David Peace - Tokyo Year Zero

I ask him nothing. I say nothing –

‘Take the Kempeitai, or even me, for example; they give us a big medal over there for all the things we did, but then we come back here and all we get is a long rope…’

I still say nothing –

‘Come on,’ he laughs. ‘You were over there; you saw what I saw, you did what I did…’

‘Shut up!’

‘You know, soldier, you really do look like a man I once saw over there in Jinan…’

‘Shut up!’

‘Why?’ laughs Kodaira again. ‘It couldn’t have been you, could it, soldier? He was Kempei and he was a corporal.’

‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’

‘And his name wasn’t Minami…’

‘Shut up! Shut up! ’

‘I think it was Katayama…’

‘I know who I am,’ I shout. ‘I know! I know who I am!’

Now Kodaira leans across the table towards me. Now he puts his hands on mine. Now he says, ‘Forget it, corporal…’

No one is who they say they are …

‘But I know who I am,’ I hiss. ‘I know…’

No one is who they seem …

‘It was a different world,’ says Kodaira. ‘A different time.’

*

A century of change takes place in one night of fire; neighbourhoods bombed to the ground, their people burnt to death; where there were factories and homes, where there were workers and children, now there is only dust, now there is only ash, and no one will remember those buildings, no one will remember those people –

No one will remember anything …

Things that happened last week already seem as though they happened years, even decades before. Things that happened only yesterday, no longer even register –

This is the war now …

There are severed legs and there are severed heads, a woman’s trunk with its intestines spilt, a child’s spectacles melted to its face, the dead in clusters, pets and babies, dogs and children, men and women, old and young, soldier and civilian, each one indistinguishable from the other –

The smell of apricots …

Each burnt, each dead –

This is my war now …

The air warm and the dawn pink. The smell of apricots . Black piles of bedding, black piles of possessions strewn on either side of the road. The stench of rotten apricots . Their black bicycles lie fallen, their black bodies huddled together. The smell of apricots . Black factories and black bathhouses still smouldering –

That stench of rotten apricots …

The all-clear signal now –

I should not be here …

The orders to assemble at various elementary schools, the orders to avoid certain other schools. The smell of apricots . I stagger and I stumble on, Yuki still in my arms. I should not be here . I want to leave her, I want to go home, but I cannot. The stench of rotten apricots . I stagger and I stumble, through the black columns of survivors, their black bedding on their backs, their black bicycles at their sides. I should not be here . I stagger and I stumble on until we reach the Sumida River, the river now black with bodies. The smell of apricots . I carry Yuki across the black bridge. I should not be here . I stagger and I stumble past soldiers clearing the black streets, shifting the black bodies into the backs of their trucks with hooks. The stench of rotten apricots . I stagger and I stumble as the black flesh tears, the black bodies fall apart. I should not be here . Until the air is no longer warm, the dawn no longer pink. Just the smell of apricots …

Until I can look no more, I stagger and I stumble –

I should not be here. I should not be here …

Until hours, maybe days later, I carry her up the stairs of a deserted block of apartments in Shinagawa –

I should not be here …

Until I lay her down on the pale tatami mats of a second-floor room, frayed and well worn, the chrysanthemum wallpaper limp and peeling. Here in the half-light . I take the bottle out of my pocket. I unscrew the cap of the bottle. I take the cotton wool out of the neck of the bottle. I begin to count the pills –

I should not be here …

One Calmotin, two . I count and I count. I take out a second bottle. I count out the pills. Thirty-one Calmotin, thirty-two . I count and I count. I take out the third bottle. Sixty-one Calmotin, sixty-two . I count and I count. The fourth bottle and then the fifth –

One hundred and twenty-one Calmotin …

I should not be here, on my knees –

This is surrender …

I should not be here –

This is defeat …

*

Potsu-potsu , the rain is still falling, the hot fat drops on the kettles and the pans; potsu-potsu it falls in its terrible rhythm on the crockery and the utensils; potsu-potsu on the clothes and the shoes; potsu-potsu on the cooking oil and the soy sauce –

No ‘Apple Song’ here tonight –

Potsu-potsu it falls on the corrugated tin roof which covers the stairs up to Senju Akira’s office –

Potsu-potsu, potsu-potsu …

Heavier and heavier –

Zā-zā, zā-zā …

I clutch my knapsack. I start to shuffle backwards towards the door, on my hands and on my knees –

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Senju laughing at me now as he asks, ‘You didn’t bring me back any souvenirs from Tochigi then? Not very thoughtful…’

‘I am very sorry,’ I tell him and I bow again –

But now Senju has said too much …

On my hands and on my knees –

He has said too much …

I get off my knees. He has said too much . I open my old army knapsack. Get off your knees! I take out the 1939 army-issue pistol. He has said too much . I raise it. Get off your knees! I aim and I point it at Senju Akira. He has said too much . Senju sat cross-legged before the long low polished table. Get off your knees! Bare-chested, with his trousers unbuttoned at the waist. He has said too much . Revolvers and short swords lain out on the table before him –

Get off your knees! Get off your knees!

‘It was you,’ I tell him. You who ordered Ishida to kill me. You who ordered Ishida to steal that file because Fujita told you it would buy Adachi’s silence. Because you knew Adachi would find out. You knew he would find out it was you; you who introduced Fujita to Nodera; you who set them up to kill Matsuda, your own boss, your mentor, the man you called brother; it was you…

‘You who ordered the hit on Matsuda…’

Now Senju looks up at me and smiles –

Senju laughing at me again now –

He, he, he, he! Ho, ho, ho, ho …

‘Suddenly you’re a brave man, are you? With your grey hair and your stench of death, suddenly you’re a hero again, are you? Suddenly, back from the dead. Go on then, corporal…’

The 1939 army-issue pistol pointed at him –

‘Corporal what …? What’s your name…?’

The 1939 army-issue pistol aimed at him –

‘What is it this week, corporal…?’

The army-issue pistol in my hand –

‘Who are you today, cor—’

I pull the trigger. Bang!

His forehead shatters –

I am off my knees …

I can hear feet coming. I pick up the file and the papers, the money and the drugs. Feet up the stairs, through the doors –

Through the doors, and I shoot again –

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The first one falls, the other turns –

I run to the door and I shoot –