I rise to my feet. "You stay home, Mum, lock the doors. Do you hear?" I disconnect and turn to her. Anger begins to slow boil inside, bringing a bitter cold taste to my mouth.
"So handsome you are," she says, "just like your father."
"Don't talk about him." I bite out the words, try to hang onto my control.
"Ah! We'll save that for another day, shall we? Well then, go on. Run back to your family. But remember, I will be keeping my eyes on you."
I leave knowing nothing in my life will ever be the same again. Nothing prepares me for everything I love being taken from me.
TWENTY-TWO
THREE MONTHS LATER
I LOATHE THIS chief drill instructor, or whatever the fuck he is called. Passing the entrance exams to the Police Service had been a cake walk; I’d done it with distinction of course. Had been good enough to be among the top 1% of the entrants. In fact I’d stood out enough to catch the eye of the selectors of Force One. And now all I have to do is get through the training course.
So it’s back to classes during the day: training in special laws, criminology, and other special talents the force deems necessary to create a well rounded cop (ha! - what an oxymoron!) You only had to have known my father to realise that the concept of a well rounded cop is notional. It doesn’t really exist. The curriculum itself is quite interesting, fascinating actually. I do want to find out all about how the criminal mind works, their motivations, understanding why they do what they do. In particular it’s the subcultural theory in criminology which fascinates me. This theory tries to explain 'Why small cultural groups break away from the mainstream to form their own values and meanings about life.' It’s exactly what she is trying to do. Form her own army, her own tribe of kids who believe in her philosophy. So, I am determined to read up everything about it. Perhaps it’ll help me get inside her head. So the classes have their use after all. No problem with that. It’s just it doesn’t end there. I also need to get through the physical training before I qualify and that’s proving to be a bitch.
Besides this bloody course is going to last for almost a year. Another eleven months. Fuck! ANOTHER ELEVEN MONTHS during which that maniac has my family in Bombay under ransom. She has them right in front of her. Literally. Given that the current apartment she is living is around the corner from my apartment. Talk about being neighbourly. No love lost there.
"Roy!"
Fuck! It’s the drill instructor. For someone used to be seen as pretty smart almost at the top of class in academics all the way through, it’s a shock on many levels to realise I am not that good when it comes to physical training.
"Dreaming again Roy?"
"Uh! No Sir. I mean Yes sir." I feel my cheeks grow red as the rest of the class sniggers.
"Drop down then Roy. Give me Twenty"
"But … Sir!"
"Thirty."
"I wasn’t—"
"Forty."
"But—"
"Another word and it will be a hundred Roy."
Fuck . Fuck. Fuck.
"What was that Roy?"
Nope. Nothing. Silently, I drop to my hands and feet and push up.
One: Fuck
Two: Fuckity
Three: Fuck
Four: Her.
Five: Must
Six: Kill
Seven: Her.
Eight: How
Nine: The
Ten: Fuck
Eleven: Do
Twelve: I Kill
Thirteen: Her
Fourteen: Anyway?
Fifteen: Not When
Sixteen: she watches them
Seventeen: day and night
Eighteen: as they go
Nineteen: about their
Twenty : lives.
Twenty-One :She’ll
Twenty-Two: likely
Twenty-Three: have
Twenty-Four: given
Twenty-Five: her gang
Twenty-Six: orders
Twenty Seven: to kill
Twenty Eight : them, if
Twenty Nine: something
Thirty: happens to
Thirty One: her.
Thirty Two : So now
Thirty Three: all I can
Thirty Four: do is
Thirty Five: button this.
Thirty Six: Chin up,
Thirty Seven: mouth shut,
Thirty Eight: bottle it in,
Thirty Nine: get through,
Forty: this bloody course.
I collapse on the muddy ground still wet from the last monsoon shower and let the cool moisture soak into my heated skin.
A month ago I couldn’t get past ten push ups. Now I’m managing to hit forty. That’s progress at least. I suppose I should feel happy about it. It does have its fringe benefits this punishing physical regime. I now have muscles where I didn’t have any before. My biceps are thickening, leg muscles getting more defined, I’ve even lost weight on my cheekbones. I’d looked in the mirror that morning and seen a stranger. Can’t recognise myself with this crew-cut; hair’s cut so close to my scalp I can see the skin peek through.
Footsteps march up to me, then a voice from somewhere above me goes, "Roy? If you’re done daydreaming—"
I sigh inwardly, and drop my head down just for a second, letting my nose smell the deep-incense like fragrance of the earth. Then jump up to my feet, and look down at the instructor. Chest—to—chest my six feet two inches tower over his five feet something height. I’m broader than him too. Already my shoulders are widening, my chest muscles too getting bigger so none of my previous shirts fit. Without acknowledging him, I set off at a run following the rest of my team as they run ahead. Another ten laps around the football field to go before I can head home.
***
From a dorm to a bunk house. Not much has changed. Everything has changed.
Most mornings the alarm goes off at 5 am, and then it’s early breakfast and off again on the morning drill. Today is Sunday so even though my eyes snap open at 5 am, I force myself to shut my eyes and sleep in. I snuggle into my bed only to have the covers pulled off. The next thing I know, I’m being pushed out of bed and onto the floor, my head banging painfully against the ground.
What the—?
"So! You the Oxford dude, the nerd who topped the class right?"
There it is again, my blasted background. I’ve prudently kept my past hidden from the rest. I am aware many of my batch mates come from homes where they’d struggle to get two square meals a day, and then there’s me the one with the privileged Oxford education. Funny how the very things you chase in your teens is the stuff you want to leave behind as a grown up. But of course it all had to come out one day … Just, it could have been some other day right? Rubbing the sore spot on my forehead, I sit up crossing my legs. Dressed in just my boxers, am at a disadvantage here. The guy opposite me is fully dressed … as if he’s been planning this for a while. I look up into the face of the well known bully of this batch of recruits. There’s always one of them isn’t there? And then, others appear from their bunks. They crowd around us, sensing a fight. It’s easy entertainment. And, well it’s what you do when you have only one TV set to share among like fifty of yes. Yep. Can’t accuse the system of spoiling us or anything.
I get to my feet and shake my head to clear it. Mr Hulk in front of me cracks his knuckles, then twists his neck this way and that, so the joints in his neck lengthen and pop. Hmm! I am not as strong as him but I am quicker. Before he can take another breath, I kick his legs out from under him, so he falls on the floor with a heavy thud, and jumping onto him I straddle him and punch him once to the side of his face ignoring the shock waves of pain running up my arm. I hit him again, and again, before he flings me off with a roar. I slide off him as if a wingless insect and across the floor, skidding all the way till I hit the wall opposite with a resounding thud that rattles my bones. My head is flung back against the wall and I feel the world darken around the edges. And then he’s there in front of me raising his fis
t and is about to hit me, when a shot goes off.
TWENTY-TWO
I FREEZE, AND so does the man in front of me. Awareness comes into the Hulk aka Neil’s eyes the same time as mine. The silence around us is eerie … and deafening at the same time. The TV from the recreational room spews forth the endless, high pitched monotone of the news reader. It’s the only sound we can hear, other than the cawing of the ever-present crows outside. Then another shot has both of us dropping to the ground.
Neil crawls across to me, and mirroring my posture sits with his back to the wall. In a few seconds we’ve gone from adversaries to comrades in arms. I am realising there’s more to being part of the force than meets the eye. Perhaps being united for a common cause, for the larger good, really does give you a feel-good high. When you stand shoulder to shoulder with your team-mates, it makes you feel as if the power of your self is amplified many times.
"What can it be?" He whispers.
I shake my head and put a finger to my lips. Around me the other recruits have dropped to the floor, all in various stages of undress, but with eyes wary, most hugging the wall or the floor.
I hear the staccato of shots being fired, followed by yells and howls of pain. Then, the sound of something being smashed and everything goes quiet. The TV no longer chatters. I look to the open door. The recreation room is down at the end of the corridor. The sounds of shots get closer. Without giving myself a chance to think I make a run for the door slam it shut, lock it and it’s as if that’s a signal to the rest of the men to jump to their feet. Without a word, the ten of us scram to our bunks, pull on trousers and shoes.We get our hands on whatever weapon we can find. No guns, none of us have guns. So I grab my cricket bat. (As if that’s going to make a difference?)
Around me the others too are grabbing cricket bats and hockey sticks. Neil grabs an iron rod. An iron rod? Where did he get that from? We drop to the floor, crouch and wait.
Should I hide under the bed? Nope, no way. Like, that is going to help.
And then a crash as the door is broken down, hacked by what looks like an axe till it’s in pieces on the floor and through it step through two men. One holding a machine gun, the other wielding an axe which he drops to the floor and instead grabs the the gun slung over his back. They are both wearing balaclavas, so we can’t see their features. Of medium height, they are muscular and dressed all in black: Black jeans and sweatshirts, their hair covered by the hoods. Their backs are to the door. They point their guns at us, signalling to us to put our hands up. I hesitate, not looking around but sense that the others too are not sure what to do. The first gunman points his gun at the nearest recruit … a boy just out of his teens and shoots him in the head.
There is a collective gasp from the room. A chill runs through me. Who are they? How did they break through the security measures of the force base? And then they are foolish enough to barge right into the heart of the training facilities of the force and shoot its cadets? Why? Why would they do that? The gunmen gesture to us and this time we follow their orders. We walk to the wall at the back of the bunkhouse and line up, hands on our heads, staring ahead.
An alarm rings out then. Finally! It’s been almost ten minutes since the shooting started. Still, the reinforcements should be here soon. Now all we need to do is keep these gun men distracted enough so they don’t kill us. As if reading my mind, the guy who’d shot the young recruit moves forward, his gun trained on us. I draw in a breath and hold it. The sweat trickles down my back. My heart is racing so fast I am sure if I look down I can see it leaping out of my chest. The gunman passes me, walks to the end of the line; then back to the middle where I am.
"You have no idea what this is about do you?" He asks.
He sounds young, as if he is barely a man himself. And something in his voice … muffled as it is, it sounds familiar. A faint recollection grabs the edge of my mind, And then I forget everything because he leans close to Neil who is next to me, and smashes the butt of his gun into his stomach. Neil falls to the ground, moaning, holding his middle. I firm up my stomach muscles. I know I am next, I must be. I want to squeeze my eyes shut, but don’t. The gunman leans to the other side, and shoots another man in the head.
This chap collapses without a cry. What the fuck? I want to jump him right then, but that would be really stupid of me. I am not going to help anyone if I get killed will I? There are six of us left in the room now. One of the younger recruits lets out a sob, at which gunman no 2 holds his gun at him, so he shuts up immediately.
The gunman asks me, "Where are the plans?’
"What are you talking about?" I reply, trying to stay calm, struggling not to show how scared I am inside.
He only grins and in response, and without taking his eyes off me, holds his gun up and I know what what he is going to do and I scream. "No!" But it’s too late. This time he’s shot two more guys in succession. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. These guys are desperate, or crazy or both.
Besides me Neil stirs on the ground.
The gunman takes a deep breathe, as if trying to calm himself and says, "Don’t pretend to be dumb. If you don’t get me the blue prints of the security arrangements being planned by the force for Bombay; the one that you and your team mates are being trained for, then all the rest of you die too."
Only six of us left now. Four young lives, gone just like that. I feel sick. What the fuck are these guys upto? And … and how do they know about the plans? This is top secret. The only reason I know about it, is because I’ve overheard the training officer speaking with the ACP about it on the phone last week. And only because I happened to be waiting outside his room then. And how does this gunman even know that I know the details?
My head begins to whirl trying to piece this together.
If they want to know about the new security arrangements, then likely they want to intercept it. But if they do that, it will be clear that there is a security breach and all that we’d do is change the arrangements. Unless… unless they plan to kill us all, once they get the information. It’s all the impetus I need. Without waiting a second I hurl myself at the man, using the surprise to slam his gun up, grab it from him and smash the butt in his face. Behind him the other guy raises his gun, but Neil pushes back from the floor like a human catapult and head butts him in the stomach. The man goes down firing shots in the air, one of which bounces off the wall and hits the remaining cadets on the far end. One of the other recruits takes a flying leap towards me trying to help me hold the gunman down. I scream out in fear, in pain, in warning; but already the gun is firing and this cadet too is hit.
I struggle with the gunman and am aware of Neil being hit in the face again and again, by the balaclava clad guy he’s jumped. My phone, hidden below my pillow rings out. It cuts through the sounds of the struggle. Then, suddenly the two gunmen jump up, let us go and we are free. The first gunman nods to my phone. I walk toward it pick it up and my instinct warns me about what is going to happen. No. No. No. It can’t be her. There is a missed call from an unknown number … and a message. Don’t open it, don’t. I read the message which says,
What the fuck? I slam my phone on the ground and look up in time to see both gunmen flee. Chest heaving, the sweat pours down my forehead, down my shoulders, over my back; blood thudding in my ears I look to Neil, who is sprawled on the floor. Around me some of the wounded stir. The first boy who was shot moans, then pushes himself up and blinks.
"Wha-what happened?"
I run to him, drop down and rip apart his shirt to see the wound. Air bullets. Fake bullets. They hurt like a bitch but don’t kill. What was this? A hoax? A joke? Her kind of joke?
Behind me Neil’s voice rings out in surprise. "What the fuck was that all about?"
I sit back on my heels. I know who’s behind this. She’s putting me through the paces that’s clear. Making me a soldier. She’s toughening me up, preparing me. But for what?
It will be many months before the full extent of her plan becomes clear. But only when it’s too late do I get the full picture. Timing. Yes it’s always going to be my problem.
TWENTY-THREE
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER.
It's the—are you kidding? Are you serious? Are you like completely off your rocker?—kind of look which finally does it. I spring to my feet and am halfway across the airless little cubbyhole before I stop. I force myself to turn. I look across the rat-hole of a space, for what passes for the office of the head of Force One. The middle-aged man behind the desk at the far end, the current occupier of that position, has his head buried in the palms of his hands. Chest heaving, his little belly ripples over the belt that he has squeezed around his middle. He lowers his hand to wipe the tears streaming down his pink, fleshy cheeks. Is he crying?
My eyebrows point down towards my nose. I squint through the wormhole of his office, through the dust motes dancing in the twin rays of sunlight, shining through scum-coloured windowpanes. What is he up to?
The man looks at me. His Adam's apple dances as he swallows hard, before folding his arms over his paunch.
It is as if, looking at me suspended there, between the door and the desk, sets him off again. With a thump he slams the palms of his hand on the decrepit, teacup-ringed stained table, and this time he does not bother to disguise the full-bellied laughter that rips through from him louder than a fart.
What the fuck? He's laughing at me.
So, here I am regaling the head of the squad that had been cobbled together as a response to the 2008 Bombay terror attacks. Tellingly, just two days short of the first anniversary of the bomb attacks, the bureaucracy had hauled ass and finally gets its act together. No doubt someone higher up in the ranks realised they had to be seen to be doing something about the incident. Years later, the police are still scrambling. They're still trying to get a blueprint together to protect the city. It's into this system, one which doesn't know its head from its arse, that I am volunteering myself for duty.
The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) Page 13
