Tokyo Year Zero

Because Nishi has no guts. No guts –

Because Nishi is gutless –

Gutless. Gutless …

Just like me.

*

Back inside Headquarters, I go to where we keep the undead. ‘And we’ve both seen this before, detective. Remember?’ I go to where we keep the files of the cases we have not solved. I don’t want to remember. To the archives and the records of our defeats and our failures. But in the half-light, I can’t forget. I ask the man on duty for one of our records of failure. ‘Did you find that file, inspector…?’

‘It would be the fifteenth of August,’ I tell him. ‘Last year.’

The officer disappears and then reappears, empty-handed –

‘Not there,’ he says. ‘Must have already been signed out.’

‘Really?’ I ask him. ‘Do you know who signed it out?’

The officer pulls out the tatty, old battered register –

‘Your Nishi of Room #2,’ laughs the officer.

‘You’re joking?’ I ask him. ‘When?’

‘Only yesterday,’ he says, still laughing at me.

*

Through the dirt and the dust. Through the shadows and the sweat. Chiku-taku. Down Sakurada-dōri to Atago I run. Through the doors and up the stairs. Chiku-taku. Detectives Kimura and Ishida sat in their shirtsleeves on their borrowed chairs at their borrowed desks; Kimura proud to have found Ishida; Ishida nervous and waiting –

I walk straight over. I ask them, ‘Where are the others?’

‘They’re not back from their rounds,’ says Kimura –

I am staring at Ishida. I am asking, ‘And Nishi?’

‘I thought he’d gone with you,’ says Kimura –

I’m still staring at Ishida, asking, ‘Fujita?’

They both shake their heads. Kimura says, ‘Not today.’

I reach down to Ishida. I grab Ishida. I pick him up. I kick away his borrowed chair. I say, ‘Where is Detective Fujita?’

‘I don’t know,’ flaps Ishida. ‘I really don’t know.’

I pull his face closer to mine by his shirt. There is sweat down his face. There is sweat down mine. There are tears in his eyes and there are tears in mine. ‘You’ve lied to me before. You’ve lied…’

‘No,’ squeals Ishida. ‘I haven’t lied to you. I haven’t…’

‘You’ve lied and you’ve lied and you’ve lied…’

‘No, no, no,’ cries Ishida. ‘I haven’t…’

‘You’ve lied to protect him…’

‘No, no, no. I haven’t…’

‘Lied to save him…’

‘No, no, no…’

‘Yes, you have,’ I hiss and I push him away from me. Back over his borrowed chair and back onto his borrowed desk. The sweat down his face and the tears in his eyes –

‘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 –