Occupied City (18 page)

‘Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!’

Demons with their pictures of Him –

‘Oni wa soto!’

And now the crowd sees me, in my brown lounge suit, in their thousands, in my spring rain coat, in their masks of demons, in my burnt-orange boots, with their pictures of Him, with my white cloth band upon my left arm, now they see me,
LEADER OF THE DISINFECTING TEAM
, and they grab handfuls of roasted beans, with my short hair, in their thousands, my grey hair, in their masks of demons, my two brown spots on the left side of my face, and now they throw their handfuls of beans at me, handful after handful –

‘Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!’

In their thousands, in their masks –

‘Oni wa soto!’

Handful after handful, my face stung, swarm after swarm, my face bleeding, in their thousands, they are putting their arms through the arms of my brown lounge suit, in their masks, they are lifting my burnt-orange boots off the ground –

‘Oni wa soto!’

IN THE oCcULT CITY, I am flying now, past the mid-night, through the blue-sky, the moon and the stars all out tonight and they look good, so good tonight, and now they put me down, down where the tall grass grows, down among the branches and the leaves, the sky a dirty yellow now, the moon a bloody red, in this forest of broken bones and dead skin, He is coming now, shuffling through the forest, He is here, shuffling through the trees, He is here, He who has brought my carcass to this place, to this defeated city, here to parade my meat, in the occupied city, my flesh to hang from its branches, my blood to drip from its leaves, to stain the trees, the branches and the limbs of the oCcULT CITY, in this place where the flies begin to gather now, this place where death will come as a wasp, a wasp in the Wintertime, in its light that sheds no light, with its sunfall and rainshine, where I will be but shadow, shadow at the side of the road.

And now He lays me down, and He stretches me out, and He smiles and He says, ‘This city is no séance. This city is a mirror.’

And He holds the mirror up to my face, the nails to my hands, my hands to His door, and now He laughs,

the Last Laugh, ‘Ha!’

Beneath the Black Gate
, in its upper chamber, the door falls, the medium falls, and now the fifth candle is extinguished,

another candle, another life, out, out, out,

and once again you are alone,

alone in the occult circle,

alone in the light

of its seven

candles,

with no new words and no new book, among the rivers of ink and the mountains of paper, the bonfires and the ashes,

you crawl, in circles, on your hands

and on your knees, you crawl, through old words and old books, and you pick up the books and then you drop the books, drop the books and then pick up your pen, pick up your pen and now you write, write more and more insincerities, again and again, more and more lies, day after day, the same insincerities, the same lies, over and over, day after day, again and again,

until now you drop your pen,

drop your pen again, here –

Alone by the rivers of ink, alone on the mountains of paper, on your hands and on your knees, in the smoke and in the ash –

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the occult circle of its seven candles,

among the flurries and the flakes, the paper flurries of paper flakes, these now-black and white flurries

of news-paper flakes,

spinning, spinning

and spinning, deaf again to the steps on the stairs, the sirens and the telephones, startled anew by the hand on your shoulder, you look up from your ink, up from your papers, and you see a smile, a smile that says, that says, ‘My dear, sweet writer –

‘I know this river, I know this mountain. The smell of these fires, the taste of these ashes. I know all about insincerities, I know all about lies. For I am a Master of Insincerities, a Master of Lies. For I trade in insincerities, I trade in lies. For I am a journalist and these are my stories …

The city is a story, so many tales for her to tell, so many chronicles for me to chronicle. For the city is a chronicle, a journal, in black and white, and I am its chronicler, its journalist, in hat and coat. A thousand stories for every day, every night; never one city, but a thousand cities – heaven for some, hell for others. And for every story there are two sides, two sides at least, for the city is always, already a fiction, this city made of paper, this city made of print –

IN THE FICTIONAL CITY, I am Takeuchi Riichi, Homicide Reporter for the
Yomiuri Shimbun
. Every day, every night, I walk the city and I hear the city, her streets and her stories. I catch her stories and I collect her stories, to pin and mount them, on paper and in print, to display and exhibit, in black and white –

Monday 26 January 1948 …

In the Fictional City, this story starts like every story, with a siren, and then another, and another, another ambulance siren.

In the late winter afternoon, I am standing around a stove in the press office of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Board with all the other homicide reporters, my rivals from the
Mainichi
, the
Asahi
, and all the other newspapers, and we are listening to the sirens, waiting for a statement. But no one comes down from upstairs, no detective with a statement from the MPB, and so we ignore the sirens, warming our hands as we wait for a story –

A sniff of a story …

In the Fictional City, the tap on my shoulder, the word in my ear; ‘A moment of your time,’ whispers Shiratō Sakari. Shiratō is the Public Health reporter for the
Yomiuri
. Shiratō doesn’t often come down to Police HQ. Shiratō leads me out into the corridor.

‘You heard all those sirens, the ambulances?’ he asks. ‘Well, they’re all heading up to the Shiinamachi branch of the Teikoku Bank in Toshima-ku. Biggest case of food poisoning in years.’

‘Food poisoning? When? How many?’

‘The whole bank, at least ten people, about an hour ago. Loads of police up there, all saying nothing for now, but it’s a big, big story. And we can get the scoop …’

The face out of the door, the shout down the corridor; ‘Takeuchi, telephone!’

‘Wait here,’ I tell Shiratō, and I go back into the press office, the rival eyes of all the other reporters watching me as I shrug and I sigh, pick up the telephone and say, ‘Hello, Takeuchi here.’

‘I know everyone in the room is watching you,’ says Ono, my editor at the
Yomiuri
. ‘So just answer yes or no.’

‘OK,’ I say.

‘Did you hear those ambulances about an hour ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has there been any statement from the MPB about where they were going, about what’s happening?’

‘No.’

‘Have you spoken with anyone about them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shiratō?’

‘Yes.’

‘He told you it was a big case of food poisoning at the Teikoku Bank in Shiinamachi?’

‘Yes.’

‘He still with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, keep him there. I’ve sent Tomizawa up to Shiinamachi and he’s going to phone back all the details to you because I want you to write this. So you stay put because this is not food poisoning. This is mass murder and robbery, ten dead at least, and the bank’s takings stolen, so get writing the story now. Fill in the details with Tomizawa later. You understand what I’ve said?’

‘Yes … Er no.’

‘Quickly,’ says Ono. ‘Which is it?’

‘Yes. Maybe,’ I start to say, but Ono’s gone, the line dead. I replace the receiver gently. I turn around as casually as I can but I know I will have fooled no one; the rival eyes of all the other reporters still watching me. I fake a yawn but they are shaking their heads. I walk as slowly as I can towards the door but still they are
shaking their heads and now, as I open the door, as I step outside, back into the corridor, the rival hands of all the other reporters are reaching for the telephones, their rival fingers dialling their editors –

‘What was all that about?’ asks Shiratō.

‘It was the boss. He says it’s not food poisoning. He says it’s mass murder. Robbery. Ten dead, at least. The takings gone.’

‘How does he know? Who’s he been talking to?’

‘Well, it’ll be one of his usual hunches, won’t it?’ I wink. ‘And, as usual, he’ll be right, won’t he? So he wants us to stay here and to start work.’

‘Work?’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘Work …’

In the Fictional City, at my desk in the press office, I begin to write the story:

Ten Workers of Teikoku Bank Slain In Broad Daylight – Robbery Behind Killing?

TOKYO, Jan. 26 – Ten were killed and (XX) others are in critical condition as a result of the attempted robbery and poisoning of the entire staff of the Shiinamachi branch of the Teikoku Bank at Nagasaki-chō, Toshima-ku, Tokyo by a (gang of) cold-blooded criminal(s) who apparently tried to snatch away heaps of bank notes in broad daylight on the afternoon of January 26
.

The sensational ‘poison bank holdup’ case was perpetrated about X o’clock Monday afternoon shortly after the bank had closed for business for the day when a man (men) entered the building
.

In no time the bank turned into a veritable death chamber with all the victims writhing in agony. When the relief party arrived at the scene, 10 of the victims had already died. XX others were rushed to the XX hospital and remain in a critical condition
.

According to the police, who are strictly keeping away outsiders in an effort to find a clue, XXXXXXXXX
.

An intensive police search is being conducted across the city for the bank robber(s)
.

‘Takeuchi? It’s Tomizawa.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Shiinamachi.’

‘What’s going on? What have you got?’

‘There’s still been no statement from the MPB?’

‘No,’ I say, turning the pages of my notebook, licking the tip of my pencil. ‘So give me everything you’ve got.’

‘Well, it’s not food poisoning. It’s murder. Murder by poisoning. Ten dead for now. Six taken to the Seibo Hospital.’

‘Have you got a chronology for me?’

‘Locals found a young woman who works in the bank crawling around in the street outside at about 4 o’clock …’

‘Name? Age?’

‘No name yet, but early twenties.’

‘OK. Go on …’

‘Apparently she was trying to get to the local liquor store to telephone for ambulances and the police, so one local woman ran to the liquor store to call for the ambulances and police while another local stayed with the young woman who was losing consciousness, meanwhile other locals rushed up the road and into the bank …’

‘Great,’ I say. ‘What did they find? What did they see?’

‘A death chamber,’ says Tomizawa. ‘Bodies lying everywhere. In the corridors, on the floor, in the bathroom. A line of corpses by the sink. All of them with their eyes still open. Their mouths running with blood and vomit…’

‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘Go on …’

‘Some of them were still alive …’

‘Any of them talking?’

‘No,’ says Tomizawa. ‘Coughing, spitting, losing consciousness. And then the police and the ambulances arrived.’

‘The locals say how many were alive?’

‘Six, but two were very bad.’

‘Have you been inside?’

‘Yes. When I got there it was still chaos, so I flashed my wallet, making out I was a detective, and I was in there for about ten minutes before they realized and threw me out.’

‘So go on, what did you see?’

‘Well, the bodies were still there, and there were loads of police, but there was a strange calmness, yeah calmness. All the
desks were just as you’d imagine them, with ledgers and papers spread out. Stacks of cash on the desks as well…’

‘Stacks of cash?’

‘Yeah, just sitting there, untouched. A tray of cups as well. It was just as if it was a normal working day in a normal bank. Apart from the bodies and all the police, the police drawing chalk marks around the bodies, their photographers taking their pictures. There were even some of the locals in there, trying to tidy up …’

‘And the police? What were they saying?’

‘Well, you know the police. Not much. Muttering about it being food poisoning, not murder. And then of course they twigged who I was and they threw me out…’

‘So the cops, they don’t think it’s murder? Is that what you’re saying? They still think it’s food poisoning?’

‘Not any more,’ says Tomizawa. ‘Back outside, I was stood among the crowd – massive crowd by now – finding out what I could, when the Big Boys from the MPB arrived. Minute they got inside the bank, they threw out all the locals. But some of those locals had heard the detectives saying it was mass murder and that the bank was a crime scene and it had to be protected …’

‘You know what made them change their minds?’

‘Well, one of the uniforms who’d been inside the bank and was then sent outside to keep people away, I asked him what was going on, and he said one of the victims up at the hospital, she was talking and had told them some kind of doctor had come to the bank and given them some kind of medicine for dysentery, that they’d all drunk this medicine and that was when they’d all collapsed. No mention of food, only a doctor and some medicine.’

‘Just the one man, not a gang?’

‘Far as I know, just the one.’

‘Description?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Right then,’ I tell Tomizawa. ‘You stay where you are. I’m going to finish off the piece for the Boss and then head up to the hospital. Call us in a couple of hours …’

I replace the receiver. I turn around. The rival eyes of all the other reporters are no longer watching me, their rival ears already at the other phones, their rival fingers already writing in their notebooks, every other reporter either listening or writing –