And I curse him. I curse Fujita. I curse Adachi. I curse Hattori. I curse Takeda. I curse Sanada. I curse Shimoda. I curse Nishi. I curse Kimura. I curse Kai. I curse Kanehara. I curse Kita. I curse them all but most of all, I curse myself, I curse myself, I curse myself –
‘Get off your knees!’ I shout. ‘Get off your knees!’
*
The air is still thick with screams and sobs. I hate hospitals. I try not to breathe in. I don’t want to remember. The gurneys still lined up against the walls. I hate hospitals. I try not to stare. I don’t want to remember. Through the waiting rooms, down the long corridors to the service elevator. I hate hospitals. I watch the elevator doors close. I don’t want to remember. I ride the dark elevator down. I hate hospitals. I watch the elevator doors open. I don’t want to remember. I watch them open again onto the light. In the half-light. I watch them open onto Dr. Nakadate; blood on his gown, blood on his mask and blood on his gloves. I can’t forget. Nakadate waiting for me. ‘You’ve not spoken to Chief Kita, have you? About Miyazaki Mitsuko?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. ‘But the file is missing…’
‘So what? You could still go to Chief Kita.’
‘Please give me a few more days…’
‘A few more days? Why?’
Just a few more days …
‘Please doctor, I need to find the file. I need to read it…’
‘Why?’ asks Nakadate. ‘We all know what it must say.’
‘But I wasn’t even the senior officer,’ I say. ‘I need to find the file. I need to read it. And I need to speak to him…’
‘And you think he’d do the same for you?’
‘I really don’t know any more.’
‘A few more days,’ says Nakadate now. ‘But then I’ll go to Chief Kita myself, inspector…’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you really need to get that hand dressed too…’
‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘I know I do.’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’
Not you. Not you. Not you …
I bow to the doctor. I thank the doctor. I turn and I walk away. Down the basement corridor. Past the walls of sinks and drains. Past the warnings and the signs. Past Detective Takeda and Detective Kimura now sat waiting in the corridor with Tominaga Noriko’s landlady. Down to the glass doors. Into the autopsy room –
The clothing has already been laid out on one of the autopsy tables, the two white canvas shoes with their red rubber soles placed at its foot, and the ladies’ undergarments found near the scene placed again on one of the smaller separate dissecting tables –
I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I step back out into the corridor. I ask Tominaga Noriko’s landlady to please step into the autopsy room. Tominaga Noriko’s landlady follows me back inside. Now the landlady glances up at the autopsy table –
She is here. She is here. She is here …
The landlady collapses into tears –
She is here. She is here …
The landlady nods –
She is here …
‘Yes,’ whispers Tominaga Noriko’s landlady and I turn, then I walk and now I run back down the corridor, past the walls of sinks and drains, past the warnings and the signs, into the elevator and into the dark, into the dark then back out into the light, out into the light –
Nishi waiting for me. Nishi with an address.
*
My skin is not red. Nishi can’t wait to ask. My skin is not raw. What happened? My hand does not ache. She identified the clothes. My body does not sweat. The yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dress? The city smells of flowers. Yes. Of flowers and blossom and perfume. The white half-sleeved chemise? The blossom and the perfume that coats my clothes and coats my skin. Yes. That tickles my nostrils and that caresses my throat. The dyed-pink socks? With every disappearing jeep and with every disappearing truck. Yes. I take out my handkerchief. The white canvas shoes with red rubber soles? I take off my hat. Yes, yes, yes. I wipe my face. She identified all the clothing as belonging to Tominaga Noriko? I wipe my neck. Yes. I stare up at the hint of blue in the sky. Really? The breeze in the air. Yes. The perfume on the breeze. Then our body has a name? The blossoms on the breeze. Yes. The flowers on the breeze. Our body is Tominaga Noriko? My skin is not red. Yes. My skin is not raw. And her killer is Kodaira Yoshio? My hand does not ache. Yes. My body does not sweat. And you think he will confess? The city smells of flowers. Yes. The city smells of garlands. And then the case is closed? The city smells of victory. Yes. My victory! My victory! My victory!
Not his victory. Not Fujita’s victory. Not Adachi’s victory. Not Kai’s victory. Not Kanehara’s victory. Not Kita’s victory –
‘This is my victory!’ I shout. ‘Mine! Mine! Mine!’
*
Murota Hideki is originally from Yamanashi Prefecture. But after he was fired from the police for his inappropriate behaviour, after he was left without a job, Murota Hideki did not go back to his family’s home in Yamanashi. Murota Hideki stayed on in Tokyo. And so Murota Hideki still lives in an old wooden row house in Kitazawa, not far from the Shimo-Kitazawa station, the same old wooden row house that Detective Nishi found listed as his address in his personal records, the same old wooden row house before us now –
The knock, the bow and the introductions …
Murota Hideki comes to his doorway in his underwear. Murota Hideki is red faced. Murota Hideki looks at my identification. Murota Hideki is sweating heavily. Murota Hideki wipes his thick neck with a grey towel. Murota Hideki looks up into my eyes –
Eyes he has met somewhere before …
Murota Hideki stinks of alcohol. Murota Hideki knows he has no choice. Murota Hideki listens to what I have to say. Then Murota Hideki looks at Nishi and then back at me and now he says, ‘I know I’ve no choice, but only one of you is coming inside.’
The spit and then the curse …
Murota Hideki turns back inside his house. Murota Hideki pads back across his old worn tatami. Murota Hideki sits back down at his low wooden table to wait for me –
In another shabby room …
For me to close the door on Nishi. To follow him inside his house. To pad across his tatami. To sit down at his table. To watch him pour himself another drink from the tall glass jug on the table –
Murota Hideki stirs the pale white mixture with a chopstick. Murota Hideki raises his glass. Murota Hideki takes a long drink. Now Murota Hideki asks, ‘Come on, what do you want this time?’
‘I want to talk to you about Abe Yoshiko,’ I tell him –
‘Not again,’ he groans. ‘What more is there to say?’
‘Only you know that,’ I say. ‘Is there any more?’