The old guard explained, ‘The prisoners come here with broken bones or festering wounds. The infected wounds smell so awful that we can’t open the cell doors in the summer.’
I pressed my sleeve against my nose and stepped into the first cell. From the outside it looked to be somewhat roomy, but when I stepped in I realized it was only half the width I thought it was, because of the thick retaining walls, filled with pebbles and sand. It was so cramped it couldn’t hold a single piece of furniture. It wasn’t a prison cell; it was a trap. The spotted walls weren’t even lime-washed and the blackened floor was marinated in sweat, vomit and pus. Everywhere there were fingernail scratches and spots of blood, along with Chinese characters of common Korean girls’ names, some Korean words, and numbers counting down to the day of release. At the far end of the cell there was a waist-high wooden partition. I peeked over it, but had to grab my nose and jump back.
The old guard, jangling his bundle of keys, laughed. ‘That’s the can, my friend. They all bring their own commodes and put them there. When they’re released from solitary they remove them. We don’t clean up those dirty Koreans’ shit, you know.’
I held my breath and looked behind the partition again. A wooden lid was on the floor. I flipped it up to discover a round hole with a handle on the front. I plugged my nose with one hand and with the other lifted the contraption by the handle. Two feet below the hole was a wooden plank soaked in excrement. It was where the prisoner placed his personal latrine. Down there, on the wall, a small ventilation window was covered in inch-thick metal bars.
I walked through the steel doors of the solitary wing and was instantly blinded by the sun. Prisoners 331, 645 and the others who frequented solitary were somehow connected. I was sure of it. I rounded the back of the building and a gust of wind buffeted my face. Coarse grains of sand blew into my eye. ‘This is a year-long problem,’ the old guard said. ‘That shit-storm coming from the mountain, I mean. All the sand and dust pile up under the walls of the buildings. So much so that the prisoners have to shovel it into sacks every month and clear it away.’
A thought darted through my mind, so quickly that it almost slipped by. I whipped around and cried out, ‘Open the cell doors!’
Befuddled, the old guard ran down the corridor. The doors to the solitary wing screeched open again. I ran into the cell I’d just left. I jumped down into the latrine hole and hit the ground with a hollow thud that trembled up through the tips of my toes. I pulled my club out and scraped at the edge of the wooden plank. It caught on a small notch. I squeezed closed my eyes and stuck the tip of my finger in it and pulled. Damp, lukewarm air came rushing up at me, carrying the smell of dirt and tree roots and rocks. An empty hole opened its dark maw between my feet.
The siren blared. Maeda rushed into the solitary wing, looking as hollow as the hole beneath my feet. I shone my torch into the long, narrow tunnel that reeked of excrement, before crawling in. I couldn’t breathe. I crawled along for about five minutes. At the end of the tunnel I discovered worn wooden spoons, flat rocks, broken bowls and bits of china.
‘Fucking moles!’ Maeda said angrily, crawling behind me.
We crawled backwards out to the cell. When Maeda and I emerged from the tunnel, we were relayed the warden’s order to prepare a report. The sun had set. Searchlights scanned the main wing, the outer wall and the roof of the central facilities. They’d increased the number of guards on rounds.
In the warden’s office, standing in front of Hasegawa, Maeda mopped his damp forehead with his sleeve. ‘We did a cell check and everyone is accounted for. The man who dug the tunnel is still inside the prison.’
Hasegawa glared at him. ‘That isn’t the issue, is it? The problem is that there’s a tunnel at all! Don’t you know what will happen if this leaks out?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Maeda said. ‘We’ll find out who did it and fill up the tunnel at once.’
‘And how will you find him?’ Hasegawa grabbed his military sword in fury.
Maeda shot me a panicked look. ‘This one’s young, but very determined. He’s the one who discovered the tunnel in the first place.’
Hasegawa glared at me, waiting for me to explain.
‘During my investigation of the murder I began to observe Prisoner 331, who’d been severely beaten by Sugiyama. I thought that might be motive enough for murder. I saw that his gang wore uniforms that had unusually worn and baggy knees. I thought maybe they frequently kneeled before him, but 331’s trousers were like that too. When I checked the solitary-wing log, I found that they were often sent there. They were practically volunteering to go. Because it’s quiet there and they were left alone, it’s the best place to plot something. And surveillance over there is lax, because the wing is remote and has thick double-layer walls.’
Hasegawa raised his eyebrows. ‘How did you know they dug a tunnel?’
‘The solitary wing is in the path of a strong mountain wind. The guard there said the wind carries dirt and piles it under the walls. In each solitary cell there’s a small barred window. Each time the wind blew they’d toss the dirt they dug out through it to get rid of the evidence. The piles of dirt and sand weren’t really from the mountain. The prisoners had dug it up.’
‘And how did you know that the tunnel was under the latrine?’
‘It’s the only place we don’t inspect. Even if the cell was searched, nobody would look there. A filthy place is safe from prying eyes.’
By now, Maeda had regained his confidence. ‘Sir, the murder of the guard and the escape attempt are not separate incidents. We will catch these barbarians and punish them accordingly.’ He turned to me, encouraging me to explain.
I continued in a louder voice to chase away my fears: ‘The prisoners harboured deep animosity towards Sugiyama’s excessive violence. He had focused his surveillance on a few people. Prisoner 331 was one of them. Sugiyama discovered his escape plot, so 331 got rid of him.’
‘So this 331 is the murderer?’ Hasegawa asked.
‘That’s still only a hypothesis. We’ll have to interrogate him and get him to confess.’
Hasegawa gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry up! Get him to spill!’
THE RECONSTRUCTION OF DEATH
The floor of the interrogation room was soaked through. One side of the room was filled with pincers large and small, bars, chains and sharp tools. On the other side were a cement tub filled with water, a rack and a wooden stool. The smell of rusted metal and blood permeated the stale air. Prisoner 331 was naked, tied to the crossbeam with his arms outstretched. Blood trickled down from his swelling eye, and his ankles were scabbed, rubbed raw by his shackles. A guard, wearing rubber gloves up to his elbows, repeatedly threw water on him. The guard smiled, flashing his yellow teeth. But the guard was no different from the man he had broken. He must be a father who embraced his young son when he returned home, a gentle husband who fixed a broken shelf in the kitchen, a friendly neighbour who was now beating a helpless man to a bloody pulp.
‘Good luck,’ he said to me as he fastened the buttons on his coat. ‘I loosened him up, so he should start talking soon.’ He went up the stairs to leave.
It was a common manoeuvre: the prisoner would be relieved at the departure of the brutal guard and would tell his replacement everything. My role was to appear at the appropriate time and write the report. After the other guard left, I undid the pulley block attached to the crossbeam and Prisoner 331 collapsed on the floor like a pile of sand. I dragged him to a chair and seated him, and he squinted, slowly focusing his swollen eyes on me. I draped his uniform on his shoulders. His eyes betrayed complicated feelings.