The Devil of Nanking
Also by Mo Hayder
BIRDMAN
THE TREATMENT
The Devil of Nanking
MO HAYDER
Copyright © 2004 by Mo Hayder
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by
Bantam Press/Transworld Publishers, a division of The Random House Group Ltd., London
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hayder, Mo.
The devil of Nanking / Mo Hayder.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9960-7
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Nanking Massacre, Nanjing, Jiangsu Sheng, China, 1937—Fiction. 3. Sino-Japanese Conflict, 1937–1945—Fiction. 4. British—Japan—Fiction. 5. College teachers—Fiction. 6. Tokyo (Japan)— Fiction. 7. Nightclubs—Fiction. 8. Criminals—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6058.A688594D48 2005
813’.54—dc22 2005040302
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
For Iris Chang, 1968–2004, whose bravery and scholarship first lifted the name Nanking out of obscurity
Prologue
Nanking, China: 21 December 1937
To those who fight and rage against superstition, I say only this: why? Why admit to such pride and vanity that you carelessly disregard years of tradition? When the peasant tells you that the great mountains of ancient China were destroyed by the angry gods, that thousands of years ago the skies were torn down, the country set out of kilter, why not believe him? Are you so much cleverer than he is? Are you cleverer than all his generations taken together?
I believe him. Now, at last, I believe. I tremble to write it, but I do, I believe all that superstition tells us. And why? Because there is nothing else to explain the vagaries of this world, no other tool to translate this disaster. So I turn to folklore for my comfort, and I trust the peasant when he says that the wrath of the gods has caused the land to slope downwards to the east. Yes, I trust him when he tells me that everything, river, mud and towns, must eventually slide into the sea. Nanking too. One day Nanking too will slide away to the sea. Her journey may be the slowest, for she is no longer quite like other cities. These last few days have changed her beyond recognition and when she begins to move it will be slowly, for she is tethered to the land by her unburied citizens, and by the ghosts that will pursue her to the coast and back.
Maybe I should consider myself privileged to see her as she is now. From this tiny window I can peer out through the lattice and see what the Japanese have left of her: her blackened buildings, the empty streets, the corpses piling up in the canals and rivers. Then I look down at my shaking hands and wonder why I have survived. The blood is dry now. If I rub my palms together it flakes off, the black scales scatter on the paper, darker than the words I write because my ink is watery: the pine soot inkstick is finished and I haven’t the strength or the courage or the will to go out and find more.
If I were to lay down my pen, lean sideways against the cold wall and adopt an awkward position with my nose squashed against the shutters, I would be able to see Purple Mountain, snow-covered, rising up beyond the shattered roofs. But I will not. There is no call to push my body into an unnatural place because I will never again look upon Purple Mountain. When this diary entry is finished I will have no desire to recall myself, up on those slopes, a ragged and uneven figure, keeping desperate pace with the Japanese soldier, tracking him like a wolf, through frozen streams and snowdrifts . . .
It is less than two hours. Two hours since I caught up with him. We were in a small grove near the mausoleum gates. He was standing with his back to me next to a tree, the melting snow in the branches dripping down on to his shoulders. His head was bent forward a little to peer into the forest ahead, because the mountain slopes are still a dangerous place to be. The cinecamera dangled at his side.
I had been following him for so long that I was bruised and limping, my lungs stinging in the cold air. I came forward slowly. I can’t, now, imagine how I was able to remain so controlled because I was trembling from head to toe. When he heard me he whirled round, falling instinctively to a crouch. But I am not much of a man, not strong, and a full head shorter than he was, and when he saw it was me, he relaxed a little. He straightened slowly, watching me come a few steps nearer until we were only feet apart, and he could see the tears on my face.
‘It will mean nothing to you,’ he said, with something like pity in his voice, ‘but I want you to know that I am sorry. I am very sorry. Do you understand my Japanese?’
‘Yes, I do.’
He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his cracked pigskin glove. ‘It wasn’t as I would have wished it. It never is. Please believe this.’ He raised his hand in the vague direction of the Linggu Temple. ‘It is true that – that he enjoyed it. He always does. But I don’t. I watch them. I make films of what they do, but I take no pleasure from it. Please trust me in this, I take no pleasure.’
I wiped my face with my sleeve, pushing away the tears. I stepped forward and put a trembling hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch – he stood his ground, searching my face, puzzled. There was no fear in his expression: he thought of me as a defenceless civilian. He knew nothing about the small fruit knife hidden in my hand.
‘Give me the camera,’ I said.
‘I can’t. Don’t believe I make these films for their recreation, for the soldiers. I have far greater intentions than that.’
‘Give me the camera.’
He shook his head. ‘Absolutely not.’
With those words the world around us seemed to me to slow down abruptly. Somewhere on the distant slopes below, the Japanese sampohei artillery were laying down heavy mortar fire, chasing renegade Nationalist units off the mountains, rounding them up and forcing them back down to the city, but up on the higher slopes I was aware of no sound at all, save the thudding of our hearts, the ice melting in the trees around us.
‘I said give me the camera.’
‘And I repeat no. Absolutely not.’
I opened my mouth then, canted forward a little and released a howl directly into his mouth. It had been building in me all the time I’d been chasing him through the snow, and now I screamed, like a wounded animal. I lunged, twisting the little knife into him, through the khaki uniform, grinding through the lucky senninbari belt. He didn’t make a sound. His face moved, his head jerked up so fast that his army cap fell off, and we both stumbled back a pace in surprise, staring down at what I’d done. Gouts of blood fell into the snow and the inside of his stomach folded out like creamy fruit through the rip in his uniform. He stared at it for a moment, as if puzzled. Then the pain reached him. He dropped his rifle and grabbed at his stomach, trying to push it back inside. ‘Kuso!’ he said. ‘What have you done?’
I staggered back, dropping the knife into the snow, groping blindly for a tree to lean against. The soldier turned away from me and lurched into the forest. One hand clutching his belly, t
he other still holding the camera, he went unsteadily, his head held up with a peculiar dignity, as if he was heading somewhere important, as if a better, safer world lay somewhere out in the trees. I went after him, stumbling in the snow, my breath coming fast and hot. After about ten yards he tripped, almost lost his balance and cried out something: a woman’s name in Japanese, his mother’s maybe, or his wife’s. He raised his arm and the movement must have loosened things inside because some dark and long part of him slithered out of the wound, dropping into the snow. He slipped in it and tried to regain his balance, but now he was very weak and he could only stagger, in a hazy circle, a long red cord trailing from him, as if this was a birth and not a death.
‘Give it to me. Give me the camera.’
He couldn’t answer. He had lost all ability to reason: he was no longer aware of what was happening. He sank to his knees, his arms raised slightly, and rolled softly on to his side. I was next to him in a second. His lips were blue and there was blood coating his teeth. ‘No,’ he whispered, as I prised his gloved fingers from the camera. His eyes were already blind, but he could sense where I was. He groped for my face. ‘Don’t take it. If you take it who will tell the world?’
If you take it who will tell the world?
Those words have stayed with me. They will be with me for the rest of my life. Who will tell? I stare for a long time at the sky above the house, at the black smoke drifting across the moon. Who will tell? The answer is, no one. No one will tell. It is all over. This will be the last entry in my journal. I will never write again. The rest of my story will stay on the film inside the camera, and what happened today will remain a secret.
tokyo
1
Tokyo, summer 1990
Sometimes you have to really make an effort. Even when you’re tired and hungry and you find yourself somewhere completely strange. That was me in Tokyo that summer, standing in front of Professor Shi Chongming’s door and shaking with anxiety. I had pressed my hair down so it lay as neatly as possible, and I’d spent a long time trying to straighten my old Oxfam skirt, brushing the dust off and ironing out the travel creases with my palms. I’d kicked the battered holdall I’d brought with me on the plane behind my feet so it wouldn’t be the first thing he saw, because it was so important to look normal. I had to count to twenty-five and take very deep, very careful breaths before I had the courage to speak.
‘Hello?’ I said tentatively, my face close to the door. ‘Are you there?’
I waited for a moment, listening hard. I could hear vague shufflings inside, but no one came to the door. I waited a few more moments, my heart getting louder and louder in my ears, then I knocked. ‘Can you hear me?’
The door opened and I took a step back in surprise. Shi Chongming stood in the doorway, very smart and correct, looking at me in silence, his hands at his sides as if he was waiting to be inspected. He was incredibly tiny, like a doll, and around the delicate triangle of his face hung shoulder-length hair, perfectly white, as if he had a snow shawl draped across his shoulders. I stood speechless, my mouth open a little.
He placed his palms flat on his thighs and bowed to me. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, in a soft, almost accentless English. ‘I am Professor Shi Chongming. Who are you?’
‘I – I’m—’ I swallowed. ‘I’m a student. Sort of.’ I fumbled my cardigan sleeve up and pushed out my hand to him. I hoped he didn’t notice my bitten nails. ‘From the University of London.’
He eyed me thoughtfully, taking in my white face, my limp hair, the cardigan and the big shapeless holdall. Everyone does this the first time they meet me, and the truth is, no matter how much you pretend, you never really get used to being stared at.
‘I’ve been needing to meet you for almost half my life,’ I said. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for nine years, seven months and eighteen days.’
‘Nine years, seven months and eighteen days?’ He raised an eyebrow, amused. ‘So long? In that case you had better come in.’
I’m not very good at knowing what other people are thinking, but I do know that you can see tragedy, real tragedy, sitting just inside a person’s gaze. You can almost always see where a person has been if you look hard enough. It had taken me such a long time to track down Shi Chongming. He was in his seventies, and it was amazing to me that, in spite of his age and in spite of what he must feel about the Japanese, he was here, a visiting professor at Todai, the greatest university in Japan. His office overlooked the university archery hall, where dark trees gathered round the complex tiled roofs, where the only sound was crows calling as they hopped between the evergreen oaks. The room was hot and breathless, dusty air stirred by three electric fans that whirred back and forward. I crept in, awed that I was really there at last.
Shi Chongming shifted piles of paper from a chair. ‘Sit. Sit. I’ll make tea.’
I sat with a bump, my heavy shoes pressed rigidly together, my bag on my lap, clutched tightly to my stomach. Shi Chongming limped around, filled an electric Thermos from a sink, oblivious to the water that sprayed out and darkened his mandarin-style tunic. The fan gently shifted the stacks of papers and crumbling old volumes that were piled on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. As soon as I walked in I’d seen, in the corner of the room, a projector. A dusty 16mm projector, only just visible where it had been pushed up in the corner among the towering piles of paper. I wanted to turn and stare at it, but I knew I shouldn’t. I bit my lip and fixed my eyes on Shi Chongming. He was delivering a long monologue about his research.
‘Few have a concept of when Chinese medicine first came to Japan, but you can even look at the Tang era and see evidence of its existence here. Did you know that?’ He made me tea and rustled up a wrapped biscuit from somewhere. ‘The priest Jian Zhen was preaching it, right here, in the eighth century. Now there are kampo shops everywhere you look. Only step outside the campus and you’ll see them. Fascinating, isn’t it?’
I blinked at him. ‘I thought you were a linguist.’
‘A linguist? No, no. Once, maybe, but everything has changed. Do you want to know what I am? I’ll tell you – if you take a microscope and carefully study the nexus where the bio-technologist and the sociologist meet. . .’ He smiled, giving me a glimpse of long yellow teeth. ‘There you’ll find me: Shi Chongming, a very little man with a grand title. The university tells me I’m quite a catch. What I’m interested in is just how much of all this . . .’ he swooped his hand round the room to indicate the books, colour plates of mummified animals, a wall-chart labelled Entomology of Hunan ‘. . . how much of this came with Jian Zhen, and how much was brought back to Japan by the troops in 1945. For example, let me see . . .’ He ran his hands over the familiar texts, pulled out a dusty old volume and put it down in front of me, opened at a bewildering diagram of a bear, dissected to show its internal organs coloured in printer’s pastel shades of pink and mint. ‘For example, the Asiatic black bear. Was it after the Pacific war that they decided to use the gall bladder of their Karuizawa bear for stomach ailments?’ He put his hands on the table and peered at me. ‘I expect that’s where you come in, isn’t it? The black bear is one of my interests. It’s the question that brings most people to my door. Are you a conservationist?’
‘No,’ I said, surprised by how steady my voice was. ‘Actually, no. It’s not where I come in. I’ve never heard of the – the Karuizawa bear.’ And then I couldn’t help it. I turned and glanced at the projector in the corner. ‘I . . .’ I dragged my eyes back to Shi Chongming. ‘I mean that Chinese medicine isn’t what I want to talk about.’
‘No?’ He lowered his spectacles and looked at me with great curiosity. ‘Is it not?’
‘No.’ I shook my head precisely. ‘No. Not at all.’
‘Then . . .’ He paused. ‘Then you’re here because . . .?’
‘Because of Nanking.’
He sat down at the table with a frown. ‘I’m sorry. Who did you say you were?’
‘I’m a student at London Unive
rsity. At least, I was. But I wasn’t studying Chinese medicine. I was studying war atrocities.’
‘Stop.’ He held up his hand. ‘You have come to the wrong man. I am of no interest to you.’
He started to get up from the desk but I unzipped my holdall hastily and pulled out the battered pile of notes secured in an elastic band, dropping some in my nervousness, picking them up and putting them all untidily on the desk between us.
‘I’ve spent half my life researching the war in China.’ I undid the band and spread out my notes. There were sheets of translations in my tiny handwriting, photocopies of testimonies from library books, sketches I’d done to help me visualize what had happened. ‘Especially Nanking. Look,’ I held up a crumpled paper covered in tiny characters, ‘this is about the invasion – it’s a family tree of the Japanese chain of command, it’s all written in Japanese, see? I did it when I was sixteen. I can write some Japanese and some Chinese.’
Shi Chongming looked at it all in silence, sinking slowly into his chair, a strange look on his face. My sketches and diagrams aren’t very good, but I don’t mind it any more when people laugh at them – each one means something important to me, each one helps me order my thoughts, each one reminds me that every day I’m getting nearer the truth of something that happened in Nanking in 1937. ‘And this . . .’ I unfolded a sketch and held it up. It was on a sheet of A3 and over the years transparent lines had worn into it where it had been folded for storage. ‘. . . this is supposed to be the city at the end of the invasion. It took me a whole month to finish. That’s a pile of bodies. See?’ I looked up at him eagerly. ‘If you look carefully you can see I’ve got it exactly right. You can check it now, if you want. There are exactly three hundred thousand corpses in this picture and—’
Shi Chongming got abruptly to his feet and moved from behind the desk. He closed the door, crossed to the window overlooking the archery hall and lowered the blinds. He walked with a slight tow to the left and his hair was so thin that the back of his head seemed almost bald, the skin corrugated, as if there was no skull there and you could see the folds and crevices of his brain. ‘Do you know how sensitive this country is to mention of Nanking?’ He came back and sat down at his desk with arthritic slowness, leaning across to me and talking in a low whisper. ‘Do you know how powerful the right wing is in Japan? Do you know the people who have been attacked for talking about it? The Americans –’ he pointed a shaky finger at me, as if I was the nearest representation of America ‘– the Americans, MacArthur, ensured that the right wing are the fear-mongers they are today. It is quite simple – we do not talk about it.’