‘After everything I said. I warned you about that happening,’ he continues reprimanding me, as if I’m a small child. ‘Were you not listening?’
‘OK, you don’t need to rub it in,’ I reply. I can feel my tears drying up as quickly as they had appeared.
‘Jeez,’ he shakes his head. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
And suddenly, I feel myself snap. ‘What’s wrong with me is that I’ve had everything stolen!’ I explode, ‘and I already know I’m a complete moron for not being more careful and I don’t need you telling me . . .’
He looks at me, not saying anything, but his silence only adds to my fury.
‘And on top of that I feel like some stupid idiot tourist! I mean, just look at me, I’ve always dreamed of coming to India and here I am and I’m rubbish at everything! I’m useless at yoga, I can’t find the right seat on a train, I can’t eat the spicy food . . .’
But it’s fury at myself, because suddenly it’s all coming spilling out of my mouth. All my frustrations and disappointments and anger at myself from the past few days are pouring out in one big torrent, and now I’ve started, I can’t stop.
‘I can’t even haggle!’ Grabbing one of my sandals I take it off and waggle it at him. ‘Have you any idea how much I paid for these stupid sandals? Have you? They’d have cost less at Nine West! And I wouldn’t mind but they don’t even stay on my feet!’
As I thrust it at him menacingly, he shrinks back.
‘And I’ve only gone and weed all over them as I can’t even squat properly in the loos without dribbling all over my feet!’
His eyes grow wider and he looks at me aghast. I know, I can’t believe I said that either, but it’s like a censor has been removed from my mouth and everything is spewing out.
‘And not only that but I’m scared of everything! I’m like some big pathetic wuss! I’m scared of the roads, the stray dogs, the insects . . . look at all these mosquito bites.’ I roll up my sleeve and shove my arm at him, which is covered in lots of angry red marks. ‘I cover myself in repellent and they still get me!’
As if to prove my point I scratch them viciously.
‘And I wish I’d just stayed at home in my flat because none of this would ever have happened, but I didn’t, because I needed a break . . . and my sister sent me this postcard . . . and I just wanted to do something adventurous and impulsive and not sit on the sofa like I’ve done every night since Sam and I . . .’
I break off. Tears well up in my eyes again, but I brush them roughly away.
‘And now I’m in a total mess and I don’t know what to do and the only person I can ask for help is a know-it-all American who prefers to stand here lecturing me about what a complete and total idiot I’ve been, instead of trying to help me . . .’
I break off breathlessly and I’m suddenly aware he hasn’t said a word for the last five minutes and he’s just looking at me, somewhat shocked by my outburst.
He’s not the only one. Where did all that come from?
There’s a pause, as I get my breath back. ‘So are you going to help me, or what?’ I finish finally.
He tips back his hat to wipe his brow, then studies me for a moment as if weighing me up.
‘Only if you promise not to be a pain in the ass,’ he replies.
Well you’d know all about that, I fire back in my head, but I bite my tongue. No answering back, Ruby; he’s your only hope, remember.
‘Thanks,’ I nod, composing myself. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘Well, I don’t have much choice do I – after all that.’
I feel a flush of embarrassment. ‘I was a just a bit upset, that’s all,’ I say stiffly.
‘Understandably,’ he nods.
I feel myself soften slightly towards him.
‘And, for the record, I don’t think you’re pathetic. India can be a bit of a shock at first, it just takes a while to get used to,’ he says evenly, ‘and, once you do, you’ll fall madly in love with it.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Jack by the way.’
‘I’m Ruby,’ I reply, and we shake hands awkwardly.
It feels like a truce. For now, anyway.
Chapter 14
‘OK, let’s go.’
Introductions over, Jack hoists his giant backpack over his shoulder and promptly sets off towards the exit.
‘Go? Go where?’ Plunging back into the crowds, I hurry to keep up alongside him. He has a very big stride.
‘Well, the first thing you need to do is report it to the cops.’ He pulls out a bottle of water and proceeds to glug down its contents. He drinks like my parents’ Red Setter, water going everywhere.
‘Right, yes,’ I nod, making a mental list. ‘Where’s the police station?’
He shakes his head, coming up for air. ‘Now that I can’t tell you. I’ve been to Delhi before, but I’ve never needed a police station . . .’ He shoots me a look.
I ignore it. ‘Oh hang on, I’ve got a guidebook in my bag,’ I remember triumphantly.
‘Would that be the bag you just had stolen?’ He raises his eyebrows.
I feel two spots of colour burning on my cheeks.
‘And I thought it only covered Goa, anyway?’
The two spots merge into one great big blotch.
‘Now I see why you need my help,’ he mutters, and takes another swig of water.
I bite my tongue. He’s my only hope, remember?
‘Want some?’ He offers me the bottle. There’s only a dribble left.
‘Do you have any aspirin?’
‘Are you always this demanding?’ He shoots me a look.
‘Are you always so unfriendly?’ I shoot one back.
‘Hey, I’m helping you, aren’t I?’
‘I’m sorry, I just have a blinding headache.’ Taking the bottle from him, I wipe the neck with my sleeve and take a thirsty glug.
‘You won’t catch anything, you know.’
‘It’s a habit,’ I reply. ‘You can never be too careful.’
‘Shame you didn’t think that about the chocolate,’ he counters.
I hand him back his water bottle. Only hope. Remember Ruby, he’s your only hope.
Repeat on a loop.
As we walk out of the station, a fanfare of traffic horns heralds our arrival and Delhi greets us like a pushy relative, enveloping us in a choking hug that almost knocks the breath out of me.
Despite everything I’ve heard before, all the travel programmes I’ve seen, the crazy stories I’ve listened to, the coffee-table books filled with photographs I’ve flicked through, nothing could have prepared me for the sensory overload that is Delhi. The sheer scale of people and traffic, the explosion of brightly coloured saris, the melee of honking taxis, the pungent smell of diesel oil and exhaust fumes mingled with incense and spices.
It’s seriously loud. And polluted. And utterly chaotic.
And Goa suddenly seems a long, long way away, I realise, as we’re immediately immersed into a crush of touts, beggars and tuk-tuk drivers, who tug at our clothes and stretch out their hands. Forget swaying palm trees, pristine white beaches and a sea breeze wafting over you as you recline lazily in a hammock. This is the real India and it’s louder, brighter and faster than anything I could have ever imagined.
‘We can ask my driver to take us to the nearest police station.’
Jack’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to look at him. ‘Driver?’ I repeat in astonishment. ‘You have a driver?’
‘Yeah, why? What’s wrong with that?’
Suddenly my opinion of Jack is turned upside down. He’s a backpacker with his own driver?
‘Erm, nothing. I just . . . I thought . . .’ I trail off. Surprises are coming thick and fast and my head is still all groggy, like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool. I can barely think straight, let alone make character judgements.
I look at him more closely, only this time I notice a few tiny flecks of grey in his dark stubble and realise he’s older than I firs
t thought. And is that an expensive watch he’s wearing? I catch a flash of the gold strap as he pulls on a dark grey sweater. Which looks suspiciously like cashmere, I realise.
‘Don’t be fooled by the beaded necklace,’ he says, meeting my eyes. ‘I’m not some hippy, backpacking around India.’
‘What beaded necklace?’ I reply, forcing an innocent voice. ‘Oh . . . that one . . .’ I direct my eyes to just below his Adam’s apple, more to avoid his gaze than anything else. His skin is smooth and tanned and I notice his pulse beating slowly.
‘The car rental company said he’d be waiting for me,’ he says, turning away and scanning the crowds.
I realise I’m staring and look quickly away. ‘Who?’ I feel all flustered. Like I’ve been caught stealing.
‘The driver,’ he replies and looks at me as if I’m stupid.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Wish I did,’ he frowns. ‘I found the company on the Internet and we exchanged a few emails. We arranged for the driver to meet me here, but I can’t see him.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Good question.’
Together we stand on the side of the dusty road, surrounded by mayhem. I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for, but I make a show of standing on tiptoe, my eyes passing over hundreds of faces. ‘Will he have a sign?’ I ask after a moment.
‘Another very good question.’
‘But if he doesn’t have a sign and you don’t know what he looks like, how on earth will you recognise him amongst all these people?’
Dumping his backpack on the dusty ground, he eases his haunches down onto it and leisurely pulls out a packet of chewing gum. I watch as he proceeds to take out a stick, unwrap the silver foil, and concertina it into his mouth. ‘Just relax.’
‘Relax?’ I gasp in frustration. ‘I have a stinking headache, I’ve lost my sister, and I’ve had my bag stolen. How can I relax?’
‘You lost your sister as well as your bag?’ Mid-stretch he shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. ‘What did you eat that time?’
I shoot him a look. ‘You’re not funny.’
‘Oh c’mon, that was kind of funny,’ he says, his eyes meeting mine. The corners of his mouth curl up with amusement.
He’s laughing at me. He thinks this is just one big joke.
I grit my teeth and ignore him. I can feel the uneasy truce is in danger of being broken already. Oh please hurry up, driver. I just want to get to the police station. Then this Jack person and I can go our separate ways and I’ll never have to see him again.
He pulls out his iPhone and as he starts checking his emails I glance away again and stare out into the dusty distance. My mind starts to wander and I think about Amy . . . I feel the familiar prickling of worry that always surrounds the thought of my little sister, like the prickly casing covering a shiny conker, and I’m reminded again of why I’m here. God, I hope she’s OK, and hasn’t done anything stupid. Well, not more stupid than she’s done already.
Vaguely I’m aware of a jostle of taxis, elbowing each other out of the way as they swerve in and out, picking up and dropping off fares. Absently I watch as one pulls out, leaving behind a cloud of dust that slowly clears, revealing a little white car.
Suddenly. Right here. Directly in front of us.
Abruptly I zone back in. That’s weird. I never saw it pull up. It just appeared out of nowhere. Like magic.
I stare at it, curiously. It looks distinctly old-fashioned, with its rounded contours and shiny silver wheels, and I blink again. It seems out of place in the madness that swirls around it, almost as if it isn’t there, and for a moment I think I’m seeing things. But no, it’s there. Sitting quietly in the chaos of modern-day Delhi, with its 1950s classic lines and quiet elegance, it’s like something from another era, a bygone world.
Or, to put it another way, it’s a bit like spotting Grace Kelly in the middle of your local Starbucks.
I peer closer, trying to catch a glimpse of who’s behind the wheel, but shafts of the late afternoon sun are reflecting against the windows, making it impossible to see inside.
And yet . . .
‘I think that’s your driver,’ I blurt. Even as I hear myself say it out loud, I don’t know why, but I feel sure that it’s him. The moment I saw the car, I just had this feeling.
‘Huh?’ Jack stops fiddling with his iPhone, and looks up, squinting as he tips his face towards me. ‘What? Where?’
‘Over there.’ I point to where the white car is parked as he stands, tipping his hat to shield his face from the sunlight.
‘You mean the Ambassador?’
‘The what?’
But he’s already striding towards the car. ‘Wait here with my backpack,’ he instructs, ‘I’ll go ask . . .’
Being a head taller and twice as broad as everyone around him, he stands out above the swarms of people and I watch as he reaches the car, then rests a hand on the roof and stoops down to talk through the window. I can’t see or hear what’s said, but after a few moments he stands upright and gives me the thumbs-up.
‘Yup, it’s our ride,’ he says, returning and picking up his backpack. ‘I thought it was going to be more like a Jeep or a four-wheel drive, but whatever, this is cool—’
I quickly follow him, zigzagging through the bustle of people. Standing next to the car is an older, portly Indian gentleman. Bald but for two tufts of snow-white hair behind each ear and with his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark-tinted spectacles, he’s smartly dressed in a grey Nehru jacket. With his shoulders firmly back and his chin held aloft, he bows his head ceremoniously as we reach him.
‘It is a most pleasure to meet you,’ he says very formally, ‘I am your driver and guide.’
‘Please, call me Jack,’ smiles Jack affably.
‘Yes, boss,’ nods the driver with a poker face.
‘And I’m Ruby,’ I introduce myself, going to shake his hand.
He gives another bow of his head. ‘My name is Mr Rukminesh Singh . . . Rocky for short.’
Shaking my hand, a look passes between us and for the first time I notice that, behind his glasses, he has the most incredible, piercing blue eyes. Out of nowhere a shiver suddenly scurries up my spine and goosebumps prickle on my arms.
What the . . . ?
‘How do you open the trunk?’
Jack’s voice snaps me back and I turn to see him at the rear of the car, fiddling with the boot.
‘Please, boss, I will do it,’ replies Rocky, and as I glance back at him it’s as if the light behind his eyes has vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Or was it even there in the first place? I ask myself, feeling doubtful, and faintly ridiculous. Honestly. I’m hallucinating. His eyes look perfectly ordinary. And they’re brown, not blue, I realise, as his glasses drop slightly down his nose. It’s probably just the after-effects of whatever drugs were in that chocolate I ate. Or my imagination. Or something.
I watch as he walks stiffly to the rear of the car where he opens the boot with all the grandness of opening a treasure chest. ‘I will take your luggage.’ He gestures to Jack, who’s twice his size and probably less than half his age.
Jack smiles. ‘Oh, no worries,’ and sort of reverses towards the back of the car as he swings the backpack off his shoulder.
He’s almost rugby-tackled by Rocky. ‘No, I insist,’ he grunts, grabbing hold of it and with a strength that belies his age, lifts it into the boot. ‘Miss?’ He gestures to me.
‘She doesn’t have any luggage,’ asserts Jack.
‘No luggage?’ Rocky looks perplexed and I feel my cheeks go hot.
‘We don’t talk about it,’ says Jack, shaking his head and pulling a face as he gets into the car.
Rocky’s expression relaxes, like a scrunched-up piece of paper being smoothed out. ‘OK boss,’ he nods and, without further questions, closes the boot and opens the passenger door.
‘Please, get in,’ he urges, ‘we have a long journey ahead.’
Dipping my head, I slide onto the back seat next to Jack and, closing the door firmly behind us, Rocky climbs into the driver’s seat.
‘A very long journey,’ he repeats, turning the ignition and, as the engine springs into life, he manoeuvres the little white car out into the traffic.
Chapter 15
The police station is on the outskirts of town. After I file a report the thickness of the Yellow Pages, call my insurance company and contact my bank to cancel all my cards, Rocky drives me first to a bank where my credit card company has arranged for me to pick up some emergency cash, and then to the British consulate where several hours, dozens of forms and lots of official stamps later I’m issued with an emergency travel document.
‘Which is valid for seven days,’ instructs the grey-haired bureaucrat behind the window. ‘So you must make arrangements to leave India by the end of the week.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I smile gratefully, scooping my hand into the tray underneath the window to retrieve the document.
‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here in India.’
I feel myself sag with relief. Finally, it’s all sorted.
‘With no more surprises,’ he adds, raising one eyebrow.
‘Absolutely,’ I agree, holding tight onto my travel document and clutching it to my chest. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Absolutely, definitely, one hundred per cent, no more surprises.’
As I walk back outside I discover darkness has fallen. Across the street, I spot the little white car parked up against the side of the dusty road. It’s even colder now; pulling up my hoody, I hurry over. I can’t see anyone inside, but as I walk around the side I find Rocky sitting on the wheel arch. He quickly stands to attention when he sees me.
‘Miss Ruby,’ he nods, with a quick flick of his head. ‘Everything is good?’
‘Yes, everything is good,’ I smile, ‘and thank you so much for waiting for me. I’m sorry it took so long.’
‘It is the very least I can do. I am very sorry to hear what happened,’ he continues solemnly. ‘In India we have a saying, Athithi Devo Bhava, “the guest is god”. We are very honoured to have you in our home. These are just a few bad people.’
The Love Detective Page 12
