A Killer Among Us

by Ushasi Sen Basu

  He had started violently when she took hold of his shoulder and shook him, and had not recovered well when he saw who it was. Did he really believe me a murderer or was that guilt on his face? Ira had thought.

  ‘Hyan…hyan, madam,’ he had said, sitting up straight in his chair.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you…Gopal, Gopalbabu…isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ His body language had told Ira that he was nerving himself up for a confrontation. He threw his shoulders back and squared his jaw. Not quite the same fighting spirit with the old fogies in the Association, eh? Ira had thought with bitterness.

  ‘I hear you’ve told the Association the man who was murdered came in to see me.’

  Gopal went very still. She could see from his face that his mind was working overtime. He had probably not thought she would corner him at night when he had no one to help him handle the situation. All your buddies are fast asleep, pal.

  Ira forged on, ‘Why did you say that? Had the man asked for me by name? Or even by flat number?’

  Gopal nodded.

  ‘Yes?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘By name or flat number?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’ He sulked.

  ‘That’s not good enough, it happened a few days ago.’

  ‘He came for you; he has come before also, madam.’ He was looking away, like if he pretended she wasn’t there she would pop into thin air like a bubble.

  This was a new version. ‘Indeed? When was that? Why are there no records of his frequent meetings with me? And when you were sending him in, were you even sure I was at home?’

  ‘Of course not, madam, you have not installed intercom, even though we have requested you many times.’ Gopal’s mouth set in a prim line.

  Ira acknowledged the truth of the statement with a nod. She wanted no truck with a doorbell, did they think she would get an intercom installed at personal expense and trouble when she barely even lived there? She refused to get side-tracked however, and pressed on.

  ‘That day, what time did you let him in?’

  Gopal sulked some more and said, ‘As I told Talukdar shaheb and then the police, that day I might have been a little distracted, and not entirely sure what time he came in. But I recognise him from before. Last month he had gone to your flat, and you opened the door for him also, madam, and let him in. I accompanied the man to make sure he wasn’t an unwelcome guest.’

  Ira’s mouth fell open, ‘What? Aaah!’

  There was a pause.

  Ira clenched her fists, ‘Do you realise that was another man?’

  ‘No, madam, the same.’ Gopal waggled his head with utter conviction. ‘I recognised him.’

  Ira decided to calm down and persevere. ‘Do you realise that the other man from last month that you speak of, is my office colleague? That he is alive and well, and I spoke to him just an hour ago?’

  Gopal looked startled.

  Damn that Prem, Ira thought. Pest of the first order, he was. He had just turned up at her door, with a shocked but thrilled-looking Gopal peering over his shoulder to check her reaction, and she had allowed him to enter more to send Gopal away and not make a scene for the latter’s entertainment.

  Prem, who had been fall-down drunk, had followed Ira home from an office party. She had already started to wind down for the night, completely ignorant of his intentions, when he’d turned up grinning from ear to smug ear. Once inside, he had taken her allowing him in as complete confirmation that she wanted him as much as he did her and launched himself at her. It took a knee in his groin and a shouted ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ to calm him down. This had finally dispelled the vapours of free booze he had imbibed at the office party, and he had lain on the sofa snivelling for her forgiveness for a while after. Prem only left half an hour later after extracting a promise that Ira would tell no one at work about the ‘misunderstanding’.

  True, he was of roughly the same build and complexion as the murdered man if one thought about it, but the leap of logic seemed too far-fetched to be entirely innocent.

  Gopal said, ‘Madam, to begin with, er…even I was a little doubtful. But Talukdarbabu and Banikbabu…they are men of wisdom and education; they were helping me remember and they said, well, if you can’t remember him coming in this time, can you remember him coming in any time before?’

  He looked apologetically at her. ‘Madam, you must understand, this job helps put food in my children’s mouths…they are the ones who disburse that money, madam, so I tried to be as helpful as possible…after all, it was my lapse that allowed a strange man in that night. I must have fallen asleep; I was doing double shifts you see…so I wanted to at least be helpful.’

  ‘So… they…perhaps suggested something to you? My name?’

  Gopal looked uncomfortable. ‘I…I said that the murdered man looked vaguely familiar, that he looked like the friend who had come last month for you…’ He looked embarrassed.

  Ira felt like shaking him until his prim expression changed.

  ‘Yes, and what did they say?’

  ‘They said it was what they had thought all along, there were other clues that pointed to his being your friend. It was obvious the man was the same man. They suggested that people wouldn’t understand if I told them the whole complicated story, and that I just say I saw him this time but forgot to make a note in the register.’

  ‘And you told this version to the police as well?’

  ‘I did, madam.’

  ‘It’s a lie though, you know that, right?’

  ‘I didn’t lie, madam.’ Gopal waggled his head again.

  Ira sighed. ‘What did I ever do to you? To any of you?’

  Gopal had the grace to look ashamed.

  ‘The police are sure to come again tomorrow, and I shall bring them to you and expect you to tell them the truth this time. That you were mistaken, that you had mistaken him for another man who had come to see me. A man who is very much alive. Can you promise to do that?’

  Gopal looked up and said, ‘I will, madam. I never meant to tell an untruth, perhaps I made a mistake. But they may want to speak to your…friend.’ Again, that mildly insinuating pause.

  Ira was about to retort when Gopal rushed on: ‘The police were already furious with me, madam. I had removed the body from the lift and cleaned it, with Ranjit’s help. The secretary of the Association only told me to do it! Said it was inconveniencing the residents! Then the police took Ranjit and me to the thana and began slapping us around, saying we had tampered with the body; that maybe we had murdered him and intentionally meddled to remove clues. God knows how much worse things could have got if the secretary hadn’t intervened.

  So when I got the chance to be helpful, I told them. By then it made complete sense to my mind, how Banikbabu and Talukdarbabu explained it to me.

  But if what you say is true and your…friend…is different and alive, it is my duty to set the record straight.’

  He turned away looking utterly miserable, and Ira was united with him in the certainty that if he did go back on his earlier version tomorrow, it would be his last day of working there.

  ******

  At 9 am, Ira decided to walk to the neighbouring grocery store to see if she could catch the police in their investigations and explain last night’s conversation. She was relieved that her one direct link to the murder had evaporated as easily as it had. She recalled the misery on Gopal’s face last night when he promised to clear things up with the police. Perhaps there was some other way, which didn’t involve his getting into trouble with those spiteful men immediately, or at all? She would have to think.

  It had been a week since the murder.

  The police had been in and out of quite a few of her neighbours’ houses. The media had stopped visiting en force, though the occasional article (more opinion piece than reportage, since there weren’t any new developments) appeared in the inside pages.

  Ira walked into the shop across the street to get he
rself some bread, eggs and milk. There was a susurration of whispers and stares were quickly averted. Even the shopkeeper looked askance at her; though his young assistant looked thrilled, like Sunny Leone had strolled into their presence.

  ******

  Ira decided to best the spirit of the dead man this time and took the lift up to her floor. A neighbour whom she’d never seen before was already in the lift when the doors slid open, yoga mat under an arm. Ira did her ‘in the elevator with a stranger’ routine. A vaguely pleasant face pointed at the floor number display. This was not a roomy lift, sized at about 5 x 4 feet, but the woman remained planted where she was, in the middle of that confined box; with no attempt to move even a step away to allow her more personal space. There they stood, in a ridiculous cheek by jowl proximity; while the woman scanned Ira from feet upwards with naked curiosity. They were so close that Ira could turn and head-butt her, if it wasn’t considered a strict no-no in polite society, she thought wistfully.

  Ira watched the lady with interest as the latter commenced a second toe-to-head sweep. Searching for fleas? Take a picture, it will last longer! She waited with patience for their eyes to meet once her ear, then cheek, was inspected. The woman’s head jerked and her gaze slid away the moment it met Ira’s smiling eyes.

  Apparently, eyes were off limits.

  Ira wished she could say this behaviour was because of her recently acquired notoriety. Truth was, this was how some people behaved with strangers, however innocuous. A person in a lift might be the only interesting stimulus in the whole day, and was an opportunity to be seized upon with a desperate curiosity.

  ******

  There was an open invitation from Mrs Ghoshal to drop by for a cup of tea. The older woman had been asking Nandana for a while now. When Nandana slammed out of the apartment, she had had grand plans of going somewhere exciting. Like dancing or a nice coffee shop where she could sit at the window and glower mysteriously so the whole restaurant wondered about her story.

  Nandana found herself sitting, instead, in a comfortable chair in old Mrs Ghoshal’s living room, being plied with tea and a sticky coconut sweet that, she worried, would dribble juice onto her good salwar kameez.

  ‘But how lovely you are looking today, Nandana!’ Mrs Ghoshal exclaimed for the third time, and then again, ‘Are you going out somewhere today? Family evening out?’

  Nandana assured her again that yes, she was going out, but alone to meet some friends. She prayed that the line of questioning would stop there.

  Mrs Ghoshal looked unsure on how to take this, but decided it didn’t interest her enough to pursue it.

  ‘How’s the sweet?’ the old lady asked, her head cocked to one side.

  ‘It’s wonderful. Sticky and sweet just the way Piya and Prithwish like it!’

  ‘I made a whole batch! I’ll send some to your flat tomorrow with Kobita.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ She couldn’t think of anyone she wanted to meet less than Kobita, but she feigned enthusiasm at the prospect of having those sticky spill bombs under her roof and to have that angel of death deliver it.

  Nandana changed the topic then, hoping to divert the older lady.

  ‘The house is looking fabulous, Mashima. New curtains?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘You’ve polished the sofa set too, if I’m not mistaken. Looks very nice!’

  The lady beamed. ‘I really enjoy your company. It’s a shame you don’t have too much time today. You are such an observant creature, nothing much gets past you. A whole horde of people have been in and out of this house in the last three days, but only you have commented on them. You have a special eye, so observant….’

  Nandana was charmed. She did take pride in it, but it was always nice when someone noticed. She bit into the sweet with care, distancing herself from it as though it might bite back. Then she relaxed and thought, perhaps just fifteen more minutes in this warm, cosy environment―smelling of nice things to eat, furniture polish and uncomplicated old-style lives―would do no harm. It was so different from the flats full of tumbled over toys, frustrated wives and absentee husbands she was wont to see usually….

  ‘You’re looking very nice today, Nandana’, Mrs Ghoshal broke into her thoughts. ‘Are all of you going out for a movie today?’

  Nandana smiled, and nearly hugged the lady, but decided that such a demonstration of emotion might startle her out of her wits entirely. ‘Yes, Mashima. We are. But not for another few minutes.’

  She knew how to deal with this. The trick, as for her seven-year-old as well, was to distract. Her eyes fell on the row of photo albums in a teakwood bookcase-cum-bric-a-brac cabinet in the corner. One seemed to lean out more than the rest. ‘Looking at your albums again, Mashima?’ Nandana asked.

  ‘What? Mrs Ghoshal seemed startled by the change in tack. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.’ Her magnified eyes lit up. ‘Would you like to see?’

  Nandana was really not in the mood. Other people’s family albums were always a bottomless pit of boredom, a truth that everyone secretly knew but never publicly acknowledged. But she humoured Mrs Ghoshal, since it seemed to distract her from her original line of questioning.

  ‘My hands are all sticky….’

  ‘Don’t worry at all, I’ll hold it for you.’ Mrs Ghoshal came and sat down next to her, tottering a bit under the heavy weight of the bound, old-fashioned photo album.

  Nandana’s mild annoyance lifted when Mrs Ghoshal opened the album onto a wedding picture. Tiny, pretty little Mrs Ghoshal as a young bride and her much older husband looming over her. Her fond smile turned into a guffaw when Mrs Ghoshal pointed out a fat baby in a loose pair of underpants as Kedarnath. Just as Mrs Ghoshal was about to turn over to the next page, she saw a picture of another fat baby and asked, indicating with her left pinky finger, ‘And that? Kedarnath-da too?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Mrs Ghoshal sighed. ‘That is Manoj.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My nephew you know.’ She paused. ‘He died. Very recently.’

  ‘I’m so sorry! How?’

  Mr. Ghoshal cheered up at the question. ‘Yes, it is much on my mind nowadays, my dear. In fact, I….’

  There was a rattle of a key in the lock and both women looked up as Kedarnath walked in.

  He eyed the album in his mother’s lap and smiled at Nandana politely.

  Nandana felt like some explanation was required to fill the silence. ‘Mrs Ghoshal is just showing me baby pictures of you and your cousin.’

  Kedarnath looked at her for a moment too long and then transferred his gaze to his mother.

  ‘Was Manoj younger or older?’ Nandana felt herself babbling to fill the bubble of silence that was expanding in the room.

  ‘Manoj was younger,’ Kedarnath bit out and moved closer, his eyes joining theirs in poring over the photo.

  Mrs Ghoshal seemed impervious; she began to turn the pages over faster in search of something. ‘Kedar is…was far superior than him in every way. Look at this picture? From just 16–17 years ago. A certain kind of flashy good looks, I suppose, but nothing compared to my son. See? Isn’t Kedar handsome?’

  More to avoid the man still standing stock still over them, radiating disapproval, Nandana bent her head over the indicated picture. Her eyes caught those of the other man looking out at her from the photo instead. Manoj. Yes, flashy good looks, easy smile, hand on the hip, tousled hair, quite attractive. One arm negligently draped on the shoulder of a much younger Kedarnath who had the same disapproving expression as now. Something about the picture demanded she look again, and again. Interesting and, what was it? Something else.

  ‘Yes, very handsome,’ Nandana said and snapped the album in Mrs Ghoshal’s lap shut with her non-sticky hand. Whatever it was, the usually amiable Kedarnath’s back was up good and proper and she wanted no part in further family drama.

  She was guessing Manoj was the more popular cousin, regardless of what this doting mother said.

  Mrs Ghoshal looked annoyed but Kedarnath r
elaxed palpably.

  ‘Ma, isn’t it time for your tea?’ he asked. ‘I’ll put some on to boil.’ His smile thawed into a warmer one. Whatever had worried him had passed.

  ‘Would you like to join us for tea, dear?’ Mrs Ghoshal asked her guest.

  ‘Oh no, Mashima, you forget. I have plans.’

  ‘Oh, of course! I totally forgot. Isn’t Nandana looking lovely, Kedar? She’s going out with her family. Dinner plans.’

  Kedarnath just nodded and smiled, more like the man she knew.

  Nandana went to wash her sticky hands and began to wonder in earnest where she could go without losing face.

  ******

  12

  Friday, 14th September 2014

  Ira woke up as sunlight streamed onto her face from a gap in the curtains. She checked her phone. 11.30 am! For the first time since last Thursday, she had been allowed to sleep past eight. Then she realised it was her day off, and in celebration, she rolled over onto her stomach so the sun fell in a warm line down her back and went back to sleep.

  She was in the sleep-waking stage where you could consciously propel your dreams in the direction of your choosing. This one had Ayan, touching her hand with a feather light touch, smiling as they walked down the corridor to her door. There they were, courting disaster as Ira leaned against her door and looked up at him, and Ayan leant in and touched his gentle lips to hers. She sighed and smiled. It wasn’t a dream, but a memory―from yesterday afternoon.

  She gathered the light quilt to her. It had started to drizzle outside again; the weather perfect, albeit schizophrenic, to dream cosily in bed.

  There was a loud banging on her door.

  Ira sat up like a jack in the box. Too jumpy, she reproved herself. She checked her wristwatch, 11.45. Time to wake up anyway, the person had renewed his banging.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she shouted in a fit of pique. People were always so annoyed about her sleeping in and not having a serviceable doorbell.

  It was a red-faced Mr Talukdar, looking like a two-in-one strawberry and vanilla ice cream in his white kurta and pajama.