‘Who’s dead?’ Darya cried in annoyance. ‘What are you talking about?’
He glanced at her with a quizzical look.
‘Tell me! Where’s Veda? Is it Veda?’
Now it was Viktor’s turn to look puzzled.
‘Veda?’ he repeated. ‘Where’s she? I don’t know.’
Darya heard footsteps behind her, followed by a tap on her shoulder. A voice demanded, ‘What’s going on?’
She swung around.
It was Debbie.
And in her hand was a knife. Crusted with blood.
Peeping Tom
Heavily glazed, aluminium windows looked out of each of the fifteen identical rooms in the building, which was called Medusa, its walls painted a modest grey so as to meld easily with the neighbourhood. Medusa was tucked inside a narrow side lane, at the road’s dead end, and the noises from the main road’s traffic barely reached it. Nonetheless, its windows remained shut at all times. It was known to the neighbours as a paying guest lodging which housed working women. These women were hardly ever seen, walking in and out of the guest house in cars with blackened windows. The building was on Mumbai Municipality Corporation’s demolition list, but it had been so for over four years, and except for the occasional visits from the builders, there had never been any move towards razing it. Powerful people wanted it to stay where it was, and as was the wont in Mumbai, no one wondered why for too long.
On a cloudy Wednesday afternoon, a man sat in a rented car, fingers tightly clasped around the steering wheel. Largely motionless, he stared at the house. This was the third such building he had staked out over the past weeks, and at long last, he had found the right one.
He came again on Thursday and Friday. A few of the nannies, walking their wards in the neighbourhood park, recognized him. They herded their children closer, suspecting a paedophile in their midst.
On Saturday morning, there were more cars parked on the road than usual.
No one noticed him. He realized Saturday was also a prime day for visitors to Medusa. Cars arrived and left, but not once did he see a face.
Not even her.
On Sunday, he was back, although he was tired of sitting cooped up inside the now sour-smelling car. Things would have to move soon. He had to do something.
He gulped the aspirin he’d bought from the chemist at the earlier spot he’d surveyed. His headache was a constant companion these days. He watched impassively as a black plastic trash bag was dropped from a second-floor window onto the ground, missing the trash can by a long way. The hand disappeared from the window as soon as there was a thwack, the window fastening immediately.
Then he saw her.
He sat up straight in his car, training his binoculars.
She was standing by the front door, holding it half open, looking out into the street. This was the first time he’d had a clear view of any woman from Medusa, though it wasn’t for long. Quickly, she shut the door again and he’d lost her.
He got out of the car, almost tripping over the pile of newspapers that had collected in the footwell. Steadying himself, he patted the .32 revolver in his back pocket, stolen from his father. He left the binoculars on the car seat.
He walked slowly, carefully, under the shadow of the trees, keeping a keen eye out for signs of movement at Medusa. When he came to the banyan tree next to the building, large enough to provide him with cover, he stopped. It was then that he noticed how empty the lane leading to Medusa was of people, as if the world ended at the turn that led to it.
He heard the shuffle of feet a split second before the knife came swinging through the air towards his neck. Unthinking, he dove sideward but toppled in the process, shouting in pain as his elbows hit the ground first. He heard the crunch of bones before feeling a shooting pain in his arm.
A hand groped and pulled out his gun. Another landed three hard punches to his face. Another stuck two to his ribs. He tried to deflect them, flailing his healthy arm blindly, but he was unused to scuffles, he didn’t know what it was like to fight.
A fist swung and struck his face. He heard the bone of his nose shatter.
Blood spurted everywhere. He collapsed on the ground, face up, groaning and wheezing, half blind.
The moon shone overhead. Pale. Cut in half.
She came into his line of sight, all white and gentle. Like an angel.
‘Rasta bhool gaye kya?’ she asked softly.
He tried to smile, but blood was pouring out of his nose and lips. His mouth was clamped shut. His body was frozen. Only his heart thumped wildly in his chest.
He wished he could reach out and touch her. Oh, how he wished.
‘I knew it was you,’ he whispered through broken teeth. ‘A year has passed since I saw you last, but I was sure.’
She stepped closer, swaying a little on her feet.
‘Be careful,’ he said.
She laughed. A strange tinkling laugh. Like the first patter of rain.
The rain that had just begun to fall.
There was no time to lose now.
He watched her for a moment, then tried to rise.
‘Don’t,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’
He tried again, his ribs screaming in pain. This time he managed.
Reaching out, he grabbed her right arm, his fingers digging deep into her flesh.
‘Don’t!’ she cried.
The knife slashed the neck. On and on. Until the young leathery skin turned to pulp.
Cracks
‘What’s… that?’ Darya asked, her voice shaking. She pointed to the knife.
Debbie took a few seconds to respond. She examined Darya with narrowed eyes. ‘A knife obviously,’ she said finally.
‘There’s blood on it.’
Debbie stared down at it as if only just noticing. ‘Viktor must have used it to cut up the pork I bought this morning,’ she said. ‘I found it in the kitchen.’
‘Well, did he?’ Darya said.
‘Did he what?’
‘Use it to cut the pork?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Debbie asked, sounding more curious than annoyed.
‘What were you doing in the kitchen so late?’ Darya asked.
‘I didn’t know there was a time to be in the kitchen,’ she replied tersely. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘So, you just walked to the kitchen and saw the knife?’
‘The sink was dirty. The knife was in it.’ She hesitated. ‘Though… I’ve never seen this one before.’
‘It’s not your knife?’
With an edge to her voice, Debbie said, ‘I don’t understand. Why are you up so late at night asking so many questions?’
‘I heard a noise…’ Darya turned to gesture to Viktor, who was now dusting the table, ignoring them, the threadbare mop in his hand moving back and forth. ‘I came down to check. I can’t find Veda. He…’ Darya wondered if it had really happened. Her memories were blurring into each other, like a runny watercolour. ‘He told me someone’—she gulped air—‘was dead.’
Despite her cultivated control, a baffled expression sprang to Debbie’s face.
‘Dead?’ she asked.
‘He said someone was dead,’ Darya repeated.
‘He’s a child,’ Debbie remarked. ‘Doesn’t know what he’s talking about half the time.’
Wringing her hands, Darya asked, ‘Have you seen Veda? I haven’t seen her since yesterday.’
Debbie shrugged. ‘I haven’t either. Are her things still in the room?’ she asked.
Darya nodded.
‘Mobile phone?’
A cold sweat broke down Darya’s back.
She’d had a déjà vu. From when Kyra had disappeared.
Something was very wrong.
‘She’s not answering,’ Darya replied.
‘Oops,’ Viktor said, as the mop slid out of his hand.
It was at that moment that Darya realized what was weird about what he was doing; he was dusting the same s
pot over and over again.
And it dawned over her which spot it was.
The spot of the hummingbird. It was gone. So were the cap and the glasses. And the slippers underneath.
Darya’s head swam. Panic-stricken, she grasped at straws. ‘Where’s Daniel?’ she asked. ‘Is this his knife?’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Debbie.
‘I know Daniel’s alive,’ Darya said. ‘I… Veda and I have seen him around. He comes and goes through the back door, doesn’t he?’ Her brain screamed—Did he kidnap those women? Did he hurt Veda?—but she couldn’t utter the words. A red, bleary fog rose and fell in front of her, blinding her temporarily. She gagged.
No! She wasn’t going to have a panic attack now. Veda needed her. Get yourself together!
‘Daniel is dead,’ Debbie replied through clenched teeth. ‘He died when he was eight. In fact, today is the day he died, twelve years ago. That’s why Viktor is more upset than usual. Are you making fun of a dead boy?’
A dog barked in the distance. A bicycle zoomed past outside the door, ringing its bell, irreverent of the time.
Darya didn’t respond. She was finding it hard to breathe.
Another thought had struck her, something that wasn’t quite right with the room.
The peculiar sliver of light coming from the cupboard.
Darya had never seen the cupboard open before. A large brass lock hung from its latch all the time.
But the lock was unfastened now. The door was ajar.
‘Is that…’ She took a few tentative steps towards it. ‘What is that?’
Viktor looked up. Darya saw him glance askew. ‘Debbie,’ he whined.
Darya continued moving towards the cupboard.
‘Stay where you are,’ Debbie said.
‘Is that…?’ Darya asked softly.
‘Angel.’ Viktor snivelled.
Darya took in a quick breath.
‘Veda’s not there,’ Debbie snapped.
The room had grown warm, like the insides of a car that had been out in the sun for long.
‘Stay where you are,’ Debbie warned again. Although she had a hand raised mid-air with the intention of stopping Darya, she did nothing. ‘The door’s broken,’ she said. ‘We need to fix it.’
‘The light…’ Darya began.
Then Viktor hollered, ‘It was Daniel.’
The words chilled Darya to the bone.
‘I told her to go away,’ he moaned. ‘But she didn’t listen.’
Next to her, Debbie’s face had paled.
Darya had reached the cupboard, but she hesitated, her heart hammering in her chest.
‘It was Daniel. Not me,’ Viktor repeated. ‘Daniel took the video. She came looking for it.’
There was a moment of silence.
Then adrenalin kicked in.
Darya shoved opened the doors.
It was a room, not a closet, just as she had guessed.
Debbie grasped to seize Darya, to shove her out of the way, but Darya was quicker. She ducked and entered the gaping darkness, slapping around on the wall for a light switch.
Behind her, Viktor shrieked as he tripped over the table leg and fell to the floor. A grateful Darya heard Debbie cry out in alarm and rush over to help him, leaving Darya alone.
At long last, a neon orange bulb spluttered on in the room, throwing serrated shadows on its walls, like giant, misshapen teeth.
Darya stood frozen, gaping at the sight in front of her.
It was a room, smelling of fennel seeds, stuffed back-to-back with tall open racks. The shelves carried what looked like hotel supplies: rolled-up blankets, pillows, soaps, carpets, upholstery, newspaper, crockery. A bottle-green door—the back door—faced her, bolted with the same brass lock as on the door through which she had entered. There were two windows on either side, boarded shut, painted over to merge with the surroundings.
So, there was another way in and out of the house. Why did the Mascarenhas need it? And it looked like the door had been recently used.
Darya saw a series of muddy footprints on the floor leading to it. The prints were of different sizes and looked freshly made.
Another odd thing.
On the shelf closest to her, on a large steel tray, lay an array of recording equipment. Wireless cameras, motion detectors, wires, routers, USB flash drives, mics and speakers. About a dozen mini DVRs.
A million thoughts swam in Darya’s mind. Was this where Viktor slept? And Daniel too, when he came? Had Veda been here? Why all the recording equipment?
The room’s smell was overpowering: the sweet earthy scent of fennel mixed with damp cement and fabric freshener. She wanted to get rid of the smell, to walk out of there, but forced herself to stay. To focus.
In front of the pile of cartons and at the back of the racks, a mattress lay on the floor, covered with a clean white sheet. The bed was made, and two pillows placed neatly on the top. And… it was so odd… the hummingbird lay on top of it, its head resting on a pillow, like a sleeping child.
Darya barely realized when Viktor and Debbie arrived beside her, breathless.
‘She’s not here,’ Debbie stated. ‘As you can well see.’
‘Not here,’ Viktor repeated. He collapsed on the floor next to them.
Darya walked towards the bed and noted vaguely that neither Viktor nor Debbie tried to stop her. It was as if they wanted to be discovered.
‘What is this room?’ she whispered.
‘A storeroom,’ Debbie replied. She appeared afraid and glanced over her shoulder every now and then, as if expecting someone to show up.
Darya looked at Viktor, who had covered his face with his palms, a blackened nail rubbing against a cheek.
‘Or is this where Viktor sleeps?’ Darya asked softly.
‘Yes,’ Viktor replied.
‘And Daniel?’
‘Daniel’s dead,’ Debbie snapped.
Heedless that Debbie had spoken, Darya asked, ‘Is this how Daniel gets in and out?’
‘Daniel,’ Viktor moaned in response. ‘He is sleeping.’
Darya hesitated, afraid to move. The tiny room bore down on her like a tarpaulin, suffocating her. She breathed with effort.
‘Daniel took Veda, didn’t he, Viktor?’ she said. She didn’t know how and why she was convinced of it. It was a crazy idea that just wouldn’t dislodge. ‘He kidnapped her. He’s kidnapping all the women. He’s the one. Where is he? Tell me!’
Next to her, Debbie let out a long, deep sigh. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, letting go of all composure.
‘You are so so wrong,’ she said. ‘Daniel is dead.’
‘Do not lie to me!’
But an unnerving calm had overtaken Debbie. She looked almost glad to have been found out. As if she had been waiting for a chance to speak.
Her next words were calm.
‘Daniel is dead. You have to know what happened twelve years ago…’ Her eyes met and held Darya’s. ‘You have to know what made Viktor the way he is.’
Twelve Years Ago
Twins.
It wasn’t a myth in their case: if one got hurt, the other felt it. Their mother claimed the pain was psychological; they felt it empathetically. Not caring for the reason, their father was overjoyed. Double the pleasure, half his effort. It was a bonus he hadn’t anticipated. A narcissistic alcoholic, he had raged over having twins—over having children at all—but it had provided him with a useful pastime. An enjoyable one.
Daniel was his preferred target. The weaker twin—the firstborn, the one who cried the loudest—tried to hit back sometimes. Taking off the boy’s glasses and his favoured cap, Emmanuel would hit his face first because that was where the bruises showed. When his face was crammed, he would focus on the boy’s torso. Emmanuel had always dreamt of being a wrestler and he practised his blows on his son.
Taken after your whore mother. A hard smack on Daniel’s cheek. Immediately, Viktor felt the sting and his eyes filled up.
Lazy, useless boy. A punch on Daniel’s nose and Viktor collapsed to the floor in agony.
Such a wimp—no way are you mine. A bang against the table and red welts rose like balloons on both of their foreheads.
Their mother was weak. She cowered in a corner while he hit them, too weak to defend her children or even her own self. After Emmanuel was gone, she comforted them, rubbing salve onto their wounds. My angels, my precious angels, I am so sorry, she would cry.
After a while, it seemed like a game to them. Daniel knew he’ll get punched every night and Viktor braced himself for the pain. Sometimes, Viktor wished he’d get hit too. Daniel was the centre of attention always, the victim to be pitied, while Viktor felt like an onlooker, who suffered without a point.
But like everything in the living world, this sequence too came to an end, making way for a new one to start.
One day, their father brought home a toy hummingbird, gifted by his new mistress. The toy was lifelike, made of wood, with large eyes, a sharp beak, and intricately carved wings. That night, Emmanuel hit Daniel with the wooden bird.
At first, Daniel didn’t resist, not even to ward off the blows to his head. His eyes split, his forehead cracked, blood seeped from everywhere. Viktor fell onto the floor in distress, biting his lips to stop from screaming.
What happened next was like a coordinated performance, the playing out of a series of events the boys had conjured up in their heads many times before.
Emmanuel was taking off his belt to use it on Daniel. His shoulders were relaxed, his body trembling with anticipation. In his enjoyment, he had forgotten there were others in the room, watching with bitter eyes.
He lowered his head to remove the last of the leather from the clasp.
He had no idea what was coming next.
Viktor rammed his head onto Emmanuel’s back, throwing him to the floor. Stunned, Emmanuel tried to get on his knees, only to be struck hard on the back of his head by the wooden toy. Daniel held it gleefully above his head and brought it down again. Then again. Then again. An animalistic rage had overtaken the eight-year-old boy, his anger trained on the beast of a man who lay motionless now, purple and bloodied, his eyes inches away from the floor, staring in bafflement.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 42
