr. Machii –

Machii Hisayuki, a Korean-Japanese, the Bull of Ginza …

I am itching and I am sweating and I am scared –

The old rival of Matsuda. The new enemy of Senju …

If Fujita is here, then Fujita has crossed a line –

Hayashi Jo face down in the water …

The door is closed. I open the door. I see a flight of steps down to another closed door. I walk down the steps. The door has a spyhole. I knock on the door. I know someone is staring at me through the spyhole. The handle turning now. The door opening –

‘What do you want?’ says a thickset Korean in a suit –

‘A drink,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here to meet a friend.’

‘This is a members’ club,’ he says –

‘Then I’d like to join,’ I say.

‘It’s one hundred yen.’

I curse. I curse …

I take out my wallet. But not my techō . I open it. I have one hundred yen in notes. But that is all I have. The thickset Korean takes the notes from me. The Korean puts them in his own pocket –

He laughs, ‘Welcome to the New Oasis club…’

The ceiling is low and the lights are dim. If Fujita is here, then Fujita has crossed a line . The bar is long and the staff Korean –

I see Fujita. Fujita is here . Fujita sees me. Fujita has crossed the line . I think he’ll run but he smiles. Fujita smiling . He is smiling as he stands and walks down the length of the bar towards me –

What if he has a gun? What if he pulls it here?

Down the length of the bar, still smiling –

Hayashi Jo face down in the water …

Fujita bows and says, ‘Good evening.’

‘Hayashi Jo is dead,’ I say. ‘And Adachi is looking for you.’

‘Adachi knows nothing,’ he says. ‘But he says nothing and then lets you fill in the gaps for him. Congratulations, inspector –

‘He’s probably followed you all the way here…’

‘I told Adachi nothing,’ I say. ‘But he knows things.’

‘What does Adachi know? What is there to know?’

‘Adachi knows you went to the Minpo offices,’ I tell him. ‘He knows you went there to see Hayashi Jo…’

‘And so what of it?’ asks Fujita.

‘So they told Adachi that he was the third cop in the last three days to visit them and that you were the first…’

‘But that doesn’t mean I killed him,’ says Fujita. ‘Does it?’

‘But yours is the only name he’s mentioned,’ I tell him. ‘You’re the only person Adachi is looking for…’

‘I’m not afraid of Adachi,’ laughs Fujita. ‘The captain has his secrets, just like everyone else. Just like you.’

I curse him and now I curse myself …

I ask, ‘Did you kill Hayashi Jo?’

‘Now that’s a very strange question to be asking me,’ says Detective Fujita. ‘Because I hardly knew Hayashi Jo at all and it wasn’t me who gave poor old Hayashi’s name to Senju Akira…’

Day is night. Night is day. Day is night. Night is day …

Fujita smiles, ‘I thought that was you, corporal?’

Day is night. Night is day. Day is night …

Fujita laughs, ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’

Night is day. Day is night. Day is …

I start to speak but the lights go out –

Night. Night. Night. Night …

There’s been another power cut –

Night. Night. Night …

‘That was you, wasn’t it?’ whispers Fujita again, in the dark.

*

The power is still down and it is even darker now. The lights still out and I’m even drunker now. I’m drunk on Korean liquor. The stench of the liquor sticks to the sweat on my skin. My skin itches and so I scratch. Gari-gari . I scratch and I scratch until my arms bleed beneath my shirt. Gari-gari . My shirt heavy with sweat and now blood. Blood on my hands as I walk from the Ginza back towards Atago. Back towards Atago through the debris of Yūraku-chō. The debris of Yūraku-chō piled up in mountains and in monuments. In monuments to loss, loss under every archway. Under every single archway, down every single alleyway. Down every alleyway and in every shadow. In every shadow and in every shout. Every shout of –

‘Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu…?’

I look under every single archway. Down every single alleyway. In every single shadow. Until I find the one I am looking for. The one in her yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dress –

‘Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu …? Asobu…?’