As for the owner himself, Viktor Mascarenhas, Darya wasn’t sure what to make of him. For instance, they hadn’t been able to figure out yet where Viktor slept. They saw him at the reception in the morning and when they passed him to go upstairs to retire for the night; he was always sitting up on his hard chair, occasionally either looking up to greet them, or staring at the wall to his side. Veda wondered if he slept in the reception room, but it didn’t look big enough for that. There was a wooden desk, a large wall cupboard, a books closet, even a kitchenette, but no bed.
‘He looks like a sick puppy,’ Veda had remarked one time, in the early days. The description was apt, given his droopy eyes and the sad smile perpetually plastered on his sallow face. The hair on his head looked like a wet dog’s fur. On his skeletal frame, he wore mono-coloured, always-too-big-for-him, full-sleeve shirts that hung as if on a scarecrow, paired with narrow cuffed pants on his spindly legs. He was easy to feel sorry for, especially after they’d caught him one day, furiously polishing the head of a wooden figurine on his table, smiling and talking to himself. They’d noticed the odd statuette the very first day, a bird of some sort, native-American-totem like. Its sharp beak held a pair of plastic-framed spectacles. A cherry-coloured adult-sized cap covered its head, the front flap reaching down to the edges of the spectacles. Viktor must have put them on the bird himself, but what for, who knew?
‘Poor boy,’ Veda had murmured.
‘He’s twenty years old,’ Darya had retorted.
‘But stupid, like a child.’
‘He manages this place well enough. Checks in guests, keeps the rooms clean, can even answer questions as long as it is nothing complicated.’
Veda had rolled her eyes. ‘You know what I mean. The way he sits, the way he walks, the way he talks, the way he blanks out when he’s talking to you, as if he has seen someone in the room we cannot see.’
‘Ahem. And what about the sister?’ she’d asked.
‘Debbie’s okay,’ Veda had said, then tapped a finger on her skull. ‘Victor’s the crazy one.’
Debbie, or Deborah, was Viktor’s older sister who divided her time between the villa and her husband, who she said lived in another part of the city. ‘Viktor used to be okay, you know,’ she’d told them the first day they’d met, in response to the eye-roll Darya had given Veda when they were at the reception, signing the guest-entry register. Viktor had fumbled more than once to come up with the right page for them to sign.
‘What do you mean?’ Darya had asked, embarrassed at being caught.
‘Viktor.’ Debbie had gestured, lowering her voice. ‘I can see you’ve noticed.’ Viktor had paid them no attention, instead moving to fetch their room keys.
‘No, we—’ Darya had started.
‘It’s alright,’ Debbie had cut her off. ‘I don’t take offence, and neither does he. We accept it as a way of life. He is a special boy.’ Then softly, she’d added, ‘He used to be okay, you know… before Daniel died.’
The photograph on the reception’s table had been turned away, but Darya remembered seeing it the first time they’d come to the villa, when they were casing it. She’d knocked it over by accident. It was a family photograph—a young girl seated on a high, ornate stool, with two little boys in striped jumpers leaning on her symmetrically—splitting images of each other—most likely twins. Darya had recognized the girl to be a younger Debbie; the boys were Viktor and Daniel then. Behind them were purportedly the parents: the man—droopy-eyed and serious-looking; the woman—mild faced and placidly smiling. You’ve got your mother’s eyes; Darya had commented as she’d put the photograph back in its place. Debbie had not seemed pleased with the compliment and mumbled to Darya, She’s my stepmom. My real mother died a long time ago.
‘He’s not been the same since,’ Debbie had told them later. ‘I’m fourteen years older and was already married when it happened. Our father died in the same accident. Viktor lived with us after that, until four years ago, when he turned sixteen, and we bought this bungalow. I set it up as a guest house so he could earn money and live off it. We also taught him some basic electrical and plumbing skills. Occasionally, he does house calls, but I don’t let him go too far.’
Debbie was beautiful. Skin like cream; hair straight, lush and black, tapering below her hips. A full fringe over her forehead. Soft brown eyes under sharply arched eyebrows. A pointed, attractive chin. Sharp, graceful movements. Shapely even though she was in her mid-thirties. The only comedown was that she never smiled. Her thin lips, almost always coloured in a severe shade of maroon, moved as if belonging to a marionette, as if being forced to speak, and her face was expressionless all the time. And despite being in good shape, she was always sheathed, from head to toe, in dark, oppressive colours.
In contrast, her brother’s face was pale and wide, like a saucer of milk. He was as awkward as Debbie was elegant. An overgrown boy.
When Darya returned to the room from the grocer’s, Veda was still asleep. The room was dark, the curtains drawn.
Darya placed the shopping bag down noisily and drew the curtains aside.
Veda stretched and rubbed her eyes. ‘I thought you’d take longer,’ she sighed.
‘It’s eight,’ Darya said accusingly.
‘Hmm…’
‘Wake up,’ Darya said. ‘I got us some breakfast.’
‘Well, okay, since you insist,’ Veda muttered, using her elbows to sit up. ‘Wait, let me brush first.’ She got off the bed and headed to the en-suite bathroom.
Darya plonked herself on the bed. Next to her was probably the best piece of furniture in the room, a mango-wood side table. It held an emerald-green lamp along with two disposable plates, crusty from last night.
Veda emerged from the bathroom.
‘What do you think of Max and Kyra?’ Darya asked. Their room was next-door. Darya hadn’t thought of them much until this morning when she’d noticed Max smoking outside.
Veda waved her hands dismissively. ‘Gap-year backpackers.’
‘Kyra is a model—did you know that?’ Darya said. ‘She’s eighteen.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Veda.
‘Debbie told me. She doesn’t like them very much.’
‘Huh, why?’
‘Living in sin, she said.’
Veda let out a mock gasp. ‘Really? She said that?’
Darya chuckled. ‘Debbie’s quite a character herself.’
Veda turned to the mirror. ‘The two look nice enough to me.’
‘You like Max, don’t you?’ Darya said smugly. ‘I saw you gazing after him yesterday.’
Veda snorted. ‘Sure! I was gazing… I was pining for him.’
Darya threw a pillow. Veda ducked.
‘He is good-looking,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll give him that.’
‘And Kyra?’ Darya asked.
‘Skinny but with good taste in clothes.’
‘Does he love her, you think?’
Veda shrugged. ‘Why not ask if she loves him,’ she muttered. ‘Anyway, who gives a damn?’
Darya wasn’t sure if Veda had noticed Max giving her a once-over, which he had, several times. In her current state, Darya reasoned, Veda was probably ignoring any sort of attention.
Darya was certain though that Veda knew she turned heads. She was beautiful, almost as tall as Darya herself at 5′7″, with shiny, translucent skin and an athletic, albeit slightly thickset body. But it was the harsh contrast of her reddish-brown hair with her large extraordinarily green eyes that stood out to anyone who met her. The two attributes caused an uncomfortable, stunning conflict, and it was hard not to be affected by it.
Darya told Veda about her conversation with the grocer. She listened intently.
‘I know about them,’ Veda stated after Darya finished.
‘From the news articles a year ago?’ Darya asked.
Veda shook her head. ‘Nah, those I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘When I told my pals at work I was staying here, one s
aid, oh, that’s the lane with all the stories. She covers Bandra as part of her beat, so she knew.’
‘What else did she tell you?’
Veda shrugged. ‘Same as what you did just now. I will ask her more when I meet her today.’
‘The tiniest places have the biggest stories,’ Darya said dramatically.
‘Touché that.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Are you worried?’ Veda asked.
Darya shrugged.
Veda took a pav out of the grocer’s packet and began eating it.
‘Love these,’ she muttered to herself. After she finished, she said, ‘So many girls disappear in Mumbai—what’s new?’
Darya pursed her lips.
‘In any case, we’re here only for two months,’ Veda added.
‘One of them is the month,’ Darya retorted. ‘June.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
But Darya couldn’t let it go. The story was intriguing, and it was cause for worry. Veda was right in that missing girls were not uncommon in Mumbai, especially in the poorer sections of the city. Girls disappeared every day—sold to prostitution, to the begging mafia or to illicit, underage marriages. A few of them met a worse fate. Perhaps… if they knew what had happened to those three girls on Chapel Road, they could take precautions, keep themselves safe.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Veda repeated, cutting into her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry about what you cannot control. Enjoy your pav.’ Picking up her towel and her clothes, she headed to the bathroom.
Darya stretched lazily on the bed. She didn’t have to get to Warm Beans until 11, so there was plenty of time. But a light drizzle had started outside and she feared there might be traffic jams. She should start getting ready too.
Propping herself up, she picked up another pav, slathered it with butter and started to eat, enjoying the warm, brittle taste in her mouth. When she finished, she swung her legs to the floor and considered yelling to Veda, asking her to hurry up. She had to bathe too.
Then her eyes wandered to the window.
She froze.
Someone was outside their room.
A faint silhouette showed through the stiff, white curtains, through which blotchy sunlight was filtering through. And there it was right behind—rigid, like a stain.
Darya’s heart began to thump. The shadow was trying to look inside the room.
Darya heard the clank of toiletries on the bathroom’s shelf, the spurt of water from the tap. Veda was humming a tune.
The silhouette moved.
Darya jumped.
The silhouette disappeared.
Next, Darya heard movement behind the door.
Stupid girl, she scolded herself. See who that is. It’s broad daylight. What can happen?
Steeling herself, she walked to the door and opened it.
And let out a slow breath.
It was Viktor, glowing like a fiery baton in the sun. He had been staring at the door and was now staring straight at Darya. He didn’t flinch when the door opened or react when a soft involuntary gasp escaped Darya’s lips. He merely raised a curious eyebrow. Behind him, the branches of the karanj tree swayed in the breeze, throwing a splatter of tiny oval shadows on his face. A sly smile played on his lips.
Darya stood immobile and staring.
Something was different about him. He didn’t look his usual confused self.
He was wearing his clothes better; his eyes were alert. His face was calm and hard, like marble; his breath heavy, as if he had been physically exerting himself, but he had only been standing. What else? Yes! The spectacles on his face. They were the same ones they had seen perched on the doll on his desk.
‘W-What is it?’ Darya whispered, cursing herself for stammering.
‘Do you want housekeeping or to change the bedspreads? We do it every weekend, but you can request it earlier,’ he said, his eyes unblinking behind the glasses, his words surprisingly precise.
Darya unclenched her fingers. ‘Not today,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow. And … every weekend is fine. Debbie told me about it already.’ She wondered why he came to tell her again. He had been present when Debbie had instructed them on the villa rules: no guests without permission; no parties, smoking or drinking inside; no loitering in the other rooms or at the reception; laundry and change of linen every Saturday unless there was an emergency and it couldn’t be avoided; no toiletries or Wi-Fi to be provided; water to be off for two hours every afternoon; and if a complaint came from any of the neighbours, they were out.
Meanwhile, Viktor had not moved.
Darya shifted on her feet uneasily, grappling for something to say, to make him leave.
Then without warning, he turned to go.
‘Let me know if you need anything,’ he said, looking away from her, his hands buried deep inside his pocket.
Before Darya could reply, he had walked off.
Darya steadied her breathing as she watched Viktor jump down the flight of stairs in long strides. She wondered what all that had been about. But soon after, Veda called to her and Darya hurried inside, burying her questions within.
They would resurface a few days later when things began to escalate beyond her control.
An Unexpected Visitor
Veda found out all she could about Chapel Road’s missing girls. She dug through the archives of Mumbai Dost and her fellow journalists jogged their collective memories to help her. Veda was living in the very same lane, after all; they were worried about her safety.
At least a few of the grocer’s facts were right: the girls were similar in appearance—light-skinned, long-haired and attractive. And because they were attractive and young, they were also popular because when was a beautiful girl, blossoming into youth and bursting with spirit, not fodder for gossip?
But some of his facts weren’t. Yes, two of the girls had been students in their late teens—Eileen being one of them—but the third had turned twenty.
The girls had disappeared in the period between June and July each year, not just June. All three were last seen in the whereabouts of the Chapel, late at night. No traces of them were found thereafter. Poof! It was as if they’d disappeared into thin air.
The first to disappear was Linda Sharma—seventeen years old and a state hockey champion. Linda was small, athletic and serious. An only child, her parents doted on her. She was known to be a good kid until the year of her disappearance, when she ostensibly began to change. She’d found a boyfriend—a gym instructor—who rode a Yamaha and was ten years older. She hung out with him during most of the day and stopped going to college altogether. The way she dressed changed too: tending towards dark and goth. Her parents started to rebuke her for it, but Linda fought back. Their yelling was often heard by passers-by and everyone knew things were turning sour; she wasn’t going to be staying with them for long. So, at first, when Linda disappeared, her parents and the neighbours naturally assumed she had run away. But then they found her belongings untouched and her phone left behind on her bed. She hadn’t called her boyfriend either; he professed ignorance of her disappearance. In the end, her parents went to the police, who made their customary enquiries, but there were no clues, no dead body, no suspects and so the case moved to the unsolved pile.
The second to disappear was Madhu Priya, a tenant at Chapel Road. Very little was known about her. Only that when the Hill Road beauty salon where Madhu worked shut down, she started looking for a new job. Two months later she disappeared. It was her landlady who complained to the police. Madhu had left without paying the month’s rent. All her clothes were still in her room, along with her phone. She could’ve left all of that to pay for her rent and left of her own volition, but the landlady’s teenage son had seen her walk to the end of the road that night in a hurry. He’d had a secret crush on her, so he’d waited until late for her to return, but she hadn’t. Something wasn’t right.
Then two years later, Eileen disappeared.
Only weeks from turning eighteen, Eileen had start
ed to work as a receptionist in a publishing house, whilst also trying her hand in freelance creative projects. One of the early settlers on the street, Eileen and Jasmine’s parents, the D’Mellos, owned an impressive red-brick bungalow, two houses away from Viktor’s. The D’Mello bungalow once boasted of beautifully kept rooms, lush carpets, alabaster figurines and an abundant garden, but all this changed when the father, a popular local dentist, died. That was four years ago. Mrs. D’Mello never recovered from her loss and her mental faculties fell into decline soon after. It wasn’t unusual to see her arguing at the top of her voice with vendors on the street or with the hapless odd salesman that came knocking on her door.
Her father’s death though, as a friend told a journalist later, had scarcely seemed to affect Eileen. She had preferred not to talk about it. Her priority had been to comfort and protect her mother and her younger sister. Her father hadn’t left enough for them, and they had needed money to get on, so Eileen had grown desperate.
According to one report, she had wanted to migrate to Canada and send money back home, like one of her cousins was doing. She had also felt moving away and getting out of her family’s hair would ease their financial burden. Another said that Eileen had been looking to get married quickly, so that her husband could pay for their upkeep. There were colourful accounts of her wretchedness, of the lengths she was willing to go to in order to help her family.
When she disappeared, all hell broke loose. Three girls disappearing from one lane was finally enough. The police and press came swooping down on the street in full force, interviewing neighbours, going from house to house, digging up old tales. The press was having a field day, and invented several colourful theories, the Angel Killer being one of them: a serial killer slaughtering women who looked like angels.
‘What?’ Darya exclaimed. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Someone on the street helped come up with it,’ Veda said mysteriously.
Since no dead body was ever found, the press and the police concluded that the girls were dead and buried someplace they couldn’t be found. The police had searched long enough, combing houses on the street, questioning everyone, tracing back the last moments of the victims, digging through their lives, but apart from a few ambiguous tip-offs, they’d had nothing solid to follow up on.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 29
